WARNINGS: Blood, gore, torture, and just general creepiness. Hence the high rating to be safe.
After Angband, sleep had never come easy to him. As soon as he closed his eyes, he was back there. There: the nightmare that never ceased to haunt him. Maedhros rolled to the side, praying that the slightly more comfortable position would allow him to gain the sleep that he so desperately needed to catch up on.
He closed his bright green eyes, only to see red, hear the screams, that haunting voice, and- his eyes snapped back open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He sat up in bed, doubling over as he tried to breathe. As soon as he had calmed himself, he lit a candle, pulled out a book from the small bookshelf on the farside of the room, and began to read. The words seemed to pop off the page, grabbing his attention almost immediately. If there was one thing that Maedhros had noticed during his lifetime, it was that words conveyed colors. After about two chapters, he lightly tossed the book onto his night table with a huff of frustration. All he was getting from that book were reds and pinks. It was a romance novel of his mother's which he had found in the boxful of books he'd taken with him from Valinor. He picked up the book again, in a gentle, almost reverent way. He brushed his fingertips against the worn cover. He wondered if his mother missed it, even though the voice in his head reminded him that she'd probably put it with his things on purpose. A memory of home. He gently placed it under his pillow. It felt good, knowing that he still had a piece of her with him. The memories were becoming stronger now. The pain and suffering he'd been through were driving him to the point of insanity.
Maedhros stiffened. He didn't know why, but for some reason, he felt as though something was wrong. So terribly wrong. He instinctively looked over his shoulder. Red. It was dripping down the wall behind him. He swiftly looked away.
"It's just your imagination." The sane part of his mind reminded him. "It's all just your imagination. Ignore it." He shivered, trying to keep his gaze trained on the wall in front of him. For a few minutes, it worked. But then, blood began dripping down the other wall as well, causing him to resort to his natural instinct; running away. Before he even realized what he'd done, he was already halfway down the corridor. He was almost there. Almost to the door!
"No!" The insane part of his mind screamed. "You can see Angband from the ramparts! It's all red up there!" He turned on his heel, and sprinted away in the opposite direction. His footsteps echoed through the empty halls as the Lord of Himring raced through his own fortress, scared out of his wits. He needed someplace to hide. And fast.
There!
There was a door.
Before he realized what he was doing, he was opening the door and running inside. He slammed the door behind him, shutting out the red. He turned around, unable to see a thing. He felt around, until his hand met a wall. Carefully, Maedhros slid down to the floor, his back against the wall as he wondered exactly where he was. He sat in silence, his knees pressed up against his chest, as if he were trying to make himself smaller. Slowly, his eyes began to adjust to the light.
"I think I might be in the servant's closet." Maedhros thought to himself as he noticed mops and brooms propped up against the wall. "If I fall asleep in here I'll never live it down… I'll be forever known as 'The-Lord-who-was-found-sleeping-in-a-closet'!" Then, his gaze was drawn to some curious looking containers on the floor. Intrigued, Maedhros leaned forward to get a closer look. They were circular, and there was an odd, yet familiar, scent. "Paint!" Aside from being a master swordsman, he had his own unique talent on Valinor: art. Often, he would paint his mother's sculptures for her before she sold them. Somedays, he wondered what possessed him to follow his father on this mad quest, instead of staying home with Nerdanal and becoming an artist. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, his curiosity got the best of him. He pried open the lid, and looked inside. He frowned. It was too dark to see the color. He dipped his fingertips into the paint, and brought it closer to his face. Still too dark to tell.
Suddenly, his heart started pounding, and he didn't know why. He whipped around and looked towards the door. He yelped. There was red seeping in under the door! He abruptly found himself crashing out of the closet, and racing outside into the courtyard. He flew to one of the small side gates, opened it, and ran out into the wilderness, not even caring that he'd left the gate unlocked. His heartbeat matched the sound of his footsteps, beat for beat. Being tall had its perks: his long stride allowed him to cover huge amounts of ground at a decent speed. Faster, faster- hell, why hadn't his lungs and heart exploded already?! He flew onwards.
