Breathe Not Thy Name

Breathe Not Thy Name - The Love and Doom of Maedhros and Fingon

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name,
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame:
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

From ‘Stanzas For Music’, Lord Byron, May 1814.

***

Aman. Fingon speaks…

Many names you have, by one are you known to most. Maedhros. My-th-ros.

My mouth lingers over the word, shaping each sound in loving, loathing detail. Your very name is a caress, a secret to whisper to the darkness, the lightless void which holds you, which reflects your spirit, the dark heart of fire itself.

Where should I begin? What words, even of the Eldar, exist that can capture your essence, what language can bend your will so that mere letters and script may constrain it? Not even those made by your father have such power.

And yet, I have held you, felt the slide of hair made more red by firelight than fire itself under my fingers, silken, searing heat. Such a feeble attempt to paint your spirit across the night, across my skin, is not worthy of you. No silk burns, no fire can consume, as do you, my Nelyafinwë.

Yet it is all I have left of you now save contempt and pain, an ugly wrenching wanting, a need that can never be assuaged. You are lost, lost to flame and the darkness of your own making, your own obsessions.

And I will never forgive you. Never. I cannot be free of you, for even in death cannot sever what binds us. Would I wish that? I am afraid to answer, though my heart is not. No, my Maedhros. Never,

I rise, slowly, staring blindly through a window into bliss, into perfection. For it is bliss here, you know as well as do I. You have seen it, even as I see it now. So why, fool; weak, beautiful child, did you leave this? Of all his sons, your fall was from the greatest height; though I delayed that fall, did I not? More fool I then, for that folly.

My mind wanders, forgive me. There is no time here, no time and yet too much time. An indulgence of memory can be diversion, in this waiting.

Laughing, mirthless, I remember that you did not wait, never did you wait. Memory is suddenly imperfect - imperfection is allowed here now. Did you know? Your regret came late, uttered into the darkness of a night filled with flame. Would you have forgiven me Losgar, as I forgave you? Would you have forgiven me any of what I forgave you? No, of course you would not.

What pleasure may I derive from perfection now? Perhaps, my knowledge of what is perfection has been twisted beyond recognition by my knowing you.

Knowing you. I smile now, bitterly, in memory of pleasure, and of soul-numbing pain. I cannot stop this, cannot rid myself of your face, your body, your mind.

You will not leave me now, as then you would not stay. And so I will call you to me, summon you from the depths to which you have consigned yourself. You will live again, if only in my mind.

I sit straight, for it would not do to let down my guard. One slip and you will consume me, drag me down into that blackness of your own making.

Appearance first. Yes. A shell for you, a body and a face, a façade for my obssession.

I breathe, slowly, holding it, reaching for perfection. Beautiful, flawed, murderous perfection.

Your face. I see it before me in the shimmering agony of my loss. I search for you in the light I see before me.
Your hair, I return to it now as ever I did then. I try to move on, I cannot. I am haunted by the slide of it along my body, pleasure so exquisite it is pain. Held fast by it curled around my wrists, held clenched tight in possessive fists. Crushed into velvet in my hands. Against my mouth its fragrance is of freedom, and of sweet, peaceful death.

I follow its fall to your neck, to the pulse at your throat, beating in defiance of your crimes. You did not deserve to live, did you, my Maedhros? Yet neither did you deserve the release of death. Your words, not mine. I thought you deserved to die, though I would not have willed it. My love did not change the silent anguish of those I saw floating, or lying, mouths open in silent condemnation, their agony reflected in your pitiless gaze. Agony you absorbed silently, to rid them of it.

Did you think I did not know? How could I not? It shivered in your veins, crept into your heart. Every death, every wound, you took upon yourself so that it twisted and writhed inside you, corrupting, searing, wounding you beyond all redemption. You willed it so, as you shared it with me when you looked at me.
Ah, do not distract me so. I have no pity for you now, unless it be the pity I feel for myself in my loss of you.

And still that pulse beats. Steady. Relentless. Pumping blood around a body which loathed its own existence, unable to bear its own touch.

Oh, my Maedhros, you are so beautiful.

Up now, up that pale throat, the elegant sweep of flawless skin. So vulnerable now, so trusting. My hand clenches and I do not know whether it is with the desire to kill, or to touch, to soothe and caress, to feel the smooth warmth which contained the very breath you used to condemn us all, to doom us to death and wandering. And further, cupping your chin in my hand, even your bones hold your stubborn will. Across now, across the expanse of cheeks where no tears were shed for slaughter and yet ran wet with the pain of your betrayal. An odd paradox, I muse. Regret, not for the deed, but for that which engendered it. A logical cruelty, so typical of you.

