AVOIDING LIFE
In our hearts, you shall live forever
The ancient engravings are worn with age. They have been scratched into the stone centuries ago, and have remained there ever since, guarding the grounds of the dead.
It is late June. It is the 41st year of the 4th age.
She stands amidst the soft greens of the graveyard (as that is what you might call it, for nobody has been buried here for over a century; and now the ivy and vines have grown around the ancient tombs, covering their in scripted runes with murky dark leaves). The place, with its high grass, wildflowers and lilac seems very much alive.
From a distance, she hears the droning of people's voices from the marketplace; but the sounds of the city are drowned amidst the hum of insects. This graveyard, she marvels, is like an island amidst the ocean of towers, houses, streets and masses of people. She makes a mental note of coming here more often, even though this little green yard with its ivy-covered pillars and its high grass and lilac is such a stark contrast to those cool forests and birch woods in the gardens of her home. She tries picturing herself, roaming the woods of Rivendell; how careless she then had been. She had, then, lived in spectacular beauty. The woods, the waterfalls, the little pools amidst the trees sparkling in the sunlight. And forever, the auburn and yellow colored leaves in the gardens. Those colors hadn't always been there; there had been a time, she remembers quite clearly, several centuries back when the elves still were at the glory of their time. But that passed. Green leaves turned golden and eventually brown. The children of the stars left these lands.
She suddenly thinks of her husband (so often he is called the Renewer and yet he brings together the ancient blood of Numenor as well as the Elven wisdom in his mind). He had been raised by her father and brothers in Rivendell and then, that day in the clearing, they had met. He had come to her, bounding out from between the trees calling her a nightingale. And she had turned to him and smiled. What an image he had been then, a flushed young boy, breathless, hair tangled; but with eyes of such desperate fierceness, so brilliantly young and yet so full of wisdom. Not through all those years of separation had she ever forgotten his eyes.
Still smiling at the memory, she realizes that other people have entered the graveyard. Young people (lovers? She wonders). Ignoring her, they pass by. She catches up snatches of their conversation.
"Oh yes but… (something)...we already have gotten white lilacs for the… (something)…"
They are talking about flowers. How strange, she thinks, how mortal, to be talking of white flowers on a
bright June morning in a graveyard of the white city. To be talking of detached flowers (for that is the only way they are available in Minas Tirith) in a cemetery, probably arranged for a party, is something only Men can do and always will do. Yes, even in three hundred years, when the bones of this young couple will be rotting away in a future graveyard not unlike this one, when her husband the king will be lying cold and lifeless in a tomb, then these conversations, such as those about the colors of flowers, will still be around.
The many graves, as strewn and deserted as they are, suddenly seem to grow in the lush green light. They make her conscious of where she is. Here, families have mourned their loved ones, carried the remnants to their last resting places. Men, as divided as they are, have, within this tranquil place, all shared the same emotions of loss, bitterness, despair - and then, returning to the grave months later to care for it, they have torn out weeds and wildflowers always with a sense of solitude, longing for the person buried there, maybe wanting to ask a burning question or tell a story that might be of interest to the deceased someone…
And always, they will always wonder "where have you gone, friend, companion, lover, relative?"
At least, they will know the answer one day.
Though she knows that neither she nor her husband will ever be buried here, it feels personal. She is here, the Queen of both Gondor and Arnor, in a graveyard with high grass and lilac. The ancestors of her people (no, not her people. Her husband's people) are buried here. A wholly unfamiliar place it is, and still she knows that, one day, graveyards will be all she can be aware of.
So people have come and gone here, left someone, mourned the young, the full-grown and the old. And have those lilacs always filled the air with their sweetness? Has the grass here always grown the same? She wonders and then realizes with a sudden bitterness that she has never thought such thoughts before.
"I am becoming human" she murmurs and then settles herself on a larger piece of broken pillar. And she could have escaped it all. Escaped her husband's loving arms, her children's laughter, this graveyard, those young lovers at the end of the path. She could have sailed west.