Deep in the woods, he came into a clearing with a small pond, a waterfall, and a cave. Fireflies illuminated the area. He scared them all as he skidded to a halt, looking around wildly. There: the cave. He darted inside. The air was damp, the slimy ground was cold beneath his bare feet, and as soon as he set foot inside, he slipped, and fell flat on his back. He groaned as he sat up. Maedhros sighed. What was he doing? He, the Lord of Himring, the rightful High King of the Noldor, the eldest son of Fëanor, a kinslayer, a murderer, and a killer, was running away from his own imagination like a silly child. He shivered in the cold, pulling his knees to his chest. His brow furrowed. Something was on his hand, he could feel it. He pulled his hand away from his leg and screamed, leaping to his feet.
THERE WAS RED ON HIS HAND!
He stumbled backwards, and was about to take off again, when he realized something. The red on his hand wasn't blood. It wasn't warm. Rather, it was cool. His green eyes studied the red. It… it didn't look like blood. It was the wrong shade of red. He rubbed his fingertips together. It didn't feel like blood either. It was too thick. He suddenly got a strong whiff of the stuff, and it hit him like a thunderbolt.
It was paint.
The paint in the closet had been red.
He felt sick. "Perhaps, " he thought to himself "I should ban the color entirely!" He let loose a yell of frustration, and raked his fingers across the wall, leaving behind five streaks of red. He paled. They looked like whip marks marring the wall. He liked this cave too; it was a good, quiet place to go and hide when the pain became too great. He had to cover it up. He carefully felt the wall, trying his best not to get any more red on the wall. His eyes lit up in pleasant surprise. The wall was dry, and free of any sort of contamination.
The perfect canvas.
A slow smile spread across his scarred features. He could paint a mural over it. If he was able to learn how to pick up a sword again, then surely, he could pick up a paintbrush. There was probably one in the closet. Along with more paint. He raced back to Himring.
Maedhros raced through the quiet corridors until he reached his destination. He felt almost giddy as he took out a whole army of supplies. There were paintbrushes and paint cans galore! He couldn't resist! He had to see what colors he had to work with! He ripped off a lid.
Red.
He gagged slightly.
"It… it's alright." he thought to himself. "I can use it to paint a sunset or something. I may not want to admit it, but I had to use red a lot on Valinor to make different pigments..." he pulled off another lid.
Black.
Another color he'd learned to hate in Angband. The dark voice that never ceased to haunt him spoke again. He shook his head, pushing the voice away. He could use the black to make different shades… He opened another can.
White.
He felt sick. White was the color of bone that just had the muscle torn off of it. He could use it to make tints… he pried the lid off of another can.
Red.
He opened another.
More red.
And another.
Even more red.
He fell to his knees, internally screaming, his stomach rolling violently.
It was then that the odd sensation came over him.
Like he couldn't control a single thing he was doing.
His vision became blurry with tears, and he swiftly grabbed a paintbrush, and a paint can full of red, and raced back down to the cave.
Then he went back up for the black.
And then the white.
And then again for more red.
And more.
And more.
And more.
Until finally, there was nothing more he could carry.
Maedhros stared at the wall, with a fire in his eyes that had not been there since Alqualonde. A paintbrush covered in red was held loosely in his hand, like a sword dripping with blood. He slapped the paint on the wall, hearing every word that had been said, feeling every hand that had touched him cruelly, every stare, hearing every taunting jeer, feeling the blood dripping down his bare body, every knife and whip that had bitten into his skin.
Everything.
"Monster.
Kinslayer.
Murderer.
Pretty little thing.
Pretty elfling.
Pretty Maitimo.
You like this.
You like the pain, don't you, beautiful?
You don't scream.
I think you like it."
"No. no I don't."
"Yes, yes you do!"
"NO!
STOP!"
"You're sure you don't like this?"
"YES!
STOP!"
"Tell me one thing then, little one.
Where are your brothers?"
"Even if I knew where my brothers are, or what they're doing, I would never tell you!"
"Why haven't they come to rescue you?"
"Why should they have to? I don't want them to."
"Ah, so you DO like pain then?"
"I'd rather suffer myself than let my brothers suffer under a serpent like you!"
"Your choice, pretty little thing.
No one will save you."
"I don't have to be saved.
I don't want anyone hurt because of me."
"So, you've accepted the truth?
That you'll always belong to me?"
"I don't belong to anyone."
"Oh, little Maitimo, that's where you're wrong."
Hands.
Cold, uncaring hands rested against his chest, causing him to shiver.
They slowly ran down his skin, lingering far longer than he could tolerate.
"You will always belong to me.
I am part of you, and always will be."
"No. No I'm not. You're not a part of me… you're not… HELP!"
