Sometimes I think love is a mute symphony. A quiet masterpiece. The strangest profundity I've ever known. It’s a presence that wrecks my endurance and blesses my heart. My life is so much grander because of it. So much darker, and deeper. Not because the love was mercurial or untrue. Far from it. Only because there are wraiths waiting in the hidden places. Ravenous entities who are attracted to such brilliant, emotional silence. They would darken it, sully it, any way they can. I’m untrue sometimes, and mercurial, because of them. But never my love. Even I haven’t the time nor sorcery for any of that. And what of fame? You've never known true fame, sweet one. Not like I have. Why do you think I dwell here of all places, in shadow and darkness? So far from everything that moves me? I know what it costs to be made an icon. To love so brilliantly, like a burning star for all to see. It can cost sanity, family and friends. So, I'll always choose the lesser evil if I can. The greater anonymity and magic. The two go hand in hand for those who know the real price of a circle. Or the true cost of anything occulted. Sometimes forgetting is better. Sometimes saying goodbye is the only way to heal the people you love. I was once told that such a decision wasn't mine to make. But it is, Mira. It always is. Do you know what happens when there are no stars in the sky? No songs in the earth? I do. Daughters weep for a thousand years, and then they die alone. Sons become ash and there is no sanctuary for the myriad lost. But love soars even in silence. Look at us now. The weight of our blood, our thunder. Like lightning in the veins of a chorus. You know, I like to imagine that the Fates themselves dance and weave and pretty the storm. Sometimes I even imagine that my youngest sings me to sleep. Such beautiful dreams. Such sweet fiction. So, tell me, who do I choose? Patience or prosper? My beloved ones or myself? If it’s hubris to care like this then consider me gladly arrogant. A father's earnest blessing, a mage's grand solipsism. A writer's desperate search for meaning. Hear me, sweet one. These conjured stories are only as bright as your watchful gaze. Sometimes I hold things in your hands, Mira, just to know how beauty really feels. Sometimes I imagine I'm dancing with you on a very special day. And I see the warm symphony in your eyes. The hope, the promise of a cherished future. Then the rage calms and the seas settle. Things become simpler in first light. Love and songs and stars in the sky, like an old man quietly giving his heart away.
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