Gloves

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Ilession sees the means.  Maglor sees only the end.  Quenya names used (Maglor = Makalaurë).  This story is, of course, related to "Villain", "Worst Day", "Morals" and "Hero".  It will be most interesting to write this from Maglor's perspective, should the correct prompt ever present itself.  Ah, the glory of having only one perspective when it makes the meaning unclear.  Honestly, I consider it to be something of ironic dramatic irony.  Even though that's a bit cruel.  Takes place on the shore of Eriador somewhere in the early Third Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion, but Ilession is mine.

Pairings: none

Characters: Ilession (OMC), Maglor (mentions Sauron and other random elves)

Warning: not canon compliant, spontaneous children, OMC warning, mentions torture (semi-explicit), implied mass murder and war, something vaguely resembling hero worship

Song: Last Song

Words: 1,391
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glove (noun): a covering for the hand having separate sections for each of the fingers and the thumb and often extending part way up the arm
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/glove

Never had Ilession known his father to cover his hands.  Not before.

As a musician, Makalaurë made a point to always bare those long, elegant digits so that they might be ready at a moment's notice to perform miracles of melody and harmony.  Perfectly manicured nails cut short and neat, set upon pale skin callused from plucking strings for long hours defined the strength and precision outlined in muscle and tendon and bone.  As a child, Ilession had loved those hands, not only when they playfully teased or tickled, but when they merely moved, liquid grace flashing over lyres and harps like magic come alive.

Even when the Exiles had crossed Belegaer and it became a common habit of warriors to wear leather in protection of their soft palms against the ravages of leather hilts rubbing skin to blisters and bruises, never had his father donned so much as a scrap of cloth to hide away his fingers.  It would have been nearly sacrilegious, the defiance of Makalaurë's true being.

But, seeing him again after so long, should it have been surprising that much had changed?

The change was more surprising than anticipated.

Makalaurë wore gloves, taut dark leather worn with time and creased into the exact pattern of the lines that Ilession recalled so distinctly as crisscrossing his father's hands.  The covering was soft and flexible from use, obviously well-loved, if an article of clothing could be loved in such a manner.

Yet they never came off in the open air beneath celestial eyes.

Away, Makalaurë would hide were he to seek a bath after weeks of hard travel, vanishing for hours and returning damp and washed without providing an opening to explore the area of itching curiosity gnawing at Ilession's restraint.  And, if the bard planned to play his harp, it was well within the deepest of cloaking shadows, keeping that skin away from light as though such a brilliant touch might burn and sear as acid to unprotected flesh.

It was as though Makalaurë did not want him to see.

And, born of the flame and the madness of that accursed House, Ilession--of course--could not help but wish to understand.  But desire to unmask this new point of intrigue so that its mysteries were unearthed and all appeal was carried away upon the merciless winds of discovery.

His father was not cooperating.

And Ilession was not all that surprised.

The other man went out of his way to keep the hands out of sight.  Even from himself.

---

For those fleeting moments when the younger man knew the leather was removed, that the sight he was so eager to behold was hidden by only the cant of a broad, hunched shoulder or the veil of inky-dark hair upon the breeze, always those stormy eyes would look away.  As, quickly and efficiently, long fingers pulled the imprisoning creations back upon themselves and laced and knotted taut and firm against intrusion or escape, always there would be that distant look upon the elder's gaze.  Staring at something far away in the churning of the sea.

Something that wasn't there.  That would never be there again.

"Why do you wear those?"

He would receive that blank look he so hated, as if a mind empty of thought sat vacant beneath those symmetrical features.  Brows sat neutral and lips remained flat. "To what do you refer?"

"Those gloves." With a nod in their direction. "You hardly perform the menial labor that requires their protection.  Would it not be conducive to forgo their hassle?"

But all it would earn was a shake of the head. "They serve a purpose."

And he thought, once, that he understood.  Back then.

There had been a time--not too long ago, in the wreckage of victorious defeat--when Ilession could not bear to see his own fingers and the stumps of those unlucky few that his master had seen fit to remove for entertainment or vindictive pleasure.  For he could see his scarred, burned and broken hands wrapped about a barbed whip's handle, chafing on the fine, braided leather.  Or holding a vial of acid high overhead as he watched a tiny, seemingly innocuous drop glide over the lip of the glass down and down.  Or wielding a brand, glowing a hellish orange in the shape of a demonic, unblinking Eye, sizzling until flesh blackened with taint.

