Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters
and/places thereof.
Loveofthering: Thanks! Morwinyon and Celebrían have a deep bond that will, with the coming courtship of Celebrían, undergo quite a few trials. Nice hearing from you!
*****
"My sister loves you," Morwinyon states. She stands before the Elf with whom Celebrían danced, looking at him with the most serious face she has ever worn. He does not realize that she is judging him, and that she has been judging him slowly for the many months he has spent thinking only of Celebrían. Now her last step before a final judgment, a confrontation, has been initiated.
"I think so," replies Elrond, for it is indeed he that has stolen Celebrían's heart. His matter-of-fact tone does not sit well with the Elfling girl, who narrows her eyes.
"I am not asking you. I am telling you," she states coldly. "And now I am telling you this: you may not see it, but my sister is devoted to you. If you hurt her in any way I shall see to it that you suffer much, and for many years." With this she turns away from him, and is gone before he can reply. Elrond stares after her, shocked. Who is this little girl? Who does she think she is? It takes him a moment to recover himself. Celebrían is happy with me, he thinks, and the child ought to be content with that.
"Is something wrong?"
It is a sweet voice, and Elrond looks up to see Celebrían standing before him. "No," he replies. He does not, nor will he for many years, tell her of his short conversation with Morwinyon. It does not seem important. And anyway, when he looks into her eyes the rest of the world seems to melt away.
As Morwinyon walks outside, she wraps her cloak tightly around herself. A chill wind blows, and the clouds hang heavy with the promise of snow. Against her will tears come to her eye with the knowledge that this will indeed be the first snowfall of winter, beginning perhaps tomorrow or the day after. Every year prior on the night of the first snowfall Celebrían and Morwinyon have gone riding, alone, at midnight. Morwinyon doubts they will ride tonight. All at once hate surges within her, so strongly that she falls to the ground.
He has no right, she thinks, no right at all to take her away like that! Morwinyon knows that she is being selfish, but she does not care. She wants Celebrían all for herself. Her parents raised her to believe in morals, especially the simple childhood virtues of equality and sharing. Being the second child she always had someone to share with--and now she does not want to share!
As Morwinyon realizes that she has no choice her tears come stronger, and she shakes. Her shoulders hit the trunk of the tree she leans against for support, at first accidentally, then on purpose, harder and harder, scratching holes in her cloak. What does she care? She smashes virtue. She smashes love. She smashes herself. Her slams are cut short by a voice calling her name. Pausing, she blinks--and something lands lightly on her nose. Something soft, cold, wet--snow.
Morwinyon gets to her feet at once, brushing herself off in anger. "Morwinyon? Are you out here?" She mumbles a reply, knowing that her father will not hear her. She kneels down, checking to see that her boots are tied. Like a child's they have come undone, and she hurriedly ties them again. Once this is done she straightens and runs into the woods. She needs to be on her own right now, to. . .think things through. She wants Celebrían happy, of course, but at what price? Is she really so selfish?
She walks farther than she realizes, puzzling over these things. There is no conclusion that she reaches. When she stops she looks around and realizes that this place is unfamiliar. While walking she picked at a loose bit of her mitten, and it has unraveled--in fact, both of her mittens have. Her cloak must have slipped off without her noticing. "At least I have my boots," she mutters. Elves may not be affected by cold, but that does not mean they cannot freeze to death. "Oh, that is silly," Morwinyon says of this thought. "It is not that cold." Yet she has always felt the cold, and wishes very much that she were home, in her bed.
But she does not know quite where home is. Having walked without observation she is decently lost. More so, she is lost without warm clothes. "Oh, this is wonderful," she remarks in a snide tone. "I shall just go back the way I came, then, and hope it is the right direction." Her feet move slowly, for she is weary, and snow falls around her. It is terribly cold, and in her thin, short-sleeved garb she shivers despite her Elven blood, hugging herself and shivering to keep warm. Morwinyon will not allow herself tears of self-pity.
She does not think as she plods along, ignoring the world about her, all thought bent on the cold. Her mind wanders, and she thinks of home, of warm fires. She remembers mornings of years past when she and Celebrían would stay in bed until their mother coaxed and threatened enough to get them up. Sometimes they would speak. Celebrían would say, "We should get out of bed, Mother will be angry."
