20 Víressë ~ 15 Tuilë

Wed, 13 Apr 2005 05:16:17 GMT

The Year 2996
20 Víressë by the Stewards' Reckoning
15 Tuilë by the Reckoning of Rivendell

I am foolish to not have written much in this journal about myself. Elladan always said it was important to write down your thoughts, what you were, because who knows what you would become. Looking back after so many years he said he wished he had written down what his life was like ages ago. He knew he had changed since his mother had left Imladris for Valinor, he just did not remember how.

This journal is a gift from him. Elrohir gave me a bow of yew and a quiver of swan-feathered arrows. Arwen’s gift to me was a bag of herbs of all kinds: from athelas to a little longbottom leaf. Elrond gave me nothing, for he never did like me as much as his children did. Nor did he say goodbye to me as we set out from the Misty Mountains. He had, to tell you the truth, shunned me all of my life.

For I am impure. I am not an elf, nor am I a human. Yet I was not begotten through the love of woman and mortal, as is the tale of Luthien the fair and Beren the brave. My father was a Dúnadan, a man much like my cousin Estel. My mother was an elf of Rivendell. I say was, not because she is now dead, but only because she was my mother for only the two months after I was born. My mother, whose name I will never know, yet whose pointed ears are the mold from which mine are made, abandoned my father to care for me alone. She never loved the man, though he was deeply enthralled by her immortal beauty and elf-like grace. She, however, wanted not to risk death for him, as he would have done for her if it was his place. She didn’t love him, nor did she love me.

And yet for all her faults I have forgiven her. I have been raised not to hate elves; indeed I have been raised by elves themselves, and love them dearly. I know that not all elves are as cowardly, arrogant, or as distant as my mother was. My father of course spoke no such things of the woman he loved. He rarely spoke of her at all, except when I asked him once why he loved a woman who could leave us to live and die without her. His answer was so full of pain and memory that I never spoke of her around him again. No, it was Elrohir and Elladan who told me who my mother really was. They knew her well. They had been friends in their childhood, perhaps thousands of years ago. She was the kind of woman I never hope to be.

My father was a ranger, much like most of the Dúnedain. I lived in Imladris with my aunt Gilraen whenever he went off on raids with my cousin Estel and the other Dúnedain. It was one of these raids that he was killed. Estel and my father were hunting orcs outside the town of Bree for two days when they at last went to the inn of the Prancing Pony. The tavern of this inn was no orderly place, and though hobbits did indeed live in Bree, it was rare that you saw any of them brave enough to take the cozy rooms in the inn above at the risk of being trampled in the rowdy tavern below. Some men were playing cards in a corner when the game got out of hand. My father tried to help the stuttering innkeeper subdue the drunken revelers, and ended up with a knife plunged three inches into his back. I was six. Estel buried his body deep in the woods along the Great East Road, where he said my father had felt most at home during his life. I never got to say goodbye.

I never left Imladris after that day, nor did I live with Gilraen anymore. The children of Elrond took pity on me and took me in. I went from having one father and no mother, to two fathers and two mothers, for Gilraen was as much my mother as she was Estel’s. I was happy there. Elrohir taught me archery and how to whittle my own arrows. Elladan taught me how to read and write, in Quenya, Sindarin, and Westron. Arwen tried, almost uselessly, to teach me to be a lady: how to paint and weave, how to sing and play the flute. The Valar know how I tried to follow her example, for I greatly admired her as the woman my mother should have been: beautiful and noble, strong and accomplished, but the truth was I would rather have spent my time climbing trees than singing about them or making arrows rather than embroidery. Still, I grew up into a woman, a young woman yes, but one who was raised by elves, and thusly held much of their knowledge and skill.

The day came that Elladan said I was old enough to join my own people. Elrohir wanted to hear nothing of it. I was part elf, after all, so why could I not live as one? I know not what they said that night that I stay awake with Arwen, for I had never heard my fathers argue as loudly as they did then, and I was afraid. I was too old for her to hold me and kiss me, but she did sing to me as I tried to sleep, tried to forget that I was the reason Elrohir and Elladan were yelling.

