A Half-Elf’s Tale

As she watched the stouthearted men of Rohan march off to Helm’s Deep Lomelindë could not help but feel sorrow once again simmer up from her soul, and steal into her heart, no matter how hard she desperately tried to block it out.
It had been almost two thousand years since she had left the beautiful forest of Greenwood the Great—no, Gandalf the Grey had brought news since then that the dread Necromancer had dwelt there only sixty years ago, and the forest of her childhood was renamed Mirkwood. How could any amount of time change the happy wood into one as dark and cruel as the wizard had told her it had become?
But Time itself had dealt a cruel fate to the half-elf. Losing her father and mother when she was only three years old was hard enough. Then, when she was 185, her grandparents both died in goblin raids. After that, when she was one thousand years old, on her way to find the land of her father, the small envoy of elves that had accompanied her found that the ancient land of Numenor had been destroyed as well.
For that and other reasons, Lomelindë decided not to go back to the Greenwood. The people of a neighboring land, Rohan, had accepted and revered her as an immortal like her companions, though she was none. Many years had passed since she had first decided to stay in the land of the horse people.
Lomelindë had not allowed herself to get close to any mortal, with the agonizing reality of death. But then she was given the task of raising Théoden King’s young nephew and niece. Éowyn’s parents had died while she was just a young girl. So she and her older brother Éomer had come to live with their uncle, the king, and their cousin, Théodred. Lomelindë had already been given charge of the prince after his mother’s death, and so she reared the young cousins, giving all her knowledge and skill to the children. Raising them as her own gave the half-elf another source to pour her soul into.
Years passed, and the cousins grew tall, fair, and brave. Lomelindë was not always in Rohan, for news had passed quickly at her first arrival, some thousand years ago, of the beautiful lady who did not age. She was often asked for, to know what some ruler’s ancestors had done in a previous predicament. Corresponding and living back and forth between Rohan and the neighboring kingdom of Gondor gave her a title for one country alone; the Ageless Lady presided over both realms, and guided with a gentle hand.
But now grief was upon the land again. The great wizard, Saruman, had proved treacherous beyond all thought. He had corrupted the mind of the King; and made an army of orcs, christened the Uruk-hai. Until Gandalf returned, and restored Théoden to his proper mind, Lomelindë had feared that after all the White Council’s plans, Sauron would eventually conquer despite their best laid plans.
After the revelation of Saruman’s treachery, the men were preparing to go to Helm’s Deep to destroy the rest of the traitor Saruman’s forces. Lomelindë and Éowyn were commanded to stay and hold the city of Edoras against any other opposing armies. Needless to say, both women wished they could have gone to fight as well.
“How I wish I could go…”
Lomelindë looked at Eowyn. The half-elf knew the White Lady knew almost nothing of real battle. How could she, when she had only practiced with her loving brother and cousin? The Ageless Lady had seen war, and knew its perils.
“You know nothing of war, my lady.”
Éowyn glanced sharply at her companion. The Ageless Lady knew not how she suffered. Every day she endured from being cooped up, never allowed to wander the plains of Rohan, that were now unsafe. The White Lady feared no sword, spear, or shield, however heavy; the only thing she feared was a gilded cage that she would doubtless spend her life in.
“I have practiced many times. I am sure I could be of use to them.”
“But you are of use here; can you not see that? We need you here. The people love you; they shall do your will just as surely as they follow your uncle, or your brother.”
“If I am of such importance, why must I be kept, nay, trapped, in the golden halls of Meduseld? I—”
But Éowyn could not finish her statement of defiance, for her uncle, Theoden, Lord of the Riddermark, was striding towards them. His powerful hands lay on his sword hilt. His face was fierce; but his eyes were sad.
“Éowyn, sister-daughter; Lady,” he bowed as he spoke: “I commit my city to your care. I trust I shall return to find it in better order than I left it.”
“Thou shalt, O King. May thy return be swift.”
“Aye, uncle, and you shall return victorious, with all our enemies slain in worthy combat!”
“I thank you, ladies. May these halls shine bright for as long as the Ageless Lady lives. And Éowyn, fair White Lady and Shieldmaiden of Rohan, may she grow as wise as her father, for she is already as beautiful as her mother.”
With that, he bowed, and walked off towards his company. Along with the brave men of Rohan, the three strangers that had come with Gandalf sat upon two horses of the Rohirrim. A fair elf and a grimy dwarf stood close to Gandalf. Called by the name of Aragorn, was the third companion who sat astride a horse called Hasufel. He bore a kingly look. But all four seemed sad, for they had lost five of their original companions, including one that the peoples of Rohan and Gondor knew well, the young captain Boromir. He would never march along the white walls of Minas Anor again. The others were halflings, from a land far to the north, which they called the Shire. Lomelindë had not known them well; all she knew was that they were merry young things. The world would be a grievous place if those happy creatures were to utterly disappear.
Despairingly, Éowyn sighed; a sigh that returned the half-elf from her reverie and made her turn to the woman beside her.
“I am truly beautiful as my mother? Do you think the lord Aragorn will notice?”
“If he does not, for you are as beautiful than your mother, he either has a heart of stone, or is already promised to some other maid.”
“Could he be?”
“You implied yourself he is worthy of it.”
“Aye, and he is.”
Éowyn sighed; her cheeks aglow, with her golden tresses hanging gracefully down her back, her eyes scanned the brave crowd of soldiers. Lomelindë plucked the glowing curls with her fingers. How she had always longed that her own locks had been of such fiery color! And yet, if they had, she would never had met—
“Farewell, ladies, do not despair!”
With the King of the Riddermark watching for their reply, the girls could not look long on the mêlée. Waving their goodwill, woman and half-elf watched as the most courageous of their people marched to certain death. The forces of Saruman were reported to be immense, nay, beyond count; they had ravaged the countryside for miles, and refugees reported daily of fierce attacks.
“I don’t like it.”
“And I no more than you, Éowyn.”
“It wouldn’t matter so much if I could go with them. If only I could fight; then I would be happy.”
“Mayhap the battle will be won, but there will be those who will mourn fallen ones. Nay lady, you would not be happy, could you fight.”
“And how would you know? My ancestors have never allowed you to be near a battle. Without you, they’d lose much wisdom and lore.”
“I did not say that I personally knew; come, we must retire, and prepare for the coming days; they shall be your longest, and the nights longer still. But after all is done, if your mind still dwells on battle, I shall tell you a tale, one that I have not told you yet.”
The two girls went about the day with two different minds. Éowyn could not think of anything else but the impending new knowledge of her friend’s former life. Perhaps the Lady would tell her of a previous acquaintance of hers that had romantically died of grief for her love. The fretful woman strode through the day in a sort of haze; wondering what the night would bring.
Lomelindë also wondered what she would tell Éowyn. In her hurry to distract the girl, she had not thought what would be suitable. Not her own story. No mortal had ever learned of her heartache. She would rather survive with sorrow than be subject to sympathy. If he was dead, she could mourn; but needed no pity. Throughout the day, the half-elf went through the long unused annals of memory that held her past.