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He is a First Born, an Elf, and such you could tell even when you first saw him. You caught but a glimpse before he dashed into the forest, hurrying lightly as only they can. More sightings you caught in the days after and they pulled at you. For seemingly he was unafraid of you, though not your men, and perhaps curious about you even. So you hoped at the least. For you were taken by him and his soft songs in a tongue you knew only snatches of. You were entranced as you watched him consort with the beasts of the wood as though they were his close friends, speaking in a language far more pleasant to the ear than any speech of Man.
Truly he was ridiculous and silly and truly you were a man of Gondor, proud and high in both rank and name, yet not tall enough to challenge those who you so revered. Still you longed to speak with him, for he at the least seemed intrigued by you. That was not at all a feeling you were accustomed to and you pined for it and more still.
As the days drag on you catch him once more as he hurries through the woods, searching for a hiding place. Yet this time you cannot suppress a cry. You call to him, shamefully neglecting your duties wholly and admitting at the last that you've been snared. Snared by one so far above you though he seems so funny in his acts. You are not Beren though, and you called for him just the same.
He stays, much to your surprise and awe, peeking out from behind the foliage. A smile comes to you and you straighten yourself tightly and austerely. You are a Man of Gondor, a soldier of good breeding, and you must act like it, doing justice to your valor.
As you hear him speak to you face to face at last you can't but wish he could do the same for himself. Stammering and stuttering he trips over words far less beautiful than those of the Elves. You tell him your mind and he frowns, as if pained and ashamed for his lack of grace. Perhaps it was you intent to shame him, to point out his wrong to his blood, but you cannot let this stand. You next remark that it is merely out of respect for who he is, what you saw in the forests and so treasured.
He perks up some at your compliments, but still he stammers and mumbles. Even hours latter as you two look to the star filled skies he stumbles over his words. Such wonder seems to fill him and you cannot understand his joy, seemingly so great that he cannot word it confidently. Your frowns and confusion drag him down once more and he looks to the floor, speaking shakily of how silly he must seem.
Oh, he does but still you can't but be entranced by it. So you do again what you so rarely did before now: you apologize and steel him on. You tell him to tell you of the stars, of stories you've heard and those that are wholly new to you, known only to those who do not pass from this world. He sings of them. In his own tongue he tells you of the wonder of Elbereth, maker of the stars, and of Earendil that legendary mariner who brings hope to the world yet. He sings of how Earendil sails through the skies, shining forth as the morning star, a beacon to all that look upon it with hope and wonder.
So little of this you understand and he realizes that at last. The singing ceases and he smiles awkwardly, apologizing once more. Yet you for the third time bring him up. For though you do not know the words a part of you understands them, feeling deeply those hopes and dreams that the heavenly mariner brings. You know in your bones of a hope you deemed so false before, against the dread armies of Mordor. Full of awe you at last drop your regal air and pride wholly, kissing that Elf, wondrous being he is. Perhaps the tales on the streets that all wishes sang to the morning star are false, but you can once more believe in them. Because, if but for a moment, you truly know the face of hope. He sits in your lap and sings of the stars.