KEEN EYES CATCH THEIR BROTHER considering his reflection as though it were someone else's portrait. whatever goes on in his mind then, káno can hardly hope to glean, and perhaps they had best not be privy to it. selfishly, makalaurë mourns the maitimo that was. were their places switched, maitimo surely would not waver, would know what to do. selfishly, he wants to embrace him and weep. but he wept enough when the elder slept. the time for tears has passed and he cannot lay down whatever too-large mantle of strength he assumed in the eldest's absence. the king is returned in name only, their brother returned only in part.
yet when nelyafinwë commands shorter, there is almost an echo of the old him, passing by the window as a shadow of night. though gentle a demand as it was, it startles kanafinwë, yet he says nothing. obediently, the younger returns to work, unraveling his vision to bring it closer to whatever agony chokes his brother's voice to a whisper. larger chunks fall again as they begin at the base of the neck, working upward, cropping closer, until their fingers no longer fully disappear in the shocks of dull crimson. ❛ like so? ❜ he asks then with an equally gentle quietude, holding out a hand to offer to hold the mirror, so that maitimo might feel with his remaining hand the length of it at the back.
for a while already kanafinwë has known that the old maitimo will never return. but it is only now, that he stands in the piles of his hair at his feet, its snippets littering his hands, arms, garment, until later he will scrub it from his skin with a quiet sob, that he truly understands this.
❛ i can shave it, if you wish it shorter still. ❜ he cannot quite contain the hesitancy with which the offer is made. the thought of maitimo wholly shorn is sickening, if only for how much more hollow he'd appear. yet were it asked he would oblige, and guide the blade with an ever steady hand.
He pictures himself with their soft-spoken offer. Those long, fiery locks that Káno's small fingers used to comb through in the days of bliss, babbling about something or other in delight, insisting that he could tie up Maimo's hair "good and proper" to keep it out of his way whilst he was with their father in the forge. He smiles at the thought, his gaze absent and empty as the small quirk of amusement pulls the corner of his lips up.
He has a wound on his face, he remembers, that hasn't healed quite right, so the smile hurts. He drops it.
He imagines himself looking like a Man, those who take so little pleasure in pleating and braiding it out of the way instead of shearing it off at the first sign of filth and damage. It is humbling, in a way; never did he think himself invincible but it would almost have been a mercy to die chained to that rock, to grow old and feeble and let his corpse feed the vultures. Men have that privilege of passing on that he and his kind do not.
I can shave it, Kanafinwë offers, and even though that's for the best he feels something twist in his gut. It isn't even vanity or pride that makes him hesitate, it is the idea of losing yet more parts of himself.
"Shave it," he asks softly, feeling some comfort at the idea that it is Makalaurë doing this and not the others. He wouldn't dream of demanding this of the twins, or even Turcafinwë or Morifinwë or Curufinwë. There are things they should not be exposed to.
Even so, it pains him to demand this of Kanafinwë. It is almost as if he is pleading with them to relieve him of the other hand.
"I can't stand how it touches my neck and my ears," he confesses with a degree of frustration, tinged with both grief and revulsion as it leaves his sore throat. He considers asking them to leave some length up top, but that feels too raw, as well. "It disgusts me. Take it off," he asks, and adds another; "Please," as if it would make it easier.
The reflection which stares back at him in the small, smudged mirror is a strange, dead man. This man's eyes are hollow and lifeless, and he has to look at the consistency of the blinks to remind himself that they are his. He squints a little, turning his head to and fro and tilting it like some perplexed, maimed animal. This cannot be the same Nelyafinwë known for his prowess and beauty, can it? This thing looking back at him looks like a specter.
He reaches up to feel his own face, streaked with scars and drained of its blush, only to be met with an absence of touch before he remembers that his right hand is gone. Ah, he thinks, I will have to get used to that.
His brother remains by his side like always and aids him in any way he knows how. Makalaurë says nothing so as to not speak to soon, or too harshly, or to hurt his feelings; he is diligent and careful as a good brother would be. Nelyafinwë finds the silence oppressive and nauseating, the repetitive snip snip snip of the scissors even more so. He half wants to shear his scalp clean, half wants to ask them to stop cutting the matted, filthy mess of hair so that he can at least pretends to look somewhat like his old self.
He puts the mirror down abruptly, viciously sickened by the sight of himself... Amya wouldn't even recognize him like this. He remains hunched over as he sits before them, his breaths even and quiet and almost mimicking the same rhythm as Makalaurë's lungs in a desperate attempt to not vomit up the small amount of food he managed to keep down.
"Cut it shorter," he demands of them, his voice gentle yet heavy. He wishes he could comfort him, he sees how hard this is on him — the subtle pitying looks, though better than the expressions of horror and grief on the others, are still not lost on Nelyafinwë.
