All through the lunch, and the singing, and dancing (for dancing seemed more natural than walking, somehow), all he could see was Mornenêl, she was joy personified, and yet there was something else to her, a dark shadow under the glittering water, and he was drawn to it. He talked to the first elf who had greeted him, named Gilran, asking him what their purpose was in traveling so far from the vastness of Mirkwood.
Gilran brushed back his long dark hair, taking a glass of wine Frodo procured. "Some of our kind are leaving us; they are sailing away West, to the Blessed Isle. This is a chance for some of us to say our farewells; Legolas and I will travel no further west, but will return towards home on the morrow; we have been warned it would only sadden us to watch the ship depart. Soon we will have other visitors joining us here from the Grey Havens as well; a marriage proposal has been accepted, and we are accompanying the groom back to formally meet with Thranduil where the vows will be performed. So there is great joy in that; and we are grateful for Bilbo and you and your contributions to this gathering." With that, the elf took a deep swallow of wine, and broke out into a new song, this one apparently a well known tune as the others joined in; it was a more rousing and robust song than the others had been singing, and the next thing Frodo knew, Mornenêl was taking him by the hand and he was following in another dance, laughing until his sides hurt, the heady wine going to his head and Mornenêl's beauty going straight to his heart.
Afternoon was drawing into evening when he finally managed to get a seat next to her during a pause in the merrymaking.
He tried to think of something to say; Bilbo had mostly sat with Legolas to one side, chatting about old times in the elven kingdom and the Battle of Five Armies, no doubt. Of all the elves, Legolas had been the most reserved, letting other dance while he hung back, content mostly to drink and chat.
"So you are a cousin to the king," Frodo began, again in Quenya, fumbling over the words.
Mornenêl tried replying in halting Westron. "Yes, I have not left Mirkwood for many years, not since the Shadow began reappearing to the south of us. You have a fruitful and fair land here; it feels so young and innocent, it makes me feel young again."
How old are you, Frodo wanted to ask, but he could not think of a way to make it sound gracious. Apparently the question was clear on his face for Mornenêl laughed at him; not a cruel laugh or a haughty one; rather a conspiring one, as if he had told a joke.
"I was born just before the Last Alliance of Men and Elves, at the end of the Second Age. I'm young compared to some elves, and not compared to others. Legolas there is a bit older than me—he fought in that same war. He saw my father die, also—that was when I came to be raised by his family. We lost almost half our men in that battle; the male elves you see here are mostly of a younger generation."
Frodo was fascinated—he had only begun to learn of ancient history, and the idea that she had witnessed it was beyond belief—he wondered what it was like, to be immortal. She asked him next of his land, for she had only seen a tiny slice of it, and he talked for what seemed like hours about Hobbiton, and Buckland, and the Brandywine, and even about his own parents' death—something he had rarely spoken of with anyone. For several moments afterwards they were both silent.
"Who is the bride? And who is leaving for the Undying Land?" Frodo suddenly asked, remembering Gilran's words. It seemed like a silly question—already he felt as if he knew these elves, had known them forever, it seemed. Something within him belonged here, with them.
Mornenêl was silent for a moment, and Frodo wondered if he had been offensive with his curiosity. He began to apologize, but she held a finger to his lips. A hot jolt tore through him at just that casual touch; he blushed, but she appeared not to notice as she spoke, "I am the one who will be wed. And my mother is the one who is leaving—she is the one there with the dark hair, who was sitting beside me at the creek."
The air was suddenly stifling; Frodo swooned, and he could not be sure if it was the wine or the terrible sinking inside. He choked out the words, "Congratulations, Lady; you must be very happy. I wish all the best for you."
Then the second part of what she had said sank in. "But your mother—why would she leave at a time like this?" He was still trying to fathom how the maiden seated next to her could possibly have been her mother—he couldn't discern any age difference between them! Only now, having this knowledge, could he see any resemblance between them, in the shape of the eye, the brow, and the lips. And her mother—she was dancing as gaily as any of the elves. He thought only the sad and grieving left the lands of Middle Earth.
Mornenêl nodded in her mother's direction. "She has wanted to leave since my father died, but until my future was set she felt she could not. She arranged the marriage, and she will bestow her blessings upon us at the Grey Havens before Turil and I begin the passage back to Mirkwood. I could wish she would stay to see my children born, but I cannot ask that of her. She has waited long enough."
Arranged? Frodo's mind was racing. "Turil and you are very close? How long have you known each other?" This was too personal; it was bordering on rudeness, but he could not help himself. Her happiness was suddenly very important to him.
Her smile faded and his heart clenched. "We are friends, Turil and I. We have not spent a great deal of time together, but I have known him for many years; half of my life, actually. He is a kind and generous elflord; he will make a wonderful husband."
Frodo was grateful for the music and the dancing; the other elves seemed not to be interested in their conversation. Bilbo was now telling ridiculous stories of his adventure, praising the elves and their home and the time he dwelt unseen among them.
"You don't love him," Frodo whispered, half hoping Mornenêl would not hear him.
She did. "I have never loved anyone." All joy was gone from her face now, and her eyes seemed to pierce straight into his soul. "I do not know if I am capable of it."
Her sadness was too much to bear; Frodo found himself holding tightly to her hand, two fat tears sliding down his cheeks.
She gripped his hands for a moment, looking down, then as suddenly as it had appeared, she schooled her features and the sadness was hidden once more. She gently brushed her hands on both his cheeks, collecting up the tears as if they were diamonds. "He is a good friend. That will be enough."
