#a gold thread of pride and guilt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

apoemaday · 1 year

Text

The Hurting Kind

by Ada Limón

On the plane I have a dream I’ve left half my torso on the back porch with my beloved. I have to go

back for it, but it’s too late, I’m flying and there’s only half of me.

Back in Texas, the flowers I’ve left on the counter have wilted and knocked over the glass— I stay alone there so the flowers are more than flowers.

At the funeral parlor with my mother, we are holding her father’s suit, and she says, He’ll swim in these.

For a moment, I’m not sure what she means, until I realize she means the clothes are too big.

I go with her like a shield in case they try to up-sell her— the ornate urn, the elaborate body box.

It is a nice bathroom in the funeral parlor, so I take the opportunity to change my tampon.

When I come out my mother says, Did you have to change your tampon?

And it seems a vulgar life all at once. Or not vulgar, but not simple.

I’m driving her now to the Hillside Cemetery where we meet with Rosie who is so nice we want her to work everywhere. Rosie as my dentist. Rosie as my president.

My shards are showing, I think. But I do not know what I mean so I fix my face in the rearview, a face with thousands of headstones behind it. Minuscule flags, plastic flowers.

You can’t sum it up, my mother says as we are driving and the electronic voice repeats, Turn Left onto Wildwood Canyon Road,

so I turn left, happy for the mundane instructions. Let us robot at once.

Tell me where to go. Tell me how to get there.

She means a life, of course. You cannot sum it up.

A famous poet said he never wanted to hear another poem about a grandmother or a grandfather.

I imagine him with piles of faded yolk-colored paper, overloaded with loops of swooping cursive, anemic lyrics

misspelling mourning and morning. But also, before they arrive, there’s a desperate hand scribbling a memory, following

the cat of imagination into each room. What is lineage, if not a gold thread of pride and guilt. She did what?

Once, when I thought I had decided not to have children, a woman said, But who are you to kill your own bloodline?

I told my friend D that and she said, What if you want to kill your own bloodline, kill like it’s your job?

In the myth of La Llorona, she drowns her children to destroy her cheating husband. But maybe she was just tired.

After her husband of 76 years has died, my grandmother, (yes, I said it, grandmother, grandmother) leans to me and says,

Now teach me poetry.

Sticky packs of photographs heteromaniacal postcards.

The war. The war. The war. Bikini girls, tight curls, the word gams.

Land boom. Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe. Southern Pacific.

We ask my Grandma Allamay about her mother for a form.

Records and wills. Evidence of life. For a moment she can’t remember her mother’s maiden name.

She says, Just tell them she never wanted me. That should be enough.

“Red sadness is the secret one,” writes Ruefle. Redlands

was named after the soil. Allamay can still hold a peach in her hand

and judge its number by its size. Tell you where it would go in the box

if you’re packing peaches for a living. Which she did,

though she hated the way the hairs hurt her hands.

Why do we quickly dismiss our ancient ones? Before our phones stole the light of our faces, shiny and blue in the televised night,

our elders worked farms and butchered and trapped animals and swept houses and returned to each other after long hours and told stories.

In order for someone to be “good” do they have to have seen the full tilt world? Must they believe what we believe?

My grandmother keeps a picture of her president in the top drawer of her dresser, and once when she was delusional she dreamt

he had sent her and my grandfather on a trip to Italy. He paid for it all, she kept repeating.

That same night on her ride to the hospital, she talks to the medical technician and says,

All my grandchildren are Mexican.

She says it proudly. She repeats it to me on the phone

Once, a long time ago, we sat in the carport of my grandparents’ house in Redlands, now stolen for eminent domain,

now the hospital parking lot, no more coyotes or caves where the coyotes would live. Or the grandfather clock

in the house my grandfather built. The porch above the orchard. All gone.

We sat in the carport and watched the longest snake I’d ever seen undulate between the hanging succulents.

They told me not to worry, that the snake had a name,

the snake was called a California King,

glossy black with yellow stripes like wonders wrapping around him.

My grandparents, my ancestors, told me never to kill a California King, benevolent

as they were, equanimous like earth or sky, not

toothy like the dog Chacho who barked at nearly every train whistle or roadrunner.

Before my grandfather died, I asked him what sort of horse he had growing up. He said,

Just a horse. My horse, with such a tenderness it rubbed the bones in the ribs all wrong.

I have always been too sensitive, a weeper from a long line of weepers.

I am the hurting kind. I keep searching for proof.

My grandfather carried that snake to the cactus, where all sharp things could stay safe.

You can’t sum it up. A life.

I feel it moving through me, that snake, his horse Midge sturdy and nothing special,

traveling the canyons and the tumbleweeds hunting for rabbits before the war.

My grandmother picking peaches. Stealing the fruit from the orchards as she walked

home. No one said it was my job to remember.

I took no notes though I’ve stared too long. My grandfather, before he died, would have told

anyone that would listen, that he was ordinary,

that his life was a good one, simple, he could never understand why anyone would want to write

it down. He would tell you straight up he wasn’t brave. And my grandmother would tell you right now

that he is busy getting the house ready for her. Visiting now each night and even doing the vacuuming.

I imagine she’s right. It goes on and on, their story. They met in first grade in a one room school house,

I could have started there, but their story, their story is endless and ongoing. All of this

is a conjuring. I will not stop this reporting of attachments. There is evidence everywhere.

There’s a tree over his grave now, and soon her grave too

though she is tough and says, If I ever die,

which is marvelous and maybe why she’s still alive.

I see the tree above the grave and think, I’m wearing

my heart on my leaves. My heart on my leaves.

Love ends. But what if it doesn’t?

