Mellow Soulmate AU. On the eve of battle, when you know you're going to die... Quenya names used (Fingon = Findekáno, Turgon = Turukáno or Turno, Maedhros = Maitimo, Aegnor = Aikanáro, Celegorm = Turkafinwë). This is related especially closely to "Alcohol", "Get Up", "Treat", "Affront", "Terrible" and "Enjoy" amongst many others. I suppose its also linked to "Grave" and "Pretend". Takes place probably somewhere near Himring the night before the Fifth Battle.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Fingon x Sáriel (OFC)
Characters: Fingon, Turgon, Maedhros (mentions Sáriel, Gil-Galad, Celegorm, Aegnor, Fingolfin and Fëanor)
Warning: non-canon compliant, future canon character death, premonition, OFC warning, cultural stuff hidden in there, war and torture, hints at child abuse
Song: If I Die Young
Words: 1,301
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wing (noun): one of the movable feathered or membranous paired appendages by means of which a bird, bat, or insect is able to fly; an appendage or part resembling a wing in appearance, position, or function
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/wing
There was a reason that Findekáno was never seen without his headpiece. A reason he had even had the crown remade so that it might fit entwined with the golden eagle's wing.
It wasn't purely sentimental value, of course.
Reaching upwards, he brushed against the gold. No tarnish stained the headpiece, though he had been wearing it for hundreds of years, ever since the day he had first received it. Maybe Findekáno wasn't the most responsible of men, but if there was one thing he always knew he would cherish, it was this.
And the words that had come with it.
"I do not make things often, and it is not half as extravagant as my father would have crafted it, but nonetheless I thought it would suit you."
It was beautiful, this trinket. Why Maitimo would think for even a second that it was of inferior quality, Findekáno could scarcely understand. Or, perhaps, he could understand all too well. The reminder made his lips purse as he stared down at the headpiece.
Simple but elegant. Two golden wings branched outwards in the cup of his hands, each little feather tooled to perfection. Were it not for the lack of a body and movement and heat, he would have thought them true wings of birds. It seemed as though the faintest breeze could send them flying away into a distance flutter of black upon the far sky.
"Thank you," he said softly. It was, after all, the anniversary of the day he had been created.
He wondered how often his father regretted it.
But the broad grin of his cousin chased away just a bit of that scorn, that disdain. That endless wave of doubt and hatred that lingered behind Findekáno's charming, infectious and utter farce of a smile. Maitimo was always genuine, only smiling when happiness truly struck him, brought that glow of sincerity to those usually sharply defined features.
Made him beautiful. They called him perfection already, but Findekáno thought Maitimo was a thousand times more perfect when he was smiling.
If only the same could be said for him...
"Maitimo... Why wings?" Not, of course, that he didn't find the gift enchanting, but it did not make much sense. It looked more like the sort of ornament one might find in the hair of a young maiden than a very masculine young prince.
"I thought you needed them."
Again, Findekáno ran his fingers over the edges, taking in the careful, methodical detail engraved into every edge, every centimeter. It must have taken weeks to complete this project, and he knew how much Maitimo disliked working in the forge.
Judging by the number of bandages he'd seen on his cousin's hands, coupled with the tense frustration practically radiating off the redhead as of late, Maitimo had put aside his sheer dislike and lack of skill to, for once, create something. And that spoke deeply to Findekáno of how much this little piece must mean to his cousin.
How many unspoken words it must carry.
"I need wings?" he asked, smiling with self-depreciation.
"I think you need to be reminded of who you are, my wild and reckless cousin--my brother." The grin softened to a mere smile, and long fingers fiddled a bit with Findekáno's dark hair. "I think you need to be reminded that, no matter what your father or anyone else says, you are free to be whomever and whatever you want to be."
Those huge gray eyes, almost dripping with affection, fluttered shut. "Who would know better than I, little brother?"
"Maitimo... I..."
"Trust me, Káno. Do not let their words stop you. You will be great."
Maybe it was the mere memory of those words that had kept him going so long. That had kept him from giving up so many thousands of times. That kept him bound together with his sworn-brother despite everything.
That had kept him from turning back when all hope had seemed lost and their family betrayed. That had pushed him to stay alive when the cold seemed to eat away his flesh and freeze solid his bones. That had forced him to go against his family to rescue the man he believed had no affection--brotherly or otherwise--for him anymore.
"Why would you help them--traitors and murderers? They left us for dead!"
"Because he is my brother."
"You hold no obligation to help him." Turukáno was angry, and Findekáno understood why. But even so, he could not deny the intensely powerful loyalty drawing him away...
Toward the truth. Be it Maitimo's survival or his rotting corpse.
"I have to do this, Turno. I have to."
That had him stomping forward and shaking Maitimo into wakefulness. That gave him the fortitude to make his stubborn sworn-brother stand up and fight again and again when all the redhead wanted to do was lie down and die. That eventually brought them both back to life.
"You are too stubborn for your own good, Findekáno."
"Unfortunately for you, I think that flaw is permanent." They both laughed at the younger cousin's cheesy grin. "You love me anyway."
An arm, the end hand-less, was thrown over his shoulder carelessly. Affectionately.
"Of course, foolish little brother."
That even had him marrying the woman of his dreams and siring a child in the midst of war. A spitfire redhead, a woman of the forest who could hunt with the likes of Turkafinwë and fight with the passion and finesse of Aikanáro. She complimented him perfectly, scoffed at his flirtatious disposition and love of drink, laughed in the face of his hopeless inability to stay organized and get tasks completed but somehow always managed to keep him in line.
Not for a moment did he regret her or their son, no matter that the boy was an ocean's length away and she here, waiting patiently to die when he failed to return.
"It is against tradition. And a ruler should always follow tradition, if only for the sake of the people."
"You have it all wrong, Turno. The people, maybe they need something new. Maybe they need a breath of fresh air in all this stale coldness."
"If you think you know what you're doing."
And he would brush his fingers across gold. "I know what I am doing. Trust me."
He was himself. Irresponsible, reckless, kindhearted and foolish Findekáno. The worst king his people could ever have asked for.
And, on the morn, he was marching to certain death.
But nonetheless, Findekáno wove that piece into his hair and braided it tightly down to his scalp. Comfortingly did the metal settle against his skin, its chill rocking through the king's body as he stared at his reflection. Just him, without the crown and the robes and the royal frippery.
The feeling of foreboding did not go away. But he still managed a faint smile.
Tomorrow, he was sure he would die. But he would die knowing his son was safe. Knowing his wife would soon join him in the Halls. Knowing he was at the shoulder of his best friend and brother in all but blood, fighting for the survival of his people. Knowing that, in the end, he had managed to be a good prince and a good king despite all the flaws.
There was nothing he could say he regretted. And he thought that was a good way to die.
For something he believed in. Wings intact on the field of battle.
"I am ready to depart. To whatever end."
Had any words ever felt so true?
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Friday, November 29, 2013
Locket
Mellow Soulmate AU, Locked arc. Curufin made those lockets so that they would never forget one another. And they served their purpose all too well. Quenya names used (Curufin = Curufinwë, Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Maglor = Makalaurë, Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Caranthir = Morifinwë, Finrod = Artafindë). Very closely related to "Locked", "Beach", "Reprise", "Snore", the dA piece "Apart" and "Twisted" amongst others, including all of the Nargothrond arc. Basically fluff to angst. Takes place (part 1 and 2) in Valinor during the Years of the Trees and (part 3) in Beleriand during the First Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion, but Lindalórë is mine
Pairings: Curufin x Lindalórë
Characters: Curufin, Lindalórë, Finrod (mentions Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir and Fëanor)
Warning: non-canon compliant, OFC warning, starts fluffy and goes downhill from there, mental instability/insanity, hints at child abuse (verbal)
Song:
Words: 1,943
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locket (noun): a small case usually of precious metal that has space for a memento and that is worn typically suspended from a chain or necklace
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/locket
Working in the forge was not an activity that Curufinwë relished. Certainly, he had the talent and dexterity for the task--for the shaping and the pounding and the artistry--but he didn't have the charismatic intensity for design. Not like his father.
