Work Text:
It was a dark and still library.
Lit only by a small lantern.
Its light fell upon a being sitting in a chair, a book clasped between its hands.
To a simpler mind, one may think that the figure in the chair was a Man…
Maedhros knew better, much to the sanctity of his mind.
Though it was hard to see clearly, Maedhros could disconcert it had long, curly dark hair and thin, strange silver wire across its nose, holding two pieces of glass before its eyes.
Twas a bizarre dream, slowly Maedhros took several hesitant steps towards the being. Halting every time it turned a page.
Once he could see it clearer, Maedhros discerned its eyes. They were green, like a fresh leaf, and the way they seemed to glow without the aid of the gentle pale flame’s light, rendering the being’s appearance alike that of a Valar.
Though Maedhros could not read the words on the outside of the book or within, he could make out the dense black writing across its yellowing pages.
As the being turned to the next page, Maedhros stiffened next to him.
On this page was a drawing a skeleton, all its organs laid bare next to it, lines pointing to each part, with rows of words in the margins.
He could think that it was just a healer’s book until the being turned to the next page.
Blood…
Maedhros let out a small gasp at the sight of it.
And the being looked to the right.
To the right, where he was stood.
The being was staring straight at him with those glowing green eyes.
Their green eyes that at first looked fresh leaves were changing to look more like poison.
The being’s mouth opened as if to say something.
A message.
A warning, perhaps.
Then Maedhros jolted out of bed.
Sweat soaked sheets clinging to him as he panted.
Wondering which Valar had sent him this warning dream.
He knew what it was about…
Morgoth’s peace negotiation.
By the time the sun had risen, a cacophony of noise had descended upon the halls.
The Sons of Feanör sat around a long table, the clamour of their voices buzzing with anticipation and hostility.
Maedhros at the head of the table, with Maglor and Celegorm on either side of him. The overwhelming grief and general bleak atmosphere had stilled even the twins, forcing them to abandon their usual antics.
They all stared at the missive in front of them.
It had arrived the previous night, an envoy from Morgoth, containing a peace treaty.
The creature that had killed their father wanted a peace treaty.
It was obviously a scheme, a façade, likely some kind of ploy for the Black Foe could ambush them.
Maedhros knew it would be stupid to go. The oracular dream last night had been a clear warning, the treaty would end in blood.
Yet the oath burns at the thought of rejecting a chance of obtaining the Silmarils.
Amrod was first to speak up, holding up his flame-scarred hand from the Burning of the ships. It had been a small miracle they hand managed to save the older twin from the first vessel, and since, none had let him out of their sight, Amros was practically attached to his hip.
“It’s a trap. There’s no chance they want peace after killing Atar,” he stated.
“That is clear. However, there is a chance of a Silmaril may be there,” Curufin piped up, voicing what was on all the Sons of Feanör minds.
“I will go.” Maedhros said calmy, rising to his feet.
A clamour erupted as all his siblings voiced their protests.
“Enough!” he shouted, watching as his siblings fell silent under his orders.
“I will take guards, and we will be prepared. At the first sign of danger, we will leave.”
Maglor looked sullen.
“But… what if you don’t return, Nelya?” he asked quietly.
“Then don’t entertain any potential deals with Morgoth or Sauron,” Maedhros sternly said. “Refuse all ravens. Ignore any messages until I return.”
“I will return. It may simply take time.” He offered what he hoped was a comforting smile.
Kana sprang up out of his chair, throwing it back in the process before slamming into Maedhros in a bone crushing-hug.
Maedhros could feel a wet patch developing as his brother shook in his arms.
Smiling, he gestured for the others to join, watching as they sprang forward into his embrace.
As much as they all wish they remain, Maedhros knew he must prepare for what lay ahead.
So, with a reluctant sigh, he removed himself from the hug, all but prying a whimpering Maglor off his side.
He gave them what he hoped was a confident smile before turning away.
He walked back to his bedchambers, solemnly arranging his pack for the road ahead.
They found Morgoth’s embassy, lines of orcs, too many to be a small party, too many to be peaceful.
They were waiting.
It was open.
Too open.
It made an ambush harder… for both them and their foe.
Maedhros ushered his knights to follow, leading them out from the trees that had concealed them.
Before they even passed the treeline, Sauron turned to stare at them.
Every nerve in Maedhros’ body screamed at him to turn back. But…
He needed to check.
They had the advantage.
They had scoured the forest for any sign of a trap.
