Rivendell possesses a beauty which was alien to Mirkwood. Here, all glows with a soft light, and there is always a sense of contentment. My home is darker, more untamed. Dangers lurk in the hidden forests.
Rivendell has Rosalind. It seems to me that a place could be made beautiful just by having Rosalind present. I hope, tonight, she will consent to be mine, so that Mirkwood will always hold the appeal of Rivendell, and I will always be lit by her light.
I know every detail of Rosalind. She is slender, like a willow wand; fragile, like gossamer. Her eyes shine like dawn on the river. Her hands are like butterflies' wings; delicate, clever, quick. When I hold her against me, I need to be careful not to crush her, tiny as she is.
Another thing which Rivendell offers is solitude. In Mirkwood, there is no time for solitude. And the forests are hardly safe enough for one to wander alone, lost in thought. But here in Rivendell I sit, alone but for the ancient trees, which shake their heads sagely at me with the wind, and I find peace.
I have been here a week already on this visit; a week spent drinking in the beauty of Rivendell, and the beauty of Rosalind. The Council of Elrond, the reason for my visit, is tomorrow, and then I shall have to return to Mirkwood. But this time, when I go, I hope to take Rosalind with me.
Soft footsteps fall behind me.
"Rosalind," I greet her, not turning around. I would know Rosalind's step anywhere.
Only yesterday we filled this glade with the ecstasy of our passion. I smile as I remember the feeling of being with Rosalind, of gentle touches and savage kisses. Slight as my beloved may be, she is as fierce as a lioness, in love.
She hesitates slightly, before stepping gracefully over to join me. With the arrival of such a peculiar group – hobbits and men, not to mention a dwarf! – it is likely that Rosalind, too, is seeking some peace.
I touch her delicate cheek with my hand, which is rough and callused from archery and swordwork.
"I need to ask you something, Rosalind," I say softly.
Her eyes flicker for a moment to the trees behind her. They are like a doe's eyes, large and full of…surely, it was not fear?
"I know what you are going to ask," she blurts, and she can no longer meet my gaze. "I can not marry you, Legolas – I can't!"
I am taken aback, and sorrow wells in me.
"Rosalind…" I begin.
A figure steps from the shelter of the trees. I do not know this elf. His appearance is striking, almost ethereal, with his halo of silver hair, and the slenderness of his body. He is so fine boned, and the paleness of his skin so translucent, that he does not seem to be of this earth.
He steps up to Rosalind, and drapes a possessive arm around her shoulders. A thin smile twists his mouth.
"Rosalind has graciously consented to be my wife, Legolas Greenleaf," he says, voice deceptively pleasant.
My stomach feels as if an arrow has just gone though it, as shock courses through me.
Rosalind is looking very steadily at the ground. For once, I cannot tell how she is feeling. She is closed to me.
"Rosalind…why?" I cry, but my voice is a choked whisper.
She meets my eyes, then, pain and anger and sorrow filling those perfect, liquid eyes. "You would not understand….Farewell, Legolas."
The strange elf casts a triumphant look at me before steering her away.
I am left alone once again. The shock and hurt seems to have settled in my stomach. It feels as if giant butterflies are fluttering madly. Suddenly, I throw up, emptying my stomach the way I feel my spirit has just been emptied. When I am finished, I feel much better, as if a weight has been unloaded. I wash out my mouth in the river, and head back for Rivendell, trying not to think of Rosalind and all the emotions she causes.