Somehow, it had always made him the greatest disappointment of all. Nelyafinwë was a politician and Makalaurë a scholar. Turkafinwë was the rebel and Morifinwë the strange ghost. But then there was Curufinwë, the perfect replica child that his father always wanted, with the same damning features and the same intellectual strengths and the same natural talent with shaping metal and stone.
With everything but the drive.
Rarely did Curufinwë want to create masterpieces. Bitterly, he often regarded the fire and the heat and the smoke with the sort of nostalgia that makes one's stomach churn unpleasantly. The memory of those eyes, calculative and judgmental, following his every move with punishing criticism flashing in their depths, it always left the tiny hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
But today he had a mission. A mission that trumped even the unpleasantness of remembering the long, blistering private lessons that he wanted to completely forget.
Now he drew them all back into his mind, categorizing them almost fanatically, searching for that one tip or sarcastic hinting nudge that he needed. His father's perfectionism would turn out to be useful for something, after all, even if it was something the man himself would probably never approve of.
This project had to be perfect.
Never before had Curufinwë devoted himself to a work of the hands with such enthusiasm, such obsessive drive toward the flawless end result. His father would have been proud to see such devotion to the craftsmanship that ran through their fiery blood.
For days and days, he had been working on this. This gift. Already, he'd had the portraits--one for each half of the set--commissioned and sent to be completed. But while Curufinwë knew he could not paint well enough to perform that duty, he knew this art like he knew the back of his hand, however unwilling that knowledge might have come. He knew the twist of molten metal, the ring of tools and the hours and hours of delicate, eye-straining work.
It was worth it. So very worth it.
Each delicate entwining vine. Each petal of each tiny flower. Each twist of gold and silver. Every single engraved letter carefully etched. Every last detail fanatically planned and worked and reworked and reworked again into perfection.
Even then, it was not perfect. And Curufinwë would start over again and again until his blood settled and the roiling tide of disquieting obsession quieted in his breast. Until he could look upon the trinket in his palm and imagine it hanging around her neck, settled to the warm, pale skin over her heart so that she would always have some little part of him with her.
And the matching other half. So that he would never be alone.
It was, perhaps, sentimental and ridiculous. A fantastical gesture that she could do without. But part of him needed this, and he did not quite understand why. Never would they be parted... and yet...
And yet he couldn't make the thought go away. The thought of having his wife's image lying over his chest, over the throbbing pulse of his heart every second of every day so that she knew, understood, exactly how much she meant to him. Exactly how much he needed her... would always need her...
Foolish. But true. Curufinwë would not stop until he was finished. Would barely sleep or eat because the pull became too powerful to overcome.
If this was what his father felt at all times every moment of the day, he could understand why the Crown Prince hardly ever left the forge--hardly ever left the work that seemed tied directly to his surviving the next hour and moment and second. Because it was maddening.
---
And, in the end, it was perfect.
Seeing her expression when she first beheld the set--hers golden and his own silvered--lying entwined in the palm of his hand.
"Perhaps it is silly, but..." He ran a hand through his loose hair and tried not to blush or fidget with nervousness. Tried not to make it obvious exactly how many days and days of backbreaking effort he had put into cultivating these two works, sitting tiny nestled in the palm of his broad, callused and burn-riddled hand. "But I wanted to give you something..."
"Atarinkë?"
"I just want you to have a part of me. Even when I am not here. Just... please... to ease my mind."
"And the other one...?" She lifted the silver locket, opened it to her own portrait staring back, green-eyed and smiling gently. It was an expression that he adored, one that always made that tight ball of tension at the base of his throat unravel into lightness.
"Even when we are parted, we will never be apart."
"Are we planning on being parted?" Teasingly, she grinned up at him. "Silly man, but I... I like it." The flush that spread across her cheeks made his head spin. How was it that every day--every moment--she seemed to somehow grow more beautiful and breathtaking?
"Let me put it on," he requested softly, picking up the slender chain of her locket in between graceful fingers.
"Yes..." Breathless was her voice and wide were her eyes. Carefully, he slipped the golden chain over her head, watched as the gilded chamber holding his portrait settled just shy of her breasts. The temptation to reach out and touch it, to run his hands over the pale, soft skin beside it, to know that she was his forever, nearly had Curufinwë losing the little sensibility he possessed when it came to this woman.
Instead, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Put mine on," he requested.
Felt the silver--starkly cold and yet somehow comforting--settle around the nape of his neck as she pulled the tail of his dark hair over one shoulder. The weight dropped, thudding against the top of his sternum, and the prince's breath shuddered out of his lungs. Standing at full height, this time he did not resist the temptation to touch, run his fingers over each familiar loop and curve and indent, knowing that beneath their outer protective layer rested a piece of her, eternally smiling and eternally glowing.
Opposite, in tandem, her fingers traced her locket again and again. But her eyes were still focused on the man before her, immobile and stricken, but all the same every bit as adoring.
"They are perfect," she told him. "I will never take it off."
He did not plan to remove his either.
Never.
Raising her hand to his lips, he brushed a soft kiss across her knuckles affectionately and breathed deeply of her sweet lily-scent. Happiness was a foreign concept to him--a simple defective doppelganger--but at that moment he thought he might actually know what that blissful, bubbling feeling truly felt like. Rising all the way from his toes to the tips of his fingers to the top of the head...
Just being with her made him feel warm.
---
Every time his fingers brushed the metal, that feeling returned. Momentarily. Indescribably. Giving him a whiff of that relief he so badly needed. Because he needed her like he needed air and water and food. Needed her so badly that it was killing him slowly, the mere faded memory of touch and smell and laughter and love...
Separated by thousands of leagues of land and water and war and broken ideals, he wondered if she continued to wear her locket. Wondered if she needed him as much as he needed her.
Curufinwë had never removed his. On dark nights he often held it close, stared at her picture in the firelight, wondering if he would ever touch the soft slope of her cheek again. If he would ever bask in the golden light of her smile again. If he would ever kiss her hand and breathe in her familiar scent again.
Tonight, however, his fingers fiddled with the locket, lifting it up and setting it down in a cycle of guilt, hesitation, loyalty and guilt all over again.
Tonight, he had invited Artafindë into his bed.
His golden-haired cousin wasn't here yet. Wasn't here to make his mind go blank, take away that suffocating loneliness that ate slowly away at Curufinwë's sanity. Wasn't here to make him forget about how that golden feeling he so cherished was slowly slipping away, the memory of her smell in the back of his throat growing fainter and the touch of her skin to his lips grayer.
Taking it off... was that the same as betraying her? Forgetting her?
Giving up on her?
Sickness bubbled in the pit of his belly through each new cycle, each vicious stab into his spirit. Should he remove it? Should he keep it on? Should he...?
But in the end Curufinwë could not bear to part with it, that silvered locket settled upon his chest, not even so that that tiny part of her that remained would stay untainted by his sin and disloyalty. Because he needed her, and Artafindë was not her. But perhaps if he kept it on...
Perhaps it would be enough. When finally his lover came and their clothes fell away to only the cover of soft sheets and hot, slick skin...
It still remained. Because he could never forget her.
But on the other side of the sea, she stared at it, the golden casket of her dreams. Knew that, beneath those intricate twining designs, his eyes would stare back at her, formed of iron and silver and the stuff of stars.
Reached up and held it in her hand, remembering how happy she had been when he had given it to her and had sworn that, this way, they would never be apart.
Slowly, these shards of his spirit--sharp and toxic--were haunting her. Poisoning her. Killing her.
And Lindalórë could not bring herself to breathe another moment with that weight pressing down upon her lungs, stealing her air and leaving her to choke in the aftermath of despair. Here, in this room where rested his belongings and his clothing and his portraits and his works, would rest this little trinket.