"No one's coming to save you, beautiful. No one."
"help… please…
Help…
Help…"
Red, black, and white covered the floor like a sick sort of carpet.
Tipped over paint cans lay scattered across the stone randomly.
Tears trickled down Maedhros' cheeks as he stared steadily at his monstrosity on the wall. His legs suddenly gave out, and he crumpled to the floor like a rag doll, asleep before he even hit the ground…
"Nelyo… Nelyo, wake up… please, Russandol."
Oh, Valar, the voice was back… Sauron was back to hurt him again… he cracked an eye open, mentally preparing for the torture that awaited him. Much to his surprise and relief, it was only Makalaurë.
Where were they?
It wasn't Himring, that much was obvious.
He suddenly noticed that his brother's gray eyes were glistening with unshed tears from beneath his thick eyelashes.
What was he lying in?
He picked himself up, his heart suddenly beating out of his chest as he realized that he was lying in a pool of red, black, and white paint, which stained his clothes, skin, and hair. He looked towards the farside of the cave, gasping sharply as he caught sight of the painful painting on the wall.
Angband.
He'd painted it in several shades of red.
The background was a red so dark it was almost black. The mountains were a lighter shade of the color. Black clouds were scattered across the dark desolate sky, the mountains were ringed with a bright red which he had blended into the sky, the ground was a dark grayish red, and a red whip and knife were faded slightly into the image.
A picture of his pain.
He didn't even realize he was crying until he could taste the salt on his lips, and he could scarcely breathe.
He looked into Makalaurë's sad face, who, like his brother, had cold tears running down his pale cheeks.
He pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face in his arms, waiting.
Waiting for the reprimand.
Waiting for the punishment.
Waiting for the beating.
Waiting…
Waiting…
Waiting…
"Oh, Nel…" Maedhros felt his brother's hand resting gently on his scarred back. His hand was warm. Not cold like the monster who'd wronged him. "Nel, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't come for you. I-I'm sorry that I cou-didn't even tr-"
"NO! I never wanted any of you to come save me! He-He would've… Valar, if he caught any of you…"
There was an awkward moment of silence between the pair, before Maglor held his arms open in invitation. Maedhros paused in uncertainty, gazing steadily at his brother. Maglor was his little brother. He wouldn't try to hurt him.
Slowly, he allowed himself to relax into Maglor's arms, practically melting under his brother's gentle caressing.
"I'm sorry, Laurë. Y-you shouldn't have to see me like this."
"No, Nelyo. I'd rather see you as you are instead of seeing someone else, or not seeing you at all." Maedhros sniffled slightly as pressed further into his brother's embrace.
"Maitimo?" Maglor asked as his brother stiffened.
"Please don't call me that, Laurë. I don't deserve that name anymore." His tears quelled slightly as his little brother ran his finger through his short coppery colored hair.
"You're still beautiful to me, Russandol. Even if you don't think so." Maglor stated as his older brother buried his face into the crook of his neck.
"Laurë?"
"Hm?"
"Thank you." He smiled through his tears a little as he felt his brother hold him tighter.
How long had it been since he had allowed himself to be held?
"Nel?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
His heart nearly stopped beating.
"I love you too."
Many years later…
Footsteps echoed through the silent corridor as he quietly strode around his fortress. Blessedly, his panic attacks, which used to happen so frequently, only came now and again. And now, he had enough experience to know how to respond instead of react. Maedhros suddenly stopped by a specific door on his route, pressed his ear against the door, and listened intently, praying he had not awoken the occupants with his pacing.
"Stop… stop being… boring… Elrond… stop reading… silly books…" A smirk spread across his face as he listened to Elros talking in his sleep, and he chuckled quietly, shaking his head a little as he thought about how Ambarusa used to do the same thing.
A painful, yet sweet memory.
For some reason, he was compelled to go outside of the fortress.
His feet took him down a specific route outside, and he felt as though he were walking in a dream. Almost like a weird sense of deja vu. He continued on until he reached a clearing in the woods that looked oddly familiar. There was a small pond with a waterfall and a cave. He quietly sat down on the banks of the pond, allowing the stars, moon, and fireflies to be his only lights. He sighed softly as he gazed at his reflection in the water.
He certainly did look like a monster.
But his brothers hadn't seen him that way.
Nor did Elrond, Elros, or Wilwarin.
They saw strength.
But all he saw was scars.