The next day I awoke and found Elrohir sitting by my bed, looking tired and sad, as drained as a fair elven face can look. I asked him what the matter was, and he said that it was time I should leave. I knew what he was talking about, that it was time I went to the great city of Men to live, but I did not know why. He told me I was more like my father than my mother, that even though I had the skill of the elves and the appearances of my mother, I was more a woman than an elf. I did not know how he knew that, but Elrohir had never lied to me before. He had never led me down the wrong path nor had he done anything that would not help me, and so I trusted him. Perhaps I do belong in the world of Men.

And so here I am: a half-elf of sixteen years, living in the realm of Men. I am lucky to have family here, even though most of my people, the Dúnedain, live far from the stone city of Minas Tirith. My uncle, Aranarth, works as a sword forger for the citadel guard. He is the youngest of the three brothers descended from Arador, the eldest, of course, being my uncle Arathorn, who I never knew. Uncle Aranarth never married, never had children, and now lives alone with no one to care for him. It was Elrohir who suggested that as long as I must go to Gondor, then I should at least live with family.

Family? Uncle Aranarth is barely family. Elrohir, Elladan, and Arwen are more family to me than anyone has ever been. I’ve never met this Aranarth. I wonder if I will ever feel at home in his house, in this city.

19 Víressë ~ 14 Tuilë

Tue, 12 Apr 2005 03:33:58 GMT

The Year 2996
19 Víressë by the Stewards' Reckoning
14 Tuilë by the Reckoning of Rivendell

The rain had soaked through my cloak. The only gown I had, and was supposed to impress my employer with, was ruined. Even though we had been riding since the rain started some hours ago, and my feet had not touched the ground, mud had somehow splattered all over my cloak, dress, and boots. We were reaching Minas Tirith at last after months of traveling, and I looked like I had fallen in a swamp and lay there until the mud had been absorbed by my very skin.

Elrohir told me not to worry, that my employer would surely not mind if I was as dirty as an orcling. Elrohir had no idea how nervous I was. I glared at him, but my hair had fallen out of its braids and hung like a veil in front of my face. How Elrohir's braids stayed intact even in the worst of weather, I never found out.

The city gates were closed. Elrohir told me that long ago the gates were open to travelers all over the world, but things were different now. These were dangerous times, he told me. Orcs roamed Ithilien freely, Men and Elves had lost all sense of friendship, and even now some of his kind was venturing across to the sea to that haven I would never see: Valinor.

But those were worries that were far beyond me when I stood in front of the gate at Minas Tirith. I gazed up at the seven tiers of stone. Elrohir laughed at the look on my face, for my mouth was open in dumb bewilderment. I was angry at him. He had ventured here many times before. I had never traveled further than the distance from Rivendell to Bree, and only along that one road. Never had I seen such a sight as I saw earlier this morning, and I wonder if I ever will. I doubt that I will ever forget this city if I should leave it.

We entered the city with little problem. The guards at the gate questioned Elrohir at length what business two Elves had in a city of Men. I merely sat silent, my hood over my head, not knowing how to react when they called me an elf. For I wasn’t one. Though I had been raised by elves for much of my life after my father died and my mother abandoned me, I had never been mistaken for one by anyone. I had the pointed ears of a half-elf, yes, but I never had enough grace to be considered one of their kind, by Elves or by Men. I took it as a compliment, to tell you the truth.

And now I sit at the inn of the Silver Shield, scribbling out the last of my thoughts and the events of the day on the parchment I have carried with me since Imladris. Perhaps I will write more tomorrow, when not every part of me aches from the ride. As the wax drips from my candle, my eyelids droop even more. Elrohir will be back soon, and he will scold me for staying up too late when we are supposed to meet my employer tomorrow. So goodnight, Minas Tirith. Tomorrow we rise again together as I take my place in the world of Men.

eruvehawklight

20 Víressë ~ 15 Tuilë

19 Víressë ~ 14 Tuilë