Keeper 21
I am editing this very early on Monday, but it might be posted on Tuesday or Wednesday. Who knows? I'm moving back up to school on the 19th – 5 hours away, much unpacking and packing to be done!
Lovely response to the last chapter! Thank you for all of the feedback and support!
-XXX-
Time does not pass quickly in Rivendell. It moves at a slow, leisurely pace, inviting the occupants of the valley to enjoy their days – meditate, write poetry, observe the flowered trees and sweet songbirds. In comparison to the more rustic lifestyle I'm used to among the wood-elves, Rivendell presents a glossy, polished way of living. Aesthetics are appreciated by all manner of elf, but those of Rivendell seem abnormally preoccupied with it.
No one, it seems, does anything real with their time. I've met too many poets and philosophers within my first few years, elves with titles such as "flower-arranger" and "scent-fusion expert." There are a few farmers and artisans, but Elrond's court holds more nonsense careers than I can count.
Fluff-filled occupations aside, Rivendell is lovely and the family who rules it is even more endearing. It only takes a short amount of time for me to become a (accidental) fully-fledged member of the family.
Elrond takes to me quickly, though cautiously. He has such faith in others – one almost dares not let him down. His tranquil nature makes him easy to approach, which in turn, makes it easier for me to settle.
His daughter, the fair Arwen, takes a little longer to warm to me. But once we do – over a bowl of summer peaches on a hot day while her father and brothers are on a diplomat trip – it becomes clear that she has missed a mother's touch, longed for female companionship. Companionship I am more than happy to provide. I've always wanted a daughter. Arwen, eager for guidance. She does not fill the gape left from leaving my son. Still, I now have the opportunity to focus my attention on something – or someone.
Elladan and Elrohir are not often in the valley, as they've taken positions as rangers, scouting the plains for wrags and Orcs. They are wary at first, but I am soon treated like an aunt. When they return from a long stint of patrols they come as loud, cheerful creatures, sweeping up their sister, chattering like jays with tales of their recklessness. Soon, I am swept into those hugs. They gift me with polish river stones and delicately tooled chains from the realm of Men, scrolls and books.
"You should come with us next time, Aunt Cala," Elladan teases over goblets of mulled wine after they've regaled us again with one of their gripping tales of mild idiocy. "You're a good horsewoman, are you not?"
"But a terrible shot," I reply dryly. "And not much better with a sword."
"The mother of hawk-eyed Legolas, the elf-who-never-missed-a-shot, cannot use a bow?" Elrohir shakes his head. "Unbelievable."
Surprised, I lower my cup. "You've heard of Legolas's ability?"
"He has quite the reputation across the realm," Elrohir tilts his head. "Did you not know?"
"She does not often receive news from Mirkwood," Elrond says sharply. His dark eyes cast a heavy glance towards his sons, who grow quiet. I attempt weakly to smile.
Arwen lowers her eyes to the table. "Tell me, brothers, are the mountains are blue as they're rumored to be? I've heard with the mists they are most beautiful at dawn."
Diffusing the situation with as much grace as ever, the youngest of Elrond's children quietly changes the subject.
The dynamic the family shares lends to their ability to absorb outsider's chemistry easily. I suspect that Celebrian's absence has allowed for a bit of a hole; I do not fill it by any means. But I have found my own place within the family, easily, happily.
Overall, my situation here has worked out far better than I anticipated. I have a stable new residence (I hesitate in calling it a "home") and a loving group of people. I am without Legolas, my bees, and my husband. As the years pass, I feel their absence more and more, but without a sense of his feeling, I do not feel like approaching Greenwood without some kind of…permission.
Elrond does not understand. "It is your home too," he says. "Do not mistake me, we do not mind in the least housing you here. But Greenwood is your home just as much as his. You do not require anyone's leave to come and go as you please."
"It is merely a feeling."
His raises his brows. "He is your husband, Cala. I do not know the man well, I shall be honest, but if the way he looks at you was any indication, he believes that you hung the stars themselves. The elf adores you, my lady."
I suppress a bitter smile. "Perhaps not enough."
