eldalieva
Harem Frishna, Keeper of
the Blue
Registered: Apr
2002
Location: Losin' it. Oh wait, LOST it.
Posts:
43 |
Happy
Birthday!
Well, I
almost had a heart attack last night when this site was
down...I thought, "My word, the Harem has killed another
website!" 
I'm so glad it's back because TODAY IS LILY'S BIRTHDAY!!! HAPPY
BIRTHDAY, LILY!!
Now, what do you get
for one who's done so much and is practically a Founding
Sister of the Harem? Well, Lily, I have no idea so I'm giving
you the following. I wrote this a couple of days ago and then
thought it would make a nice present (how convenient!  ).
Hope you enjoy...HAVE A GREAT DAY!!
September
Journal
Now it is early September, and a grey,
blustery day it is, with clouds borne across the sky by a cool
east wind and the leaves tossing upon their branches. Although
it is yet early in the season, some of those leaves already
show a faint tinge of the bright colors they will wear this
autumn, and this makes you glad. You love summer, with its
abundance and warmth and long, sunlit afternoons and velvety,
starry nights. But autumn…oh, autumn is the sweetest time of
the entire year. In this season is a poignancy and a longing
that is the essence of joy, and after the blazing brilliance
of summer, autumn lays itself down over the land like a quiet
benediction, a cool hand upon a fevered brow. The gentle
coolness of the air and the long, purple twilights seem made
for reflection and deep thought, and also for a feeling of
renewal and possibility. It was always in autumn that Frodo
set out on all of his journeys, and you can still see the
shadow of the old wanderlust in him, dimmed now, touched with
a sadness over all the places his wanderings led him, and you
know that at this time of year, the memory of many things,
both sad and joyful, is on him.
You saw him today,
sitting lost in thought by the fire, and it seemed that this
first day of cool weather had reminded him of all the
Septembers of his life. He did not seem sad, merely reflective
and quiet, and you did not wish to disturb him. Surely you
know everything about him, as he knows everything about you,
yet there are still secrets in his heart that he has not
revealed, and there you are content to leave them. For even
those who love each other must hold onto something of
themselves, and not all secrets are meant to be revealed.
So you go to sit outside, at the edge of the garden
where your eyes can sweep past the late summer flowers and
down the lawn to the wide band of trees that lies between this
house and the paths to the sea. The grey sky and the cool air
and the soft touch of fall upon the land have made you
thoughtful and you have brought your journal and pen with you
in case you should think to write something. And after a while
of watching the clouds chase each other across the September
sky, you open the book and you write:
My lord, do
you know how I love you?
I love every hair upon your
head and the way each one curls in a different direction and
how they look black but every strand has a rainbow of color in
it when I wind them around my fingers on a sunny day.
I love the dark arching of your eyebrows across your
forehead. Do you know that you have the most expressive
eyebrows? You can convey a host of feelings by merely raising
them or drawing them together and I love when you bring them
together in some concern or anxiety and I can stroke my hand
across that knotted space between them.
I love the
tracery of your eyelashes as they lay across your cheeks in
sleep or as they shadow your eyes when you are reading. I love
to look at you when your eyes are cast down, but not closed,
and see their dark screen, like a lace curtain against the
day-brilliance of your eyes.
Your eyes! Do I even need
to say that I love your eyes? I could compare them to a
hundred, nay, a thousand things upon the earth or in the
heavens and still I could not describe them. Are they the
color of morning glory or periwinkle or cornflower? Are they
like the summer sea or the winter sky or the autumn twilight?
Are they sapphire or jacinth or cobalt or indigo or cerulean
or azure? Indeed, they are all of these, and yet none. They
are yours and yours alone. They are dazzling in color and
radiant in spirit. They are lit from within. Oh! Your eyes!
Even this ancient world has never seen their like!
Oh,
and I must recover myself for a moment from the thought of
your eyes!
You put your journal down and fold your
arms together and take a brief turn around the garden to clear
your mind. You breathe deeply and there is a fragrance of
season’s change on the air, mingled with wood smoke from the
house and the ever-present scent of the sea. You return to
your seat and read what you have written, and you laugh and
continue:
Well, and what shall I say about your
mouth? Shall I tell you how I love its shape? That soft,
petal-like bow of your upper lip, the full curve of your lower
lip, the pleasant way they fit together and the dimples in
their corners? Or shall I tell you how I love its softness,
like velvet or a leaf of lamb’s-ear, and that even the
slightest brush of that softness against my cheek sends a
shiver throughout me? Or perhaps I should tell you about its
color, the wonderful light rosiness that deepens to near
crimson when I kiss you? I think instead of all these things,
I will tell you how I love the taste of your mouth, that
remarkable honeyed taste with its rich hint of dairy
sweetness, as though you’d been eating honey and cream all
your life. Do you know that I can kiss you and moments later I
still taste you on my lips? And then I recall your mouth’s
shape and softness and color, and that is when I run back to
kiss you again!
Aaah, but I love every inch of you. I
love the firm column of your throat and the sweet hollow
between your collarbones and the way shadows flicker against
it when you sit by the fire. I love your shoulders and arms
and the soft, warm insides of your elbows. I love to trace my
finger over the blue pattern of veins upon your wrists, and I
love your hands with their delicate bones and tendons and
slender fingers. I love the sweep of your spine from your
shoulders to the small of your back and I love to kiss you
there from your neck to your waist and feel you shiver from my
light touch. I love the slender curve of your hips and the
smoothness of your thighs and the way your warm scent lies
deeper behind your knees and in all the hollows of your body.
I love to watch you sleep, for then I have all of you before
me, whether you are lying on your back, or your stomach or
curled up on your side, with your hair tumbled across your
forehead and your hand under your cheek and your chin tucked
down, the way a child sleeps. Then I can wrap my arms around
you and share your warmth and breathe in your scent and feel
your skin beneath my hands. I cannot resist running my hands
over you, marveling at the flawless beauty of your body.
Flawless? Yes…even your scars only add to your loveliness.
Every one of your wounds, inflicted with cruelty and hatred,
now renders you even more beautiful by its very presence. What
an affront to all the evil of this world!
You set
your pen down again and look out towards the horizon. The
afternoon has grown a bit darker, perhaps rain will come by
this evening. You look at the last words you wrote and take up
your pen...
__________________
It was an
April morning when they told us we should go
And as I
turned to you, you smiled at me
How could we say no?
Oh,
the fun to have, to live the dreams we always
had...
--Plant/Page
Last edited by
eldalieva on 09-03-2002 at 06:32 AM
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09-02-2002
05:09 PM
. It's just as Fro is being pulled into the water
by the Watcher outside Moria. My DVD display pegs it as
1:46:44. Just thought I'd let you all know, in the name of
thoroughness, of course! 
09-02-2002 07:10 PM
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