There had been a time when all that that image held was the memory of blood and screams and pleading, betrayed eyes.  But, painful though they had been, Ilession had long banished those demons from his heart and his head.  He had done what needed to be done for those beloved to his spirit, and he would not be ashamed of the violent, horrific acts those hands had carried out under their own power in the name of those precious people.

"Is it the blood?"  Is that what they cover?

Because that he could understand.

However, no such understanding was forged that day or any day since.  Makalaurë looked down upon his gloved limbs with blank eyes, and the minute flash of despair was present as a flash of lightning in the dark.  Yet there lingered no shame or fear or guilt.  Just drowning sorrow sinking soul-deep as a festering wound.

"It is not the blood that bothers me.  Long since has it ceased to have its hold."

There was a pause.  A silent breath between them.  And his father would not face toward him, but rather turned to the comfort of the sea and the salt and the mist whipping over the coast. "It is not what they have done.  It is what they have not done."

And there was naught else said on the matter.

---

Not even when he saw for the first time.

Those gloves had been ripped asunder in a fight, hooked upon a naked blade and sheared away, bearing beneath the marring that Makalaurë so desperately seemed to keep hidden away in the dark.  Locked away from the world.  As if those marks might spread.  As if they were some infectious disease.

But they were only scars.

The deep cutting lines etched across what had once dared to be called perfection.  Skin of white lily-petals melded now ripped to pieces with deep red welts.  Burn-scars that had never been properly treated or healed, but were left to melt and deform without care, leaving behind this rising, netted mess of a pattern.  Yet it was a pattern well-imprinted upon the son's mind.

The eight-sided polygon with outstretching arms.  A star with a face all too familiar and terrible.  Ilession looked upon it and recalled holy light from afar, a memory hazy from childhood that seemed to slip between his fingers like grains of fine sand.  A brief glimpse at the catalyst of all this death and tragedy.

That this was an echo of that glimpse.  For nearly as soon as cool air brushed bare skin, Makalaurë pulled shut his cloak to hide away the foreign limbs from sight.

Not fast enough to keep hidden their secrets.  Yet with the revelation of that secret only came the discovery of a dozen more nagging and taunting at the corners of Ilession's mind.  So many clues that made no sense.

To touch those facets and yet wander empty-handed for millennia.  He could not help but wonder at the true reason for covering those scars.  For grief but not shame.  For despair but not horror.

Could not help but wonder if, as the son, the father had come to terms with shedding blood long ago.  And it was a different phantom that Makalaurë was driven to imprison.

Truth be told, if yet another demon haunted the man who spent his thousands of years alone traversing the craggy cliffs and hissing shores of the Belegaer, Ilession could not rightly have said what it was.  He did not know the mind of his sire any more now than he had all those many years ago.  And he knew Makalaurë would not speak.

He would wear his gloves and hide from his demons.

And Ilession had not the heart to call him a coward.
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So I found the perfect song for this piece just as I was starting to write, and completely by accident.  I love how that happens, because I love this song, even though it's in Japanese.  Last Song by Megurine Luka--it's a Vocaloid thing I believe--(Yamai version) is supposed to be a tragic love song, I think, and I can't say I know enough Japanese to know this--but the English translation does not distinctly imply only romantic love, so I used it anyway.

Consider it a hint as to Maglor's reason for wearing those gloves.  If it wasn't obvious already.  It's been an ongoing theme and Ilession will feel like an idiot for missing it.  Actually, the intro-sentence is another hint.  Anyway, this Maglor may not be quite "canon" compliant with "Worst Day" and "Villain"--or maybe he is, I guess I haven't written enough between the Second and Third Kinslayings to know--but I enjoy the fact that Maglor is evolving.  And yay! for opposing viewpoints of characters!

Forgive me for going on and on.  It pleases me to no end, as you can tell.  Just enjoy the music and the story.  And forgive the YouTube video for repeating twice--at least it's an awesome song, ne?  Well, I think it's awesome anyway...