Frodo tried to console himself that it would. He could not bear the pain of thinking otherwise.
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(thanks for the comments, everyone!. Chapter 5 coming tomorrow . . .)
Gilran brushed back his long dark hair, taking a glass of wine Frodo procured. "Some of our kind are leaving us; they are sailing away West, to the Blessed Isle. This is a chance for some of us to say our farewells; Legolas and I will travel no further west, but will return towards home on the morrow; we have been warned it would only sadden us to watch the ship depart. Soon we will have other visitors joining us here from the Grey Havens as well; a marriage proposal has been accepted, and we are accompanying the groom back to formally meet with Thranduil where the vows will be performed. So there is great joy in that; and we are grateful for Bilbo and you and your contributions to this gathering." With that, the elf took a deep swallow of wine, and broke out into a new song, this one apparently a well known tune as the others joined in; it was a more rousing and robust song than the others had been singing, and the next thing Frodo knew, Mornenêl was taking him by the hand and he was following in another dance, laughing until his sides hurt, the heady wine going to his head and Mornenêl's beauty going straight to his heart.
Afternoon was drawing into evening when he finally managed to get a seat next to her during a pause in the merrymaking.
He tried to think of something to say; Bilbo had mostly sat with Legolas to one side, chatting about old times in the elven kingdom and the Battle of Five Armies, no doubt. Of all the elves, Legolas had been the most reserved, letting other dance while he hung back, content mostly to drink and chat.
"So you are a cousin to the king," Frodo began, again in Quenya, fumbling over the words.
Mornenêl tried replying in halting Westron. "Yes, I have not left Mirkwood for many years, not since the Shadow began reappearing to the south of us. You have a fruitful and fair land here; it feels so young and innocent, it makes me feel young again."
How old are you, Frodo wanted to ask, but he could not think of a way to make it sound gracious. Apparently the question was clear on his face for Mornenêl laughed at him; not a cruel laugh or a haughty one; rather a conspiring one, as if he had told a joke.
"I was born just before the Last Alliance of Men and Elves, at the end of the Second Age. I'm young compared to some elves, and not compared to others. Legolas there is a bit older than me—he fought in that same war. He saw my father die, also—that was when I came to be raised by his family. We lost almost half our men in that battle; the male elves you see here are mostly of a younger generation."
Frodo was fascinated—he had only begun to learn of ancient history, and the idea that she had witnessed it was beyond belief—he wondered what it was like, to be immortal. She asked him next of his land, for she had only seen a tiny slice of it, and he talked for what seemed like hours about Hobbiton, and Buckland, and the Brandywine, and even about his own parents' death—something he had rarely spoken of with anyone. For several moments afterwards they were both silent.
"Who is the bride? And who is leaving for the Undying Land?" Frodo suddenly asked, remembering Gilran's words. It seemed like a silly question—already he felt as if he knew these elves, had known them forever, it seemed. Something within him belonged here, with them.
Mornenêl was silent for a moment, and Frodo wondered if he had been offensive with his curiosity. He began to apologize, but she held a finger to his lips. A hot jolt tore through him at just that casual touch; he blushed, but she appeared not to notice as she spoke, "I am the one who will be wed. And my mother is the one who is leaving—she is the one there with the dark hair, who was sitting beside me at the creek."
The air was suddenly stifling; Frodo swooned, and he could not be sure if it was the wine or the terrible sinking inside. He choked out the words, "Congratulations, Lady; you must be very happy. I wish all the best for you."
Then the second part of what she had said sank in. "But your mother—why would she leave at a time like this?" He was still trying to fathom how the maiden seated next to her could possibly have been her mother—he couldn't discern any age difference between them! Only now, having this knowledge, could he see any resemblance between them, in the shape of the eye, the brow, and the lips. And her mother—she was dancing as gaily as any of the elves. He thought only the sad and grieving left the lands of Middle Earth.
Mornenêl nodded in her mother's direction. "She has wanted to leave since my father died, but until my future was set she felt she could not. She arranged the marriage, and she will bestow her blessings upon us at the Grey Havens before Turil and I begin the passage back to Mirkwood. I could wish she would stay to see my children born, but I cannot ask that of her. She has waited long enough."
Arranged? Frodo's mind was racing. "Turil and you are very close? How long have you known each other?" This was too personal; it was bordering on rudeness, but he could not help himself. Her happiness was suddenly very important to him.
Her smile faded and his heart clenched. "We are friends, Turil and I. We have not spent a great deal of time together, but I have known him for many years; half of my life, actually. He is a kind and generous elflord; he will make a wonderful husband."
Frodo was grateful for the music and the dancing; the other elves seemed not to be interested in their conversation. Bilbo was now telling ridiculous stories of his adventure, praising the elves and their home and the time he dwelt unseen among them.
"You don't love him," Frodo whispered, half hoping Mornenêl would not hear him.
She did. "I have never loved anyone." All joy was gone from her face now, and her eyes seemed to pierce straight into his soul. "I do not know if I am capable of it."
Her sadness was too much to bear; Frodo found himself holding tightly to her hand, two fat tears sliding down his cheeks.
She gripped his hands for a moment, looking down, then as suddenly as it had appeared, she schooled her features and the sadness was hidden once more. She gently brushed her hands on both his cheeks, collecting up the tears as if they were diamonds. "He is a good friend. That will be enough."
Frodo tried to console himself that it would. He could not bear the pain of thinking otherwise.
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(thanks for the comments, everyone!. Chapter 5 coming tomorrow . . .)