A/N I want to do more with the First Age...there's so much I want to do, and this kind of came out as a compromise so I can write and post something for pete's sake. The premise was going to be post-Thangorodrim Maedhros in Mithrim, but nah...I needed to go a little further in time, and I will have my rant down at the bottom if you want to read that.
PTSD, hallucinations, references to mutilation...No sexual content still. Just my standard "let's explore the psych of these people without getting too graphic."
The battle occurred months ago. The smell of the burnt fields in the north continued to waft over the mountains. The lava that flowed over the land has since hardened, and laborers were trying to salvage what they could from the newly formed rock. Maedhros received many messages from Curufin-the most like their father with smithcraft. The elder son questioned how his younger brother expected them to send the volcanic rock to him to Nargothrond when their cousin's folk shot any stranger on sight.
The enthusiasm of a master of their craft, perhaps (a thing Maedhros missed immensely, as an architect. The last major project he did was Himring itself…). Who knows: maybe they could harness Morgoth's fire to their own benefit?
That was a matter for another time. Maedhros sat in the high seat in the feast hall, lords and ladies gathered as they commemorated the grim victory and the lives unfortunately lost in the fire, having the time to do so finally since reconstruction. They honored Fingolfin what a king would deserve (much to the displeasure of extremely loyal followers of Fëanor), and then moved onto praising the valiant deeds of their lords: Maedhros especially.
Maglor was playing and singing in that magnificent voice, so often uplifted for having the power of the Valar in it, to the point he was named Ôlnathron by the Sindar in Mithrim, meaning dream-weaver.
Maedhros knew that to be true. He experienced-demanded it even, that the evil thoughts and dreams be whisked away by the enchantment of his songbird's music whenever he came to visit. Now that Maglor's fort was destroyed in the fire, that would become a regular occurrence.
Maedhros listened to the voice and harp more than the lyrical content: praise for valiance, for scaring orcs before they even got close to hurting someone, for having such a strong and powerful presence. Much like Fëanor did in his last stand.
The russet-haired elf felt an ever-present loathing for himself surface. All because of how he came to be that way. What they were actually praising…
Maedhros no longer heard the music or his brother's voice. The sounds of glasses clinking together echoed in his ears and sounded like chains. Happy laughter sounded mocking. Unconsciously Maedhros' hand gripped the armrest, and his body stiffened, resisting the urge to grab hold of the stump of his right wrist. The inner turmoil did not show on his face.
'Do not think about it,' Maedhros told himself harshly. 'Do not…' his mental voice faded away weakly.
Whips, beatings, lacerations…humiliation, that was the reality. Thrown to Sauron's wolves, laboring with the slaves in the never-ending hell, or being taunted and tormented with the Silmarils in the throne room when he was tied to the pole. Exposed to the harsh atmosphere found so deep in the earth.
"What are you?
Another toast to someone's honor. Chains.
He could feel that sickeningly sweet smile from the lieutenant without it being nearby.
"Worthless mongrel. Stupid."
Maedhros' jaw twitched as he felt another strike against his face-no, it was not real, it was not…
"Hmm, it has been a while since I added to my pack. The wolves would love to have another among their kind."
Maedhros inhaled sharply, and he opened his eyes that he did not know let drift closed. The trembling was there, but it was minor enough that no one noticed. No one saw his dilemma, though it was only a matter of time before Maglor would turn and see.
Well, Maglor would see it anyway. Maedhros arose from his place, trying to make an inconspicuous exit and to his rooms. As he predicted: Maglor and only a few people that were in the councils noticed. Everyone else continued with their merrymaking. It was vacant in the fortress, for the most part. But much to his misfortune: Maedhros caught sight of a woman holding a needle.
Without warning, his eye and head exploded in pain.
Maedhros stumbled, temporarily deaf and numb to outside happenings.
"M-my lord-" he heard the other person say, horrified. "I-"
"Get away from me," Maedhros hissed aggressively and with desperation.
No thought passed his mind…a destination set in mind, while the halls faded and merged with reality and imagination. The clean walls were crumbled and disgusting in some places. The crisp air was thick and heavy. Pained and cruel faces stared him down from the paintings and tapestries.