A quick tug broke the delicate chain of gold. Trembling, she set it down in a velveteen bed and closed the lid of the wooden case. Locked it and set aside the key.
Maybe, she thought as she turned away and left the room, if she left that locket here she could forget all about his existence. Maybe, she thought as she locked the door, she could be happy that way and drive the feeling of his kiss upon her hand from her mind.
Maybe, she thought as she walked away, the pain would stop. Finally.
And, in the aftermath of his affair, Curufinwë lay alone upon his bed, sated and glowing with temporary satisfaction, and wondered hazily once again whether or not she still wore her locket. Her gift. Her personal piece of his spirit. Wondered if she refused to remove it from its place over her heart.
If she longed for him as much as he did her. If she refused to ever let him go.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion, but Lindalórë is mine
Pairings: Curufin x Lindalórë
Characters: Curufin, Lindalórë, Finrod (mentions Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir and Fëanor)
Warning: non-canon compliant, OFC warning, starts fluffy and goes downhill from there, mental instability/insanity, hints at child abuse (verbal)
Song:
Words: 1,943
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locket (noun): a small case usually of precious metal that has space for a memento and that is worn typically suspended from a chain or necklace
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/locket
Working in the forge was not an activity that Curufinwë relished. Certainly, he had the talent and dexterity for the task--for the shaping and the pounding and the artistry--but he didn't have the charismatic intensity for design. Not like his father.
Somehow, it had always made him the greatest disappointment of all. Nelyafinwë was a politician and Makalaurë a scholar. Turkafinwë was the rebel and Morifinwë the strange ghost. But then there was Curufinwë, the perfect replica child that his father always wanted, with the same damning features and the same intellectual strengths and the same natural talent with shaping metal and stone.
With everything but the drive.
Rarely did Curufinwë want to create masterpieces. Bitterly, he often regarded the fire and the heat and the smoke with the sort of nostalgia that makes one's stomach churn unpleasantly. The memory of those eyes, calculative and judgmental, following his every move with punishing criticism flashing in their depths, it always left the tiny hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
But today he had a mission. A mission that trumped even the unpleasantness of remembering the long, blistering private lessons that he wanted to completely forget.
Now he drew them all back into his mind, categorizing them almost fanatically, searching for that one tip or sarcastic hinting nudge that he needed. His father's perfectionism would turn out to be useful for something, after all, even if it was something the man himself would probably never approve of.
This project had to be perfect.
Never before had Curufinwë devoted himself to a work of the hands with such enthusiasm, such obsessive drive toward the flawless end result. His father would have been proud to see such devotion to the craftsmanship that ran through their fiery blood.
For days and days, he had been working on this. This gift. Already, he'd had the portraits--one for each half of the set--commissioned and sent to be completed. But while Curufinwë knew he could not paint well enough to perform that duty, he knew this art like he knew the back of his hand, however unwilling that knowledge might have come. He knew the twist of molten metal, the ring of tools and the hours and hours of delicate, eye-straining work.
It was worth it. So very worth it.
Each delicate entwining vine. Each petal of each tiny flower. Each twist of gold and silver. Every single engraved letter carefully etched. Every last detail fanatically planned and worked and reworked and reworked again into perfection.
Even then, it was not perfect. And Curufinwë would start over again and again until his blood settled and the roiling tide of disquieting obsession quieted in his breast. Until he could look upon the trinket in his palm and imagine it hanging around her neck, settled to the warm, pale skin over her heart so that she would always have some little part of him with her.
And the matching other half. So that he would never be alone.
It was, perhaps, sentimental and ridiculous. A fantastical gesture that she could do without. But part of him needed this, and he did not quite understand why. Never would they be parted... and yet...
And yet he couldn't make the thought go away. The thought of having his wife's image lying over his chest, over the throbbing pulse of his heart every second of every day so that she knew, understood, exactly how much she meant to him. Exactly how much he needed her... would always need her...
Foolish. But true. Curufinwë would not stop until he was finished. Would barely sleep or eat because the pull became too powerful to overcome.
If this was what his father felt at all times every moment of the day, he could understand why the Crown Prince hardly ever left the forge--hardly ever left the work that seemed tied directly to his surviving the next hour and moment and second. Because it was maddening.
---
And, in the end, it was perfect.
Seeing her expression when she first beheld the set--hers golden and his own silvered--lying entwined in the palm of his hand.
"Perhaps it is silly, but..." He ran a hand through his loose hair and tried not to blush or fidget with nervousness. Tried not to make it obvious exactly how many days and days of backbreaking effort he had put into cultivating these two works, sitting tiny nestled in the palm of his broad, callused and burn-riddled hand. "But I wanted to give you something..."
"Atarinkë?"
"I just want you to have a part of me. Even when I am not here. Just... please... to ease my mind."
"And the other one...?" She lifted the silver locket, opened it to her own portrait staring back, green-eyed and smiling gently. It was an expression that he adored, one that always made that tight ball of tension at the base of his throat unravel into lightness.
"Even when we are parted, we will never be apart."
"Are we planning on being parted?" Teasingly, she grinned up at him. "Silly man, but I... I like it." The flush that spread across her cheeks made his head spin. How was it that every day--every moment--she seemed to somehow grow more beautiful and breathtaking?
"Let me put it on," he requested softly, picking up the slender chain of her locket in between graceful fingers.
"Yes..." Breathless was her voice and wide were her eyes. Carefully, he slipped the golden chain over her head, watched as the gilded chamber holding his portrait settled just shy of her breasts. The temptation to reach out and touch it, to run his hands over the pale, soft skin beside it, to know that she was his forever, nearly had Curufinwë losing the little sensibility he possessed when it came to this woman.
Instead, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Put mine on," he requested.
Felt the silver--starkly cold and yet somehow comforting--settle around the nape of his neck as she pulled the tail of his dark hair over one shoulder. The weight dropped, thudding against the top of his sternum, and the prince's breath shuddered out of his lungs. Standing at full height, this time he did not resist the temptation to touch, run his fingers over each familiar loop and curve and indent, knowing that beneath their outer protective layer rested a piece of her, eternally smiling and eternally glowing.
Opposite, in tandem, her fingers traced her locket again and again. But her eyes were still focused on the man before her, immobile and stricken, but all the same every bit as adoring.
"They are perfect," she told him. "I will never take it off."
He did not plan to remove his either.
Never.
Raising her hand to his lips, he brushed a soft kiss across her knuckles affectionately and breathed deeply of her sweet lily-scent. Happiness was a foreign concept to him--a simple defective doppelganger--but at that moment he thought he might actually know what that blissful, bubbling feeling truly felt like. Rising all the way from his toes to the tips of his fingers to the top of the head...
Just being with her made him feel warm.
---
Every time his fingers brushed the metal, that feeling returned. Momentarily. Indescribably. Giving him a whiff of that relief he so badly needed. Because he needed her like he needed air and water and food. Needed her so badly that it was killing him slowly, the mere faded memory of touch and smell and laughter and love...
Separated by thousands of leagues of land and water and war and broken ideals, he wondered if she continued to wear her locket. Wondered if she needed him as much as he needed her.
Curufinwë had never removed his. On dark nights he often held it close, stared at her picture in the firelight, wondering if he would ever touch the soft slope of her cheek again. If he would ever bask in the golden light of her smile again. If he would ever kiss her hand and breathe in her familiar scent again.
Tonight, however, his fingers fiddled with the locket, lifting it up and setting it down in a cycle of guilt, hesitation, loyalty and guilt all over again.
Tonight, he had invited Artafindë into his bed.
His golden-haired cousin wasn't here yet. Wasn't here to make his mind go blank, take away that suffocating loneliness that ate slowly away at Curufinwë's sanity. Wasn't here to make him forget about how that golden feeling he so cherished was slowly slipping away, the memory of her smell in the back of his throat growing fainter and the touch of her skin to his lips grayer.
Taking it off... was that the same as betraying her? Forgetting her?
