This is angst, and I'm going to say that right now. There's absolutely nothing fluffy about this fic like my TB ones

Let's just say I was in a pitiful mood when I wrote this, but I'm going to post it anyway

Warning: Blood and gore, adult themes, violence (implied), slash implied (look it up if you don't know what it is, cause it's not my prob if you don't like), angsting in general... There might be more than I'm not thinking of right now

Disclaimer: All of these elves belong to Tolkien and not me *sighness*

Btw: Maitimo = Maedhros, Macalaurë = Maglor, Findecáno = Fingon, Tyelcormo = Celegorm, Carnistir = Caranthir, Curufinwë = Curufin, Ambarussa = Amrod and Amros (I thought I should include these, in case someone wasn't aware who was who... it used to be a bit confusing for me as well, but I love their Quenya names and have to use them (and it's important in this story))

Bloodshed had become the way of life for them. It was something that Maitimo had long since accepted, a legacy left in their incapable, inexperienced hands by their fool of a father. Resentment boiled and twisted in his belly at the thought of his father, who was long dead. He'd shed nary a tear for the elf, and he never would at this rate. He wasn't even sure if he could cry anymore.

Snorting, he self-consciously tugged the cloak down to cover his handless arm. He needn't have bothered, though, as the only people here to see it were dead, their bodies scattered about at his feet. He should have felt something… remorse perhaps? Or maybe he should have been sickened. The feelings just wouldn't come to him.

All of this is wrong. His eyes took in the blood splattered walls, the puddles blanketing the ground. The whole world seemed painted scarlet to his grayed eyes. Bloodshed had indeed become his way of life, yet it amazed the part of him that was still himself that he didn't flinch from the sights and smells, that he didn't avert his eyes from the ripped flesh and mangled bone. To be truthful, the smells… the blood and entrails… the red world… it didn't seem nearly as horrible as a true battlefield. There it was different. There they were fighting for their lives, cutting apart the enemy in order to protect their people, or perhaps for their own selfish reasons in the case of his own family. On the battlefield the sights were even more gruesome, the stench chokingly putrid, and the bodies of the enemies monstrous.

Yet, Maitimo decided, this was a thousand times worse.

Because these bodies weren't rabid monsters that needed to be put down. They didn't die to protect others. They died because of one person's selfishness, maybe hundreds of years before they were even born, a person who they'd never met, whose name they might not even have heard in whispered conversations behind the pale hands of the gossiping ladies or in the private circles of warriors and sentries. No song had ever been composed to the sad story of the madness of Fëanáro after all.

His boots brushed against one of them, and he paused to look down upon the child-form. Was this really what it had come to? They killed these people—innocent maidens and children… the helpless minstrels in the gardens and the untrained advisors. Everyone and everything that got in their way was removed. It was insane… beyond insane. It was as if the whole world had turned upside down.

It is hard to imagine that we were ever happy, he thought bitterly to himself, stepping over the body irreverently. We are no better than the enemy we fight…. except, perhaps, we deal a quicker and less painful death blow. Oh yes… he knew all about that.

All they were now… they were murderers… kinslayers and sinners. Their oath had driven them to the very edge, until they were willing to sacrifice anything.

Not anything… I would not have given Findecáno. There was a time when I would not have given my brothers either, when I would have cared enough… Cared enough to be noble, to put a stop to their madness before it escalated into fateful tragedy. The mocking, cynical voice in his mind whispered that it was far too late for that.

It was probably right.

All that they begin well shall end in evil… how true those words are. A wicked smile stretched across his features. If he had looked in the mirror, no doubt there would have been a monster looking back at him with the same glowing silver-star eyes as his father had possessed, filled with fey light, bursting with it.

"My Lord!"

Maitimo paused in his descent through hell to look up at the young warrior with cold silvery eyes. He said nothing, but he could sense the elf's unease, like a creature which knew it treaded on dangerous territory. He waited.

"M-my Lord… T-Tyelcormo has fallen. He and the King both…"

Tyelcormo is dead… are you going to cry now? You practically raised him from the cradle, did you not?

It was surreal to his mind that no flood of searing pain came to his chest like when he had discovered the fate of the damned Ambarussa (His name is Umbarto, he reminded himself). Then he had wanted to scream, to rip out his copper hair and will away the nightmare that had been his life. Angband had rid him of such useless feelings. It was hard to feel anything there except pain.

"Very well," he muttered, "Take me to him."

His lack of reaction confused the elf, but the warrior did not hesitate to lead him through the twisting bowls of the once-glorious city of the Sindar. Doriath… he'd never had the pleasure of seeing it at the height of its glory. Elwë had not been fond of him or of his siblings and cousins. It was, he thought, rather a shame that the first glimpse he had of this place of beauty was layered in scarlet. Screams echoed through the caverns and run through his ears, but he didn't startle. He didn't even blink.

