CHAPTER 13: Trespassing and Translating
Yara only managed an hour or two of sleep, as usual, and woke up well before dawn. It didn't bother her like it had used to, instead it felt peaceful and comforting to catch the stars before they were drowned out by the sun. She cleaned herself and prayed, but then she caught herself sitting listlessly on the bed again. It wasn't that she didn't like the room – actually, she was quite surprised that they had given such a good room to what had been, at the time, a stranger – but it felt too impersonal, especially after having seen Lindir's chambers the day before. Her clothes, too, felt estranged from her.
She remembered the rich red of Elrond's robes, and she could not help but think that she, who was in truth his elder, should be wearing garments just as fine. Soon enough people would know, one way or another, who she was, and she had to live up to that. A part of her longed for it, another part detested it and wanted to remain simply Yara. She knew that wherever her thoughts might take her it made no difference: she was both, and she had to accept it, and live it – so instead of dwelling on that she took up Bilbo's advice, and started to work on translating the song for him.
The light of dawn was trickling through the windows once Yara was somewhat pleased with her translation, and when she was done adding it to the end of her letter to Bilbo the light was strong and mixed with the sounds of people moving about outside. A longing grew within Yara to go out and meet the morning, and she laughed for it, and the contrast it made to the sorrowful attitude she had held for so long before. She would be heading to Bronwor first, she decided, to get the unpleasant business out of the way, and then she could have breakfast with Bilbo without the prospect of engaging with her past looming in the future.
She took her time walking through Imladris, trying out the name of 'home' as it might imply to this new place. Somehow, it didn't seem to fit. Not that she didn't like the place; it was beautiful, calming, and it certainly had a sense of familiarity to it, but it was far from anything she would have considered hers. So it was with a trickle of melancholy in her optimism that she knocked on Bronwor's door, the sound ringing loud in the calm of the early hours.
"My lady," he said with a bow of his neck once he had opened the door.
"I have come to take you up on the offer to make me something more sturdy than sandals," Yara said, finding her voice again taking on a more commanding tone, even though she did not consciously intend it to.
"Certainly," Bronwor replied, and stepped aside. Yara entered his little workshop, finding it looking rather different in the grey light of morning, the air colder and yet the atmosphere warmer. She could see her sneakers on a shelf behind his workbench, the sole ripped completely off the broken one, the tongue poking forward and the laces loose, as if it had been well examined. She smiled at the sight, and did not let it fall from her face when Bronwor faced her again.
"I should like some sturdy boots," she said, "suitable for use in the stables and such. A pair of proper shoes, for about the house, and some boots or shoes for walking in the forest. Does it get well cold here in autumn and winter? Because in that case perhaps some of your lovely fur creations might be in order."
"The weather is far milder than it was at Himring, my lady," Bronwor replied, and Yara thought she could discern a nostalgic glimmer in his eyes. "There will be no need for fur. But let us look at some options for leathers, and perhaps fabric for the shoes? I have a small supply of weaves, but if you want them to match some other garment I will happily work with what the dressmakers might supply."
"I have not spoken to the dressmakers yet," Yara confessed. "I thought it best to start at the familiar end." Bronwor gave her a crooked smile, as if he was a bit uncomfortable at being referred to as 'familiar', and then he went to fetch the leather samples.
Yara felt the textures of the materials rather than looked at them. She already knew she would prefer black for the leathers, and blue for the shoes. Blue had always been her colour, one of the few things which had rang true both for her life as Yara and as Ecyáwen. As her fingers slipped over the strong blue silk a clear memory came to her, of standing on the rocks outside Himring, her eyes on the distant grey mist to the north, waiting for her father to return from one of his patrols. She had been wearing blue then, blue and red, and a white fox's fur around her shoulders. Her hair had caressed her cold cheeks, and it had been as soft as the fabric now under her fingers.
"I spoke to Elrond," she said once she had picked out the samples. Bronwor did not answer, his back turned as he prepared further details for Yara to pick out. She continued. "He calls me sister now, and I call him brother. Were you in my uncle's and father's service, when Elrond was in their care?"
Bronwor stayed his motions for just a moment, and then turned around with examples of tooling, options for lacing, and other ornaments and patterns. His expression was not changed but Yara could sense the shadow in his mind. She remained silently waiting for an answer while she decided what she wanted, but not until she handed him her choices and met his eyes did he respond.
