Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters
and/or places.
Jaid Skywalker: Thanks. Sorry this chapter took so long, I was really unsure of how Lothlorien looked.
Author's note: Okay, I was uncertain of how Lorien would look, so I did my best with it.
*****
Never before had Arwen seen anything quite like what she saw in Lothlorien. There were houses there that were, like all houses, made up of rooms. However, these rooms were separated by open walkways, and were not on the ground but in the trees. Arwen stood in awe, her jaw slightly parted and her sorrow momentarily forgotten. She tried to imagine living in one of those houses. What would it be like? Did anyone ever lose their footing? Surely Elves never tripped and fell.
"You see, it is not as bad as you would like to think," Galadriel said. Arwen looked at her dryly.
"I hate this place," she sneered, "and I always will."
"My dear child, you cannot hide your thoughts from me," Galadriel said, somewhat amused with this brat of a girl. Arwen, for her part, was shocked. Did she really have that little privacy? Really, when she was getting her courses or, say, kissing a boy, would every thought she had be subject to Galadriel's interpretation? That seemed simply perverse. "The door to your bedroom locks."
Arwen's eyes were suddenly wide with shock as she stared in unspeakably fury at the Lady of the Wood. Galadriel smiled lightly, her eyes laughing. Words spluttered to the surface of Arwen's mind, some words "young ladies" were not supposed to know, but her mouth would not speak any of them, so angry was she. Heat rose in her extremities. Galadriel, who seemed to find this rather amusing, rode onwards. Arwen growled, but rode after her grandmother.
Once their horses had been properly cared for, the two women headed up a rather long staircase that led around the trunk of a tree. Arwen dared to gaze over the railing, and she could feel her pulse begin to race. Her breath caught as she imagined falling from such a great height, tumbling for an eternity before a painful death. . .
And another memory came to Arwen. She had been just a few years old when her brother Elladan decided to teach her how to ride a horse. He had chosen a stallion that belonged to their father's friend Glorfindel, and Elladan had placed Arwen upon the horse. She had been scared almost out of her wits, screaming more and louder than she had thought possible. Thrashing about so badly that her brother could not touch her, Arwen's fear elevated so that she wet herself, and even after Elladan took her down she was shaking.
Arwen was brought out of her reverie by a warm hand covering her own. She looked up, lip quivering, the sole sign of her fear, to see Galadriel, with a smile that was all at once reassuring and compassionate. "Would you rather be nearer to the ground?" Galadriel asked kindly.
"No," Arwen replied firmly, her voice hardened against the old woman's benevolence. "I would rather be in the highest branch of the tallest tree."
Galadriel sighed. "This can be easy or it can be difficult, that is your decision." The two stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, Galadriel searching Arwen's mind, and Arwen challenging Galadriel with all her might. "Very well." She began to continue, then turn so suddenly Arwen nearly walked right into her. "And one more thing; I am not an old woman."
Arwen worked on hardening herself inside as she followed Galadriel higher into the tree. No matter what acts of kindness the old witch put on, Arwen would be wise to her tricks. Galadriel was chuckling inside. So, Arwen, she thought, you fancy yourself something of a scrapper? Very well, child, very well, we will play that game for a while. Just like stubborn little Celebrian had refused to study, Galadriel had invented a game then, too, and before she knew it Celebrian could count higher than sixteen hundred, her favourite number.
*****
Later that evening, the two had a lot of time for thought. Galadriel had created that time for herself, having Celeborn take care of political matters and such things. Arwen had little choice, being locked in her room without anything better to do. She had not done anything wrong. . .anything much. She had simply expressed an opinion.
Galadriel sighed as she remembered what had gone on that evening. Arwen had not even bothered to mask her unmannered contempt for everyone and everything, glaring at Celeborn as if she were trying to set him afire with only her gaze. As if that had not been enough, and it had been ignored, the child had to go and state the Lothlorien was "just about the worst place I have ever been, and I would rather spend the rest of my life living in Fangorn forest." Which was exactly what had landed her in her room.