Giving up on her?
Sickness bubbled in the pit of his belly through each new cycle, each vicious stab into his spirit. Should he remove it? Should he keep it on? Should he...?
But in the end Curufinwë could not bear to part with it, that silvered locket settled upon his chest, not even so that that tiny part of her that remained would stay untainted by his sin and disloyalty. Because he needed her, and Artafindë was not her. But perhaps if he kept it on...
Perhaps it would be enough. When finally his lover came and their clothes fell away to only the cover of soft sheets and hot, slick skin...
It still remained. Because he could never forget her.
But on the other side of the sea, she stared at it, the golden casket of her dreams. Knew that, beneath those intricate twining designs, his eyes would stare back at her, formed of iron and silver and the stuff of stars.
Reached up and held it in her hand, remembering how happy she had been when he had given it to her and had sworn that, this way, they would never be apart.
Slowly, these shards of his spirit--sharp and toxic--were haunting her. Poisoning her. Killing her.
And Lindalórë could not bring herself to breathe another moment with that weight pressing down upon her lungs, stealing her air and leaving her to choke in the aftermath of despair. Here, in this room where rested his belongings and his clothing and his portraits and his works, would rest this little trinket.
A quick tug broke the delicate chain of gold. Trembling, she set it down in a velveteen bed and closed the lid of the wooden case. Locked it and set aside the key.
Maybe, she thought as she turned away and left the room, if she left that locket here she could forget all about his existence. Maybe, she thought as she locked the door, she could be happy that way and drive the feeling of his kiss upon her hand from her mind.
Maybe, she thought as she walked away, the pain would stop. Finally.
And, in the aftermath of his affair, Curufinwë lay alone upon his bed, sated and glowing with temporary satisfaction, and wondered hazily once again whether or not she still wore her locket. Her gift. Her personal piece of his spirit. Wondered if she refused to remove it from its place over her heart.
If she longed for him as much as he did her. If she refused to ever let him go.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Ameliorate
Mellow Soulmate AU, part of the Disconsolate arc. More Maedhros and Istelindë bonding, but this time from his POV instead of hers. Quenya names used (Maedhros = Maitimo). Basically a continuation of "Disconsolate", "Adapt", "Soft" and "Soothe", but it takes place before most of the scenes in the last one (probably between the second and third). Anyway, just cute shit because I felt like it today. Takes place in Tirion during the Years of the Trees.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Maedhros x Istelindë
Characters: Maedhros, Istelindë (mentions Fëanor and Nerdanel)
Warning: non-canon compliant AU, OFC warning, arranged marriage, fear of spousal abuse, vague sexual undertones (but not really), mostly just cuddling
Song: Reminiscence
Words: 1,835
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ameliorate (verb): to make better or more tolerable
Between them there constantly remained a sort of thick and unpleasant tension upon the air, impenetrable and uncomfortable. The sort that made his throat constrict around his sly and calculative words and his already displeased features fold into an imposing scowl.
It didn't ever help, that helpless expression. The sight of his shadowed frown and the sound of his stark silence only ever make her tremble before his imposing height like a fragile, frightened baby bird before a hungry feline. As though he might actually leap forth, fangs bared, and tear her apart like some sort of savage animal instead of a civilized man. In her eyes, he can see that sickening expectation, the waiting for him to somehow harm her should she dare to so much as speak.
And, like a dark and twisted cycle, her reaction only ever makes his mood worse.
It drives Maitimo crazy, the thought that someone had taught her to expect such brutality from her spouse. Certainly, they hadn't married for love or for lust. They had not even known each other's names! But that she would think so lowly of him simply because he could not constantly don a false mask of gentlemanly charm and gravitas...
Truly, he tried not to take it personally, her fear. But it was taxing on his patience and his mood.
How could he spend time with her--with his wife--when she could not even look him in the eye without flinching as though struck?
All he ever wanted to do was grab her by the arms and shake her until she spoke. Demand that she tell him who had been filling her head with such awful thoughts of marriage and of her husband that he scared her into muteness. Ask what he had done to make her think he was some sort of barbaric monster who would have her stand all day like a porcelain doll waiting upon him hand and foot like a mindless slave.
The worst part about it, though, was that it never dissipated. That inequality. That nervousness. That sickening anticipatory dread.
They would eat together, and the quiet would sit heavy over their dinner table, scaring off even the most steadfast of servants. Master and mistress would stare down at their plates with shifting eyes, dutifully eating without tasting a morsel that met their tongues, and then when they finished he would escort her out of the room and she would flee to safety. Back to their quarters to sew or to clean or to braid her hair, she often claimed, but he suspected she usually went to weep alone.
And then, an hour or so later, he would go up to the bedchambers they shared--had to share, if only to keep up the image of a happy marriage that his father wanted to cultivate--and he would find her trembling upon the bed, pretending to be asleep with her face turned toward the wall so that he might not see her terror-stricken panic.
But he never said anything or did anything. If she wished to turn him away, he would not try to change her mind. By no means did Maitimo want to lay with a woman who would do naught but stare at the ceiling and wait for it to be over like some sort of nightmare.
Today, as every day before, was no different in their evening meal, in the lack of eye contact and the hesitance with which she touched his arm as he led her out of the vast hall echoing with their mutual discomfort. No different in her blatant ignoring of his presence, back toward him and facing the blank wall, as he undressed and pulled on loose leggings and a nightshirt. No different in that her eyes remained closed and her back remained stiffened when he settled upon the bed beside her and blew out the candles.
He whispered his goodnight and was not surprised when no reply was forthcoming. Closing his eyes, Maitimo took only a moment to wish that things could be different between them. Thinking and thinking until he dropped into sleep, interrupted by the reflection of his inner wistful unbalance. Light and unsettled.
Rarely did he sleep well by her side. Rarely did she sleep well by his.
---
When Maitimo blinked his eyes into wakefulness, it took him a moment to realize that it was not morning. No harsh golden light was tugging at the curtains, trying to blind him into the world of the living. Rather, he could tell that Laurelin had scarcely begun to wax, leaving veins only of silver slithering across the floor of the bedchambers.
It took him two moments to realize that he could hear something.
And another to recognize the faint, dissonant noise.
Little hiccupping sobs that she no doubt prayed he would not hear echoing off the far wall. In the darkness, he could make out the slender branch of her forearm rising and the rounded cup of her fingers clamped tightly over her lips as she jerked and shivered on her side of the bed. Only the curve of her cheek could he make out, graceful and soft in its slope, gleaming with wetness in the silvered light.
Crying. He wished he was surprised. But he wasn't. And that only intensified the ache centered maddeningly beneath his sternum.
Carefully--instinctively without thought--he shifted toward her, but she did not seem to even notice his movement. Not until his arms slipped about her belly and his forehead pressed into the space between her trembling shoulder blades, eyelashes fluttering upon her pale cream skin through a sheer layer of silk.
At his touch, she tensed and coiled like a startled feline, her soft gasping cries ceasing. Breath held, she remained as a taut bowstring, the arc of her slender form shaking with the strain of keeping still, of suppressing her weeping into silence and her urge to run away from his touch, as though her utter obedience might hold his wrath and lust at bay. As though morphing into a hard, lifeless, petrified doll in his embrace would make her the perfect invisible, mindless drone of a wife.
But this time Maitimo refused to back down. Refused to be cowed by the heaviness that slammed down onto his shoulders and tried to drag him to the floor in defeat.
Instead, he closed his eyes and pressed close, breathing in her sweetness and warmth. Letting his body fall limp within their cocoon of soft covers and the waves of silver and russet curls. Clenching his arms tighter as his voice softly hummed to life between them.
