Your face, it floats
Haunting me, hurting me
unintentionally
In daylight, in dark
Yet when I'm around you
I am the ghost
Watching you, wanting you
While you look straight through me
You call me snake, and recoil from my touch, as a horse will shy at a
serpent in the grass. But do you not know that snakes were long considered
wise creatures, honored messengers entrusted with the darkest secrets of
the Gods? Our scales are strong, the only armor that exists in the kingdom
of beasts, and our fangs are sharp and coated with poison so potent that
men still use it, for they can create nothing better.
Even so, serpents have weaknesses. We are cold, and require heat from an
outside source - be it celestial orb or fellow creature - to warm us.
I found that source in you, Eowyn, for you light a fire in my veins that
rivals the heat of the sun itself. Yet to me you are always cold, colder
than shadow itself, and so I am forced to retreat to the shadows in order
to gather the warmth that I lack.
I have a forked tongue, it is true, and I split my words, the better to tie
knots in the thoughts of men. But you are a lady, my Lady, and to you my
tongue tells only truth. You believe that I deceive you, weaving webs of
flattery to gain your trust, and through it your uncle's throne. You want
to believe this, for it is a far easier plot to swallow than the thought
that my compliments might be sincere. You cannot bear the thought that your
skin might be soiled by the stare of a serpent, your beauty besmirched by
the words of a worm.
You call me snake, yet you are the one who spits poison, my Lady.
Do you think I have not tried to forget you?
I have drowned myself in spirits and worse; struggling vainly to purge
myself of this passion that burns inside of me with worse fire than the
rough liquor your men quaff. I have cleansed myself, if one can call the
methods I used clean. But then, anything seems clean in comparison to my
lust for you, does it not?
I have spent fortunes on...substitutions, let us call them. I shall not
offend your delicate ears by listing what artificial means I used to ease
the need for you. But all was for naught. After all my efforts, still you
linger in the back of my mind, a presence as distinctive as the slither of
true steel or the faded scent of summer flowers. Like some twisted reverse
of Pandora's box, I try vainly to shut memories of you away in the darkest
depths of my thoughts. Yet always I am driven, possessed by torment, to
break open the box and unleash my demons again.
I have never forgotten one thing about you, my Lady. Each venomous word is
saved, pressed into my heart with a hiss, and I drink its sweet poison
again and again. I remember the softness of your cheek, and your warm
breath against my fingers, the wild smell of your hair. Each turn of your
head, the fold of your gown, the tapping your boots make against the stone,
all of these impressions I lock away, and remember.
I do not remember by choice, my Lady, but because I cannot forget.
Every atom's
Imprinted with you
As it swirls through
The abyss of my heart
I'm never rid of you
You stain my subconscious as ink stains my hands; these pale, cold hands
that repulse you so when they touch your skin. You recoil from my touch as
if it burns you, but it is you who burn me, as frost will burn with a cold
so intense it feels like flame. Have you seen the feet of the Riders who
have been bitten by hoarfrost, Lady? Their feet are black, their skin
killed by cold, poisoned with ice. So I have turned black under the chill
of your contempt.
Red leaves shimmer
Blood-
stained glass panes
caught in the twisting frames of dark branches
I'm trapped in the shadow
Cast by your sunlight
It is autumn now, the fall of the year...and of the Rohirrim. The time of
your people is waning, and soon the Horse-Lords will fall, and the last of
the Line of Eorl will wither on the grass. Soon winter will come, and then
who will warm you, Lady? You are a creature of ice, yet a living heart
beats within you no matter how you try to hide it. Blood must be warm, and
even heated by your constant fury you cannot stand the coming cold long. It
is autumn, the time of year when the leaves turn. But to whom will you
turn, Eowyn? You must choose soon.
For I cannot save you if you will not let me. You must call upon the
darkness outside you as well as within, for while you stand in the light, I
cannot help you. Darkness is my domain.
Call to me, my Eowyn, and I will come. Close your eyes to the light, shut
your heart from the sun, and embrace the dark. For only then can you be
saved.