He pauses a moment, his tone growing quieter even than the crackle of the hearth. "Please," he adds in a whisper.
darkness envelops their camp as maitimo approaches the silent form of his brother, few of them wanting to light a fire to warm their bones and opting instead for the unrelenting embrace of the night air. the firstborn's hands are cold as he uses his right to offer his water pouch to kanafinwë : something akin to those early years in the west, when nelyafinwë would carry a piece of fruit home on his way back from the forge just to see little káno's eyes light up at the gift.
he expects no such thing now.
he knows this is not the time.
maitimo waits for no invite or acceptance of his offering as sits on the ground near his brother, looking them over out of habit, as if he expects to see injuries to tend to even when he knows there are none to be found. for a moment more, he indulges in the silence.
softly, and so quietly that one might suspect he wants to avoid eavesdropping, he breaks the long stretch of quiet. “ i know he wishes not to hear of it any longer, and i understand why. i understand why you . . . we, are . . . perhaps struggling to speak with him at all. ” he speaks with a serenity in his tone which is unnoticeably practiced — fëanor's firstborn, ever the diplomat and the voice of reason, wishing to keep the peace but not at the expense of justice, letting not an ounce of the bitterness in his mind seep into his voice. but where is justice now?
“ it does not meant we cannot discuss it amongst ourselves. ” even as he says it, ' discuss ' seems like an underestimation of the weight of what he is referring to. he frowns at himself for a moment, suddenly lost at how to even go about what he wanted to say at all. it has been days, but it still does not feel like long enough. perhaps it never will. “ you can talk to me, @griefsung, whenever your heart allows you to speak of the weight you carry. we must speak of it eventually. ”
even as he directs his eyes upwards to the glow of the stars above them, for a moment their light seems bright enough to burn, and it looks as though even if he were to sit in blackness for the remainder of his life . . . he would still remember the sight of the ships burning, of the stench of burning flesh, and of the faint, momentary sound of atyarussa in pain— before it was interrupted by the unimaginable heaviness of the sudden silence which followed. “ i beg you to not turn me away, káno. ”
Picture: A dark night, donned in shadows and silence. Death looming near, from tent to tent, almost omniscient. As if seeped into the world’s fabric. The only God among this godless lot.
The sound of clamor was long-drenched, only blood remained. Blood.. And he.. Though Rozaliya has already forgotten his name, who he was, remembered but what they asked her to do, and how despite valiant efforts, there was no defeating the tremble, the hand in its quivering. I am no healer was said to them.. But she was there, and she was available, and so she had agreed. They did not need to tell her of the dead. She felt them, all around, felt them long after they have been gone, and what was not felt was seen, her eyes always seemingly too far-seeing. Sight could not treat a wound, however. Even the knowledge of herbology would not see flesh mended. Only hands could, and thus hands did.
Who else would rule a warzone if not she? Who else would thrive in the aftermath of war? Wars are never won by the living, nor are they won by the dead.
Thread bound needle, and needle bound muscle. She agreed to help, after all.
The rose did what all roses did, and blood was drawn.. A mishap, the sharp tip running slightly too deep, drawing sanguine. “I am sorry, I..” Gaze, a soft grey, that of the breaking of dawn on a winter’s morning, turned to @maatimo, apologetic. Neither thread nor needle fell. Neither broke skin further. Her regret visibly solely in the eye, in the paleness of countenance that shied away from him, (the body, the blood).
“I am sorry, My Lord—” then, the greyness paled, cast down. She did not move, frozen in motion. “I..” I cannot do this. Why did I think I could? I cannot.. I cannot!
war, a soldier had idly said to him two nights ago, is no place for children and for women. maedhros, as he is called by many now, hadn't given him much of a reaction in the moment — merely silence and a well-timed sip of his water, to indicate he wished to talk no further on this, as the soldier looked up to him and continued to eat his rations after a beat.
it is no place for anyone, he'd have said in reply, if he didn't think it would have counted as demoralizing.
away from the tense atmosphere of the hours before battle, he sits with his injuries in the same silence as the groans and stifled cries of pain do not reach his ears. ( a skill he learned long ago without knowing he'd learned it : in your mind, place yourself elsewhere and the needs of your body will follow. )
as if unease had taken form and draped itself with the white moonlight seeping through the opening of the tent, the woman before him ( at nearly eye height despite one of them standing and the other sitting straight ) barely looked at the new wound as well as his eyes. he had barely even felt it, but it had distressed her enough that even among all else he'd sensed it — and for a moment, wondered if he had done something wrong; whether he had moved preemptively and ruined her hard work, ripping stitches and summoning blood due to inattentiveness — but it seemed as though he was faultless this time, yet that fact was discomforting still.
