He felt the blood drain from his face even as his fingers clenched against the pain. Beads of precipitation trailed down the roughened, weary flesh of his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe away the streaks of grime. There was no need.
The stars had long lost their light that evening, warped and stilted by the final pangs of a scream torn from a bleeding throat.
The day had died in silence after that, broken only by the soft weeping by his side.
No light was left for him to see by; the stars had abandoned them. And even with that knowledge, he heeded them not. He had other things to deal with.
For the shadows were steadily stretching across the ground, creeping towards him, deeper, darker, swallowing up everything in their way, closer with every second that passed—every second the world was forced to endure his presence.
And they were reaching for him, pleading for him, and seeking, always seeking for a way in, probing and prodding his mind for every crack, every bloody laceration and gaping wound that had been inflicted upon his ravaged mind because—he was theirs.
He was the sickened creature, consumed by shadows and the pursuit of hate, the patron of bloodstained hands, bloodlust incarnate—and he knew.
He knew, as the sweeping gusts of wind whipped his fiery tendrils back into his accursed face and over shaking shoulders, that he had chosen this path himself. He had called out to invite the doom that rest upon him, eagerly, dutifly—a self righteous clot of hypocrisy and bloodshed in order to gain a mere reflection of memory he chose not to forget and yet had forsaken countless times.
This shard of the Past was not his anymore.
He, himself, had renounced his claim long ago, in an oath bound by his blood—the red mark of slain innocence.
And thus he blanched, biting the insides of his cheek to draw forth even more blood from within himself as he coiled the festering, boiling flesh further around his father's Jewel, encasing that holy object in the filthy, charring brackets of his fingers.
The soft squelching of its light was the last image he wanted—the last image he deserved—and he closed his eyes to the world and drank in the heat that wafted from the chasm below.
"Brother?"
He ignored the broken voice—another thing he had tarnished for selfish reasons. It was barely a hollow whisper of its stolen beauty and light now.
No, there was no turning back from the path they had chosen to tread. The demand had to be heeded.
"Maitimo? Brother, we–we are–" it stuttered again, unable to finish whatever misery had yet to be voiced in the spoken tongue.
The world around was almost indifferent to the sound, half-smothered in ash and choked with smoke as it was.
He sighed, feeling the warm liquid pool from the crevice of his lips—He dared not open his eyes again, for fear of finding black where once was crimson, or perhaps—of the fact that it wouldn't come as a surprise.
He had no wish to behold those tear-weary eyes of his brother gazing down into the doom held in his burning palm.
"W-what are we doing, brother?"
Why did you make me do this? That was the true question, pitifully hidden from his sight.
Loyalty was a blind trust.
Makalurë was nothing if not loyal; it was to be his downfall in the end, as it was his.
Loyal to the point of sacrificing sense to appease the bloodthirsty gods that whispered within their minds like those of the savage men.
And for what?
His brother's words echoed back to him, pulsing in rhythm to the throb of his hand. "Less evil shall we do in the breaking of the Oath."
Less evil? Perhaps, if that was what the standards were. How much less of an evil it all would have been if they, themselves, had never existed in the first place!
He cursed his own damning response, his drive to feed the beast once more, to spill the last remains of his brothers' blood before the accursed Light.
Accursed Light?
Nay, it was not the Light that was cursed. It was he, the pain reminded him, the devouring creature churning within him, feeding off the last of his will and the trust of his remaining brother.
He wallowed in his self-inflicted darkness, and unintentionally he slipped back within himself, listening to the whispers gnawing at the edge of his mind.
It was a habit he had picked up some time ago, letting them have their way and tasting their poison on his tongue like stale wine.
A cruel pleasure.
The sharp lashing of whips, cruel shouts of commands, the hissing and crackling of flames, endless screams of 'kinslayer! murderer! traitor!' choked out from dying throats, the taunting clash of waves upon the shore, haunting whimpers of despair trailing the winter's winds, and the ever-present phantom of agony burning his right shoulder and arm from within...
And now, the weeping of Makalurë Kanafinwë by his side, broken and despairing for what he had both lost and gained, having been severed from the last tendons of love that kept him from the Shadows—their own personal Everlasting Darkness.
He is so close that Maitimo can almost feel the brush of his cloak against his arm. And yet, his brother is so far away, and already fading from his view.
"What have we done?" Maglor called out, to his brother or to the wind, or perhaps, even to the fire that burned in the chasm far below where they stood. Because what was reason but a bitter hindrance? Or a painful homage to the madness within?
It could be given up; as it had long since proven impractical.
His legs moved almost on their own accord, forward, onward, driven by the accusatory flashes of agony that spiraled up from his blackened blistering palm.
His other arm had started to ache as well—that non-existent, eternal ghost of torment.
How much more must be given, eldest of Fëanor, until your gods are satisfied?
Two we have, but three there are.
The last has not been claimed.
Do you still clasp your right to them with a broken hand? O Single-Handed One? Kinslayer, and Captive of Shadows, Slave of Oaths and by them Cursed?
Well, no longer.
The Shadow will not be satisfied.
He continued on, refusing to halt, pulling away from his brother's hand that grappled towards him, gripping his cloak and begging. His cries of alarm go unheeded. As does the wailing that comes after.
There was no reason to offer him, no soothing council from a beloved brother—nothing he would understand. No acceptable apology.
There was nothing left.
This empty shell was no longer Maitimo Nelyafinwë.
Russando had died long, long ago.
Maedhros the Kinslayer had traveled so far on this plane of reality, but, even he did not even inhabit this soulless husk.
Not anymore.
He hardly feels the fire.
