Red As Blood by The Wavesinger

Red As Blood

Warnings: Graphic self-harm, torture, minor allusion to rape.

A huge, huge thank you to my beta, CrackinAndProudOfIt, who patiently helped me to revise this fic (or rather, revised it, with occasional input from me) for the better part of a year, and put up with me when I disappeared for six months (or so). Thank you, Crackers, for re-writing the whole damned thing. I expect you're sighing with relief right now. I'm trying to sell my mistakes off to The Man In The Moon for one of his spells (get the reference, anyone?), but until I find a way to do so, all mistakes are, sadly, mine.

Set after the Nirnaeth, before the Ruin of Beleriand.

Written for the B2MeM13 Day 14 prompt: "Thus at last the Teleri were overcome, and a great part of their mariners that dwelt in Alqualondë were wickedly slain." Only, it spiralled out of control, became rather personal, turning into…this. Trust me, you don't want to know.

Read Red As Blood

 He was one of those who have great strength, but strength only to suffer. He could not escape suffering and could not transcend it, so he attracted pain to himself.

—T.S. Eliot, Introduction to Baudelaire's Intimate Journals

The dagger is before him, perfect in its cruelty. He can see every detail of its shaping.

The hilt is made of iron, carved with its name, Serkelindë, in the tengwar of Fëanor, set with rubies that flame like the fires of Angband in the dim light—Isil's—that bathes the room.

How ironic, he thinks, to set bloodstones in an instrument made to spill blood.

Slowly, his eyes leave the hilt with its blood-gems, drifting to the blade. It is small, almost too small to wield in battle, but its edges have been sharpened to deadly precision. The lightest touch will draw blood. Cold metal glistens in the dim, flickering light of a lamp, beckoning to him. It calls out with a song both eerie and compelling, equal to any of Maglor's enchantment-bound lays. The hilt will fit perfectly in his hand, as it were an extension of himself; already he can feel the cold metal caressing his calloused, blistered, rough, war-hardened skin—

He groans and closes his eyes, trying to resist.

It is hopeless; the desire is too much for him.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his one hand fumbles with his tunic, his undershirt, his leggings. One by one, they fall off his body, drifting slowly to the ground, and, finally, he is left naked.

He crosses the room to stare at himself in the mirror. Even after all this time, the sight of his bare skin makes him shudder.

One arm hangs limp, useless, bereft of the fingers and palm that were, long ago, attached to it. The stump is grotesque, a web of scars and bruises, for he still reaches for things with a hand that is not there, resulting in many injuries. Worse scars weave patterns on his body, marring the once perfect skin, the result of long years of enduring whips, chains, fire, knives, and other torments unspeakable. He can even trace the outline of a ship on his thigh—a cruel reminder of the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, as the one who placed it there intended it to be.

The glint of metal catches his eye, and he turns, looking once again at the knife. Let me claim you, it seems to cry, make you mine as I have done before. Feel my caress, my love, and take me for your own.

His fëa is reluctant to allow the inevitable—it does not wish for pain—but his hröa fills with desire. A brief struggle ensues, but, in the end, his hröa wins. As it always does.

He reaches out.

The hilt is almost like a lover's grip, comfortingly familiar to his hand. As he holds it, he begins to feel, again, the rush of pleasure that this brings him. Gently, he caresses the blade, his nerves registering the cold touch and glinting sharpness of the metal lying against his palm.

Time to choose, the dagger reminds him.

He studies himself in the mirror, trying to choose, as his lover has instructed him to. It is difficult to decide, but in the end, he picks a scar on the stump where his hand used to be. Surveying the place for a moment, he smiles—almost. Almost—not quite.

Perfect, he thinks, perfect. Just the spot.

And he cuts.

A fountain of blood spouts from the place where the scar just was. It is aligned precisely with the old wound—not a millimeter to the left or right. Pain sears through his arms, and his lips curl back into a feral grin.

A hand raised against him by his own father, leaving a red mark on his cheek…His mother's indignant cry…A garbled excuse : 'he must learn to atone for his wrongs'…And then sobs, his father's sobs, as he comes back to his senses, strong arms wrapped around him…

Red stains cover the stump, and it aches unbearably. Pleasure.

A fall…A broken arm…His father's angry words—"Nelyafinwë, you fool! Why must you fail in whatever you do?"…The slurs and taunts that his so-called 'friends' threw at him…His father's sharp words and his mother's retorts…His grandfather's vain attempts at peacekeeping…And weaving through it all, a dark-haired boy shouting and laughing…

The dagger moves of its own accord, seeking to defile as much of his skin as possible.

Angry conversations at night, between his parents…Frosty silence in the morning…Man and woman, each fighting for the right to keep their children, as if they were mere objects…

Red, red, red. His sheets are stained red, but the blood does not stop flowing.

Hordes of Men, turning upon the army they were supposed to fight for, friends turned enemies, yelling and brandishing weapons…Men fighting Men, the sight more terrible than Alqualondë…Orcs and more Orcs, then evil Men, hacking and sawing at any who dropped their guard for a moment…A fine mist of red around him as he cut down enemies… Weariness claiming his limbs, his hand slashing back and forth of its own volition, unguided by his fatigued mind…

The dagger carves patterns on him, patterns he has studied a thousand times and knows by heart.

