Awkward

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Inspired by one paragraph in the Silmarillion.  Maedhros forges a new bond between two feuding Houses.  Quenya names used (Maedhros = Maitimo or Russandol, Fëanor = Fëanáro, Fingolfin = Nolofinwë, Finarfin = Arafinwë, Fingon = Findekáno, Turgon = Turukáno, Finrod = Findaráto, Orodreth = Artaresto, Angrod = Angaráto and Aegnor = Aikanáro).  If you wonder why the women do not make an appearance, let us not forget that this is a patriarchal and misogynistic society.  Takes place on the shores of Mithrim in the early First Age.

*This is the one line taken from Of the Return of the Noldor in the Quenta Silmarillion

Disclaimer: I do not own the Silmarillion

Pairings: only background stuff

Characters: Maedhros, Fingolfin, Fingon, Turgon, Finrod, Orodreth, Angrod, Aegnor, the Fëanorions (mentions Fëanor, Finarfin, Finwë, Elenwë, Istelindë (OFC) and Amras)

Warning: canon-compliant AU, canon character deaths, dysfunctional families, family politics, mentions torture and mutilation briefly, betrayal and revenge

Song: Gwyn, Lord of Cinder

Words: 1,778
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
awkward (adjective): lacking dexterity or skill (as in the use of hands); lacking ease or grace (as of movement or expression); lacking social grace and assurance; lacking the right proportions, size, or harmony of parts: ungainly
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/awkward

No one knew what precisely to say to the other side.

After so many years of nothing but dank cells smelling of blood, merciless torture and endless pain stretching on until his mind snapped, Maitimo didn't spare even a moment to think of how he might speak or what he might say when the time came to face his half-uncle and half-cousins.  Such a trying experience--trying being a massive understatement, he noted privately in the back of his head--left him with a very clear picture of what was important and what was not.

And though he knew not what to say to mend the clearly broken bonds between himself and his narrow-eyed uncle, Maitimo knew one thing for certain: the crown was not of great import.  It did not even make the top ten.

But that did not change the facts.

It did not change the betrayal that lay as an ocean between the two sides of the chamber, between the six estranged sons extricated from their father's watchful eyes through doomed fate and the victims of said father's fey and unjust wrath and lust for revenge.  That the sons had naught to do with their father's crime meant little, for they had no excuse and they had no proof.

It did not change the years of endless white plains--of cracked, jagged ice that claimed lives and cold, biting winds that sucked away breaths and the bitter chill that sank down into bones and joints and froze living flesh in place.  It could not take away the suffering that their kinsman had endured because of the rash, secret decision of one man who thought only of himself and his own betterment rather than of his people.

And Maitimo could not find it in his heart to blame them for watching he and his siblings with distant, leery eyes as once they had watched his sire.

He could not blame Findekáno for the pained, false stretch of his smile, grating over nervous like sandpaper on roughened wood, for the air about them with thick and hot, filled with smoke and steam until one's breath was choked out with the heaviness and the atmosphere of unbreakable impatience.

Nor could he blame Turukáno, who of any of them had the most right to hatred and bitterness.  Had their places been exchanged--had it been Istelindë who perished between the Grinding Ice rather than Elenwë--Maitimo would never have forgiven and forgotten either.

The rest of his cousins were distant.  Distrustful.  Findaráto attempted friendliness but in truth was fidgety and uncomfortable.  Artaresto did not even make an effort to disguise his blatant distaste at breathing the same air as the Kinslayers, and the two younger brothers--Angaráto and Aikanáro--followed his lead with their burning gem-eyed filled with animosity.

And then there was Nolofinwë.  With his blue eyes but slits beneath thick, sharpened brows and his lips pursed so sternly it recalled to mind childhood spankings and humiliating public chastisement.  But even he, Maitimo did not begrudge, for his half-uncle had sworn an Oath of familial loyalty and friendship--of brotherhood--before their father and King, and Fëanáro had thrown it back in the face of graciousness and tentative trust.  Nolofinwë had thrown everything away on the whims of their father, thinking that the King had the best interests of all their people at heart, but it had been for naught.  Fëanáro had desired revenge and nothing else.

And Maitimo was beginning to think that there was absolutely nothing to be done to ameliorate this awful tension upon his shoulders, so weighty that his bones and tendons ached with the strain of carrying his own tired, haggard body.

Finally, he parted his lips, pausing only to lick them with barely discernible anxiety. "It is a relief to see you well, Uncle."

The air shifted.  Blue eyes remained frigid, but slightly less incisive.  Perhaps they would only pinch instead of stab when came the inevitable silent blows. "As it is to see you, my nephew.  I had heard of your trials, and it pleases me to see that the blood of our people is not so frail as to give beneath the Black Enemy's first strike."

Resentment bubbled--for surely he would say no such thing had he been the victim of such horror and bloodshed--but it was pushed away.  It was not important.  And Maitimo had not come here to fight, no matter how much his relations might desire to bite a metaphorical chunk of raw meat from his flank if only to watch him limp away in shame.  He would allow it for now, if it would soothe away the taste for vindication that ran through all their veins.

"Indeed, my blood would allow no such surrender." To say nothing of begging for death.  But about that Nolofinwë need not know. "But it is not my resilience of which I have begged you here to speak, for surely it is by now an old tale."

"And of what is it that you have called us here to listen?" Turukáno interrupted, voice scathing and harsh.  But Maitimo did not react to the disrespect, and neither did he allow his brother's to speed to his aid as though he were not only a cripple of body but also of mind.  He could hear the mutter spread, the knuckles cracking and the bodies rising from their chairs, but at a raised hand they once again sat obediently. Their eyes, however, held no obedience and no quarter for their scandalized rage at the slight.

