She was deadly with a sword.
She was a hopeless romantic.
She was brave; she could challenge my grandfather with every bit of strength in her body.
She was not my mother, though I thought her more of one.
She was the Lady of Rohan, the Steelsheen of our people. She was a warrior queen with a vibrant air and challenging face. She was pale as the winter, but warmer then a summer breeze, she was everything I am not.
She did not fear the cage she was in, she built it around her, she controlled it's structure, she made it large enough for the freedom she desired. She was a better swordsman then my Uncle, she was more intelligent then my mother.
They say I am like her, that if I tried, the power she had over all would shine through me. I do not think so. For if the air of Morwen was about me I would not be so hopeless, I would not still love this man who will never love me.
She was brave, brilliant, caring, smart.
I am fearful, normal, cold, rather unwitty.
She wooed a man who would and should have otherwise ignored her.
I forced myself to be loved by a man who would never care for me. I married second-hand, though I love my husband.
Then there is Arwen.
Arwen. Arwen with her midnight locks of the eldar, her beauty unrivaled. They say she is as Luthien, a woman of myth.
I look at myself, my plain white dress. Her in her silks finer then her hair, her outfit is worth as much gold as my home in Rohan. I hated her, with all my heart.
She stands beside him with her head held high and her eyes glistening with the shine of a married woman who got what she wanted. The shine of a perfect woman. I will never have that shine.
She was the lady of Rohan.
I am the lady of Ithilien.
She was bold and got what she desired.
I am meek and lost that which I crave.
I fear Arwen.