The face-grab was unexpected, and left him standing slack-jawed long after haruni had finished speaking. She had a way with words that reminded him of his father’s, a sort of pervasive coolness in her even tone that was really just carefully hidden daggers of ice.
It was a few moments after she’d finished speaking that Maedhros remembered to shut his mouth, lest he appear a complete and utter fool. The most terrifying part was they he agreed with her, even when he knew he could not possibly be the king, not now.
Not like this, he thought numbly, rubbing at the healing wounds that still lingered on his right wrist.
"You will always be High Queen," he replied, voice quiet: he had not felt this nervous while speaking since he had been a child and now here he was, full grown and all but trembling at a woman on a stool. "But I am not… I am hardlyqualified at this point in time to lead an entire people, haruni. We are a strong and proud people, and we expect our leaders to be nothing less. How, then, are the people supposed to feel with a cripple leading them, a man with more scars than supporters?” He paused for a moment. The next part was nothing he wanted to tell anyone, and admitting it aloud made it painfully real in a way he had wished to avoid.
"And if my broken body is not an issue, then my broken mind surely is. A king needs to be rational, logical." He swallowed nervously. "A king does not see nightmares in every shadow; he does not interpret every sound that comes as one that brings his death and the death of those around him. And a king… A true king does not stay awake, trembling, because he is afraid of the images sleep will bestow." Here, Maedhros shook his head. "I cannot be a king, not now. It is not fair to the people."
"You are strong," Míriel let her grip soften till she was cupping his cheeks and she looked at him, her grandson who had endured so much, and she wanted to start crying, to howl in protest at the darkness in his eyes. At the horrors that had left lines in his brow and deep gauges in his skin that scars still marked the place of.
She rubbed one gently which lay under her thumb. "You are so strong, the strongest," she insisted and let her voice gain just a whisper of emotion, her raw and pure belief in his strength or perhaps it was more her desperation to sink her words into him where they would take root. "Matimo you survived. You survived. "
She sucked in a hard breath and leaned forward to kiss each of his cheeks and then his forehead, "you are no cripple grandson. I have seen how you practice. I have seen how you strive and how you are improving to use your other hand as perfectly as your lost one. You vastly underestimate how many support you, and are silently cheering you on. You say you have more scars than supporters but for every scar you have I know of twelve twelves of warriors who will fight for you. And as for your mind..."
She stroked his cheeks, "you have seen war now. You know what we face. This is no temperate Aman full of so called forever-bliss. You know what we face as a King should. You know the horrors. You will not bend but you also will not rashly..." she swallowed hard, "rashly throw ourselves against what can not be defeated. And know you will not carry this burden alone Matimo. Your brothers are here. Makalaure has done well as your regent. And I am here... I have ruled a long time. I will hold you up when you think you are failing. I will sit through court when you are too tired from fighting nightmares. When your voice fails use mine. I was your Grandfather's Queen and then your Father's. I will be yours."
"Do not think of fairness towards your people. We are not living in fair times. You are the King our people need," she kissed his forehead again, harder.
