I Lay My Soul at Your Feet

April 16, 20XX

Dear Lydia,

I hope you can forgive me. We have spent many hours searching for the right words, and many more diligently waiting for the mail to be delivered with bated response.

Last time, you asked me to tell you three things to help you form your opinion of me. I admit that request has me… worried? Downright terrified. But I also want to. Three things you should learn of me with inner musings.

First, I am but a simple soul. I have spent my time being a Jack of All trades and a Master of None, well learned in color theory and mixing, I built a name for myself in the art community. I traveled for years before settling in this port side town that blurs the lines of antique and modern. When I can, I sketch anything that catches my eyes. Yesterday, I spent time on the shore edge where I saw a boy laid belly down on the sand, his head rested on his folded arms as the water lapped around his upper body but not at risk of going up his nose. His hair was the color of driftwood bark with tight curls at his crown. Even at my distance, the freckles on his back and upper shoulders were visible as the sun beat at his tawny skin. Though I was at his profile, I could see his face, his still soft jaw was clenched as if trying to hold thoughts too grown for his body. The tightness around his visible eye cast a gaze of a thousand yards, what ever demon in his mind’s eye was a beast of epic build and he had no training to prevail. The sunlight gave the salty streak on prepubescent cheek movement as it showed how some had dried up just to be replaced with the memories of his own adaptation.

I had to sketch this out. Really, I had to. Not because the lad’s pain was a great inspiration, but because I felt a pull from him. Something about him said this was a warrior at one time that was witness to great tragedy that he couldn’t stop. A crime he had to punish without clear right or wrong maybe? Mayhap it was a mistake that someone else paid ultimately for, I’m not sure, but I took time to sketch him. His spirit said it was at unrest and I am too familiar to that loathsome feeling.

Secondly, Lass, I love hard. In the past, men of my stature were not considered to be the gentle, doting type. We were considered the raiders and warriors. The ones that went off in wartimes and secured victories for our homestead. Oh, but women in our area knew better. They knew we were smitten with them. If they said bring them bear pelts, you can be assured that we would be on the hunt to bring them the best pelts, cleaned and treated for their ease. Yet, I have been known to love harder. My brother, Maxsim teased me awful because of my heart. Forgive me because no one wants to hear of past flames, I hope you’ll allow it as it answers your query.

Britta was a girl with hair like winter embers and eyes blue as the waters of the fjord. I’d say she would’ve come to your shoulders in height, but she could command an army on men like me with ease. In our homeland, she would have been a high dowry and the high chance of being looked at by chiefs and royalty alike. I saw her around and something about a lass that could make a mountain of a man bow like thistle in the winds is desirable. I wonder who else has that same quality? *Insert smirk as appropriate* Well, Max was a deviant as we always tried to fool and prank each other. I’d no idea how he got Britta onboard with his half-formed plan… I woke up one morning to them laughing in the distance and I was confused why. The wench had drugged me with sleeping herbs and the whelp drug my sleep mats to a raft. I awoke to myself floating about forty feet from shore. She had gotten me good because I was hard to drug due to my size. The wench had me head over ass, none the wiser because I couldn’t taste it in my drink either.

I went to see her father the next day for a possible marriage. I courted her in our customs. Provide her with four things: a gift of strength, a gift of beauty, a gift of provision and a gift of protection.

My gift of strength was unplanned but well timed. Her brother and uncle were going hunting a few villages away by boat, but it had moored tight in the ground. They were bringing her herbs for the medicines she made, and her stock was scarce. No matter how they tried, it didn’t move. I’m strong as a team of oxen and sturdy as them. I managed to lift the boat up and into the water for their expedition.

The gift of beauty was hard, but worth it. I had found unshapen sapphire. I sat and chipped and polished it until it was round and smooth. It took time but I even managed to bore a hole for a cord to wear on her throat.

She loved things with unusual flavors and our region was not known for spice. While away on a raid, I found various herbs and spices from different lands, some of which had healing purpose too. I traded a good quality cutlass in exchange for the spices. With care, I wrapped them in deer skins and again in bear pelt. That was my gift of provision.

My final gift, a gift of protection came in the form of hearty leather gloves with protruding blades, think of bear paws. She carried them when out gathering and they helped in a raid when I couldn’t protect her myself. A wound to my pride that was.

I was taken with her, and I hope she was with me. I never found out as a local chieftain came and demanded her as a peace offering between the tribes. She was treated like a prize, and it infuriated me! I wanted to rip them to shreds and use their skin to make new belts! But she with a strength and dainty composure unknown to us, laid hand on my arm and returned the gloves. With that motion she accepted her duty to the clan, a lass with grace and I with a heart made of lead. It was years but I let time work to console me as I kept her as a fond memory, used her to remind me that not every duty is one that I may favor but that must be carried out.

Finally, I love music. My Elven Darling with beauty to make the stars weep, I want to play music to serenade you. A ballad formed to your exquisite and elegant charm be it with fluted pipe or harped strings. And when I stop playing the song of ages, I’d hope to continue it in spirit as we took time to learn each note and trill between shared heartbeats. Your lush curls caught between winds as they play with each strand of midnight wool, graceful arms around my neck as I am but a prop used to accentuate your beauty.

Oh yes, my Blessing, tall and fragrant with the embers of smoke and the jasmine oils you steeped in. You are a muse to my simple nomadic soul, and I want nothing more than to immortalize you in music, capture your raw essence on canvas only to commit you to my memory, trapped between space and time so that I may return to this while I am but a man. Return to when those embers make the sepia of your eyes flash like amber in the low light. Return to a place where the light of the Moon emphasizes the valleys and peeks of your skin, a visual map of the glory of your satin flesh. Revisit that space where I study the flush of your skin so I may recreate it on paper, knowing that I'm the only one to see it in person.

In return Darling, I want to know more about you.

Tell me, what is a place that you see in your mind often. I want to paint your dream so you may visit there with your eyes open.

What would you do if time and money were no matter? Where would you go? What would you do? I want to see what that mind would do if there no limits to climb.

And finally, if you choose to date me seriously, what is/are the most important thing(s) you want me to honor? What do I need to ensure that I do not disrespect on purpose or by accident? I see you as someone that speaks to my soul, my very being and there is something pulling me to you, as to what, I have no name for it. All I know is you, Lydia, have captured this descendant of the Vikings and have me wrapped around your finger my dear enchantress as I lay my soul at your feet.

Until the next post…

Be well my dear,

Thorin Britt