Smashing sounds…The twins crying softly, Canafinwë comforting them, surprisingly gentle…Tyelkormo, Curufinwë and Carnistir taking long, wild rides with the servants of Oromë, spending days away from home…he himself retreating into his prison-like room, leaving it only for meals (soggy and untasty, now)…And then the separation…Their mother on one side, their father on the other, the seven children, now adults, stretched in between…

A scar that he has not bled for some time opens; he sighs in pain as the dagger enters his skin.

Treachery…Betrayal…His father with flames in hand, sweeping down to the shore…His own passionate pleas, brushed aside like so many withered leaves…The ships burning, burning to the sky, the reflected flames dancing in the water… "Ambarussa, where is Ambarussa?"…The surviving twin's cold silence…

He cuts deeper, and the blood flows from his arm onto the ground.

Swords thrust into him…Weeks without food, then a force-fed feast, making him hate the sight of food and yet long for it …Fire scorching his skin until it peeled off…Whips and sticks striking him…Shapes carved into his skin by daggers and knives…Toiling in the dark mines for days on end without rest, stumbling, blinded for the lack of sleep…And then, those things, the tortures his mind still shies away from reliving …Hours turning into days, days into weeks, weeks into months, months into years…The Enemy's terrible voice, mocking him, forcing him to re-live his past…Anger, terrible anger—Moringotto's—at his refusal to give in…Enduring a life without hope or joy…Hanging by his wrist from the tall peaks of Thangorodrim…

Metal twists inside him, setting his blood on fire in a way that nothing else can, and he writhes in pleasure.

A field of red… Slipping on the blood beneath his feet as his sword executes a ruthless dance…Faces of people who were once his friends, hewn down mercilessly by the cold steel in his hand…White ships in the distance, mere objects that they killed for…Fighting, fighting, murdering his own kin…Yet another falling at his sword, but hurling a spear at him…Silver hair and red whirling in a dance of death…A king, his face twisted with despair as he realizes the fate of his people…A rising sword, his own…Red soaking his tunic…

He bites down on his tongue to stop himself from crying out and attracting attention, drawing blood in the process. The salty, metallic tang fills his mouth; more joy for him, in this, his savage pleasure.

Lurching like a drunkard, unbalanced…Reaching to hold something, only to find that his hand is gone…Pain in a hand that is not there, that will never be there again…Struggling into his clothes with Findekáno's help…Bitterness; he cannot live life on his own…Learning how to fight with one hand, even the lightest exercises forcing him to collapse…

The pain fills him, blurring his mind as wine would another's, and he staggers, unable to control his body.

Anger…anger… "My lord, we have news from the battle. The High King is dead."…"Lies! You think to deceive me. He cannot be…He cannot be…Findekáno is not gone!"…Running, escaping the memories…Tears that cannot flow, but are held inside…A laughing, dark-haired boy haunting his dreams…Waking up everyday and realizing, anew, that the most important person in his life, his cousin, his brother, his lover, his spouse, is gone, and he is to blame…

Again and again the dagger rises and falls in its cruel song, and his sighs are laced with the yowls of animals. He does not care about others hearing anymore; he is beyond thinking, the pain and the pleasure controlling fëa and hröa alike.

But this time, the pain is almost too much, even for him. He is on the edge of losing consciousness, and only the fierce joy that fills his hröa keeps the darkness at bay.

Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Moringotto or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Aftercomer, Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Fëanáro, and Fëanáro's kin, whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril. This swear we all: death we will deal him ere Day's ending, woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the Holy Mountain hear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!

And then it stops; the pain and the pleasure are gone, leaving him bereft.

He opens his eyes; the dagger has fallen from his hands, and he lies on the bed, naked, curled up in a ball, covered with blood.

For a moment, he contemplates reaching out and slicing his head off in one clean stroke. But he is too much of a coward to do so, to have his death branded a suicide, to be punished for his deeds in the Halls or taken by Everlasting Darkness.

So he gets up and cleans the wounds.

Anar is rising as Isil flees the sky. Soon, the household will be stirring. He, too, will be up, pretending to have had a good night's sleep, his bandaged wounds hidden under fine robes.

They will open again as soon as they heal.

---

Chapter End Notes

Serkelindë—OW (Original Weapon), my intellectual property ;). (Long story. You don't want to know.)

On Ambarussa/Ambarto—ugh. Just ugh. Tolkien is annoying sometimes. The End. So I (or rather, Crackers) figured that Ambarussa was the safer option.

The words 'my brother, my lover, my spouse' are from the Song of Solomon. They got stuck in my head and wouldn't go away.

The Oath is from HoME X, Annals of Aman. I took the liberty of changing the Sindarin names to Quenya, and turning the poem-like thing into a paragraph. I realize that it's outdated, but this is the closest I could find to the full Oath, and I didn't want to invent what I can never do justice to.

The description of bleeding is poetic (Or literary?) license. A human being would have bled to death if this happened to them. Remember, Maedhros was tortured in Angband for [insert time period you prefer to use. I go with something around 35 years, including the time spent hanging by his wrist from a ledge]. He had plenty of time to gain all these wounds and still not die. When he cuts at least a quarter of them open in a day…*shudders again* True, the Quendi, especially the Eldar, are more hardy in body than we puny mortals, but six years' worth of deliberately inflicted wounds cut open again in a single night would probably, in reality, kill the strongest of them. Maedhros knows his limits. He won't go beyond them…I think. 'My' Maedhros is pretty weird, though, so. So yes, I exaggerated the self-harm hugely.

And Fëanor. It's rather hard to explain, but I see him as getting angry easily, but repenting truly once his anger has worn off. Not as a total villain. (Explanation only because I love him too much to do this to him ;))