Kill: XVI

Things fall apart...



But somewhere in the chambers of
an impregnable white fortress that sweeps higher
and plumbs lower than anyone but the maker knows,

light is - folding into itself.


Question: How do we know light?
Because darkness indicates it.

And vice-versa?
Same thing.

Mingling, mingling. Still;

the centre holds. Still

there is a centre. But see the shadow
slide in smoothly, a heaven-ramp, flinging light
into sloping yellow lathes that shine
dust into the room - shut the windows.
It is dark.


Maedhros,
in the dark, with a glint of steel
to match the glint
of steel in his eye,
in his hand. Left hand.

What do you think, lord of Himring,
what?
He thinks,
shall I kill them with my
bare hand (one), or shall I take
this sword - you, my lovely
father-wrought friend - and scratch
them over,
under,
gouge, rip,
be violent?

Violent. For he erred in trapping
five fingers. He left five free. And no compassion
to go with them.

Gleam. Now - cut the dark.
He does.

Rip it to shreds.
Like wind.

Thrust, parry. Endlessly.
All alone, he fights the winds.
Thank you, Manwë. Thank you, Manwë.
Rip. Rip.


For Light escapes all lids clapped
upon it's cauldron, soaring through the iron rims,
bubbling over, over bright, over memories, over
new and strange, unpleasant truths
that are truths all the same
because they catch like collars on the wrist in
a tight iron band
and swing one like
a dainty rag.

Now there are truths.
Now there are dreams, too.
The shadow of pain -
Now, there are memories
- in his heart.

Switch lights, spot on
six others, so afraid.
Light. Light. Light. Light.
Light. Light.

Maedhros in the dark.

Maglor!
Defeated.
Celegorm!
Escapes.
Curufin!
Humbled.
Caranthir!
Ha.
Amrod!
Amras!
Taken together,

Down, down, he knocks them down,
he flings them all to the ground,
down, down.
Down, down.

Go to the hundred orcs,
a thousand, if there are such,
and not be cut,
not be scratched,
and the blood tainting my shining armour,
shall be none of mine

he thinks.

It isn't. Ever.
Orcs die in mad numbers.
Mad numbers of revenge.

He thinks,
Where does love end and hate begin?
In both we place our hearts,
and in both we yearn to trust.

Perhaps there is no difference,
and they are both forks in the same road.


See what you learn in hell?
He thinks.

Drone: How do we know darkness?
It is indicated by light.

Vice-versa too?
Of course.