And upon the sight of his brother's skewered body, there wasn't a hint of emotion on his face. He stared curiously at his brother, whose silver eyes were still wide open, his mouth parted into a gleeful grin, golden curls spread like a halo around his bloodless face. Tyelcormo had looked like a ghost when he was alive. In death he looked even more ghastly. Maitimo crouched next to the body, lowering the lids over those dulled orbs and massaging the grin out of the frozen features.

"Maitimo! I have found you! I—"

Looking up, Maitimo caught the eyes of the second eldest. Macalaurë was staring at them as if he'd never seen them before in his life. The minstrel turned warrior blinked once… twice. Maitimo wondered why his brother was so shocked.

"He is dead," Maitimo announced in a flat tone. "Did the others find anything?"

Macalaurë shook his head almost wildly. "I have not heard." Strands of silken hair which escaped from his brother's plaited hair now hung in his eyes, hiding his features. Maitimo couldn't help but stare, seeing the pain in his brother's huge glistening eyes. At least one of us still has a drop of compassion in his blood. Then again, Macalaurë still had something to live for.

Findecáno… He is gone… Findecáno… The scars that riddled the useless stump of his right arm tingled and burned.

Unable to examine his brother's face any further, Maitimo scanned the rest of the open room. Curtains were torn and soaked, as were the beautiful, hand-woven rugs of silken thread. Delicate ornaments were thrown carelessly to the ground, probably as the rooms were searched for any sign of the Silmaril. Glass riddled the floor.

There were two other bodies in the room besides his brother's. Maitimo couldn't see the one near the door well, but he recognized that it was a maiden, probably Nimloth herself. White and amber lace and satin were all crimson now. He couldn't see her face through the veil of matted dark hair. The other was only a few feet away and easily recognizable by the silver braid that lay innocently beside his slack face. The King himself, Dior. If only he hadn't decided to defy them. Surely he should have known better than to trust the kinslayers to be moral.

"Did they not have children?" he asked curiously, heartlessly wondering if they were in the next room in much the same state as their ill-fated parents.

"Two boys and a girl," Macalaurë whispered. "I've seen no sign of any of them."

Humming his bland reply, Maitimo stood and ran a stained hand through his hair, uncaring of how sticky it became. "There is no point in staying here," he muttered. "Let us go and find the others."

Macalaurë nodded, looking shaken. Perhaps his poor, gentle brother was the only sane one amongst them, the only voice of reason. Only Macalaurë had spoken out. He was the only one now who made an effort to pretend that they weren't doomed.

One last glance over his brother's iced body was all Maitimo spared the wretched thing. It might as well have been a mercy killing. Tyelcormo had gotten what he wanted: a chance to strike out at the maiden who had scorned him so, even if it was through her only child. Tyelcormo had been the first to transcend the boundaries of right and wrong since the Kinslaying of Alqualondë. When questioned, all the elf had done was laugh until his throat bled, leaving scarlet trails down his bloodless lips, before proclaiming that he no longer cared.

He was not the Tyelcormo I had known. The child he'd known seemed all but a dream now, a tiny ripple in his endless, drifting memories. He couldn't remember what Tyelcormo's laugh had sounded like at all when it wasn't tinged in lunacy.

Only when he realized that Macalaurë was not following him did Maitimo pause, having barely reached the doorway. It seemed like they were an ocean apart, though, as he turned to see his brother standing still over Tyelcormo's body looking stricken. "What are you doing?" he asked, slightly annoyed.

"How could… I… Are you just going to leave him here?" Macalaurë burst.

"Yes." It was probably one of the most heartless things he'd ever said, but he really didn't care anymore.

His brother's mouth opened as if to speak… closed… opened again. But no sounds came out. They stared at each other, one looking horrified and the other… well…

"How could you? He is out brother, Maitimo! We held him the day he was born in our very arms! We lived in the same house, in the same camp! I taught him to sing and you taught him to ride a horse." Macalaurë's pure voice was rough.

"Our brother is dead," Maitimo spat. "He has been dead for quite some time, Macalaurë. If you had but opened those blind eyes of yours, you would have noticed sooner, methinks. Quit being such a sentimental imbecile and let us get going, unless you want to hold him in death as well."

Silver eyes swam with tears, but Macalaurë did not cry. His chin jutted out firmly. "Let us at least set him a pyre."

Grudgingly, Maitimo agreed.

Two more had to be made for Carnistir and Curufinwë. The fools had gotten themselves slain just like Tyelcormo. Maitimo stared into the flames of their deathbeds with unseeing eyes. He had not been able to burn his beloved this way, and Findecáno had deserved it much more than these three ever had.