'Get away from me,' he repeated mentally-a weak plea, not at all the courageous and strong lord everyone sees all the time.
Maedhros saw a bit of orange and panicked. No, he was not here. Could not be.
"It has been a while since I added to my pack. Oh stop-you cannot think for yourself. You should know that by now, child." The maia raised the spike of ice, grinning wickedly. "Let me help you get the idea…We will take care of you."
'LEAVE ME ALONE!' Maedhros yelled internally and slammed his back against something.
When the fog cleared: he found himself safe in his private chambers.
No…not saf-YES, safe! He was in Himring, not the Pits of Hell. Say that to his panicky breathing while he dumped the heavy robes on the floor. Maedhros wished he could stop shaking. The elf could not help but laugh despairingly while clawing at the beads and other ornaments braided into his hair. He stayed against the door for a while before pacing back and forth across the room.
This was the hero the Noldor praised so much: a quaking, fearful, changed thing, who had no right to be called a child of Fëanor, best friend to the king-let alone their leader of all things! They are following an orc, a-
"Maitimo," Maedhros heard his dear brother's voice enter the room. Bless him for breaking these confounded thoughts!
If only he could show the same gesture. "Get these cursed things off me," Maedhros ordered harshly, still clawing at his hair.
"Sit and calm down, I will do so," Maglor answered readily. He dealt with these violent episodes more than anyone else.
The anchor Maedhros so desperately needed when Fingon was not nearby to be one.
Maedhros flinched when Maglor touched his arm, the hostility still present, but the minstrel did not seem phased. The songbird had to have some magic hand as well as his voice. Maedhros was led to a chair and sat down. Maglor picked the ornaments out and undid the braids.
Maedhros' eye and head…everywhere, actually, hurt tremendously. Quickly his expression turned morose and sad with the prolonged silence and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Blankly Maedhros stared at the hideous scars dotting his face, knowing-feeling-that they trailed down his chest, back, arms…everywhere imaginable. Most were white lines, others were ridges where they ripped out metal when Fingon saved him. Then he saw the gold glint-that orcish glint-in his eyes. They were grey; nothing could change that, but in certain lighting, it flashed that disgusting color. Maedhros' tongue pressed itself to the very prominent fang he possessed. How close was the other one to being one too?
"What do you want me to sing about, brother?" Maglor again interrupted the chain of thought. "Stop staring at yourself."
Maedhros forced his eyes away, brows pressing together. "I don't-the…I am sorry."
"Maitimo," Maglor said in a certain voice.
"I am though!" Maedhros in frustration swatted the hands away, which Maglor kept to himself afterward. "You praise a monster instead of who, what, I actually am! The delusion is spreading to everyone else now. They prefer this creation over the son of the one they chose to follow!"
Maglor appeared shocked by these words, even if by now he should be used to this. Ever the sensitive brother, alongside the twins. "That is not true," he finally said, voice still in control despite the look on his face.
"Why do you sing the ballads of my glory? What have I done that is any different than the creatures we vowed to destroy?" Maedhros questioned firmly.
"We are not dead for one thing. And I doubt any orc could create such fair places like you have." Maglor did not hesitate in answering.
"But there are plenty of other things that…" Maedhros shook his head, a part of his reason trying to come back…but the negativity and hate continued. He found himself unable to finish that sentence. What could he say?
"Look at me," Maglor moved in front of his brother and held his face in both hands.
Maedhros did, then tried to close his eyes, too ashamed. The other thoughts were getting rid of the rationality again.
"No, no," Maglor growled, moving one hand and forcefully opening Maedhros' eyes. "I am not letting you do that. Look at me."
Maedhros possessed a vague sense of appreciation for the firmness…gentleness…did not work as effectively as it used to. During his time recovering from the atrocities all those years ago, it coaxed him out of that dread and fear. But it was hard to look feeling too ashamed. Looking forced the tears to come, but he never would let them drop.
Maedhros felt Maglor's fingers dig into his temple, easing the headache somewhat. Subconsciously his hand went up and grabbed the other hand, not to remove it, but held on for dear life.
