Norelda picked her way down the path without even thinking about it. She
knew all the tracks around here like the back of her hand, even in the
dark. This was her home, and her father was sending her away.
She reached the beach, felt the cool sand between her bare toes. Was there sand in Imladris? She did not think so. There could surely be no place in the world as lovely as this.
As she reached the water's edge, she dropped the knife to the sand, and untied her belt. The mirror fell beside the knife unnoticed, followed by her garment. She walked forward naked into the water. It was perfectly, almost unnaturally calm, almost welcoming.
She swam, and for a time was aware of little but the motion of the water around, it's sound in her ears, and the stars blazing brightly overhead. She drifted, dreaming, eventually back to the shore and walked out dripping wet. Shivering slightly at the cold air, she knelt on the sand by her possessions.
Norelda lifted the silver mirror and tilted it so she could see her reflection in the starlight. Sharp planed face, tilted eyes, upswept eyebrows. Thin lips, and a stubborn chin, slender neck. Red hair. So unusual, that colour hair, like copper. The maid had brushed all the tangles out before bed, but her impromptu swim had messed it all up again and it hung in a straggly mess around her face and ears. Pointed ears. Elf ears.
This face, this strange, sharp face could have belonged to a stranger. Norelda so rarely looked into a mirror, caring little for her appearance. The face that peered out of the mirror was strange and wild. Elves were beautiful and graceful, but not Norelda. She was.dirty. Wild. Fey. Something else, not really an elf at all.
She laughed at her own vanity. Elf-brat, she thought. Thinking that you're something special.
She lifted her eyes and stared out at the horizon. West. The Uttermost West, the Undying lands, the Blessed Realm. Where her mother was, and so many others. She gazed out at the place where the sky met the sea, almost as if she could see the landmass on the other side, and something stirred within her. Rebellion. I like it here, she thought fiercely. I love the cliffs, and the way the sun sets into the Sea, and the way the sand is just a little bit grainy between your toes. I don't want to go somewhere were everything is perfect. Where the sun would rise from the sea. It would seem so.wrong.
But she wasn't going over the sea, where everyone would be beautiful, and would expect her to wear dresses and behave like a lady. She was going to Imladris, to Rivindell, where everyone would be beautiful and expect her to wear dresses and act like a lady. And she wouldn't be able to see the Sea. No more starlit swims, no more dancing barefoot on the beach by a raging fire. Dresses and jewels, and heavy hairstyles and banquets of rich, heavy meats that would likely make her ill. And lessons too. So far Norelda had escaped having to learn to read or write, but she was sure that there would be none of that in Imladris.
She flopped onto her back and sighed. The Sea whispered and caressed her feet as she lay and stared up at the stars. The sound of the Sea was soothing, and the stars were so beautiful, and the sand was soft and cushy, and she could feel herself drifting...
There was something digging into her back. Something sharp digging into her back. She flipped over so she was lying on her stomach, and picked up the shell that was half-buried in the sand. It was a clam shell. A whole one, not broken or cracked like so many, with a delicate sheen of mother-of- pearl on the inside.
Norelda turned the shell over and over in her hands, feeling its edges and curves, learning its shape. It was small, somewhat less than her palm, and fit neatly against her hand. She wrapped her fingers around it. This she would keep, as a rememberance of her home, of the Sea.
Holding the shell tightly, she looked out at the horizon once more, and a hand crept up to touch her tangled, salt-dry hair. Defiance rose in her, and she reached out, fumbling slightly, dropping the shell to the sand, to grip the knife. She brought the knife up to her face and stared at the polished blade as if transfixed. She could see her reflection in the blade, slighty distorted, but her red hair stood out clearly.
Ugly girl, she thought. Witch.
With a sudden movement she grabbed a lock of hair from the side of her head and hacked it off. Again, and again. Handfuls of hair fell to the sand, and when all of her long, lovely hair was cut to about half a finger length, roughly and unevenly, she flung the knife away, scrabbled for her shell which she clutched to her chest and collapsed into the sand.
