Storm

Mellow Soulmate AU.  The death of Caranthir Fëanorion.  Quenya names used (Caranthir = Carnistir and Maedhros = Nelyafinwë).  This could be considered a companion piece to other Second Kinslaying pieces, such as "Reap" (and the Mellow arc), "Villain" (and the Maglor arc) and "Overflow" (and the Thranduil arc), but is most closely related to "Transparent" and "Addicted" (before) and "Afterlife" and "Forward" (after).  Takes place in Menegroth in the First Age during the Second Kinslaying.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: past one-sided Caranthir x Haleth

Characters: Caranthir, Celeborn (mentions Maedhros, the Fëanorions, Fëanor, Dior, random Sindar and Mandos)

Warning: canon compliant AU, non-canon pairing implied, canon character death, death scene, mentions torture, mutilation, dismemberment, war, slavery and bloodshed, semi-explicit mass murder, possible psychosis, (unintentionally) assisted suicide

Song: Melody of Agony

Words: 1,391
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
storm (noun): a disturbance of the atmosphere marked by wind and usually by rain, snow, hail, sleet, or thunder and lightning; a disturbed or agitated state: a sudden or violent commotion
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/storm

It was bizarrely easy to hide how torn up inside he felt.  How unstable he truly had become.

No one looked too hard at the snarky, sarcastic and slightly sadistic middle brother expecting to find anything more than was on the surface, for he had always been easy to read and discern.  An open book.  To the world, he was a bitter and empty shell, just as riddled with thirst for blood as his siblings and just as obsessed with revenge and reclamation of birthright as had been his sire.  A man who pushed everyone away with stinging words, even his own siblings and servants.  Whose sweet and bashful nature had long been banished beneath a shower of blood and death and wickedness.

Things had changed, but even his brothers did not see through the vicious smirks and venomous comments to what lay underneath.  They did not know to look.  They were blind.

They suspected nothing. 

And perhaps if they had, they would have locked Carnistir up and kept him far away from the field of battle.  Far away from Doriath.  Far away from temptation.  Far away from himself.

But he was here, standing in the midst of chaos that might as well have been a mirror image of the churning, violent clash occupying thoughts with thick clouds of dissent and darkness reflected back into a twisted fantasia of horror.  He watched with narrowed, distant eyes as his brothers and comrades rained down upon the marchwardens and slaughtered them all without mercy, breaking their way into the sacred lands of the forest folk.  Watched as they broke through the gates to the ancient city and spilled the blood of the few guards trying to hold back their tide and give the civilians--the innocents--a chance to escape.

He watched as they broke through the line of armed warriors and began the true massacre, taking anyone and anything in their path down into the abyss of hell.

It was very hard to sympathize.

As chaotic and terrifying as the outside world was, he could still stand on his own two feet.  Still had solid ground upon which to rest his weight.  Still kept his tenuous balance.

Inside, everything was off-kilter.  Tilted and broken.

Inside, he felt as though two warring factions were boiling over in civil war.  Cold and warm air clashed and burned through his body and mind, lightning flashing jaggedly through the blackness of contaminated thoughts.  A downpour of depression settled itself like a blanket across his spirit and doused, driving out all the will and all the power and all the desire from his blood and leaving a shivering, whimpering afterimage in the wake of destruction.  All it offered was pain.  There was room for nothing else but that shuddering quake of complete aloneness and hopelessness and agony eating holes through his core with a searing, acidic touch.

It was a storm of emotion far more terrifying than anything the outside world had to offer.  Carnistir stood and watched as women fell protecting their children, whose blood was then splattered across the wall irreverently and mercilessly.  As snobbish nobles scattered in panic, were cornered and picked off like lamed animals surrounded by wolves, easy prey for the hungry predators.  As the helpless scholars and minstrels tried to flee or stood to fight without experience or weaponry to defend themselves and were chased down with ease, a flimsy wall bowled over by the wind.

He envied them.

Envied that emptiness in their eyes.  Envied that their strife and fight was ended.

Envied the peace that must come from the silence that death offered.

Because he could no longer think, let alone function as a person.  Spouting poison-dipped words with arrowheads, launching them where most vulnerable his opponents appeared, was an easy task.  But even that was beyond his capacity.  Pretending was beyond his capacity.  Even fighting was beyond his capacity.

