I grew up in a small village close to the foot of the Misty Mountains just outside the great forest of Mirkwood. My father was a Lakeman originally, but he left the water to please my mother, who always said she couldn't abide a man who stank of fish. She was a high-born lady, a real lady, from the great city of Osgiliath. People in the village said she'd run away from her father because he wanted her to marry a Dwarf. Papa said that was foolishness, but he never told us how a real lady like her ended up married to a brewer. I think that Mama came close to telling me about how she met Papa once, but he shushed her, just like a child. I remember the look on his face though, and I've never seen him look so fierce since.
Mama was beautiful and smart, not anything like the other women in the village. She had blonde hair and blue eyes and knew how to embroider and dance and make her name on paper. She even wrote letters for Papa, copying the wording out of a little book she kept on her desk. She used to let me play with her pens and paper scraps, as long as I sat still for lessons and didn't smudge up my clothing. She taught me how to read and write a fine hand and keep the numbers and speak a bit of Sindarin in case I ever met an Elf.
My Gram always said that no good would ever come of teaching a girl to read and write. She said that the stories in those books would spoil me for living in the village, that my head would be all filled up with adventure and romance so that I'd never be able to find a good husband. She said it was bad enough that I had strange reddish-brown hair and green eyes that no one could explain, without adding too much book-learning on top of it all. Mama didn't care though, and she told Gram that she wouldn't see any daughter of hers taken advantage of by words she couldn't read.
"Besides," she used to say, "my Merowyn won't marry just any boy from the village. She has a bigger life ahead of her than selling fish or cloth in the market. She'll be somebody."
Papa didn't care if I learned to read or write or say my histories. He taught me how to ride a horse and fight with the boys so they wouldn't pick on me so much. He took me hunting with him, at least until my little brothers were old enough to go, and sometimes he let me shoot squirrels with his short bow. Gram didn't like that either, so I had to learn to sew and cook like the other girls.
The older I got, the more Gram worried about me. I didn't have many friends--the boys said I was funny-looking and stuck-up, and the girls thought I wanted to be a boy. I didn't think I could help it if I was thinner and paler than the other girls; it certainly wasn't my fault that my eyes were shaped funny and my ears were a little strange. The other children disagreed, so I kept to myself, mostly, except for the fat little pony Papa let me ride. When I was fourteen, one of the village boys beat me up for trying to join them at hunting; his father thrashed him for picking on a girl, but I think it was more for show than from any real anger. If anything, he was ashamed that a tiny little slip like me managed to bloody his boy's nose. Gram took me aside and told me it was time to put away my hunting gear and try to be a proper girl.
I couldn't do it though. I hated sitting inside and sewing little frilly things and keeping my dresses clean. I kept sticking myself with the needle and bleeding everywhere, or cutting my hand on the sewing shears. Papa was afraid I'd cut off a finger next, so the next year he fostered me out to one of the innkeepers he sold beer to, even though at fifteen I was too old for fostering. That didn't take either; the third time I dropped a tankard of ale in a customer's lap, the innkeeper sent me home. It didn't make any nevermind to him that the fellow had pinched my rear and said filthy things to me.
Mama had a plan, though. She wanted to send me to the city, to Osgiliath. She said I was too smart to waste on farming or hosteling. She wanted me to learn fine manners and study with a real teacher and maybe become a lady's maid or a governess in a great house. Papa argued with her; I'd never seen him yell at her before, but he swore left and right that he wouldn't let me go. She kept at him though, pestering and pleading and wheedling until I guess he just got tired and gave in. Nobody asked me what I wanted.
The night before I left, Mama came to my room to talk to me. She had a little box in her hand, one that I had seen on her dressing table but wasn't allowed to touch. She sat on my bed and rubbed my shoulders like she did when I was little.
"Daughter, I know you're scared. You've never been to a city before, but you'll love it soon enough. There's so much to do in a city, so much to see and learn that you'll never see here."
She set the box on the bed and opened the lid. She took out a bracelet, a silver tree and star bracelet that was nicer than anything I'd ever seen her wear. She slipped it over my hand onto my wrist and then just sat there, looking at it.
"This belonged to a great lady, Merowyn. She was strong and brave, like you. She died, not long ago, but her husband has offered to foster you in his house. He can offer you so much, my heart. You will be able to study and read as much as you want, and I daresay he'll make sure you get to fight and ride as well. Be polite, and remember that you're just as smart as anyone else."
She hugged me tight, and I realized she was trying not to cry. I'd never seen my mother cry before, and somehow that was scarier to me than leaving home. I didn't understand why she wanted to send me somewhere that made her cry just thinking about it.