Gilmith and her family are often overlooked in the books and if anyone does get any attention it's always her elven mother Mithrellas or her older brother Galador, the first Prince of Dol Amroth. I thought I'd write this short little fic for her, just so she finally has one. If you do read it please review so I know what you think.
Message in a Bottle
Carefully she dips the nib into the ink well, tapping off the excess. Her sea grey eyes look thoughtfully down at the piece of paper.
She felt so childish. What is the point of doing this? She would never receive the letter. In any case did it matter? If it would help her feel better then she could write a letter if she wanted to.
With a deep intake of air, she leant forward and with the soft scratching noise of the nib of her pen running over the paper, she begins to write.
To our Dearest Mother,
Mother, where are you? Where have you gone? Why are you not here by my side, as you once where? Why have you left me alone? Why have you left us alone? Why have you abandoned us? Why have you forsaken me? Am I forsaken in your thoughts, eyes and heart, as I was in your actions?
Mother, do you not have any love for your family anymore? Do you feel no more for father, Galador and I? Do you not hear me weeping in the night because you are not there any longer to sing me to sleep? Do you not hear the silence of father? Do you not see the bitterness of Galador?
Mother, do you not care?
Mother, where are you? Where have you gone? What are you doing? Are you happy where you are mother? Are you happy without me? Is your life seemingly joyfully better because you are now with your own kin, not your family? Do you think about me? Do you think of father or Galador? Do you miss us mother as we miss you?
Mother, do you remember me? Do you remember how I was as a child? No longer am I child, as father says. I am a young woman. Do you know that? Can you imagine me in your mind? Do you imagine me in your mind's eye at all? I imagine you. I remember as much as one can. I remember the colour of your eyes, the smell of your hair, the sound of your voice and the feel of your touch. Do you remember my colour eyes? Do you remember my voice? Do remember me at all?
She quickly pulls the pen back from the paper. Too much ink had flowed through the pen with her last words. Her grey eyes, which now had trace of tears in them, look over what she has written so far.
It did not matter. It looked good, as if she had intended for more ink to be there. As is she were emphasizing the question to her mother.
She blinks away the tears in her mother's eyes and again set the pen to the paper and continued to let her soul seep into the ink.
Mother, did you leave because you felt alone? Did you leave because you could no longer bear to live with us? Was it that you could not be wedded to a mortal man?
Mother, will you ever come back? Father used to tell me that you may be in the west. Are you in the west? Why do you not come back to us in Belfalas? You can look west from the bays.
Mother did you say goodbye to me before you left? I do not remember. You did not even give me a chance to tell you how I felt before you left. Did father know you were leaving? Did Galador know? Did you say goodbye to them?
Again she pulls back the pen from the paper, just to survey what she has written. Already she can feel the waves of emotion pass over her, like ripples through a still pond. She begins to find it hard to continue reading as salty tears trickle down her cheeks with a blink.
Letting your soul bleed into the ink in your pen was painful. But not as painful as the thought that has just caught her mind. That was more painful that perhaps even remembering.
Now with her hand shaking she begins to write again, mustering all the courage that she can.
Mother, do you still love me?
Do you still love me as you once did? Did you love me when you left? Do you still love me now? Do you hear the words I don't say? Do you close your eyes so you can see me, like I close my eyes to see you? Mother, are you still in love with father? Do you still dream of him? Do you still claim to be his wife? Even though he was not of elven race, like you, do you still love him? Mother, do you still love Galador? Do you see how upset he had become? Do you see how the bitterness overwhelms him whenever someone speaks of you, or when something reminds him of you? Do you still love us?
Mother, where are you and why did you go? Wherever and whatever the reason mother, please come back home. I promise we shall do whatever it is to fit your needs. Please, mother, just come back home to us, to your daughter, son and husband, to your family who love you. Years have passed mother, but still we yearn for you. Mother do you not see I love you? I love you as much, if not more, than when you left. Please come back mother.
With all the love I have to offer
Your daughter, Gilmith.
Resting the pen on the table, she wipes the tears from her face. She had not imagined that writing a letter would make her weep, as she did as a child.
She looks back over all her writing. The first few paragraphs are written in confidence. It can be seen in her handwriting. But the last few are written with nothing less than pain, heartache and anything but confidence. Her handwriting is shaky and some of the words are smudged from her tears that fell upon the paper as she wrote.
With trembling hands she carefully rolls up her letter and ties it with a piece of string. She slips it into the clear glass bottle waiting beside the inkwell and closes it with a cork.
She stands up from her seat and takes the bottle with her.
As she walks through the doors of her father's home and out into the fresh smelling wood she begins to think what she has written.
She has indeed written in her letter everything that had been wandering in her mind since her childhood and the pain the she now feels after writing is next to unbearable. She knows that her mother will never receive it but it did not matter. She can always pretend that her mother will.
The cool wind coming from the great sea of Belegaer meets her, blowing her hair and dress, wiping the tears from her eyes with his whispery fingers.
She stands upon a cliff, overlooking the uproaring sea beneath her, crashing into the cliff and other stones, the white foam glittering in the soft golden hue of the sun setting in the horizon. The winds now blow violently. She looks towards the blear of the setting sun, to the West. The sun was lovely and golden with rays of gold, yellow and the faintest orange. Golden like her mothers hair.
More tears stream down her face as she thinks of her mother. Like one who had just had their deepest wound reopened she sobs quietly and with trembling hands and wind blowing against her small form upon the great cliff, she throws the bottle into the sea.
It bobs gently before being pushed off violently by the roaring waves, out into the vast arms of Belegaer.
She stands on the cliff, a small white figure against the blue of the heavens, her dress stained with the gold and the smell of sea spray, watching the small bottle in the vastness of the blue sea, be carried off into the sunset, into the West. The wind howls around her and the sea roars beneath her.
And one last thought passes through her mind, one last thought which she had not had the strength to let it be mingled with ink.
Mother was it my fault?