Maglor's features lost some of their sternness though it stayed. Slowly, keeping the eye contact, Maglor saw his real brother come back. The violent and hateful person faded into someone Maglor used to know. Gentle, genuine…but broken.
"Maka," Maedhros whispered, voice shaky. "I am sorry…for all this."
"You overcame it, Maitimo," Maglor soothed softly. "That is something to be proud of. You did not let the enemy win you over. You fought against them; now they can tremble in their shoes, and our people see you as a beacon of hope."
'Hope for what?' Maedhros asked bitterly in his mind, not wanting to voice more things out. Not wanting to argue with Maglor. He did not believe a single thing. Found it hard to believe it. It did not make sense. Just more words being spouted to get him out of his ditch.
"You are still my brother," Maglor continued, eyes sad. "I do not deserve you, given it was me who left you in the first place to endure all that. But…"
"Here I am still with a beating stick to keep my rambunctious brothers in check," Maedhros finished with an odd voice that was meant to be humorous.
It worked somehow. Maglor smiled tremulously. "You never failed your job as an older brother, that is for sure."
Maedhros did not say anything, but he allowed Maglor to finished undoing the braids. The tightness it brought was released, and it helped the headache he had. Maedhros felt normal again…sane, in his mind, after breaking through yet another wall that fell in his path. The past tried to keep surfacing again, though Maedhros had the upper hand for the time being.
"I may have found a solution to get Curufin what he wants," the older brother finally spoke. Even his voice sounded normal-strong and confident. In control.
"Leave it in a bag where the rangers can find it with a note?" Maglor asked.
"Make him come here and get it himself if he wants it that badly, or Amon Ereb where Caranthir is. Curufin and Celegorm could help instead of lock himself away out of reach…"
Maglor did not really know what to say to that. The last of the braids and ornaments were undone and removed. "I left my harp when you made your leave. Will you be alright for a few moments alone?"
What tension was relieved came back, though more manageable than before. "Be quick," Maedhros replied quietly.
Maglor nodded and made haste. Maedhros felt the silence press on him, close in…The tall elf stood. He refused to let those thoughts win. Maedhros stared at the closed windows, wishing he could open them without the scent of burning entering the room. That would give the past power…the forges, the balrogs…He went to the bed instead and waited.
Maedhros heard echoes again. He hated that his mind had to fill the space somehow. Years hanging from the silent, windy peaks of Thangorodrim forced that habit. He did not want to experience that again.
His mind-the demons-did not care that he never wanted to experience it again. It had other plans. Maedhros felt his grip on reality fade, and quietly mustered up the undamaged parts of his fëa before surrendering to the onslaught…
They took him away from the light-silmarils, that was what they were called. He found himself forgetting so much so quickly. He could not even speak, forgetting words to do so, and he refused to answer in the language his tormentors spoke in.
Even if by now he could only understand that wicked tongue.
He hung from a wall in this tower-cell, the center of a spiral staircase in this never-ceasing pit of pain and despair. Never seeing the outside. He could not remember what outside was like. But…the light, he knew he had to reclaim the silmarils. Vowed to, on pain of ceasing to exist entirely.
Right now, that would not be too bad. The tormentors managed to use the silmarils against him. The taunting by the silmarils' mere presence twisted his fëa. Having a reprieve from that helped, even if it was small.
But he hardly cared. Caring required too much effort, and he was spent. Alone and abused every other…measure of time he could not name, his body felt on the verge of shutting down completely.
Then they came, and the semi-bliss of being left alone fled immediately.
He tensed against the wall, staring at the lieutenant against his will, painfully aware of the raw terror on his face. He long since lost the idea of dignity and pride to try and conceal it, however.
"The master does not like the fight you still put up."
He could not understand. He was not fighting.
The being was the opposite of angry though. More of sadistic delight. "You somehow manage to inspire rebellion in the other slaves. A forlorn hope that will never be accomplished. Do you not appreciate what we do for you and the others?"
No. He did not even have to think about that for long and had the will to appear enraged amidst his fear.
"Misguided child…" said the lieutenant absently, then smirked. "Worthless mongrel."
