One Last Selfishness
The sea reflects the pale morning sun, illuminating, with dancing faery lights, the bow of the silent elven ship. The calm and serenity that are the shadows of all elves, prevails even now while they all sleep below. And so, I am comforted, though my tears still fall into the rippling sea.
I do not suppose that I shall do anything but cry for quite a while longer, for I have not done it in many years. It is, perhaps, a foolish thing to do as it brings me nothing but exhaustion and swollen eyes. But exhaustion and discomfort have been my companions for so long now that I pay them no heed and will gladly submit to them in return for the chance to bare my soul for a little while.
Were I disposed to be angry, I am not as it I have no greater disgust then that of my dislike of violence, I would rage of how it is so unfair. Unfair that I, after all I have done, must leave the land and people I love. How it is unfair that my home rejects me, and that I unwillingly return the sentiment. Not being able to stand the place you love above all is a sad thing indeed. But it is no one's fault that I cannot stay and I have no right to lay blame on anyone but myself.
I suppose I should be happy beyond belief, grateful to no end. And though I will be ever grateful, and though I am happy, somewhere inside of me, I cannot help but look back and wish. And I suppose that that is quite selfish of me, but I am not perfect and cannot ignore the pain as my heart is torn in two. But I suppose I am being overly melodramatic.
The sun is hidden now, behind rolling white clouds. The sea is darker, greener, but ever flickering and swaying to a silent song. It brings back grotesque memories I almost wish I had refused. Almost.
People are coming up on deck now, going about whatever it is they need to do. Their gaze studiously slides past me. I try to scrub away the tears with my sleeve: I don't want them to think me ungrateful. All I succeed in doing is feeling ridiculously infantile, and making the tears more insistent. The jacket smells of home. I give up, sighing, and lean on the rail. You couldn't see the sea from my old home.
Someone has laid a hand on my shoulder. I needn't turn around, I know who it is. There are few people aboard this ship who as I do, but he is one of them, though he is the White Pilgrim, immortal and powerful beyond belief. I know he too misses the grass, the fields, little rivers. I lean into the hand.
Up until now I have cried silently. But I have so many things to cry for that I simply cannot hold them back any longer. Let them hear my sobs. I am sure they will forgive this one last selfishness.
I tilt my head and look to the east. One last time. Through my tears, the rippling sea could almost be the green, green grass of my home, shining under the sun and dancing in the wind.
The sea reflects the pale morning sun, illuminating, with dancing faery lights, the bow of the silent elven ship. The calm and serenity that are the shadows of all elves, prevails even now while they all sleep below. And so, I am comforted, though my tears still fall into the rippling sea.
I do not suppose that I shall do anything but cry for quite a while longer, for I have not done it in many years. It is, perhaps, a foolish thing to do as it brings me nothing but exhaustion and swollen eyes. But exhaustion and discomfort have been my companions for so long now that I pay them no heed and will gladly submit to them in return for the chance to bare my soul for a little while.
Were I disposed to be angry, I am not as it I have no greater disgust then that of my dislike of violence, I would rage of how it is so unfair. Unfair that I, after all I have done, must leave the land and people I love. How it is unfair that my home rejects me, and that I unwillingly return the sentiment. Not being able to stand the place you love above all is a sad thing indeed. But it is no one's fault that I cannot stay and I have no right to lay blame on anyone but myself.
I suppose I should be happy beyond belief, grateful to no end. And though I will be ever grateful, and though I am happy, somewhere inside of me, I cannot help but look back and wish. And I suppose that that is quite selfish of me, but I am not perfect and cannot ignore the pain as my heart is torn in two. But I suppose I am being overly melodramatic.
The sun is hidden now, behind rolling white clouds. The sea is darker, greener, but ever flickering and swaying to a silent song. It brings back grotesque memories I almost wish I had refused. Almost.
People are coming up on deck now, going about whatever it is they need to do. Their gaze studiously slides past me. I try to scrub away the tears with my sleeve: I don't want them to think me ungrateful. All I succeed in doing is feeling ridiculously infantile, and making the tears more insistent. The jacket smells of home. I give up, sighing, and lean on the rail. You couldn't see the sea from my old home.
Someone has laid a hand on my shoulder. I needn't turn around, I know who it is. There are few people aboard this ship who as I do, but he is one of them, though he is the White Pilgrim, immortal and powerful beyond belief. I know he too misses the grass, the fields, little rivers. I lean into the hand.
Up until now I have cried silently. But I have so many things to cry for that I simply cannot hold them back any longer. Let them hear my sobs. I am sure they will forgive this one last selfishness.
I tilt my head and look to the east. One last time. Through my tears, the rippling sea could almost be the green, green grass of my home, shining under the sun and dancing in the wind.