#poetry #ada limón #the hurting kind

167 notes · View notes

fandom-trash-goblin · 3 months

Text

All stories should have happy endings - Visenya, Daughter of Queen Elia, known as The Brightest Sun

for @spearsndragons, her fic a gold thread of pride and guilt and her series Clean AU

i think the pink orange yellow colour scheme suits.

(will get down to writing headcannons soon)

#spearsndragons #elia martell #visenya targaryen #asoiaf au #asoiaf #clean au #elia of dorne #elia deserves better

20 notes · View notes

thatonebirdwrites · 1 month

Text

For this next Act, more interludes from other characters will happen. This one is all about Andrea and Alex. Let's dig into their demons. Also, Kelly gets a fun arc -- she will eventually have an interlude too. Got to weave all the threads in Act 2, so we can see the full tapestry in Act 3. EXCERPT:

Andrea followed Alex up a spiral staircase of a nondescript apartment complex. Andrea sighted at least seven DEO agents in civilian clothes. Most were faces she recognized due to her infiltration of the DEO for them. That knowledge left her uneasy, but she refused to let anyone see it. She kept her expression neural, her armor at its highest.

Neither of them spoke. Andrea felt unsettled still about the meeting the other day. The way Lena’s sword had effortlessly sliced through a metal table, and how Lena glowed silver-gold while holding it — that had been a terrifying sight. The little vial Lena had given her she had wrapped in cloth in her pocket, but if it truly kept her safe, Andrea didn’t know.

She still couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact Lena had magic. Where had it come from? Had she always had it and just kept it a secret? No one gave her any answers. And as much as Sam had grown to like her — Andrea wished she hadn’t — Sam never answered any of her questions about Lena. Her loyalty was steadfast.

And now she’d broken Sam’s trust. Last night had been painful. Sam aloof and estranged, and Andrea too prideful to beg for forgiveness. Instead, they had a tense silence, only broken when Kelly and Ruby dropped in since Kelly and Alex would now be in the penthouse below them. Andrea wasn’t sure what to think of that, or the fact that Lena owned it all. Where was Lena even staying?

Alex reached the top of the stairs and glanced at Andrea. “You sure you want to go through with this? He said no when we asked if you could see him.” A hint of concern wavered in Alex’s voice.

Which was weird to hear. It had been a long time since people had been concerned for her. “I must. He is angry, that is the only reason he declined. But he deserves the truth.” Her guilt seared her; she’d lied to him so much to keep him safe. Would he forgive her?

Alex nodded and led her to a door at the end of the hallway. Everything about the place stank of sterility. No colors, the rugs a dull grey, and the doors metal monstrosities. For a safe house, it felt more like a prison than anything else.

Alex unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Sr. Rojas?” She smiled and waved. “¿Cómo estás?”

Hearing Alex speak Spanish surprised Andrea. She didn’t know the director knew it.

“Bien,” came her father’s rich baritone voice. “I take it she is here?” His English was heavily accented; hearing it brought back memories of her youth in Patagonia. Homesickness twisted her stomach.

She missed their ranch in Argentina. The mountains loomed like sentinels, a harsh dry wind blowing down their crags, while rivers cut deep valleys and followed into the steppe grasslands. Farmhands handled the sheep on the ranch, while her father had spent most of his time teaching her the ways of business.

She recalled the long horse rides across the steppes, over rocky outcroppings and past craggy hills. Her father had pointed out each unique feature, his stories rich and full of fantastical lore. She’d been devastated when he sent her to boarding school; losing her mother had broken him.

She’d hated it at first until she’d met Lena. Lena had helped her recover, to forgive him for sending her away.

Now she was no longer welcome at home or really anywhere. Not after what she’d done.

#supercorp #Andrea Rojas #Alex Danvers #rojarias #Leviathan #supergirl cw #cw supergirl #supergirl #Kelly Olsen #Dansen #Time to dig into the other character's demons

5 notes · View notes

lifeinpoetry · 2 years

Text

What is lineage, if not a gold thread of pride and guilt? She did what?

Once, when I thought I had decided not to have children, a woman said, But who are you to kill your own bloodline?

I told my friend D that, and she said, What if you want to kill your own bloodline, like it’s your job?

— Ada Limón, from “The Hurting Kind,” The Hurting Kind

#quote #Ada Limón #poetry #The Hurting Kind #out of my collection

225 notes · View notes

proctored · 11 months

Text

what is lineage, if not a gold thread of pride and guilt ?

#indie marvel rp #indie mcu rp #indie oc rp #indie superhero rp #indie spy rp #「 ⚔️ 」 ⇾ self promo. * ━ the past beats inside me like a second heart .#i actually dont hate this #and it only took an hour or so

10 notes · View notes

imaginemirage · 5 months

Text

What is lineage, if not a gold thread of pride and guilt.

Ada Limon

#ada limón #quote #quotes #poetry #poem #poet #pride #guilt #lineage

5 notes · View notes

palismet · 7 months

Text

because you're a weapon and weapons don't weep / what is a lineage if not a gold thread of pride and guilt / if i let him do this to me, what else will i allow? anything, anything, anything / nothing else matters when he loves me and nothing else matters when he doesn't / i know i should go but i follow you like a man possessed / i am the sword (if i'm not the sword, who am i?) / i will wait for the next time you want me like a dog with a bird outside your door / i am dirty, infinitely dirty, this is why i scream so much about purity / grief taught me inhumane things / if you're raised with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house / but you have to satisfy the monster. the monster has loved you for longer than anyone else / anything i've ever let go of has had claw marks on it / if you killed me, would you make it good? would you make it holy? / god loves you but not enough to save you.

