It is unusual for me to be caught particularly unawares of anything important in my day-to-day life. Not for no particular reason did my mother name me 'Laechendir', though one could very easily assume the more aesthetic option. No, I see far more than I ever let on. Much can be said in a few simple gestures of the body, much can be learned by watching the mood in another's eyes. These signs, despite my own preference for remaining relatively private in my thoughts and manners, always tell the truth behind what someone is feeling or saying in a particular moment. I am not humble in saying that I am skilled in reading others in this manner.
Yet to one, it seems, I have been quite blind.
Several days past, while relaxing outside the Last Homely House, Isilimë expressed no small amount of upset and hurt at my own comments regarding my lack of close friends outside of herself (a situation wholly by choice, mind), and I pressed her further on the matter once Hir Fearelhil was out of earshot (a rather disconcerting fellow himself, one so old as he yet so... well, it would be rude to continue that thought). It would seem that she thought, or rather, thinks, I merely tolerate her presence, and do not truly find her enjoyable to be around.
Would that I could strangle a doubt in her mind, for I would very much like to do so.
These days since, I have given much thought into this matter, as though I withheld it from her, the interaction grieved me greatly. Have I, lulled by the apathy of routine, taken her for granted these past few milennia, and not spoken enough of my fondness for her? Or, rather, perhaps I have been too subtle. One would assume sharing my bed, meals, work and hobbies with her would all be signs that she is as dear to me as the very air we breathe is to our bodies. Yet, she does not seem to believe this is so.
Now I am filled with a hesitation, for if she does not believe I care for her, how calloused to her feelings, or even cruel, would the rings burning holes in my pocket be? They would be like as to shackles, and that is not a notion I can ever tolerate the mere thought of.
I feel as if I am growing increasingly desperate, as time wears on. The day we sail West looms ever on the horizon, though I know not the hour of our departure from the lands of Middle Earth. I know that, when we sail, I want it to be as husband and wife, and before this day I never had any doubts as to the inevitability of this vision. Yet now I am filled with uncertainty, never for my love of her, but rather, her love of myself. What manner of ellon has she painted in her mind in portrait of me, that cares so little for her as to only tolerate her? She is the sunlight, the turning of the page, the dance beneath the stars from years of yore. She is everything that is beautiful in this world, and she thinks I only barely stand her presence.
In light of this revelation of her insecurity regarding my affection, my work is now more imperative than ever. I will show her the depths of my devotion, and the love I bear for her, before I ever even give her sign of the silver rings. Before the day comes that we sail to far and fair shores, together.
Valar, let our story be one that ends in joy.
Attached to the page is a pressed daffodil.
