What Remains What remains, knowing there is no possible world in which you did not
choose his body, no possible world in which you did not choose the
Ring? It no longer matters if it was worth it, with all that came
after, the bloodbruisevomit, seeing the shape of your treachery
mirrored in another's eyes. Seeing the Ringbearer's face convulse
with fear and go blank in the moment before his body did the same,
echoing on the insides of your eyelids.
What remains. What will yet remain.
Nuzzle your face into his hair and breathe out, long and soft. Inhale
again the acrid scent of him, pressing close. Lust is a tricky thing.
You were never lovers, to learn the shapes of each other's bodies
languidly. You who rode patrol in the shadow of Minas Morgul knew the
ways of orcs, thought you knew the ways of men. It will not be
enough. Though he bound himself to you in blood, night upon night,
the blood of Westernesse will not redeem you.
You took him lying side by side in the darkness, quietly. Mossdark
panting, stained leggings, his body-smile and shudder of pleasure.
The Dunedain trained his eyes to see in the dark like an Elf's. You
tell yourself that was how his hand cupped your face faultlessly, his
mouth found your lips. Strange, that a king and leader of men should
take pleasure in his own submission. You know the way of men with men
was never meant to be easy: nothing like the simple comfort of
rustling a hand up a maid's skirts like some wayward moth. There
should have been no tenderness between you, not on this fallow earth
so near the Black Lands. It should have been no more than a blind
rut. The memory of his kiss seems heavier knowledge than you can bear.
You can't move your legs. Aragorn, I can't move my legs. Test your
shoulders, twigs crackling beneath you in the throe. You were never
as quiet as he, never as subtle.
This is what it is to die: grimace and ease into the pain like
walking into the ocean. Again taste the clammy salt air of Belfalas
Bay. You journeyed there once as a youth, with your brother. Take the
first step, then another, stones in your pockets. Waves tongue your
chest, balloon the hem of your tunic. There are marvelous things in
the depths of the sea. Soon you will name them all.
He kisses you, and you think only: too high. You wanted to tear your
last breath from his lungs, taste his sweat and spittle, half-dried
orc-blood at his lips. Wanted to give him your breath, letting it
hiss the story of your failure. Your boots lurch over the loose sand
bottom at the drop-off, and water washes over your head. Into the sea-
dark, pain flowing through you clean as moonlight.
by Match
t is a smaller death than you expected, quieter than you hoped.