#maisie peters vc: oh lord i'm going back to therapy! therapy!#oh god i'm gonna wring out all of the religious trauma out of this story like a man possessed. POSSESSED #HOW DO YOU LOVE / LIKE A FIST / LIKE A KNIFE !!!!!!!!#I KNOW WHAT IS AND ISN'T MINE !!!!!!!#coughs. tucks all of these back in my pockets. i'm fine i'm cool i'm so normal. completely normal.#scribbles.

2 notes · View notes

gvaine · 3 months

Text

1.05 — Lancelot

#merlin #merlinedit #arthur pendragon #*#1.05 #a gold thread of pride and guilt #princeling #uther #shout out to anthony head's ear piercing

952 notes · View notes

qvietrebellions · 2 years

Text

it looks like JOSEPHINE TYRELL , the PRINCESS of HIGHGARDEN is prepared to play the game of thrones. you know , their HIGH - SPIRITED & CULTIVATED side might help them along the way, but their OVER - INDULGENT & FANCIFUL qualities won’t do them any favours. a little bird told me that they’re currently FOR the tyrell rule and that their loyalties lie with HOUSE TYRELL. hm, interesting. that same little birdy also told tales of a brush delicately coloring an otherwise dull parchment; "what is lineage, if not a gold thread of pride and guilt?"; always stretching in the direction of the sun. will they win , or will they die ?

— STATISTICS

full name : josephine aurelia tyrell. alias / nickname : jo, lia. prefers to be referred by posey. age & date of birth : eight and twenty; 372 a. c. place of birth : highgarden, the reach. gender and pronouns : demiwoman and she / they. orientation : bisexual biromantic. title / occupation : princess of highgarden and of westeros. aspirant artist and illuminator. father : addam tyrell. mother : leona tyrell, née redwyne. siblings : willas ( older ), cassian ( older twin ), rhaella ( younger ). relationship status : unfortunately betrothed to the lord heir of casterly rock, maxim lannister.

faceclaim : alicia von rittberg. height : 158 cm / 5′2. hair : long auburn hair; it curls on the top of her head, with baby hairs framing her face, and has further curled due to extensive plaiting. eye : hazel ( blue - green ). scars : a few nicks and blisters on her hands for dealing with gardens, drawing and needlepoint; some blisters on her feet due to tight shoes. physical afflictions : asthma, iron deficiency, insomnia, mild anxiety, possibly adhd.

positive : warm, generous, eloquent, artistic, zestful. negative : non - commital, self - willing, egocentric, dramatic, spoiled. inspirations : elizabeth of york ( history ), mary tudor, queen of france ( history ), bianca de medici ( history + medici ), sisi ( history + several tv adaptations ), edwina ( bridgerton books and tv adaptation ), lucrezia borgia ( borgia + history ).

— BACKGROUND

the oldest daughter, but second youngest child, following a twin brother, josephine was born tip toeing between fortunate and unfortunate. yes, she was a daughter of highgarden, the most illustrious and royal house of westeros, but she had also been born a weakling thing, too small and prone to a coughing that would raise concerns of all who cared for her. from this infancy, josephine would become accustomed to the fussing of nursemaids and maesters who would tend to her every step.

like a rose grown in a glass house, josephine was nurtured under close watch and a tight regime. fearing she would wilt, the sect of healers would follow her throughout her life, poking and probing and assuring she was of good health and good disposition — the later was not always an easy feat when she was sequestered within the gilded walls of highgarden, but she learned to and was encouraged to distract herself, even if in distance of the boisterous enjoyment of the other children of the palace.

with so much free time, they molded a varied palate of pastimes, from languages to music, learning to both write and speak a few tongues, and both play and write some instruments. their real talent and merriment, however, would come from the arts. instructed by the hand and mastery of a senior scholar, josephine was taught how to sketch, then draw, then paint — it mattered not the subject, nor the canvas ( even if not on paper ) nor its purpose ( if but a playful doodle to distract a child or an unassuming architectural project for a forgotten wing of the palace ); as long as they could put thought to paper, they were content.

despite enjoying their gilded cage ( and there could be no denying she did enjoy all sorts of glittery things ), josephine did attempt, now and then, to become more of their own person. they begin to pick their own food ( too much green and too many sweets ), their own taste of fashion, of music and literature — and even their own name; though josephine was just fine, and would still always remain their official, princess-y name, all that she comes across, noble born or not, are instructed to refer to her as posey, something they thought befitting of them in every way. they also began to extend her walks, and to visit oldtown herself and to take her sister’s lessons of dancing, which had been denied to her before due to her conditions. though she did become tired faster than her peers still, she did not rest, and would soon be known for her graceful and enthusiastic manner.

by the time her brother ascended, officially, as king, posey knew the way to enjoy their life — oft early risings and always late nights, they enjoyed being one of the very last to retire, tied to a cards table or engrossed on a sketch by the moonlight. they become an avid patron of novices and masters at oldtown, funding their artistic and medic findings, even gaining the possibility to illustrate a couple of her endorser’s books herself. she is comfortable, content, spoiled — and too stubborn to move out of this comfort as well, happier to be by highgarden than to have to change her whole world for the sake of a spouse. her family is patient with her, this can not be denied, indulging her denials of engagements even without reason, for her whims seem to be enough so.

the betrothal with the lannister has displeased and soured her considerably. convinced they would be able to escape it — as she had before — they were disappointed to be lectured and dissuaded; they ended up acquiencing, if only for the sake of their brother and family.

still, the approaching festivities for her wedding ( what a weird thing to even imagine for herself ) makes them anxious, as they can not imagine themselves away from highgarden, nor do they find themselves fitting for such an important role. yes, she may have been bred and raised for it, but it did not mean posey cared for ruling or the machinations of court, or anything but courtly enjoyment and gossiping here and there. but then, he is a lannister — she will be comfortable, won’t she ? there’s nothing else to cling to. at least she has stopped wearing a dramatic cut of mourning for her own self, now that the guests have begun arriving.

