longing by Harp_of_Gold

longing

Written for the SWG Dip the Ladle Challenge for this prompt:

How shall I tell thee, thou hero young,
Of all my grief so great?
Though every day the elfbeam dawns,
It lights my longing never.
~ Poetic Edda, "Skirnismol," 4 (translated by Henry Adams Bellows)

Read longing

“Priesthood is about longing,” Mairon told his young attendant-in-training. “Priesthood is about giving up everything and everyone you love in service of Someone so infinitely greater that pleasing Him is worth every grief and every sorrow you can experience.”

“How do you learn to love Him so much?” the young man asked. “I want to be worthy of our Lord. I do love Him, but I know I could do better.”

He had potential, Mairon thought, a slow smile growing behind the veil of black silk gauze he always wore. “There’s always more you can give Him,” he said thoughtfully. I know it’s never enough, he whispered in prayer. And again he whispered, I’m sorry. He was never sure to whom he said it. “What you must do is look for where it hurts most to give. The measure of the hurt you can offer Him is the measure of your love.”

*

The little girl walked with steady footsteps toward the altar that already streamed with blood. The guards held back someone wailing near the temple doors—her parents, perhaps. Her white gown gathered a growing red stain about the hem as she made her way up the stair. She smiled up at Mairon and his attendant.

“My brother’s going to be the best priest for Lord Melkor ever.”

His attendant raised his finger to his lips to shush her, but Mairon held up his hand and went to meet her, dropping to one knee. “I’m sure he is. I’m very proud of him. And proud of you. Did he tell you what’s going to happen?”

She nodded shyly. “He said I’m going to meet Lord Melkor tonight, and it will hurt a little, but then nothing will ever hurt again and I’ll be in the beautiful darkness with our Lord and be happy forever.”

“That’s right.” Mairon smiled. “You should be very happy to go to Him. You have to tell Him something when you see Him, all right?”

She nodded once more, and Mairon bent and spoke into her ear. “Ask Him to smile upon his true servants, and tell Him his servant Mairon does everything for Him.” Laying his hand upon her head in blessing, he enspelled her with just enough power that she would not take fright, and he led her to the altar and lifted her upon it.

“I give the knife unto your hand tonight,” he told his attendant, and the young man nodded solemnly. Around them the voices of the singers rose, echoing back and forth in the high vault of the temple, aching with desire for holiness.

“It is an honor, my lord.” He held steady as he drew the blade across his sister’s throat, but when her last breath fled, he dropped his head to her chest and wept bitterly.

“You have chosen well,” Mairon murmured for him alone. “You have shown great love and devotion, and our Lord will see it and be pleased.”

He must, Mairon told himself desperately. He must. Or all is vain.

When all was finished, he went up to the temple height, where he could stand and look out on the black night where it met the edge of the sea. Blood and blood and blood unending, and still it is never enough. Mairon was sick of holiness. He wanted to be touched.

“Tyelpë,” he whispered. “What have I done to you? What is it all for?” This was blasphemy, but he didn't see that it mattered. In the hollow cold that followed the rites, he could no longer hide from the emptiness of the sky above. Wearied and bloodstained and heartsore, he watched as Eärendil hovered above the horizon, and his light shone grey upon the waters. Once again, as always, the dawn gave nothing back.