"Grief never ends but it changes it's a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, but the price we pay for love." -Unknown

Returning to Imladris was a silent affair. All the siblings were dealing with the fact that they would never see their mother again until they felt the call of the sea. They would often wander the halls, eyes hollow of any feeling as they passed their mother's many haunts before her capture. They all avoided one another, trying to reason away what had happened, saying that is had all just been an awful dream that they just needed to wake up from. Arwen became silent, her laughter dried up, and she slipped into shadows. The twins were in open denial that their mother, their naneth had left them. They seldomly ate anything, they were shocked beyond what they could believe. But life slowly went on, though their hearts ached.

Hurrying from her room, Thennil raced through the halls, a piece of parchment held within her hand. A smile lit her face and her eyes sparkled with joy as she stumbled into the sitting room, laughter beginning to bubble out of her as she charged towards the chair by the window.

"Naneth! Aravorn's- her throat tightened as she surveyed the empty chair, which was covered in a small amount of dust. A wave of nausea washed over her as she remembered that her mother was not there to join in her excitement any longer. She began to tremble, her legs shaking as she slowly slid to the floor, crossing her arms over the seat of the chair, tears leaking out. There would be no tinkling laughter or tight hugs from those arms that she longed to be encompassed with. There would be no kind words and gentle encouragement, no shouts of surprise when she would sneak up on her mother.

The weight within her chest seemed to grow heavier with each passing day that she stayed within her home. She had not visited Aragost and his children, missing the many achievements of his oldest son, Aravorn, and how his daughter's had matured and learned things that she had wanted to teach them. She had not felt that she could abandon her family, not when the grief was so fresh within all of their minds. Her father had become more shut off, more serious than he had been. The laughter that had filled their halls had lessened, the faces of their people had grown more sorrowful as they grieved for their Lady. Her sister had become sober, the smile that had once reached her eyes now was a distant memory. She felt the change most within her brothers, and it was not a sadness, it was a loud, hot, seething anger. Their eyes flashed when they sparred, filled with malice and hate. Whenever a group of orcs passed anywhere close to the Hidden Valley they would disappear. When she entered the training field, and would begin to spar with them she could feel the anger radiate off them like a wave of immense hate. And she knew that they blamed her. That it was her fault.

Looking out the window that the chair faced, she watched the clouds roll across the sky as her heart clenched. The walls seemed to close in on her then. Her breath became ragged as she saw all of the memories that she had held on to flash before her eyes, when she had first learned to read, how she had learned to ride, when she had scraped her knee on the stones and her mother had bandaged it up, the soothing words that she had spoken when she felt down, the joy that had flashed in her mother's eyes when she watched her do something that she loved, and the pride that shown when she accomplished something that she had set her heart on. How she would take her in her arms when she was a frightened elfling when the thunder rumbled and the lightning flashed like a spear across the sky. The long hours spent learning how to sew, and the laughter that had filled the room when she had finished her first doll dress. The times that they would cuddle for long hours, reading stories from days gone by, or watching the rain fall softly onto the garden below her window. Taking walks down by the river, and talking about everything that had happened that week. Her heart physically ached as she remembered the soft hands that had been run through her hair on numerous occasions when she had cried because she had felt responsible for the deaths of those she had trained after a battle or skirmish, the words of love that were whispered into her ear when she needed them most. Every hall that she walked down brought forth memories that would leave her shaking, tears threatening to burst forth. The pain that she felt when she saw the way that her family went on was unbearable when she could have done something to prevent it. It was breaking her, tearing down the walls that she had built up to keep her emotions from showing.

There were so many things that she wished that she could have said and done. So many words of thanks that she wished that she had taken the opportunity to speak. How could the Valar let something like this happen to her mother? She had never done anything that was remotely evil, her mother had been so pure, so full of light that it had been blinding at times. She had held the wisdom of her people and had used it to council others and to show them how to better themselves. Why had she been forced to endure what she had, only to be snatched away because she could no longer deal with the suffering that she felt in her heart?

Why? Why? Why? the question pounded through her mind, slowly pulling her apart. If only she had gone when her mother invited her to join her before she left from Lothlorien. If only she had listened to her gut feeling. If only she had left three days sooner. If only, if only, if only.

It plagued her. She would wake in the middle of the night, having dreamed that her mother was being captured all over again. She would be almost within reach of snatching her away from the enemy when she would get pulled back, struck down, or trampled upon. Or in other dreams she would be tied in the same little dirty pit that her mother had spent days in being forced to watch as the orcs beat her, drawing blood from her perfectly pale features. The dreams haunted her, popping up at the most impromptu times, causing her to withdraw after the flash back ended, horrified.

