III

Elves are adored for their beauty.

What beauty?

You mean like Lúthien's,

made from part

mother's illusion, part fortunate love story

and pale flowers that bloomed, happily, at just the right time -

that beauty?

Consider Maedhros.

For one timeless moment, imagine him in an apt locale.

A scarlet forge, a grassy vale,

Or at the tiller of a thousand ships, and

young

with Youth, that weeps with joy

at her eternity with him,

and flings her hair joyously across his form.

Oh, see him, lovers. See, see the

pitiless planes and angles falling into his shape

flowing now slow, now fast.

Mark well how

earth and sky beg him to stand motionless

a while longer, as

Maedhros transplants himself step by step.

He is tall, ivory,

All straight but the curve of his lip, and that

like a plum bow plucked back by Oromë -

Enough.

Needless to say, he surpasses description.

Needless to say, his eyes, his hair, his sloping shoulders,

all perfect.

Needless to say what Fëanor felt

when he first gazed upon him.

Handsome, mad Fëanor, who did not, strangely,

recognise light when he saw it.

And now: Youth soaks her long black hair,

once more.

Lets it drip into Fingon's eyes.

--

He says:

Go; do not consider me.

You are older, and wiser, and sharper, and better.

Go; do not allow me to disturb

your reflection.

What else do you care about, anyway?

Sitting all day by your pool, angered

at every passing bird that dares to pass a shadow over your mirror -

those birds will never forgive me for shooting stones at them.

Stones for beauty.

Opal for your skin and

flint for your brow,

from where emerges fire.

Why is my hair not red?

Oh, cousin. Oh, cousin.

I think I hate you

Even more than I hate your pool.

I am being a mighty sulk, I know, but it

hurts to think that you would prefer still water

to my living eyes.

I hope

you

drown.