He tensed even more, trembling. He knew where it was going. Please, do not do it again…
"It has been a while since I added to my pack…" the maia muttered, the elf now identifying what this tormentor was.
"No," he forced out, his throat screaming in protest of the use. "N-no." The stupid fang was still there from-'Valar, help me.'
"Oh stop-you cannot think for yourself. You should know that by now, child." The maia interrupted. "Your past plans were fruitless, you cannot even move a finger without screaming." To make a point the lieutenant moved one of his fingers. He did want to scream. "What are you, as you are now? Worthless, a waste."
He heard the list of names…and he could not deny any of it. But he knew, knew there was more, somewhere in his head. He just had to find it…
He saw the maia make an intimidating spike out of nothing. His heart beat fast and hard, freezing completely when the lieutenant laid a hand on his head, forcing an eye open.
"Let me help you get the idea…We will take care of you."
Maedhros remembered very little of what followed. For a long time, he barely had consciousness, and he felt his skin flush in shame knowing the nonsense babble when trying to communicate.
"Maitimo, Nelyafinwë," he heard Maglor repeatedly saying, only then registering the hands on his shoulders.
Had he fallen back on the mattress?
Maedhros blinked back to reality and found Maglor's face. The minstrel was worried. He had to do something to bring his brother out but did not want to risk getting seriously injured.
Maedhros felt nothing inside. Exhausted at best, as the stronger parts of his soul retreated to recover. He sighed heavily. "You can let go."
Maglor blinked, concerned. "Are you sure? I thought-"
"I told you to get your harp. May have been a mistake on my part, but it is too late now." Maedhros interrupted.
Maglor let go, chastised. "I am sorry," he whispered.
"Do not be…just play."
The songbird did. Maedhros opened his mind up for the full effect. Slowly the void, fear, and stress dissipating as Maglor sang about two travelers discovering a temple in the sky in Valinor. Maedhros doubted it was Manwë's mansion upon Taniquetil…though it may be the account of the elves still seeing the beauty of that place made into song. Whatever the context, Maedhros felt peace and joy after a rough evening. He let himself go back to that time: knowing joy without being exposed to evil. When they were all children.
Without pain or delusions.
A/N Maedhros is one of my children. And while I was writing this, I had a thought. "Tolkien...you were a bit ahead of your time with this character's mental degeneration over time, while simultaneously managing to make Maedhros superior to humans, as elves should be." I do believe Maedhros to be a very competent and strong leader, but as events played out, he slowly lost more of his sanity in his panic desperation to keep things under control-something torture victims are deprived of, having things in control. Fingon dying in the Nirnaeth cracked Maedhros' psyche even more, especially when he feels very much responsible because he proposed that whole notion in the first place.
Celegorm and Curufin...I am sure Maedhros felt really good about that hearing their crap in Nargothrond. "Can't I get anything RIGHT DONE?!" And thus adding to the desperation for control.
Then we have the kinslayings and the twins...It would not surprise me if Maedhros was a bit bi-polar throughout all this. Not obvious at first, but only got worse the closer they got to the War of Wrath and his suicide.
Maedhros is strong on multiple levels. Surviving thirty years of hell and bouncing back from it full force (even more than that actually), being competent, etc. But he had to have moments of breaking in that time period before he very obviously cracked. Even then, he probably cracked at the Nirnaeth pretty hard. That's just being realistic, as well as respecting the might and greater durability the elves have in comparison to humans. Five hundred years of having those scars, but able to live I imagine a decent happy life before everything really went to crap. That...and these manic episodes no one ever saw save family and really freaking close friends, or it was never spoken about, so not really found in the Silmarillion till the every end.
Fanfiction is fun to explore stuff. Also...uhm...Sauron may have been in the process of turning Maedhros into an orc, by making him a wolf first...because Luthien made Beren a wolf to sneak into Angband...yeah...the Valar were also permitted by Eru to make the bodies of the reincarnated elves so...Maiar probably also could do it? Yeah... .-.
The Silmarillion is what happens when you have the author be in a World War, making the first stuff kind of for the Silmarillion in a freaking trench. He will make you hurt so bad because he will put those harsh realities in his book. ;-; You have to appreciate that even if it's sad.