How could they see beauty in a creature such as him?
He didn't know.
He just had to trust what they said, and believe there was still good beyond the terror that was the monster he was.
A cave nearby caught his eye, and he felt an immediate need to go to the cavern.
The air was chilly inside, and he could faintly see his breath rising like the clouds of water vapor omitted from the waterfall. His brow furrowed as he looked at the floor, which was stained with streaks of red, black, and white.
"I don't believe I've ever seen sediment like that..." He thought to himself as he brushed off the odd feeling threatening to send shivers down his spine.
Soon after, a horrible feeling came over him, which he had not felt in many years.
"Anything you see is just your imagination." He reminded himself as he mentally prepared for whatever awaited him. "There's no need to run from it like a silly elfling." He turned around, his hand balled into a tight fist as he took a deep breath before looking up.
He'd learned long ago that the only way to get over fear was to face the fear head on.
All the air in his lungs froze, growing as cold as the dry night air of midwinter as his eyes doubled their size, and all the strength he had prepared himself with suddenly seemed to leave his body in the mere timespan of a second that lasted a lifetime.
Despite everything he'd told himself, he turned on his heel and raced out the cave towards the nearby woods, and promptly got sick once he fell to his knees.
Maedhros found himself kneeling beside the growing puddle of his own mess, shaking violently as his inner battle raged.
"ATAR, HELP! STRENGTH OF MY FOREFATHERS, DON'T FAIL ME NOW!" He internally screamed as the noises in his mind became deafening.
Alqualonde.
Sirion.
Doriath.
Angband.
Niniath Aroniad.
The horrors of every single battle flashed before his mind's eye, Sauron's sickeningly sweet voice rising above the pain.
"Monster!"
"Murderer!"
"Kinslayer!"
His voice suddenly morphed into the voices of Elrond, Elros, Wilwarin, and his brothers.
"No, no, no, no, STOP IT! NOT THEM! PLEASE NOT THEM!"
Without warning, the noise abruptly stopped, and he was faced with another vision.
Fëanor, running through the field of battle, his hair as black as midnight, flying behind him as he ran towards the balrogs, his helmet falling, forgotten in the bloody mess. His sword shone brightly, as did his bloodied armor, as he seemed to resemble a star shooting through a dark sky. Maedhros screamed his family's blood-chilling battle cry as he raced after his father, unwilling to let him fall alone. Tears blinded him as he sprinted away, his brother's pleas heard, but not listened to.
He barely felt the arrow that pierced his shoulder as he continued to run.
Fëanor suddenly turned, the fire in his eyes burning bright in the heat of battle.
He suddenly dashed towards his son, shielding him from a devastating blow meant for the crown prince.
Time seemed to freeze as he could only stare numbly at the blood seeping through his father's armor.
Fëanor grasped his son tightly by the arms.
It was a moment forever burned into Maedhros' memory.
The moment he realized he was about to lose his father.
He looked into his father's bright eyes, once smoldering with unspeakable fury.
The fire was all but gone, replaced with nothing but tender love.
He already knew his father's unspoken command.
They stood together silently, their foreheads pressed together in a final goodbye.
Suddenly, he could hear the words Fëanor had spoken on that dreadful afternoon, once drowned out by the sound of battle, now clear as day.
"Don't give in. Don't fear the dark, son of fire."
His eyes opened, and he found himself staring at a dark sky through the boughs of the trees above him. He blinked, grimacing as he sat up, and realized he was covered in his own vomit.
Fantastic.
He stood up shakily, and leaned against a tree. Maedhros glanced over at the cave, shuddering as he looked away.
His worst episode by far had been in that cave.
He was most definitely not going back there.
He walked away, trying to ignore the sticky feeling of his tunic…
He stepped into the silent fortress, carefully avoiding all the guards, and made it to his chambers without anyone realizing. He tugged off the soiled tunic, refusing to give even a sidelong glance to the mirror hanging on the wall. After pulling a clean shirt over his head, he found himself faced with another dilemma.
There was no way the maids weren't going to ask questions when they found his shirt in the wash in the state it was in.
He had no other choice but to clean it himself.
It would take far too long to draw water from the well, even if he had two hands to work with.
That option was soon scratched off his list of possibilities.
He'd be caught by the guards for sure.
His only choice was to use a natural source of water.
He bit his lip as he realized there was only one natural source of water in his territory which he could go to and come back from before dawn.
