“Anything you have ever longed for, my love. I will bring it to you. It is the least I can offer.”
“All I long for is you.”
“You ask for what is already yours.”
I am not good with words. In sooth, I never have been, save words spat in the heat of anger. I resent the fact that my eloquence comes to light in my own spite. I wish to speak gentle prose and poetry to the one whom I love. That is something I have never desired before. I used to think such a thing is weakness, and perhaps it is. Perhaps the way I bare my heart to Ithilwë will be the death of me one day. If so, then it will be a sweet and welcome end to a life that has lived too long.
I can write songs of how I love him in my mind, but when I speak, the words crumble and lose their meaning; my tongue twists them around and changes their impact, and it is not as lovely as I would have liked it to be. Is it my timing? I never did learn how to take my time. I rush into things so quickly. It is all or nothing. What purpose is there in doing things halfway? To offer a half-love out of fear? Living a half-life because one has not the conviction to ask for what they want? That is not the life for me. I must learn yet still to slow my tongue - to honey my words.
But the gilded words of the minstrels of olde come not easily to me. I get lost in the moment or I get lost in his eyes. They shine with the light of the stars. He moves with the grace of the Valar, and his presence is enough to make the whole room stop to look. And I wish I could tell him that, but my tongue is a liar, and my heart speaks just one language.
I am impetuous and impatient; I am marked by the years of recklessness I chose for myself, and I am feckless now as I bite my tongue to keep from spilling words that are not honed yet for his ears. I would bite my lips ‘til they bled if I spoke not until my words were ready, for they shall never be ready. Speaking words tied together with beautiful ribbon and lace trimming will never be how I show him my love.
I can show my love in one way, and it is through the things that I do. I have lived so long on the edge of a knife; I have lived so long as a fire that burns itself out, that now I must change my ways so that I am a fire that keeps him warm. My words will never be enough. There are too many liars in the world, now, and too many times have the words I love you been spoken by those who did not mean it, and who left, and it was not their love that was lost.
So I shall show him that I can do better. I shall show him that I am not just a fool in love, but that I am one who can change, for I know that which I love most comes first. And not just that, but I can speak poetry against his lips in the most archaic sense; I can press my fingertips to his skin and worship the light that he brings to all those who look upon him.
No longer can my reckless ambition be spent selfishly on death and all the glory that comes with it. I have someone to return to. And someone who will return to me.
