Metaphors
My bride Seregrian calls them visions. To me, they seem more like dreams, which are said to be symbolic of realities that float around the dreamer and are the stuff of both awareness and creativity. As a newlywed husband my focus is, not surprisingly, on Her and our vows, and their daily renewals have a mystical quality that touches me much more deeply than just physically. There are times when She awakens me, Her desire calling to mine, Her eyes capturing my consciousness, and Her touch having already aroused my instincts. These moments bring up the dreams, or visions, and I am swept away with Her.
Between the real and imagined worlds of waking to Her, all else behind those eyes are a blur of color, swirling with an ever-quickening pace matching the intensity of our embrace. While my gaze is fixed on Hers, I hear Her chanting in Her native, sensual language and although I do not fully understand the lyrics in my mind, their intention sings clearly to my heart and body. I join Her in harmony.
The experience is beyond my carnal imagination. The depth of our merging is dizzying, and I cling to Her in exhilaration, wonder, and humility. Her presence calms me, guides me, as if Her immortality is accompanied by an absolute certainty of the necessity of Us and Our journey.
How is a Mortal worthy of such an amazing Immortal mate?
“Question the magic and break the spell”, She has often quipped, and yet still my unwanted trepidations tempt me to it, to try to find some sort of metaphorical clue to re-test a truth that I already know in my very essence. My intimate relationship with Her has exposed the source of this anxiety; Mortal desperation, the realization that my life is but a blink of Her eye, and that most of Her life will ever be without me. I am challenged by my fear for Her misery at my absence, but then realize how distrustful and disrespectful that is for Her own immortal resilience and forethought; She knows Herself far better than any mortal ever could, and She would have never embarked on our married life together without foreseeing the inevitability of my demise. My hikes around this looping emotional trail become considerably less frequent as they help me more deeply understand my mortal foolishness.
Reading further in Her “Mortals: A Case Study”, I do see some evidence of Her own trepidations. They are not so much with me but with internal conflicts arising from having a betrothed change Her life. In “Distracted Thoughts”, She opens with the metaphor of the Hour of the Wolf setting the tone for her unease, a distraction from Her studious writings:
“In the last two watches of the night, I have written at best three full pages of notes, for I keep stopping in mid-sweep of my quill, staring in rapt contemplation of my writing hand - and the ring that now rests upon my finger.”
She continues to describe the betrothal ring, the grand feast where we exchanged them, and the delightful involvement with Her sister, Hartagil, who not only crafted our rings but also served as the intended bride’s family in sending me a-questing to prove my worth. Hartagil also took on the task of teaching me the correct phrases, in Her own Quenyan, with which to ask for Seregrian’s hand during the feast before guests and gods. After the revels, my betrothed describes a fundamental change in our relationship, now that we were wearing engagement rings:
“But tonight - and now, every night after - I hear the soft breathing of my own bespoken Mortal coming from my own chamber. He knows full well that we are betrothed, not married, and the marriage act is not his to take as of now; but as I told him, for my part I do not wish to be parted from him, and we shall share a chamber in rest and comfort. For as it is, we already share our hearts, and for an Elf that is enough.”
Acquiescing to this new arrangement required not trust of Her, but trust of myself, to honor Her wishes as well as Her traditions. I found that I easily love Her more than enough to render this respect. Being with Her at all times and in all places soothes my fears and doubts. Although satisfied with this agreement, She still admits:
“The ring interferes with writing. I must get used to this - but as I am now betrothed, it is but one more new thing to study. I shall now retire - to my beloved's side.”
So, is the ring a metaphor for Her own conflict, or is this very sentence a sneaking manifestation of my own self-doubt? Perhaps being able to formulate that question is a good omen for our future together.
Her next study entry, “On the Nature of Elven Wines (An Essay)” I find quite puzzling, not in its content, but in its inclusion in this study. Nowhere is our betrothal, or my name, mentioned, and She includes only a passing reference to Mortals. This entry, in its entirety, is no more than perhaps the best essay one could hope for as a reference on the local wines near the Falathlorn. Her descriptions are, as I would expect from Her hand, exceptionally well written and completely informative, including not only the essential characteristics of each wine, but also of their proper place in social gatherings. I am left wondering who, in the reading of this case study on mortals, would find this specific topic relevant.
She is deliciously mischievous at times, and I wonder if there is a lovingly humorous angle here. Did She suspect that at some time I would be reading this and would find the entry fascinating and perhaps a welcome intermission from the study’s more deeply insightful topic? Does She intend to subtly instruct me, Her eventual Steward of the House? Or is this again my mortal trepidations skulking clumsily about for a validation? Perhaps this paragraph is evidence that I have grown under Her light. (What do you think, mell bereth?)
Next, “New Observations” describes Her evaluations of my physical presence after many days and several nights of intimate proximity. Reading this now makes me chuckle (perhaps, melon nin, I have indeed grown) but at the time that she wrote this and conversed with me on these details, I was very concerned; perhaps ‘aghast’ would be a better word.
In short, I was in some respects akin to a cadaver; cool to the touch and smelling of “corruption”. These She attributed to my Mortal state. To hear this from anyone else would have had me shrug with some indifference but hearing them from Her immediately stood up my worst fears. Surely, I bemoaned, these metaphorically represented Her eventual rejection of me. With some embarrassment, I recall an obsession with trying to overcome these romantically fatal flaws, for I spent endless days in Teahesto’s loft tinkering with his reagents and my own horticultural knowledge to concoct something to lather on and hide my offenses. There was one episode that ended with me being chased half naked by bees into the Lair…
She also relates in this entry Her joy at my playfully painting my toes, in her favored crimson, and surprising Her with them. She had been studying for many days without rest, and I was determined to give Her some relief. From this, I experienced in earnest something that has ever lifted my spirits to incredible heights, Her unbridled laughter at some silly spontaneous inducement of my own invention.
Metaphors can be very troubling things, for they can be as much a measure of a brooding observer as the omens they are imagined representing. There was a time when I was sure I was undeserving of my amazing immortal bride, and that it was only a matter of time She would realize it and cast me aside. In reading the closing of this entry, I see in Her our then commonly held doubt:
“So, there it is, I have been experiencing both the tolerable and the pleasant, the anticipated and the unexpected. But there is one thing that transcends all others, that causes my resolve to both examine and work through any potential difficulty to be all the stronger - and that is my deepening love for my Mortal suitor. Even as I wrote this, I heard him stirring in the bedchamber, surreptitiously padding down the stairs on his painted feet, and crossing the hall to his kitchen, and now the smells of cooking waft through the corridors. I go now to make a grand entrance, in all my Elvish loveliness (again, his words), and praise him in all the ways he deserves.
And I shall indulge myself in thinking I deserve him.”
True love, I have learned, trumps all metaphors conjured to deny it. Some have advised me to ‘live each day with her as if it were your last’. This would seem to invite my mortality to shade, with desperation, Our life together. Instead, I find a further reduction of the suggestion more wise, delightful, and fruitful.
Live Each Day.