If he didn't want to worry Maglor or the staff, he'd have to go back to the pond by the cave.
He sighed reluctantly, picking up the messy shirt, and rolling it into a ball. There was probably a scrub brush in the servant's closet. He silently made his way through the quiet hallways, until he reached his destination. He sighed softly. No matter what, it always took him a lot of strength to be able to go back in there.
Maedhros steeled himself, and then opened the door.
There were several brushes hanging up on the wall. He took one, and carefully attached it to his belt.
"As long as I clean it off and put it back, no one will notice." Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed some cans.
Paint cans.
There hadn't been paint in there since that eventful night.
He could only assume Maglor was the reason.
He gently placed his burdens down, and carefully studied the paint cans. Finally, his curiosity got the best of him, and he pulled a paint can out of the closet and into the moonlight streaming through the nearby window. He gently pried the lid off, knowing very well that it could send him into another panic attack. He peered inside, and gave a small gasp of pleasant surprise.
Light blue. Almost the exact shade of the sky in Valinor.
He went to grab another.
Green.
Yellow.
Almost every color he could've thought of was in the closet.
An idea suddenly formed in his mind.
A small smile spread across his face.
He gathered up his shirt, the scrub brush, a bucket of paint, and headed to the cave. Once he dropped everything off, he went back in several trips for the rest of the paint, and a few brushes.
Maedhros hummed softly to himself as he carefully scrubbed at his tunic, pinning the fabric to ground as he scrubbed at it with the scrub brush in his hand. His musing was filled with colorful images, ideas of what he was going to do next. Once he'd finished with the shirt, he carefully hung it up to dry on a nearby branch, grabbed a paint can full of white, steeled himself, and walked back into the cave.
The cool air made him shiver slightly as he stepped inside, and he looked down to see his hand trembling, ever so moderately. He kept his gaze trained on the ground as he walked over to what he knew was the right wall.
"Three… two… one…. Now!" he mentally counted off as he splashed the paint over the wall.
Droplets of white paint flew back at him, splattering his clothes, hair, and face, and he tried not to shudder as the offending color landed on him. He looked up, pleased to see that he had hit his intended target.
The old, painful mural was now covered by white paint dripping down the wall. He snatched up a paintbrush he had thrust through his belt, and began carefully spreading the paint around, making sure he covered the area completely. He rushed back outside, grabbed the light blue paint, and then splashed it over the white before taking out a smaller paintbrush, and blotting away some of the blue to represent clouds.
He felt rather sick as he opened up the black, and poured in whatever was left of the blue and white, making a cool sort of gray.
It was actually a very pretty color if he were to be honest with himself. It had been one of his favorite colors back on Valinor.
A small smile spread across his face as he thought about how Nerdanal used to scold him ceaselessly for using too much cool gray when he painted her sculptures.
He sighed softly, waiting for the blue and white to dry enough so he could paint over it.
Waiting was always the hard part.
Finally, once the existing paint had dried enough, he was able to take the gray inside the cave, and paint a mountain reaching for the heavens. He huffed slightly at the irony of painting the mountain where the Valar who'd cursed him and his family lived.
It wasn't as ironic as much as it was annoying, really.
He found out the hard way that they'd truly abandoned Finwë's line when he prayed for help in Angband.
He found himself involuntarily shaking as he was led into the throne room.
What had he done now?
He'd been stuck in his cage for who knew how long, unable to stir up any trouble.
He was suddenly shoved to the ground, striking his head on the cold stone floor, grimacing as he felt the blood trickling from his temple.
"Well, well. What have we done this time, little Maitimo?" Maedhros struggled to keep his anger in check as he refused to look up at the monster. "Look up, will you, love?" he found his head jerked up harshly by an orc who currently had their dirty fingers tangled in his matted red locks. He squinted slightly as the bright glare from the silmarils hurt his eyes. "That's better." Morgoth hummed to himself in approval. "Now, what did you do, pet?"
He remained silent as he pondered what on earth he could've done.
He yelped in pain as the orc punched him between the shoulder blades, igniting burning pain throughout the old whip marks that scored his back.
"Tsk. It's not polite to not respond when a question is asked of you, child."
"I… I don't know what I did..." he responded quietly, knowing it wasn't the answer that Morgoth wanted.
The Dark Lord arched a brow at his words.
"Really, love? You were doing it only a little while ago."
Maedhros found himself racking his mind for an answer.
