Idea by wreckitmaedhros (on tumblr), who not only draws Maedhros with Maleficient-style horns and wings (which is surprisingly awesome), not only let me run with their idea, but also talked it out with me, patiently and in detail. So. Here you are :D
About: AU, experimental, dark. Written in drabbles (this time really 100 words each).
(Also it's impossible not to go on about fire.)
I.
Emptiness, pain, and a voice.
'What are you, now?'
Nothing. Nothing was left. Nothing but-
'You have been unmade. Picked apart, piece by piece. What burns in your core is laid bare before my eyes-'
-that, somewhere deep, somewhere unreachable, still nagging, even now, when he could not move a muscle, itching at the heart of his aching being, relentlessly tugging-
'-unmade, but you can be made again. I can remake you, put you together again around your burning core-'
-stirring.
'-there is nothing in you I have not seen. You are mine. Accept that, and I shall remake you.'
II.
No.
Unacceptable.
'Yet it is the truth,' whispered the voice, or his own thought, or that-
The Oath stirred again, violently, in a spasm of suffering.
You prayed for death, and it did not come; you did not dare pray for rescue, and none came. Those who abandoned you, you owe nothing. But you swore, and that you owe still; you are forbidden to remain idle.
That. Naught else. Yet-
'Come, and be whole again. Allow me to remake you.'
No.
Yes.
(It was impossible to recall faces, recall bonds, recall reasons-)
'Come.'
No-
Yes.
(-only that.)
'Come.'
Yes.
'Yes.'
III.
Falling. Over and over, from emptiness into emptiness.
There was nothing, for a time, not even memory, not even the weight of yet more shackling words, nothing, except the lack of pain, the numbing relief.
Then the world began to reassemble itself, slowly, piece by piece, unless it was not the world, it was him.
No one had come. Hurt. Resentment.
The Oath. The mission. Whatever he bond himself with could never bind him more.
And they were here.
So close.
This was a way. The only way. The only hope for any shred of freedom left.
Whatever it took.
IV.
A figure of flame and shadow, circling, snarling, waiting.
Show that you deserved your chance, was the order. Show that you are worth having.
He would.
Slash. Dodge. Turn. Strike-
(He had seen that one before: the lord of Balrogs, in fight and in flight; not so now.)
-Sweep. Stab. Counter-
(Kill, whispers a thought, a memory of another time. Kill. Have vengeance.)
'What's wrong, elf?'
(Kill him. Kill him, and die.)
-Swiftly. Deftly. Deadly-
'Enough.'
(Last chance-)
-Hesitation. Pause.
'You have demonstrated your worth. Now, your reliability.'
He steps back.
(-lost.)
'Good.'
(-you are lost.)
'You shall be rewarded.'
V.
It should have hurt more.
All of it.
It should have worried him, how little he felt when it was done; little beyond the bloom of numbing darkness, beyond the touch of alien power.
'And so you are made anew.'
It should have felt worse, to be made into a monster.
It should have been a humiliation, and it was, to be turned into a creature such as this.
Repulsive. Not an elf anymore. They would run screaming.
And they will.
'I must say you were excellent raw material.'
It should have scared him, how grimly satisfying the thought felt.
VI.
He remembered standing aside from fire, the all-consuming blaze, and it was increasingly difficult, now, to remember why.
It was the last thing that was beautiful, fire; and limitlessly powerful in its beauty. Why would he ever turn away?
Now he would sow fire wherever he went, fire tinted with shadows, and all the more mesmerizing for it; intoxicating.
He would watch the flames paint their inferno from above, and those who saw him would flee in terror, demon, they would say, monster, winged horror, horned fiend.
What were they? Nothing.
It would be interesting, though, when they saw him.
TBC