— TIDBITS

despite not inclined to phisical activities of the outdoors ( as she doesn’t have costume nor the physical ability and gets tired earlyish ), posey adores to be outside, and often is found doing what she can outside, either that be with her needlepoint hoops or sketchbooks or simply hand in hand with her maids.

posey adores animals, but mostly those of small port / pets; they have at least two lapdogs and one cat ( besides the strays they would beg for their maesters to tend to ), and has been known to always bug the staff to keep bird feeders and bowls of food filled for special visitors.

despite their love for luxury, they are not very extravagant dressers, nor are them too bold. they do enjoy rich fabrics and intricate details ( has done the embroidery of some of her gowns and acessories, and enjoys wearing her sister’s handmade too ), but the cut is modest enough. she does like acessories and jewerly and often has her hair done well, often with ribbons, flowers or jewerly.

they can play the harp, the hapsichord and the lute; also the flute, though rather badly.

quite terrible at sleeping or just staying still. pretty much relies of any form of caffeine found on westeros at the moment.

loves children. is terrified of having one of their own ( has been condicioned to believe they would die from the labor ), but loves and is loved by them. in an ideal world, they could be a good teacher.

if her family have their oppositors, the same can not be stretched to posey. yes, there are probably many people who believe them to be entitled, spoiled or even an unworthy brat, but posey, usually, does not pay much mind to it and is content to be farly adored by the smallfolk and the staff, to whom she is generally generous and kind towards.

despite their undeniable shelter-ness, posey has set to explore the reach over the past decade, and has also traveled to dorne a few times, alongside their twin. during one of the trips to the arbor, they met a certain harrion pyke and, under the anonymity of an alias and the mask of a maester - in - training, they started a relationship with the ironborn; it would spam throughout a year, with infrequent meetings at the shores of blackcrown; it was terminated by necessity and practicality, as they assumed he was dead upon no returnal, and they were beckoned to prepare to their own nuptials. unbeknownst to them, harrion is actually quellon greyjoy, the youngest son of house greyjoy, and is very much alive.

#crowns.intro #sickness tw #possibly subjected to some tweaks after plotting with the other tyrells !#sorry for this bible omg #posting this... way too quick bc im running out rn but :sob:

14 notes · View notes

atypicalacademic · 2 years

Note

s e a c h a n g e

No sea in this, but. Yknow. May I offer some Alsal/Aranea?

"You are leaving, then?"

Dawn was a sharp sting no different from the cold, seeping through the half-opened window, it's magic-dulled tendrils a lingering brush against her cheek. Curious how she had once felt it less acutely when she'd slept in her tent, with naught but duty and dreams to keep her company at Azura's feet.

But then again, this wooden cabin was meant for two.

Straightening the folds of their shawl to drape it twice over their arm, Alsal caught her gaze in the mirror, an eyebrow raised. "Changed your mind about not coming along, have you?"

Aranea shook her head. It wasn't a demand, barely even an ask. And yet, an odd, quiet guilt sat at the edge of the bed, watched imperceptibly from the walls that would feel all too bare when they shut the door behind them. Perhaps, if they ask once more, only once more, the fraying thread of reason that reminded her of her duty to these mountains, to this cold, barren land, to them, would prove too frail to withstand the silence that follows.

Or perhaps she was growing old.

She picked a stray thread of their robe from the rumpled sheets beside her. Crimson brightening to gold, like a silken strand of sunrise. "I wish you would stay for another day."

"And trust the rabble to run themselves? Perish the thought." Alsal scoffed, shaking their hair away from their face. It fell in wild curls down to their waist, held loosely in it's bejeweled clasp. "You're lovely, Aranea, but we both need Blacklight intact."

She couldn't help but laugh. That pride of theirs was an anchor. She was scarce the only mer to moor her hope to it's tether, to rest her endurance against it's shore.

"Write to me." They said. "Let me know if you need something. I've told Zennat to keep an eye out."

They paused at her bedside, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. Their thumb traced a wrinkle at the edge of her nose.

Two hundred years. Two hundred more.

"Alsal," Aranea reached across the silence of gods and caught their hand in hers. "Haven't you done enough?"

Their eyes softened. The iron fist at Redoran's helm was but skin and warmth between Aranea's fingers. Only a hand, roughened from war and the ceaseless toil of rebuilding, only one, like hers, that bore the scars of Azura's love, only the salt and ash of the sun's return, the last surety in a storm-tossed sea. One day, they would bury her with it.

When she pressed her lips beneath the moon-and-star, Alsal was almost, almost mortal.

Alsal dipped down to kiss her forehead, their touch lingering at her cheek. When they pulled away, their ageless face was the sun, again, the sun with eyes of raw ruby, dusted with freckles she never tired of tracing between her fingertips. Their smile was again a sudden thing, reckless and sharp as a bolt of lightning.

"I'll have done enough when I'm dead."

Palm still cradling the empty air between them, Aranea sighed.

#alsal selaren #aranea lenith #morrowind #eeeeee here we go #well #technically its #skyrim

5 notes · View notes

ruiniel · 2 years

Text

Endless - III

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Rating: M

Relationships: Maedhros/fem!OC

Characters: Maedhros, Celegorm, Curufin, Maglor, Caranthir, Fingon, Fingolfin, Amrod, Amras, Original Elf Character(s), Sauron, more to be added

Tags and warnings: alternating POV, Recovery, Trauma, Beleriand, The Sindar, The Noldor, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dehumanization, Flashbacks, Past Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst, Mental Anguish, Survivor Guilt, Past Abuse, Alternate Universe, Psychosis, Internalized ableism, POV Original Character, Maedhros POV, more tags coming

Also on AO3

Heceldamar(Q) - Beleriand

Angamando (Q) - Angband

Moringotto (Q) - Morgoth

Chapter warning: angst, depictions of death and severe mental anguish. Strong alternate universe elements (I've taken liberties).