maedhros covers the half-opened wound with a clean piece of rag, still a bit damp from having been washed after its use on a different person no doubt, but the cold comforts his skin and the cloth covers the deep red from his sight as well as her own. “ it is alright, ” he begins, speaking with a voice too soft to belong to someone so intimidatingly large; like he would speak to a doe in the forest to not frighten her into fleeing — still not knowing if it was the rich blood which was the breaking point, or the severity of the wound itself . . . or maybe it was just him, which would hardly be out of the question with how he looks. “ i am well enough. you have done most of what i could not do myself to tend to me, thus you have my gratitude. ” he does not attempt a smile, but he does let the intensity of his gaze soften slightly, and light is allowed into the darkness of his eyes.
“ it is doubtless that your labor has been long and difficult today. anyone else would have taken a well-deserved break long before they'd gotten to me. ” . . . he wonders, for a moment, how to phrase his question on her wellbeing as to not worsen whatever regret she feels. he ultimately decides not to ask it. “ i wish to get some air outside. will you accompany me? i have had my fill of blood and sweat for a day. ”
in truth, he barely registers the foul smell anymore — but he thinks the same cannot be said for her.
𝙵𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴𝚂: touched & healed - five times makalaurë touched @maatimo or tended to his wounds. / do not reblog unless you were tagged.
𝟶𝟷 / ❛ 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙴𝙵𝚄𝙻 ... ❜ the younger chides quietly, while he dabs at the cut on his brother's hand. concentration and concern alike knit his dark brows, the elfling's mouth contorted almost in a pout. but another reason to avoid the forge. it is not a serious wound, and perhaps his brother is merely indulging his wanting to help. either way, makalaurë is all caught up in his task. careful not to touch the area around the cut, makalaurë finishes up bandaging maitimo's hand, ending at last with a satisfied nod. at last the frown lifts from his features, as though it had never been there at all, and he smiles up at him warmly. ❛ there, now you shall soon be good as new. ❜
𝟶𝟸 / 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙾𝙲𝙴𝙰𝙽 𝚆𝙸𝙽𝙳𝚂 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙲𝙾𝙾𝙻𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝚄𝚁𝚈. on deck, they beat his hair mercilessly even in its braid, yet as the rest of his kin kanafinwë fëanárion stands in defiance. as the rest, even the youngest two, whom just earlier he had wrapped in his cloak. with the battle-rush subsiding, grief still loud in his heart, he looks to nelyafinwë, as though in his eyes he might find guidance.
❛ you're bleeding ... ❜ under the light of the stars, all of them blood-stained, at first he had not seen. but now makalaurë spies the fresh crimson on the elder's cheek. a head wound, he suspects, but nothing deep. its scarlet is dull in contrast to the ñoldo's hair of flame. for a moment they turn away, and it takes but a few steps to gather a piece of cloth and drench it in alcohol. when they return, a hand comes to rest on nelyafinwë's shoulder, a silent demand to bend down so they might reach his face. ❛ let me, ❜ they ask, and while their mind is put to the task of wiping away the blood and cleaning the wound, kanafinwë almost forgets the horrors that sit still nauseating in the pit of their stomach.
𝟶𝟹 / ❛ 𝙼𝙰𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙾 ! ❜ makalaurë cries out in a voice thick with relief and horror all at once. he lives, he lives, he is returned to them ! the joy is dampened quickly at the sight of him, his older brother so revered and ever strong, maimed and bloodied, twisted and worn out. still his flame flickers, and surely, surely he will become whole again ... cracked but never broken.
there is not a trace of regality in the way makalaurë almost trips over his own feet rushing to findekáno's side to take maitimo's weight off his shoulders. ( it is only then that he sees: the bloodied cloth where once was his brother's hand. briefly his eyes widen, though he speaks not a word of it. ) ❛ stay with me now, timo, it shall all be well, stay with me, i have you ... ❜
he knows not whether the other even hears him, whether he is conscious at all, pleads perhaps with his fate more than anything. guilt and relief and horror alike threaten to have bile rise in the minstrel's throat, and it is all he can do to push them down with all his might, and focus instead on having maitimo rest and tended to. ( it takes findekáno's aid, in the end, to place him carefully in the bed which had waited for the king since first they had settled here. )
scarlet stained fingers tremble slightly when makalaurë brushes back his hair of bright flame matted and dirtied, holds a palm to his brother's cheek and all but flinches with how cold he is. ❛ all is well now, timo, ❜ whispers the younger, and when the healer more skilled than he has finished their tending to the wound where maitimo's hand was cut, makalaurë sends them away to do the rest himself. somewhere in the distance he can hear tyelkormo's voice, protesting the order he gave: to not disturb until told otherwise, so that their brother might rest. it leaves his heart uneasy to keep the younger ones at a distance, yet it troubles him even more to think of them seeing the state of their brother just freshly returned. for a moment, makalaurë has to close his eyes, to bite down the guilt that threatens to unravel him.
