The agony was burning, I imagine. His skin aflame in the new dawn of life. He could pin down the sensation’s origin only that it was everywhere and in everything. His voice grew hoarse until I put my hand over his mouth and he was left silent, silent in this aching oblivion, eyes glued shut like a newborn calf, mouth open in a silent wail, waiting for the executioner to realize their mistake.
This did not come, he was soon to realize. My tender hand raked down the sides of his face, his skin wet with sweat and the substance of remaking. The scars I had created caught on my palm. His eyes could not unglue themselves to peer into my face, his recreator, his master–he who had put back together the hungry soul of Nelyafinwë; and watched as the eldest Son of Fëanor pulled himself from the stone work and flopped unceremoniously onto the gravel. Wailing like an infant.
I was disgusted, at first. Violence churned in my gut, and I felt, horrifically and powerfully, the consequences of my wrongdoings. But, in time he quieted and his teeth nipped at his lips until blood, crimson, flowed strong as a river. He opened his eyes to the darkness of this world, with only the forge’s flame to wet his vision; and the fleeting wildness, the cowardly actions, passed from him as he took me in.
Long had I envisioned what I would say, but in the end I only took his cold hand in mine. “You were dearly missed, Nelyafinwë.”
Strangely Constructed Souls — continue reading on AO3
wc: ~14k / maedhros/sauron & sauron/morgoth | mature
Sauron reconstructs Maedhros after going too far in his tortures–the creature he crafts is a terrible beauty, much to his liking.
Told in a series of journal entries by Sauron’s hand.
written for @silmarillionepistolary day 3: journals <3
cc: lace divider by the wonderful @angeliicide !!