-XXX-
If his council noticed a bitter temperament, they said nothing. As the years pass, Thranduil finds his council growing more and more discontent, strife rippling between the members like an stone toss upon a once-smooth pond. The incident at Erebor had torn the council, and their edges were fraying still. Cala leaving had been another distressing occasion – more than half of the council had urged him to go to her in Rivendell. He'd ignored their pleas.
"How will we look to outside kingdoms, my lord, to have a queen who does not see fit to live in our woods and a king who will not fetch her?" asks Versquire in the midst of one meeting.
"I care not for the perception of other realms," Thranduil intones without looking up from a map of the forest.
"But she is our queen," Versquire continues desperately. "Think of how it disheartens our people to know that Queen Caladhiel was not content to stay here. And, forgive me, my lord, but have you considered how it looks upon you? It makes the wood-elves nervous to think that their lady of light could not bear to stay with her husband."
Slowly, Thranduil moved his crystalline orbs up until they are dead level with Versquire's watery hazel eyes. The ice within the king's gaze was tangible to all in the room. All is quiet.
"Excuse me?" Thranduil asks, tone as cold as late winter snow, though polite as ever.
Versquire quivered slightly.
"I am sure our good Earl here meant nothing by his comment, my lord," Fortesbrawn interjects after several unbearably heavy moments of silence. "He likely just meant that Cala's leaving would of course make your subjects nervous – a flighty queen gives ill-ease to everyone, does it not?"
Thranduil turns his eyes upon Fortesbrawn, who appears more relaxed than the king would like. The old healer simply stares back, undaunted. When Thranduil nods slowly, all occupants of the room release breath they had not been aware of holding.
"I shall not seek her," the king announces. "It is Caladhiel's decision to return or stay away. I will not be the one to end the estrangement she has set."
"Very well, my lord," the room murmurs hopelessly.
"On to other matters of business…the acorn harvest has been rather unimpressive as of late…."
-XXX-
Arwen is wading in one of the many streams that surround Rivendell, singing sweetly. On shore, I sit weaving flower crowns, much like I had for Kal, so long ago, Tauriel, and my own Legolas. She already wears a necklace of sweet purple clover and laurel. Finishing my latest crown of daisy, purple iris, and soft pink wild rose, I stand to approach the bank, tossing it upon Arwen's head. A little lopsided, it looks lovely against her raven hair.
She smiles up at me brightly, not breaking in her song.
"And so came the lady,
Bowing upon death's door,
With great trepidation
But she did not stray,
From the task of contemplation…."
She has been talking to the traders again. They bring not only imports of Men, but their stories and songs too. Arwen latches on to the merchants when they arrive, sitting at their feet before the fires of the kitchen, the cook, manservents, and maids her fellows in listening to the fantastical tales. She has a particular interest in the world of Men. It does not trouble me, but I see worry frowns of Elrond's face when she beings reciting stories or singing verse that are not elvish in nature.
Within the month, she will be in Lórien with her grandparents. Elrond is sending her there with the hope that Galadriel will be able to draw Arwen's interest back to the realm of Elves. Besides this, she's not seen her mother's family for some years.
"You have helped me so," he told me, passing me a goblet of wine. It's not nearly as strong as what Thranduil serves at his table, but I do not mind. We're not at a table, anyways, but standing on one of the balconies that overlook the gardens. "Giving Arwen a role model…I appreciate it."
"But she needs her family," I say, knowing what he's getting at. "And her mother has been gone for a while. I completely understand. But I must be honest, I will miss your daughter."
"Then we shall have to find something to occupy you," he says thoughtfully. "You've never raised hives here – perhaps now is the time."
I agree to think about it. But the idea does not quite sit well with me. I;ve missed my bees a great deal. Replacing my hives, however, feels…wrong. Greenwood's bees are unlike any other. I could easily raise a few hives. Yet it wouldn't be the same.
On the bank of the stream, I focus on my weaving, half-listening to Arwen.
