Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Angrod x Eldalótë
Characters: Angrod, Eldalótë (mentions Morgoth)
Warning: non-canon compliant, no character death, canon relationship, PTSD?, past non-con, prostitution, sexual slavery, mutilation and torture amongst many other questionable things
Song: Across the Line
Words: 1,258
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difficult (adjective): hard to do, make, or carry out; arduous; hard to deal with, manage, or overcome; hard to understand, puzzling
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/difficult
Many years it had been since they had been together as man and wife in the tender bliss of the Noontide of Valinor, and his love for she who held all his heart and devotion had not changed or diminished. Eldalótë remained his only flame in the darkest of nights, the white bloom that could not be stained with the blood or filth of his personal tragedy. The image that soothed his shattered spirit in the days when all he wanted to do was lie down and die for the shame and the horror.
Now, though, he was by her side again. His sweet blossom was showering her pale petals upon him, brushing her purity against his broken remains.
But between them the connection, once so filled to the brim with vivacious spirit, felt... different. Somehow wrong and stretched and strained and twisted uncomfortably about their throats. Something heavy rested upon their bond, an iron weight dragging at a spider-silk thread of understanding, bending it downwards until it strained with the tension.
And Angaráto knew exactly what it was that sat so heavily between them. Knew, but could hardly part his lips to utter the words. The reasons.
Why it was that, when Eldalótë leaned against his side in an embrace, his skin twitched with revulsion and his heart stuttered in primal terror. Why it was that, when she pressed a kiss to his bare flesh in tender affection, he felt the urge to flinch away as a skittish colt, to throw her violently off and flee.
Why it was that, when they lay together in their shared bed he could only wrap his arms about her and hold tight, languishing in her warmth and yet shivering at the distance. Wishing that there was more to be had, but unable to offer even the simple brush of his lips upon her temple.
He could not make love to her. Could not even kiss her.
It was... difficult.
His love for her had not changed or diminished in its most intrinsic form. If anything, he loved her more with each breath he breathed deeply into his lungs, so cool and full and sweet, reminding him off all the reasons he had never ceased to fight the inevitable defeat.
But touching her felt wrong.
Putting hands that had pleasured the Dark Lord intimately and disgustingly upon her pale, soft skin was a revolting sort of sacrilege. Kissing her with a mouth that had licked at the Dark Lord's toes made him nauseous and dizzy. And lying entwined with her in the same way the Dark Lord had lain entwined with his own shivering, agonized form in the wake of violent, visceral joining...
There mere thought left him gagging.
At first she seemed to understand that he needed space and time to recover from his ordeal. That there were some horrors he simply would not discuss for a long time, so fresh were they upon his mind. He had, after all, been pulled from the pits of Angband with a collar around his neck and manacles upon his feet. A slave and a toy to be played with until worn to tearing and then thrown aside as trash to be thoughtlessly discarded.
But he was afraid that delicate strand of understanding would snap beneath the weight of the stories and memories locked up inside. And so he had never told her the truth of the matter.
About killing those poor elves ravaged and rent to the bone, poisoning them remorselessly and watching the spirit drain from their eyes. Still, he felt not guilty for his actions, but the hands that had murdered his kinsman now squeezed her hand, painted her palms with their blood...
Had never told her the games of life and death played in the truest form of hell upon the earth. Had never mentioned...
The raping. The torturing. The watching. Being forced to choose which limb was to be removed from the body of his kinsman in his own stead, being held down and forced to watch as it was hacked free and blood flowed as a river over the floor to swallow him up...
Had never dared tell her of the Dark Lord upon his dark throne.
Of being upon his knees before that throne of iron and rust, chained and collared like an obedient dog heeling to his master. Of going to that bed, in which the sheets were stained burgundy, willingly in the way of lovers, in sacrifice for a greater purpose. Of sometimes lying awake afterwards, flesh scalded from rough touch and cheeks tear-stained with shame, but lower body throbbing with bliss... and humiliation...
It was difficult. For how did one explain?
It was not that he loved her less. It was that he loved her too much. Too much to allow her to sully herself by touching his hands, kissing his lips, joining with his unfaithful body...
She was that perfect blossom with the fragile, flawless white petals, the one hanging suspended against the forces of reality itself, lingering airborne above an ocean of blood and death. The little hope and the little prayer. The little thought that kept him alive in those days of hellish torment. And, with all his being, Angaráto prayed that not a single edge of her sweet petals would be stained by his own hand.
Not like those flowers he remembered so clearly within his mind, crumpled and scattered and soaking until they sank beneath the thick red blood and left him in silence, sprawled out limply across the cold floor, fading and stretching and thinning with the horror of what had been done...
Eldalótë was a holy creature to be guarded, protected and cherished with every ounce of one's being. But never harmed. Never dirtied. Never disrespected. Not by the man who loved her more than his own life and breath.
But she still tried to kiss his lips. Still tried to hold his hand. Still tried to seduce him into their bed.
Did not understand.
And he could not explain.
In an endless loop they spun, of confusion and remorse and wishes long past their due-date. One never quite reaching the other as they were thrown outwards, holding on to their own frantic downhill tumble for dear life. And Angaráto knew not how to slow their velocity, to take away the momentum that only seemed to build and build. To take them faster and faster until all the colors blended together into a blur of image and sound and feeling.
And misunderstanding. For each day her eyes drew sadder and colder with horrified confusion and trepidation. With chilling realization. As if she had known all along...
And he could not bear it, the thought... that she might believe he loved her not at all... Not anymore.
Because never had he loved her more than he did at that moment. When he watched her garden in the buzzing afternoon beneath Arien's rays. When she cleaned the dirty dishes in the bubble-infested sink. When she hung the laundry out to dry upon the line and watched the sheets billow.
He loved her.
That would never change, no matter the obstacles in his path. No matter the memories and their clawing fingers. No matter the dark thoughts slinking in their corners.
No matter the creeping shadow upon his heart. Forever, she would be his Eldalótë. His white blossom.
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Short and sweet. Song is Across the Line by Linkin Park. I don't even know why I like it, as it feels rather bare-boned in the non-melodic department. But I do. And the lyrics click somehow. Urgh... it's too late at night to think.
And, once again, torturing Angrod. But now "Flowers" and "Puppy Love" have officially combined and thus yielded a single arc rather than two. Exciting huh?
Now, I'm going to bed. Goodnight.
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