I love my brother.

I love his dark hair, his dark eyes, and the pale pallor of his skin that contrasted so much with those attributes. I love his slim r11; not weak r11; figure and the soft, intricate robes he chooses to hide it under. I love his voice, famed and melodic, near genderless in its tone.

I love him in a way that I should not.

Is it such a sin? We share a bed now, and our flesh, and our love (sometimes). Why should we not also share blood? We are doomed already. Why is this a sin? At least this sin loves, and does not kill.

But why would my gentle, loving brother care for violent and ill-tempered Elf? He is not so gentle. He pities himself, keeping up a kind of pathetic pride. And despite the pity I think he really does hate himself, and what he does... yet he could not go on without reassurance. Sometimes I do not want to give it. Should he not pay just as much as us? Let him be sorry! This Oath was not for one with a faint heart.

No, his heart is not faint. It is cold at times, and he can be cruel if he so chooses to be. He is also vain, whether he knows it or not. There may be a romanticized version of himself in his head that keeps him sane; I do not speak of it.

Brother is not unintelligent. He reads himself just as he reads others. Lying to oneself is not a difficult task. I believe he tries, and succeeds, but only to a point. I can see it in his eyes.

I love his eyes.

Sometimes I hate him. He treats me like a child when I disappoint him. He lets me know that I can have my way with him, but he is still my elder. And then, of course, he thinks I do not know about his thoughts that drift lustfully in someone else's direction. I am not blind. I see it... I see it so clearly that I should like to shake him and shake him until he realizes he mustn't toy with me. No, I am not one of his harps that he may pluck at will, going to a different instrument when my sound becomes boring.

He tells me that he loves me. He may be lying.

There are occasions when I know I am too rough with him. I leave bruises. He hates them. They are my marks. He belongs to me, and I to him. I would not protest if he bruised me.

Yet it balances out in a way. His way is always tender, always with forethought, like wispy poetry I have a fondness for mocking. He is always this way, unless I have showed him particular malice beforehand. When that is the case he will either shun me or love me with the kind of ferocity he always surprises me with in battle.

The way in which he handles a sword is like a dance. I am strictly offensive, as are the two other of my brothers. The twins defend, mostly, and my eldest brother has no choice but to fight with brutal violence and offense. But he... he dances with the sword. The muscles on his soft-featured face always tighten, and his lips draw into a tight line.

In the battles I can rarely chance a moment to look at him. I do, mostly, only to see if he is alive. I fear often for his life. I know I should not. His technique has been perfected, and it is beautiful. I think, perhaps, that our enemies sometimes marvel at him.

When they are not admiring dear eldest brother, of course.

I understand why even those that hate him love him too. He is physically perfect, save his lack of hand. My mother chose his name well. There are times, however, when he unnerves me. His temperament is fragile at best, unstable. When a good mood falls upon him I remember why I enjoyed his company as a child. His smile is rare and brilliant. The freckles on his cheeks become prominent when he smiles kindly. His laugh, too, makes even the dastardliest folk smile. And then comes the polar end of that mood, and Eru save whomever faces the brunt of his wrath.

I am stubborn, but I will not refuse one of his demands when it comes. I could easily meet him in strength. Were we to fight without weapons, I know that I could kill him. He thinks too much of those long, perfect limbs, as well as the strength of that damned left hand.

I hate him so often I cannot remember the last time I felt love for any part of him.

Why does my brother, then, lust for him? If I did not know better, I would think he had a disease. Surely it is not natural to want your siblings.

Maitimo and I are exceedingly different. My words are always ready, my sword not far behind. My hair is fair. My face is healthy, not pale and sometimes sickly-looking like my mother's and his are. I do not match him in height. Caranthir is the only one who even comes close.

Russandol and his fiery hair, his height... his self acknowledged intelligence, and his skills as a leader... why should he not be loved?

But no more! I should have thought that after Fingon died, and he began to become a shadow of his old self that my brother would stop this.

Brother loathed Fingon. I could see it. I could taste it, hear it, smell it... Ill words and looks had never been exchanged, but I knew. Fingon knew, too, but I think perhaps he returned it. No one would take away his partner. He was more possessive than I. He would have killed brother, I think, had he tried to so much as glance at Maitimo in his presence.

I wish he had tried. The throne could have been back in our hands, not in the hands of a damned cowardly king, hidden away. Yes, I wish it. I could have killed Fingon, justly.

Of course, then I would be dead, even if my killer would have had his other hand disabled.

Funny, it is. We would have all ended up slain, one way or another.

I love my brother. If we had been found out by anyone other than Maedhros the Hypocrite, we would have been shamed, even killed. No. I would be killed. They would say I seduced him, poor, gentle brother. They would say I was the villain, as I always am. And would brother defend me? No, he would not. If I die, he will run to the arms of another. They will open. My brother is charming when he wants to be, and I know that Maitimo loves him dearly. Maitimo would use my brother. He would relieve himself of the physical loss of his lover. He would not love his little brother in any other way than he already did. If he ever did, Eru save his soul. I would never forgive him, and neither would Findekáno. Brother would do well to refuse that love.

I know it shall happen. Perhaps I shall see it take place in Mandos.

I take him tightly by the neck of his cloak, drawing his face down near mine. Frankly, I do not care if his life is endangered. The lack of tears in his eyes makes me so angry... I would hit him, if I could.

"Here we are, dear, here at last," I muse, actually grinning. One of my teeth has been knocked out, I think. Dior knocked me hard in the face before I killed him.

He is staring at me now. I think that it will never cease. Well, maybe it will keep me alive. I like to look at those eyes that I love. They are such a lovely, dark shade of grey... he has the darkest eyes of us all, I think. Like father. They burn, though, with a different kind of flame. Oh, I love those eyes...

"Would you have me tell you that I love you? You told me to say no such thing."

"I did. Clever, my dear."

He flinches. I see moisture amid the irises.

"This is your fault. Why did you persuade him to do this?"

My grin fades. I am afraid this makes me angrier than I am willing to admit.

"Yes, always on Maitimo's side? You will never change. You deserve this suffering, Kána. You deserve it more than any of us, if only for having the audacity to play the martyr! Damn you. Damn you! Now leave me, so I may die without you in my sight."

I hope my words hurt him. They do, I think. He is pulling away, a dazed look on his face.

I shift a little. The spot where Dior's sword cut me burns and aches. Things are losing color. The bodies all around, they now look grey. The stench of death, too, is losing its potency in my nose.

This must mean that I will soon die. It is not as frightening as I might have imagined it. Relieving, really. The Oath is strangely faint in my mind.

As I turn my head, I see his stumbling form. He looks more confused than he usually does after a battle. He sways. I think he caught sight of Curufin's dead form. As I should I have guessed, he is caught. I think he has fallen into a swoon. I will die, now. I see Maedhros' eyes, and I warn him. I tell him I hate him. I tell him I love him. I tell him that he should hope for death soon. I tell him this with a look.

Here it is, the end. I did not tell brother I loved him. I did not tell him I love his dark hair, his dark eyes, his skin, his figure, and his voice...

I hope he suffers. I hope he comes to hate himself for his sins. I hope, also, that he does not forget that I did love him, and do.

I love my brother. Even now, as all is gone, I love my Maglor.