his hands rinsed in the basin, he begins his repentance: with a cloth dipped in warm water he begins to clean his dirtied skin, tending carefully to any wound and spreading ointment on bruising uncovered. ( several times it takes his breath away, has him nearly choke and a chill shoot up in his spine, this aftermath of decades within enemy hand. each time it is harder to keep the guilt at bay. ) thus he sings, the same long tune over and over, quiet so as not to disturb but loud enough to soothe ... is he soothing nelyo or himself ? it is a tune of their youth, one with verses nigh unending, for he would sing it to his brothers when sleep did not find them. a trickle of a melody, a swaying as though a boat of leaves on a small pond, a gentle breeze catching in its sails. it is nigh meditative.
𝟶𝟺 / 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝚁𝙴 𝙲𝚁𝙰𝙲𝙺𝙻𝙴𝚂 𝚆𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙻𝚈. makalaurë wakes without knowing how much time has passed since fatigue was victorious. it could not have been more than an hour or two, for the candles have not yet burnt out. a chill has settled in their bones, and so they rise to add two logs to the fire, and when they turn once more to look upon their sleeping brother, bandaged and cleaned and covered with blankets, for the first time in their life nelyafinwë seems almost small.
the tears come without warning. the guilt pushed aside when necessity demanded now returns full force, a gale that blows over their wearied frame and leaves them trembling. now forever indebted to findekáno's bravery, they cannot help but look back and wonder: had i then tried harder, had i been braver, stronger, wiser ... i should have saved him sooner, if all this time it was never impossible. kurvo was right.
returning to their brother's bedside, makalaurë sinks to their knees, and the tears now flow uninhibited, hitching their breath in their throat and shaking their shoulders in quiet sobs. carefully, their hands close around their brother's remaining one. ❛ all these years i failed you, ❜ they gasp, and their eyes squeeze shut, shoulders bent without any grace, forehead resting against the back of maitimo's hand. ❛ never again shall i see us separated, never ... ❜ and when their breath has calmed enough they sing again, hitched and thick still with tears, and something weary has snuck into the lullaby's tune, weaving threads of love and regret.
𝟶𝟻 / 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙶 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝚆𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚈 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙳, when in the face of inevitable doom, the road still stretches endlessly ? his loyalty to an oath of old is waning, so much so he had nigh pleaded with his brother to stray from this path, for less evil shall we do in the breaking. yet his loyalty to maitimo has never flickered, and maitimo was not to be convinced, and thus did makalaurë concede, for he could not abandon him to this fate alone.
but, oh, he wearies of this path. what are they if not haunted, scarred wraiths of times gone by, without home nor peoples, and nothing but a waning fury keeping their hearts aflame ? everyone is gone. then how can i betray him ? makalaurë concedes and signs his fate with tired eyes and hands that seem no longer his own. ❛ wherever you go, i shall follow, ❜ they tell him quietly, though their eyes do not meet their brother's. [ they need not look at him to speak to his mind. their mind says more than they wanted it to. ]
❛ but let us rest til sunrise, brother, for my heart is yet weary. ❜ 'tis a plea more than a request. how quiet it is without the twins, how stormy their mind in the wake of their departure. not quite grief, not quite disappointment. makalaurë closes his eyes without thinking, presses the pads of his fingers to his forehead as though to soothe himself. it is not enough, not enough, a wave of exhaustion threatening to bury him under itself.
when he leans forward against maitimo it is to keep himself from swaying. then, the realisation: not to touch. he does not like it. but maitimo does not flinch, nor does he push him upright and retreat. and makalaurë finds not the strength to hold himself up. suddenly he is as though a child again, seeking strength in his older brother's embrace, and his arms wrap around nelyo's torso and his shoulders sink. are they not wraiths ? then why are his brother's arms holding him together, real and ever strong, when káno is too weak ? it has been centuries, since last he found comfort like this. his tears are quiet, fingers curling into the sides of maitimo's armour as though elsewise he might fade from his grasp. never again. this ancient guilt still sits carved deep into the elf's flesh. it is ever-present: in the silver strands in nelyafinwë's hair, in the scars whose wounds they cleaned themself, in the chill that keeps their brother close to the fire at night. never again.
annaxmalina
yousharknotpass
areudirty
pixelskylines
andulkaphoto
gummygunk
2087
