Chapter Two
The Harp, Two Peasants and a 'Crow'
A baby she might be in the eyes of the Eldar, but little Elenñaltë (her father-name) Vanimelda (her mother-name), was more aware, alert and intelligent than she should.
Where did Vorondo keep her? How did he smuggle her out? In a harp.
It was a huge harp- but hollowed inside, deceivingly small, with enough inside space to fit a small girl. She could breathe, but most of the time she spent there, she was sleeping. She was only allowed out to eat lembas and drink fresh water and miruvor, and to dance, sing and play- and only when there was strictly no other around, save for Vorondo himself.
Little Vanimelda, being deprived of father and mother, gave all her love and attention to Vorondo instead, who likewise, treated her as his own.
And they were happy.
But Vanimelda never forgot her childhood in Lindon and her real parents.
She might have been a baby, but even for an elf, she was too special- too different. And thus, he had to keep her away from even them.
Travelling from city, to village, to town playing for coin, shelter, food and drink and other necessities. He kept the little girl in the harp- she didn't like it, and whenever she was awake she whined and whimpered to be let out. Whenever she whimpered- or very rarely- cried and made noises, Vorondo would pluck the strings and play a melody. It served the double purpose of soothing the beautiful little girl and covering up the noise- it was after all a large harp. For years she was only let out to feed on lembas and water, and to be allowed to dance and run about as all children should, when there was no one around for miles.
But misfortune came when one evening it started to rain.
Nothing lasts forever. But this time, it wasn't just the sunshine.
There, in the woods in the place which would one day become Rohan, two peasants lived.
They were of Northmen descent- and of the Éothéod- the ancestors of the Rohirrim- judging by their names. One was a man named Ceorl, which meant peasant and the other was his wife- Gríma whose name meant mask.
Gríma would one day become the name of another- a man- who figured prominently later on. But for now, it was the name of a wretched, scowling hag whose unpleasantness and viciousness outdid her limited intelligence and sly cunning.
Ceorl, her husband was not half as bright as his wife, and considering all mentioned above, one cannot even begin to imagine his appalling level of intellect.
The two of them were dirty, ugly and unkind, far from the noble Rohirrim and the other Northmen from which they were descended.
And as horrid misery brought it, Vorondo saw their rude shack, slumped miserably in front of a meagre farm, amidst the rain.
He knew he had little choice.
He knocked on the door.
"Ceorl!" Gríma yelled at her husband.
Ceorl was slumped sulkily in front of the fire, covered in mud, trying to warm himself after a miserable day.
"Wha'?" He grumbled. "Wha' I do, dis time?"
"Get the damned door, ye lump!" Was his wife's answer.
Scowling, the ugly lump of a man hulked towards the front door.
He opened it, sulkily, only to drop his jaw when he beheld a noble figure, much like a prince or a king, with a regal bearing, silvery hair and light green eyes.
"Good evening sir," Vorondo said pleasantly. "I am sorry to intrude, but I have nowhere else to go. Please, if I may, I would like to stay one night- no more- on the floor, if needs be, and I have coin to pay."
Ceorl gawped stupidly, before his wife shoved him aside.
"Move aside, ya great lump!" She growled menacingly, before pasting an ugly smile on her face. Let it not be said that Gríma could ever be considered remotely attractive. And her smile was even worse than her scowl because at least the scowl was not unpleasant (compared to the expression on her face that revealed her rotting teeth).
"We'come, good sir," she bowed, bending her sinewy form that looked like she had been drained of her juices. "Make yer way, in our 'umble 'ome."
Vorondo carried his harp, with the girl, slung across his back.
Gríma's eyes gleamed with greed as she looked up on it. She also noted Vorondo's clothes. They were not fancy, but they were well-made and of high quality. As for the harp- well! It was the fanciest thing she had ever seen in her life, and so huge! It was the stuff of minstrels and kings!
And her sharp, narrow eyes caught the glimpse of a rich cloth peeking through a crack in the metal.
That night, when Vorondo had settled himself down on his bedroll and fallen asleep, Grima shook her husband awake.
"Wh-wh-wha'?" Ceorl shook awake, cross-eyes looking wildly around before coming to the form of his ugly wife and shrinking (of course anybody would shrink when coming across such a sight).
"Lis'en ya fool!" Gríma hissed. She grabbed him painfully by the arm. "See 'is 'arp?"
"'arp?" Ceorl said sleepily. "Wha' 'arp?"
"Tha' 'arp ya stupid fool!" Gríma nearly yowled. "The big one! The gold one o'er there!"
"Ohh. Tha' 'arp."
"Now see 'ere," Gríma leaned forwards. "I saw som'in', sticking ou' o' tha' 'arp. Some fancy cloth, no dou'. And is big, see? Very big. Big enouff fo' a king."
"So?" Ceorl asked.
Not for the first time, Gríma cursed his stupidity. That was rich because she wasn't much better herself, but she didn't know that.
"So we gonna take I'." Gríma hissed. "Ge' i'? We gonna take wha'ever's in tha' 'arp and we'll be rich."
"He won't wan' us te take it," Ceorl said sourly.
