Warnings: violence, torture, blasphemy
Disclaimer: Not mine.
On the first day Maedhros still hung suspended from the rock.
There were bruises on his hands, and feet, and face. The weight of his body pulled down on his wrist until it was numb. The metal of the shackle cut into him, covering his body with thin trails of blood that hardened in the sun's heat.
Once, a whip of metal had cut him, flaying him open until his body burned. Now Maedhros flailed, and pushed himself against the rough cliff to sharpen the pain in his wounds. Let this body bleed, so much has it failed. Let the blood stain the stone, and bear witness to the fall of the son of Feanor.
You are my well-forged son, Maedhros, Maitimo, my well-formed one. You are formed with skill, for so I have forged you, to be my weapon and my jewel.
What do you want? asks Melkor.
I want the Silmarils of my father, for it is to regain them that I was made.
I want to die in pain.
Evening fell and day passed, the first day.
The second day brought rain and fog.
No water can cleanse these open wounds, and no mist can loosen the dried blood. No pain can dull the knowledge of what Maedhros has done, blood-drenched silver hair by the sea shore and a friend, a once-beloved innocent friend, holding the blade.
Let the water fall. Let it speak the voices it cannot still.
For you I have come here. For you I have done this.
And how much rain must fall to quench the flame from a burning stolen ship?
In the distance, a song, like a child's prayer:
...Manwe, Lord of Eagles, Father
Guide my steps along my way
Guide my feet and guide my walking
Guide my night and guide my day...
I would sing, but what god would hear the prayer of such as I? And Manwe is no father to me.
Let the fire burn until all song is consumed.
You are now our leader, brother. It falls to you, now that Father has gone. Well-forged, well-formed, take his sword and take his vengeance, as before you did not fear to slay.
I want peace. I want an end. I want my death to be the last to fall upon my father's nameless grave.
And if I suffer, will I take it away? Could each wound on my body be one less death for another, one less drop of blood on a brother's knife?
When I throw myself at the stone it is your forging that I am marring, Father, your weapon that is becoming unmade.
Day passed, and evening fell, the second day.
The third day the stars shone like the light of the Silmarils before dawn. But then the sun rose, and it was not a Tree, and gave no shelter.
And what would be if Father were here? Would he mock his son, his ruined son, well-forged no more?
No. He would be here in my place. The shackle would grasp his wrist, and blood would run down to cover his face. His dark eyes would glaze, his hair would be matted and cold. He would dangle, purposeless, his legs hanging, his shoulder twisted, his body bruised and bare.
Melkor's knife would trace the outline of his body, pausing from moment to moment to go deeper. Father would not scream. It is not his way. The knife would flash, once, twice, above his chest. Not to kill, no, only to mar. A knife so sharp can remove a nipple in an instant while still leaving the wounded alive.
Take this pain, Father, let me return it to you, a present from your firstborn son.
His arm is twisted, his leg is bent. His tongue hangs limp in his mouth with no water or speech. What vow do you speak now, Father, with what oaths and what deeds will you damn us all?
Melkor's shadow falls, and covers me.
I want my father dead.
Evening fell, and day passed, the third day.
Patripassionism, or 'father-suffering,' is an early Christological heresy in which there is no clear distinction between the Father and the Son, and therefore it is the Father who suffered on the cross.