Born

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Another spirit is added to the infamous House of Fëanor.  No matter that he, himself, remains oblivious.  All Sindarin names.  Obviously centered around OMC Valthoron.  This is closely related to "Shame" as well as the "Catatonic" substituent that branches off of the "Cheat" arc.  I am not listing every story it's related to.  Too tired.  Too many.  Takes place east of Ered Luin in the late First Age--Valthoron has probably just hit 100 years or thereabouts, so it may be early S.A., but I'm too lazy to check this early in the morning.

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

Pairings: past non-con Amrod x Thranduil

Characters: Valthoron, Oropher, Thranduil (mentions other random elves and Amrod)

Warning: non-canon compliant, spontaneous children, past non-con, mentions mass murder and such, revenge plot, drunken violence and possible mild child abuse

Song: Si Deus Me Relinquit

Words: 1,969
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born (adjective): brought forth by or as if by birth; deriving or resulting from; being in specified circumstances from birth
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/born

If there was anything Valthoron had truly hated as a child, it was when the adults became drunk.

He had not understand, truly, the fancy for fine wines that ran as blood over the tongue, so thick and flavorful, young as he had been.  All he understood was that, when the wine came out and the glasses filled to the brim flowed and spilled over the edges, it was time to retreat to his bedroom and pretend he didn't exist.  To pretend that his fiery hair had gone out like a snuffed candle's flame.

Learned well, he had, after the first time Oropher had thrown a half-full goblet at his head in the midst of intoxication.  Valthoron, from then on, stayed well away from the older elves when they drank and made revelry.  Or cultivated anger and bitter resentment.

But he had grown.  Long since now had he been old enough to partake in the festivities, and he had thus far avoided the "honor".  He did not want to be anywhere near to them.

However, it could not be avoided forever.

There came the day when he was cornered into attending one of the parties.  The outside bonfire roaring skyward and tables of food spread out in a gluttonous feast for all the revelers.  Enchanted lanterns hung from the trees, illuminating the normally darkened eaves and casting their ghostly glow over the grass.

And then there was the wine.  And then there was the wine.

His ada was sipping daintily, savoring visibly, eyes fluttering shut as a hum of appreciation left his throat.  However, Oropher drank his alcohol like a man in a drought gulped water.

And Valthoron, for his part, pretended to sip at the pool of red liquid.  It was bitter on his tongue, and he took no appreciation in its consumption, abstaining in silence.  Instead, he sat by his ada's side and watched as the elves around him became more and more intoxicated, joining into the dancing and the singing, some so drunken they stumbled and grinned and yelled with abandon.

Oropher was not one of those happy drunkards.  Instead, he brooded, leaning back in his chair and watching the dancing with distant, cold eyes and down-turned lips.  And when his goblet emptied, there was a servant to fill it to the brim once more.

That face was frozen, expressionless and impassive to the joy of the people.  Caught in a net of dark thoughts.  And Valthoron knew that, should he be pulled from reverie--from staring off somewhere in the distance, agonizing over the past--his grandfather would be angry.  Would shout and rave.  Might even throw the heavy silver goblet and the intruder upon his haven of desolation.

If anything, Valthoron wanted to leave as soon as possible.  Discomfort crawled across his flesh, not only at the proximity of his grandfather, but also at the heavy weight of unpleasant gazes, no matter their distance or wariness.  He only stayed because his ada was still here and had wanted him to come and "enjoy" himself for the night.

"You are far too somber, ion-nín.  Some fun would do you well.  For me?"

Thus, when Thranduil stood to leave, so too did his son.

Flashing blue eyes caught him in a net, a captive butterfly whose escape was cut off.  His ada was not drunk like the others--barely even tipsy and not unbalanced upon his feet in the least--and thus remained perceptive, if sad-eyed.

"You needn't leave on my account, ion-nín."

Stay.

"I have had quite my fill of fun."

"You have not even danced." His ada gave him a mildly reproachful look.  The knowing look. "Stay and keep your daeradar company.  Find a lady to dance with and actually enjoy yourself away from my side.  I can return home quite well on my own."

And there went his chance to escape this oppressive weight of tension.  Reluctantly--for he did not wish to argue with his ada--Valthoron nodded and allowed his body to sink back down into his chair.  From the corner of his eyes, he saw Oropher staring, incisive gaze boring holes through flesh down to the bone.

Thranduil left them alone.  Valthoron wished he wouldn't have.  The memory of fleeing from his enraged kinsman still echoed vividly within his thoughts.

But his worry seemed in vain, for Oropher took no interest in him.  Went back to staring off into the darkness of unlit trees, seeing something that was not there.

Looking pained.

And still the wine flowed.  And flowed and flowed.

And though he was not acting the fool, Valthoron knew Oropher was drunk.  Beyond drunk, nearly passing out from overindulgence to the point of sickness.  Even elves could only take so much of the toxin that ran through the blood of the richest of wines.  He could see the older elf rocking slightly in his chair, eyes fluttering and drooping, fingers faintly trembling.

Staring off into the distance.

"D... Daeradar?"

Not even a twitch.

"Daeradar, do you not think you have had quite enough?"  His concern for his kin outweighed his fear of overreaction.  After all, he was fairly talented at dodging, and how accurately could a drunken elf throw a projectile in any case?

But his words had no effect at all.  Those eyes did not even glance in his direction.  Not even when he stood up and walked to his grandfather's side.  Not even when he reached out to press his fingers softly to a powerful forearm.  When he lowered the hand cradling shakily the goblet half-filled with wine.