"No fool," Gríma hissed. "We gonna kill 'im."
For the first time, Ceorl actually came up to what she was saying. His eyes widened. "No-nuh-nuh!" He said, looking with frightened eyes. "Ya can't make me!"
"Fool!" Gríma hissed. "See 'ere. 'e's asleep. We can' figh' 'im if 'e's awake. 'es an elf. I checked." Ceorl's face went grey. "I can' kill 'im."
"No, no' when 'e's awake." Gríma answered. She looked evil, now, in the flickering candle-light. "'es too strong, see? Bu' 'es asleep. And we've go' this."
She drew a kitchen knife.
Ceorl didn't want to. He never wanted to. But he was more frightened of Gríma, although it later occurred to him that if Vorondo had awoken, what he would do was worse than what Gríma ever could. But he didn't. And Vorondo didn't wake up.
When it was done, Grima tried to prise open the harp. She tried once. She tried it with clumsy tools. She even got Ceorl to take a hammer to it, but no avail. And then she accidentally pressed on a knob, and the harp came open, not to reveal gold or gems, but a little girl.
They gasped. Not because this was what they least expected but because the radiant, all-shimmering beauty of this girl. She seemed to glow and shine, her skin paler and more luminous than the moon. Hair, blacker than jet and so deep and shining it seemed to capture and reflect the light, making it infinitely brighter, fell down her back, gently waving and curling in loose curls. The impossible, inhuman beauty of this one child, rendered them speechless. She was awake, and staring at them with her violet eyes.
The Grima recovered. "Kill 'er! Kill 'er!" She screeched, and the little girl, far from being frightened turned her lovely eyes towards the hag, and then to Vorondo.
She saw that he, her protector, the only family she had left, though not a blood relation, was dead. Slain by the treacherous peasants whilst he slept, because they knew they were no match for them awake. It was the only smart thing they ever thought of.
"No," Ceorl said suddenly. 'Nuh. Nuh-uh. Ya can' make me. No' a'ymore. I already killed enuff. Le' 'er be."
He slouched back down, making it clear to Gríma that he would not cooperate.
She jabbed an ugly talon at the girl. "You!" She barked. "Wha's yer name!"
But the little girl shook her head and remained silent. She would not speak to them. Vorondo had told her not to, in the unlikely event that she came face to face with someone other than him. Let her think that she was mute or stupid.
"Alrigh' then," Gríma said. "We won' kill 'er. We'll keep 'er. I could use someone to 'elp me do the cookin' and the 'ouse-keepin'," she said though it was Ceorl that actually slaved under her.
"We'll say she's our daugh'er," Gríma said. "And call 'er Kráka, af'er me mum." She looked proud of herself.
"Bu' she's beau'iful," Ceorl said. And that beauty was something that neither had. "Wha'll people think, if they see 'er? They look a' us, two ugly peasants, and think 'ow in the world did we 'ave such a loverly daughter."
This certainly was the smartest he had ever been in his life.
Now Gríma was pretty miffed about being called ugly, though it was, but she scowled, looking at the girl, and saw, obviously, that she too, was an elf.
"We'll 'ide 'er," she decided. "So no un will e'er see 'er. And we'll cover 'er in soot an' dir' and a long 'ood, to cover her 'air an' ears. She can' talk, anyway."
And that was what they did. Little Vanimelda, called Kráka, which meant 'crow' by the two, was covered in tar and soot, forbidden ever to bathe, and dressed in a long peaked hood, of black material. She never spoke. Not for a long time, though she very well could.
"Is no' good fer yer skin," Gríma would tell her. She being a filthy hag understood that concept at least. "I''ll make ya sick."
And they kept her and made her do all the chores. She tended the vegetables, fed the poor horse that looked thin as a rope, cleaned up its muck (it was her only friend), swept or mopped the floors, cleaned out the scraps and bones that the two threw on the floor during supper, filled the storeroom and pantry, cooked, washed the dishes, made the beds, did the laundry- and she was still a toddler.
A good thing she was an extraordinary little elf.
Kráka bathed. When Ceorl and Grima were snoring, she crept out from in front of the hearth, on the floor where she slept, and ran off to a nearby pool, clear and cool. She bathed herself there. But she always had to cover herself in tar and soot, and put on the filthy hood again, to avoid a beating. They would beat her. Every time they weren't satisfied with what she did, say they wanted her to cook another dinner than the one she did- never mind that they never told her, or if she didn't get there fast enough to refill the cup.
And always she called herself by her true name. Vanimelda. Elenñaltë Vanimelda Ereinioniel- that was her name.
Until one day she heard something.
Someone she knew very well, calling her name.
Vanimelda.
"Bring the food!" Gríma yelled, opening her ugly mouth. Kráka brought the beer in an earthenware jug and the food- great joints of salted meat, roasted and she had added herbs that she found and a few seasonings, not because she liked the two, but because she was bored and wanted to be creative. Of course, naturally they enjoyed it very much, not that they ever complimented or thanked the little chef. But she was used to it.
