3.
summer, 453
Oh, my absurd, lovely Maitimo. I received a letter from him yesterday; I quote it in part:
I think of you constantly. Everything reminds me of Fingon: the light of the stars, the voice of the water, the black of a crow's wing. Do not name me idolator: that your loveliness and strength and wisdom exist within Arda's walls seems to me greatest credit to the Powers, and to the One above them from whom proceeded your too precious spirit. And I, who have seldom felt gratitude to the gods.
I do not know whether I am sleeping or awake, for you are in all of my dreams, so that they seem the more real.
He went on, with much pretty poetry, to bemoan the bleakness of his world without me--and, yet, what a delight, to think that we would meet again, and end his solitude! I thought myself infatuated, but indeed my lover gives new meaning to the word. He is his father's son indeed, and I do not mean this as criticism: this spirit that burns within him only makes him dearer to me. Nor do I fear that this will toward love will move him to rash action. But, Maedhros, truly, save your words, and give me all yourself.