She reached the beach, felt the cool sand between her bare toes. Was there sand in Imladris? She did not think so. There could surely be no place in the world as lovely as this.
As she reached the water's edge, she dropped the knife to the sand, and untied her belt. The mirror fell beside the knife unnoticed, followed by her garment. She walked forward naked into the water. It was perfectly, almost unnaturally calm, almost welcoming.
She swam, and for a time was aware of little but the motion of the water around, it's sound in her ears, and the stars blazing brightly overhead. She drifted, dreaming, eventually back to the shore and walked out dripping wet. Shivering slightly at the cold air, she knelt on the sand by her possessions.
Norelda lifted the silver mirror and tilted it so she could see her reflection in the starlight. Sharp planed face, tilted eyes, upswept eyebrows. Thin lips, and a stubborn chin, slender neck. Red hair. So unusual, that colour hair, like copper. The maid had brushed all the tangles out before bed, but her impromptu swim had messed it all up again and it hung in a straggly mess around her face and ears. Pointed ears. Elf ears.
This face, this strange, sharp face could have belonged to a stranger. Norelda so rarely looked into a mirror, caring little for her appearance. The face that peered out of the mirror was strange and wild. Elves were beautiful and graceful, but not Norelda. She was.dirty. Wild. Fey. Something else, not really an elf at all.
She laughed at her own vanity. Elf-brat, she thought. Thinking that you're something special.
She lifted her eyes and stared out at the horizon. West. The Uttermost West, the Undying lands, the Blessed Realm. Where her mother was, and so many others. She gazed out at the place where the sky met the sea, almost as if she could see the landmass on the other side, and something stirred within her. Rebellion. I like it here, she thought fiercely. I love the cliffs, and the way the sun sets into the Sea, and the way the sand is just a little bit grainy between your toes. I don't want to go somewhere were everything is perfect. Where the sun would rise from the sea. It would seem so.wrong.
But she wasn't going over the sea, where everyone would be beautiful, and would expect her to wear dresses and behave like a lady. She was going to Imladris, to Rivindell, where everyone would be beautiful and expect her to wear dresses and act like a lady. And she wouldn't be able to see the Sea. No more starlit swims, no more dancing barefoot on the beach by a raging fire. Dresses and jewels, and heavy hairstyles and banquets of rich, heavy meats that would likely make her ill. And lessons too. So far Norelda had escaped having to learn to read or write, but she was sure that there would be none of that in Imladris.
She flopped onto her back and sighed. The Sea whispered and caressed her feet as she lay and stared up at the stars. The sound of the Sea was soothing, and the stars were so beautiful, and the sand was soft and cushy, and she could feel herself drifting...
There was something digging into her back. Something sharp digging into her back. She flipped over so she was lying on her stomach, and picked up the shell that was half-buried in the sand. It was a clam shell. A whole one, not broken or cracked like so many, with a delicate sheen of mother-of- pearl on the inside.
Norelda turned the shell over and over in her hands, feeling its edges and curves, learning its shape. It was small, somewhat less than her palm, and fit neatly against her hand. She wrapped her fingers around it. This she would keep, as a rememberance of her home, of the Sea.
Holding the shell tightly, she looked out at the horizon once more, and a hand crept up to touch her tangled, salt-dry hair. Defiance rose in her, and she reached out, fumbling slightly, dropping the shell to the sand, to grip the knife. She brought the knife up to her face and stared at the polished blade as if transfixed. She could see her reflection in the blade, slighty distorted, but her red hair stood out clearly.
Ugly girl, she thought. Witch.
With a sudden movement she grabbed a lock of hair from the side of her head and hacked it off. Again, and again. Handfuls of hair fell to the sand, and when all of her long, lovely hair was cut to about half a finger length, roughly and unevenly, she flung the knife away, scrabbled for her shell which she clutched to her chest and collapsed into the sand.