"Really, beautiful, you're such a dunce." the Vala snorted in disgust as the elf found himself shivering out of fear. "You've been foolishly praying to the Valar despite the fact that they've abandoned you and your family!" the Vala roared angrily. Maedhros looked around wildly as the orcs and balrogs screamed loudly, the sound becoming deafening. "They haven't responded to you, have they?" Morgoth's voice had become dangerously soft and patronizing. Maedhros shook his head, not wanting to disagree with the Vala.
The Dark Lord leaned in, getting far too close for comfort.
"I know one who will, little one."
Maedhros didn't know whether he should be overjoyed or scared.
"You know, I am a Vala." his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. "If you prayed to me, I might just listen." a sinister smile was on Melkor's face as he licked some of the blood off of Russandol's pale features, making the latter whine in disgust. "What say you? I'll listen, but only if you give me the chance, love."
He found himself tempted by the offer, but only for a second as he swiftly realized that if Morgoth knew exactly what he found painful, he'd make it all worse.
"No!"
His golden eyes blazed as the word came out of his prisoner's mouth.
"What was that?!"
"No. I said: No." Maedhros growled so lowly, it sounded like the noise had come deep from within his chest, making him sound no better than one of the wolves under the Dark Lord's power. Melkor's eyes burned brighter than all three silmarils combined as he struck the elf across the face, sending him crashing into the wall on the farside of the room. Maedhros gasped for breath through what felt like a fractured jaw and cheekbone. He groaned in pain as the vala grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground entirely.
"Dear goodness, pet. How on earth are you going to pray to me when you can't even move your jaw let alone talk?"
His minions laughed.
Maitimo shifted uncomfortably in Melkor's grasp, his bright green eyes widening in fear as he tried to squirm away from the violet glow creeping up the Vala's arm to his abused skin. A scream brust from his lips as the purple light licked at his wounds, painfully healing them.
Oddly enough, Morgoth's methods of healing hurt more than his methods of torture.
He found himself unceremoniously dropped to the floor, and immediately covered the side of his face with his hands, trying to shield the screaming muscle and tissue while he attempted to quell the tears streaming down his cheeks. He staggered to his feet, prefering to go down standing rather than just lie down and give up.
"I ask you again, child, will you pray to me?"
Maedhros rubbed at his still sore jaw as he glared evenly at the Vala, knowing very well that he could be signing his own death warrant.
"Same answer as before, your majesty." he replied, his voice dropping to a condescending tone.
Morgoth's eyes sparked, but only for a second.
"Your choice." he hissed, signaling to two of the lesser balrogs, and Gothmog.
Maedhros shuddered as the balrog captain leapt from his place of honor next to the Dark Lord to the floor.
The image of Gothmog killing his father would be burned into his memory forevermore.
Gothmog would not kill him the way he killed his father.
Even if he had to take his own life, he would not give in under the balrog's fury.
He remained silent as the lesser balrogs' whips wrapped around his arms, their fire not enough to hurt him badly, but enough to make him too uncomfortable to even try moving. His arms were pulled outward, restricting his movements to the bare minimum. He tried not to make any noise as the hooks on the ends of the whips dig into his skin, rivulets of blood trickling down his muscular form.
There was nothing he could do other than shudder as Gothmog's whip sparked to life, burning bright and menacingly.
"Will you pray to me?" Melkor asked again, his voice patronizingly sweet and concerned, although his eyes said otherwise. "You have the ability to save yourself so much pain, dear. Why don't you do it? Why not? It's just a few words, isn't it? It's not so hard."
Fire burned in whatever was left of his broken and cracked heart at Morgoth's words.
He still remembered the days when his brother was gifted Huan by Tulkas.
Falconing with Fingon on a warm summer's afternoon, watching their hawks flying among Manwë's eagles.
Stargazing with Turgon and Aredhel, their young minds blown by Varda's tapestry in the sky.
Occasionally seeing Estë and Nienna in his dreams after tourture sessions, weeping for him, yet being unable to help.
He couldn't forget them so easily.
"Never. Not in a millenia, should I live that long." he answered, surprised that there wasn't a tremble in his voice.
Not the slightest hint of fear at his impending fate at the hands of the Balrog.
Morgoth said not a word.
He just turned away in an angry swirl of silks, signaling to his captain as he left.
Pain did not describe what happened next.