"You first," Morwinyon would reply with a chuckle.
"Ah, but it was my idea," Celebrían would reply. Morwinyon, to prove herself bold, would jump from beneath the sheets, her feet hitting the cold floor, and she would howl. Then Morwinyon would dance around, trying to keep her feet off the ground. Sometimes she fell over comically, laughing through tears as she tried to rub the pain out of her bruise bottom.
On those mornings, when they were younger, Celebrían or Morwinyon would fetch their thimble, and the first to the windowpane with thimble received the privilege of decorating the pane, cutting images into the frost that had formed. Celebrían often drew flowers or repetitive designs, but Morwinyon illustrated pirates and adventures. She had a great imagination for such things.
Morwinyon smiles to herself as she walks on, thinking of the many happy times she has had with her sister. She raises her hand to her mouth and, feeling the warm breath, realizes that at least part of her is not cold. She sucks on her fingers, worrying at first that they might stick to her tongue as icicles are known to do, then realizing that her fingers are warming, not her mouth getting colder.
But fingers or no Morwinyon is finding it difficult to breathe in the frigid air. Snowflakes stick to her eyelashes and obscure her vision. Those tears are threatening again. A part of Morwinyon is glad, having something to focus on: keeping the tears at bay. Her toes are beginning to go numb.
"Morwinyon?"
She tries to reply, tries to identify the voice, but she cannot. Her answer, when it comes, sounds somewhere between comprehensible and animalistic. The tears are closer than ever to spilling over when she feels something warm being wrapped around her, and someone rubs her arms to restore circulation. "Are you all right? What were you doing? By the Valar, girl, do you want to be killed? You should know better."
This torrent of various phrases and questions continues, although Morwinyon cannot make out the words, as someone places a hand on her back and guides her along, to where she knows not. Morwinyon is hardly aware of what is going on as whomever found her outside pulls a heavy sweater over her head, removes her boots, and lays her gently in her bed. The last thing she knows is the coverlet being pulled over her.
"Go to sleep now, Morwinyon. You should be all right by the time you awake." Then from some groggy place between sleeping and being awake, Morwinyon hears a short song being sung to hear. The song makes her eyelids feel heavy, and they close with the deep sleep of injury or exhaustion. "Pleasant dreams, Little Light." Morwinyon hears the door close, and then falls into a deep, heavy sleep.
*****
Morwinyon awakes highly disoriented. She is warm, very warm: very little heat escaped her body as she slept. She gropes in the darkness for anything familiar, and feels her pillow and quilt. The room is filled with a dense blackness. Squinting, Morwinyon can make out the form of her sister's bed across from her own. It is empty. She rises and goes to the window, gazing out at the immaculate blanket of snow that encompasses the entire forest of Lothlorien.
As she smiles, two figures come out suddenly onto the gleaming snow. They are laughing gaily, hold onto each other as the walk out into the wonderland. They draw close, and one whispers something to the other. They begin to kiss, and Morwinyon realizes she is seeing something forbidden. She also realizes that the two people are her sister and Elrond. She draws away from the window, knowing that it is wrong to watch such things.
Ten minutes later, as Morwinyon sits on her bed working on embroidery, Celebrían knocks then enters the room. By the light of Morwinyon's candle, lit for the embroidery, Celebrían sees her sister's sorrow. "Hey, little one," she says, sitting beside Morwinyon uncertainly. As she does so the younger Elf begins to cry. "What is it? Is something wrong?"
"Is it midnight?" Morwinyon asks.
"It will be soon."
"We always go riding at midnight," Morwinyon replies. "Are you here to tell me we cannot, because you will be spending the night with him?" She is over- harsh and she knows it, but is feeling hurt.
"No. I have just told him, similarly, that I cannot spend the night with him due to previous engagements with my little sister," Celebrían replies. Morwinyon cannot believe it. She drops her embroidery and throws her arms around her sister. "Come on now, get dressed," Celebrían whispers, gently pulling her sister off her.
Morwinyon obeys, stripping out of the clothes she has been in and pulling on leggings and a crimson riding-dress. Over these she dons a cloak, not risking the cold after her earlier experience. As she reflects on this she pauses. Who was it, she wonders, that wrapped her in their cloak to warm her and brought her inside? She goes through the people she knows in her head, then decides. Mother, she thinks, surely it was Mother who found me.
