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To Dwell In Darkness
To the world, they were joyful and uncaring of the evils of the world, frivolous and naive. Yet the Elves of Mirkwood were anything but such, for dwelling in darkness often consumed the light of the soul.
To dwell in darkness is a terrible fate, one that I would never wish upon another.
I watch as my husband pulls on his tunic, the dark green fabric sliding smoothly over a bandaged chest.
The white linen had been heavily soaked with blood only yesterday.
They say that we only know how to make merry. Only know to sing and dance and care little about the darkness that spreads its cold and brittle hand across Middle-Earth.
The arm guards come next. Thick leather armour adorned simply with vines and leaves. He tightens them, stretching and flexing his arms and fingers to test their comfort.
The cloak always comes last. It is a ritual that I have long since been used to.
He turns and smiles softly, but the smile is grim and does not reach his eyes, and I silently hand him his knives.
He straps on his quiver, and reaches for his bow, a gift from his father, one that has seen more use than either his father and I cared for.
They say that our King cares only for the gold and jewels he hoards behind gilded gates.
As always, he places his hands on my cheeks and kisses me gently.
It is part of the ritual.
"I will return." He promises solemnly, and he strides away.
I stay in our chamber, staring at the opposite wall, knowing that he would join his patrol, and lead them out into the dark forest that housed the creatures that had already claimed too many of our kind.
Valar help me, but I doubt his promise.
I would ask them what they know.
The Healers' Halls are quiet, the silence punctured only by the occasional soft moans of the badly injured.
I join the white robed Elves in their work, looking like them as I donned their uniform. Some were already boiling the surgical instruments, others grounding herbs from the gardens in preparation for salves and potions.
Rivendell was protected by its seclusion in a hidden valley…
I set myself to work, aiding in ripping linen for bandages. I sink into the work easily, hands busy as the Elves beside me do the same, rolling the linen strips and stacking them neatly.
…Lothlorien by the awed power of a ring and the might of their Lady.
The anticipation and unease throughout the Wood is unmistakable. The trees whispered ever so urgently, the wind carrying their dire warnings to us.
It floated about the palace and the village of the Elves, winding and twisting about our hearts, clenching us in a vice-like grip of fear, until we can scarcely breathe.
And Mirkwood…? Mirkwood was defended with the blood of her people…
Yet we move… in stiff movements that portray our worry, but still we move.
We all play a part in this cycle, after all. We all have a role to serve.
… And no matter how much of it we give, it is never enough.
Our home was once Greenwood the Great.
When they come, they come in waves of black.
They reek of darkness and shadow. They taint the trees with fear and hatred.
They bring death.
Now it is Mirkwood… cursed for the shadow that descended upon us.
The battles are all the same.
They seem never-ending, one following the other, as if the battles we fight is but one large war against the darkness that seeks to destroy our home.
The first of the injured limps in through the door, blood staining the armour that proudly bears the mark of the Forest Guard.
I could choose to resent them, I suppose, for having the chance to live in bright, golden worlds.
And we move swiftly, for more injured would soon enter.
You pull off the armour, and I stem the bleeding with wads of cloth. Together we smile comfortingly at the soldier and murmur words of encouragement, even as inwardly, we both know he may never live to see another day.
It is the lesson that one learns quickly as a healer.
You cannot save all that come to you.
Especially in Mirkwood, novice healers learn that it is no way their fault if a mortally injured Elf slips into Mandos. They learn quickly that they can only pray and bless the fallen soul.
But I cannot. I can only envy them, and strive to protect, in what way I can, my home.
The sounds of fighting come nearer, and we all glance at each other, questions in our eyes.
I wonder what they see when they look at us. Do they see what I see?
Have they breached our defences?
Do they see Elves who are naive, carefree and innocent?
The injured Elves groan, and one by one, they pull themselves upright, reaching for their weapons. Bleeding and hurting, they steel their resolve and head out the door.
Or do they, like me, see Elves who have tasted darkness, lived with it intimately, and still fight for a shred of light?
It is a heroic act that has become common occurrence.
My heart still swells with pride.
Quiet once again descends, but it is silence of a different sort.
A healing quiet, for we have won, although it is but a battle and the war still rages. Yet it is a respite that we so deserve.
I glance at the Elves in the chamber. The injured lie on their beds, allowing the healers to tend to them with little fuss, as their comrades stood to the side, joking with their friends.
You just have to watch, really, to see the differences in what we seem and what we are.
None of them escaped without at least a scratch, and their armour was stained with black blood. Many would need repairs on various items, and the tailors would have a busy day tomorrow. The carpenters, too, for many talens were burned by the fire the vile Orcs had brought.
You just have to look a little deeper to see the shadows that lurk in our eyes.
Yet despite all the death and destruction that surrounds us, they smile and laugh.
And because of that, I find it in my heart to join them.
His fingers curl about my hand and squeeze gently.
I turn and smile at both him and his father, mirror images of each other. Long sun-spun hair flowing from under crown and circlet, and down their backs, over the silken fabric of their formal robes. Azure eyes so deep and wise, and I pray, that will always sing of eternal life.
Can you see it?
They are relaxed, a rare occasion. The King lifts his goblet and savours the taste of the wine he had brought out for the celebrations.
His son contents himself with watching me, though I ignore him. He smiles and opens his mouth and teases me. I would have responded by elbowing him in the ribs – his father would have chuckled at our childish antics – but he had been in the Healers' Halls earlier for treatment.
See them laugh and dance? Just a little too hard, a little too much?
He reaches out and tucks an errant lock of hair behind my tapered ear, pausing slightly to caress the pointed tip. His eyes are knowing, and I bring his fingers to my lips, brushing my lips over them in the barest of kisses.
We have been married over three centuries, but I still touch and savour his touch.
I am afraid, you see.
See them frantically grab hold of the moment, hold it close and refuse to let go? Can you blame us for wanting just this small comfort, this small hope?
We are curled up in bed.
Tomorrow, he will return to the forefront.
He pulls my head to his chest, brushing his hand over my mahogany curls, a dark contrast to his bright strands.
My hands trace the bandages on his chest and I close my eyes tightly.
He sighs. "I returned."
He did.
My hand clenched into a fist.
"Remember what I said." He whispers and kisses my forehead again.
This is home, and that is enough reason to continue fighting.
I relax my hand and smile.
Today will be just a little different.
I watch as he speaks to his father, and then turn to give me another smile before he hops onto his waiting steed. My eyes rove over the band of Elves who sat straight and tall. They each carried themselves proudly, their faces fair and eyes alive with hope.
I used to fear being alone.
They saluted and wheeled their horses around, breaking swiftly into a gallop as they headed out into the forest for another day of duty.
I smile and turn, knowing that my help is needed in the Healers' Halls. They have run low on healing supplies.
But I pause and I study the flag that flies proudly. An ancient oak on a dark green plane, its leafy branches supporting a plain golden crown.
Then I accept Thranduil's arm and we head in, both ready for another day of our duties.
To dwell in darkness is indeed a terrible fate, but I am not alone.
I believe whole-heartedly in my people and in their courage and love. Together, we will create a light of our own to live by.
I know this… I can feel it in the way the wind, the earth and water sings, and I can see it in the trees that stand straight and proud, ever since the beginning of time. One day, we will overcome the night.
Finis