Chapter 17

Sighing, I drop the quill on the deeply-furrowed table, careful to keep the inked end away from my work. A thick stack of formerly-blank parchment rests directly in front of me, the silver elvish ones next to them. On the floor, next to my feet, is a large box filled with the documents I have already translated. After two months of such work, I am proud to have done so much. The document I have just finished is a story which occurred after my being exiled. It has taken me three weeks, almost without stopping, to translate it.

It is entitled "Of the Destruction of the One Ring" and deals with a young Hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins. His struggle was so profound, so immense, that, upon its completion, he was granted a place aboard a ship bound for Valinor. I am both proud of, and jealous of, this Half-ling, for he was offered that which I was scorned. But my burdens are nothing as compared to what he carried. Still, he had the support of those who loved him.

And now, in this land of horses, I too have found ones who care for me. There is the King, who frequently checks on me, wanting to make sure of my comfort. There is the Queen, at whose side I often sit, sewing baby's clothes. There is Fréoda, whose matronly love fills my heart with joy, for I have never known the love of a mother. There are the soldiers, who I see very little, but whose friendship is a boon to me. And there is Éoden, whose attention to me I now realize is not that of a friend.

He visits me often, always with a smile perched merrily on his face. And I have learned to greet him in much the same way. My face has become comfortable with a smile, though it spent over a millennia without one. I am glad in my decision to let go of this piece of my dark past. And it pleases me to see Éoden's reaction each time I smile.

He wants more, though, and I know it. His eyes tell me how much he wishes he knew me, my name and my past. But I am not ready to share this, not even with him.

He is gone now, and I think that I miss him, but I am too busy to pay attention to my own emotions. In any case, I will see him when he returns from training new éored. And today, I have too much to do to focus on anything but the tasks at hand.

I rise from my low chair and smooth my skirt with my hands. The sun has just begun to show its face through a small, circular window, high on the wall, signifying that soon the Hall will begin to stir. Wanting to avoid questioning eyes, I hurry from the library. I run toward my room, needing to move after spending countless hours hunched over scrolls and lettered parchment. I am a flurry of skirts and long hair as I race down the hallway, stopping only when I reach my rooms. I push open the heavy door and smile at the pleasant scent that greets me.

Since moving into this room, I have greatly changed its appearance. The carpet of mismatched furs is gone, leaving empty floor. But the colors in the floor are beautiful, so I spent hours on my hands and knees next to Fréoda, making it gleam. Now, the blues and reds shine like a happy greeting. The furred coverlet on the huge bed I also replaced. Now, it is a light green woolen spread, trimmed in gold and white. A low table sits directly next to the bed, and is never without a bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers. The walls are no longer bare, for Fréoda made me a gift of tapestries and banners. The tapestry shows lush green fields and rolling hills, backlit by a setting sun. Silhouetted against the last rays of light is a single, rearing white horse, who she tells me is the legendary Shadowfax. I wish I could have seen this horse.

Horse! How could I have forgotten?! I am meant to go to the stables at dawn to help Elresed, the stable boy, with the animals.

Hastily, I pull my gown over my head and slip on a worn green shirt and brown sleeveless dress over it. I tie off my hair at the nape of my neck with a strip of leather and thrust my feet into a pair of boots before running out of my door, past servants, through the Great Hall, down the steps, and into the stable.

Elresed greets me but does not turn as he pitches straw into stalls.

"Would you get me two pails of water from the well?" he yells, still working.

I nod, though he does not see, and take the pails to be filled. Elresed saves the easy work for me, though I volunteered to help him once a week. He sees me as a lady, for there is no reason for him not to. I live in the Golden Hall, attended by servants, friend to the King and Queen. But if he knew my past, he would know that I am anything but a "lady".

I carry the filled buckets back to Elresed and join him in mucking out the stalls.

"I can do this, my lady. Go and tend to Sila. He needs a good brushing."

I take a brush and comb from a shelf and enter Sila's stall. I smile at his beauty. Being with him always makes me happy. I lead him out of the stall and into the center aisle of the stable where I take the brush to his back. In long, smooth strokes, I brush a shine into his coat. I follow the patterns of the soft hairs on his sides and legs. When I am done, he gleams like chestnut fire. I put aside the brush and begin to pull the comb through his mane and tail. I carefully pull the knots free and when I am done, he whinnies gratefully, bobbing his head up and down. I stroke his neck, and rest my face against it, but am soon startled by Elresed's voice.

"He is a beautiful horse, and he likes you, eh?"

I turn to him with a smile, but that is all I offer.

"He is yours my lady, a gift from the King."

