Clean

Canon compliant AU.  Maedhros did not want to be saved.  Quenya names used (Maedhros = Maitimo, Maglor = Kanafinwë and Fingon = Findekáno).  Basically this is the prelude to "Get Up" and "Try Again", possibly also closely related to "Obsession", "Jump" and "Funeral" amongst many others.  Honestly, I tend to view all my stories as being of the same head-canon, and this could also explain (in a roundabout way) the discrepancy between the Maedhros in "Strive" and in "Weapon", but it's all a matter of opinion and individual psychology.  Takes place in Mithrim at the beginning of the First Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Maedhros, Fingon, Maglor (mentions random healers, random dead elves, random orcs and the Fëanorions)

Warning: canon compliant, suicidal thoughts, mentions torture and mutilation, hints at possible non-con, self-hatred, very POV-oriented, PTSD, near-catatonia, slavery, abduction and incarceration, people being dismembered and/or eaten alive (blame Attack on Titan)

Song: Dancer in the Dark

Words: 1,375
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clean (adjective): free from dirt or pollution; free from contamination or disease; unadulterated, pure; free from moral corruption or sinister connections of any kind; free from offensive treatment of sexual subjects and from the use of obscenity
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/clean

No one seemed to understand.

Maitimo knew they were trying.  Trying very hard.  He knew Kanafinwë visited relentless to hold his hand and give an endless stream of reassurances and promises about things getting better (he only ever half-heard them, for his mind was often distant and reluctant to see his brother as anything but a wistful mirage conjured in the midst of delusion) and that Findekáno came often to check on his progress (or lack thereof) and speak to him about the ongoing trials of raising civilization in this wilderness (as if he actually cared--really, it would have been better if they had turned back when they had the chance), but it was difficult to find comfort in their devotion to his recovery.

It was difficult to do anything anymore when all images and thoughts and feelings seemed overlaid with a phantom of a memory that would not stop haunting his every conscious moment.  That would not go away.

All day was spent lying still in his soft bed with pristine white sheets, staring at white-washed walls and at the cloudless sky free of noxious fumes and spewing ash, comparing them with the dank, filthy, windowless cell lining his peripheral and the concrete floor decorated in dried blood and waste that left his body aching in discomfort.  It was a contradiction, because all this white did nothing to make him feel any less violated or exhausted.

They kept him in this clean environment the way a captor held a hostage, his family and their army of half-trained healers.  They washed his hair every day (it had gone for more than twenty years without so much as a brush stroking away the knots and tangles, so why did it need grooming now when it was cropped short?) and cleaned under his fingernails (once upon a time those nails had been long and jagged and lined black with dirt and he hadn't had the time or energy to care about something so trivial when faced with impending torment) and told him to wash his hands before every meal (when he was starving in Angband washing had been the least of his worries, for any offered water was for drinking no matter its state of cleanliness) and it was very confusing and annoying and frustrating and he wished they would stop.

It made his teeth grind.  The pitying looks sent from behind his back.  The hidden flinches at the sight of his bared scars.  The words whispered when they thought they were out of earshot because he never reacted to anything they said--never cared enough to feel the need.

These strangers--his brothers and his cousins--they meant well, but in the end it was all the same.  They were trying to scrub away the taint that had deeply rooted itself into his body and soul, left behind permanent scars tattooed into his skin and soul that would never dull or fade.  They were naïve, believing that gentleness and time would soothe away the shadow that laid its heavy veil of despair and hatred over his spirit, dampening the brilliance.  They wanted to remake him in their own image of sweet ignorance by washing away what they believed to be the dirt and grime covering his body and holding him down in sorrow and in pain.

They did not realize that, no matter what they did, he would never be clean.  Not like them.  They had lost comrades and suffered through merciless journeys and even fought bloodthirsty battles, but they had never lost hope.  They had never lost the will to survive.

Once it was gone, it could never come back.

It was about the innocence and the memories.  It was about seeing in his mind's eye the bodies of his comrades being desecrated and devoured by ravenous fangs whilst their eyes still flashed with agony and terror and life.  It was about remembering the hopeless feeling of knowing he would never again see light, would die alone in the blackness and the toxic air, suffocating.  It was about being tortured to breaking, until the mind could think of nothing but pain and feel nothing but pain and remembered nothing but pain.  It was about lying in the aftermath and wishing to die, knowing the world was a cruel and horrible place and no amount of endless emerald fields or sweet kisses in the moonlight lingering in the back of the mind could chase away the sudden disappointment and horror of reality.

