I'll admit, this is kinda strange and very sadpasta, but then, a lot of the things I write are
Maedhros is one of my favorite characters, and I couldn't help but write this
Warnings: somewhat disturbing content, deathfic (though not graphic)
Disclaimer: all elves belong to Tolkien
Fire was all Maedhros could think about.
Fire… hot… burning…
His eyes stared down at the blinding stone clenched tightly in his violently shaking hand, its purity searing hot against his flesh. Everything about it was so intense, so mesmerizingly brilliant, that he couldn't even look away from it despite how his hand screamed and screamed to drop it.
He couldn't.
This… this was what we were searching for all this time. It was so pure and beautiful. It made his eyes sting and every beam of light on his flesh tingle faintly. Except for his hand that touched its diamond surface, which felt as though it would fall to ashes.
Burning… hot… SIN… let go, let go, let go…
Why did it burn?
It seemed with that simple thought the pain came rushing to the forefront of his mind, and a choked scream broke past his lips, his eyes wide in horror. This wasn't right! It shouldn't burn! It shouldn't hurt! It was their salvation!
For a moment—a single, tiny, indescribable moment—his fingers almost released the burning jewel. But he forced them to tighten and bit his tongue until it bled. Never before in his life had he felt such horrible, terrible pain… no torment the Dark Lord had ever come up with could compare to this! Even Findecáno's death…
Findecáno's death… his brothers' deaths… his cousins… uncle… kin…
Kinslayer
And tears finally reached his eyes and slid down his cheeks. It felt as though that fire burned through his blood—molten to his stained fëa—bringing a flood of his sins back to the forefront of his mind. He had tried to forget… so, so very hard… to forget everything that had happened to them. He wanted it to go away.
But it wouldn't.
It couldn't.
He couldn't take it back. Never.
Findecáno… what have we done? It was a question he'd been trying to answer since before they had even been cursed. It was a question which he'd never been able to find an answer to, not really… or maybe he'd just been deluding himself.
He had tried to forget the bloodshed and heartache… tried so very, very hard, but he had failed. Because this burning stone in his hand would never allow him to forget it. To forget… forget…
Forget his sins?
Murderer… traitor… liar… coward… kinslayer…
I'm sorry…
Sorry wasn't good enough. The unforgiving thing in his hand seemed to be a thousand degrees, seemed to eat away at his flesh and soul. The awesome beauty of their salvation seemed to shrivel up, and he suddenly wanted to be as far from this… this thing as possible. He couldn't stand it!
Pain, pain, pain… burning…
"You do not deserve it," he whispered to himself. Even as he held their prize in the palm of his hand—it burned like a brand to his skin—he knew with the utmost and horrifying certainty that they didn't deserve it.
We have sinned so much… fallen so low that we can never crawl back out again.
Despair boiled up inside him with his traitorous tears, tears which had not fallen for almost five hundred years. All this time he'd been deluding himself, pushing aside his problems, hiding in the darkness of his mind, only to reach this fiery end and find himself suffocating, being eaten alive.
I want to die. The realization came fast and with a wave of insidious shame at his own cowardice. I want this to end. I want it to be over.
All this time they'd been trying to find this… this rock… and what had it gained them?
Nothing.
They had suffered through blood, betrayal and tears for nothing.
This time, the urge to flee overcame him. Maedhros did not look where he stepped, but he knew where he wanted to go. He wanted to end this finally. But he would end it so no one would ever be tempted again. If you are out there, Maglor… Macalaurë… do not come after me. Give up this madness!
His legs carried him faithfully to his destination, until he looked down into the earth upon a raging inferno. His hand hadn't gone numb—to the contrary, ever step he took made it ache all the more, its purity clashing so powerfully with his rotten fëa that it send shudders of pain throughout his whole body so he could barely manage to stand—and he looked down into the abyss.
He had been born of fire, if only his father's. The same spirit flowed through his veins which had kept him alive all these centuries… too long. His pride and stubbornness had been with him to the very end.
But they were nothing compared to the fire—the fire that seared still into his left palm from the shattered hope that was this brilliant thing of beauty—which he had lived by. His sins twisted and turned behind his eyes, and he could swear that every death that had ever been had unjustly by his hands flashed through his mind, and his hands, even the phantom of the right, could still feel the sticky drip, drip, drip of blood that marred their long-fingered imperfection. It burned.
"Why did things have to be this way?" He stared upwards at the sky, searching for answers that he knew he wouldn't find in the cold-hearted stars. "Or was this our destiny all along, the part we were meant to play?"
He didn't want to think like that. Surely… surely things could've been different… surely they hadn't been set in stone…
The Oath, he was reminded, set your futures in stone.
His eyes fell back to the flames an unnamable distance below his feet. Could he really… really do this? Was he ready?
Yes, an angry voice hissed against his consciousness. It is no more than you deserve, you wretched excuse for a person. Go die… Die in the flames that you sowed with your own foolishness and arrogance.
Closing his eyes, Maedhros took the final steps until his boots teetered on the edge. He pulled the Silmaril close to his chest… and fell forward.
Die by the fire… it is no more or less than you deserve, sinner.
How depressing... ah well, I couldn't help myself
Review if you wish