Bethberry settled back into her bedroll, surrounded by her wool cloak, and pulled the rough blanket tighter around her. She lay back on the hard ground and smelt the musty aroma of the earth mingle with the faint whiffs of grass and woodland. Turning to the fire, she watched the sparks, spinning and twisting, dance up to the ebony vault overhead, to be lost among the stars.
"He found his love by the light of the Simarils," she said to herself, "but they were eclipsed by that love. The personal once again intruding on the universal, overwhelming it."
Bethberry thought then of Maladil and his family and their overwhelming pain of the personal, the particular. "There is nothing to take them out of their pain, beyond their burdens," she reflected, looking again up at the stars, the light of which absorbed the little campfire sparks. Quietly she watched for some time the interplay of spark and star before she finally fell asleep.
[ January 09, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]
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I’ll sing his roots off. I’ll sing a wind up and blow leaf and branch away.
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