Argh. Sorry this took so long coming out, it’s all Legolas’ fault. He’s too hard to write, and way to nice to understand right. Anyway, his part should be coming out soon, and the next part is already set just not written yet. Thank people for reviewing, I think I’m gonna cry from everybody who said this loved this, it really means a lot to me.
Special Thanks to Kyrri for getting me started again, and Jessie, aka The Ice Cream Assassin for backing her up and keeping me going. Don’t know where I’d be without your guys’ yells and emails, except maybe not working.
Warnings: Musing, slash ahead.
Disclaimer: Not mines. Bankrupt anyway.
Part 4 - Regrets
By Elbereth, by the Stars in the Heavens and the Valar over the sea, have mercy on my soul for I have failed. I have failed and I have fallen.
The blood runs true, it runs deep, and now I know it runs strong. I failed, I capitulated, I have proven myself to be of the same flesh and blood and mind that Isildur was, the same weakness to temptation.
Yet what burns my pride, what fuels my anger to point that I grip the handle of Anduril so tightly that the blood is stopped and I am deaf the aches and cold that wriggle and itch over my knuckles and palm, is that I fell so easily. That I might fall I always knew, I am a Man, and Men fall. Yet I had not wanted to fall so easily, so willingly, like a docile cow being led to slaughter with a placid stare and stupid smile.
I fell too easily. I succumbed too quickly.
Damn him and the ones that gave him birth and whatever progeny he happens to spawn and most certainly double damn the lame hare-lipped wench that will give birth to his children.
For some wench will. A Lady of most noble birth, and princess perhaps, and when and if Legolas is ever king or not he will most certainly be required to pass on the family name. I hate and despise this wench, this whore, this creature who does not yet have a face or a name with quite possibly my entire soul and heart.
For she will have something that it is foolish and dangerous for me to even dream. Of which I should not dream, yet cannot resist.
I am weak. I should be dragged off and hanged for it, and would do the deed myself and prevent the occurrence of a second Isildur in myself were it not for the possibility that my duty has not yet released me from a contract I never signed. Sauron must be defied, Gondor must be guarded, the Quest and Fellowship cannot break further, and…I should like, very much, for the Ring Bearer and his companions to live to old age.
So this weakness must be endured for yet longer, and the fell blood that runs in my veins hoped to be controlled, while my duty still yet calls.
Yet now it has made itself known to me, I know now what its limits are and am neither pleased nor reassured. I know how far I need to be pushed to fall, and it is neither far nor hard.
I touched him.
I was helpless to the urge, to the calling of his skin, the fever and ants that surfaced and sunk into the pads of my fingertips. I had wanted to for so long now, to learn the texture of it, taste the temperature of it…and I still do. I still feel the ice water cold of his blood, clear, chilling and foreboding, deadly in the dullest of ways. The strand of hair that had been the catalyst for my trial was far softer than silk, finer than hair on an infant, so fragile that it should have broken in my fingers. It should have broken; it did not feel strong enough. I still have the bruises on my wrist from where he gripped me, light gray marks on my wrist that pulse with beat of my heart.
I regret it.
I regret every second that I spent with suffering from the feel of frostbite from his skin, the fear that I would be discovered, the hope that he would open his eyes and see me, the urge to slake myself with his body, and the compulsion to run to the oceans in the West where none knew my name and never look back.
Yet he never awoke, my sin and intrusion remain hidden from his sharp grey eyes and my guilt lays a heavy yoke on my neck alone. I wish he did know, that he might harangue me and lay visible this weakness, this disease that I carry. I wish for him to take away the darkness that envelops my heart, the doubt that clouds my head, even if it means burning away my pride and dreams, and making me less than what I am now.
I want him to save me.
But I will –not- ask.
And now I will never have the chance.
The moment is passed now, I cannot bring it back. The moment was truly nothing special, yet phenomenal.
I gave in and had the briefest, lightest, most innocent of dabbling in the taste-texture of him and now I will never stop hungering for it. I know this in my heart, and the void inside me grows deeper, the ache stronger than ever, the darkness that lies even darker in contrast to the light of his heart that I shall never see.
I want him now, most certainly.
Before I had simply longed for him.
I could control it before.
What have I done?
I will get what want; I must get what I want, solace from this hunger, this fever and plague that ravages my skin and mind. I cannot live without it, and I am deeply ashamed of my weakness, of my own selfishness.
Of how much Isildur still lives in me.
I will have him, or I will go insane with the memory of what might have been, and perhaps go insane one day and take him whether he will or no. Such is a thing Isildur would have done, and did, to have others suffer for his own pleasure. Such is a thing I am capable of doing, this I know. That should not be allowed to happen.
I draw Anduril two inches out his sheath, strong and shining even in the shadowed light, wielded by Elendil the Tall, and possibly the only item of purity that I own, save Arwen’s pendent, which grows cumbersome and heavy as time passes. I long for her counsel, her gentle wisdom and words now, her light to ease the pain.
The gem now presses against the hollow where my neck is attached to my chest. I have a mind for Anduril to follow, except lower in my chest where he would be more efficient.
Would it be so terrible if I were to awake cold and bloody?
Anduril’s blade gleams seductively, dappled spots and lines glimmering where it had been broken and remade. It was beautiful, it would taste cold and deep, made of sure Westernese steel and iron. Elrond had taken pains that the sword resembled much the same as it did when Elendil bore it, using his own memories as a template. Another temptation, yet one that might not end so badly.
Would it be so terrible?
Yes. Yes it rather would. It would be blatantly cowardly for one thing, and while I feel deeply the sharp spears of fear I will not always go were they prod. It would be abandoning Gimli. It would be betraying Frodo. It would be razing Gondor.
And, as much as I hate the bastard, the fool, the arrogant little snit of an angel that has become my torment and desire…I cannot desert him, either. It would not be right, or fair to anyone, even to a demon creature such as him.
To make me want him. To make me lov…lust so deeply after him. Damn him. Damn him high and low, from the far west of Valinor to the east of whatever lands lie beyond the shadow of Mordor, damn him from the moment that he took his first breath to the moment he takes his last.
Damn it all.
What have I done?
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