Burning Dreams

The smithy had always been in his mind, lurking at the verge of his consciousness, waiting for the time in which it would surface and materialize as a thought. But it was several years before it even formed a desire, something he could name. And even then it was nothing more than a dream, a careless wish he had no intention to act upon. Whenever it would emerge from his subconscious, he banished the thought swiftly and efficiently. The smithy was no place for a child.

It took another year or so for him to question that rule, but now his musings were often longer and a great deal more uncertain. The smithy was no place for a child, true, but... But why?
The answer was evident of course: Father forbade it. Only it wasn't true, not entirely.
Neither Father, nor Mother spoke of entering the smithy. Ever. Yet somehow it was clear for all their children that the place was strictly forbidden. Why?
But he decided, he needn't know the reason. His father's wish, even if not spoken out loud, was clearer than the light of Varda's jewels in the sky... He would not want anyone to go there. Not even Mother visited him there, not once.
And Maedhros would sigh and search for something that could ease his heart.

But as times passed, as the desire grew stronger, he had found it more and more difficult to resist. Curiosity rooted deeply in his soul and nothing could chase it away now, save perhaps the peaceful songs of his brother, or the inspiring company of the beloved, valiant Fingon, for whom he dreamed of being better. With them, his heavy burden lifted for a while, only to creep back into his mind when they parted.
There was no peace, no rest for him now, for Maedhros burned with desire, with an inherited fire that was stronger than he could ever hope to be. He had no means to control it, not anymore.

So long and unsettling was his ongoing, voiceless battle with the smithy that he started to lose sleep, started to grow weak and disturbed.
Fingon tried to ask what was bothering him, concerned of his cousin's well-being, he asked over and over again without use, until even their strong bond seemed to be shaking under the strain, and he decided to leave Maedhros be with his troubles.

The eldest of son of Feanor was alone with his foe now, without the strength or the will to fight it, and so he looked for the moment in which an opportunity would present itself.
He needed not to wait for long; never would Feanor have dreamed of anyone defying him, and so he did not bother to lock his doors. The forges of his greatness stood open, faintly still gleaming in the grey morning, slowly cooling after a night of long and hard work.

As its master left the smithy, Maedhros disengaged himself from the shadows and headed for the entrance. Before the great, black iron doors, he stopped. His heart drummed a valiant march against his ribs, his breathing was rapid and shallow. But the fire roared loudly inside him, defeating the remaining shreds of his resistance. He entered, and the heavy doors shut behind him with a surprising, unsettling softness.

Inside, there was darkness. No natural light could creep in here, and no light would have desired to do so. This was the realm of coal, metal and fire, no place for any living thing to be.
Maedhros felt this. He stood there silently, denying his own fright, denying himself the chance to run and leave this darkness, to find some place where he could remember how to breathe. No, not now. It was too late for fleeing.
Deeper inside, something still glowed with a soft, warm redness. He approached it cautiously, and he had no trouble seeing clearly despite the dark, for the desire of his heart had set his own eyes ablaze, his delirium shone for itself, showing the way.

But as he went deeper in, the heat rose. With every step it became harder to breathe, yet he forced himself closer and closer. When he finally reached the source of the faint gleam, his vision was blurred already, he panted and gasped for air. But it was worth it.
The gleaming thing, was in fact a beautiful, red flower. He wondered, how could a lovely blossom still live here, where no light reached, no water, no air. But it was here nonetheless, its beauty unmatched, its gleam soft, but unwavering. And he marvelled to see such fair a thing thrive in this realm of shadows. And thriving it was indeed; blooming, moving, breathing, opening its petals to him. Suddenly the lack of air became too overwhelming, the desire became too strong once more, clouding his mind. Without knowing what he was doing, he stepped closer and reached out to touch it, to feel its power of life surging through him.

He jerked his hands back, and an unearthly scream escaped his throat.
"It burns! Help me, it burns!" he screamed frantically, but he could not even let go of the flower, it stuck to his hands, it stuck to his skin, it burned and burned on, gnawing itself into his flesh, burning his bones, burning his soul, consuming thought, and love, and memory...
"Father, help me! Help!"

"He is not here to help you, Son of Fire!"
Cold fingers wrapped around his burning hands, but somehow they did nothing to cease the pain. Coldness wrapped itself around his entire body, chilling the rushing blood in his veins, yet it did nothing to ease his suffering.
He closed his eyes against the roaring of the icy winds of Thangorodrim, and he would have done anything to close his ears against the icy words of its master.
"What a spectacle! Pity such fiery dreams are bound to end in ash!"
He wanted to defy him, to answer something. A spark of his soul flickered in his eyes as he raised his head, but it died in the wind like unsheltered candle light, for he was unsheltered himself, so bare, so exposed. He dropped his head back on his chest, failing to even remember why he raised it.
"Such is the nature of burning dreams, child. For a while they warm your soul, they enpower you. But there is no telling why, when and how the comforting flames shall burst into a roaring firestorm, consuming all else, leaving blackness and ashes behind."
There was silence now, the dark lord waited, and in this sudden moment of clarity Maedhros understood that not even Melkor knew now, what he was waiting for. They locked gazes, one frozen, one burned. And there was silence.

The moment passed, he shut his eyes with force, and sunk towards unconscious sleep, wishing desperately for its numb darkness to bring peace.
"Wake up, Son of Fire! Wake, for no dreams of flames can console you now against my wrath! Soon you shall find just how alike ice and fire are!"