III. Breathe

On his slow way back, the bite of the cold upon his face helped Maedhros regain coveted shreds of inner balance. His most recent intruding recollection had shaken him in its revolting potency, as happened often against his will. He always fought them, but more often than not these pitiless recounts of the mind further enmeshed him in mires past, impairing the fortitude needed to rule, to function, to be. Far from an easy feat it was, but he wrapped the unraveling threads of himself around his stitched pride — if nothing else, it put the chief trait of their House to some good use, Maedhros deprecated with a shade of dark wit.

Now, nodding to guards and others milling about the paths, he breathed easier, and other thoughts emerged. Mainly, he lamented the drear mood that clung to him like a leech all evening through dinner, not only for the sake of his brothers but also regarding the newcomer. Now, capable of a wider perspective, Maedhros had to admit such behavior as he displayed had not been his best diplomatic moment.

Sighing in irritation at himself, the son of Fëanor walked ahead to reach his marquee. Sometimes it struck as amusing, though in a macabre sort of way, to compare the present to the person he'd been in fair Tirion; the years spent as his father's shadow absorbing all teachings like the dutiful son he was, always eager to please, driven by that same thirst for knowledge and mastery. He saw the softness of his mother's smile, heard the strike of her chisel on dusty afternoons when her eldest son would be her apprentice, her model, her Maitimo. A bitter smile cut his face, for the fouling of that name by lips that used it since, grinding it like salt in the torn wounds of his mind. All he had known, all he'd been before Angband now appeared as the most transparent of mind visions, sent from someone intimately familiar and still so fleeting, so achingly foreign. Faded memories lapped at his heart, flotsam of a once careless life limned in silver and gold at the feet of the Valar.

Maedhros shivered, returned to the wintry mists. These wild lands became their home, and his folk pursued their goals, yet in sight, though unfulfilled. And when the Elf saw the liveliness, the strength and resistance of a people once lost to him, when he heard the laughter of children rise to the steely heavens, Maedhros remembered who he was, what his return meant, and why sinking in despair would never be an option. It would shame Fingon's valiant effort, and it would please them.

Never. Maedhros nursed this resolve while passing many dwellings in the making, walking under the sheer blue light of tall lamps whose unquenchable crystals hung in fine chain nets; more memories of Eldamar.

But here, plans for streets had been drawn, and fields had long been parsed for farming since the early days of the Sun when Fëanor's followers moved to the southern side of the great lake. Few were glad to forgo their toils, but their honor and shame proved enough incentive to yield when Fingolfin came to Mithrim. They had left their first settlement to the larger, exhausted, and justly irate host, not only to make space but for the enmity acting as a wall between them.

Now, work had begun on dwellings of wood and stone as the Fëanorians slowly rebuilt their lives and forged alliances — notably with the local Grey-elves and even a few tribes of Avari, their long sundered brethren on Middle-earth.

A miasma of death, of putrefaction, struck his nostrils, tearing Maedhros from his thoughts. He stopped short, seeking the source; his lithe body tensed, and he jerked back by instinct.

To the side, not far off, lay the stiff carcass of a great raven. Many creatures of flight choked on the poisoned fumes carried by the ever-winds from the Peaks, and each year the blight only increased in severity. This was not a rare sight but the reek was sickening and heavy, and with slow steps Maedhros went and stood before the unfortunate beast, staring at the curled claws, the near-featherless, tattered remnant of a once living thing. One wing was in an awkward, twisted position, possibly broken during the fall, and his lip curled in bitterness as Maedhros observed the most overlooked victim of Morgoth's pestilence. He glanced behind him to the far-off end of the encampment where waste bonfires were being lit for the evening. Between his cane and his missing hand, he lowered his head and turned to go inside.

He strode before his desk and propped his cane against it, then seated himself. Slowly he cleared it of the ink-drenched paper and emptied inkwell, unlucky casualties of his thwarted writing attempt. His right shoulder and joints ached effusively, his arm not yet accustomed to being free of a sling for longer periods of time.

He nodded to a servant who had asked for entry and customarily brought in drinking water and a bowl of dried fruit, placing them on a table nearby before asking if he needed anything else. As the youth bowed and left, Maedhros recalled how difficult it had been at first, once he returned to his senses, to be surrounded by so many beings, none of which wanted to harm him in the least. He sat back in his chair and stared at a notebook bound in red which he'd placed there before, the cover indented with the heraldry of his House. Maedhros wondered whether his newly assigned aid would grace him sooner than later. He winced, recalling his few words to her, and felt a sliver of regret. Unbefitting of his upbringing indeed, and he imagined his dear mother staring at him with a meld of mortification and regret on her graceful features.

If nothing else, a more evident show of manners was due, though it was true he was rather rusty on that front, as with many other skills proven useless in the depths of Angband.

Maedhros shook his head; this was no longer captivity. He was not among enemies seeking to destroy him, and it was high time to revive other facets of himself if he truly wanted to live; and living in the present was his aim, though Maedhros was uncertain he deserved such peace. As he waited and pondered, turning the issue over, the conclusion was the same. He had seen the look in her eyes, read the tension in her as the Grey-elf sat among them, these strangers to her lands; not to speak of the flash of stupefaction and — disgust? He was not sure — in her expression when Mithiel saw him. He could not blame her, or any of them, for he could barely glance at himself in a looking glass. This partnership might be shorter than any might expect, but whatever the outcome, Maedhros at least resolved to be kind.