I bring up my other hand, tracing hard, sharp cheekbones and the jut of nose and brow. Smooth, elegant lines, delicate bones beneath honeyed skin. You seem too fragile to be real, too perfect to be imagined, even by your own kind.

I lift my hand, your beauty burns me. Are you real, my Maedhros? Or are you even now a product of my dreams, my fevered fantasies? My nightmares?
Did I ever really touch you? Or was that too, a figment of dreams?

I breathe again, raggedly, leaning so that my breath touches your skin, leaving a mist. Down I move my thoughts, my glance.

My mouth hovers over that place where your throat meets your chest. I do not touch, I cannot, for I know you are not here. Yet I can almost taste the sweetness of that pale hollow, the shadows it contains, so close to your heart.
Lower. I rest my cheek over your heart, heedless now of your absence. Your skin is warm, so warm, and smoother than anything I have ever known. I hate you for this, my Maedhros, for this betrayal. For how could something so perfect, be so damned?

I listen to you breathe, this perfect simulacrum. The rhythm of your life transfers itself to me and I soar within your blood, racing with its heat and fire into every fibre of your being. I have never explored you like this, from the inside out, it exhilarates me. Another breath; yours or mine? I cannot tell, I do not wish to. In knowing I risk them loss of this bliss I covet.

Stepping back, I find myself a willing prisoner, held in your arms. You, this creation of my mind have dared to take on life of your own. I lean back, feeling the muscles in your arms tighten.

Release me, I whisper. I will not leave you. And I will not, fool that I am. I watch the taut muscles of your shoulders relax and I smooth my hand over them, lingering.

You sigh, closing your eyes against solace you do not seek. Close those wells of pain, my Maedhros, close them for me now, my beloved.

I step behind you, my own eyes closing so that touch will see what eyes cannot comprehend. I place my palm between your shoulders, flat, fingers splayed and I hold myself still .You do not move and I fancy that you cannot, no more than can I.

Moments, lifetimes, we stand motionless. Then I move my hand, gliding on cushioned warmth, muscle sliding over bone beneath my hand as you turn . I reach the base of your spine and I hear you smile, tipping your head back so that the river of fire engulfs my searching mind, contained in sensitive fingertips.

I trace my hand over the smooth mounds of your flanks, lingering, and then up so that I hold your hips in my spread hands. A gentle pressure and you lean into the cushion of my body. Home. Should I touch you further? I cannot. Not now and perhaps never again. No. There is no perhaps.

I let go. And you turn in my arms.

Please. Your voice, your flawed, beautiful, broken voice makes me want to weep. What is it you want, my Maedhros? What can I possibly give you that will atone for what you have done, what we both have done?

I watch my own hands reach to hold the heaviness between your thighs. Hold, but not caress, the warm weight its own pleasure, its own pain. For there will be no fulfilment here. Not in this place. We do not deserve it, you and I.You push forward a little, a sigh on your lips, and you smile, a sweet smile of innocence, tears in your eyes and I am undone. Kneeling before you, shivering, no High King ever worshipped like this. I lean close, breath across your skin, watch that warmth I covet stir to life. I lay my cheek against it, feeling the pulse of life. Please. Your voice is stronger now, wanting, and I am helpless before it. I turn my head unable to prevent the need for that one taste of salt sweetness, of the essence that is yours alone. You sigh at the warmth of my mouth and smile with the peace of a child. For one single moment there is joy, piercing and sharp, I bless your desire with the warmth and heat of my own helpless wish, then I withdraw, control is hard won, my trembling will not cease.

I rise, step back, hands clenched into fists, my jaw tight on my pain. Do not, I will not let you. You reach for me. Your hand, the left only. Ah, my Maedhros! The arrogance of your own perfection mocks you now, lost son of Fire. Yet perfection is it no longer, physical loss a lesser pain than those myriad innocences lost to you now, lost because of you.

You are flawed, marred, a jewel so shattered, its own edges are exquisite, lethal pain; sharp and unforgiving as the mind which caused their destruction.

No! I step back, reeling, denying. I will not do this! You are too strong, I cannot deny you, though you are merely the creation of my mind, imperfect copy of imperfect reality.

Leave me. Just go. You did not linger then, I do not want you now. I console myself on an echoing lie, I almost believed my own frantic scrambling to be free of you. A shallow triumph; I am deluding myself, and I know it.

So. If not your face, your body. Your mind then? I know deep within me this will not help me, your mind is stronger even than your body, is it not, my Maedhros?