There was the click of metal upon the table.  Valthoron waited for some sort of reaction, but none came.  Cautiously, he reached out toward the hand upon the goblet, intending to pry the fingers loose.  Intending to drag his drunken kinsman home even if Oropher planned on staring off into space and dragging his feet the entire way.  After all, his ada would be displeased if he allowed anything bad to befall--

He did not even see it coming.

Fingers brushed against fingers, and suddenly Valthoron's world was spinning.  His cheek stung sharply, and the sound of a harsh slap echoed through the clearing, silencing the revelry.  Drawing forth all attention, all the wide-eyed looks of shock.

There was the sound of crackling fire and the glare of icy blue eyes.

"Get thee gone, child of sin!"

From his grandfather's own throat.  Valthoron felt his stomach twist until he thought it was trying to writhe its way up out of his mouth and onto his boots. "Daeradar, I merely wished to--"

"No child of my blood are you!" It was said softly, but with such unshakable firmness that there could be no doubt of its denotation. "Child of rape and filth, the son of a Kinslayer.  You should never even have existed!  Can you not see the pain you cause with your presence?"

The pain you cause.

Like the flashes of terror in ada's eyes, fleeting as a summer shower.  The flinch when fingers washed through his vivid curls and snagged in a tangle.  The nightmares that left Thranduil unable to touch him for days afterward.

Of course Valthoron knew.

But to hear it from his own kin.

"Get.  Thee.  Gone."

And everyone was staring in utter silence, enraptured with the performance.  With the shameful rejection now burned through Valthoron's heart.  Waiting for his response with gleeful anticipatory quiet, hungering for his humiliation and dejection.

And yet he could not speak without being violently ill.  Could not move but for his harsh trembling.  Could hardly see for the burn of tears blurring his world into shape and shadow.

They hated him.

Child of rape.

He obeyed his grandfather.

---

And remembered with perfect clarity the day he had taken a knife to his hair as a young child, ignorant of the meaning of his actions and the actions of others.  Now he stood at the same river.  Staring into his own reflection, far off into the forest and completely alone in the dark.  And he wondered...

Wondered if Thranduil's rapist had hair like waves of fire spilling over broad shoulders.

If that was the origin of the cleft chin and powerful jaw which marked him from his kin.  There was no softness in his features, no sleekness or roundness, only the harsh angles and lines of something cruel and forbidding.

Of a monster.

This was why.  Why his ada ached at looking into the depths of his face and touching his wild hair.  Why his grandfather remained so distant and untouchable, refusing him even the comfort of an embrace or a kiss.  Why the other elves stayed several feet away, parting to allow his passage through their midst as though he carried a contagious disease.

His father had been a golodh.  A Kinslayer and a rapist and a murderer in the cold blood.  Had... to his ada...

Child of rape.

Valthoron knew he was a product of nothing more than hatred and sadism.

He stared into the water and hated that reflection with every last ounce of his being.  Somewhere out there, that man might still exist, might still be killing.  Might still be raping.  The sire who had given him life through violence and pain.  But not through love.  Never through love.

That was why he had always been alone with his ada.

That was why the others glared from his peripheral sight.

That was why he was suffering...

Part of him hated his own being.  And his own nature.  For he was half of that other nameless, faceless monster.  Half of a nightmare.  Half of something so utterly tarnished and slicked with filth that it was beyond recognition as a blessing and a joy.

That was why none had ever taken happiness in his existence.

"You should never even have existed!"

But he did.

And he could hate himself.  But Valthoron knew that, more than he hated himself for the pain he brought upon his family--just by having the form and face of a Kinslayer--he hated more the creature who had caused the wreckage and rubble that encompassed what would once have been a pristine home full of poised beauty and full of love and sweetness.  Happiness.

He had destroyed that future.  Destroyed Thranduil.  Destroyed their family and left it to rot.

Destroyed Valthoron.

And born of that destruction came the hate and the rage.  Like second nature, it embraced and enfolded, rained its branding heat down and yet somehow soothed.  Drove his blood to a wild frenzy and all the same chased away the cold feeling of despair awash within his chest.

Saved him for a little while longer.

Child of rape.  Child of fire.

And, though none knew it--not even he--a spirit of fire had been created, born from the inferno and ash.  It was in the blood.  In the soul.  In the eyes that stared back from the rippling water like blue stars, breaking apart the shadow of the night beneath the resplendence of their fey fury.

A Fëanorion.  Every inch.  Every tear.  Every droplet of vengeful spirit.

His jaw steeled and his teeth clenched.  Brows furrowed into deep, harsh lines over his scowling face.  And, for a second time, Valthoron took his blade to the long strands of flame, sheering them away into an uneven mess, watching their mangled remains float down the river to oblivion.

He had no father.

And should ever the man who had committed this crime against his family show his face--

Valthoron's face.

--he would tear him apart.

And enjoy his screams.  Thus, he promised in oath, gazing up at the stars.
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Once again, this will be rather short and sweet for you all.  I have, obviously, been working forward on this arc a little bit.  I have absolutely no idea what I'll write tomorrow, though, so this may have been my mini-"Cheat" binge for the month or w/e you want to call it.  I just could not help myself--Valthoron is just as hot-blooded as the rest of his daddy's family, isn't he?

It's adorable.  In a sick sort of way.  Nevertheless, I like how he is turning out.  Yay for character development!

And sleep!

But, of course, music rant first.  Si Deus Me Relinquit is from the Kuroshitsuji OST (composed by Taku Iwasaki) and it's gorgeous.  The vocals scream the anguish that Ciel is in and outline the true tragedy of his existence and his deal with Sebastian Michaelis, and it just is so perfect.  Thus, I knew I had to use it for one of my stories, and BOOM! came along "Born".  It was just so perfect.  Sorry for repeating LOL.  Anyway, that's enough for now.

Hope you enjoyed.  Now, sleep time :3.