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Sep. 16th, 2005 @ 10:52 am Moonlight
Current Mood: melancholymelancholy
The moon was silver last night, the pure silver of a betrothal ring, as clear as the heartfelt words of a lover's pledge, as free of mark or marring as the name of the heart's beloved. Alone in my rocky watchtower, I looked upon that silver light and wept silver tears for the rings that should have been forged, the words that should have been spoken. The sea was wide last night, and full of bitter salt.

It was foolish of me to let my thoughts cross the sea when my body cannot, for no ship will take me home, nor any loving face remain to greet me. Maybe my name is not spoken there, or maybe it is cursed. Does she curse it? Perhaps it is as well that I cannot return. To hear her loving voice full of anger, of hatred, of shame that she ever loved me, would be worse than any exile.

We loved the moon, the silent companion of our sweetest hours. Long were the nights on which we walked on the shore and spoke of the stars or competed in poetry to capture the moon's light in words or express the depth and wealth of our love. To us, the moon was a friend. Her face was more lovely beneath that cool light than when lit by the brash light of the sun, though the sunlight awoke the golden light in her hair. Well did I love to look upon her at any hour, but the moon added a sanctity and secrecy to the faint smile that would blossom into laughter at some foolish joke of mine.

I do not hate the moon. No-one who has ever loved the night can learn to hate the moon. I, who walked beside my love on the moonlit sands, whose only betrothal ring was the moon's halo, I will always love the moon with an aching heart, but a sincere one.

Once I hoped that our companion of the shore might witness the celebration of our marriage. The full moon is a welcome guest at any feast, and gladly would I have danced with my wife, my wife! Gladly would I have held her hand and gazed at the light in her eyes, as perfect and as pure as the light that glittered on her jewels and reflected on the silver threads in her gown. Had we but danced a single dance as man and wife, nothing could have parted us. She would have stood beside me last night, and the moon's beauty wiould have brought no pain.

No, the moon has not lost my love, but as the loss of one friend makes any gathering of friends bittersweet, so that dear face of the moon reminds me of my loss and calls forth sorrowing tears, though I would not for that reason avert my eyes. Perhaps for exiles there can be no beauty untouched by grief, no joy unalloyed with sorrow. Perhaps I should not regret that the moonlight awakens such pain, but rather be glad that my heart has not become dulled by the years and hardened in the places where it was tender. Painful though this grief is, it is not the slow soul-death of growing indifference. That her name remains both talisman and scourge to me, that precious stones remind me of her eyes and bring tears to mine, that I am everywhere without her, rather than simply alone, these are at least signs of fidelity, and prove my love more than some affectation of youth. If we meet again, I will not waste time in demanding explanations or weeping over my long pain. Instead, I will fall at her feet and speak whatever words I can speak in that longed-for presence. There will be no word of rebuke from me, no lashing out of injured pride. Before her face, I will have no pride, and if she smiles on me again, all my wounds will be healed.

Should a king have more dignity? Perhaps. Yet we love not as kings, but as captives. Oh, I could play the king and look on her with lofty disdain. She, no doubt, could match my frost with her own, and make of this land, even of Valinor, an icy wasteland. Such a victory for dignity, to kill with cold all that my heart craves, all that my soul needs. Pride and dignity are fine things to look upon, but such brittle jewels are a poor substitute for warmth and love.

What has she done to deserve such cruelty? Whether she listened to others' lies or ceased to love me, can either be called her fault? Am I not more to blame? For I left her. I could have stayed and found out what had happened. Perhaps both our hearts were broken that day. An hour's grace might have saved us both and bound our lives ineternity. It is a hard thought to bear, that one hour might have saved me from these years of pain. Yet, at the time, there seemed no reason to wait an hour. I was anxious to be gone from that shore where every speck of sand whispered her name. I longed then for the living death of exile, hoping that distance might bring relief. It was folly to think that I could leave love behind me, like a discarded cloak, for my love for her was the centre of my life.

Ah well, the day has come and the melancholy moon has departed. There will always be tears while we are parted. I have shed enough tears to fill the sea. I will not resent the moon for reminding me, but remember with love the nights of walking and talking and sweet songs we shared long ago, with the moon our benevolent chaparone.
About this Entry
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Date:November 2nd, 2005 04:19 pm (UTC)
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I know you friended me but who are you? I don't know you and sometimes lurkers make me uncertain.
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Date:November 24th, 2005 06:27 am (UTC)
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It's me. Sorry, should have said.
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Date:November 24th, 2005 05:10 am (UTC)
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Very beautiful and cogent, which seems to me how Finrod thinks. You have Silmarillion-speak down to a T.

Yet we love not as kings, but as captives.

Lovely line.
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Date:April 3rd, 2006 01:33 pm (UTC)
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My Random People Visiting And Minion Recruiting Tour 2006

Ave, amicus!
I don't know if you are still around, I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate your serious Tolkien work. Too many self-acclaimed parodists prance around, ridicule and desecrate Tolkien every day. This must stop! P.S. Can you get me a discount silmaril?

Eternal love,