Rising from the floor she dusted off the chair, running her fingers lovingly over the ornate carving that had went into it. The tears had stopped some time ago as she had thought over everything, tortured herself with the memories that were just that, memories. The would no longer be solid, touchable, real things that could happen with her mother in the future. Looking out over the valley, she realized that her home was no longer a safe place where she could hide from the darkness and pain that surrounded her whenever she wanted. It had become the place that reminded her of what she could not protect, not when she was not out among the people's of middle earth. Her haven had become her prison, a place where pain was sewn into every memory, and regret that could never be satisfied.

Her sight allowed her to see passed the ridge, and there she knew lay her path, one that she knew would not be pleasant, but were she could keep others from feeling the pain that she had experienced. She could protect those who could not protect themselves. Perhaps then her heart could heal, could learn to beat again with the same love that it had once beat with.

She whiped the sweat from her brow as she crept up upon the enemy along side King Brego and his warriors, against the Easterlings. There had been many small groups of them that had attacked and raided his people, causing many to lose their lives. She had come to know his forefather, Eorl, before his death in 2545 at the hands of the easterlings that they now fought with. Having promised that she would watch over his son and look in on those that came after him on his death bed, she found her knowledge of war and battle being put to use. Though she did not excel in strategy, she was extremely capable to execute the plans once they were drawn out.

Slipping over the edge of a hill like a cat stalking it's prey, she watched as the group of easterlings that had sacked a village at the edge of the realm. Their look outs were too occupied with the argument that had broken out in the middle of the camp. From what she could hear, someone had snitched some loot that wasn't theirs to snitch. She smirked as she crept closer through the tall grass, steading the horn that hung at her hip. After a brief moment listening for a sparrows call, she leapt to her feet and raised the horn to her lips, and blew with all of her might. It echoed over the flatlands as an army of footmen from the south jumped from where they crouched, while from the north and west riders galloped into the fray. The easterlings shouted in surprise and grabbing their weapons began to defend themselves. They were not outnumber, but evenly matched with the kings men.

Running down from her perch atop the hill, she let out a fierce battle cry before joining her friends in battle. Everything was in chaos, men shouting, sword clashing, horses neighing and rearing up on their legs to defend their riders. Her own blade flashed like lightning, her shield strapped to her back. Within the craze of battle it was hard to keep track of those that she had gotten to know personally, but when she heard the strangled cry, which she knew to be Ethelwine, she ran through the fray towards him. Pulling her shield from it's place on her back, she slipped her arm through the straps and began to battle her way through the enemy that surrounded her friend. Kicking out at the bodies that blocked her, she ducked a man's swing, plunging her sword into his abdomen and twisting, pushing his body out of her path, she landed next to her friend.

"I thought that we agreed that you would not get into any trouble," she commented, looking over his wounds, which were not many. Only one worried her as it looked to be very deep.

"Yeah, that didn't work out so well when I was thrown among the footmen," he grumbled, blocking a dagger that was meant for his leg.

"What am I going to do with you?" She teased, lifting her shield to protect him from an attack that he hadn't seen coming his way.

"Tie me to my chair and lock the door?"

"I'm not entirely sure that would work, my friend," she grunted, as their attacker, a tan skinned easterling with numerous tattoos threw himself heavily upon her shield.

With a swift movement she had disarmed the man, and one of the other's among her companions had finished him off. Sheathing her sword, she used her free hand to yank Ethelwine to his feet, seeing as he had tripped over one of the slain that littered the ground. Rolling her eyes she brought him to lean against her should, and withdrew her dirk, ready to do some close fighting once he was set.

"I thought you liked to use your sword?" his eyebrows raised in question as he steadied himself.

"Swords are for keeping your distance, I like a challenge," she said, handing him her shield.

"Don't you need this?" He panicked seeing her so open to the access of an enemies blade.

"Nah, you need it more than I do, I'll get it back after we're done," she said seriously, knowing that he would take the hint that she wanted him to hand the shield back to her personally.

"I'll see you then!" he shouted as he focused on the tanned warrior that had made him his target.

She nodded, though he didn't see it.

"And so, Helmbrid took an arrow to the eye. Though he was in immense pain, he ripped the arrow from his eye, tossed it to the side, and continued on to victory, so ended the battle, where he became known as a great warrior, and later a great lord to his people," Thennil finished, watching all the fascinated faces before her filled with delight.

