Another Lie about Love by Naltariel

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Chapter 1

Another Lie about Love

Another Lie about Love

 

No thorns go as deep as the rose's,
And love is more cruel than lust.

The heavy door creaks softly as I push it open. The room is gloomy, lit only by a candle on the table beside his bed. The dim light casts eerie shadows everywhere, as its flame dances peculiarly, succumbing to the rhythm of the wind. It is the new moon, the last descendant of Telperion is not lessening the darkness with her cold light as she usually does. Although few years have passed since I was forced to accustom myself to the darkness of nightfall, I still cannot find any liking in it. Many things have changed after the destruction of the Trees, and this slight discomfort is the lightest aftermath of all. But I know that even if I could still enjoy constant brightness in Aman, I would not hesitate to forsake the pleasure in order to follow him. I close the door ere I turn to face the sleeping form on the bed. There lies Maedhros, my cousin, for whom I stained my hands with blood, endured the cruelty of Grinding Ice, and risked my life to save him.

 

I look at him with a tear in the corner of my eye, threatening to wet my cheek. He used to be strong and valiant, determined and fiery, burning like his father, though with a softer flame. Now, he is so vulnerable, weak, unguarded, as if it were not he lying there,  but someone disguised as the eldest son of Feanor. Cursed be his father who brought this anguish upon him by his crazed obsession! Cursed be Morgoth who tormented him so! Cursed be me, who cut his wrist, and crippled him forever!

 

Kneeling down at his left side, I take his hand and kiss its knuckles one by one. “My love,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. He is unconscious, intoxicated by the drug given to him to ease his pain. The pain I caused. The pain that will last forever. Gently I fold back his left arm and take his bandaged wrist, kissing it over and over again, tasting the bitter salve mixed with my salty tears, which I cannot hold much longer. “Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me,” I say. Tears are streaming down my face, wetting his bandage, but I care not. I grip his hand hard, impulsively, until he flinches and moans in pain. “I am sorry,” I say, putting his arm back to his side ere wiping away my tears. He stirs, but remains unconscious.  The healer said he would not wake up for about a day or so. 

 

“Kill me. Please, just kill me.” He suddenly whimpers and trashes in his delirium.

 

“Shh…It is over. You are safe now,” I whisper to his ear. I take his hand in one of my own hands, while the other caresses his hair. He eventually calms down, and his chest moves steadily. My tears flow again, as his sudden cry brings back the unwanted memory of the most relieving and traumatic day in my life.

 

 

“O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!”

 

I had never expected my plea  to be answered, and so immediately granted. Who was I, or he, that Manwe would show mercy upon us? We were but kinslayers. He, on behalf of his father. And me, on behalf of him. But I did not tarry much longer. Sitting on Thorondor, I let him carry me to my beloved, suspended by his right hand, tortured for years.

 

I reached him within seconds, for the wings of the eagle were strong and swift. My heart was crushed to dust when I saw him. His tormented body was trashing in vain, hungry, thirsty, aching. He was in deep pain, body and soul. I could see it in his eyes.  Cursing was never my habit, but that moment, I spat out the darkest and cruelest words I could think of, while desperately trying to release him from the bond. But the foul metal strip was too strong; my sword was useless against it. I suspected that the accursed Dark Lord had put some dark magic into it.

 

“Please, just kill me. Please, cousin,” he pleaded me, begging in despair.

 

“Never!” How could I kill him? How could I end the life of the very person I loved most? I had come this far for him, sacrificing everything, the land where I was born, my life, my people, my loyalty to the Valar. I could never let him go again, never.

 

I tried again and again, but it was useless. Thorondor was shifting uneasily beneath me, signalling his fatigue. I knew he was tired, and perhaps could not hold on much longer.

 

“Just kill me and leave, Findekano. Save yourself!” he screamed with what was left of his fading strength. His despair, if it was possible, was deepening.

 

“NO!” I shouted. I was desperate. Silently, I prayed again. And again. But this time, nothing happened.

 

Maedhros free hand tried to grab my sword from me, in a desperate attempt to kill himself, but I yanked it back. “Kill me. Please, just kill me,” he wept, begging me with his eyes and voice. Thorondor was impatient, and I could sense he would soon falter if I did not hurry. But I could not leave him, nor did I want to kill him, nor did I want to…

 

“Nay!” I shook my head. I could not do this to him, this was too cruel. How could he face his immortal life ahead of him if he was crippled? No! But…

 

Thorondor shrieked, and attempted to fly away. “Wait!” I touched his back. “Give me one second.” He complied, giving me time to commit the very thing I loathed most in my whole life, but the only thing that could save his life.

