Silver in the moonlight. The thin, strained features-a high aristocratic
nose and deep set eyes that somehow betrayed so much pain, the thin elegant
hands with the tapered nails, the tense grace with which he moved. And
somehow there was a burning intensity in that gaze-those deep eyes of grey
and the silver-blonde hair. She marveled that he was so young. Perhaps
one of the otherworldly folk, those that never quite lost the tentative tie
the people of Numenor shared with the Eldar.
He would die young, she decided suddenly. He would die young, because of that white burning fire-white fire was always the hottest, that minute transparent core of a flame where there was no orange, nothing except the heat and the dancing colours, the dancing, raging, rippling swirls of colours, but they were not swirls of colours because nothing can exist in a void, and yet the void was not a void.
And it was then, in that moment when he became a pale moonlit flame to her, that her fate, and his, and the fates of countless others, were sealed.
He would die young, she decided suddenly. He would die young, because of that white burning fire-white fire was always the hottest, that minute transparent core of a flame where there was no orange, nothing except the heat and the dancing colours, the dancing, raging, rippling swirls of colours, but they were not swirls of colours because nothing can exist in a void, and yet the void was not a void.
And it was then, in that moment when he became a pale moonlit flame to her, that her fate, and his, and the fates of countless others, were sealed.