"After your kin abandoned Himring I did not see any of them again," he said, and his voice was pained. "Not until the Second Age, when I dwelled in Lindon, by the coast. There I saw your brother, only once and in passing." Yara's lips parted ever so slightly in thoughtful surprise, but Bronwor was already bending down to take her measurements.
"Did he dwell there?" she asked breathlessly.
"He did not," Bronwor answered. "I do not know why he visited, but he came and went fast, and not many, even among those who dwelt there, knew it."
Yara sank into deep thought, and said nothing more. Many questions came to her mind, of what business her brother had had in Lindon, who he had seen there, from whence he had come and where he had gone to – but she did not think Bronwor had the answers. She was sure Elrond would have told her already, had he known, and if he didn't, probably no one else in Imladris did.
"That is all I need, my lady," Bronwor said as he stood up. "Which pair would you like me to finish first?" Yara shook herself from her thoughts, her posture straightening and her eyes clearing.
"The work boots, I think," she answered. "I shall need them most – but the shoes need to be done before the feast of Yavanna."
"All will be done by then," Bronwor answered with a nod. "I will come to you when the first pair is ready."
Yara smiled cheerfully, and gave him a big thumbs up. Bronwor frowned sternly at the erect digits, his expression very similar to the one he had worn when her sneakers had eluded him. Yara laughed, loud and clear, but his expression only hardened.
"Thumbs up," Yara explained and held them closer to his face. "It means 'great, good, yes'."
Very slowly and carefully Bronwor lifted his broad and stained hands, and in one smooth motion imitated the gesture.
"This is not a Noldorin sign," Bronwor murmured, his eyes travelling between their thumbs.
"I think it was Roman, originally," Yara chirped through her continued chuckles, "but that's a story for another time, I think." She retracted her thumbs, and with a wave – a gesture which they were thankfully both familiar with – she left the puzzled man to his thoughts.
The sun had yet to rise properly above the ridge of the Misty Mountains, but the warmth fell over the river and great swaths of glittering mist rose through the levels of Imladris. Yara ventured on new paths on her way to the garden, up behind the House of Elrond, among trees she had only glanced at a distance from outside Lindir's rooms. Night seemed to linger there below the boughs, and no birds sung in the thick mists, but there was warmth and comfort still, as if a memory of the Elder Days lingered among the ancient oaks and beeches. Yara took her time walking over the moss-covered paths, and she found that here the scent of her perfume was echoed in reality. She closed her eyes and breathed deep.
"You are trespassing."
The voice cut clear through the mist, and yet it was smooth, and dangerous. Yara kept her eyes closed, but she could not keep the edges of her mouth from curling in anticipation of seeing the woman such a voice could belong to.
"I passed no gate or standing stone. Is not the House of Elrond open to all?"
"You passed below an arch and up a stair," the voice said, now closer.
"I did not see an arch," Yara answered, finally opening her eyes, "but I blame it on the mist." She could see nothing for a moment, and then the mist opened to reveal the most beautiful maiden she had ever seen. Her hair was dark as Elrond's, her eyes shimmering grey like the morning, her dress raining about her as if it was the dew itself running over pale skin. Yara felt the spear of desire through her heart, but if it showed in her eyes the gaze meeting them did not reveal.
"You are Yara, daughter of Maglor," the woman said, and stepped closer. "Father told me of you. I am Arwen, daughter of Elrond, and you have wandered into my private garden."
"It was not my intent," Yara answered, her own voice now slow and dangerous, darker than it had been in Bronwor's company.
"You are not unwelcome," Arwen answered.
"And yet not wholly welcome either, I feel," Yara countered. Arwen laughed, and it was as if the clouds shattered to show the glittering stars.
"Why have you come round this way?" she asked. "Your room is on the other side of the house."
"I was visiting Bronwor, to have some proper shoes fashioned," Yara answered. "The mist tempted me to take a longer walk back. I was heading for the garden, and then perhaps to find Lord Elrond and ask that I be given some clothes more suited to my stature." Yara felt that in Arwen's company she would easily spill every secret of her heart, as long as there were ears to listen. She promised herself silently that she would guard her tongue better in the future – but even as she did she wondered if the promise would be kept.
"Were you not offered gowns upon your arrival?" Arwen asked, and for the first time her gaze fell from Yara's face, to examine her clothes.
"I was," answered Yara, "but I am accustomed to looser cuts and longer sleeves." Arwen gave her a curious look, and stepped closer once again.
"I will take you to see one who can help you, if you wish," she offered.