 

Swinging my sword, I cut his hand above his wrist.

 

 

I do not know whether he is thankful or even angry at my decision. As soon as I cut his wrist and he fell atop of the eagle, he passed out. Thankfully, Thorondor was strong enough and brought us back to Himring. Maedhros was immediately attended by healers and I never saw him again until now. 

 

Will he forgive me? Will he understand that I did not mean to hurt him? I must wait until he is awake to find the answer.

 

He is sleeping peacefully now. I sit beside his bed, stroking his hair again and again. This may be the only chance I have to feel such intimacy with him, no matter how one-sided it is. I have been in love with him for a long time, and it is caused by my admiration of his character rather than his appearance. But this time, having the chance to observe him so closely, I cannot help but wonder at his physical beauty.  

  

It is no wonder that his mother named him Maitimo, the Well-Built one. He is so handsome, so melancholically dazzling. His skin is ghostly pale, marred here and there by some fading and fresh scars which he suffered under the hand of the Enemy. The battle scars, which only serve to demonstrate his heroism, as well as amplifying his masculine charm. His chest is bare - to allow his unhealed wounds to recover faster- exhibiting his perfect features, though his body is much thinner since the last time I saw him, worn out by suffering and lack of food. I can see the sparkling stars bestow their gentle light on his hair, forming a soft halo around him, as their light mingles with his own. A few tiny droplets of his sweat are glistening on his skin, assembled little gems which decorate his body. Only they are not diamonds, and the undesirable ornaments are a sign of pain and suffering, instead of precious jewelries.

 

I take a small towel and wipe the sweat from his body. I love him. So simple, for love requires no reason or logic, yet so complicated, for he does not love me. At least not in the way I love him. His affection to me is akin to his love for his younger brothers, protective and caring. But I love him still, and it consumes me day and night with its unyielding passion. It is a lie that one can love only with the soul, without fleshly passion, or at least I cannot. I desire him, ever since I know what the word means. And my desire is now peaking, as I devour his beauty with my eyes and feel the contours of his body under the cloth I am holding.

 

Overwhelmed by my feeling, I kiss him on his mouth, knowing that he will not wake up, nor remember. I desperately want him to return my love, to respond my kiss, to open his eyes and smile at me, glad to find me by his side. I want him to make love to me, to make me his own, to desire me as profoundly as I desire him. And in this moment I discover another lie, that love demands us to sacrifice without expecting anything in return. I do expect him to return it, in such a maddening way that I am almost willing to seize it from him. To have him, to make him mine, whether he is willing or not. I have given him everything, is it wrong to ask only this from him? He will not know and will not remember, but I will get, perhaps, the most memorable moment in my life.

 

I kiss him fiercely, my hands pinning down his arms, oblivious to his pain in my madness. He struggles, but I don’t relent. My lips find their way to his collarbone and his shoulder, down to his chest, and his nipple. He moans, but I ignore him. I cannot control myself anymore. Darkness brings the illusion of anonimosity. Darkness banishes any thoughts. I do not see his face, contorting in pain; I do not see his body, full of scars. I do not see him. There are only my desire and the object of my lust. I forget that it is his soul I desire, not his helpless body. I map his bare chest with my lips in desperate haste. I wonder how far I would have gone, had he not suddenly called out my name.

 

“Just kill me and leave, Findekano! I am not worth it. Go!”

 

His eyes are still tightly shut. He has been dreaming, probably about Thangorodrim. But it seems to me his words are his response to my selfish act. His words have jerked me back to my sanity. Surprised of what I have just done, I release his hands, and once again stroke his hair in a comforting manner. It is funny how love can be so selfish, I muse, laughing at myself. He is in pain, with a bleak future ahead of him as a crippled immortal, and all I am thinking of now is my own need.

 

There is a soft knock on the door. The healer is asking permission to change his bandage. I place a chaste kiss on his brow and rise. I have lost the only chance to make him mine. Yet, there is no regret in my heart. It is not a forced bodily reunion that I need, but a pure love from his heart. If one day he thinks I am worthy of his love, then let him give it willingly. As for me, I have been bound unwillingly by my love for him, waiting forever in obscure hope.

 

Love will set you free. I chuckle cynically, it is just another lie about love.

 

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Chapter End Notes

The quotation above is from Algernon Charles Swinburne's "Dolores"

A bunch of thank yous for Finch for beta reading and Nemis for checking the draft.

Originally published on FF.net on 2002.

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