With doubts about this decision Morwinyon laces her boots and follows her sister out to the stables. "I know a trail that is hardly ever taken," Celebrían confides. The two do not saddle the horse they will be riding, a quarterhorse the color of butterscotch, but they do use a bridle. Reminding each other that silence is of the essence, they lead the horse to the trailhead. Once there they mount up, Morwinyon first and Celebrían behind her. Celebrían takes the reins in her hands and nudges the horse slightly.
The horse's hooves land almost silently on the snow. The sisters do not speak. Snow no longer falls. A lone coyote howls, and Morwinyon sings the familiar old ballad, "Have you ever heard a sound like a howl at the moon, it's a coyote singing, trying to carry a tune. . ." Crickets reply, and the sound of raccoons and such scurrying into their homes. A hare scampers across the path, but does not scare the horses. Slowly the trees close in on the girls as they veer from the trail into open wilderness, shutting out the sight of the moon and stars. It is tangibly dark about them.
Morwinyon is usually a bit frightened of the dark, but now she is so relaxed, tuned in to the motion of the horse's muscles, falling slightly as each leg moves forward, that she is not even slightly afraid. Celebrían knows how close they are to coming out of this darkness, but does not say. She wants it to be a special surprise for her sister.
All at once they are out in the open. A lake opens out before them, ringed by trees. The moon seems huge and over-bright with its sudden emergence. The stars shine out from the black velvet of the night sky. The water laps against the shore with a light noise. Save for this it is silent.
Celebrían smiles. Morwinyon's mouth falls open as she gazes around. It is so beautiful, more so than she ever could have imagined. The eerie stillness and silence only serve to add to the enchantment. The cold nips at her, but not harmfully. Nothing can harm her, it seems, here in her sister's arms in this extraordinary place. "Celebrían," Morwinyon whispers, "it's. . .magical."
"Mother does not know of this place," Celebrían whispers back. "It will be ours, only ours. You know I still love you, although I love Elrond. It is a different love. Whenever you doubt that, you can come here and remember."
Loveofthering: Thanks! Morwinyon and Celebrían have a deep bond that will, with the coming courtship of Celebrían, undergo quite a few trials. Nice hearing from you!
*****
"My sister loves you," Morwinyon states. She stands before the Elf with whom Celebrían danced, looking at him with the most serious face she has ever worn. He does not realize that she is judging him, and that she has been judging him slowly for the many months he has spent thinking only of Celebrían. Now her last step before a final judgment, a confrontation, has been initiated.
"I think so," replies Elrond, for it is indeed he that has stolen Celebrían's heart. His matter-of-fact tone does not sit well with the Elfling girl, who narrows her eyes.
"I am not asking you. I am telling you," she states coldly. "And now I am telling you this: you may not see it, but my sister is devoted to you. If you hurt her in any way I shall see to it that you suffer much, and for many years." With this she turns away from him, and is gone before he can reply. Elrond stares after her, shocked. Who is this little girl? Who does she think she is? It takes him a moment to recover himself. Celebrían is happy with me, he thinks, and the child ought to be content with that.
"Is something wrong?"
It is a sweet voice, and Elrond looks up to see Celebrían standing before him. "No," he replies. He does not, nor will he for many years, tell her of his short conversation with Morwinyon. It does not seem important. And anyway, when he looks into her eyes the rest of the world seems to melt away.
As Morwinyon walks outside, she wraps her cloak tightly around herself. A chill wind blows, and the clouds hang heavy with the promise of snow. Against her will tears come to her eye with the knowledge that this will indeed be the first snowfall of winter, beginning perhaps tomorrow or the day after. Every year prior on the night of the first snowfall Celebrían and Morwinyon have gone riding, alone, at midnight. Morwinyon doubts they will ride tonight. All at once hate surges within her, so strongly that she falls to the ground.
He has no right, she thinks, no right at all to take her away like that! Morwinyon knows that she is being selfish, but she does not care. She wants Celebrían all for herself. Her parents raised her to believe in morals, especially the simple childhood virtues of equality and sharing. Being the second child she always had someone to share with--and now she does not want to share!