I brace myself for the onslaught I know will come. My jaw is tight, my mind trying to turn me aside from this course, screaming that I will be destroyed by our combined despair, by your guilt and the damage which is irreparable.

Like a fist, your mind emerges from darkness, seeking, needing, searching for the solace of mine. Weeping, I open myself to you and you settle into my consciousness with a sigh of homecoming.

Tears freeze in guilt and horror on my face. I mourn for lost innocence, yours and my own. Sleep reaches grasping fingers to me, the drugged slumber of exhaustion and despair. Blackness pulling me down.

I shiver, helpless, lost, alone. Are you there…. my Maedhros?


***

Maedhros speaks…

My cousin reaches out a hand, opening his heart and his mind; I convulse with the agony and temptation of his trust, his foolish weakness, his….love. Ah, Findekáno, my cousin, my love, do not. I will destroy us both, you know that, I will not be able to prevent it. As I could not prevent so much death and loss, as I was its willing cause, its doting master.

Its triumphant slave.

Never did my blood sing as when other blood darkened my blade. But the song was a poison in my soul. It was not real that exhilaration, unholy, blackened with despair, helpless, raging, intoxicating despair.

I could not abide myself. Hate is far too insipid a word for the depths of my loathing for this tainted creature I have become. My evil, guilty pleasure in my triumph matched only by my hatred of it, my shame, the awful, endless regret.

I am evil, Fingon, my cousin, my soul’s love, my heart’s joy. Leave me, get you gone from here lest you suffer the stain of my dishonour. Please, beloved. I beg you. Go from me, your innocence is intact, restored now, despite all that you too, have done.

But I? I am lost and I am angry at that loss, though I have no right. You cannot reach me, blind, weak, fool. Why do you try? Go! Go now, far away from the taint which spreads out from me in a sickening black flood. I do not want it to touch you, love. You will not survive it. You cannot. I have not.

I stand over you, anger blazing white-hot, hate I have not felt for so long. Is it for you, cousin? I know not. Perhaps.

I breathe, absorbing the familiar pain, the guilt, sharp as the keen edge of a blade, cutting my skin, the blood of my culpability darkens the floor, reaching for you, ready to drag you down. I watch it reach for you, until you lie in an island of light, surrounded by dark and bloodied guilt. It creeps closer, silent, deadly, ever closer. My guilt, my wonderful, unholy guilt.

It is no longer my blood, though my blood spawned it. Now it is theirs, the blood of all those I have murdered, alive with their voices, calling, condemning, forgiving…..Light gleams on deep red, rich and sweet, black-hearted, as bright as the light reflecting from an accursed jewel. I hold my breath, waiting for it to stain your skin with its pain, pain beyond redemption; anticipating, breathless, feeling the fire rising, out of control.

Wake, cousin, move! You must not let it touch you! I will not move to save you though, why should I? You deserve it, for loving me, for allowing me to love you. You are so much stronger than I, weak one, are you not? And for that I will let the darkness take you, let it pull you into my despair.

You stir in your innocent, forgiven sleep, murmuring, “Maitimo?” You smile a little, loving, unaware.

What am I doing? Swiftly, I step into the livid tide, stirring the sluggish, sickening flood. My blood and theirs, it parts before my urgency, it clings to me soaking my skin. I lift you, clutching you to me, shuddering with fear, shivering with disappointment. I would have let it take you, beloved, I would, but for yourself. Damn you for that.

Carefully, I place you on the soft blankets. You sigh, still smiling. Do you dream of me? I doubt it, for if you dreamt of the monster, of foul, cruel Maedhros, you would be screaming, clawing at me in your agony. Begging me to kill you, to make the soul deep agony stop.

I step back, and sit at your side, willing myself to calm lest I wake you and you see that I am real, that I am here, given substance by your longing, your love.

Valar, how I love you. Your skill at arms, your laugh, music to charm the stars in to a path of your choosing, your voice, raised in command or filling the air with moans of ecstasy. It intoxicates me, drawing me as a moth is drawn to a flame, beating its wings against its own destiny, the fragility of its very existence, hurtling to its own destruction. I love you, my cousin, and neither of us will forgive. Your love holds me, prevents the darkness for which I long from taking me, consuming me utterly, destroying me wholly. Let me go, beloved, please. Your forgiveness pushes me into pain past bearing, a shining beacon on the path to the light, to absolution. A path I cannot allow myself to take.