Raising his hand, he turned to his fastest rider, Northadis.
“Wait here,” he ordered. “At any sign of danger, ride. Ride to my brothers’ land and tell them it has failed.” He watched as she bowed her head and reined her horse to a halt.
With a nod, they left the treeline.
Sauron stared.
Maedhros halted, and his knights wait.
The Fallen Maia approached and drew a box from beneath his cloak.
“A Silmaril, for peace.” His face twisted into a strangled attempt at a smile.
Maedhros stared at the box.
There was no pull.
No burning from his oath…
There wasn’t a Silmaril in the box.
It was a trap.
There would be no peace.
Pulling his steed’s reins, he turned to his knights.
They understood the signal and turned as one toward the treeline.
They had the upper hand. They knew the ambush lay behind them. They knew where was safe.
Then pain flared from the side of his head.
An arrow had struck the side of his helmet.
An arrow from the surrounding forest.
The forest they had checked.
The safety.
Part of his vision was tinged red.
Blood was dripping into his eye.
Maedhros just knew he needed to get his knights out of here.
But where was safe?
There was nowhere to retreat.
Then heat flared up behind him.
Turning his head, he saw it.
The trap.
Balrogs.
Flames bit at his knights.
Smoke blurring their vision.
Flashes of riders, some his own, other orcs.
His knights fell, one by one.
Pain erupted from his side as an orc struck him from his horse with a heavy iron club.
His vision blurred to the point he could no longer distinguish friend from foe.
In the back of his mind, he heard Sauron voice.
“Pick him up. Master ordered him alive.”
Something lifted him as the world of fire and death faded away into darkness.
Maedhros lay against the wall of his cell.
His wrists were raw from the shackles.
Maedhros could not understand why they had not yet moved him to another cell.
Somewhere more secure, given how many escape attempts he had made.
Sitting there, his keen ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps.
Maedhros knew who it was even before the cell door opened.
After all, only Sauron ever visited him.
The traitorous Maia walked in, flame coloured hair falling smooth down his back, save for one small thing…
The left side.
Tangled.
Messy.
Not of wind.
Wrong.
Sauron stared into Maedhros’ eyes, and for a moment he could have sworn he saw something else flicker there, before a smile graced his lips.
“My Master has called for you.” Sauron stepped forward, unchaining him from the wall before dragging him from the cell. Maedhros tried not to flinch at the rough pull on his raw wrists.
His back screamed as he stood, tearing fresh scabs from the wounds of his whipping.
His shirt was more akin to rags, torn and stiff with dried blood.
Maedhros tried to memorise the path Sauron took him, committing each twisting turn to memory as a possible means of escape.
He was dragged into what he could assume was a throne room, if the giant black throne from hell looming in the centre of the room was any indication.
Morgoth was there.
Smirking.
Like it was some joyous occasion.
Like he had won already.
It made Maedhros want to hurl himself across the room and break those Vala-damned white teeth of his.
Sauron stared at the Black Foe before dragging Maedhros foward and forcing him to kneel, like some fucking pet, next to his throne.
A pair of orcs walk in, dragging something behind them.
Something Maedhros desperately hoped was not what he feared.
Two thralls in ragged tunics, both as battered and bloodied as he was.
At first he didn’t recognise them, no, more like he didn’t want to recognise them.
Damrod and Eilinel.
Two of his personal guards. Damrod’s long copper hair looked faded and jagged. One eye was swollen shut, hiding what had once been a brilliant blue, while the other stared ahead lifelessly. His split lip still bled. Eilinel fared no better. Her black locks looked as though they had been burned rather than cut, and she limped as the orcs dragged them forward.
Maedhros yanked at his chains, desperately trying to reach his soldiers… to dragged thema away from this hell.
Morgoth smiled at the pair. Clapping his hands together, he rose.
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” He turned, pointing towards Damrod and Eilinel.
“One of you is going to die, it’s your choice who, and the other of you is going to kill them.”
Maedhros turned to the disgusting Vala in horror.
“No!” he shouted, wrenching against his chains.
“Silence,” Morgoth snarled, backhanding the elf hard enough to send him sprawling as far as the chains allowed.
His guards both let out a gasp of horror.
“As I was saying, one of you is going to kill the other, otherwise I’m going to kill him.” With that, he crouched beside Maedhros, wrenching his head back by the hair and pressing a sword to his throat.
“My Lord.” Both strained against their chains.