As Morwinyon realizes that she has no choice her tears come stronger, and she shakes. Her shoulders hit the trunk of the tree she leans against for support, at first accidentally, then on purpose, harder and harder, scratching holes in her cloak. What does she care? She smashes virtue. She smashes love. She smashes herself. Her slams are cut short by a voice calling her name. Pausing, she blinks--and something lands lightly on her nose. Something soft, cold, wet--snow.
Morwinyon gets to her feet at once, brushing herself off in anger. "Morwinyon? Are you out here?" She mumbles a reply, knowing that her father will not hear her. She kneels down, checking to see that her boots are tied. Like a child's they have come undone, and she hurriedly ties them again. Once this is done she straightens and runs into the woods. She needs to be on her own right now, to. . .think things through. She wants Celebrían happy, of course, but at what price? Is she really so selfish?
She walks farther than she realizes, puzzling over these things. There is no conclusion that she reaches. When she stops she looks around and realizes that this place is unfamiliar. While walking she picked at a loose bit of her mitten, and it has unraveled--in fact, both of her mittens have. Her cloak must have slipped off without her noticing. "At least I have my boots," she mutters. Elves may not be affected by cold, but that does not mean they cannot freeze to death. "Oh, that is silly," Morwinyon says of this thought. "It is not that cold." Yet she has always felt the cold, and wishes very much that she were home, in her bed.
But she does not know quite where home is. Having walked without observation she is decently lost. More so, she is lost without warm clothes. "Oh, this is wonderful," she remarks in a snide tone. "I shall just go back the way I came, then, and hope it is the right direction." Her feet move slowly, for she is weary, and snow falls around her. It is terribly cold, and in her thin, short-sleeved garb she shivers despite her Elven blood, hugging herself and shivering to keep warm. Morwinyon will not allow herself tears of self-pity.
She does not think as she plods along, ignoring the world about her, all thought bent on the cold. Her mind wanders, and she thinks of home, of warm fires. She remembers mornings of years past when she and Celebrían would stay in bed until their mother coaxed and threatened enough to get them up. Sometimes they would speak. Celebrían would say, "We should get out of bed, Mother will be angry."
"You first," Morwinyon would reply with a chuckle.
"Ah, but it was my idea," Celebrían would reply. Morwinyon, to prove herself bold, would jump from beneath the sheets, her feet hitting the cold floor, and she would howl. Then Morwinyon would dance around, trying to keep her feet off the ground. Sometimes she fell over comically, laughing through tears as she tried to rub the pain out of her bruise bottom.
On those mornings, when they were younger, Celebrían or Morwinyon would fetch their thimble, and the first to the windowpane with thimble received the privilege of decorating the pane, cutting images into the frost that had formed. Celebrían often drew flowers or repetitive designs, but Morwinyon illustrated pirates and adventures. She had a great imagination for such things.
Morwinyon smiles to herself as she walks on, thinking of the many happy times she has had with her sister. She raises her hand to her mouth and, feeling the warm breath, realizes that at least part of her is not cold. She sucks on her fingers, worrying at first that they might stick to her tongue as icicles are known to do, then realizing that her fingers are warming, not her mouth getting colder.
But fingers or no Morwinyon is finding it difficult to breathe in the frigid air. Snowflakes stick to her eyelashes and obscure her vision. Those tears are threatening again. A part of Morwinyon is glad, having something to focus on: keeping the tears at bay. Her toes are beginning to go numb.
"Morwinyon?"
She tries to reply, tries to identify the voice, but she cannot. Her answer, when it comes, sounds somewhere between comprehensible and animalistic. The tears are closer than ever to spilling over when she feels something warm being wrapped around her, and someone rubs her arms to restore circulation. "Are you all right? What were you doing? By the Valar, girl, do you want to be killed? You should know better."
This torrent of various phrases and questions continues, although Morwinyon cannot make out the words, as someone places a hand on her back and guides her along, to where she knows not. Morwinyon is hardly aware of what is going on as whomever found her outside pulls a heavy sweater over her head, removes her boots, and lays her gently in her bed. The last thing she knows is the coverlet being pulled over her.
