Disclaimer: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man.
The Dark Forest – Part II
I am sewing. Aye, sewing; embroidering, perhaps, is the term that my sister would use. I am embroidering small, dark flower-buds onto a piece of material that is sitting in my lap.
My sister presented me with the fabric this morning. "To become a lady," she told me, "You must learn this art." Of course, the material is very rough – very coarse – for my calloused, clumsy hands would desecrate any velvets or silks.
The four buds that I have already embroidered glare at me from within their crippled threads, as if to question why I have brought them into life. Their petals are bent and twisted, and the supposed smoothness of their colour is patchy and thin. But I cannot help my lack of concentration. Truly, gods, I cannot.
Though she is of age to be a married woman, my sister is still betrothed – engaged, formally – to a man in our township. William de Marinty, a very fine gentleman whom we all know will take care of her. She has not gone before Mother and Father to plead her case – she tells me, with a small smile, that she does not need to plead her case. Certainly she well deserves a man whom she can so easily love. I am glad for her, at any rate. But I do wish that she could explain to me this concept of love.
I have been told so many legends that I would tire myself tremendously trying to relate them all. Legends of those ... forest-dwellers, for I know no other name for them. We see them sometimes, though infrequently. It is only I -
But these legends; they tell of true love, perhaps like that which my sister feels for Lord de Marinty. They relate tales of the great ones who came before us, and who set life upon the earth by the sheer force of their love. I cannot understand this. I love my Mother and my Father, and of course my sisters and brothers, but such a power…? I am rendered helpless to imagine it.
The gods alone know why I ask these questions. They know why my fingers fumble; why my concentration is so poor. They know that I fear the worst.
The worst: that my neighbours and friends speak ill of the forest-dwellers. That I myself wish them ill.
That I have seen one of them.