He was very young when I first saw him, still an infant, dark curls and grey eyes. But he grew fast, for he was an Adan. I remember often being irked by his countless questions.
Two score years passed then, when I did not see him. But when I did….I loved him. There was strength, and a nobility that called men to honor him, he was fair like the Eldar, but it was different than our kind. He was in the bloom of manhood. He was precious because like a flower, he withered so soon.
But I could still love him, even when his youth had faded. But he never loved me, not as I wished. Aragorn greeted me whenever he returned to Imladris, exchanged a playful jest now and then, called me his friend. But I wanted more. I wanted love. I wanted his love.
It hurt so much when I found he was betrothed, betrothed to the Undómiel. Why! Válar, why! I too would have been willing to sacrifice my life. I would have loved him through death and beyond.
But I was not the Evenstar. She was fair beyond reckoning, noble, wise, kind, of a high blood. And I was none of those things. My heritage was lowly, I was no fairer than any other.
Yet surely, if he was as kingly as I knew he was, he would not hold that against me. So why did he not love me?
Bitter thoughts crossed my mind as I lay awake at night, my curtains drawn against the Evenstar, so I would not be reminded of the one whom I loathed.
I would not have hesitated when he asked for my hand, nor would I have gazed with longing into the West before I answered. I would have kissed him and stayed by his side forevermore. I would have fought the battle with him, I would have stood by him while he was crowned, instead of only waiting, shrinking away from warfare as she did. I would not have stood by him while he died. No, I would have died with him and we would have come upon the hither shores together, instead of drawing out my life.
I will not sail. No, I will linger here, wretched one I am, love spurned, and unable to love another.
It was she who clung to him, the Evenstar who could kiss him and feel his kiss, not I, Lôneth. I despise her, the daughter of Lúthien, for if she had never been born, or sailed with her mother, then maybe it would be I who could hold his hand, bear his children, be his love.
I hate her as much as I love him.
I always shall.