"Another! Another!" the children cried, gathering closer, nearly sitting on top of her as they clambered for more stories.

"And not a battle story," one of the older girls, around seven or eight, called out from the back row, "Tell us one about love!"

"Yes! Tell us a story!" the other girls yammered eagerly, eyes filled with a hunger that can only be seen among the young.

"Tell us one that is from your people, Trewrun, please, one about elves," a little girl called Winfled asked, her light almost white blonde hair falling into her face.

Shaking her head at the nick-name that the children and even some of the adults had started to call her, she contemplated her vast array of stories, "I don't know, they are not like those that you have among your people, little ones, they are like poems, songs."

"Then sing us on, or tell us the poem!" They pleaded, eyes growing large and folding their hands in a begging motion.

"Perhaps I can think of one," she sighed, pretending to have a hard time choosing.

"Anything will do!"

A poem popped up into her head, one that would have to be translated into westron, and it might be a little hard to understand, but they would enjoy it. It had been one of her favorite as a youngling, even though the ending was quite sad.

Settling back into her chair and picking up one of the smallest children, she pulled them into her lap. She smoothed the child's tunic, then ruffled their hair, "Once, a long time ago there was a lady named Isobel, who fell in love with a warrior, and this is her story:

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

To many-tower'd Camelot;

The yellow-leaved waterlily

The green-sheathed daffodilly

Tremble in the water chilly

Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver.

The sunbeam showers break and quiver

In the stream that runneth ever

By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley,

The reaper, reaping late and early,

Hears her ever chanting cheerly,

Like an angel, singing clearly,

O'er the stream of Camelot.

Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,

Beneath the moon, the reaper weary

Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,

Lady of Shalott.'

The little isle is all inrail'd

With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd

With roses: by the marge unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,

Skimming down to Camelot.

A pearl garland winds her head:

She leaneth on a velvet bed,

Full royally apparelled,

The Lady of Shalott.

No time hath she to sport and play:

A charmed web she weaves alway.

A curse is on her, if she stay

Her weaving, either night or day,

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be;

Therefore she weaveth steadily,

Therefore no other care hath she,

The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear.

Over the water, running near,

The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.

Before her hangs a mirror clear,

Reflecting tower'd Camelot.

And as the mazy web she whirls,

She sees the surly village churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls

Pass onward..."

"A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,

She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,

And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden wall and gallery,

A pale, pale corpse she floated by,

Deadcold, between the houses high,

Dead into tower'd Camelot.

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

To the planked wharfage came:

Below the stern they read her name,

The Lady of Shalott.

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,

Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.

There lay a parchment on her breast,

That puzzled more than all the rest,

The wellfed wits at Camelot.

'The web was woven curiously,

The charm is broken utterly,

Draw near and fear not,—this is I,

The Lady of Shallot.'

And so ended the story of Lady Isobel, whose curse was to fall entirely in love with a warrior who would not return it. And so she died of a broken heart, fading away." She finished the story, seeing tears in the eye of many of the girls, and some of the boys, though they hid it well.

"That was so sad," Eliza, a child of eight, sighed whipping a tear from her eye,"Why did she have to die? Couldn't she have found someone else to love?"

"Nay, little one, once an elf falls in love, they cannot stop the feeling the wells up in them, it is permanent, even if the other party does not share their sentiment," she stated sadly.

"Have you fell in love, Trewrun?" Winfield asked, now curious.

"Nay, I have never fell in love." And I hope that I never do, it is too painful.

"Perhaps you will fall in love with Ethelwine, you spend so much time together when you are not with the king," one of the boys, a relation of Ethelwine's muttered under his breath thinking that she could not hear him.

"I don't love Ethelwine that way, Hubert, I love him as a friend would," she told him sternly.

He jumped, eyes wide in fear, unaware that he could be heard. Blushing guiltily, he crept off into the shadows knowing that the time for bed was growing near. She smiled at his retreating back, heart beating a little louder, a little more sure of the love that she felt for this people. They were very near to her heart, these people of the horse. So alive, so willing to give, full of laughter and joy that she had missed in her own home. Perhaps she would find her full healing here, among this people who were so willing to love, even if their lives were but a blink in her life as an elf. She would treasure the time that she had with them, counting herself lucky to have known such noble a people as they.

One of the many sayings that she had learned from the Rohrrim was that grief was like an ocean, even though few of them had seen it, and that it comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All a person had to do was learn to swim in it. Perhaps she was learning to swim in her ocean of grief, even if it did take her a century to learn.