What glorious selfishness. A family talent, an indulgence our arrogant desperation drove us to. Even Maglor, my glorious, angelic-voiced brother. Lost, even as am I, though not even granted the release of death. May the light of the stars, the brightest of them, guide you, my brother, I pray to any who might yet hear the plea of one damned, mouth twisted in mirthless amusement. Enough. My own self-pity bores me. I look down once more at you and

I smile, despite myself, settling beside you, resting close to you . You sleep peacefully. Curled on my sullied, wrecked right side, I watch you, tracing every line of bone and muscle, your fine, exquisitely beautiful innocence. Who are you, my Fingon? Did I ever truly know you? Did I love you enough?

No, I did not. My self-love was too great. As still it is. I cannot compromise, I will not. Not even for you. Especially not for you. You are a weakness, cousin, the only other I have beside the curse for which I abandoned you.

And yet. I cannot resist touching you. It is a compulsion, a need I can no longer fight. Unwillingly, I touch a hesitant hand to your hair, a dark river of shadow set with the stars you love, woven still with gold, always that gold. I almost recoil, screams echoing through my head. Are they mine, cousin, or yours? Does it matter?

You do not stir. You breathe quietly, peaceful. Why could I not sleep as you do now? Why were my dreams haunted so? How well I delude myself. As if I do not know! It is almost amusing, this ability to reach for you in the darkness, undeserving, to touch a hope and a life beating within you, which I do not want. The life which my darkness has exiled me from.

My lips are so sensitive now. I want to kiss you, and more. But I will not. I am a figment of your memory, I have not that power, only you can give me that. And you will not. Weak, I named you, fool. A wry twist now, to my smile, bitter with truth. Weak? Your strength is so much greater than mine, my beautiful love. You have retained your honour, impossible in the world of death and hate we created. Yet true, nevertheless. I hate you more for that. For doing what I could not. For retaining a semblance of yourself.

Yet I cannot prevent myself touching you. I reach out, my hand sliding from your hair, down the slender strength of your throat, to the warm ridge of muscle, a swordsman’s shoulders you have beloved. Your hands lie relaxed, long fingers, slightly bent, the hilt of a sword their most familiar grasp.

Helpless to resist, I lift your fingers to my mouth, kissing their length, fighting the urge to take them into my mouth. You move a little and I lose my battle, covering them with my moist heat, suckling them gently until you murmur and sigh. I echo that small sound of wanting, breath catching in my throat. Reluctantly, I let your fingers slide from my mouth, mourning their loss.

My own fingers find your mouth, tracing the outline, remembering the ready smile of our youth. I linger over your chin, as stubborn as my own, tracing the fragile outline of your closed lids, lashes like smoke smudges on your fine cheekbones.

I cannot stop my indulgence. Aching for you, I lean over you, breathing my desire and my love over your skin, over the taught, cream covered muscles of your back, your slender waist, the rise of hip and flank. My gaze rests on the proof that you do dream of me, and I gently caress that wanting, stroking for but a few stolen, precious moments until you sigh again in pleasure, your body unconsciously seeking mine. Pierced deep with regret I force myself to relinquish my grasp.

I must go, before you wake and see the demon you have conjured with your love and your loss. But there is one thing more I would do, before I return to my damned existence, the endless silence of my solitude. I want to hold you, for just a moment. It is a compulsion; a prayer that I be granted this one indulgence slips past my lips. Whatever I have done, please, let me have this….

Slowly, afraid of waking you, I slip my arms around you, and with infinite care I lift you, as you lifted me, wounded and lost, from Thangorodrim. I remember the strength of your hold, the life and light within you. I weep as I find it has not dimmed, passing from you to me as I hold you.

I cradle you close, trembling, shuddering, beginning to weep, bending my head so that your breath falls on my face. My hair encloses us in a world of sweet fragrant fire, red, the heart of flame.

Can you not save me from my darkness, cousin, beloved? Will you not? You are forgiven, my beloved, as I am not, and I try to find a measure of that blessed sweetness, try to absorb it from your very skin, rocking gently back and forth, feeling a keen I will not voice rising in my aching throat.

Almost, I am overwhelmed, feeling the pull to return to the darkness to which I have condemned myself, by my deeds, by my guilt. And yet… I hold you a moment longer, shivering, cold suddenly.

And I know what it is I wish, before I go. I would see paradise once more, I would stand at the window in the light of the morning, with you asleep in my arms, and I would once more look upon that which I now will never have again, with that other which is lost to me forever sleeping close to my heart.

I rise, shaking, holding you close. On unsteady feet, I step into the glory of the morning. Throwing back my head, I let my grief run unassuaged down my cheeks. Aman, blessed realm, your beauty is a sweet pain.

