Chapter Three
A Fortunate Escape- and Comeuppance
"Fetch wa'er!" Gríma yelled. "An' do da sweepin'!"
See- she already did it the night before and Gríma wanted her to do it again.
Obediently, Kráka fetched a pail of water, and swept at the same time.
She was thin. Elves generally did not eat as much as humans- and this was a complaint- even though humans enjoyed elven food enormously and considered it the height of culinary masterpieces, the only thing that made them really upset was the small portions served. But still, even for an elf, Kráka was thin.
She had already prepared Ceorl and Gríma's breakfast. Though she hated them, she did what she could.
She cleaned the whole place. Though the shack had been absurdly filthy when she first arrived, her constant workings and ministrations now kept it clean. However she suspected that they kept her working simply because they enjoyed it.
A plate of freshly-baked bread, butter and cheese, milk and beer, and so forth were set upon the table. Kráka went to make the bed, put aside the laundry and feed and groom the horse, and clean the stables. The poor thing was going to die soon, she knew it. He needed more food than she did. Then as her usual routine went, she would return to the shack just in time to do clear the plates and wash them, and scrub the table. The chimney also needed to be cleaned, and the fireplace. New wood needed to be collected for kindling. Or else she would do the laundry.
Meanwhile Ceorl often went 'to do bus'nes'" although she knew he went drinking instead and gambling with 'friends'. There was a town nearby. Thankfully they never came here- they were too afraid of Gríma- but she would yell and curse and even hit Ceorl went he arrived back, cowered. It provided her with some satisfaction.
Kráka would do the laundry today. But before that the girl had to feed and groom the horse. After the housekeeping chores were done, she had to work on the farm. But as she went back, Gríma was already standing there, with a scowl on her face, and her birch switch in hand.
She knew she was in for it.
As usual she showed no emotion. Unpleasant as this might be, she knew she had to endure it.
"Yer late," Gríma growled. Hands on her hips. As expected Kráka looked down. "Yah were supposed to come back soon."
As if Gríma actually did any work to complain. If she did she would know that even with this child, the stables and sheds took time.
"Yah were supposed to draw the ale las' nigh'." Gríma scowled further. "An' the beer. Bu' the beer stank- li' fee'."
Or maybe because Ceorl had guzzled and lay wasted in it. She for a fact, had seen this. But of course, even if 'Kráka' could talk, they would never believe her- they always wanted to blame her.
She was there to make them feel better.
Gríma grabbed the girl's hand in a vice-like grip which would have been painful for a human. But she gave no sound which only infuriated the hag further. Screaming curses and insults to the girl for her stupidity and slowness, Gríma threw the slight form on the table and began to thrash at her back.
The switch went whaaacckk, as it hit her. She gritted her teeth. Kráka never made any sound, which frightened, and simultaneously infuriated Gríma even more.
Screaming more insults and curses, Gríma continued to flog her. She never looked underneath the girl's clothing for fear she would become jealous- she remembered seeing her flawless skin- and thus she never knew that her floggings never left a mark- or if they did, they healed without a scar.
Kráka gritted her teeth as Gríma continued to whack her.
Eventually, realising that the work still needed to be done, Gríma released the girl. Kráka scurried away before she could change her mind.
She was so used to it. If she didn't remember another life…
She was certain they would have reduced her to being far less than what she was.
Vanimelda hated self-pity. But now she couldn't help the tears that sprung to her eyes. Sniffing, she rubbed them harshly away. She hated them. And she was alone.
No, she would never be alone.
Vorondo was dead. In the Halls of Mandos. Her parents were dead. She was left with two ugly, evil peasants who used her and treated her without love or kindness- not that she wanted some from them.
She rubbed the last of the tears away.
She needed to get work on the farm. And then cook the midday and evening meals, and prepare the next day's meals.
How she loathed them.
Sniffing, the horse came close to her. Old Red- he had never been given a name by them- as he was called by the couple, was a kind, gentle soul whom the little elf felt a bond with. Unsurprisingly he felt the same. She was the only one who was kind- and she was an elf- a Valinorean elf, though she had never set foot there. She was special and the animals knew it.
"What am I going to do?" She asked in Quenya.
Melda.
She froze.
