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31_days2006-08-12 11:56 pm
atouchofyou.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-08-12 11:56 pm
[August 12] [The Silmarillion] Breaking Heart
It's late. I just wrote this. I've barely glanced through it once since writing it, so it hasn't even had a proper edit. These are all excuses to why this is so yuck. But, I have only minutes to make the deadline. So, here it is.
Title: Breaking Heart (working title)
Day: August 12
Pairing: MeadhrosxFingon
Rating: PG
Arda is quiet now. It is a false comfort--Morgoth still broods, forming plots in his stench and filth, and fell beasts still roam these untamed lands. But after what has befallen today, I will take comfort where it can be found.
He shakes in my arms. His eyes are closed, his lips parted. Sweat dots his furrowed brow. I have seen his face like this before, but that was in the seat of highest pleasure. Now, it is in agony. Agony that I have caused. He cradles his arm to his chest, his left hand fruitlessly seeking its mate. My heart breaks to see him so. If I could replace what he has lost, I would not hesitate to cut off my own hand and give it to him.
I endured the agonies of ice and snow, hatred and cold deep enough to freeze blood in the vein by conjuring his smile to mind. (Maedhros! Never will any elf-woman, no matter how fair, quicken my heart or heat my blood as you have done, as you still do.) To endure the Helcaraxe, only to find him so. I thought to end my own life after fulfilling his last request of me.
Thanks be for the mercy of Manwe! Now he is in my arms, alive. Not yet safe, his body mutilated, in pain and feverish--but he is alive. His chest rises and falls in the meager light, and my hand steals repeatedly to feel his heart beat beneath his flushed skin.
I fear he will never forgive me. He cried out when I cut through his wrist (and oh, how it hurt, like dragging the knife through my own flesh) and stared at the mutilated stub. I ripped my own clothing to make bandeges to swaddle the wound. He never spoke during our mad rush to leave that evil place behind. He face was pale, his normal grace missing. I meant to press on to Mithrim, but he could not go on without rest. He face is now flushed and heated with fever. He spoke my hame once, reaching out to touch my face with his remaing hand. My skin still burns from leaning in to that touch. Betrayed and sentenced to an endless journey through the desolate North, and at his touch, all was forgiven. I pulled him to me, my lips seeking his. But he dropped his head to my chest, the faintest of wimpers escaping from his throat. Cursing my impatience, I held him close and wispered into his hair.
If all I recieve from him now is wrathful words and hateful looks for my love, at least I will recieve something from him. To know he will live is all I desire, and if my heart trys to beg for more, I will lock it away.
Title: Breaking Heart (working title)
Day: August 12
Pairing: MeadhrosxFingon
Rating: PG
Arda is quiet now. It is a false comfort--Morgoth still broods, forming plots in his stench and filth, and fell beasts still roam these untamed lands. But after what has befallen today, I will take comfort where it can be found.
He shakes in my arms. His eyes are closed, his lips parted. Sweat dots his furrowed brow. I have seen his face like this before, but that was in the seat of highest pleasure. Now, it is in agony. Agony that I have caused. He cradles his arm to his chest, his left hand fruitlessly seeking its mate. My heart breaks to see him so. If I could replace what he has lost, I would not hesitate to cut off my own hand and give it to him.
I endured the agonies of ice and snow, hatred and cold deep enough to freeze blood in the vein by conjuring his smile to mind. (Maedhros! Never will any elf-woman, no matter how fair, quicken my heart or heat my blood as you have done, as you still do.) To endure the Helcaraxe, only to find him so. I thought to end my own life after fulfilling his last request of me.
Thanks be for the mercy of Manwe! Now he is in my arms, alive. Not yet safe, his body mutilated, in pain and feverish--but he is alive. His chest rises and falls in the meager light, and my hand steals repeatedly to feel his heart beat beneath his flushed skin.
I fear he will never forgive me. He cried out when I cut through his wrist (and oh, how it hurt, like dragging the knife through my own flesh) and stared at the mutilated stub. I ripped my own clothing to make bandeges to swaddle the wound. He never spoke during our mad rush to leave that evil place behind. He face was pale, his normal grace missing. I meant to press on to Mithrim, but he could not go on without rest. He face is now flushed and heated with fever. He spoke my hame once, reaching out to touch my face with his remaing hand. My skin still burns from leaning in to that touch. Betrayed and sentenced to an endless journey through the desolate North, and at his touch, all was forgiven. I pulled him to me, my lips seeking his. But he dropped his head to my chest, the faintest of wimpers escaping from his throat. Cursing my impatience, I held him close and wispered into his hair.
If all I recieve from him now is wrathful words and hateful looks for my love, at least I will recieve something from him. To know he will live is all I desire, and if my heart trys to beg for more, I will lock it away.