I can scarcely believe this. It is a shock that makes me ecstatically happy. Elresed only laughs at my expression and asks, "Would you like to ride him now, my lady?"

I shake my head. No, I will ride him later.

"Alright. Well, I do not need your help anymore today. Till next we meet," he says, with a bow that is more of a nod.

I give my own nod and smile and leave the stable. Tonight, I am going to Fréoda's home for dinner. Until then, I will translate.

The sun is setting as I choose an outfit to wear to Fréoda's home. My closet is full of clothes made for me, that I have helped make. Because I plan to ride Sila to her house, I pull on a pair of burgundy riding breeches and a split-skirt riding coat that is the deep green of crushed grass. I pull the laces at the sides of the coat tight and put a few quick braids in my hair. I grab my riding boots, pull them on over my breeches, and leave my room, softly closing the door behind me.

I follow the road to the stable that I used earlier and enter it quietly. The sun has long-since fallen, and the gloom is thick as I open the hinged gate to Sila's stall. He whinnies happily as I run my hands over his back and lead him out of the stall. I do not bother to tack him up as I grab a handful of his thick mane and place my hand on his back, just before his hindquarters. In one fluid motion, I am astride his back, which brings a smile to my face for I love nothing more than to ride him. I nudge his flanks gently with my heels and he walks forward, out of the stable.

We keep this pace until we are well away form the stable and then I let him loose. We take the longest route to Fréoda's home, whipping about Edoras at a furious pace. The moon is just beginning to rise, and we are painted in silver when at last we arrive at our destination.

Fréoda's house is small, but proud. Its black stone and black, wind-worn, wood have stood the test of time, and its thatched roof is made stately by a pair of carved horse head which meet to form an arch. I lead Sila into a small corral next to her house and pat his side happily. He nuzzles the side of my head before trotting merrily towards a water trough. I know he'll be safe here as I walk toward the doorway.

I knock gently, then wait, running my fingers over the cirth runes on the dorr which says "Welcome". Thi is so typically Fréoda, for I know her to be hospitable to all.

She opens the door, a smile already on her face and says, "Hello, my dear!" She wraps me in a warm, motherly embrace and leads me inside. She treats me like her child, which is pleasing, if a little foolish. I am infinitely her senior. But, in many ways, I suppose I am childlike, lost, confused, learning happiness and peace. She is justified in wanting to treat me so, for I need a teacher to help me.

The interior of her house is sparse, but well-kept and comfortable. In the center of her kitchen is a long table with four chairs topped with more carved horse heads. Upon the table are two pewter bowls and two pewter mugs, for it is only Fréoda and I who will be dining tonight. Her husband died at Helm's Deep and her two sons have long since joined the ranks of the éored.

"I made stew, I hope that's alright," she says, stirring a pot hung inside the stone fireplace.

I nod quickly and smile to thank her for her hospitality.

"Please, sit," she says, as she gathers up the bowls and mugs to fill and then replace on the table.

She sits across from me, and smiles, but says nothing. She stares at me, as if trying to decipher the meaning of my soul through the expression on my face. I match her gaze until at last she says, "When will this stop, my dear?"

I am startled, and do not know what she means, so I wait for her to continue.

She pauses for a long moment, then says, "You must move on from whatever pain it is that you dwell on. It is time to be happy. He wants to make you happy, dear, so let him."

She does not say who "he" is, but she does not need to. Éoden, of course.

"He would love you, if you would only allow it."

I look away from her, unable to stand her soul-searching gaze any longer. Love? I do not know love. Never, in my long years of life, have I felt such an emotion towards another being, nor been the recipient of it.

"Let him know who you are. Tell him."

I shake my head, for I am not yet ready to speak to him, but still I do not look at her. What she says is the truth. I am the only one preventing my happiness.

"If you will not speak, write! You spend hours in that library, writing away. Could you not find a single moment to scribble down your name?"

I do not reply in any way, and she is exasperated. The room is silent, so silent that the crackling of the fire becomes a cacophony of noise. Again, Fréoda sighs, but this time, tiredly.

"I do not mean to embarrass you. Let us forget this. The stew is growing cold."

We eat in silence and, once done, move on to more pleasant conversation. But I can not stop thinking of the truth of her words.

Hours later, I leave her home, hugging her tightly to say goodbye and thank you. I smile, as genuinely as I can, though my mind is buzzing with her words. She does not say anything, does not need to, as I walk away, toward Sila. He is waiting for me, his head peeking over the fence of the corral. I open the gate and walks out to my side where I quickly jump onto his back. I am not ready to go back to the Hall yet, so I lead him toward the gates of Edoras. I peer up into the sky as we fly through the city and momentarily lose my view as we speed through the gates.

