I thought I was too old to be in love. Most of my kin are married once, and by the age of their maturity - around one hundred years old. To not be married by then is considered queer, or as if fate had another plan.
I assumed, that after nearly seven thousand years, fate simply had another plan.
What now am I supposed to make of this? We rarely lust, lest it be a sign of another waywardness in our hearts, or of a deep pride or possessiveness of our craft and that which is by our hands. Save my own pride, of which I have spent on immaterial things, I believe this is desire that I feel. Desire is not inherently wrong, but why now? Why would I now desire someone to bind my soul to?
Someone who has tempered his pride into steel, forged rather than fire; whose belt is humility and whose circlet is truth? Who is to me as the moon is to the tides, pulling and luring them to itself while they try and try to crash themselves relentlessly upon the shore. Why now do I desire…?
Is this love? Is this the burning passion the mortal races sing of in their songs and tales? The unwavering loyalty woven into their very innate nature for those whom they deem worthy of their affection? Is this the love one feels not for kin, but the same one I see in the eyes of Amaken and Anastasiar when they pass their soulful glances across the room?
...I want it. I want that love. I want the clashing of passions sung by the minstrels; I want flesh and soul become one. I want silver rings turned to gold and the whispering of names in the other’s ear, sacred and reserved to all but the spouse. Is that selfish? Is that pride? Why is my heart and soul reeling every time I see…?