Sauron emerged from Vala-knew-where, holding an axe. His head remained bowed, flame coloured hair veiling his face as he offered the weapon to the pair.
Eilinel grabbed it and held it to Sauron’s neck.
“Let my lord go before I kill your precious lieutenant.” She snarled back.
Morgoth let out a chuckle.
“Go ahead. He already knows his worth.” Morgoth nodded toward Sauron, amusement curling at his lips. “Do you not?”
Sauron just bowed deeper, baring his neck in solemn submission.
“You see? Why else would he be the one to gift you the axe?” The Black Foe smiled and pressed the blade against Maedhros’ throat until blood trickled down pale skin.
She lowered the axe.
Turning she smiled at Damrod.
“Do it.” She said.
“No!” Maedhros struggled against the Vala grip.
Damrod stared in horror.
“Better I die than bear the spawn of orcs.” She smiled.
Damrod and Eilinel turned to their lord, giving him a small smile.
“Please!” Maedhros begged as he watched Eilinel hand the axe over to Damrod.
“If you see my wife, tell her I’m waiting for her in the Halls of Mandor.”
Ignoring their lord’s desperate pleas, tears streaming down all their faces, Damrod swung the axe down, piercing her skull.
It was the quickest death he could afford her, instant with no pain.
Shaking he fell to the floor.
Morgoth removed the sword from Maedhros neck watching in excitement as the elven king pulled at his chains, screaming, crying, begging to get to his loyal soldiers.
“Sauron, would you be a dear and grab an eye for me.” Smiling as the Maia’s head whipped around in horror before he nodded and stepped forward.
Sauron obeyed with visible reluctance, retrieving the grisly trophy before placing it into Morgoth’s waiting hand.
Smirking, he grabbed his toy. Gripping his chin he forced Maedhros mouth open, forcing the eye, his soldier’s eye, down his throat.
Covering the man’s mouth and nose, as tears dripped onto his hand, forcing him to swallow.
Watching in fascination as the eye slid down his throat. Releasing him and patting his chin.
“Good boy.” He stood. “Still, that earlier rebellion cannot go unpunished.”
Reaching over to the fire he pulled out the branding iron he had prepared earlier.
“Welcome to Angband.”
With that he pressed the red branding iron into the elf’s back, delight spread across his features as his toy let out a blood curdling scream.
A beautiful new red eye marring his back.
… Shuffle.
Maedhros could barely bring himself to look up.
To look at his torturer.
To give him the satisfaction.
Maedhros leaned back into the wall, letting the curtain of his tangled copper hair shield him from the sight.
“Maedhros.”
That voice… Fingon.
Maedhros’ neck cracked as he whipped to stare up at him.
His light.
His hope.
His love.
“This isn’t real. You’re just a hallucination. A figment of my imagination.” Maedhros muttered.
“No, I’m not. I promise.” The figment reached out to him.
Maedhros felt a cold hand wrap around his arm.
He was real.
Fingon was there.
He was saving Maedhros.
“Please. Help me.” Maedhros took in the slightly dishevelled Fingon leaning forward into his love’s chest.
Fingon nodded and after some tinkering with Maedhros’ shackles they clanged to the floor.
Fingon smiled and pulled Maedhros to his feet.
Odd... Fingon had never needed an excuse to sweep the Crown Prince of the Noldor into his arms. Or the King, now.
Maybe he’s injured.
“Come on.” Fingon drags leads Maedhros out of his cage.
Fingon led him through winding passages each more disorienting than the last.
Mud and blood caked the rock walls.
Maedhros couldn’t think past Fingon.
He was being saved.
"...further," Fingon insisted, pointing toward the faint light at the end of the corridor.
“…Okay.” Maedhros wanted to ask a thousand questions, but the edges of his vision were already beginning to blur.
The corridor opened into…
It wasn’t an exit.
The black throne stood before him once more.
“Fingon…” Maedhros gripped Fingon’s sleeve tugging. “We went the wrong way.”
“No we didn’t.” Fingon. Fingon. FINGON. His face began to shift.
Not-Fingon smirked.
“You disappoint me, Maedhros. Looks like I must punish you.” Not-Fingon’s face finally rested on that of the accursed Vala.
Maedhros turned, dropping the sleeve like it burned and ran.
Any direction away from Morgoth.
He could hear it laughing at him, he knew he wouldn’t be able to escape but he at least wanted to say he tried.
There was a hand gripping his hair, yanking him back.