As she is thinking, a small bird lands atop the severed head of a statue. It nods its head to the side, bristles its tiny feathers and is off. The head remains. A cherub's head, with molded symmetrical folds for curls, cupid lips and dead eyes. Why do men put statues of small children in their graveyards? And then, she thinks, where are her children? They are six altogether, no, five: four daughters, one son and one dead and gone.
What happened to him? Is he as still and cold as the statue before her or has his flesh rotten away, leaving only his frail human bones?
Her children, she knows, might have Elven blood, but they belong to the race of men. Does she resent this, or does it become unimportant, a cry stifled by the so-called love she feels for them? It is only motherly love she feels, she reminds herself, for of all her children it could only be little Brethil who returns her love, and the girl is just barely over five. The others (how did they get so big?) are past the age of fourteen. It is the most common knowledge amongst Men that children of this age despise their parents with all the strength they can muster. Of course, they would never say so.
But there is Eldarion, the heir of the kingdom, whom she often looks upon as too weak, too tearful and really; the boy is sickly obsessed with love and death. He cries when he sees a dead bird that has flown against his window at night or when he can't find the right words to describe the color of the sea to his younger sisters. A dreadful romantic, they call him. The prince of poets. How he makes his father's head ache.
"If he is too weak to rule then his sister must do it for him" is the King's answer. Ah, but he is only a boy. We must wait, we must be patient. He will be king when his day comes.
Still, the Queen sees Laurëduin as a by far better solution. She is the oldest and most beautiful of her daughters, a strong minded child, the maids have always said. "Sharp tongued", yes, and with a mind quick enough to frighten any infatuated lad away.
For as witty and proud as she might be, try what she might, Laurëduin's social skills are, there is no other word, clumsy. When most young men expect the ladies to be seen and not heard, they find themselves caught in furious discussions with the princess, raging on about matters their own minds are too slow to work. The boys then take flight to Mithlin, and oh, how she is the most trivial of all the royal children. She is sweet, compassionate and patient with straight dark hair and a milky prettiness that most certainly won't last long into her adulthood. Here, the queen finds herself wondering when she had lost interest in her third eldest. So she was such an easily satisfied child, much uncomplicated after the passionate Laurëdiun. Perhaps it was that Mithlin, in her almost ceaseless existence, never made anyone, not even her mother, wonder (save at this very moment). And then there was Dinfalas, the strangest of her children. But wait, hadn't there been another? Five years ago, yes. Her little Elven jewel. No, she reminds herself, she won't think of him. He is gone from her like the rest of her people and there is no point in longing for him. She doesn't want him to haunt her thoughts. She can be happy, normal, gay even and yet still she feels that cold stab when she thinks of him. And there will be more of that awful feeling.
Her eyes avert from the broken statue with its innocent expression and round cheeks to the rest of the cemetery's figures. There are statues of graceful, slender women and more cherub figures. All are crumbling, ivy-covered and ancient. There is another old statue that catches her eye: A scholar, probably, or a philosopher. His still readable expression is cross; his crumbling hands are steadying a book. The statue would appeal to Dinfalas, no doubt. Live in books; ravish them as though they were food, that's what the child does.
Not that this is wrong, no, her husband loves the girl. She might find him watching her from a distance and then, raising his head, say how much this child reminds him of his old mentor, Gandalf. Her eyebrows, says he, are the strongest evidence. They are bushier and wilder than those of the other children, always knitted in exasperation. "True mark of great spirit" is what he calls it.