It was a silly old lullaby that his mother had sung to him a thousand times in his childhood memories. And a thousand more, he had whispered it to his little brothers in the dark before sleep, watching each of them fall asleep curled safely up in their beds. So tiny and so in need of protection and comfort in a supposedly perfect world with just a touch of wickedness waiting like poison under its calm surface.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he felt her relax. The muscles of her belly--tensed and flexing beneath his carefully lax fingers--smoothed into pleasant feminine softness. The stiffness of her shoulder blades, one pressed harshly to his cheek, unraveled into a gentle slope when her shoulders loosened. And then, moment by moment, the jolting rocks of her body fighting against the rising tide of sobs and cries ebbed and faded into the occasional hitch. And then into tranquil, even breaths against the sheets, breaking the silence in tandem to his wordless melody.
It was the first time he could recall being with her and feeling no weight. No unpleasant distance. No gaping abyss of misunderstanding and fear.
Just him and her. Without the unease and the worry and the vicious repeating cycle. Ameliorated.
Even then, he did not stop. Instead, Maitimo carefully pulled himself closer and wrapped around her fully, all platonic tenderness and shared warmth in the night as his voice dwindled with fatigue and sleep threatened to take over once more.
Faintly, her hands brushed against his knuckles, fingers fluttering against his skin. Her touch kept him upon the cusp of wakefulness, nuzzling into the arch of her spine lazily, nose tracing each vertebral bump. It was nice, he thought, this sort of togetherness. Involving nothing more than simply tactile connection and the pleasant sort of quiet buzzing over his skin of shared comfort without the complication of sexual desire and shyness. Just this, so simple.
"Thank you..." So quiet was her voice that he almost did not hear.
And, in that moment, he could have broken that peaceful blanket. Could have asked her why. Could have learned the truth of her misconceptions and tried to correct them with fancy words and a dance of logical rhetoric in the early hours of the morning. That had been his desire for many days, to somehow bend her mind to his will, convince her of the folly in her thoughts with iron rationality.
But often enough his father had scolded him and said that actions spoke with greater force and finesse than ever could a handful of words. Berated him for his passionate insistence that argument could be won only through a silver tongue.
Now was his chance. But he hesitated. Hesitated and allowed it to slip away.
In this instance, he was inclined to accept the wisdom of his sire and admit defeat. The last thing Istelindë needed was an interrogation on the unpleasant influences that warped her perception of the world and of Maitimo. More so, he thought, did she need the reassurance that he was here and that she was safe within his arms.
Safe within his protection.
The prince sighed softly and pressed a kiss to her back. Forgoing words, for once in his life, the quick-minded debater settled for the droplets of quiet splashing tenderly around their twined forms. Those unseen, unheard glimmers spoke more in a single moment than all the words in the world could have waxed and persuaded in a millennium.
Together the pair drifted off again. This time enfolded in calm revelation.
In the morning, when he rose at the dawning of Laurelin, Maitimo looked over at his wife's face and marveled at her smile as she dreamed. When she did not look as a timid mouse crouched and hiding in fear--indeed, when she was blossoming like a pale morning glory in the early light of their bedchambers--Maitimo thought he had never seen anything more lovely. More entrancing.
And if his fingers danced carefully over the curve of that cheek and the raised corners of those lips, there were none to witness his fleeting moment of enamored contentment.
Maybe... just maybe... things would get better.
Maybe... just maybe... this partnership might find some way to bloom.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Consubstantial
Canon-compliant AU. Another bit of Valarin strangeness. I blame the religious connotations of this word. Truly, I do. Morgoth is referred to Melkor for most of the story, and "Father" is Eru, because that's just what my Ainur call Him. Anyway, I suppose this is related to lots of other stories, but my brain is too fried to even think of them now, so maybe later. Takes place at the end of the First Age, but there are flashbacks throughout.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: none
Characters: Manwë, Morgoth (mentions Eru, Yavanna and Nienna (as well as the rest of the Valar collectively))
Warning: canon-compliant AU, briefly hints at war and other nasty things, self-depreciation, willful blindness, mental instability hinted
Song:
Words: 1,018
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consubstantial (adjective): of the same substance
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/consubstantial
Perhaps it was a foolish course of action. Reckless. Careless.
From the very beginning--from the moment of their birth together in the quiet of the unraveled universe--Manwë had sensed the difference in his brother. Melkor had been his antithesis in many ways, loud and brash and strong where the younger brother was quiet, thoughtful and wise. But all the same they had complimented one another, and for a time they had been content.
He still remembered it well, the time when there had been no divide of jealousy or resentment between them. The time when they could have spoken civilly--even affectionately--as one sibling to another with their raiment cloaking their joyful spirits in smiling visages rather than scowls.
Once, when they could have sat together in harmony. In peace. Like a soft melody floating as a cloud across an open, clear sky.
Well, he remembered it. Too well. And he tried to remember that--those moments where their spirits entwined together into a mixture of brotherly love and respect and admiration for each other's differences--rather than what had followed after. Rather than the darkening and the bitterness and the unhappiness that followed. The war and the death and the rotting spirit-flesh.
Tried to remember a time where they had been consubstantial in the strangest, most bizarre fashion. So very different from one another, and yet fundamentally the same. Balanced in equilibrium as their had always been intended to be from the very beginning of time.
Many years later, it was those very memories--those of a happier time--that drove him to be merciful.
That made him compassionate.
"You will serve your punishment here. Long enough have you stayed locked away in the Halls of the Waiting. I would see you free, my brother, and content with the world and with yourself."
Melkor scoffed quietly. "And what, pray tell, have you in mind, little brother?"
"Serve the people. Get to know them, our Father's creations. Come to love them."
I know you are capable of love, he wanted to say. I know that you are able to feel softness and tenderness, for you and I are the same.
"Love them?" The very idea seemed to disgust the shade of his beloved sibling. "You have become weak-minded and feeble in your love, brother. A foolish and gentle creature, one which I will take pleasure in one day tearing apart."
It saddened him to know that nothing had changed. That the years of imprisonment had only made that bitterness more acute upon the tongue.
But he had to try.
"You will remain under watch, observed, but I would have you walk freely."
Prove to me that something of the man I remember remains still.
Please.
"I will do my best... my king..." Nothing had ever sounded more sarcastic or more venomous.
From the start, he should have surrendered to the inevitable. That was what they all said. Every single one of them. His brothers and sisters, all faithless, but none could recall a time when Melkor had not been sour and slimy to the touch. When he had been handsome and powerful and good-natured, enjoying the company of others without scorn and envy and lust for that which was not his. Without the materialism and the obsession.
They did not remembered the Melkor that Manwë knew like the back of his hand. A part of his own being, innate and necessary.
Cut from the same cloth, as the mortals said. A truer statement he had yet to hear. And it kept his stubbornness and determination burning through those early years of equally stubborn refusal to cooperate. Through railing tirades of abuse and foul language and complaining and pleading and insulting.
Through the long years of slowly seeing that which he remembered seeping back into the dark hole that had sucked away everything good and pure that once Melkor had been.
But perhaps he truly was naive--him, the King of Arda, the ruler of all the world. Perhaps he was merely thinking wistfully--dreaming of something to grandiose and unrealistic, too fantastic.
Of a reality that could never come to pass.
And yet, even when they had been betrayed--even when the Two Trees lay in ruins and thousands of years of rehabilitation turned out to be nothing more than a falsehood--Manwë sat down and wept only for his brother, his other half. Not for the lost of Yavanna's great works, the sprouts of Nienna's tears. Not for the Eldar lost in the dark, falling apart at the seams. Not even more the ache in his own chest.
But for that residue of the man he once knew that still lingered in the air, a clean and hot scent that was untainted by death and disease and other foul things of the darkness. For the little remaining tatters of Melkor, his brother, and not Morgoth the Dark Lord.
Tears in the moments of despair when he accepted that his brother would never be coming back.
In the end he knew, however, that he could not surrender. That he could not give up on Melkor. They were consubstantial, one the same as the other, woven of the same spirit-fabric and the same polyphonic twist of melody over the harmony of the deep blue sky and the fiery passion of the world. And he knew, somewhere inside that monstrosity, his brother must still be trapped. Captive.
