Some would say that the Elder Children of Illuvatar, born to live, breath
and love under the stars, prefer their archaic light. That in that
perpetual dusk, they fufill themselves and become alive, when the world is
grey and easy on the eyes.
Some would say. I don't like easy. Never have.
For me, when The One chose to encase the light of Laurelin, the color of Arien's chariot, in my elder cousin's hair, I became transfixed. A ready convert. I learned to love the pristene mornings, when I lay awake with the mockingbirds or the afternoons; shadows of clouds undulating between the walls of my mind. Or the burnished evenings, brimming with resolution and wildly poetic thunderclaps.
"Do you hear the rain, Findekáno? Does it soak into your skin with the lightning and warm you to the core of your fëa?"
It became like song, pouring out from beneath my fingers, callused from harpstrings. (I was never a wildly talented harpist. I got by.) And the color would burn. (My mind, my eyes, my hands, my words and my tongue.) Would turn all my proclamations, all my deepseated beliefs into ash.
There is ceaseless, incandescent red behind my eyes.
We knew, always, how to be defiant. It came easy, with our blood. What were we if not Quendi, if not grandsons of Finwë; reared with garlands of wisdom and impiety? We would stand in the face of gods and tears unnumbered. So, we made sense. We have always made sense.
There is no past or future about us. Only present.
And now, Nelyafinwë. Russandol. Now, Maitimo. Now, I sit by this ocean waiting for you. I dig my toes into the sand. This sea of my thought, rustled by your memory. Now, I wait for you.
Some would say. I don't like easy. Never have.
For me, when The One chose to encase the light of Laurelin, the color of Arien's chariot, in my elder cousin's hair, I became transfixed. A ready convert. I learned to love the pristene mornings, when I lay awake with the mockingbirds or the afternoons; shadows of clouds undulating between the walls of my mind. Or the burnished evenings, brimming with resolution and wildly poetic thunderclaps.
"Do you hear the rain, Findekáno? Does it soak into your skin with the lightning and warm you to the core of your fëa?"
It became like song, pouring out from beneath my fingers, callused from harpstrings. (I was never a wildly talented harpist. I got by.) And the color would burn. (My mind, my eyes, my hands, my words and my tongue.) Would turn all my proclamations, all my deepseated beliefs into ash.
There is ceaseless, incandescent red behind my eyes.
We knew, always, how to be defiant. It came easy, with our blood. What were we if not Quendi, if not grandsons of Finwë; reared with garlands of wisdom and impiety? We would stand in the face of gods and tears unnumbered. So, we made sense. We have always made sense.
There is no past or future about us. Only present.
And now, Nelyafinwë. Russandol. Now, Maitimo. Now, I sit by this ocean waiting for you. I dig my toes into the sand. This sea of my thought, rustled by your memory. Now, I wait for you.