Work Text:
Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works.
Warning for mature themes.
Ugly Duchess kindly translated this story into Russian.
The Third Letter
Dear M –,
I thought I'd got strawberry jam on my thumb and smeared it over a page of my book before I remembered I'd killed a spider.
I didn't mean to. Or maybe it's more accurate to say I didn't expect to care. The spider just crawled atop my desk and I hate spiders and my brother is going to die so I plucked off its legs before squashing it. I forgot about it for a while; I sat on the sun-drenched window sill and read a book that I stole from Erestor. It could have been the kind of pleasant day you never describe in stories because it's so boring. And then this stupid, ice-cold horror tipped over my head because I'd just murdered for no reason and I slumped against the wall and cried for a quarter of an hour. You've likely guessed that I'm writing to you because I feel lonely, and you're probably lonely, too, so I suppose I'm trying to comfort you.
You might be wondering at that part about Elros. He hasn't got any illness, and hasn't been hurt, so you can stop biting your nails in worry (though a part of me hopes you are worrying. There, aren't you proud of me? What a son you raised). But I think he's gone crazy. Not crazy-crazy - just stupid-crazy. A little like you and your family, if I'm being honest. That's something I'm not allowed to do in Balar - being honest, that is - since I'm a prince and a healer and both are to hold their tongues.
I'm wondering if choosing the curse of Men is just another way of saying, "I want to commit suicide." That makes me feel guilty, because what if he really does and I'm just blind to his pain? Dying isn't something I'm unfamiliar with; people do it all the time. Suicide is another matter. It's not something I want to think about, but I have to, because this is my brother and sadly he's also my best friend (and, dear Eru, you will not believe how much I have wanted to knock his teeth down his throat in the past year). Slitting his wrists or hanging himself would be too obvious; but it's convenient to say, "I want to be a Man," because then he can die without anyone holding an interrogation, even if it's after a few hundred years.
I'm an idiot for writing this letter, because I'm not going to send it and you're never going to read it. It is going to sit and rot in my locked drawer. I'm just going to hope that by some magic you get this message. Imagining your reaction to this letter gives me a strange excitement. I'm picturing your mouth open in shock, and tears in your eyes; I hope you still have some of those left.
Until next time,
Your undeserving foster-son.