Perhaps it was that which made him merely cast that spirit to the Void. Cast it to known survival, to a known future of apocalyptic battle and tens of millions of deaths. Cast it to a known "we shall meet again" because he could not accept...
Could not give up...
Could not destroy his brother. For they were the same. Always, the same. And, were he in his brother's place, he would have hoped and prayed for salvation where none would ever come. Except from those of a compassionate heart and a reckless mind.
In the end, they were not so different after all.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: none
Characters: Manwë, Morgoth (mentions Eru, Yavanna and Nienna (as well as the rest of the Valar collectively))
Warning: canon-compliant AU, briefly hints at war and other nasty things, self-depreciation, willful blindness, mental instability hinted
Song:
Words: 1,018
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consubstantial (adjective): of the same substance
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/consubstantial
Perhaps it was a foolish course of action. Reckless. Careless.
From the very beginning--from the moment of their birth together in the quiet of the unraveled universe--Manwë had sensed the difference in his brother. Melkor had been his antithesis in many ways, loud and brash and strong where the younger brother was quiet, thoughtful and wise. But all the same they had complimented one another, and for a time they had been content.
He still remembered it well, the time when there had been no divide of jealousy or resentment between them. The time when they could have spoken civilly--even affectionately--as one sibling to another with their raiment cloaking their joyful spirits in smiling visages rather than scowls.
Once, when they could have sat together in harmony. In peace. Like a soft melody floating as a cloud across an open, clear sky.
Well, he remembered it. Too well. And he tried to remember that--those moments where their spirits entwined together into a mixture of brotherly love and respect and admiration for each other's differences--rather than what had followed after. Rather than the darkening and the bitterness and the unhappiness that followed. The war and the death and the rotting spirit-flesh.
Tried to remember a time where they had been consubstantial in the strangest, most bizarre fashion. So very different from one another, and yet fundamentally the same. Balanced in equilibrium as their had always been intended to be from the very beginning of time.
Many years later, it was those very memories--those of a happier time--that drove him to be merciful.
That made him compassionate.
"You will serve your punishment here. Long enough have you stayed locked away in the Halls of the Waiting. I would see you free, my brother, and content with the world and with yourself."
Melkor scoffed quietly. "And what, pray tell, have you in mind, little brother?"
"Serve the people. Get to know them, our Father's creations. Come to love them."
I know you are capable of love, he wanted to say. I know that you are able to feel softness and tenderness, for you and I are the same.
"Love them?" The very idea seemed to disgust the shade of his beloved sibling. "You have become weak-minded and feeble in your love, brother. A foolish and gentle creature, one which I will take pleasure in one day tearing apart."
It saddened him to know that nothing had changed. That the years of imprisonment had only made that bitterness more acute upon the tongue.
But he had to try.
"You will remain under watch, observed, but I would have you walk freely."
Prove to me that something of the man I remember remains still.
Please.
"I will do my best... my king..." Nothing had ever sounded more sarcastic or more venomous.
From the start, he should have surrendered to the inevitable. That was what they all said. Every single one of them. His brothers and sisters, all faithless, but none could recall a time when Melkor had not been sour and slimy to the touch. When he had been handsome and powerful and good-natured, enjoying the company of others without scorn and envy and lust for that which was not his. Without the materialism and the obsession.
They did not remembered the Melkor that Manwë knew like the back of his hand. A part of his own being, innate and necessary.
Cut from the same cloth, as the mortals said. A truer statement he had yet to hear. And it kept his stubbornness and determination burning through those early years of equally stubborn refusal to cooperate. Through railing tirades of abuse and foul language and complaining and pleading and insulting.
Through the long years of slowly seeing that which he remembered seeping back into the dark hole that had sucked away everything good and pure that once Melkor had been.
But perhaps he truly was naive--him, the King of Arda, the ruler of all the world. Perhaps he was merely thinking wistfully--dreaming of something to grandiose and unrealistic, too fantastic.
Of a reality that could never come to pass.
And yet, even when they had been betrayed--even when the Two Trees lay in ruins and thousands of years of rehabilitation turned out to be nothing more than a falsehood--Manwë sat down and wept only for his brother, his other half. Not for the lost of Yavanna's great works, the sprouts of Nienna's tears. Not for the Eldar lost in the dark, falling apart at the seams. Not even more the ache in his own chest.
But for that residue of the man he once knew that still lingered in the air, a clean and hot scent that was untainted by death and disease and other foul things of the darkness. For the little remaining tatters of Melkor, his brother, and not Morgoth the Dark Lord.
Tears in the moments of despair when he accepted that his brother would never be coming back.
In the end he knew, however, that he could not surrender. That he could not give up on Melkor. They were consubstantial, one the same as the other, woven of the same spirit-fabric and the same polyphonic twist of melody over the harmony of the deep blue sky and the fiery passion of the world. And he knew, somewhere inside that monstrosity, his brother must still be trapped. Captive.
Perhaps it was that which made him merely cast that spirit to the Void. Cast it to known survival, to a known future of apocalyptic battle and tens of millions of deaths. Cast it to a known "we shall meet again" because he could not accept...
Could not give up...
Could not destroy his brother. For they were the same. Always, the same. And, were he in his brother's place, he would have hoped and prayed for salvation where none would ever come. Except from those of a compassionate heart and a reckless mind.
In the end, they were not so different after all.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
New Direction
Right, well, I'm trying. I go on break this week, so we'll see if I can't get caught up. I would really like to not give up on this.
Canon-compliant AU. Things change for Maedhros in the face of Maglor's newly adopted fosterlings. Who would have thought that he still had a heart? Quenya names used (Maedhros = Maitimo, Nelyo or Nelyafinwë, Maglor = Kanafinwë and Fingon = Findekáno). This is related most closely to "Repeat", "Panic" and "Memorial", but obviously many others as well. Too tired to list them all. Takes place in the late First Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: none
Characters: Maedhros, Maglor, Elrond, Elros (mentions Fëanor, the Fëanorions, Fingon, Elwing and other random Noldorin elves)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, mentions (vaguely) torture and mutilation, hints at insanity and unhealthy mental states, mostly just slight fluff and depressing foreshadowing
Song:
Words: 1,816
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new (adjective): having recently come into existence: recent, modern; having been seen, used, or known for a short time: novel
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/new
direction (noun): guidance or supervision of action or conduct; the line or course on which something is moving or is aimed to move or along which something is pointing or facing
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/direction?show=0&t=1385351581
Always, he had assumed his life would follow a certain path. A certain set of secretly written guidelines and regulations that he dare not breach or disobey.
A prince's firstborn son, the second in line to the throne. Perfect. Intelligent. Handsome.
A writer and a scholar, but first and foremost a politician.
That was what his life should have been. Always, Maitimo knew that was what he had been created to be. He could speak and write and debate and no one save perhaps his own sire could stand in the way of his onslaught and hope to remain standing. That was his purpose, his perfection.
But his life had been nothing like that at all.
And now, run down and tired, having just burned the body of his young brother, Maitimo only wanted to go back to the moment he had stupidly raised his sword in a fit of fear and pride and paternal loyalty, and he wanted to snub his father right in the face. Declare that he would not be abandoning his wife to loneliness and his children to certain death, that he was brave enough to face those glowing eyes and speak his mind for once in his life.
Maybe then he wouldn't be here, wishing to die. Wishing to die but having no choice to live, because he couldn't leave Kanafinwë all alone and he daren't disappoint Findekáno further. And because he couldn't drive the tantalizing glow of the Silmarilli from his mind, nor the knowledge that one was so close and yet so far out of his grasp.
"Brother."
Kanafinwë's voice was small and fatigued, but underlying even that was a sort of tension. An underlying nervousness that had been there, nearly inaudible, since before the Second Kinslaying. Since the last time the second-born had tried to disobey the oldest.
Maitimo hated that his brother feared him. Hated that, when he was lucid, he could see that lingering worry and terror. Hated that, when he was lost in the tides of senility, he did not even care.