Macalaurë glanced upwards with a grief-wrought visage. "Do you feel nothing at all, Maitimo?" he whispered.

"No…" he replied truthfully, "Nothing."

"Findecáno would not have wanted you to be this way. He would have—"

A strike across the cheek silenced his brother. Maitimo felt a tiny sting of remorse, which was quickly washed aside in his chaotic mind. "Do not bring my cousin into this."

"You were not the only one who cared about him, you know," Macalaurë spat, sounding resentful. "He was your best friend. He would not have wanted you to be this way because of him. It would have broken his heart."

"Stop with the sentimental nonsense," Maitimo growled. However, in the heart of him somewhere, he knew that Macalaurë was right. Findecáno would not have wanted this at all. He would have wanted Maitimo to be happy, to remain noble, to try and save what was left of his fëa.

Maitimo glanced down at his remaining hand, and then at the stump as he pulled it free of his confining, covering cloak. Only five fingers… only one hand… incomplete… like he was without Findecáno. The hole in his chest which he had tried to numb ripped itself open again. It was all he could do not to make a sound, not to wince and give Macalaurë the satisfaction of knowing that he'd gotten beneath his skin. Maitimo bit his tongue until he felt blood fill his mouth.

"My Lords…" It was a different warrior this time, his head high and dignified. Vaguely Maitimo recognized him as one of the warriors of Tyelcormo's close keeping. He spared the elf hardly a glance.

"Have you found any sign of it?" Macalaurë asked in his stead, his voice quavering ever so slightly with some burdened emotion or another.

The elf scoffed. "We believe that the princess fled the city with the jewel. They could be anywhere by now."

"And what of the princes?"

There was silence for a moment. Unwillingly, Maitimo found himself listening, having wondered much the same earlier. They could use the brats as leverage against their sister if they needed to. Surely some pure-hearted maiden would sacrifice a jewel for the sake of her young brothers, right?

Such cruel trickery would never have appealed to his old and noble self. With three of his brothers dead and his beloved gone, with only his father's oath left to cling to, Maitimo felt little compassion. Only the bleeding hole somewhere in the region of his heart reminded him that Findecáno would have beaten him senseless for even thinking such a thing. If his cousin could see him now… he could just imagine the disappointed look in those beloved blue eyes. Something inside him shattered.

"We left them in the forest." Maitimo almost missed the words. "Let the wolves have them, damn little brats, children of this filth. They call themselves royal." The elf scoffed.

What would you have done, cousin, if they had been your brothers? The strange new voice sounded like Findecáno. For a heart-stopping moment he'd almost believed his cousin back from the grave. But Findecánowas not there. It left Maitimo both shivering and burning.

What would I have done…? He tried to summon the memories of the twins before one had perished. They couldn't have been more different from one another, yet they had been attached at the hip. One had slightly darker curls of copper hair than the other. He could actually remember their laughter, but maybe only because he endeavored not to possess any memories of his younger brother's current state of pathetic loss.

I would have… I would have… Maitimo struggled against the rise in his chest, the bubbling of something acidic and painful. Damn him, why had Macalaurë brought this up now of all times? He wanted to reach around, to wrap his hand around the swan-like arch of his brother's throat and strangle him, shake him until Macalaurë learned never to incite his emotions again. His fingers twitched.

Findecáno flashed before his eyes. What would you have done?

I would have killed the ones who had dared harm them, and I would have brought them home and made sure they were well and safe, and tucked them into bed. Father never had the time to do that… it was always me.

He wasn't the same person anymore. Or so he'd thought, anyway.

The acidic feeling boiled up his throat. He tasted bile.

"—left two young children out there like—"

"—Sindarin rats, deserved what—"

"—could you? Have you no—"

"Where are they?" His interjection cut the verbal sparring at the root. The warrior looked at him as if he were mad. He probably was.

"It is of no consequence, my Lord. We are ready to move out at the—"

"Yes, yes, of course," Maitimo snapped, cutting him off. "Go about your duties and leave me in peace."

A hand grabbed his elbow before he reached the door. "What are you going to do, brother?" Macalaurë asked. Maitimo gave him a quizzical look, narrowing his eyes. Was that worry on his brother's fair face?

"Nothing you need concern yourself with, Macalaurë," he replied quickly, yanking himself free of the restraining hand. His mind was on something else, and realities were beginning to blur together.

He didn't wait for Macalaurë to attempt to stop him again. Before the other could catch him, he slipped back out into the sea of blood and sin. Only now everything seemed much more vivid, burning into his eyes. This time he didn't step irreverently over the bodies, but skirted about them, almost like a shy creature afraid to get his feet wet.

