Prologue:
She is no Lady, she is no heir to any vast and hidden lands. There are no throne rooms waiting for her in the gleam of her future. But she is tall, in the willowy way of her people, with hair as dark as the night as the less poetic are inclined to say, and with eyes both depthless and full of mirrored light. Not beautiful as in the vivid dreams of song, but passable. And she is old, if her years are reckoned with the wisdom of men, but she is young among her own, and thought of as a tender sprout of young maidenhood here in the wood.
Her hands tremble as she accepts the goblet. Raising it to her lips, she does not look at him, but at his hands offering to her the chalice of their troth. The goblet has been bent and molded in touches of soft gold, with gemstones that shine harshly in the dim light of the evening. His hands are much larger than her own, and their fingers meet briefly. She shudders and swings back, only to be caught by swift hands and murmurs chiding for her to behave.
She quickly drinks the golden mead, closing her eyes as she does so. It is as light as any brew she's ever drunk before, but she finds it bitter and quickly hands it back. Moments pass, she hears voices mumbling, and the bridal veil about her head and shoulders blows up in the breeze. Its green material, as transparent as the fog of the early morning, snags on something behind her and he reaches out to free it. She follows his hand with her eyes, then looks up and away, at the trees bent overhead and the moss that hangs down about them like tapestries within a hall.
Mirkwood, they've name this place in the world beyond. It is true there are shadows hidden amidst the roots and bows, but there is also mirth and song here, and the wildflowers still dance and rise from hidden corners. It is the land of her birth and of her passing years, but it will no longer be the land of her existence. It will be a land of dreams, she realizes, and after the morrow she will only remember it in song and in thought.
She will miss it, she thinks, and the thought strikes through her breast until she falters again.
This time it is his hands that catch her own within their grasp, and his hold is tight and controlling as he keeps her from wheeling over.
"Do not fret," he says while voices drone on about them. "I will take care of you, Meluien."
His hands, she realizes, are soft despite their apparent harshness, and only his thumbs about her wrists feel rough. She wonders if his calluses are from a steady use of the bow and arrow, or if perhaps they are tokens from his journeys in the lands beyond the forest. She takes a breath and slowly raises her eyes to look at him for the first time since the start of this day.
They are both on their knees, and yet he is still taller, she notes. His hair has been pushed back with a ringlet of silver and gold, and his brow is thoughtful and clear. But though he speaks kindly, she detects his unease as easily as she does her own. She is too sorrowful to be angry with him; angry with this Elf who has taken it upon himself to settle on the banks of Anduin, to reclaim the rumored wild lands of Ithilien.
For that is his goal, is it not? To cultivate a land torn these many passing years by men and orcs and other sour, fledgling creatures. And of course, no child of princely origins can make this journey on his own. Oh, no- His people must go with him, and he must also be accompanied by a wife; a Lady to guide his impulsive hand and reign in his laughter and song with wise words.
She shakes her head and looks away: no one forced her to accept the proposal, and she realizes her thoughts are far too harsh for the moment. No one bound her and brought her to this day, she knows this. But they never told her of his planned departure from her beloved Greenwood! No, they knew it would strike her heart, and they kept it secret from her, and this she will not forgive them, especially him.
She flings her tears to the back of her soul and frowns into his upturned face. She knows there is no great love between them, and there will never be any. She was too impulsive from the start, and he played upon her desire to rise up from the provincial rows of her own forbearers. What maiden would not wish to wed a princeling? Now she must accept her path, for there is nothing else to do.
"I will take care of you" he repeats, trying best to smile and hoping this his crooked grin will ease her doubt and maybe even his own. She arches a brow, for she is long past the years of make-believe, and she knows that the world outside their borders is not as fair as it once was. Aye, even their home has turned dark at the far edges, she thinks warily.
"No, Lord Greenleaf, it is I who will take care of you."