Hell Hath No Fury|
She ached with longing.
She was a long way from home, a long way from her lover. The only one who ever understood her and devoured her without fear, whose presence fed her hunger, whose touch wakened within her forbidden fires. Whose very soul was part of her existence, or was it the other way around?
She had keened when fear and jealousy had torn them apart.
The world seemed tasteless without him, washed out, disjointed. She could not face it alone. Would not, and so she sequestered herself, rejecting all those who sought to claim her elf-like beauty. Years passed, as many as the drops of water in a lake, each easily borne but together a crushing weight.
She waited, and she longed.
And one day, she heard his call again. How she wakened! It mattered not that she was alone and lost and far from him. She would find him.
The years had not marred her beauty, she discovered. Men still coveted her. She resented their touch at first, for they all paled next to her lover, their petty lives and ambitions all repugnant to her. But she learned to use them. Learned to pretend at devotion, submission, to stroke their ego and give them the illusion of power. She would whisper sweet words in their ears, and they, who so begrudged her true lover, would indulge her dazedly, would see her returned one step closer to him. Then she would abandon them in their need and move on.
Evil? She was not evil. She only longed with pure intensity, and to that end, she would have done anything. Was that not true love?
And yet . . .
She met a different man in her journeys. Different how, she couldnít tell, but she felt it in her very core. He was of royal blood; she could see the roots of yore stretching through the centuries to give life to this fine sapling of a man. A young king, yet uncrowned.
And he was pure. That, perhaps, she sensed most strongly. And it woke within her strange emotions: how it appealed, how it rankled . . . For through his living example she could see clear the reflection of her own love, and how twisted it was.
She wanted to flee his presence.
She wanted to wrap around him and twist him in her own image.
She waited with suppressed glee for her beauty to sing to him, for her charms to seduce a covetous caress. She would have welcomed him. Would have reveled in him until her abandon and ecstasy conquered his heart, undid his purity.
He never reached for her.
And oh, how she hated him . . . and admired.
But never mind. She was moving quickly now, closing the distance to her true lover, and in his powerful embrace she would forget all about this man. Better, turn back and strike him down for rejecting both her and her true lover.
Hanging from a delicate chain, nestled against a hobbitís chest, she bid her time and longed.
Sauron, Iím coming.