He did not wait long. The soft rustle of material reached him, and he felt the other presence before she even announced herself; a more useful skill honed during his imprisonment, where knowing what manner of torment approached aided in scraping himself together in order to withstand it.

"Enter, lady Mithiel," Maedhros called, and two grey-clad arms parted the canvas, revealing the slight figure of the Grey-elf.

She stepped inside, pausing and bowing her head, and beyond tiring formalities Maedhros spoke. "Please," he gestured to a chair placed before his desk as Mithiel neared and stood facing him. "Thank you for coming."

She was swaddled in many layers of thin cloth, all shades of grey and blue, from the dark cloak she now discarded to the pewter tunic and the long, multi-layered kilt she wore. Mithiel brought her weaved silver plait over one shoulder, and sat down. "One cannot dismiss a king's summons." Her voice was assured, her accent strange, though not altogether unpleasant to the ears. Her pale grey eyes shone like stars set in her moonshadow face. Maedhros noticed how she stared at him almost willfully, as one set to prove their courage.

Something teemed in his chest, up his throat, straining the muscles in his face. "Yes, well, I wish to…" She was tired. She must be. He would keep this short. "First, please forgive my earlier brusqueness. I am not at my best."

Her lips parted, but no words came out at first. Swiftly, she rallied, and Maedhros thought he saw a faint upward curl of her lips. "A king apologizes?"

The strain on his face increased, fighting against a smile. "A king does what is right. Do you accept my apology, such as it is?"

She looked down at her hands, frowned, then glanced up at him again, and her eyes strayed over his face, in particular where the scarring hurt the most. She nodded, then cleared her throat. "And what did you wish to discuss, lord?"

"Our… collaboration, and your aid," Maedhros began. "It is late, but really I merely wanted to meet you and clarify a few things regarding your tenure."

Mithiel shifted in her seat, her eyes drawn to his handless wrist resting on the desk. Maedhros also looked. "I lost it on the Peaks."

Her eyes were on him again. "They captured you."

Maedhros bit the inside of his cheek. "I was a prisoner of Moringotto for several years." She swallowed at that, and Maedhros felt even more tired.

A crease formed between her silver eyebrows. "I have known others who survived that place."

Now it was Maedhros' turn to be amazed. "You did?"

"Yes, lord. A few of our own people, one of the Avari. They had, somehow, escaped the iron fortress."

Escaped. Maedhros actually smiled then, no longer able to fight it, but it must have been jarring as her eyes widened briefly before her expression settled into crafted blankness. "Pardon me, Mistress, but I tend to think they were set free, rather." Mithiel now well and truly squirmed in her seat, but Maedhros plunged forward, "And what were they like?"

"My lord?" She clasped her hands together tightly in her lap.

Maedhros waved his good hand in the air. "Did you heal them, did they revert to their old lives?"

"N-no, my lord," now she looked supremely uncomfortable, and Maedhros let her. A slender hand she placed to her chest. "I mean, yes, I healed what physical ailments I could. But…"

Despite himself, Maedhros insisted, "But?..."

"They were not the same. And our people, fearing the worst, shunned them, believing them spies of Moringotto and drove them away, or else they left by themselves, wandering the lands. I never saw them again." Her eyes locked on his.

Well. He should feel so lucky. A shade of sympathy took him, for ones Maedhros never met but like him, had tasted the rust and whip of evil firsthand. "And what do you believe?"

A pause. "About what, lord?"

They stared at each other, and Meadhros found his interest piqued on the topic, perhaps more than proper for a first meeting, or his own good. Patiently, he asked, "Do you believe they could, at one time, return to themselves, after Angamando?"

Mithiel pressed her lips together, head dipping to stare at her hands again. "I do not know."

Maedhros looked at his desk, rubbing at his temple. "I expect there will be a schedule you want me to follow," he changed the subject, showing them both mercy.

Her words and face held unmistakable relief as Mithiel met his gaze again. "That is correct, king Nelyafinwë."

"And... would you share it with me, so that I may see what you have in store?" Maedhros asked.

"I will, as soon as I have it ready." She paused at his questioning expression, then continued in a placid tone. "I will have to see you first. I must learn of your current state and habits."

His current state. Maedhros smiled again. "Very well. It is late now, thus I assume we will postpone such activities for the morrow."

"That is a wise assumption, lord," Mithiel concurred, stubbornly holding his gaze; as if she had something to prove. "I must also speak to your healers."

"Easily achieved. And before you go," Maedhros added, "there is something I wanted to show you." He reached for the notebook on the table.

Mithiel peered down at the dark red tome trapped beneath his long, thin fingers.

"Here I have observations on the Grey-elven tongue written by my father, such as he could compile." Before he fell, bereft of his revenge. Maedhros added nothing else, assuming she might have heard the tale, and he was loath to recount it. Years had passed by the reckoning of this land, and like his return, Fëanor's stand was already a matter of song upheld by the more dedicated followers of their family.

"May I?" she asked, and at a motion of approval from him, opened the journal at will and skimmed over the elegant etchings.

"You can read the script of my people," Maedhros said, watching her hands slowly paging through the tome.

Her eyes flickered up to him. "Out of necessity. I've often aided my father and our clan in dealings with your hosts, and grasped it along the way."

Unknown skin markings of light grey adorned her fingers and the back of her hand, coiling around her wrist, snaking up beneath her sleeves. Maedhros frowned, his natural curiosity stirred, but he felt depleted enough to easily rein his interest. "Do the Sindar not make use of a writing system?"

"Most of our history and knowledge are kept in memory, and passed by oral transmission. A script was developed at one time, but as far as I know, it was not adopted across what you call Heceldamar."

