[ It is strange β there is not a thing in this world that he does not desire to share with her. Somehow, the world seems larger with her in it, as though the years he had spent prior to their marriage had been but a taste of what the world had to offer. He looks at her and he wishes that he could show her some fragment of the splendor of Beleriand in the First Age, the slivers of what he remembers before Sauron's rise. After that, his impulses compete with each other, the desire to travel, to see everything there is to see with her at his side entwined with the desire to build something here that will last, that will serve as a testament to their union.
(There is some folly, he supposes, in the degree to which he is also captivated by her beauty, but the Elves have always placed a high price on such things, and it feelsβ less facile, now, as something born not out of detached observation but something valued and cherished. The catlike moue of her mouth, the lines that form in her cheeks when she smiles, the way her gaze can run from hot to cold, the precious silver of her hair. She will be remembered as a great beauty, he thinks, as much as she will hopefully be remembered for her facility as a leader.)
That is to say, he begins to understand, in these stolen moments, the love borne between Beren and LΓΊthien, in the great tales he had heard in his youth, though he hesitates yet to say the word aloud, lest it be reckless.
And, truthfully, lest fear β fear of a world without her, of what their path may hold β overtake him.
Besides, there are larger, heavier questions to follow, questions that ill befit the moment they're in, as to the matter of children, of what is expected of them. Such discussions grow more difficult in a context like theirs, when time to truly get to know each other is a luxury rather than a given factor. ]
That permission, I think, is the greatest gift I have yet to receive, [ he says, his smile matching hers. Granted, he sees it, too, in the way she leans toward him, in the touch of her hand at his neck. ] And I would be remiss not to offer it in turn.
[ A beat, and then: ] I cannot truthfully say that you have not enchanted me β nor can I honestly say that I would have it any other way.
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(There is some folly, he supposes, in the degree to which he is also captivated by her beauty, but the Elves have always placed a high price on such things, and it feelsβ less facile, now, as something born not out of detached observation but something valued and cherished. The catlike moue of her mouth, the lines that form in her cheeks when she smiles, the way her gaze can run from hot to cold, the precious silver of her hair. She will be remembered as a great beauty, he thinks, as much as she will hopefully be remembered for her facility as a leader.)
That is to say, he begins to understand, in these stolen moments, the love borne between Beren and LΓΊthien, in the great tales he had heard in his youth, though he hesitates yet to say the word aloud, lest it be reckless.
And, truthfully, lest fear β fear of a world without her, of what their path may hold β overtake him.
Besides, there are larger, heavier questions to follow, questions that ill befit the moment they're in, as to the matter of children, of what is expected of them. Such discussions grow more difficult in a context like theirs, when time to truly get to know each other is a luxury rather than a given factor. ]
That permission, I think, is the greatest gift I have yet to receive, [ he says, his smile matching hers. Granted, he sees it, too, in the way she leans toward him, in the touch of her hand at his neck. ] And I would be remiss not to offer it in turn.
[ A beat, and then: ] I cannot truthfully say that you have not enchanted me β nor can I honestly say that I would have it any other way.