[ On the day they are to be wed, he tells her that the Elves marry for love.
He is a romantic, to some degree — before he meets her, he does not yearn for it, necessarily, nor does he attempt to seek it out, but he finds some sort of comfort in the knowledge that he will one day have a partner, someone with whom to share in life's many joys, someone with whom to share the many years that lie ahead of him. It is not that these ideals are dashed when the match is arranged, but rather than his sense of it changes. That they are brought together by forces outside of their control does not change the fact that love is something that must be grown, developed, nourished.
And he thinks he spots it, here and there — in glances shared across the courtyard, in knowledge shared, in brief touches they grow increasingly comfortable with exchanging.
He could not say what emboldens him, now, but in the privacy of their chambers, he finds himself reaching out, his fingers ever so carefully brushing back a lock of white hair from her cheek, tucking it safely back behind her ear. (Her hair glows, in the candlelight, like pearls or silver.) Papers cover the desk before them — remnants of the lessons they offer each other (the ink is still trying on some Tengwar script, tonight's teachings just barely concluded), correspondence from days past. He sits closer to her than he usually has, and he feels suddenly more aware of the distance (or lack thereof) between them, as he looks at her.
He knows already that appeals to her station and to her beauty mean little to her, but still, more and more, he finds himself admiring her — the way her cheeks flush when she laughs, the particular set of her mouth when she expresses displeasure, the mellow tone of her voice. He understands the inclination of some to say that love makes one weak, that it clouds the thoughts, but if anything, he thinks it is a strength, a sign that they have grown closer together. ]
I hope you do not find me too bold, [ he says quietly, as he lets his hand drop back to the surface of the desk. ] I must confess I find myself thinking of you often, in recent days. Not just for what machinations we face together, but—
[ He shakes his head slightly, searching for the right words. ]
—but, I suppose, simply out of affection.
[ There is, for once, something shy about the way he looks at her, different from the certainty and confidence with which he usually carries himself. ]
— i'll face the light with you.
He is a romantic, to some degree — before he meets her, he does not yearn for it, necessarily, nor does he attempt to seek it out, but he finds some sort of comfort in the knowledge that he will one day have a partner, someone with whom to share in life's many joys, someone with whom to share the many years that lie ahead of him. It is not that these ideals are dashed when the match is arranged, but rather than his sense of it changes. That they are brought together by forces outside of their control does not change the fact that love is something that must be grown, developed, nourished.
And he thinks he spots it, here and there — in glances shared across the courtyard, in knowledge shared, in brief touches they grow increasingly comfortable with exchanging.
He could not say what emboldens him, now, but in the privacy of their chambers, he finds himself reaching out, his fingers ever so carefully brushing back a lock of white hair from her cheek, tucking it safely back behind her ear. (Her hair glows, in the candlelight, like pearls or silver.) Papers cover the desk before them — remnants of the lessons they offer each other (the ink is still trying on some Tengwar script, tonight's teachings just barely concluded), correspondence from days past. He sits closer to her than he usually has, and he feels suddenly more aware of the distance (or lack thereof) between them, as he looks at her.
He knows already that appeals to her station and to her beauty mean little to her, but still, more and more, he finds himself admiring her — the way her cheeks flush when she laughs, the particular set of her mouth when she expresses displeasure, the mellow tone of her voice. He understands the inclination of some to say that love makes one weak, that it clouds the thoughts, but if anything, he thinks it is a strength, a sign that they have grown closer together. ]
I hope you do not find me too bold, [ he says quietly, as he lets his hand drop back to the surface of the desk. ] I must confess I find myself thinking of you often, in recent days. Not just for what machinations we face together, but—
[ He shakes his head slightly, searching for the right words. ]
—but, I suppose, simply out of affection.
[ There is, for once, something shy about the way he looks at her, different from the certainty and confidence with which he usually carries himself. ]
Is that strange?