CHAPTER 4

CALETHIEL

I circled the table with my eyes, avoiding direct eye contact from anyone who may have been looking at me as well. What a merry thing I've missed out on for so long. I suppose it did fill a small gap in my stretched body. For a part of me missed elven living and dining; such merry celebrators they were, but such heavy carriers of burdens. I trust I had forgotten all about these parties that tend to happen for no reason but just to be cheery together.

Elrond stood from his chair and all conversation fell still, with a smile he began a speech: "Let tonight be a night of glee, let us dance and eat and sing all in the welcome and company of our guest, Calethiel, daughter of light." Every eye was on me, some pleasant, some slightly aghast most likely due to the fact that I was still alive; for no elf has seen or heard from me in a good while.

I felt vulnerable to their judgment, and smiling would not fool all the elves at this lengthy table, so I did nothing but nod to Elrond, and sink back into my chair. We continued with our feast and I made sure I did not allow my eyes to drift beyond my dinner or Arwen and Elrond's faces.

Once finished with eating, I managed to sneak off to a small patch of trees by the rushing stream that flows straight through Rivendell. I had coveted to these trees many times before; it was where I did most of my thinking.

I could not bear trying to blend in during dinner; trying to dance and sing along with everyone would just make me feel more of a misfit, and the reminder of home it would give me would just make me even more upset. I sat down, leaning my back against a willow tree, which had the oddest bark. Its skin was rather soft and I knew it well enough to trace its crimped patterns with eyes closed. I began to puff on Gandalf's pipe.

Pipe weed always eased the pain and sick feeling I had. For it was quite anomalous in elves and awfully rare to even hear that an elf smoked pipe weed. I was likely to be the only elf throughout Rivendell to even have the herb in possession.

I looked up through the leaves of the willow I sat beneath. The moon was full this night. I suppose it was nothing special. For I have lived long enough to know each tree in this patch of wood by seedling, where as a full moon comes along every month. I wonder how many full moons I have looked up at in my life. I wonder if Gandalf is looking up at the moon as well…

"Gandalf," I sighed to myself. I could smell him, for his pipe was strong of his sent, as if it had seeped into the crevices and splinters of the whittled wood. Somehow it was even stronger than the smell of the weed. His sent made me smile and the frown, and I suppose this was all I had of him for a while, for I had not the slightest idea when I would see him again. But I would see him again; it was rare when Gandalf failed to keep a promise. It was also rare when his fortunes were wrong, even when even he knew not of its meaning. I began to think of what he told me: "Your happiness lies within the good messenger of the woodland realm," he said. My brows slid inwards as I puffed on the pipe again, letting it hang out of my mouth as I rolled it lightly side to side with my teeth.

Good messenger of the woodland realm, I thought. The woodland realm was obviously Mirkwood, for that was its alternating name, but good messenger? There was no specific renowned messenger for Mirkwood, it was a simple organization of woodland elves; there was no need for a renowned messenger. Besides the fact that I was sure there was not specific messenger, I was also not sure how he or she was going to relieve me of my grief. Would the news that they delivers somehow resolve everything that's been ailing me? Or perhaps they will deliver me the name of the wizard who has tainted me with such magic. I was uncertain, and rather confused.

I looked back up to the moon again, finally coming out of my state of thought and recalling where I was, for I could hear the elves of Rivendell singing and laughing from off in the distance. I made a bit of a sulking face at the sound of their joy, and then looked back upwards to the moon.

If fate did in fact work in such ways, I wonder if the messenger was looking up to the moon as well.