"Go to sleep now, Morwinyon. You should be all right by the time you awake." Then from some groggy place between sleeping and being awake, Morwinyon hears a short song being sung to hear. The song makes her eyelids feel heavy, and they close with the deep sleep of injury or exhaustion. "Pleasant dreams, Little Light." Morwinyon hears the door close, and then falls into a deep, heavy sleep.
*****
Morwinyon awakes highly disoriented. She is warm, very warm: very little heat escaped her body as she slept. She gropes in the darkness for anything familiar, and feels her pillow and quilt. The room is filled with a dense blackness. Squinting, Morwinyon can make out the form of her sister's bed across from her own. It is empty. She rises and goes to the window, gazing out at the immaculate blanket of snow that encompasses the entire forest of Lothlorien.
As she smiles, two figures come out suddenly onto the gleaming snow. They are laughing gaily, hold onto each other as the walk out into the wonderland. They draw close, and one whispers something to the other. They begin to kiss, and Morwinyon realizes she is seeing something forbidden. She also realizes that the two people are her sister and Elrond. She draws away from the window, knowing that it is wrong to watch such things.
Ten minutes later, as Morwinyon sits on her bed working on embroidery, Celebrían knocks then enters the room. By the light of Morwinyon's candle, lit for the embroidery, Celebrían sees her sister's sorrow. "Hey, little one," she says, sitting beside Morwinyon uncertainly. As she does so the younger Elf begins to cry. "What is it? Is something wrong?"
"Is it midnight?" Morwinyon asks.
"It will be soon."
"We always go riding at midnight," Morwinyon replies. "Are you here to tell me we cannot, because you will be spending the night with him?" She is over- harsh and she knows it, but is feeling hurt.
"No. I have just told him, similarly, that I cannot spend the night with him due to previous engagements with my little sister," Celebrían replies. Morwinyon cannot believe it. She drops her embroidery and throws her arms around her sister. "Come on now, get dressed," Celebrían whispers, gently pulling her sister off her.
Morwinyon obeys, stripping out of the clothes she has been in and pulling on leggings and a crimson riding-dress. Over these she dons a cloak, not risking the cold after her earlier experience. As she reflects on this she pauses. Who was it, she wonders, that wrapped her in their cloak to warm her and brought her inside? She goes through the people she knows in her head, then decides. Mother, she thinks, surely it was Mother who found me.
With doubts about this decision Morwinyon laces her boots and follows her sister out to the stables. "I know a trail that is hardly ever taken," Celebrían confides. The two do not saddle the horse they will be riding, a quarterhorse the color of butterscotch, but they do use a bridle. Reminding each other that silence is of the essence, they lead the horse to the trailhead. Once there they mount up, Morwinyon first and Celebrían behind her. Celebrían takes the reins in her hands and nudges the horse slightly.
The horse's hooves land almost silently on the snow. The sisters do not speak. Snow no longer falls. A lone coyote howls, and Morwinyon sings the familiar old ballad, "Have you ever heard a sound like a howl at the moon, it's a coyote singing, trying to carry a tune. . ." Crickets reply, and the sound of raccoons and such scurrying into their homes. A hare scampers across the path, but does not scare the horses. Slowly the trees close in on the girls as they veer from the trail into open wilderness, shutting out the sight of the moon and stars. It is tangibly dark about them.
Morwinyon is usually a bit frightened of the dark, but now she is so relaxed, tuned in to the motion of the horse's muscles, falling slightly as each leg moves forward, that she is not even slightly afraid. Celebrían knows how close they are to coming out of this darkness, but does not say. She wants it to be a special surprise for her sister.
All at once they are out in the open. A lake opens out before them, ringed by trees. The moon seems huge and over-bright with its sudden emergence. The stars shine out from the black velvet of the night sky. The water laps against the shore with a light noise. Save for this it is silent.
Celebrían smiles. Morwinyon's mouth falls open as she gazes around. It is so beautiful, more so than she ever could have imagined. The eerie stillness and silence only serve to add to the enchantment. The cold nips at her, but not harmfully. Nothing can harm her, it seems, here in her sister's arms in this extraordinary place. "Celebrían," Morwinyon whispers, "it's. . .magical."
"Mother does not know of this place," Celebrían whispers back. "It will be ours, only ours. You know I still love you, although I love Elrond. It is a different love. Whenever you doubt that, you can come here and remember."