Everything was beyond his coherent mind but thinking about her--she had been dead for so long, why could he not forget everything about her, from her surreal eyes to her wrinkled smile?--and about endless, useless war--so terrified were these innocents, but they had not seen comrades devoured alive or dismembered for sport, had not seen torture or slavery stretched on for centuries--and about exhaustion--he was so ready to burn out, for the wild hurricane blowing itself across his mind to dissipate so that he could lie down beneath a clear sky and sleep forever.

He just wanted it to be over.  This life.  If it could even be called as such.

After all, what kind of life was this?  He ate and slept and dreamed about a woman who he would never see again who never loved him in the first space.  He sharpened his sword and sparred until he dropped and murdered without care, spilled crimson all over his hands and clothes and boots without second thought.  There was nothing to look forward to but eternal damnation and no way to return to the deceased and shattered past.

There was just the pain of being ripped apart slowly, piece by piece by piece.  Of bitter winds raking their icy fingers across his soul until he wanted to curl up and plead.  Of unceasing rain pouring and pouring until he thought he might drown.  A never-ending storm that derived its sole purpose and pleasure in tormenting him to the brink of insanity.

And he could think of only one way to make it stop.  To burn it out.

To take away the fire that fuelled its ferocity.

Nelyafinwë would have been angry had he known that Carnistir never planned on fighting.  No mere Sindarin warrior, save perhaps the king and his closest guard, would stand even a chance in single combat against a battle-hardened, experienced Fëanárion, so the eldest had thought not to worry.  For as long as his brothers stood tall and fought until their enemy laid in his own blood and intestines or until they themselves felt black swarm their vision and the cold embrace of Mandos carry them away, the six remaining sons would keep fighting forever tirelessly.

Except Carnistir would not.  Did not plan to.  Did not want to.

He was tired.  And it hurt so much.  He just wanted it to stop, stop, stop...

And thus he stood at the center of cacophony and discord but did not take part.  Instead, he stood still. Wondered curiously when they would notice that he moved not a muscle to attack or defend.  Not a centimeter.  Just waited patiently for whatever end might come.

Wondered absently, when he looked up into hazel eyes glaring without sympathy--eyes filled with fear and hatred for the invaders--if they could see the internal struggle raging beneath the calm, neutral exterior.  Wondered if, when that arrow pulled taut to an elegant cheek, the archer with sharp eyes could make out the relaxation of his foe's muscles.  The surrender in every inch of his being.  Knew that he would not dart aside or move to intercept.

Wondered if, when he heard the twang of the bow releasing and the slicing scream of fletching breaking the air, this death would hurt.  Or if, perhaps, it would feel pleasant.

To be free of rain and wind and crackling lightning burning the air to ozone and singeing his insides into charred, unrecognizable rubble.  To be soothed and feel nothing at all, simply float without discord or inner turmoil, forgetting the creeping shadows.

He could have moved.  His eyes saw it coming, aimed perfectly between the eyes.

But he looked at the archer--at his killer and savior--instead, seeing the blast of silver hair blown back from an unfamiliar face and shocked, widened eyes piercing with disbelief and confusion.  And he wondered if the Sindarin warrior--whomever he might be--knew that the Fëanárion was grateful for the kindness.  For the end.

He would never get the chance to ask.  There was a flash of silver and the sound of screams ringing.  A shot of pain in his skull that lasted only a moment.

And then blessed silence.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I have to admit, I've been waiting for the right prompt to write this piece for quite some time.  Almost since writing "Reap" way, way back several months ago, but especially since writing "Prayers" and "Afterlife".  I've had it in my head for that long, and hinted heavily at it especially in "Forward", but just didn't have the right word to write it.

The song, Melody of Agony (by Takeharu Ishimoto) is from FFVII: Crisis Core OST, and I have literally been saving it for this very story.  Immediately upon listening to it (way back when I was in the Crisis Core phase where almost everything for several weeks at the end of June was Crisis Core-related songs from the OST) I knew exactly who it was about and exactly what was going to be happening to Caranthir when it was playing.  I had even decided exactly who I wanted to be responsible for killing him.

I have not yet decided whether I want Galadriel or one of the other brothers to witness the death, but I think it would be interesting for someone to have seen and to know (other than Celeborn) that the death was no accident, but that Caranthir didn't even try to survive.  Depending on which character it is, they may be relieved or happy or somewhere between mildly and extremely traumatized.  Actually, I think I have an idea of who I want to see it... and how it ties into the plot post-Second Kinslaying.

But that's for later, ne~  Happy reading. :D