| Origins |
| There was a time that I believed in faeries. In their gossamer wings and angelic eyes. We were seen as such, but as crippled sprites. Without a means with which to take to the sky. Instead, because of our longing, we looked to the heavens and reflected on the day in which we had once flown. We reminisced about the wind, of touching down upon a branch in the early hours of dawn. We bathed in the dew and basked in the sunlight. When the clouds cried we felt ourselves take root to the earth, a flower in need. And when night fell, our dreams came alive and we stared blankly into nothingness. In a dream I saw our origin. The First Race. The Beautiful Ones. The magical people said to be descended from the Sprite. But we had the humor of the Imp, ever mischievous, ever playful. The world is full of color and song and it was our duty to sing of our existence, our magical birth. I do not sing as much as others but it is not to say that I feel less. At the moment I feel, hovering between dream and darkness, more than ever I have felt. I wish to sing but one more song of the green earth will not comfort my parting soul. Our race is said to have two eternal weaknesses. A mortal blow to end all and the pain of an ill-fated love. I believe it is love that will destroy me now for my flesh, though pierced, does not ache as does my unscathed heart. I fall on a battlefield and yet I have no sorrow and no regret for what I have left undone. All I fear is that I could very well perish without her face in my mind’s eye. I can not see it and I can not hear her voice even as I plead with all I have left to be set free. Will she remember me once I am gone? Will she sail the Sea in hope of finding me, waiting for her still? Or will I pass from reality unto dream alone? I feel as if wings grow from my back and I find myself, in a painful daze, believing in faeries once more. I can hear their laughter, unbearably mischievous, and I wish to be one of them yet. I still have the time. Perhaps they will show me the origin of the Faerie. Perhaps I will understand why, although we are beautiful as a race, we do not see beauty in each other. It was never what I saw in her face although afterwards I would always think her lovely. Her smile brightening my heart. Her slanted eyes clear portals to that magnificent sea. Yes, she was lovely. And it was love that made me sing songs of her, allowing her to pass from mortal to myth. And it was the song that carried me to see her once more, the one last time, in my dream. I became a faerie that day, completing the circle. From Faerie to Elf and back again. It was the song that laid me to sleep in her lap of roses and tulips, of moonlight and sunset. The wings will carry me over the sea yonder, to wait with the others who believed and, in the end, became. And it is my love which strikes me down and urges me to sleep, for when I wake she will be another faerie as well, and we will be reunited in the dream. I will be the Faerie again. |
| By: TasogareBan Dying on a battlefield, these are Legolas Greenleaf's last thoughts. A simple, small piece. |
| All images and works done/altered by ShiNoFuriko and TasogareBan. Please do not steal and always give credit to where it is due. |