Perhaps, Galadriel thought, I was a bit too hard on her. This is her first day in a new place, it is only natural that she lash out a bit. She does not know that this is best for her. Arwen appeared to be the type whose stubbornness was worn down by equal stubbornness, but could it be that she needed compassion? Elflings that age were very emotional and difficult to judge.
Meanwhile, Arwen was rifling through her belongings. Buried beneath all her others things, her clothes and the few pictures that Elladan had given to her (he had an uncanny ability with charcoal), was a long object wrapped in worn grey cloth. As she unwrapped the cloth and drew her sword, stress and anger slid off Arwen's shoulders.
Slowly she sliced through the air, curving the blade this way and that. She thrust the weapon forward then pulled back, twisted up, down, and side to side. Any foe who opposed her, anyone she chose to envision before her, was instantly chopped to a bloody carcass. Most of her anger was towards her family. "Ada," she whispered, "for sending me away. Elladan and Elrohir, you cowardly dogs, for not being there to defend me or to say goodbye. Galadriel, most of all, you evil wench. I hate everything that you are. And Naneth, for leaving me so alone, and so empty."
Arwen drove her sword forward, through the ghostly form's heart. Like vapor the vision was gone, and Arwen felt more anger, and differently placed. She placed the cold steel of the blade against her breast, loving knowing that she could end it then and there with one quick thrust, loving the power in her hands that she knew she would never use.
Suddenly Arwen felt something warm and sticky. Looking down, she saw that the sword had punctured her skin, and blood was seeping through the flesh. That had not been her intention! For a moment she could do nothing but stare, and that moment was enough.
A sharp sound came from the doorway. Arwen looked up to see Galadriel, her face blank of any and all emotion. Again words failed her, but she knew what Galadriel was thinking, how wrong she was about Arwen's meaning.
It was a cruel and bitter irony.
Jaid Skywalker: Thanks. Sorry this chapter took so long, I was really unsure of how Lothlorien looked.
Author's note: Okay, I was uncertain of how Lorien would look, so I did my best with it.
*****
Never before had Arwen seen anything quite like what she saw in Lothlorien. There were houses there that were, like all houses, made up of rooms. However, these rooms were separated by open walkways, and were not on the ground but in the trees. Arwen stood in awe, her jaw slightly parted and her sorrow momentarily forgotten. She tried to imagine living in one of those houses. What would it be like? Did anyone ever lose their footing? Surely Elves never tripped and fell.
"You see, it is not as bad as you would like to think," Galadriel said. Arwen looked at her dryly.
"I hate this place," she sneered, "and I always will."
"My dear child, you cannot hide your thoughts from me," Galadriel said, somewhat amused with this brat of a girl. Arwen, for her part, was shocked. Did she really have that little privacy? Really, when she was getting her courses or, say, kissing a boy, would every thought she had be subject to Galadriel's interpretation? That seemed simply perverse. "The door to your bedroom locks."
Arwen's eyes were suddenly wide with shock as she stared in unspeakably fury at the Lady of the Wood. Galadriel smiled lightly, her eyes laughing. Words spluttered to the surface of Arwen's mind, some words "young ladies" were not supposed to know, but her mouth would not speak any of them, so angry was she. Heat rose in her extremities. Galadriel, who seemed to find this rather amusing, rode onwards. Arwen growled, but rode after her grandmother.
Once their horses had been properly cared for, the two women headed up a rather long staircase that led around the trunk of a tree. Arwen dared to gaze over the railing, and she could feel her pulse begin to race. Her breath caught as she imagined falling from such a great height, tumbling for an eternity before a painful death. . .
