From my hunting experiences, I have learned that often the observer influences the observed, and that attitudes and opinions can contribute to what observers believe they see.
On the first point, I notice, when I am stalking prey, an inevitable change in prey’s behavior despite my success in concealment. It is very rare that my arrow will strike completely and mercifully unnoticed. At best, the prey will know something is happening, even if it is unaware that fatality swiftly approaches, a twitch of an ear or the slight lifting of eyes convinces me that at some instinctive level the prey knows, even if too late, that I am near. On the second point, I admit that incomplete understanding of prey will render me either too cautious or not cautious enough, and that an incorrect understanding can cause the roles of prey and predator to reverse. Both kinds of misunderstanding can be at best unfruitful, and at worst perilous.
The secret to this, I’ve discovered, is to find the truthful intersection between fact, speculation, and ignorance, for only there can one find the first step on the best path forward. It is one of the most difficult of endeavors in my experience. I must applaud my lovely bride Seregrian for Her scholarly diligence in seeking Her own truth-place regarding Her love, betrothal, and eventual marriage to Her humbly blessed suitor, me. Her methodical approach fills the pages of “Mortals: A Case Study”, my wedding gift from Her, with brilliant insight. Her self-examination is as important to this study as is her analysis of me, Her husband now, for in this union both parts make the whole of Us.
She has left for the day to the libraries of Duillond and Celondim, and after making sure She was well fed, held, and kissed, I sit down now with Her case study to continue my own research. My bookmark shows that I have read most of the case study, and I pick up with “On the Topic of Futility”. I am struck by what seems to be Her struggle to achieve a primary scholarly goal, balance. She writes:
…I shall continue to document my observations on the comparative studies of Mortal versus Elven traits and customs - and trying to balance these with the reality of my growing affections and admiration for dear Cutch. ("Dear Diary: today, Cutch gave me a flower. -squee!-" Elbereth forbid such drivel...)
This reveals that the very thing that has drawn us to each other, a primal romantic attraction, vies for attention against ancient academic skills. I can well understand Her frustration, for Her incomparable talents have defined Her for millennia, and this romance has come to her unbidden and unexpected in the sudden wink of an eye. To Her wisdom, there must be an accounting, but Her attempts to gather and weigh evidence are interrupted by Her own playful reactions to my romantic overtures. She concludes:
So there it is, my pointed attempts at cerebral research are steadily being compromised by a native desire for mischief that I had dismissed, or denied myself. Cutch is bringing out facets of my personality that I never knew I was capable of - or had ruthlessly suppressed all these long years. Perhaps this is part of Elvish nature I had long forsaken; but lately, is becoming futile to resist in the face of a growing love for my Mortal fool.
Yes, mell bereth, there it is. The accounting tabulates to this sum: our love for each other is a truth that proves itself by its very presence. As we observe and are observed by each other, our attempts to step away from that love for dispassionate reason are futile, for the thing we think we need to prove is too powerfully drawing us together to completely yield to will. This love steps beyond the boundaries of Immortal and Mortal, and our music is a duet of undeniably beautiful harmony.
In “The Thrill of the Hunt”, she continues Her observations of me, and comes to a pair of surprising rhetorical questions which seem a misunderstanding of my motivations, or perhaps an insight into them that I have failed to see.
She begins by describing her studious endeavors while I sleep, as an Immortal does not require as much slumber and Her time alone is convenient for Her purpose. I chuckle as She learns to overcome my “prodigious snore” which interrupts her concentration:
… I simply walk back into the bedchamber, and place a kiss upon Cutch’s forehead and whisper im sí, melethel, “I am here, sweetheart” – and his snores abruptly cease with a sigh. Once silence has resumed, I return to the Sanctum and my work.
This is innocent enough, for I can’t image how I might be a stalking, thrill-seeking hunter while I sleep. But She continues relating other of my behaviors that lead to this suspicion: my insisting that She eat after long hours over Her research, or my curiosity about subjects that She is reluctant to share. She sees Herself as prey to me, as I track Her via questions about Her moods, or by setting out traps for Her with Her favorite teas, coffees, or other dainties I’ve made. She specifically details what She considers “my direct approach” of brushing Her hair to relax Her into…some state of compliance. She then writes about Her betrothal ring, and “a small corner of my heart that remembers what Mortals truly are. Down from the Elder Days comes the anger and hate that spawned the Blood-queen, and is proven true by myriad acts even to these days; but all that hate shrinks when Cutch holds me in the night”
And then she closes this entry asking:
Am I being hunted?
Or tamed?
I am taken aback by the questions, for in my heart, all I wished to do is respect Her, love Her, and please Her. But I should keep these questions in my mind, tucked away in the same corner that holds the stinging shame from my foolishness in the Wildwood. Never should I treat Her as prey, or some treasured thing to be caged or hoarded. She is deserving of far more respect than that.
Her next entry, “On Breakthroughs”, stunningly proves the extent to which I go to please Her (stalk you, melon nin?). Here She specifically lists two physical shortcomings about Mortals that Elves find offensive: coolness of touch and scent of corruption. As I have related in previous notes, these give the impression that Mortals are akin to cadavers, and at one time I sought a cure, or at least a treatment, for these unromantic characteristics.
The solution came from experimentation in Captain Teahesto’s crafthouse loft, and his offhand analysis of the result: an oil extracted from flowering plants and infused with pleasant spices and herbs. The concoction, when gently heated and applied to the skin, made it warmer to the touch and hid the aroma, to an Elf’s nose, of decaying flesh. The Captain suggested a legitimate medical use, that of a massaging balm to apply on stressed and aching muscles or tendons.
Presenting this to Her seemed quite innocent and well intentioned, but the effect was as unexpected as an earthquake. I applied the warmed oil to Her feet and calves as She sat before the fire in the salon. She writes:
The effect was immediate and astonishing: the oil heated to the touch and penetrated deeply into the sinews and joints. I felt the most amazing sensation of relaxation spread wherever the balm coated my skin. And the aroma! The scent was of sweet flowers and blossoms and herbs, an almost Elvish mix of potpourri!
Happy to please Her so, I continued to massage Her neck and shoulders. Never had I witnessed Her so serenely restful, as if she had slipped all the bonds of unpleasantness She may have endured over the millennia. And then, as She writes:
It was at that moment that what I had feared happened. Cutch leaned over me and planted a kiss on the tip of my ear, and I could feel just the slightest nip of his teeth. I felt a flash of sensation shoot through me like a bolt of lightning, completely overmastered by a sudden urge I had no memory of ever feeling. I shot up out of my seat and whirled about to face him, wrapping my arms around his neck, pressing myself into him, covering his mouth with mine. There was no thought, no reason in my movement, only the desperate need of my betrothed’s touch.
That moment will be forever etched on my mind, heart, body, and soul. She was, as she writes, “…as dough beneath the hand of my bespoken master chef”. If I had simply been a predator, I might have had my carnal way with Her. But a warning horn sounded in my heart, a danger loomed in my own desire for Her, and my respect and love for Her came to our rescue. Recognizing the precipice upon which we embraced, I simple blurted, “Let’s never move.” What I really meant was, “We must stop. The marriage act is not ours to take now.”
And perhaps, mell bereth, there it is also. I confess to having been a stalker or tamer of sorts. I have searched long for a mate for my own need of a lifetime sharing love and respect. If that is something to forgive, then please do so. If it identifies me as like you, then let us revel in our marriage.
Looking back, perhaps the roles of Observer and Observed never made much sense for us, melon nin, for it seems to me that since we opened our hearts to each other months ago in Bree, we have been primarily Us, and trying to understand each other individually seems to miss so much of what We are now.