Compared to a balrog's brutality, pain was mere child's play.
Maedhros knew that better than most.
He blacked out soon after, only to find himself chained face down to a bed once he awoke.
A scream burst from his lips as someone traced a finger down his spine.
Literally.
"Learned our lesson, have we?" Morgoth purred in his ear. "You poor thing." the vala murmured almost sympathetically as he stroked his prisoner's red hair. "Though I must congratulate you, my dear. No one's lasted that long against Gothmog. You managed to take thirty lashes before passing out like that. Here, let me show you!" his chains were broken and sounds of agony ripped from his throat as he was roughly lifted up. "Look!" he was forced to look over his bloodied shoulder at a nearby mirror.
He nearly got sick.
Most of whatever muscle and tissue had been there was gone entirely, and he could faintly see bone through the masses of blood and gore.
"That won't do, will it?"
He gave no response.
He just wondered how he was still alive.
Roughly, he was shoved back into the bed, and the chains were replaced.
"They really ought to be taken care of." Panic arose in his chest as he saw that blasted violet glow flowed up the monster's arm again, the terror made worse by the fact that he couldn't move. He looked away, already blinded by tears despite not feeling the excruciating pain yet.
Agonized screams echoed behind the closed doors, much to the delight of the creatures outside waiting to devour his flesh as soon as they got the change.
It would only be a matter of time until they got their wish.
Teardrops fell to the painted floor as he snapped out of his reverie, only to find that he'd painted what his flayed back had looked like from memory.
"Shit!" he swore as he covered up the ugly drawing, which he had blessedly painted on the floor instead of his mural. A pained sigh escaped him as he continued with his mural.
No one knew the truth.
Not even Maglor.
The enemy had tortured him so badly that he could honestly say that the majority of whatever was left of him was nothing but scar tissue.
He hadn't prayed to the Valar since, for fear of Morgoth's wrath.
To be honest, the only Valar he even bothered to think of were Melkor, Estë, and Nienna.
Although he was always in pain to some extent, he would sometimes see Estë in his dreams, particularly after he'd taken an injury that reminded him too much of Angband. She wasn't afraid to offer healing and comfort after those painful times, even though she couldn't heal him fully.
After the worst days of his road to healing after the hell he'd been through, he'd occasionally see Nienna in his sleep, weeping for him, crying over him, feeling sorrow for the pain of a monster. She'd never truly abandoned him either.
And Melkor would never cease to haunt him.
As far as he knew, they were also the only Valar who even bothered to think of him either.
Estë and Nienna felt pity for him somehow, and Melkor still wanted him dead.
He blended a pale yellow into the sky around the peak of the mountain.
The light of the Valar at the top of Taniquetil.
Then the white shores.
Then the endless forest, dominated by two trees omitting beautiful light, one gold the other silver.
His hand trembled slightly as he carefully painted his father, purposely leaving out those blasted gems he'd created.
A tear rolled down his once fair face as he painted his mother.
"I wonder, Amme, if you'd still call me 'Maitimo' if we ever meet again? Would you still be proud of me? I wouldn't be. Would you laugh for joy? Would you cry out of sorrow? Would you want to hold me like you used to, now that I'm a monster? Would you have any love in your heart for a kinslayer?"
Maglor was painted.
Then Celegorm.
Then Caranthir.
Curufin.
Amrod.
Amras.
Fingon.
Elrond.
Elros.
And finally, Wilwarin.
His entire family, there on the shore.
He dipped the paintbrush into the nearby jar of paint filled with the skin tone he'd made, about to paint himself, and then paused.
What did he look like before Angband?
He didn't remember.
It wouldn't fit in if he painted himself as he looked now.
He'd painted everyone as they'd been on Valinor, without flaw or injury.
He'd even imagined what Wilwarin would look like if she had both eyes instead of just one.
A small smile crossed his face.
He didn't need to be in the picture.
It was better without him.
They were better off without him.
It was a bittersweet sort of pain that filled his heart.
Knowing that the people he cared so deeply about, although he rarely showed it, would be better off without the monster he was.
But if it was for their own good… he'd leave with a smile and without question.
He put the paintbrush away, finishing up his project by splashing the leftover paint over the red, white, and black on the ground, creating a swirling pattern on the floor, hiding his pain.
After doing so, he walked outside to see the breaking dawn, and fell asleep on the banks of the pond, a smile on his face, and paint covering him.