We are interrupted when the sound of branches snapping shake us from our sense. We both freeze. I hasten to step in front of the girl, one hand going to my waist for the small dagger I've taken to carrying concealed in my belt. I've never felt unsafe in Rivendell – quite the difference from Greenwood. But it is something Legolas requested of me when he presented it to me before we were parted.
Elrond steps our from the shadow with his brows raised. "Did I frighten you?"
"Father," Arwen exclaims, relieved. She starts for the bank, holding her skirts up to her knees. "We thought your would be out with the patrol."
"And I was," he says, smiling. "But we were interrupted. Visitors, along our boarders."
I seek his eyes, questioning. "Orcs?"
But he is not troubled. The warm brown orbs are reassuring. "Do not fear; nothing of that nature."
We've mastered a silent communication over the last few decades similar to that of partners – Thranduil and I had shared something similar. But it is more of the communication between friends, established overtime, granted with the familiarity of small gestures, tilts of the head, muscular ticks, and glints of the eye. It's not quite as smooth as what I had with my husband and son, but effective nonetheless. I relax further.
"We encountered your brothers, along with a rather ragged band of Men," he says. "Refugees."
"Oh?"
"Of Gondor?" Arwen asks.
"Yes," he says. "I suppose you have not heard, Arathon of the Dúnedain has died. Orcs. Leaving a son and wife."
We both gasp. It is a true pity. Elladan and Elrohir had been with the family for a few years, battling the Orcs they so hate. Though I never met the man, hearing of his passing sends a tinge to my heart. "Will this warring ever cease?"
"His widow," he continues. "Gilraen, has been traveling Arda, attempting to find shelter from those who would like to see the line of Telcontar extinguished."
"We must grant them such protection," Arwen cries.
"I have." Elrond turns back to the tree line, beckoning the shadows. "Come, come out."
From the depths of the leafy darkness, a slim figure emerges. A young woman with wide blue eyes, holding a child with dark hair and equally bright eyes. I cannot properly gage his age, being ill-versed in the aging process of humans, but I can see that he is only a few years old. The young boy is just as excited as his mother, lower lip pouting, whimpering slightly when the sun strikes him. The woman pulls him closer, hitching up the hip he rests against, whispering some low comfort in his ear.
"It is alright, Aragorn."
I realize quickly, heartbreakingly, that the babe is Arathorn's son. His sole heir. His big blue eyes remind me of my own boy with sparkling crystal blue orbs. "Legolas." I close my eyes, heart hurting. "It has been so long…." When I look up, I'm still facing the child, who is turning towards the elves before him. Gently, he mother lowers him to the ground.
The child peers around at us. His gaze rests on Arwen, who is still near the water. She approaches, dropping her skirts, let them sway heavily around her ankles.
"Hello," she says stooping to his level. Smiling softly, Arwen extends a hand. The child claims a few fingers.
"He likes you," Gilraen says.
"What is his name?" I ask.
"Estel," Elrond answers quickly. He and Gilraen share a glance. I choose not to question the lord of Rivendell at this moment, but make note of the exchange. I have more than one name myself – it is not my place to judge.
Whatever the child's name is, he is quite taken with our Arwen, and clings to her skirts as she takes him to the edge of the water, where he helps her pick flowers for more summer crowns. I can see the wonder shining in his clear blue eyes as he looks at her – another admiring for the fair maiden. Arwen seems to share is regard, as she has nothing but tender hands and words for the poor little fellow. They are an enchanting pair.
"Tis a pity she is leaving so soon," I say when I move to stand beside Elrond. Gilraen stands at his other side, peering at me with curiosity.
"Yes," the maid's father murmurs, but there is something concealed deep within his tone suggesting Elrond thinks otherwise. This too, I notice and wait to ask after on another occasion. For now, we watch the young ones play, content in the afternoon sun.
-XXX-
Yes, I messed with the timeline a little. But it's not too drastic, really. And I really like the idea of a sort of Padme-Anakin-esque start to their relationship.
The end of this chapter brings us to roughly one hundred and fifty-eight years since Cala left the Mirkwood Forest – another rather dramatic jump in the timeline.
Reviews would be grand!