Maedhros tapped long fingers on the table. "And how do tidings of other realms reach you?"

Mithiel looked up at him. "There are merchants from the South and East, or travelers who come to visit family. Word and tidings travel fast. Our chieftains also keep loose official counsel with Doriath."

"Doriath…" Maedhros repeated thoughtfully, tasting the sounds of the unfamiliar word. He almost asked for more, but stopped himself. After so much time, Elwë Singollo and his devices could wait for a little longer. "Thank you, for sharing your knowledge. Please, take the tome, study it. I trust you will find nothing in need of corrections, but I'm certain there is more to be noted. I planned to use this to support my learning; aside from your invaluable aid, of course."

Mithiel took the tome, a slight shake to her fingers. Maedhros felt contrition at her obvious discomfort and wondered if his brothers had taken the right approach after all. He expected her to rise and take her leave, but there she sat, merely staring at him; his face. Annoyance crept into his mood. "If nothing else, you may go," he said, hoping the mild dismissal was not lost on her.

Mithiel rose, slowly, "My lord, if I may…" she looked around them, as if in search of something.

Maedhros watched her, bemused. "What are you—..."

She walked over to the washing basin set on a stand, and retrieved a cloth, dipping it in water, then returned to face him and sat down again.

When she leaned forward, Maedhros froze, and his hand twitched on the table as she reached for his face. Her hand paused mid-air for a moment. "There is a smear, of ink, or whatever else, on your face," she bit her lip in concentration, and Maedhros held his breath, barely resisting the urge to brutally swat her hand away. His heart raced, but he nodded shortly, closing his eyes while Mithiel wiped clean the ink off his right cheek. He'd gotten accustomed to friendly, well-meant touch, but now, before a mere stranger, his body rebelled. Maedhros focused on counting slowly in his mind, striving to keep his ridiculous reactions at bay.

When she was done, Mithiel placed the cloth aside, rose, and bowed her head. "Is that all, my lord?"

Maedhros blinked up at her. "Yes, that is all. Come see me tomorrow, at dawn. If that is agreeable. I think my brother is to aid you with the rest."

"Lord Curufinwë has been most gracious," the Grey-elf said. She looked content to be dismissed, a sentiment Maedhros echoed with relish. She cradled the red journal to her chest. "Good night, my lord."

"Forgive me for not standing to accompany you out," Maedhros said, more custom than anything. When she smiled, it took him to the first nights he'd spent in Middle-earth, restless and driven beneath the stars.

"I can find my own way," Mithiel said, and with a last incline of her silver head, turned and left.

Alone again, Maedhros sat at ease, staring into space for a long while. Other prisoners escaping the Foe — now that had been news to him. Maedhros had caught glimpses of his kind in Angband, partners in misery, broken in ways that still rattled his bones with fury; bereaved of their identities, broken to mere tools for the use and amusement of Morgoth and his befouled creatures. He tried to stay in the present, to think of the future, but still Mithiel's words stayed with him.

They were not the same.

How could they be? But Maedhros himself was surrounded and cared for by his kin, valued by his people; that which Morgoth could never take away, no matter how many times the Vala had spewed that he was alone, that his brothers abandoned and sold him away. The gurgle of lies in his ear during those years was a dark stream that fed his desolation until it festered, but no longer. He would not break beneath the yoke of Morgoth's wiles—

Loud, slow clapping like the shock of thunder startled him.

"Such brevity! Such guile."

Maedhros surged up from his chair so fast he knocked it over, ignoring the agony in his unused limbs. Ramrod straight, he stood, all nerves curling from a sudden onslaught of power hitting him like a tidal wave. That voice. That voice.

No.

It hurt, it ached to hear it, and the pain shot through him with spikes of steel as slowly Maedhros lifted his gaze. "Y-you…" he shook his head, viciously, desperately. "This is not real," Maedhros spoke, shoulders shaking, his face turned bone-white. He blinked several times, but whenever his eyes opened, there stood Morgoth's lieutenant, shadows licking at his feet and his pristine black robes, his gaze of golden flame and rictus of wildfire. "You... you are not here. You cannot be here."

Sauron slowly tilted his head to one side, a sneer set in icy appraisal. "Perhaps. But how are you to know?" The mask of emotion softened, cast in the tolerant smile that haunted his memories. "I have it on good authority," the Maia said, "that you cannot be certain of much these days, can you, Maitimo?"

The Elf staggered and fastly stumbled to the weapons rack set to the far side, where many two-handed swords lay gathering dust. Maedhros reached for the nearest blade with his left hand and it wailed a metallic hiss as it was drawn from its scabbard; turning, he rushed forward and swung. The pitiful strike fell heavily on thin air, dully cutting through the thick carpeting on the floor.

"A warm welcome for an old friend," Sauron startled him from another corner of the tent as Maedhros' gaze snapped upward. "We miss you, lately, on the Peaks, you know," the Maia drawled and took a few soundless steps as Maedhros watched in horror, left hand sweating around the grip of his weapon before the blade fell from his grasp; all the memories, all the struggles of those miserable, lightless years wrung him of hope and bled him of peace. He shook his head, eyes wide with disbelief as straight lines curved and reality swayed, then shattered like glass, leaving him trapped between the shards.

He saw the cast of the iron crown, heavy and grotesque, with the burning lights resting on the brow of his bitterest foe. They gleamed eternal, beaming down upon him, careless and out of reach. How they seemed to taunt and reject him, and how he coveted them as retribution for all the deaths, the darkening and the grief, for his grandfather and the scattering of his father's ashes unto foreign winds. For the bindings twice sworn into his blood.

For the murders.