It never registered upon the two stupid people that she grew slower than the others. Unfortunately, against any hopes anyone looking upon this would have, Ceorl and Gríma were still alive, as mean and stupid and miserly as ever. 'Kráka' was now the size of a twelve-to-fourteen-year old human. Besides, as she didn't speak (near them at least), they assumed that there was something wrong with her body, bullied and abused her more about it.
Her beauty was still hidden- but not very well. As it happened it was still outrageously clumsy, their attempts to conceal her.
But now Ceorl looked at her greedily. He knew that Grima wouldn't tolerate this, and if she ever caught him even glancing at her wrong, she would kill him- and Kráka, even though the latter was not to blame, by whipping the skin of their bones.
Vanimelda concealed her hatred of the two. She loathed them, she could forgive them for what they did to her, but Vorondo? Never.
If she had been of the same morals as the two, she would have killed them.
She certainly was capable.
Vanimelda's mother was a shieldmaiden. Vanimelda dreamt of becoming one as well. But she concealed her heritage, descended from the greatest warriors, writers, musicians and so forth, from those two.
But she couldn't stay there. Not for much longer.
When the two had finished gobbling and gulping down their supper, tossing bones, and so forth onto the floor, Gríma's kindness went far enough to put aside a plate- of scraps, for her 'daughter', before yelling at her to clean up- fast, or she'd get a beating. Kráka scurried to do the work.
And that was how she saw herself. Kráka was the one they looked at, covered in soot and tar with a long hood, who slaved for them, and was mute.
Vanimelda was the Hidden Princess of the House of Finwë. But she was without a home.
After she had finished, the two plopped onto the bed. Their night-time 'activities' as Vanimelda so delicately put it in her mind, was not as vigorous, and who could blame either of them? Gríma was as repulsive as an orc. As was Ceorl and he was boorish and clumsy. Gríma was as vile as a shrew.
Kráka swept the floors, despite knowing that Gríma would make her do it anyway in the morning, and crept off- but not to bed.
She went to the pool.
My child.
She froze and turned eyes wild and wide. Nothing. And no one in sight.
So why did she feel as if,
Melda, the voice said insistently. Vanimelda.
This time she could not mistake the voice.
"Ammë?" She whispered, calling out for her long-dead mother.
"Ammë is that you?"
Yes, my child, her mother's voice said. It is me.
A form, made seemingly out of light emerged. The form of a very tall elf-maiden, more voluptuous than most ellyth, yet svelte and willowy just the same. Her skin was flawless and a rich, creamy white, and she had the loveliest face Vanimelda had ever seen. She had rosebud lips, coloured a rich, soft red, like Vanimelda's, and a perfect heart-shaped face, just like her own. Her hair was a crowning glory, thick, curling and the finest burnished copper, streaked with pure gold and silver. Her high cheekbones were beautiful and fine, jaw and chin, delicate and fine. All her features were finely chiselled and delicate, regal and elegant, with a tiny, delicately-upturned and pointed nose.
This was undoubtedly her mother. She had remembered that.
She stared. "Amil," she whispered.
"Melda Seldë," Estela whispered, tears in her eyes. "I knew I would find you."
She wanted nothing more than to rush into her arms, and feel her mother hold her close again. After so long. She never longed for Ceorl or Gríma's love, they disgusted and enraged her, and it was pointless, but her mother and father were a different story.
And yet there was something else in the image of the queen. Something translucent, as if she was made of light.
"You're not really here, are you?" She asked bluntly. She spoke in Quenya, the cradle-tongue of her family, which they had always spoken privately to one another. Sindarin was for public appearances, and Westron.
Estela's beautiful face mourned. Her long-lashed, emerald eyes filled with tears. "No, Melda. I am not."
Melda meant 'beloved' or 'darling'. Her mother-name Vanimelda, meant beautiful and beloved, so shortening it was an endearment as well as an epessë. To hear her voice say that word, after so long.
Vanimelda crumpled to the ground, bursting to tears. She hated self-pity, but she had been so broken and frightened, she never realised how lonely she was. She had nothing and no one after Vorondo was gone, except for the two awful peasants and a horse that was dying of malnutrition because Ceorl wouldn't spare it enough, particularly during wintertime.
She wept. Years of loneliness, and cruelty, and she didn't even realise it, until the mother that was slain by Sauron's mace, stood before her once more.
Estela wept too.
"You're not really here," Vanimelda said numbly. "So why are you here?"
"I've been searching for you," Estela said. "And although I can't be there in person- as the Ancient Laws of Eä has stated, I can help you get away from them. And I swear to you, my dearest daughter, I will never leave you again.
"But first, we must get you out of there."
Sethiel: Yes, in some ways this is different from the first Hidden Princess. There is no big time jump, and there are more interesting things involved, including adventure!
As I said, this takes inspiration from Norse mythology- Grima was the name of not only Wormtongue, but a peasant woman if Norse mythology who enslaved and disguised Aslaug, renamed Kraka, as is this girl, the daughter of Sigurd the Dragon-slayer and Brynhildr the shieldmaiden-Valkyrie. She became the third wife of Ragnar Lothbrok, and I really disliked what they did to her in the series, transforming her into a sissy, even though she was kind, and a home-wrecker.