Why must my heart trouble me so? Life would be so much simpler if love
never existed. There would be no pain, there would be no anger or
resentment.
But I am getting too far ahead of myself. There is no point in doing that.
I was born and raised in Caras Galadhon. My mother was a kinswoman to the Lady of Light, and my father was a sentry. They were both good friends of my Lord and Lady, and had very high status in the Lorien of the Blossoms.
And into this scenario I was born. Living this higher status of life in Lothlorien, I became cocky, arrogant and somewhat. pigheaded. The perfect match, our parents had thought, the perfect maiden to be promised in marriage -at the age of five- to Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil, Prince of Mirkwood.
But life is never that simple. Nor is love. Don't get me wrong, I had intended to be a good wife to this Prince I had never met. Well, I had met him once when I was first told I was betrothed to him (The little weasel tried to set fire to my hair), but that was over fifteen hundred years ago. That didn't stop me though, as I set out from my home, from promising myself that if that little wretch came near my hair with any sort of flame, I would make him wish he had never been born.
But I have given too much away. It is time to begin my tale. It is a tale of deceit, of anger, of love and hope. It is a story of enchantment, sorcery, and several rather good tricks on my part (I warned you before, I am arrogant. But I'll let you be the judge.). But please, stay alongside me as I share the story about the death of the man I loved, and how it was I who killed him.
But I am getting too far ahead of myself. There is no point in doing that.
I was born and raised in Caras Galadhon. My mother was a kinswoman to the Lady of Light, and my father was a sentry. They were both good friends of my Lord and Lady, and had very high status in the Lorien of the Blossoms.
And into this scenario I was born. Living this higher status of life in Lothlorien, I became cocky, arrogant and somewhat. pigheaded. The perfect match, our parents had thought, the perfect maiden to be promised in marriage -at the age of five- to Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil, Prince of Mirkwood.
But life is never that simple. Nor is love. Don't get me wrong, I had intended to be a good wife to this Prince I had never met. Well, I had met him once when I was first told I was betrothed to him (The little weasel tried to set fire to my hair), but that was over fifteen hundred years ago. That didn't stop me though, as I set out from my home, from promising myself that if that little wretch came near my hair with any sort of flame, I would make him wish he had never been born.
But I have given too much away. It is time to begin my tale. It is a tale of deceit, of anger, of love and hope. It is a story of enchantment, sorcery, and several rather good tricks on my part (I warned you before, I am arrogant. But I'll let you be the judge.). But please, stay alongside me as I share the story about the death of the man I loved, and how it was I who killed him.