The Queen wouldn't know, would she? They are like strangers, she and her daughter, ignoring each other as best they can. It is the brother's death that lies between them, both know that. He who would now be what, fifteen? They had always been the closest, those two, Gilmir and Dinfalas, both unusually compassionate and book loving. But Gilmir had been less eccentric and more elfin, with elegant hands, auburn hair and a voice that reminded everyone of the Queen's father and brothers. How he had been like her father's family. Gentle, yes, but by far braver than Eldarion. But she mustn't be ridiculous in her sorrow; every family is bound to lose several children. She can count herself as lucky that it has taken only one. The year of the loss, the Black Death had haunted the city and every family lost a member or two. The most common victims were the very old and the very young, so, in the royal house, everyone believed that the baby Brethil had been befallen by the terrible illness. Whilst doctors, nurses, maids and children were running around in a furious chaos, no one took notice of fragile Gilmir as he climbed into bed with a fever and died pitifully and alone. It took several hours until Dinfalas came running out of her brother's chamber with a silent scream stamped across her face. Within half and hour, the entire household was aroused by the hysterical wails of court members mourning the loss of the beautiful little prince. The family remained in the boy's chamber, mute, motionless; Dinfalas holding the body's hand, the mother cruelly ignoring the baby whimpering in her arm, the father staring out the window, Laurëduin and Mithlin crying softly in each other's embrace and Eldarion, tears streaming down his face, restless, kicking things before running to his chambers and slamming the door.
Would that she had never met them. Would that she had escaped. But what choice had she had? Dieing of grief in the Undying Lands; that was all she could imagine had she sailed west. There sometimes seemed endless life and happiness beyond the seas; and then when she renounced her wistfulness and reveries and came to her senses she knew that her husband and children were all her endless life and happiness. She had to admit that there was no escaping it, she had realized this even before she met her husband-to-be that evening in Lorien.
"Arwen?" it is him. She stands up to meet her husband, standing beside a tumbled white stone, a look of concern on his face. He is no longer young, the grey flecks in his hair have spread (she thinks, angrily). She wishes suddenly that he hadn't come to her like that but rather the way he had on the day they first met. She wishes he had called her Tinuviel.
"King Elessar, what an unexpected pleasure", she says almost cruelly, using his court name rather than his given name or - by which she privately refers to him – his Elvish name. His forehead wrinkles. It was a punishment, they both know it, subtle but cruel, following the way their usual arguments go.
"I came to look for you" he says finally.
"I was going for a walk"
"Just a walk?" he has turned ever so slightly, clearly showing her his suspicion. His wife sighs and turns. She is looking at a young couple just a little down the path, he realizes. He feels betrayed. Why had she gone out without telling him, simply disappearing? It is not a good sign. She is missing her family too much, he knows. Hadn't he sworn to himself for so many years that Arwen, his beautiful, enthralling, beloved wife would never suffer from missing them? How enchanting she still is, he thinks, breath taken whenever he sees her (though now she has aged vaguely, the gleam of her hair and the smoothness of her skin are beginning to fade). She might be the most beautiful and intelligent woman in Middle-Earth, her age and wisdom are beyond count, she is the daughter of Lord Elrond and she is his wife. After all these years, it still gives him the vague sensation of a dream that has come true almost too abruptly. She is Arwen Undomiel, roaming the white birches of Rivendell at dusk and she is Arwen Evenstar of the House of Telcontar, Queen of both Gondor and Arnor, standing on the path before him right now.
Cautiously, he takes a few steps towards her, anxious she might slip away, but she remains where she is, ignoring him, gazing after those two at the end of the path. He doesn't know what to say. He wants to approach her with his longing for Elrond to see their children too, or his missing Gilmir, but he won't. He won't cause her more pain; all he wants to do at this moment is tell her that he loves her. They both stare into space for what seems like and eternity. He is a coward, she thinks, he can't tell me that he loves me. It would change everything. Eternity flows into another eternity, the breeze ruffles the grass beside the graves, an unoticed wildflower touches the cherub's dead lips.
Then, to his great surprise and sudden relief, she turns to him and embraces him with a force as though she hadn't seen him for months. It is as though all he has wanted this entire morning or his entire life (he doesn't know which) is to hold her in his arms like this, kiss her, run his fingers through her dark hair. They are young again, he thinks as he cups her face in his hands, gently pulls her back to look at him and says "don't run away again" in his almost accusing tone. There are tears streaming down her face and he kisses her once more. Then she buries her face in the nape of his neck, still crying. "No no no no no…" He kisses the top of her head.
She releases herself from his hold, their hands alone remaining connected. "We should go back" she says in the numb tone one has after crying. He offers her his arm, which she takes, giving his elbow an affectionate squeeze. She leans close to his ear "I can't find peace Estel," she murmurs "by avoiding life".