"What need you, Kanafinwë?"
"I... I have a request."
Half-expecting another entreaty against further action--and what more could they do at this point, anyway?--Maitimo prepared to admit temporary defeat. To agree to some rest and some time away from this endless field of death, if only so that he could breathe air that did not stink of rotting corpses and drying blood. "Continue."
"I have Elwing's twin sons..."
It took a few moments to register those words. Captives. Kanafinwë had captives. And Maitimo almost winced when the first words to rise upon his tongue were cruel and cold, words of death in petty vengeance.
"I want to bring them with us."
It was then that Maitimo turned to face his younger brother, found two small elflings clinging to the back of said brother's knees, half-hidden beneath his tattered and blood-stained cloak. Peering out of the folds and up at Maitimo as though he were Morgoth personified. Silently to himself, he admitted that he hadn't expected them to be so tiny and fragile. So utterly helpless.
If he decided they were to die now, they would not even be able to put up a fight.
"Our war-camps and fortresses are no place for children," Maitimo muttered, still watching them, observing how they cringed and flinched at his deep, raw voice washing over their ears. "I wouldn't have our men burdened with--"
"I will look after them myself." A stubborn set came to that jaw, a striking and sudden resemblance to their sire that had Maitimo shuddering. Once his father had that look, there was no changing his mind. And it seemed Kanafinwë was much the same. "You need not bother yourself, nor need any of our warriors. I will watch over them and cook for them and keep them out of trouble."
If only you will let me take them with. That voice, strong and steely, trembled ever so slightly upon its foundations. A weakness that an enemy would have exploited, but Maitimo felt no need to tear his brother apart, nor to be unduly cruel.
And, perhaps, he did not want to kill any more children. Perhaps he did not want to hear any more high-pitched squeals of terror just before...
"Very well," he acquiesced. "Just keep them out of the way."
Too late to take back his decision, Maitimo arose from his spot leaning against his lonely tree with a view of the slaughter-field and walked away. Let Kanafinwë keep his little ones if so he wanted.
(More than he was willing to admit, Maitimo knew that his brother longed for his children. And he also knew exactly who should have shouldered the blame for their loss. Perhaps it was that which had stayed his tongue and blade.
But either way, his heart felt just a bit lighter.)
---
Of course, life in his dingy and depressing fortress suddenly turned in a new direction. One that Maitimo was not entirely sure he could stomach.
(Or maybe he did not want to admit that he liked it too much).
Where usually there was silence, there was noise. Logically, Maitimo had known that children were prone to noise--he had helped raise six, none of whom were good at being quiet and well-behaved--but he hadn't remembered just how much ruckus a set of twins could bring down upon his doorstep. Squealing and the patter of footsteps and giggling laughter when he was trying to work.
The pair of rambunctious troublemakers lost much of their shyness after the first month of living amongst ornery soldiers and their foster father's very unpleasant older brother. They had started calling him "Uncle Maedhros", even in front of the warriors and guardsmen--and he knew Kanafinwë was laughing at the tension in his shoulders and the twitch in his cheek every time it happened--and were it not for the fact that he was perpetually in a bad mood, he suspected they would step half the day following him around like little ducklings rather than sticking close only to their primary caretaker.
He was not looking forward to the day they gathered the courage to start interrupting his time alone in his study like little time-devouring hooligans.
(Mostly because it reminded him too much of those other twins who always wanted lullabies and cookies and to play games, drawing him away from his studies and his papers into the afternoon sunshine, always making him smile.)
But for now he was content with watching.
With listening to their unsteady and childish plucking away at the harp lessons Kanafinwë had insisted upon. With wincing each time he heard a crash echoing down stone walkways and knew somewhere there was a shattered vase or a pile of armor needing to be cleaned up. Even with observing at a distance--and studiously avoiding--messy "family" mealtimes.
It was different having the little ones there. And not only because of their loudness and messiness and troublesome boisterous behavior.
It was fresh, much as he hated to admit it.
His warriors smiled more often, the shadows that normally hung as a gloom over the faces of his comrades suddenly parted by light bursting through their net and tearing it apart with resplendent claws and fangs. There was laughter amongst the camps and talk of making toys and teaching swordsmanship and archery and horsemanship.
As though all of these broken warriors had also, in some strange way, adopted the twins just as thoroughly as had Kanafinwë.
And it was infectious.
Enough so that Maitimo felt his dark, fey moods drifting and waning like fog in early morning. Often he had to fight the upturn of his lips at each stupid, silly question they asked or each strange and nonsensical phrase they produced. Whenever he was around them, the obsession grew fainter, the voices dwindling into silence and the heady need to go out and hunt down his salvation faded.
Faded into something that resembled a frightening sort of contentment.
Of course, there was still the war. Of course, there was still the past. And, of course, Maitimo was still as barren and alone as ever.
But he had trouble keeping to the Oath. When next Kanafinwë begged him to forswear his vows, Maitimo had almost surrendered without thinking of the consequences. Without thinking of what might happen should the other Silmarilli be uncovered and their way be cleared of an implacable obstacle. Without even stopping to consider all the options, he had almost agreed.
By the third time Kanafinwë asked, Maitimo had given in to his brother's persistence and patience.
"We are happy, brother. Content. You are happy and content; I can see it in your eyes no matter that you try to hide it. Why deny us that boon? For the sake of a few glowing stones?"
Maitimo was supposed to be the persuasive one, the expert in rhetoric and debate. But somehow the thought of the twins--of their upturned, grinning faces covered in sticky jam or smudged with mud from playing in the rain--was more persuasive an argument than any Kanafinwë could have presented with mere words.
(He tried to convince himself that it was a figment of his imagination, this attachment. They were not his sons--adoptive or otherwise--and he was not their father.)
"I..."
"Please, Nelyafinwë--Maitimo, please consider it."
"I need not consider it, brother."
"But Nelyo--"
"I will forswear our Oath." Even speaking the words had brought such profound relief that his knees would have given out had he not been sitting. All that weight lifted with ease. So many lives saved. So many innocents whose blood would never run into the earth, testament to the crimes of his House and his brothers.
"I will..."
Stubbornly, Maitimo persisted with his grumpiness and antisocial tendencies. Still, he avoided being alone with the little ones and chose to keep an eye on them from far away.
All the while telling himself that they were not his. Telling himself that, one day, he would be able to let them go and life would reorient itself. Re-establish the pattern that for so long had been cultivated. Bring him back to the brink of desperation and insanity as though he had never strayed from its path.
(Except they were his. As much as any child of blood would have been. And, in the dark of night, he knew he would not be able to let them go.
They were his. His sons. And that changed everything.)
Canon-compliant AU. Things change for Maedhros in the face of Maglor's newly adopted fosterlings. Who would have thought that he still had a heart? Quenya names used (Maedhros = Maitimo, Nelyo or Nelyafinwë, Maglor = Kanafinwë and Fingon = Findekáno). This is related most closely to "Repeat", "Panic" and "Memorial", but obviously many others as well. Too tired to list them all. Takes place in the late First Age.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: none
Characters: Maedhros, Maglor, Elrond, Elros (mentions Fëanor, the Fëanorions, Fingon, Elwing and other random Noldorin elves)
Warning: canon-compliant AU, mentions (vaguely) torture and mutilation, hints at insanity and unhealthy mental states, mostly just slight fluff and depressing foreshadowing
Song:
Words: 1,816
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new (adjective): having recently come into existence: recent, modern; having been seen, used, or known for a short time: novel
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/new
direction (noun): guidance or supervision of action or conduct; the line or course on which something is moving or is aimed to move or along which something is pointing or facing
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/direction?show=0&t=1385351581
Always, he had assumed his life would follow a certain path. A certain set of secretly written guidelines and regulations that he dare not breach or disobey.
A prince's firstborn son, the second in line to the throne. Perfect. Intelligent. Handsome.