"Thank you," Yara said, and followed the silent steps of Arwen on through the garden, and up further steps among the trees. They came up out of the shadows, the air cleared, and for a moment Yara stopped, her eyes fixed on the bright figure silently walking before her. Was this, she wondered, how her uncle Tyelkormo had felt when he met Lúthien?
The air left her. She remembered now why Bronwor and his kin had not come to their aid in that disastrous battle. Her uncle had taken Lúthien, the King's daughter, captive, and in revenge King Elwë would send them no help. It seemed to her a foreboding memory, a warning of what paths love untamed might take a wandering soul. She hesitated for a moment, and then continued after Arwen, her eyes lowered and her heart heavy.
Arwen led her up closer to where Lindir lived, but still further below that on the slope, into a rounded building, very old and shadowed by tall trees. Yara waited by the arched doorway as Arwen spoke gaily and with great familiarity with a group gathered there in the half-open space below the light of tall windows facing west.
"They do not speak the old tongue," Arwen called to her, "but they are willing to help you. Shall I translate?" Yara hesitated, hoping that her blush was not too obvious.
"Would you be able to send for my friend Melmeleth? I should not like to keep a Lady of the House of Elrond occupied with such trivial matters as dressing a guest." Arwen walked back up to Yara, and examined her with deep, twinkling eyes.
"But you are not a mere guest," she almost whispered, pausing before she went on. "Yet I understand you will trust your friend to translate better than I. I will go and have her sent for. We shall meet soon again, Yara from beyond the Sea."
Yara did not recall closing her eyes, but it was as if she blinked and then Arwen was gone, and her heart was empty and cold.
Melmeleth had been close by as always, but it was not Arwen herself who had relayed the message that Yara was waiting for her. Melmeleth got a strange light in her eyes when Yara asked about it, but it soon disappeared, and once fabrics were pulled out from chests and laughing elves began draping them about Yara's frame any thought of either Melmeleth's or Arwen's eyes disappeared for a while.
"I should like a tunic or coat of sorts, of the green," Yara commanded, quite enjoying how excitedly subservient the small crowd of elves were. "Fastenings in the front, but a high neck and long sleeves, just like the dress – perhaps with some more movement. I've been thinking I should like to continue going to the stables, the horses calm me and it feels more like work than the dancing. Only, I don't like the prospect of running into Glorfindel again."
"He is not much in the stables, I should think," Melmeleth answered after she had translated the relevant parts for the tailors and seamstresses. "You are more likely to run into him around Lord Elrond's study, or about in the forests. It should not matter either way though. You have as much right as him to be in the stables, and you should not let his presence get in the way of your own enjoyment."
"You are right, of course," Yara sighed, and then returned her attention to the matters at hand. "I should like hijabs made out of the blue used for the underdress, and the green used for the tunic. Perhaps a black one as well – that fabric there, with the patterned edge."
"They ask if they might copy the measurements of the one you are wearing," Melmeleth replied, looking apologetic on their behalf, for the tailors did not seem to understand what they were asking.
"No, they may not," Yara commanded harshly. "It is but a simple rectangle, about this long," she measured with her arms, "and this wide." The atmosphere became awkward for a moment as Melmeleth translated, but then she added some extra sentences which caused all their eyes to at first go wide and then be averted in giggles. Yara gave her an inquisitive look.
"I told them your hair was enchanted," Melmeleth blushed.
"Why would you say that?" Yara laughed.
"I needed to explain why you would only show it to a lover," Melmeleth shrugged, blushing even more, "and I did not think you would like me to try and tell them the long story of the truth!"
"But did they even need to know why I would not show it?" Yara frowned.
"They would have spread rumours worse than enchanted hair if I did not explain somehow," Melmeleth returned. "They know you are from beyond the Sea, and important enough that Lady Arwen herself ordered them to dress you – and Mythiel saw you dancing! Enchanted hair is not so unexpected after all that."
"Very well," Yara huffed impatiently, thinking to herself that the truth would have been better – and yet revelling in the thought that myths were being woven around her, myths that might reach the ears of Arwen soon enough.
"One last thing," Yara said a while later, when the fabrics were being packed away again. "If you could ask them to embroider three red, five-pointed stars on the chest of the green coat?" She borrowed a pen and sketched the stars, marking their placement above her heart. The seamstress agreed, and at the sight of sadness in Yara's eyes posed no questions.
Yara and Melmeleth walked down towards the garden by the river. Melmeleth could see the melancholy in Yara's expression too, and after a moment's hesitation she reached out and took Yara's hand.
