Kill: XVII
Flashback. Rock face.
Wind, water, choking ash.
Cold whips.
"When
the colourless One made the Eldar,"
whispers Sauron into his red hair,
Sauron, lash of leer and stench and
smirking black spit,
"He made you all without Death.
Then
He loved you so much that
He thought to make you taste of it, and said,
Have it. And call it
Sex.
Hands.
Hips. Gentle bruises.
"Take a little death,
Maitimo.
Dream
of what the real thing will be like."