Her mother's voice.
"Melda Seldë." Her mother's glowing form appeared. She gasped.
"You should bathe." Her mother tried to smile, but she couldn't hide the limitless pain and grief at her condition. Tears were in her eyes.
Vanimelda whipped off her cap and ran to the pool, doing as she was told. Soon she emerged in all her shimmering beauty. She didn't care what Gríma would do.
"Look over there," Her mother said.
Vanimelda looked in the direction her mother was pointing. There was a doll.
Melda gasped.
It was her.
"It's a portrait doll," her mother told her.
The doll looked like a miniature of Vanimelda in wax. Her hair was the exact same shade- in fact her mother told her it was her hair.
"This doll is more than a simple plaything," her mother said. "You will see me, but at times when I am not there, this doll can come alive and speak to you, giving you advice that I would have given if I was there. Do you still have the pendant I gave you?"
Vanimelda nodded. She kept it hidden underneath her clothes. She never let Ceorl and Gríma suspect its existence.
"Then I suggest you flee. These are not the noble humans I knew in life. But they have all the vices and sins of humanity. They will take and abuse you- even more than now. She will kill you, and he will take you by force, when your beauty gets too apparent. Or else they would sell you to their friends. No more, will I ever let this happen. Now is the time. You must flee."
Vanimelda gasped. "But where will I go?"
"Out to the wild," her mother said. "I do not trust others to have contact with you- even in the safest places, words easily spread. No, Seldë, you are not safe. Take the doll and your pendant. Take this horse. Nothing else."
"Not even food or provisions?" Vanimelda asked suspiciously.
"I will provide for you, Melda. I will make sure of it. But you must go- now."
Vanimelda nodded.
Her mother stretched out her hand. "Blessings on you, my love." She said. "The All-Father and the Valar watch over you."
She disappeared.
Vanimelda looked at the horse. He seemed to understand what she wanted him to do.
Besides he would rather die out there, protecting her, than with them.
She took the doll, clutching it, with her pendant around her neck, swung onto his back.
She could hear Grima yell her name.
The stables were open.
The Old Red took off.
He galloped, for once, his strength reinvigorated, his youth and energy renewed.
Grima only heard the sound of galloping hooves in the distance, with a start, she and Ceorl- whom she had been bullying, after she discovered what he did with the ale and the beer last night (but she never intended to apologize to Kráka)- when gaping, they saw the horse and its rider charge off into the distance.
The horse stopped.
There Vanimelda- not Kráka- stood there, in the full blaze and glory of her shining beauty.
They gasped.
Vanimelda's long hair, cascaded down her back like a waterfall. It had grown out of her baby curls, and gently waved down her back, the blackest, shiniest thing they had ever seen, capturing the light and reflecting it back in gold and silver. Her skin was fair, or pale by comparison- free from the soot and the grime, it glowed bright, silver-white, and everything seemed filthy compared to her. She had been bathing until it shone brighter than the moon at winter. Her face, lovelier than anything, was revealed for the first time in a long time, and she glowed radiant and triumphant.
She smirked at them. They stood dumbstruck.
"You never learn, do you?" She sighed, speaking to them, in their utter shock- as if they were not shocked enough.
Her voice was melodious, high and clear, beautiful as she was. Her violet eyes flashed.
"You really are the two stupidest, most disgustingly filthy creatures. Even orcs would run away from you." She continued. "I know you killed Vorondo- under the pretence of hospitality- which you promised him- and you stupidly, cowardly killed him because you weren't brave enough to face him. And I haven't forgotten that. She came closer on the horse.
"I wish you every misery you can think of, and I bestow upon you every misery that you do not think of. And as you begin to think that the worst is over, far worse will come, and you will grow more miserable day, after day. This is just the beginning."
And with that she grabbed the farm-tool she had been holding and the horse reared. Although you wouldn't think that a rake can do much damage, she had slowly been adding to it.
And she smashed the whole place. The horse trampled the place and smashed it, and went inside, with Gríma shrieking and Ceorl bellowing in shock, running out of the way to avoid being hit or trampled. They destroyed the whole place.
"Tell your friends if you like," She laughed. "But let's see if they believe you, when they've never even seen me. Be grateful. At least I let you live, if only to have misery, like you did to me."