And another memory came to Arwen. She had been just a few years old when her brother Elladan decided to teach her how to ride a horse. He had chosen a stallion that belonged to their father's friend Glorfindel, and Elladan had placed Arwen upon the horse. She had been scared almost out of her wits, screaming more and louder than she had thought possible. Thrashing about so badly that her brother could not touch her, Arwen's fear elevated so that she wet herself, and even after Elladan took her down she was shaking.
Arwen was brought out of her reverie by a warm hand covering her own. She looked up, lip quivering, the sole sign of her fear, to see Galadriel, with a smile that was all at once reassuring and compassionate. "Would you rather be nearer to the ground?" Galadriel asked kindly.
"No," Arwen replied firmly, her voice hardened against the old woman's benevolence. "I would rather be in the highest branch of the tallest tree."
Galadriel sighed. "This can be easy or it can be difficult, that is your decision." The two stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, Galadriel searching Arwen's mind, and Arwen challenging Galadriel with all her might. "Very well." She began to continue, then turn so suddenly Arwen nearly walked right into her. "And one more thing; I am not an old woman."
Arwen worked on hardening herself inside as she followed Galadriel higher into the tree. No matter what acts of kindness the old witch put on, Arwen would be wise to her tricks. Galadriel was chuckling inside. So, Arwen, she thought, you fancy yourself something of a scrapper? Very well, child, very well, we will play that game for a while. Just like stubborn little Celebrian had refused to study, Galadriel had invented a game then, too, and before she knew it Celebrian could count higher than sixteen hundred, her favourite number.
*****
Later that evening, the two had a lot of time for thought. Galadriel had created that time for herself, having Celeborn take care of political matters and such things. Arwen had little choice, being locked in her room without anything better to do. She had not done anything wrong. . .anything much. She had simply expressed an opinion.
Galadriel sighed as she remembered what had gone on that evening. Arwen had not even bothered to mask her unmannered contempt for everyone and everything, glaring at Celeborn as if she were trying to set him afire with only her gaze. As if that had not been enough, and it had been ignored, the child had to go and state the Lothlorien was "just about the worst place I have ever been, and I would rather spend the rest of my life living in Fangorn forest." Which was exactly what had landed her in her room.
Perhaps, Galadriel thought, I was a bit too hard on her. This is her first day in a new place, it is only natural that she lash out a bit. She does not know that this is best for her. Arwen appeared to be the type whose stubbornness was worn down by equal stubbornness, but could it be that she needed compassion? Elflings that age were very emotional and difficult to judge.
Meanwhile, Arwen was rifling through her belongings. Buried beneath all her others things, her clothes and the few pictures that Elladan had given to her (he had an uncanny ability with charcoal), was a long object wrapped in worn grey cloth. As she unwrapped the cloth and drew her sword, stress and anger slid off Arwen's shoulders.
Slowly she sliced through the air, curving the blade this way and that. She thrust the weapon forward then pulled back, twisted up, down, and side to side. Any foe who opposed her, anyone she chose to envision before her, was instantly chopped to a bloody carcass. Most of her anger was towards her family. "Ada," she whispered, "for sending me away. Elladan and Elrohir, you cowardly dogs, for not being there to defend me or to say goodbye. Galadriel, most of all, you evil wench. I hate everything that you are. And Naneth, for leaving me so alone, and so empty."
Arwen drove her sword forward, through the ghostly form's heart. Like vapor the vision was gone, and Arwen felt more anger, and differently placed. She placed the cold steel of the blade against her breast, loving knowing that she could end it then and there with one quick thrust, loving the power in her hands that she knew she would never use.
Suddenly Arwen felt something warm and sticky. Looking down, she saw that the sword had punctured her skin, and blood was seeping through the flesh. That had not been her intention! For a moment she could do nothing but stare, and that moment was enough.
A sharp sound came from the doorway. Arwen looked up to see Galadriel, her face blank of any and all emotion. Again words failed her, but she knew what Galadriel was thinking, how wrong she was about Arwen's meaning.
It was a cruel and bitter irony.