Jaded

Mellow Soulmate AU.  On the ugly truth of Valinor and the fates of those left behind.  This story is entirely focused upon several OCs, thus it will make no sense if you haven't read other arcs.  It's closely related with "Locked", "Punch" and "Tea", as well as "Secret", "Fantasy" and "Beach" and "Disconsolate", "Adapt" and "Soothe", among a good many others I feel I should add.  Those are the ones where these characters originate, though.  Takes place in Tirion during the First Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion.  But these characters are mine.

Pairings: b/g Maedhros x Istelindë, b/g Curufin x Lindalórë

Characters: Istelindë, Teldanno, Lindalórë (mentions Curufin, Maedhros, Fëanor, Nerdanel, other OFCs and random other elves)

Warning: non-canon compliant, spontaneous children, OC-centric, non-canon pairings, the evils of society and politics, possible child abuse, mental illnesses, mentions murder

Song: Setsugekka

Words: 1,276
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jaded (adjective): fatigued by overwork: exhausted; made dull, apathetic, or cynical by experience or by surfeit
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/jaded

There were just some things one should never see in a child's eyes.

Though she was not a mother herself, Istelindë adored children with all her heart.  Loved to hold babies as they cooed and wriggled cutely at her bosom.  Loved to hold little ones upon her lap and admire their chubby cheeks and shy faces.  Loved to be around them, to speak to them, to play with them and to coddle them incessantly.

Always, she had wanted one.  Or two.  Or perhaps a half-dozen.  Such had been her tenuous dream in the predawn of marital bliss, one which had never fully faded but remained gray with the loss of her husband.

Although that dream had never been fulfilled, there was still a little light flickering over her wane existence, one which brought her the pleasure and hope and comfort for which she so terribly longed.  Filled up the emptiness, the aching chambers left vacant and cold by her arms wrapping around naught but uninviting chill when she reached out toward her mate to whisper of her most intimate dreams in his ears.

Filled up the part of her that wanted a babe to call her own, though she knew it was not to be.  But she had him, her sister-in-law's son.  She had her sweet little nephew.

Teldanno was still very young, not quite breaching yet the years between child and adult but neither tiny and naive in the years of stumbling and questioning and pure curiosity.  Small and slender with big eyes, he could melt her heart with but a glance of verdant and the pout of full lips.  Could wheedle anything and everything he wanted from her with but a few soft-spoken words tinted with wistfulness.

Some days, he seemed perfectly normal.  Innocent and pure as he sat upon the lush carpet and played with toys or curled up upon the sofa and read fairytales.

But he was far from a normal child.

Istelindë would sit with him for hours when his mother was too tired or too worn to watch over him.  Would play with the boy and sing him songs and make sure he ate.  Would try anything to take his mind away from his mother's tears and wails slithering from beneath locked doors.

Would do anything to make him forget all the bad things in the world and smile.

But Teldanno did not smile.

If there was one thing that constantly pulled upon Istelindë's fragile heartstrings, it was the fact that her sweet nephew was never happy.

Oh, he could be amused to the point of cackling.  He could laugh, and his laughter echoed through the house as a shadow of his sire and uncles come back from her memories as a frightfully tangible phantom.  He could scowl to put all but his grandfather to shame.  He could even pull off the overwhelming visage of charm and poise with which all members of his bloodline utilized to their own whims and fancies.  Well Istelindë recalled that charm, the flirtatious half-grins and pretty words.

But there was no trace of a smile.  Not a genuine smile.  Not like the ones she saw on Maitimo's face when she braided his hair in the evening, stroking fingers soothingly over his broad shoulders until all the tension drained from his muscles.  Not like the ones she saw upon Curufinwë when he stared love-stricken upon his wife's visage, lost in a world all his own wherein only they two existed and all was perfect.  Not like the broad grins she recalled from Turkafinwë when he stomped through the door after a hunt, covered in dust and mud and sweat, panting and exhausted, but breathless and giddy with joy and satisfaction.

None of that was there.  None of the enjoyment.  None of the passion.  If anything, her sweet nephew was too serious and distant.  He was good at craftsmanship but had no ingenuity or interest in its intricate inner workings as had his grandfather.  He was talented at all forms of writing and arts but found painting and sculpting and poetry to be mind-numbing.  He read texts far advanced beyond his age with ease, but seemingly only out of the purest form of boredom and indulgence of his tutors.

He never did much of anything to enjoy himself.  Except try to make everyone else happy whilst pretending that all was well in his small and broken world.

In a world where anyone within the dreaded House of Fëanáro might as well have been Morgoth in the flesh and the soul.

He pretended well.  He would look upon sneering faces with a blank expression and keep walking, talking animatedly up at her with that smirk.  He would ignore harsh comments and teasing from the other children like one stricken with deafness and impassivity, instead spending all his time alone as if he didn't need their company or friendship.  He would never express upon his face the fierce pain she knew must pierce his soul with each harsh word and speared glance, because he did not want his mother and aunts to worry.

But no matter how much he pretended, he could not hide the truth from her calculating gaze.  His spirit was jaded and dark.  His fire was not the harsh, hot-burning blaze of his father and grandfather.  It was, instead, an insidious smolder, blackened from years of scorn.

No child, not even old enough to understand the reality of their situation--the truth of his father and uncles and their crimes, the prophecy for which the Noldor had been exiled beyond the vast ocean, the reasons why he and his mother had been left behind--should ever have that look upon his young face, in the depths of his wide eyes.  No child, not even old enough to understand the complexities of love and hate and the cruelty of the world, should have such a look of lustful resentment when he thought no one was looking.

Istelindë hated that look whenever it flashed over his delicate features and tainted his green eyes.  She hated it, but knew there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Nothing she could do to make him understand.  Nothing she could do to soothe the suffering of his mother.  Nothing she could do to change the perception of his father.

And nothing she could do to alter the horrendous and vicious actions of those who sneered down their noses upon the innocents left behind in the wake of disaster, using them as scapegoats for fear and bitterness and loss gone without mourning.  For neither she, nor her sisters-in-law, nor her mother-in-law nor her sweet little nephew had anything to do with the destruction of Alqualondë and the slaughter of its people, nor for the desertion and exile of many a son and husband and father.

It was not fair and honest.  It was not the perfect world she knew they all longed to embrace and believe in wholeheartedly, that illusion that shattered like a pane of one-sided glass when the Trees went out.

In this imperfect world, her sweet nephew was a victim of circumstance and pettiness.  His heart was too heavy to feel the lightness of bliss.

And there was nothing to be done but to cradle that small form into her arms and wish things could be different.  Wish that she could brush the ugliness and acidic sting away.  Wish that she could make him smile with all his spirit.

Wish and wish and wish, even knowing none would ever reach fruition.
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Too late to write decent AN.

Setsugekka by Gackt was picked purely because I liked it when I heard it.  I don't even know what the lyrics mean, actually, but I still like the song.  Who knows, maybe it's more relevant than I believed?  In any case, the violin made me soooooooooo happy (in a bizarre sort of way).  And it just has this timbre that's so Gackt, just classic.  I love it.

Yeah, you can tell I'm barely coherent.  I'm going to bed now.