"Why the stars?" she asked.
"My brother Amir fought and died under their flag, the Independence Flag of Syria," Yara answered plainly. "I should like to wear them in remembrance of him."
"Oh."
Yara leaned forward to get a better look at Melmeleth's face as they walked, but her face revealed little more than her short answer.
"What did you think?" Yara frowned.
"I thought it must be the Silmarils," Melmeleth admitted reluctantly. "Only the red colour confused me – but I think Mythiel thought the same."
"Oh no," Yara sighed heavily. "Enchanted hair and Silmarils! I should have realised when I asked that they would mean something different to you."
"It will make little difference I think," Melmeleth smiled kindly, "once your true name is known to all."
Bilbo was nibbling on the remnants of his breakfast and the sun had risen high in the sky once Yara came to give him his letter. She did not linger, but went with Melmeleth to walk further down the riverside, away from the flagged garden paths and away among the trees. She related to her friend how she had come upon Arwen early in the morning, and while she did convey some of the wonder of the experience, she mentioned nothing of the feelings which it had stirred in her heart. Melmeleth made no real comment on the experience either, except laughing a little at Yara getting lost in the mist.
They walked for a good while, turning always a little to the right so that they came round the edge of the settlement, reaching the shore on the northern edge further into the afternoon. It was only then that Yara realised how truly small Imladris was, and how empty it seemed. She could tell the difference now between Noldor and Sindar, and found that most elves whom they encountered were of the latter people.
"Is this what remains of the Noldor?" she whispered, more to herself than anything else, but Melmeleth answered.
"There are some still spread in the wilderness, such as Gildor's company. There is the Lady of Lórien. Other than that we are few. Most have sailed, and many more will do so. Our time in Middle-Earth is coming to an end."
"Strange then, that I should be sent back now," Yara mumbled, and they walked on in silence. The mystery of her appearance in Middle-Earth still spooked Yara, when she thought about it, and she did not want to think that the people she belonged to was now in decline, that the powers of old were waning. The more she found out about Ecyáwen and her own history, the more it seemed she wanted to forget the gap between past and present, and become more fully the person she had been then.
It was a tempting prospect, she thought as they reached the riverside and stood gazing into the waterfall, to bury the twenty-four years of human life below the thousands of years of elvish memory. To be Ecyáwen again, hard as diamond and dark as the depths of the sea. To be strong, untouched by war and death and loss, a Princess of the Noldor and a warrior worthy of Arwen's love. She laughed quietly at her own presumptuousness, but even as she turned with a smile towards her friend, the temptation remained in her heart.
As if Melmeleth could see into Yara's mind even without the art of osánwë she reached out for Yara's hands and with a playful laugh she pulled them both down onto the grass, their rolling down the small slope shaking off any thoughts at all, until they stopped further down, in the shadows of a few birches on the edge of Imladris.
"Can you tell me a story?" Melmeleth asked. "A story or a song I have never heard before?"
Yara considered for a while, her eyes searching around her for some hint of what story she might share. She caught sight of a lizard, glowing red and yellow as it heated itself on the rocks by the river, and with a laugh she began to tell the story of Mulan, as well as she could remember it. Melmeleth listened intently, even when Yara got lost in the details or sang the songs in Arabic – more for her own joy than her friend's.
"I'm sorry," Melmeleth interrupted when Yara was describing the appearance of the leader of the Huns, "but are you saying he was helped by an eagle, even though he served the darkness?"
"I'm not sure he served the darkness," Yara frowned. "They were all of the race of men, fighting amongst each other, and living in far off lands to the east. Don't men here train falcons and hawks?"
"I don't think so," Melmeleth answered. "I have not seen it, but then, I know little of such things. I have never passed east of the Misty Mountains – perhaps far in the east even some of the noble birds have fallen to shadow and evil. But let us not thinks of such things, continue with the story!"
Yara did so with some reluctance at first, her own mind being filled with questions of what evils lay in the east, but as Melmeleth's excitement grew and the sun moved further into the west she became immersed again in the story of Mulan, and fell into long and imaginative descriptions of the Emperor's Palace and the final defeat of the Huns.
"I wonder if it is so among the men of Middle-Earth as well," Melmeleth said as they descended into the city again, hunting for supper, "that women are not allowed to fight for their own freedom."
"There were women in the armies who fought with us in my last battle," Yara answered, "but that was long ago, and how it is now I cannot tell."
