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May. 2nd, 2005 @ 11:02 am A Matter of Judgement
Current Mood: sadsad
Long hours in the night I pondered the problem, how can one judge the decisions of another or know with certainty whether a desertion is wilful betrayal or some act of fear or love? In the first shock of a broken heart, one cannot reason, and afterwards, one chooses not to, but makes some explanation that will dull the pain and allow life to continue.

What I mean is that we do not ask the questions, we do not look deeply at things where the shadows lie deepest. At other things, we look too closely, and I could say that the message I received from my dear one on the day we sailed, that I must go and be happy and forget her, proves beyond doubt that she felt some small regret for thus breaking her promise to me. Or I could call it a coward's message, sent via a servant, to quell my anger and send me weeping into the east with no anger left to demand an explanation. I could say it was a plea, asking me once more to run to her and lay my love at her feet and speak whatever words would give her courage to sail with me. I could say that her servant lied, and lied to her perhaps too, and told her I had sailed.

In Amárië's heart, does Finrod yet find shelter? Dearly she loved her father, for his sake rejected me many times, always with the words, "Wait but a while and he will see your worth." That last day, could she not bear to bid him farewell? Was her love for me so weak she could watch me sail rather than bring a tear to his eye? Would I have done differently, had my father despised her? My heart cries that I would have defied the Valar themselves for her sake, but the heart boasts well when no test will come.

If I could have one answer of all the myriad answers of the world, if but one truth could be mine, I would ask of that message, and beg to know if hers were the words that sent me to my ship, half-blinded by tears, turning away from those who were my true friends, lest they should see and share my sorrow. I would ask if she spoke those words, and, if two questions may be asked as one, how she spoke them. Did a silver tear fall from those eyes of aquamarine? Did those lips that once spoke my name so tenderly, tremble as they spoke my doom to a servant? Or was she listening as her father gave the message? Did she beg that it should be forgotten and any words but those brought to me where I waited? Whose were the words?

My city is being built, and all around me are joyful faces. I take joy in their joy and in the beauty around me, and I neither speak nor think that name in the halls amongst the others. My sister speas wittily, and I laugh, and the mirth is real. There is a girl here, though, with aquamarine eyes. Another with golden hair. There is a woman who laughs as she laughed and another who sings one of the sweet love songs she sang to me. Such things are remembrancers and then I speak or think her name and feel again the silk of her hair beneath my hand or hear her whispers.

Amárië, am I false to you in doubting that you were true to me? Or was my faith in you misplaced? Was I a fool? My love, at least, was true.

And yet I sailed, and told myself I had no choice. Had you been a prisoner, I could have stormed your father's house and taken you with me. How did I know that you were not? I feared to go. I feared neither your father nor his servants, and there was no threat that could have driven me back, but for that threat that hung over me, that I would look into your eyes and hear you say, "I have given my message. Were you not told?" I preferred exile, even exile from you, to the risk of such a blow.

Am I allowed one more answer? A small one this, and, if the lie is a fair one, I do not need the truth. Is there hope? Can errors be reversed and faltering hearts strengthened in resolve? Can what is shattered be remade, reforged in the fire of a new age? Is there a word I can speak, a deed I can do, a path I can tread that ends in that garden where we watched rose petals fall and grieved that only our love could bloom forever?

Hope is a fragile thing, yet I have built mine into the stone walls of Nargothrond. I have made my own answer to that question, and I have made it yes. When love is lost, we mut cling to hope, but I wish I were wise enough to judge these things.
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