audio; forward-dated to post-feast

[silmarils]

[ his arrival hadn't been graceful by any stretch of the imagination. in fact, mostly it had been a blur. his first conscious memories are of fire, burning alive as the silmaril sears through his hand and the flames take him. smoke lingers in the air around him, and there are voices, and the flames are gone and he is still here--

he doesn't remember, exactly, what had happened after that, but the beautiful rooms he's been given are destroyed, and his throat is raw, the echo of a shriek still caught there, and his only good hand burns and burns. he can't do this, can't do this, can't do this can't do this can't can't can't can'tcan'tcan't--

time. moments or hours or years, who is he to tell? these are not the halls, he knows, he's been denied even death. and there is laughter, soft, sly, purring at his ear. that voice will ever be with him, spreading its rot through his veins, flexing its claws against his heart-- until poison pumps through it, until it's darkness alone sustaining him. that voice, which had spoken to him when he'd lain shattered and barely comprehending.

kinslayer, it murmurs, and a void opens beneath maedhros, and he cannot remember-- kinslayer, what hast thou wrought for thyself? these are the fruits of thy labour. a deathless existence, an oath forever unfulfilled. family slain, people scattered, a legacy of destruction.

he grasps for something, anything, struggling through the mire of his mind: his hand clenches, fresh pain drowning out the whisper. he is in unfamiliar rooms, an unfamiliar place, and there had been creatures, strange creatures, and--

--and?

feverish eyes land on the locket, discarded and opened at his feet. speak, he remembers. speak, and he might be heard. but is there anyone, anyone at all, that he would wish to speak to?

if this is where the cursed sons of feanor are taken when denied death, then-- ]


I-- [ the voice is a harsh croak, as if its owner's throat has been stripped raw by screaming. even so.. even so, there may be something familiar in it. maedhros takes a trembling breath through his nose, curled and shaking, scorched and bleeding hand curled almost white-knuckled around the locket. but even so, there's only his voice to judge. ] --I seek the sons of Feanor, should they be here.

[ with a quiet snap, he shuts the locket and ends the message. ]

Comments

voice;

[silmarils]

[ that voice comes, that beloved image, and he nearly throws the locket from himself in denial. no, no, it isn't possible. of all people in the world, she had not earned a place in whatever hell this might be, save.. perhaps by virtue of being mother of the feanorians.

this is a trick. she cannot be here. ]

Do not call me that. [ he spits the words, poison in his tone, all but snarling. ] That is not my name, and you are not her.

[sculptor_of_aman]

Maitimo. Russandol. Nelyafinwë. Why do you doubt your mother, yonya?

[silmarils]

That is not my name! [ it isn't a shout, because even though he knows this cannot possibly be her, even the sound of her voice weakens what little will he has left to him. ] Maitimo died on Thangorodrim. [ they'd mocked him with the name, even as they'd carved his flesh, branded it, done-- things, such terrible things--

he struggles to draw a breath, suddenly, dizzy and furious. ]

My mother has done nothing to deserve the fate of her cursed sons.

[sculptor_of_aman]

It is the name I gave you, the moment you emerged from my womb.

Is there anything I can do to prove I am who I say?

[silmarils]

[ this isn't real, surely. though if it isn't, why is it so difficult to believe that?

he chokes down a rasping laugh, staring down at his ruined hand, the scars that mar the back of it, that disappear into his sleeve, that litter his entire body. he can't count them. they mar his skin in layers, mark upon mark upon mark, twisted whorls of flesh that were broken open so many times they never healed. ]

--Did you know? When you named me. [ he shuts his eyes, slumping back against the wall. ] .. Is it truly you..?

[sculptor_of_aman]

Do you truly not understand your name, Maitimo? Do you only believe it begins and ends with the fairness of your countenance? It does not. You are the firstborn of the Firstborn. We wrought you in innocence held and lost, in love, in foolishness, in discovery and in fear. The fires that made you were never brighter before not after. You were the greatest thing I would ever create. Your father had his gems, but I knew I would never bear your match again, however many children I had. That is your name, and whatever deeds you have done, I have named you truly.

Why do you not believe? I will give any proof you ask.

[silmarils]

[ of course his mother would have named him for more than his shape-- but given the foresight in such names, it has so often seemed a mockery. his deeds, his suffering, they have twisted his body, twisted his fea. he doesn't remember what it's like not to be furious. he has been so full of rage and fear for so long--

had he never been born, had makalaure been the eldest, would they have sworn their father's oath?

maitimo, comes the murmur, laughter chasing its heels, soft and cold and cruel, kinslayer. memory, dredged up and given shape, and he aches, pain and weariness and grief barely distinguishable from one another any longer. ]

Why. [ his voice is an unsteady rasp. ] Why have you been brought to this place? Ammë.

[sculptor_of_aman]

Those who brought me were not clear. Perhaps they desired merely my talents and art to bring beauty into the courts. To immortalize the residents in stone. But, more likely, to come to your aid. To protect and heal my children. To offer what wisdom I can to prevent further destruction.

The day I arrived, a cloak was hung in the feasting hall, torn and bloodied. It belonged to your brother. I sought from many the accounts of those who witnessed the events. Much transpired before I came, and I intend to guide it in a new direction.

[silmarils]

.. What happened to him? Others have said that he was killed in battle. [ killed again. ]

[sculptor_of_aman]

The accounts vary somewhat in their telling, but it seems that your brother voluntarily gave his life in exchange for a Silmaril, and was slain on the battlefield at dawn. Or, perhaps "executed" is the more accurate term.