He would never forgive me for this. Thoughts of Findecáno ran through his head, stabbing like invisible needles. They were more painful than any torment the Dark Lord could thrust upon him. His hand ran through his damp hair again, clutched the ends almost painfully and yanking. How could he ever forgive me for any of this? How could he have forgiven me for the betrayal, and then afterwards…? Can he see me now from the Halls? Would he think of me as a monster?

He did not want these thoughts of his dead lover. More than anything, Maitimo wanted to forget, to leave that empty place in his chest numb and throbbing rather than bleeding, torn flesh being pulled apart by hands that couldn't be seen or pushed away. It felt like the black stain on his fëa would splinter him to broken pieces. Maybe it already had done so and he had only just been brought back to his senses, or lack thereof.

Looking around as he fled the city, he couldn't deny it. They were monsters of the worst kind, worse maybe even than the servants of the Dark Lord. At least those creatures had no choice. They had not walked the path to damnation willingly.

Find them… His twisted thoughts turned to the two young elflings. Maybe it was that it reminded him so of his brothers, but… he wanted to find them. He wanted to see them. Later he would drown back into his numbness and remain the same emotionless shell as before, but now… now he needed to do something.

I do not know if I can live with myself knowing that Findecáno would have been disappointed in me. He always thought of me as the strong one, the righteous brother. How wrong he was.

The unwanted, uncalled for emotions choked him, squeezing tightly around his chest until it felt like he couldn't breathe. Anyone who saw him would have thought he'd seen a ghost by the look on his blanched features.

Find them… then you can return to your pit of indifference again and stay there and rot like the sinner you are.

Hours later found Maitimo on the verge of literally tearing his hair out. Nothing… nothing… They had just vanished as if they'd never existed in the first place. His time was running short. Already he could hear the voices calling, knowing that they wanted to move on. But if he left… They will die out here on their own.

Why should you care? The vicious voice was back, struggling for power against his newly awakened conscience, trying to thrust aside the voice of reason which for so long he had believed in, the voice that wanted to protect his brothers and live up to the adoration which his lover thrust upon him. That voice had been dormant since Findecáno's death. Maitimo felt his temples throb mercilessly. He had screamed his throat raw quite a while ago and couldn't speak, but he hadn't given up, not even when it began to pour from the sky and his soaked form began to shiver.

How can I redeem myself in his eyes if I fail to even manage this?

Exhausted, his fingers clawed into the bark of a tree, pulling his body against it so his shoulder supported his trembling legs with admirable strength. His glazed eyes were fixated on the ground. He'd found nothing. He'd failed.

Mocking laughter burst from his throat. It didn't feel like his own laughter. It was raw and bitter, sounding as if he'd torn his throat out or tried to swallow a rose stem. "I cannot even do this, can I? Whatever possessed you to call me a pillar of strength, Findecáno? I am nothing compared with you." Findecáno had a strength of heart that he'd never possessed. It had filled him with warmth and hope, and it was gone.

It was gone the moment you took that oath, you fool! Everything was gone except your father's revenge!

He hated that voice.

His nails scraped and broke against the rough wood, but he didn't care. Nor did he care about the dirt that would stain his leggings as he knelt in the damp dirt at the foot of the tree. His head bowed, his temples throbbing even harder, pounding with his raging heartbeat.

Why can I do nothing right? Why?

But then… he knew the answer to that, didn't he?

Something inside him gave out, that little bit of traitorous hope drowned out by the furious stream of self-hatred and fear… hopelessness. Why did you have to leave Findecáno? His fingers tightened, and he ignored the sharp stabbing pain of splinters biting into his skin. I needed your strength.

Maitimo sat on the ground and laughed and laughed. He laughed until his throat was sore, until his laughter dissolved into sobs that came with no tears, forming painful knots in his throat.

By the time the sun had set, though, it was all gone, and his cold eyes had returned. Macalaurë stood waiting for him, silver eyes alert for him. When he pulled himself out of the branches, his bleeding hand carefully hidden in his cloak, his younger brother smiled tiredly. It didn't reach his eyes, though, which remained deep pools of sorrow. "You have finally returned, Maitimo."

He had to stifle a flinch at the name. That name had left Findecáno's lips more times than he could count, ever since his cousin had grown old enough to no longer be considered a child, when they had become equals… and later… lovers as well.

"My name is Maedhros," he growled. It was best to forget it all. He didn't know if he could survive remembering. "That is what I wish to be called… Maglor."

He thought perhaps he could see understanding somewhere in his brother's eyes, but he didn't think anyone could understand… not really. Maybe not even Findecáno. With his eyes shuttered, he moved into camp and turned his back on Doriath. He didn't want to remember what had happened here. This place… he felt as though it marked the first step of his descent into Fëanáro's legacy. All of this… it was true insanity.

Fëa means something similar to soul, for those who didn't know

I was in a bit of a mood when I wrote this... can you tell? *snort*

Review if you wish to