Maedhros couldn’t move.
Everything but him could.
The bats… the whip… the poker.
But not him.
He couldn’t dodge the assault.
The pain.
Not when Sauron shackled his wrists and started to carry him back to his cage.
Not when Morgoth changed his mind.
Not when he said "Hang him upon Thangorodrim. He has forfeited the comfort of Angband."
Not when he was hung by his right wrist upon the face of Thangorodrim.
He couldn’t move, only watch until his eyes closed, and the gentle darkness took him.
He knew.
Fingon had never smiled quite like this.
He had never held himself so still, nor spoken with such careful gentleness. There had always been warmth in him, bright and fierce as sunlight upon snow. There had always been laughter waiting beneath his words.
Morgoth wore his face.
Maitimo knew that.
He knew the shape of Fingon's hands. The sound of his voice. The way his eyes softened when they rested upon those he loved.
He knew.
Yet when Fingon extended a hand and promised freedom, Maitimo took it.
He was so tired.
He thought of Himring in summer. Of sunlight filtering through pine branches. Of his mother's songs and his brothers' quarrels. Of Fingon's laughter echoing through Valinor.
Home.
Just once, he wanted to pretend.
Just once, he wanted to imagine that gentle hands meant kindness and not cruelty.
That Fingon had found him.
That he was safe.
That this was not Morgoth.
He closed his eyes and let himself forget.
Only for a little while.
Let the pain drift over him as he was penetrated.
He wished it was real.
Even if it was just for a second.
And that… that’s what sickened him the most.
He felt the wetness fill him as his vision danced.
Tears streamed down his face.
First to leave was his mind.
Just white buzzing behind his eyes.
And then he retreated.
Behind walls inside himself.
Nothing was there.
He wasn’t being raped.
He was home, asleep in his bed.
Harry stared at the best-before date on the grapes before reaching around to the back to pull out the last one. All shops were the same. They put the longest best-before dates at the back. Smiling he continued his shopping, checking his phone for his list.
It had taken a while, but he’d managed to make his case function as a magical barrier, allowing his phone to work around ambient magic. He placed the grapes in his shopping basket in his left hand, avoiding accidentally putting them in his satchel otherwise he’d be forced to spend ages searching for them within it due to the expansion charms and what he knows is masses of books, his broom, research seeds and other things in that satchel.
Harry needed to grab some tomatoes for dinner tonight.
When he picked one up, the fluorescent light above him flickered.
Subtly he pulled down his cap to better obscure his face, summoning his wand and using the sleeve of his dragon skin coat to hide it.
Everything is quiet, no one is moving.
Slowly, Harry edged toward the exit.
Then…
Everything starts moving.
An elderly woman bumps into him, apologising.
But when she looks at Harry it’s almost as though she couldn’t see him.
She starts looking around confused.
Harry was sure he wasn’t wearing his cloak, he touches his arm feeling the transfigure cloak which was currently a bracer.
It was there.
He should be visible.
So why couldn’t she see him.
Then he heard murmuring.
“… please”
“please”
“save me”
“don’t save me”
“I need it to end”
“please I need to die”
“I don’t want to die”
“save me”
In an endless loop.
Harry spun around looking for the voice.
The isles looked taller.
How odd.
He didn’t give that a second glace as he say it.
A small light, pulsing as the voice begged.
Harry reached out gentle.
Everything broke.
Like a shattered mirror.
Darkness and stars descended on him, crawling into his veins as he pulled the light to his chest, cradling it, protecting it from the on slaughter.
“It’s okay.” He whispered into it. “I’ll save you. I don’t mind being a saviour again.”
Everything vanished.
When Maedhros opens his eyes, he’s hanging from Thangorodrim once more.
Everything hurts.
When everything and… there hurt.
A sharp ache pulsed through his lower body, and something damp trickled down his legs.
That was when the horror and understanding dawned on him.
What happened.
What he did.
How could he.
How could he just let that happen.
“Fingon”
“I’m sorry”
“I’m sorry”
His mantra started.
“… please”
“please”
“save me”
“don’t save me”
“I need it to end”
“please I need to die”
“I don’t want to die”
“save me”
Tears poured down his face until his body had no more water to waste on his misery.
His eyes felt swollen shut.
Vision once again hazy.
That had been happening a lot recently.
A small voice reached him through the haze.
Unfamiliar but so young.
“Its okay. I’ll save you.”
Maybe Námo had finally come to take him to his halls.