Once again in the open plains, I feel free but also lost. Here in this vast emptiness, Fréoda's words surround me like a separate entity. I swing my right leg over Sila's back and jump to the ground. I lay down in the short, stiff grass and contemplate the sky.

It is an angry gray-green and looks like the underside of clay which has been punched repeatedly with fisted hands. The air has grown so heavy I feel as though I could reach forward and tear out great handfuls of it, holding it viscous and dripping on my palms. I could rip at it until the sky unleashed its rage and was at last peaceful.

But, I do nothing of the sort. I lay with my hands by my sides and think about the future. This is something I've never before done. My life has always been focused on living through a single moment, realizing that the past and the future will be much the same. Now, I see a progression of newfound freedoms, chances to live. When Éoden returns, can I free a new part of myself? Can I tell him who I am?

The sky gives me no answer as I repeat the question over and over, in my head. To tell him my name would be to tell him my torment, for my pain is the result of the title forced upon me. But, how can Éoden care for me without knowing the truth? He must decide his feelings for me after learning that I am the Daughter of Blood.

Yes, he must know my name, or I will never know peace, or, though I fear to even think it, love.

But, I will not speak. This is a step I can not yet take. It is through a pen that I will introduce myself.

Now that the decision is made, I am possessed by it. My hands itch at my sides and my legs twitch, willing me to rise. I think of how close Éoden's camp must be, toward the east. Sila gallops as if to keep pace with the wind; We could be there in less than an hour.

But no sooner have I settled myself on his back than a great sense of dread fills me. My head near swims with it. I must return to Edoras, and fast. If I do not, something terrible will happen. Of this, I am certain.

I urge Sila onward, bending myself forward over his neck, and move my arms in time with his running, my hands fisted in his mane. No matter how swiftly he runs, it is not fast enough, for doom races us to the gates of Edoras. I can feel it running beside us, taunting me, promising some fatal happening that I can not prevent.

The sky splits apart above me, its anger finally released in the form of long, jagged bolts of lightning. Sila whinnies in terror as the ground shakes with the deep blasts of thunder. But he is true to his course, enduring his fear as Edoras appears, faint in the distance.

Faster! Faster!, I urge him on, but still, Edoras seems so far away. Perhaps it is merely my imagination for in only a few moments we are racing through the gates. A few moments more and we are at the steps of Meduseld. I leap from Sila's back and tie him under the cover of a stone archway.

I run up the steps with the swiftness of the pure side of my blood and dash through the entryway into the Great Hall.

Fréoda is waiting there for me, wringing her hands in worry. Indeed, her broad face, usually calm, is tight with stress.

"Where have you been?!" she asks, running toward me. "No matter," she says upon reaching me, "for you're here now." She takes me by the arm and leads me down a hallway.

I know where we are going; I have known since I walked inside. There is a buzzing of fear and excitement in the air, the kind of excitement which comes with a birth. Indeed, as we near the Queen's chambers I can hear a low, animal moaning which is undoubtedly Lothiriel herself.

"She's been like this for hours," Fréoda says, her voice strained. "I am beginning to worry for her health."

I stop just before the door to the Queen's rooms and turn to place a comforting hand on Fréoda's shoulder. She nods and smiles and opens the door.

I all but run inside, but stop when I see the King pacing back and forth. He glances occasionally at the door behind which is his wife. He is afraid, so I go to him, and grab his shoulder to stop his fretful pacing. He looks into my eyes, hopefully seeing confidence in them, and says nothing. I can feel him relax at my presence, for he hopes in the healing powers of the Elves. I pray that I do not let him down.

I release his shoulder and go into the adjoining room.

Lothiriel has never looked more fragile than she does now. Her blonde hair is sticky with sweat and her cool brown eyes are listless. She is at a momentary rest, her chest heaving as she tries to regain her breath.

I cross to her side and take one of her hands. She looks up at me, a smile on her face, but it is gone almost immediately as her body curls around the pain of birthing. She arches forward, teeth bared and eyes shut tightly. Her body tenses against the pain, but I place my hand on her belly and will my strength into her.

My fingers ache from her squeezing the, but I welcome the pain. Indeed, I wish I could take the pain from her, help her to bear it.

She exhales in a rush and falls back on her pillow, tears streaming down her face. Her spirit is weakening and she is discouraged. 'Only a little more', I long to tell her, but do not.

"Once more, my lady, and you'll be able to hold your child in your arms," says a maid who crouches at the foot of the bed, assisting in the delivering.

Lothiriel sobs at my side, for she does not believe that she has the strength for even one more attempt, but I hold her hand tight and pray to Fanuilos to give her that strength which she lacks.