Haunting me, hurting me
unintentionally
In daylight, in dark
Yet when I'm around you
I am the ghost
Watching you, wanting you
While you look straight through me
You call me snake, and recoil from my touch, as a horse will shy at a
serpent in the grass. But do you not know that snakes were long considered
wise creatures, honored messengers entrusted with the darkest secrets of
the Gods? Our scales are strong, the only armor that exists in the kingdom
of beasts, and our fangs are sharp and coated with poison so potent that
men still use it, for they can create nothing better.
Even so, serpents have weaknesses. We are cold, and require heat from an
outside source - be it celestial orb or fellow creature - to warm us.
I found that source in you, Eowyn, for you light a fire in my veins that
rivals the heat of the sun itself. Yet to me you are always cold, colder
than shadow itself, and so I am forced to retreat to the shadows in order
to gather the warmth that I lack.
I have a forked tongue, it is true, and I split my words, the better to tie
knots in the thoughts of men. But you are a lady, my Lady, and to you my
tongue tells only truth. You believe that I deceive you, weaving webs of
flattery to gain your trust, and through it your uncle's throne. You want
to believe this, for it is a far easier plot to swallow than the thought
that my compliments might be sincere. You cannot bear the thought that your
skin might be soiled by the stare of a serpent, your beauty besmirched by
the words of a worm.
You call me snake, yet you are the one who spits poison, my Lady.
Do you think I have not tried to forget you?
I have drowned myself in spirits and worse; struggling vainly to purge
myself of this passion that burns inside of me with worse fire than the
rough liquor your men quaff. I have cleansed myself, if one can call the
methods I used clean. But then, anything seems clean in comparison to my
lust for you, does it not?
I have spent fortunes on...substitutions, let us call them. I shall not
offend your delicate ears by listing what artificial means I used to ease
the need for you. But all was for naught. After all my efforts, still you
linger in the back of my mind, a presence as distinctive as the slither of
true steel or the faded scent of summer flowers. Like some twisted reverse
of Pandora's box, I try vainly to shut memories of you away in the darkest
depths of my thoughts. Yet always I am driven, possessed by torment, to
break open the box and unleash my demons again.
I have never forgotten one thing about you, my Lady. Each venomous word is
saved, pressed into my heart with a hiss, and I drink its sweet poison
again and again. I remember the softness of your cheek, and your warm
breath against my fingers, the wild smell of your hair. Each turn of your
head, the fold of your gown, the tapping your boots make against the stone,
all of these impressions I lock away, and remember.
I do not remember by choice, my Lady, but because I cannot forget.
Every atom's
Imprinted with you
As it swirls through
The abyss of my heart
I'm never rid of you
You stain my subconscious as ink stains my hands; these pale, cold hands
that repulse you so when they touch your skin. You recoil from my touch as
if it burns you, but it is you who burn me, as frost will burn with a cold
so intense it feels like flame. Have you seen the feet of the Riders who
have been bitten by hoarfrost, Lady? Their feet are black, their skin
killed by cold, poisoned with ice. So I have turned black under the chill
of your contempt.
Red leaves shimmer
Blood-
stained glass panes
caught in the twisting frames of dark branches
I'm trapped in the shadow
Cast by your sunlight
It is autumn now, the fall of the year...and of the Rohirrim. The time of
your people is waning, and soon the Horse-Lords will fall, and the last of
the Line of Eorl will wither on the grass. Soon winter will come, and then
who will warm you, Lady? You are a creature of ice, yet a living heart
beats within you no matter how you try to hide it. Blood must be warm, and
even heated by your constant fury you cannot stand the coming cold long. It
is autumn, the time of year when the leaves turn. But to whom will you
turn, Eowyn? You must choose soon.
For I cannot save you if you will not let me. You must call upon the
darkness outside you as well as within, for while you stand in the light, I
cannot help you. Darkness is my domain.
Call to me, my Eowyn, and I will come. Close your eyes to the light, shut
your heart from the sun, and embrace the dark. For only then can you be
saved.