The warmth of my loss falls onto your eyelids. You stir, your clear eyes open, staring into mine. You frown in confusion ‘Maedhros?’

‘Aye, love. I am here.’ I shudder with desire: love, pure, floods me in a relentless tide and I gasp with the force of it. Sudden shock galvinizes frozen emotion into shocked life. Fingon, I feel it, it cleanses me! Oh, love…..

Your smile as you realise who holds you is the sweetest thing I have ever seen. Open, loving, without condemnation. How could I ever have thought you weak? Your strength is in the nobility of your spirit, the responsibility you hold still in your heart to our people. There are those who think my spirit formidable, terrifying, yet before yours it is a humble childish thing. It sings through you, steadying me, holding me upright.

I bow my head, eyes closing on the light, denying it, even now, humbled at the last. I do not wish to beg, cannot help it. I must go, go now, before I ask this thing I have no right to even wish for.

Too late.

Love me, my Fingon, please, love me.

In my arms, you stir, I feel you breathe. A touch on my face; so gentle it is as the touch of sunlight in cleansing waters, of the sun and moon wrapped in flesh, warm and real. Real, at last.

Your voice, when it comes, is a thread of sound, so quiet, it is barely heard. ‘Maedhros. Beloved. Open your eyes, look at me.’

I shake my head. No. I will not allow this.

And now you speak into my soul, through your own, and I hear you. What is between us now, my Maedhros? Do we not hate each other now? Can there be a way back, even for us?

I shake my head. No. I cannot allow this.

Thou fool, he chides me. Ever have you indulged yourself with this. Let it go now, Maitimo, my Maedhros. Let it fade. It slips through your fingers, can you not feel it? Will you not? Hold not to this pain, beloved. We have paid its due, you and I. We have been punished, now we are free. Never will we forget, but we do not have to forever remember.

I shake my head. No. I must not allow this.

I cannot. You speak falsely. I am not forgiven though you are free of the stench of death, now. I cannot be forgiven. I will not allow it, do you understand?

You sigh; it shivers along my skin and I feel the burn of tears. Then let me go, you murmur. Let me be free of you at last.

My eyes are still closed. Your hand cups my face for but a moment. I try not to speak, not to ask the question I feel struggling to be free of my control. No! I will not! But it bursts from me, uncontrolled, a plea, a desperate plea, for life, for you. Into the light, I whisper, unwilling words dragged from teeth clenched on their betrayal. Do you wish to be free, cousin?

You do not answer. I cannot move, trapped in my own weakness, my longing for forgiveness. And in that moment of clarity, I know. Agony resolves into utter simplicity. I bow my head in acceptance, breathing slowly, feeling my decision settle in my heart. Yes.

I will face the Valar, I will submit, as I have never submitted in my life, for you. For the freedom to love you. I will reach for hope, with none in my heart but your own.

You feel it. Feel my surrender. What will you do now, triumphant one? Will you laugh in my face, leave me to face this judgement alone? My hand tightens on your body. I am afraid, so dreadfully afraid, now. I, who have feared neither death nor censure, have regretted neither deed nor loss except in the darkness of my deepest soul, where only you have seen.

There is movement, a whisper, a stirring of the darkness. You move. Warmth touches my mouth, breath gives me life. Your kiss. You are kissing me. Fingon, my Fingon! Oh beloved…

Maedhros. You breathe into my mouth. My Maedhros. I have waited so long.

As have I, so long. I whisper back. My tears spill once more, scalding me. I am so afraid, cousin. Please, help me.

And again you whisper, ‘Open your eyes, beloved’

I am surprised and, wanting your mouth once more, I open my eyes, unwilling, inadvertent. There is light, so much light. It surrounds us, holds us, floods my heart and mind. ‘The light….’ The words are pulled from the darkness I have guarded so jealously, ‘Cousin, the light!’

You are smiling, quietly joyous. You nod. ‘It is ours, Maedhros, ours, the Valar willing.’

I baulk, my courage failing, fear returning. ‘But if they should not forgive me, what then?’

You fingers touch my lips, ‘I will be with you,’ Your smile completes me, my heart is filled with you, ‘I will not leave you, my Maedhros, I will not.’

My struggle ceases. I need no more. A final kiss, a whispered word and with you held close to my chest, your warrior’s body held tight to mine, lending me strength, I raise my head. We are equals, you and I, and I am free.

The light is growing brighter, the pull is stronger. I want to go home. I am home.

And I step forward, into the light.