She sped off on the Old Red.
Laughing, Vanimelda threw her head back, and the horse seem to enjoy it as well.
They were free.
Gleefully, she dismounted when they were far enough.
"Ah," she said.
They were in Anfalas, a part of Gondor.
There were some woods.
Happily, Vanimelda led the horse to the edge of the forest.
"You can leave if you like," she said. But the horse refused.
She sighed. "Very well, then." She rubbed his nose, and he nuzzled her head.
"Are you hungry or thirsty, mellon-nin?" She asked. She led him to a stream where he gratefully drank.
"What shall I do now?" She wondered aloud.
"My darling," her mother's voice sounded behind her.
"Amil," she said. "I've escaped."
"So I see," her mother's eyes were shining with gladness and relief- but not completely.
"You are in Anfalas in Gondor. They Men of Gondor do not know a shortcut existed to this woods. But there are hot springs for you to bathe, and plenty of fruits and vegetation of all kinds, here. We must build you a home."
She nodded. "But how do I start?"
Her mother smiled. "I will teach you to build," her mother said. "Among other things necessary for survival. The slavery the two have forced upon you will not be enough. I must give you more."
Vanimelda nodded.
She searched the woods for the right trees.
"Try talking to them," her mother suggested.
She took a deep breath, and as her mother suggested, took some water and poured it over the roots of the right trees. She opened her mind and reached out to them.
An alien consciousness reached her. It was startled, and Vanimelda felt it as if it was her own. She quickly soothed it, murmuring to it, filling it with visions of golden light and giving it more water.
She touched the trunk and spoke to it. They all were happy to give her what she wanted.
And so it began.
One door closed. But her life began.
Vanimelda built a bower. A sturdy dead branches were picked up, and her mother- or the doll who spoke- taught her how to fashion it properly, so it wouldn't break.
She went to the pond and coaxed enough feathers and down from the flocks of fowl there. She built a loom and a spindle and spinning wheel, to using makeshift tools, her mother taught her. And she gathered fibres from plants, to gather fibres. One bush was really interesting. Their seedpods burst to produce some thick fibrous stuff that was poisonous unless they were washed thoroughly and then they could be spun and put on the loom. She used berries, the juices of leaves and petals to dye the fabric she wove. She fashioned a mattress, pillows and blankets to sleep on and stuff before placing them on the bed. The branches of the trees held it like a makeshift cradle, for a baby, so it was really somewhat like a hammock.
But it was not enough.
There were hollows, coaxed by Vanimelda, in the tree that was the only possible way to access her bower. But she needed rooms. There had to be a kitchen and a dining room, and a working room. She might even need a forge.
She had to build, with the help of the willing trees.
Eventually, the animals found her.
Expressing their interest, Vanimelda saw that they would not harm her, and reached out to them. They became her companions along with the Old Red, now renamed Carnirocco, and built a shelter for him, and blankets. She worked and made the ground around the bower into a fertile garden, planting things she would need- and a maze. She built a labyrinth with roses. To make finding the entrance to the tree difficult, according to her mother's suggestion. Over time she fitted rooms into the labyrinth of different shapes and sizes.
There was a forge and a spacious living room, a dining room and a kitchen. It was better off that way. She didn't want her home scattered all over the place.
She wove built roofs of plant material, which looked sturdy enough, and were water-proof. She placed carpets on the floor of the rooms. And designed specific traps for orcs and unwanted sentient beings. Animals were free to come and go as long as they didn't soil or damage anything.
Finally she took a deep breath, relieved.
"It's done." She spoke aloud.
"Good," the little doll whom she named Almarië spoke. "It's perfect."
Vanimelda breathed out a deep sigh. "Yes."
"But nothing lasts forever," the doll reminded.
"I know."
Somewhere in Lothlórien the Lady of the Light sensed a powerful force- like light, but alive- opening its eyes and taking the breath of life on its own.
Nenya flickered, realising the power that seeped in and strengthened the world, nourishing it like light.
The name Carnirocco means, 'Red Horse' and Almarië means 'Blessing/Good fortune/Bliss' in Quenya. Thank Merin Essi ar Quenteli for the names!