Desperately he craved absolution, and like a broken thing Maedhros hung beneath those merciless rays, a fly caught between radiance and the endless presence of his enemy.

"I despise their blasted, inane light." Perfect lips curled in a smile turned wistful as the Maia watched him. "I must have told you this before." He lowered his head, observing Maedhros beneath a hooded gaze. "Do you ever miss our times together, Maitimo?"

Maedhros closed his eyes, running fingers through his hair, powerless in this fight with the voice so real, so close, the stench of entrails and gore and spilled seed bringing him to a cower as his spine bent and he succumbed to a fit of gagging.

Sauron watched, the epitome of bored indifference. "Oh, please. Do not be coy. I remember you rather enjoying yourself," his gaze was thoughtful as the Maia brought a finger to his chin in contemplation,"... once or twice."

"Begone, chimera!" the Elf growled, having shuffled to his desk and propping his palm against it to ground himself, dangerously close to hurling his dinner as recollection struck the corners of his mind; a bane and a noose, ever tighter around the straining muscles in his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut, lips moving soundlessly in hapless prayer, as he had done all those years of capture before hope withered.

"But I am always here. And, knowing you, it will only ever be you and I," the Maia concluded, triumphant. "Because, sniveling weakling that you are, it terrifies you, does it not? That your heedless kin might learn of what vile, filthy things their eldest brother was capable of doing… merely to survive," he purred the last word like sin.

Iron cuffs dug blood-rust into his wrists and ankles, and the flesh ached on his bones. Shame and loathing pricked his eyes and his scars itched, and the brand on his right forearm burned with renewed vigor. "I did not do those things," Maedhros murmured, trembling but unable to move. Strands caught on his parted lips before he raked shaking fingers through his sweaty hair. "They were done to me."

"Hah!" Sauron huffed. "You think yourself so wronged, but I've seen your mind, elfling. You plunged your sword through Teleri necks, you shoved them into the sea!" the Maia added, his voice gilded in mock awe.

Maedhros covered his ears, his mouth twisting in a soundless scream. He whimpered despite himself when the voice turned sharper, closer, louder, as though echoing off stone, and a shadow engulfed him, and pure fright burrowed in his marrow.

"Let us see…" Sauron went on, "your inaction and failure to gainsay your deluded father led to the near destruction of your kin. You convinced your brothers to heed our parley, you vain fool, and now look at you. All of it, including the pitiful wreck you've become, reeks of poor judgement, princeling. The truth lies before you. It rots your heart."

"Please, e-enough," Maedhros ground through chattering teeth, arms crossed to his chest as unseeing he swayed on his feet.

A cold, awful smile lit the dread captain's fair, stonewrought face. "Maitimo, Maitimo, what am I to do with you?" He sighed. "I always did like the way you beg..."

Maedhros choked on his own breath and brought his hand to his mouth, blinked again, and lifted his gaze.

The candleholders flickered on a last, cursed whisper of his name, casting long shadows across the canvas, the silence rent by drips of candle wax falling to the floor.

Maedhros pulled himself upright and dragged his feet outside into the chill of night. Images melted before him, the bane's words chanting in his mind, and he brought his hand to his face, shoulders slumping. Looking before him, there was only darkness. Nothingness and slimy halls; shrieks of the fading and the abused falling on deaf ears. He watched the menacing gait of his tormentor approach, and Maedhros faltered back, struggling weakly as he was taken by the shoulders.

"Russo, here you are!"

There was no fresh pain, only the new voice, and one word; a red word infused with care and warmth. He thought he heard…

"Russo!" it came again, and through the tangled weave of his mind Maedhros met the stark grey eyes set upon him; he knew them. Features emerged from the shadows, and he fell forward, smelling the scent of lavender soap and treated leather.

It could not be. "F-Finno…?" he mumbled, feeling hands tugging him closer, and he would have struggled more if only he could.

"None other," Fingon said, his voice soothing as he slowly drew back to look upon his cousin with mounting concern. "You look terrible."

Maedhros mutely stared at him, jaw clenched, and a sound like sandpaper issued from deep in his chest.

"Breathe," Fingon hedged, his dark brows furrowed, leading his kin away to a wooden bench set close to a pathway. "Breathe, cousin. Trust me. All will be well. Trust me. It always is."

Part II Part IV

Footnotes & headcanons

Going by the timeline in the Grey Annals any range between 24-34 Sun Years spent in Angband must have left a deep mark on even an Elf born and raised in Aman. Severe forms of stress, physical duress, and psychological torture such as Maedhros might have been subjected to, may render individuals more vulnerable to developing a wide array of psychoses, which are in turn linked to a plethora of underlying/triggered conditions.

And wasn't Fingon on the northern side of the lake? He was supposed to be, but… Fingon is Fingon.

On the escaped/released Elven thralls, there are mentions of this during the Siege of Angband and after the Dagor Bragollach, and we even have examples later (Gwindor who did escape). I found it safe to assume Morgoth used it as a general practice with his captives, even before the Noldor arrived. I always found this part chilling:

"for Morgoth used some of these for his evil purposes, and feigning to give them liberty sent them abroad, but their wills were chained to his, and they strayed only to come back to him again. Therefore if any of his captives escaped in truth, and returned to their own people, they had little welcome, and wandered alone outlawed and desperate."

-The Silmarillion, Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin

The script Mithiel mentions uses letters called Cirth, entirely made for carving on surfaces. Daeron of Doriath tried to standardize these into the Certhas Daeron which were used in Menegroth, but not throughout Beleriand (more popular among the dwarves!).

#maedhros x oc #ruiniel:fanfiction

5 notes · View notes

isleofgont · 4 months

Text

The Hurting Kind by Ada Limón