A writer and a scholar, but first and foremost a politician.
That was what his life should have been. Always, Maitimo knew that was what he had been created to be. He could speak and write and debate and no one save perhaps his own sire could stand in the way of his onslaught and hope to remain standing. That was his purpose, his perfection.
But his life had been nothing like that at all.
And now, run down and tired, having just burned the body of his young brother, Maitimo only wanted to go back to the moment he had stupidly raised his sword in a fit of fear and pride and paternal loyalty, and he wanted to snub his father right in the face. Declare that he would not be abandoning his wife to loneliness and his children to certain death, that he was brave enough to face those glowing eyes and speak his mind for once in his life.
Maybe then he wouldn't be here, wishing to die. Wishing to die but having no choice to live, because he couldn't leave Kanafinwë all alone and he daren't disappoint Findekáno further. And because he couldn't drive the tantalizing glow of the Silmarilli from his mind, nor the knowledge that one was so close and yet so far out of his grasp.
"Brother."
Kanafinwë's voice was small and fatigued, but underlying even that was a sort of tension. An underlying nervousness that had been there, nearly inaudible, since before the Second Kinslaying. Since the last time the second-born had tried to disobey the oldest.
Maitimo hated that his brother feared him. Hated that, when he was lucid, he could see that lingering worry and terror. Hated that, when he was lost in the tides of senility, he did not even care.
"What need you, Kanafinwë?"
"I... I have a request."
Half-expecting another entreaty against further action--and what more could they do at this point, anyway?--Maitimo prepared to admit temporary defeat. To agree to some rest and some time away from this endless field of death, if only so that he could breathe air that did not stink of rotting corpses and drying blood. "Continue."
"I have Elwing's twin sons..."
It took a few moments to register those words. Captives. Kanafinwë had captives. And Maitimo almost winced when the first words to rise upon his tongue were cruel and cold, words of death in petty vengeance.
"I want to bring them with us."
It was then that Maitimo turned to face his younger brother, found two small elflings clinging to the back of said brother's knees, half-hidden beneath his tattered and blood-stained cloak. Peering out of the folds and up at Maitimo as though he were Morgoth personified. Silently to himself, he admitted that he hadn't expected them to be so tiny and fragile. So utterly helpless.
If he decided they were to die now, they would not even be able to put up a fight.
"Our war-camps and fortresses are no place for children," Maitimo muttered, still watching them, observing how they cringed and flinched at his deep, raw voice washing over their ears. "I wouldn't have our men burdened with--"
"I will look after them myself." A stubborn set came to that jaw, a striking and sudden resemblance to their sire that had Maitimo shuddering. Once his father had that look, there was no changing his mind. And it seemed Kanafinwë was much the same. "You need not bother yourself, nor need any of our warriors. I will watch over them and cook for them and keep them out of trouble."
If only you will let me take them with. That voice, strong and steely, trembled ever so slightly upon its foundations. A weakness that an enemy would have exploited, but Maitimo felt no need to tear his brother apart, nor to be unduly cruel.
And, perhaps, he did not want to kill any more children. Perhaps he did not want to hear any more high-pitched squeals of terror just before...
"Very well," he acquiesced. "Just keep them out of the way."
Too late to take back his decision, Maitimo arose from his spot leaning against his lonely tree with a view of the slaughter-field and walked away. Let Kanafinwë keep his little ones if so he wanted.
(More than he was willing to admit, Maitimo knew that his brother longed for his children. And he also knew exactly who should have shouldered the blame for their loss. Perhaps it was that which had stayed his tongue and blade.
But either way, his heart felt just a bit lighter.)
---
Of course, life in his dingy and depressing fortress suddenly turned in a new direction. One that Maitimo was not entirely sure he could stomach.
(Or maybe he did not want to admit that he liked it too much).
Where usually there was silence, there was noise. Logically, Maitimo had known that children were prone to noise--he had helped raise six, none of whom were good at being quiet and well-behaved--but he hadn't remembered just how much ruckus a set of twins could bring down upon his doorstep. Squealing and the patter of footsteps and giggling laughter when he was trying to work.
The pair of rambunctious troublemakers lost much of their shyness after the first month of living amongst ornery soldiers and their foster father's very unpleasant older brother. They had started calling him "Uncle Maedhros", even in front of the warriors and guardsmen--and he knew Kanafinwë was laughing at the tension in his shoulders and the twitch in his cheek every time it happened--and were it not for the fact that he was perpetually in a bad mood, he suspected they would step half the day following him around like little ducklings rather than sticking close only to their primary caretaker.
He was not looking forward to the day they gathered the courage to start interrupting his time alone in his study like little time-devouring hooligans.
(Mostly because it reminded him too much of those other twins who always wanted lullabies and cookies and to play games, drawing him away from his studies and his papers into the afternoon sunshine, always making him smile.)
But for now he was content with watching.
With listening to their unsteady and childish plucking away at the harp lessons Kanafinwë had insisted upon. With wincing each time he heard a crash echoing down stone walkways and knew somewhere there was a shattered vase or a pile of armor needing to be cleaned up. Even with observing at a distance--and studiously avoiding--messy "family" mealtimes.
It was different having the little ones there. And not only because of their loudness and messiness and troublesome boisterous behavior.
It was fresh, much as he hated to admit it.
His warriors smiled more often, the shadows that normally hung as a gloom over the faces of his comrades suddenly parted by light bursting through their net and tearing it apart with resplendent claws and fangs. There was laughter amongst the camps and talk of making toys and teaching swordsmanship and archery and horsemanship.
As though all of these broken warriors had also, in some strange way, adopted the twins just as thoroughly as had Kanafinwë.
And it was infectious.
Enough so that Maitimo felt his dark, fey moods drifting and waning like fog in early morning. Often he had to fight the upturn of his lips at each stupid, silly question they asked or each strange and nonsensical phrase they produced. Whenever he was around them, the obsession grew fainter, the voices dwindling into silence and the heady need to go out and hunt down his salvation faded.
Faded into something that resembled a frightening sort of contentment.
Of course, there was still the war. Of course, there was still the past. And, of course, Maitimo was still as barren and alone as ever.
But he had trouble keeping to the Oath. When next Kanafinwë begged him to forswear his vows, Maitimo had almost surrendered without thinking of the consequences. Without thinking of what might happen should the other Silmarilli be uncovered and their way be cleared of an implacable obstacle. Without even stopping to consider all the options, he had almost agreed.
By the third time Kanafinwë asked, Maitimo had given in to his brother's persistence and patience.
"We are happy, brother. Content. You are happy and content; I can see it in your eyes no matter that you try to hide it. Why deny us that boon? For the sake of a few glowing stones?"
Maitimo was supposed to be the persuasive one, the expert in rhetoric and debate. But somehow the thought of the twins--of their upturned, grinning faces covered in sticky jam or smudged with mud from playing in the rain--was more persuasive an argument than any Kanafinwë could have presented with mere words.
(He tried to convince himself that it was a figment of his imagination, this attachment. They were not his sons--adoptive or otherwise--and he was not their father.)
"I..."
"Please, Nelyafinwë--Maitimo, please consider it."
"I need not consider it, brother."
"But Nelyo--"
"I will forswear our Oath." Even speaking the words had brought such profound relief that his knees would have given out had he not been sitting. All that weight lifted with ease. So many lives saved. So many innocents whose blood would never run into the earth, testament to the crimes of his House and his brothers.
"I will..."
Stubbornly, Maitimo persisted with his grumpiness and antisocial tendencies. Still, he avoided being alone with the little ones and chose to keep an eye on them from far away.
All the while telling himself that they were not his. Telling himself that, one day, he would be able to let them go and life would reorient itself. Re-establish the pattern that for so long had been cultivated. Bring him back to the brink of desperation and insanity as though he had never strayed from its path.
(Except they were his. As much as any child of blood would have been. And, in the dark of night, he knew he would not be able to let them go.
They were his. His sons. And that changed everything.)
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