"I have come here to beg forgiveness for my brothers." At this, eyes widened, even those of his own kin. "For your abandonment in Araman, they are not to blame.  And if any blame should fall on shoulders besides those of my father, let it fall upon mine.  Indeed, perhaps if I had tried harder to convince him--"

"Do not be ridiculous, Russandol!" Findekáno interrupted. "You could not have--"

"If anyone could have changed his mind, it was I, and I gave in all too easily after discovering his treachery.  But hold none of my siblings in disgust or in malice." He sighed, wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose to stifle the hot tears pooling as traitors behind the fortress of his eyelids. "Telufinwë was lost in an attempt to return for your sake, and the others followed my lead after I followed my father's.  They could not be expected to rebel against their King and fath--"

"That does not excuse them!"

"Hush, Turukáno." Nolofinwë silenced his angry, heartbroken progeny with ease.  Around all of them, some of the discomfort softened into contemplation.  The sons of Arafinwë looked away, but they did not look quite so hostile.  And Findekáno offered a brittle smile in the recesses beyond his father's broad shouldered presence.

Said presence poured all its attention upon Maitimo.  And he could not bear to meet those stormy blue eyes, not now.  Not after admitting to his failure.

"I would not hold you accountable for your father's actions," their half-uncle finally intoned, carefully and neutrally.  "Though some others may not agree" went unspoken. "You have shown willingness to begin mending our torn family branches, as has my eldest son and heir, and that I would not begrudge you, my nephew."

It was a relief.  And the boiling heat of hostility and hatred between the two halves of their shattered family eased further, cooling into mere awkward silence, gangly and fragile.  Too young and too easily broken with a misplaced word.

"I hope that no grievance then lays between us, Uncle."

"I should think not." Brief.  Rude.  But appreciated.

And now came the difficult part.  For Maitimo knew instinctually that this next move would mend bonds and break bonds.  Whether the opportunity cost was greater or lesser than the true payment had yet to be seen, but he could only hope that it spurned more friendship and trust than dislike and jealousy.

"If there lay no grievance between us, Uncle, still the kingship would rightly come to you, the eldest here of all the House of Finwë, and not the least wise."*

Breaths were caught.  The silence teetered and bent.  And all Maitimo could do was wait and pray his brothers would not behave foolishly.

And be thankful that all he received at his back were gasps of shock and wild-eyed glares of incredulity.  He had almost expected knives and slicing shouts of protestation.  For what fool--even one broken in the dungeons of Angband--would throw away the crown and deny his successors their chance at claiming their rightful birthright?

Except it was hardly rightful.  Not after all that had been done.  Not after all the bonds cut so cleanly and thrown aside without regard or regret.

But, indeed, his half-uncle and half-cousins seemed equally filled with shock.  Mouths gaped inelegantly and breaths caught audibly.  The hatred in Turukáno's eyes was mollified beneath a rush of surprise, and Findekáno's smile dimmed beneath newfound disapproval.  But Nolofinwë somehow remained composed in the face of uprooted politics and succession, only the widening of his eyes signifying his shock at the abdication and lowering of the proud blood of Fëanáro.

"Are you quite sure, my nephew."

"I am, your majesty."

And the tension bled and bled until its bloated form was shrunken and slender with relieved pressure, skin sagging as an empty balloon.  No longer did the sons of Arafinwë look so uncertain and so strained at the thought of servitude to a house of murderers.  No longer did the remaining children of Nolofinwë seem rocked and shaken apart by the earthquake of betrayal versus childhood loyalty.

And if there were still but a few sparks of pure hatred and embers of revulsion and long, cold steel walls of resentment lingering behind, Maitimo could not blame his kinsman for their wariness or distrust.  But, though between them they could not yet speak freely or come together truly as friends--let alone as family--he thought it was a good first step.  A good nudge towards peace and unity of their people, rather than the shambles scraped together haphazardly with cheap glue.

Their people needed this alliance, no matter the awkward joining between murderers and innocents--between betrayers and the betrayed.  It was salvageable.

And he could ask no more than that.  It was no less than was deserved.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We'll start with the song today.  Gwyn, Lord of Cinder by Motoi Sakuraba from the Dark Souls OST.  I actually don't like a whole lot of this OST, but the few songs I do like I really like, and this happens to be one of them.  Because, let's face it, I'm a sucker for solo piano.  It's beautiful and dreary and moody and yet not too dark and bitter.  Thus, I deemed it perfect for today, as I had intended for this piece to go in a weird-ish not good but not bad direction.

In truth, it was really just an examination of one single plot-point mentioned in the Silmarillion itself (as I mentioned in the above AN).  I had considered writing characterization on both Caranthir and Tar-Míriel, but neither character stuck with the prompt all that well.  And then, as we were driving alone, I thought that the most awkward thing I've had to deal with in the past two weeks is talking to my own family members.  Thus, I came up with this idea and debated the time frame.  Before death or after death.  Resolution of tension or not.

I decided it was more fun to make everyone hate each other.  The prompt just didn't have "resolution" in it anywhere, so it couldn't be Turgon and Maedhros making up (in a completely platonic manner), because that just wasn't awkward enough.  Not gangly or clutzy.  You know.  Anyway, I have that scene planned out for later, assuming an appropriate word ever presents itself.

Other than that long explanation as to my writer's block after spending an entire day cooking in the car beneath the damn sunlight, I have naught else for thee today.  Enjoy.