Those stains could not be taken away.  The violation and the terror and the pain and the humiliation could not be erased.  Everyday Kanafinwë spoke to him of how much his brothers missed him, as though he were the same untainted person returned miraculously from the dead.  Everyday Findekáno silently begged him to transform into the best friend that had been far beyond reach from the first day of torture, long lost in the cruel vaults of time.

Even far away, folded into these warm white sheets and surrounded with the view of the vast sky lit with golden rays of light, Maitimo was constantly trapped.  His skin itched and burned with remembrance of being touched and harmed, with the sting of whips beating welts into formerly soft skin and the hiss of brands laying the heat of molten rock down to the bone, and no amount of washing could make the sensations cease.  His missing hand ached until it was seizing and twisting and helplessly he could only lie still and wait for it to fade and wonder why his cousin had been so cruel as to not simply end his suffering.  And his mind replayed the scenes over and over and over again so that, no matter how many times he told himself that he really was free now, he could never quite convince himself that this wasn't some form of dream--some form of torture derived to tantalize with hope and then snatch it away.

He wasn't the same person.  He wasn't their Maitimo.  He wasn't clean or pure or innocent or naïve.

He was just an unlucky thrall who had failed to die.  Who had been tasked to live.

Still, he washed his hair and his hands and under his nails.  Scrubbed the skin until it was raw and red and the scars were almost invisible against the irritated flesh.  But then it would fade back to the pale white cream inherited from his mother's redheaded genes, and the red lines and marks and puncture wounds would slowly reappear as the hours passed until once again they stared back mockingly.

Proving and reminding him.  That he wasn't that Maitimo.  And never would be again.  And that by daring to lie to these people who carried none of this filth and taint, he would only be giving them false hope--hope that would be raised upon a pedestal and then crumble and crash into rubble in the end, burying beneath it that purity that was too precious a commodity to be wasted.

He would only be spreading the taint.  He would only be destroying their innocence.  He would only be making them unclean.  And there was enough horror and destruction and violence in existence that it did not need his help to corrupt.

More than anything, he wished they would just leave him alone.  That Findekáno had simply shot him through the heart and left him hanging upon that cliff to bleed out in peace.  That Kanafinwë would give up trying to resurrect the long-lost prince from the ranks of the dead simply because they shared the same name and face.  That they would forget all about his pathetic existence and let him fade away into nonexistence.

Wished that they would not try to understand.  Wished that they would remain untouched and pure.  Clean.  Wished that they would never have the horrifying epiphany that this world was truly a horrible, cruel place.

It would be better that way in the end.  For everyone.
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Well, I'll start with the song today: Dancer in the Dark.  I mean, lyric-wise it isn't perfect.  It foreshadows a little, I guess.  In any case, it might sound a bit upbeat for such a depressing piece until you know what the lyrics are.  Of the five stanzas, three are the same and are in English, but it certainly doesn't sound like English at first.  In any case, it is an extremely depressing song, and I discovered that completely by chance, as I've been listening to it for a couple days now on a whim because I rather liked it.  Once again, it's by the Vocaloid Megurine Luka.  Not exactly sure how this Vocaloid stuff works exactly (at least the character-things or whatever), but since everyone attributes it to this nonexistent voice-synthesizer, I figured I might as well.  She's not a real person or anything, though.

In any case, it was partially the song that inspired the imagery for the piece and made it so depressing.  It was that or a compilation between Ariana Figueroa and Amanda Lee of Simple and Clean mixed with Sanctuary, but that was too happy and sweet for the idea I had in mind for today.  Maybe it's boring, but really today was a characterization day--a change in character over time sort of day.

Maedhros is one of my favorite characters, so cut me a break.  I blame the sheer mountain of people on dA who are completely obsessed with him, not the least of which is the creator of my icon family (and my unofficial redheaded older brother who is actually (I think) a girl).  But today (just a few hours ago) I found a really awesome new picture of a Steampunk AU!Maedhros that I just wanted to show you because it kind of inspired the "scarring" emphasis a little and is just a pretty cool bit of artwork: Maedhros - A Spare Hand by =brilcrist on dA.  For fun.  Enjoy. :3