23. Kill: XXI
over and over, in my ears like sirens, for
the age my feet have warmed
this dust. I have seen
my youngest son's namesakes spring up
over the land,
like flowers to perfume his memory,
to bury my heart
in the earth's corner that is him.
They call these creatures, these yrch, your children.
What did you feel when the first one died,
killed blind by a shaft of righteous anger?
Morgoth, I will fight you.
(I will fight you.
I will fight you.
I will fight you.
I will fight you.)
I will fight you and die,
because I do not want to live.
It is a strange feeling for one whose
only gift from God was life. But I say to you now,
this immortal does not want eternity.
Catch. Here goes. All yours.
I have more than I ever thought to ask for, lord Black.
I am King. King! High King!
I have a son and daughter who love me
dearly, despite the uncounted distance
between them and me,
that prevents them from dropping by
to chat, what cheer, dad, even once
in thirty, thirty-five years. I have a wife who, thanks be,
is safe from violence and my embrace
in a land that used to shine.
Anairë, Anairë, I love you, my heart.
Watch over me.
I wish you were here now, only so
that I could place my head between your legs
and force myself back, back into a womb. Any womb.
I do not want to be cold.
Mother. I'm sorry.
I will strike this god at least once
for my father, your husband, who came to you
from the depths of despair.
Ah, Finwë. Indis.
I can see it so clearly.
The kiss, the explanations, I've always loved,
and what of Mír - oh. Oh, my lord, we must remember
her always. And the little darling, he will
smile again, perhaps? With brothers, sisters, mother again,
though not in that order, no, not necessarily. Laugh.
Mother, we are such imperfection.
I want not imperfection, sir. Strike two.
Are you counting? I have
my nephew's eyes. A pair.
Two blows for that, just two, for I
am too tired to separate the hurts that reel from them,
like needle-rain on the sea under a thunderstorm.
Grey seas. I wanted, yes.
But nothing from those eyes.
It will pay for my march too, in all fairness, you villain.
Marring, pain, exhaustion, cold,
death, life, death, life, life.
Maiming. Or no, technically,
that was my son's doing.
One more for my Fingon.
Because he is too good to deserve
what is coming to him.
Because I once showed him a vision,
of his own smile beside another's, a stunning
Sinda songstress, raven-haired
A child with dimpled knees who sped into his arms,
as children are wont to do with Fingon,
calling him Father, atarinya!
and his uncles coming to visit, the little lad laughing
at Finrod's games, Maglor's songs,
curling copper hair around his chubby fingers -
And my eldest boy laughed, and cried, and shook his head.
One strike for Ereinion,
may Angrod and Orodreth do well by him.
And before I go,
to sleep or retribution,
one more blow I will allow myself,
for I believe in numbers,
and seven always intrigued me.
My brother had seven sons.
Ah, Morgoth, you, too, fight
Curufinwë's war. That is not to say
I do, (certainly not!) but he was my brother,
and I did love him, in a way.
It was very painful.
I have seen the best elves of my generation destroyed by madness...
One last strike, on the tender sole of your foot, mayhap.
No, not for my brother, for madness' sake merely,
for the fey laugh, and the far-seeing eyes,
and the terrible beauty of his cries,
as he came forth seeking, and died,
as I came forth seeking, and to die.
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