"Eru dammit!" Maglor swore as he saw that the closet door had been left wide open, drips of red paint decorating the floor. "It's happened again…"
He took off, racing through the open gate in the courtyard, and into the surrounding woods. He choked back tears as he ran, once again berating himself for not being what his brother needed, whatever that might be.
He didn't know.
He just tried to do his best each and every day.
It wasn't enough.
Maedhros deserved some peace of mind. He'd been fighting for so long, it made Maglor's heart break, knowing that he most likely would never stop fighting, as it was the only thing he knew for so many years.
Hell, that man deserved the world.
But he wouldn't get whatever he deserved if he was not found soon, so Maglor ran faster, gasping for breath. He knew the way well, as he often went there when he was feeling guilty about his brother's plight. The cave held so many memories, the one he pondered on the most being when Maedhros had admitted that he hadn't wanted them to rescue him for fear of what could happen to them if they did.
It still baffled him how his brother still cared so deeply for all of them despite the torment he was put through.
One would think that he would've learned to think of himself, but he hadn't.
He thought of them more than ever as a result.
He was harshly pulled out of his thoughts as he stumbled.
He pushed them all to the side as his speed doubled, now that he knew he was close.
His heart stopped beating as he saw his brother,laying on the ground, his chest rising and falling slowly, clearly showing that he was sound asleep. He darted over, stopping in his tracks as he took in the strange sight before him.
His brother was splattered with a variety of colors from head to toe, decorating his skin, clothes, boots, and hair, and a gentle smile was on his stone features.
Maglor was stunned.
He looked years younger.
As if the heavy pain, torment, and guilt had been lifted from his shoulders.
Some of that burden, at least.
He swallowed his shock, and knelt down beside his slumbering brother, lightly shaking him awake.
"Nel?" his voice trembled slightly as Maedhros slowly woke up, his green eyes brightening as he saw his brother.
"Good morning, Laurë!"
His smile suddenly faltered.
Maglor never woke him up unless it was an emergency.
"Laurë, what's wrong? Is it the children?"
"No. It's not the children."
"Then what's the matter? You look awfully upset."
"Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol Fëanorion, what on earth are you doing outside covered in paint?" his voice sounded strained as he choked back tears. "Did you have another panic attack?"
Maedhros looked completely confused before he looked down at his paint splattered attire, the whole incident coming back to him.
"Not exactly…" he said, a small smile on his face.
"Then what happened? Please Nel, you shouldn't have to go through all of this alone!"
Maedhros bit his lip as he quietly tried to figure out how to put it all into words.
"Let's just leave at 'I fixed an old mistake'." Maglor's brow furrowed at his brother's words, and he picked himself up off the ground to see whatever his brother had done. Maedhros silently followed.
"Careful, the paint on the floor might still be wet." he cautioned as his little brother nearly stepped in a puddle of blue.
"Thanks." Maglor said with a sheepish smile, before he went breathless at the sight of the painting. "Nel, it's beautiful! Where are you in it?" he suddenly added, noticing that his elder brother was nowhere to be seen. A small smile crossed his face at Maglor's question.
"I painted what makes me happy. That's all."
"You're not happy with yourself, then?" Maglor said, the smile he had on his face not matching the pained look in his eyes.
"It's not that." Maedhros said, lying through his teeth. "I just don't want to remember. That's all. Besides, I'm terrible at drawing myself. You know that. Remember that one time in Valinor when Amme asked me to paint the sculptures she made of us?"
"Yes. You refused to paint yourself until the very end, and when you finally did, you accidentally ruined it by tripping and splattering it with orange paint!" Maglor chuckled as he shook his head.
"Come on," Maedhros said, glad that Maglor hadn't seen his pain through his smiles "let's go home. I'm starving."
They walked back in silence, Maedhros realizing that he was like a painting in more ways than one. He covered up his pain with something opaque, yet like paint, it could be chipped away, revealing the horror beneath.
Once they had gotten back to Himring, he cleaned up, and was greeted by the children as soon as he entered the dining hall. Their innocence was so precious. The way they all immediately raced over and tried to hug him, even though they only came up to his waist. The way Wilwarin darted over and reached up to him so that he would pick her up. The way she looked up at him, her blue eye sparkling brightly when she called him Adar.
It killed him inside.
Because they loved a monster.
And all they had to do was scratch beneath the surface.
To see the nightmare beneath the paint.
~+Fin+~