Coma

Canon compliant.  One must sometimes made difficult decisions.  But the hard part of difficult decisions is living with their consequences.  Quenya names used (Maglor = Makalaurë, Maedhros = Nelyo or Nelyafinwë, Fëanor = Fëanáro, Fingon = Findekáno).  This is basically a precursor to "Clean" as well as "Get Up" and "Try Again", which of course branch out in all directions and are related to many other stories.  Also, there's a story on my dA account that this is related to, though I don't remember if I ever named it.  It was a Christmas present to an icon family member.  Anyway, this one takes place in Mithrim during the early First Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Maglor, Maedhros, Fingon (mentions all the Fëanorions, Morgoth and the Valar)

Warning: canon compliant, mentions torture, mutilation and dismemberment, hints at Maedhros' extra-curricular torture and possible non-con, coma (obviously), depression and guilt-induced self-hatred

Song: Chrono's Sorrow

Words: 1,012
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coma (noun): a state of profound unconsciousness caused by disease, injury, or poison; a state of mental or physical sluggishness: torpor
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/coma

The waiting and watching were the worst part.  Being able to do nothing.

Well, Makalaurë knew the stress of being a leader, however unwillingly.  Well, he knew the horrible reality of making split-second decisions that could determine the fates of thousands of men who looked to him for survival and guidance.  Well, he could remember the feeling of his heart sinking when he made the hardest decision that ever had been placed before him.

To abandon his older brother completely.  To leave him for dead.

It was the correct decision.  Makalaurë knew that to be so deep in his breast.  To risk the lives of his men and his brothers to save Nelyafinwë would have been a foolhardy choice, especially knowing that his older brother would balk at their martyrdom.  The oldest son of Fëanáro would willingly sacrifice his life to keep the rest of their safe, and he would have been infuriated to know that his second brother--softhearted Makalaurë--had even considered risking the precious lives of their brothers and loyal followers to attempt to save him in a suicidal charge toward the triple peaks rising into the clouds of hot dust...

Nelyafinwë would have slapped him and called him a fool.

It was only that thought that had given him the strength to make such a decision.  To steel his jaw and look into the eyes of his younger brothers and shoot down their pleas and plans to gallantly rescue their eldest brother from the clutches of their enemies.

"We deal not with the enemy, and even if we did, he would only lie to us again.  It is likely that our brother has already been tortured and killed, and we can only hope it was a short suffering."

"What on earth are you saying, Kanafinwë?  He is our brother!  We must go forth--"

"We will do no such foolish thing."

He had leaned over the table and looked deep into those betrayed eyes.  Felt his chest clench and had driven away the revulsion and guilt.

"I will not speak of this again.  My choice has been made.  More important matters need be seen to than a foolish plan to run to our deaths over the life of a single man."

And he knew that his brothers had hated him.

But they knew not the guilt.  The horror he felt in his breast--then and now--knowing that he did not know whether or not Nelyafinwë was dead.  That he did not know that his beloved brother's fate was finished, that his suffering was ended.  He did not know whether the redheaded brother was locked in a dungeon somewhere, being tortured slowly to death or being played with like a toy for sexual or sadistic amusements.

He did not know.

And now that he did, Makalaurë felt in his throat the tightness.  The choking and gagging.

Before him, his brother lay--eyes closed and body limp--caught in the grips of a coma.  Virtually dead to the world, except for each new breath he drew.

This was the result of his choice.  This was the hell to which he had damned his closest kin.  Nelyafinwë had not been dead.  He had been tortured and mutilated, hung from a cliff to scream and writhe in agony until he begged for death,  Waiting and waiting and waiting for help that would never come.

And Makalaurë laid his head down upon the chest of that body and wept.  Grasped at the bandaged wrist of a hand-less limb and pressed it again and again to his lips, whispering apologies.

His younger brothers still glared at him venomously.  Snarled that he was just as guilty of tormenting their brother as had been the captors.  It did not matter that their rescue would have been unsuccessful, that Makalaurë had made the rational and logical choice--no matter its coldness--they still held him at fault.  Still resented and blamed, if only to keep away their own despair as days and days and days passed without any relief from the stillness.

And he would allow them to use him as a scapegoat.  If only they would not feel what he was feeling.  Would not be crushed beneath his wave of hatred directed inward.  At his cowardice, no matter how illogical.  At his inability to help, when all he desired was to see Nelyafinwë get better.

At being able to do naught but sit.  And sit and sit.

And wait.  And weep.

Uselessly.

"Please... please, come back to us." Pressing a kiss to his brother's brow, he brushed back the roughly sheered fiery curls, stroking his fingers through all that was left of the mane after they had sheared off the dirty snarls that could not be untangled and washed. "We need you still, brother.  Nelyo."

They needed him.  Not Makalaurë, who faltered beneath the weight.  Who could barely tell the difference between right and wrong.

Who could not handle the stress.

"You have lived through so much.  Let not this kill you." About the dismembered limb, Makalaurë's hand squeezed.

Remembering Findekáno's face as he brought forth the limp form.  Remembering how that body moved like a ragdoll, head lolling and eyes closed.  Remembering the horror that welled up his throat as bile and vomit, spilling forth without warning.

Remembering asking the Valar why.  Why had they not ended his brother's suffering?

Was this punishment?  Purgatory?

Remembering how his cousin had told him that his brother--his brother who never gave up, whose determination was nearly legendary--had pleaded for death.  Begged for Findekáno just kill him with his bow, if only to make it stop...

"Please, do not give up," he whispered, pressing his face into that hair, breathing in that scent. "Please, Nelyo, do not give up.  Come back to me.  Come back to us..."

There was no response.  There never was.  Not today or any other day.

Only silence.

"Please, wake up..."