I know my prayer is answered for she surges forward with a cry. She gives all her remaining power to this attempt, which lasts only a few moments before she again collapses.

"A boy!" the maid cries joyfully.

Foolish girl! She is wrong to rejoice so soon. There is no sound issuing from her arms. Something is wrong.

I drop Lothiriel's hand and run to the foot of the bed where the maid stands with the child. I glare at her for being such a simple-minded person and take the baby from her arms, carefully.

It is as I feared. The birth was as hard on him as it was on his mother. His skin is a pale blue and he is limp in my arms. He is breathing, but barely. He will die if I do not act quickly.

I know the words that will bring him back from his journey toward the white shores, that will save his life. I learned them countless years ago, but have never had occasion to use them. In the past, I would have let the child die rather than breaking my promise of silence. But the terror in Lothiriel's eyes, the hope in Éomer's as I passed him, is something I hold very close. They are important to my life now. I must either betray them or betray a promise held sacred for more than an age.

The decision is already made in my heart, for I can already feel the words in my throat. But can I take this step? Can I break my ties to the Elves?

"Hin mornië mí, kal utuve! Utuveyes." I command the child to hear me, and obey, with the power of words. I can feel tears pour down my cheeks as I speak, for I have never before heard my own voice. It is melodic and smooth, deep and flowing. It is mine.

The baby's tin body moves in my arms and his skin begins to lose its blue to a normal pink color. I forget on, full of hope.

"Huinello kele! Khile beth nîn. Aiye! Cui!" I sing the last two words as loudly as I dare and the baby joins me with a full-throated cry.

He shrieks and yells in my arms with the tinny voice of an infant. I hold him close and sob joyfully, for I have given up my past to this new life. He is my new beginning, for his birth marks the start of a new era in my life.

I walk to Lothiriel's side and pass the child into her waiting arms. She stares at me in wonder and awe before turning her eyes to her son. She smiles at him and then turns to her maid to tell her to admit her husband. He runs into the room before the maid even nears the door and goes to his wife's side.

With a tender expression on his stern face, he runs a hand over the baby's head and then leans down to gently kiss his wife. It is a touching and beautiful moment, one in which I have no part, so I turn to leave.

Éomer's strong voice stops me before I can leave.

"Will you now tell us your name, lady, that we may offer our thanks to the woman who saved our son's life."

I open my mouth to speak it, but the sound sticks in my throat. I can not profane this joyous occasion with the filth of my title. I close my mouth hurriedly and shake my head no, but smile to reassure them.

"If you will not honor us with your name, we will give honor to you with the name of our son," he says, and pauses to look at Lothiriel who smiles and nods in agreement. "He will be called Elfwine, for it is through friendship with an Elf that he has found the light."

My head swims with a thousand separate thoughts as I lay in the dark of my room. My song to Elfwine plays repeatedly across my lips, though I am silent, until it has drowned out the buzzing in my mind. I am unsure of how I feel now that my silence is broken. Will I be expected to speak? Will I be forced to tell my tale to those who have endured my silence for so long?

I do not like being indebted to them, owing them something. But they have cared for me and will expect something in return, though they will never ask it outright.

And what of Éoden? When he returns he will undoubtedly heard of this revelation. He, above anyone else, will want my voice. Now I am unsure if I want to give it to him.

Tired of such thoughts, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I run my hands through my hair and cradle the sides of my head in them. Sighing, I stand and walk to the door, pulling it open.

The hallway is dark, but my eyes are strong and I know my way. Down the hallway to my left, up a short flight of stairs, and through the third door on the right lies the room I seek. The library door is unlocked and ready for me so I move silently into the room, toward my corner.

I sit at the table which has become my home and pull a book at random from the shelf of untranslated documents. I set it down in front of me and pull a pen and inkwell towards me along with a stack of blank parchment. I set everything down and open the book, for I always read the document before translating it.

Now, as I turn the pages and skim through the script, I feel my hands begin to shake and my eyes water. I slam the book closed and drop it onto the table, but even then, the title stares up at me almost hatefully. I push against the table, trying to get away, but when I try to stand, my knees buckle. The floor rushes up at me, but I do not attempt to catch my fall or stand after I have hit the ground.

In a sobbing heap, I lay on the stone floor and curse my weakness. I am my own anathema. Five words have abolished all my supposed strength, for that book holds a story I have spent my whole life trying to forget. "Of Alquawen and Of Seregiel."

End Chapter 17. What did you think?!?!?!?!?!

Side note, Elfwine literally means Elf friend in Rohirric. And I didn't make that up. Elfwine was the son of Éomer and Lothiriel. However, it is highly unlikely that he got his name from an Elf chick who saved his life when he was born. But hey, it worked for the story.