10. Glass, Cut: IX
-- We have found ourselves –
-- We would like you to know ---
-- We love each other, and that is all that matters --
They lean out of their huddle, furrowed,
Wondering quite seriously what to say.
Maedhros, is this not amusing, you world-weary ever-young pretender?
He unrolls parchment, getting out his feather and inkstone,
Unroll, whip, whip. With straggling tongue on lower lip,
And quill in wet black ink, dip, dip,
“RECONCILING RELATIVES TO AFFAIR”
Ammë, we’re happy.
(They smile passing darkly. Oh, how we love irony.)
Think, one less heir from THAT House born.
Finwë: (Maedhros’ secret scribble in Sarati)
Yes, ‘Ta, F-I-N-D-E-K-A-N-O. The brave one, Right.
‘Maitimo, why must we do this?’
because, of course, it is the right thing.
We do everything right.
And the laws, the customs,
The Eldar who wrote them – we must fight for our place!
Bring it out into the golden, establish
ourselves and others like us -
We’ll call it…we’ll call it…
Maedhros, sparkling with joy at his mammoth task,
call it – upon our royal expression
-- the Purple Revolution!’
Fingon’s voice grown very small, asks
‘Why do we need laws in our world?’
He grows thoughtful,
roused halfway by the thought of such an intelligent question,
dampened by the impossiblity of a simple solution.
He rises to the occasion.
We need them for ourselves, dearest.
For how would we live, how would we function,
Without these great levelling injunctions?
Else we would have
Sweeping on hurriedly:
And everyone would do just
what they like – ’
Abrupt pindrop silence. The mind is in session.
Oh yes, he is mired himself. What now, Maitimo,
how to explain to oneself a law contradictory to the very land?
His mind prickles and burns.
is the country of everlasting good,
This is earth where all is as it should
be; we are the masters of our hearts
and they declare, they do declare
what parchment and feather and inkstone can NOT.
No, no; our hearts know best.
Have they – can we suppose – they could not have gone –
Maitimo, pacing, is now struck dumb.
Wrong, he realises. Wrong. Oh, the horror – wrong, wrong, wrong.
It beats upon his chest,
I am marred! He is marred!
Our bodies sweat to devil’s music!
We are not harps and viols and ‘cellos, oh no
we are screeching metal kitchen implements.
Wait. It cannot be. He is on our side.
Yes! How could I forget?
His dream, my lover’s dream,
That mighty, pure…
His fingers are stained. Black ink, have us sink.
‘Maitimo, Maitimo!’ Fingon is alarmed.
‘I did not mean to offend, or unhand you.
Is your fever uncoiled again?
Dusk lengthens once again.
They sit, watching their shadows
hold hands, growing taller.
Fingon holds unthinking calm,
Maedhros wonders, the first in Aman to think
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