~ On Cerin Amroth ~
Vanima, vanima, vanima!…
How many times can he say a word, breathe the perfect cadence of its syllables before it becomes the very name he calls her by?
Vanima,
he says, curling a bloom of elanor in a silken coil of hair
Vanima, he whispers, as she leads him in silence past the columns of
golden trees, and
Vanima.
Her beauty does not blind him. The light of her face lights the eyes of Hope itself. Her thumb brushes over his palm, sunshine on an upturned leaf. And brushes over the ring, serpents and flowers, and he can feel the warmth of her touch through its ancient circle.
On Cerin Amroth, he places it on her finger, and for one perfect moment, it is not the Shadow, nor the Twilight he thinks of.
She lifts her hand to her gaze, and she is simply
… beautiful.
***