Elenwë of the Vanyar (vanya_elenwe) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2013-04-17 03:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed |
WHO: Elenwë and Maedhros
WHAT: Remembering Lost Loves
WHEN: Tuesday night
WHERE: Maedhros's room
WARNING: You may need a feels bucket?
STATUS: Closed/Incomplete
Elenwë sat on the side of Maedhros' bed, looking out the window at the stars that twinkled brightly above them. They were as beautiful here as they were in Valinor, as beautiful as they had been as they had twinkled in the cold air above the Helcaraxë the night before she had arrived here. But she had not been cold that night. Nay, she had been warm and safe, as she had always felt when she had been with Sara. They had held Itarillë safe between them, clutching hands over her as she slept. They had not spoken, as they had not wanted to awaken her, but there had been no need. They had just met the other's eyes and in that could express everything. It had been a perfect night, their little oasis of love in the midst of such fear.
She missed him. She would not deny it. There was a part of her heart that only he could fill, and it ached with his absence. She thought of him every day, saw him in everyone, dreamt of him holding her. There had not been enough time. She would not say that to the mortals here, for they would find it insensitive, and she had no wish to hurt him. But the thousand years of the Sun that they had been together had only been enough to make her yearn for more. Although she knew that at world's end, she would still be begging for more time to be with Sara.
How she loved him. And it had not been based on physical pleasure. Oh, they had shared that! A thousand times over. Ten thousand. She had long ago lost count. And every time with him was more perfect that the time before. But that was not why she loved him; it was only an expression of it. When she thought of him, she did not think of their time making love. She thought of his grey eyes, his thick, dark hair that she would run her fingers through as they lay in bed talking of everything and nothing. She thought of the gentle sound of his voice, with his soft Ñoldor accent, as she lay with her head on his chest and listened to him speak of the home he would build for her late into the night. She remembered the way he would blush, and the way his ears would droop when he was embarrassed. She remembered the soft words of love he would whisper to her in the morning when he thought she still slept. His wisdom. His smell. His gentleness. In the face of all this, lovemaking was such a tiny bit of her love for him.
She smiled at the bittersweet memories, holding them close. They were hers, and they would not fade. Nothing could take them from her. Nothing could take him from her.
Looking out the window, she began to sing, softly, in her own language. It was a sort of lullabye, a gentle, loving goodnight to a sundered love. It came from her heart, from the very pit of her soul, and in it swirled all the thousand different feelings of love she felt for Sarafinwë Turukáno. Her dearest friend. The love of her life. The father of her daughter. She did not cry; how could she? Even with how much she missed him, the joy in the memories was far greater than any sadness at being parted. And she would find him again. She knew that she would. Estel. There was always estel, and she rose that in her song as well.