Summary: Simple musings about Luna. I'll probably continue it as just a bit of fluff, but I'm not sure yet.
Review, please?
Luna sings sometimes when she thinks people aren't listening. Beautiful tales woven into songs of sunlight and magic, of mystery and brilliance and longing and love, of all that she is. She's told me before that her melodies remain unnoticed by the ears of students; 'They think nothing of my eccentricities,' she says, voice light as the breeze and all the same as fleeting. I used to think her naïve of her oddities, but her eyes are not so blind.
She sleeps with the comfort of clouds as her pillows, yet to the eyes, her pillows are books and bags and her small trinkets to keep away her father's latest discovery. She sleeps with her hands below her head and her golden hair fluttering about her face in the evening breeze. Only in Care of Magical Creatures does she sleep during the day, for she knows much more than they, and outside she finds peace in the rain-heavy clouds and awaits the downpour with closed eyes and a pink flush of excitement, lips curved serenely, as if nothing could destroy her harmony.
She thinks of life as a treasure and holds it understandably close to her heart.
Not always did I know this side of her, this deep heart that none ever wish to uncover. At times I joined them in their refusal to notice her, though how she escaped my thoughts for so long surprises me when she crosses my mind. The boys laugh when she speaks, as if her words are the most subtlest of jokes, while the girls are sympathetic, and yet they laugh as well. She simply accepts her humility, though, Luna, for these are not the people she longs for.
She longs for love and understanding, a heart from someone who perhaps laughs when her words are meant as jokes and not when merely she decides to speak. She wishes to find a love to last through life, through death, to bend the brackets and knock her off her feet. Patience is required for such a thing, she knows, and thus she subjects herself to their foolish laughter, a quiet tolerance for their thoughtless ignorance; a goddess amongst unworthy servants.
Sometimes the odd moment strikes me; I wonder how I know all of this. She rarely speaks of herself, only her so-called nonsense, and yet my heart answers without conscious thought, for I can see it in her eyes. Luminous as she herself, the swirling orbs of iridescent blue deeper than anything I've ever encountered whisper her secrets, speak her desires. They transfix me with their wisdom, their complexity, and their simple view all the same. Perhaps she means it to reach me; perhaps she wishes that I know these things; perhaps she knows that what she so searches for, a love greater than anything the world has known, perhaps she knows….
Perhaps she knows that it resides in me….