"I hope they are not forbidden to fight," Melmeleth said, a darkness coming over her that could not be explained by the westering sun. "I am worried by the rumours of darkness rising, and there are not enough elves left, I fear, to hold it at bay."
"Are there not elves further east?"
"There are," Melmeleth said, and as they passed through the city and into the dining hall of Elrond's house she told Yara of the Kingdom of Thranduil, and what little she knew of the realm of Lothlórien. "They say it is Galadriel who is the Lady of the Wood," she whispered, and poured wine in both their glasses, "Artanis, I think you would know her as."
Yara would have protested the wine, but at the sounding of another familiar name from her past she forgot momentarily about the drink. She felt at first a bolt of joy at knowing there were other remnants of the Elder Days still around, but it was soon replaced with the bitterness of their last parting, and a feeling of fear at the threat Artanis might pose to her own power, whatever it might be or become. For it was still there, the silent and persistent longing for her former greatness and forgetfulness of her recent past.
"I should like water, not wine," she mumbled once she returned to the present.
"Ai, yes," Melmeleth giggled, "explain this to me now! Long have I wondered why you refuse the sweet wines we have offered you!"
"It is against my beliefs to muddle my mind with drink," Yara shrugged.
"But this is not potent enough for that," Melmeleth protested. "This side of the sea only the wines of Dorwinion can affect an elvish mind, and those are not well enjoyed in Imladris – although last I was here Lindir told me Elrond's sons keep a store of it, hidden away."
Yara scoffed with laughter, but said nothing and made no movement for either wine nor water.
"Come," Melmeleth urged her, "take but a taste. Surely you have missed the taste of wine on your tongue!"
Yara sighed deeply. She had missed it, once she had remembered the sweet drinks of Yavanna's feasts under the light of the Trees, and even though she doubted the wine of Imladris would live up to that taste, she gave in, and put the glass to her lips. Even as she did so she felt a sting of self-betrayal, because even if this wine would not affect her, it was still wine, and she was walking a thin line. She took a small sip, and she could see the expectation in Melmeleth's eyes. Only because of that did she finish the glass as they ate, for the taste was nothing as sweet as her memories.
It felt good, at least, to eat where others too were dining. None came while they were there whom she recognised, but then, she did not yet know many people in Imladris. All of them, however, seemed to give her long looks, and she caught whispers in Sindarin that she cursed only because she could not understand them. She said nothing of it while they were inside, because she didn't know who among them could understand Quenya, but once they passed out from the house she turned to Melmeleth with steely eyes.
"What were they saying about me in there, when they stared and whispered?"
"The tale of your enchanted hair has spread," Melmeleth mumbled below a fierce blush. "Some must have overheard your singing earlier as well, for they said you had come with strange songs from over the sea."
"At least there was no talk of Silmarils," Yara conceded with a relieved sigh. They stood for a while on the road to the garden, saying nothing as the sun set. Then the stars began to appear above them, and Yara laughed at the sound of a familiar melody rising from many of the elves in the garden below.
"Alla Eleni
Ambar equë Aiya!
Or tintilyë calima
Nu tintillmë canya
Alla Eleni
Mittanyalyë ompa
Melmënya a inyë lindammë
Lindamma lindë artuilë
Gliddy gloop gloopy
Nibby nobby nooby
La la la lo lo
Sabba sibby sabba
Nooby abba dabba
Le le lo lo
dooby ooby walla
dooby abba dabba
Linda lindë artuilë"
"I see Bilbo did not wait long to share my translation with his friends," Yara laughed.
"I fear he did not have to share it beyond my brother's ears," Melmeleth said, pointing to Lindir's familiar face among the trees. Yara laughed as she met his distant eyes, and followed Melmeleth down towards him, joining in the second verse.
"Alla Eleni
Elenarda melda
Ilmarë lámina
Imi hen melissë
Alla Eleni
Walyammë valin
Melmënya a inyë lindammë
Lindamma lindë artuilë
Gliddy gloop gloopy
Nibby nobby nooby
La la la lo lo
Sabba sibby sabba
Nooby abba dabba
Le le lo lo
dooby ooby walla
dooby abba dabba
Linda lindë artuilë
Linda lindë
Uo lindë
Lalammë lindë
Lindë lindë lindë
Linda linda lindë
Linda lindë"
A/N: Let me just say that the Quenya translation of "Good morning Starshine" was not the reason for this chapter taking a few weeks longer than usual - it was actually finished long before the rest. If anyone is interested I've posted the full translation, with English, here: archiveofourown works/18287459