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NOTE: I have changed chapter one and two (slightly in some parts, more so in others). Hopefully I won’t be doing this any more… Also, ‘Celebwynn’ is a mixture of Elvish and Rohorric, which is done on purpose and for a reason.

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Chapter One: “Symbelmyne”

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When my father, Faramir, Steward of Gondor, brought Éowyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan, back to Emyn Arnen, she closed her eyes to the countryside ravaged by war.

Putting aside her lofty ambitions, she became a woman of the land and of the people. Within her hands flew the gift of healing, and with time, the people grew to love her as their own. For it was impossible to evade the White Lady’s agile touch, and the gentleness she learned from her husband only made her the more beautiful. In an attempt to set things right, she focused her eyes on the desolate land, and made amends with the life that had deserted it.

With the help of the Elves, the land flourished; gardens sprang up overnight, and flowers and trees that had disappeared for many an age returned once more to Ithilien. The Elves occupied much of the wood, and kept to the trees and hidden pathways that we mere humans could never detect. But they were present in our life within the palace grounds, and I recall many a night when their singing rocked me ever so gently into the world of dreams and slumber; where starlight beckoned laughingly and flowers sang in the wonder of their birth.

I brush these thoughts aside and turn my back to the procession of mourners receding towards Edoras’ gates; turning my attention to the grave before me, at the mound now closed off from us by a stiff wooden door. White flowers, the names of which I have forgotten, are already beginning to grow, and I watch silently as one uncurls itself from a mass of vines and opens slowly; ever so slowly…

“Come, Celebwynn,” murmurs Elboron, my beloved brother, lightly taking hold of my elbow, as though I am a child and always will be. He is my only remaining kin, this fair-headed man of strength and valour. “The old king is buried; let us dwell on him only in our thoughts, away from this forsaken place.”

“Forsaken?” I ask, turning so that I can gaze back into his eyes, “The dead are not forsaken here, brother, in Rohan,” I turn back towards the grave, and take a breath: “it is only in Ithilien that they are forgotten; forgotten and forsaken.” I know my words cause him pain, but I long to do something that will reveal the anger that I have been forced to hide these many days; Aye, I have been angry since we left our homeland, and I fear I always will be.

For Rohan is a desolate land, and its many plains and barren fields only remind me of what I have been forced to leave behind.

His face grows white and he lets go of my arm, “What would you have me do?” He asks softly, “You knew as a child that if there was no heir apparent in Rohan I would be called forth as king. You have known, Celebwynn; it is not my fault you have ignored the warnings. It is not my fault our cousin Elfwine was slain.”

“Nay, not your fault,” I agree, turning and taking a breath, “but it is your fault that I have been forced to follow you here, to Rohan.”

He places an arm on my shoulder and I stare down at his hand, marveling at the size of it, and I think to myself that my brother has aged in these past years. “You would have gone on living in Emyn Arnen had you married Eldarion.”

Oh! The fool! Even he knows he has said too much.

“No, Elboron,” I murmur softly, for I know that it still pains me to talk of the past, “I would not have stayed in Ithilien. I would have lived in Minas Tirith, as does each Queen of Gondor. I would have spent the last of my days looking out over the land towards Ithilien, towards the gardens and fountains I grew up with, longing for my home. ” I look back at him, and slowly he lowers his calloused hand, “… I would have died within those walls, Elboron, as I will one day die here.”

I pick up the hem of my gown, and move away from him. Though it is still early in the day, the sun has shifted so that the land is cast in shadows on this side of the hill. I pause as I approach the city gates, ignoring the people on either side of me, and turn to look out over this new and unknown country.

My home, I realize achingly.

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I stand today, three days after the burial of my kinsman, on the terrace leading out of the palace, and am still. Below me stand my people, the Rohorrim.

My people, who live and breathe for me.

My people, who would die for me.

They are just as still as I am, and I know, though it is hard, that the blood that runs through my veins is but the same blood that pulsates through theirs. We are the descendents of men and women who fought ceaseless battles in ages long past, who died fighting for the very ground beneath our feet. We are all daughters and sons of kings; we all belong to a lineage far nobler than ourselves.

The melancholy sky stretches out above our heads, limitless… endless. I dare to lift my face, and stare up at it, remembering my mother’s eyes, and how they once reflected those very clouds above my head. I contemplate the many shades of gray, and imagine that I am looking into my mother’s eyes, as I once did, not so very long ago. Those eyes had seen much, had spoken even more. Filled with wisdom that only comes with age and sorrow, those eyes followed me as a child.

They follow me no more.

I search for them in dusky corridors, in crevices and underneath crumbling arches. I long for them in my dreams, and seek them out in the midst of a blooming flower; in the smile of my people. I search the sky for them; that wide expanse of nothingness comes closest to being that which I seek.

And still, I do not find them.

I will not find them here, in Rohan, for my mother is buried beneath the hills of my childhood, in Emyn Arnen. I close my eyes almost bitterly at the thought of my home again, pushing the thoughts away; but the memories still come back. I do not see my land, instead, I hear it. I hear the falls, and the gentle dripping of water on stone steps and walkways.

Lord Faramir had promised the Lady Éowyn a garden… a garden that would bloom and grow with the years, a garden that would be fed on love, and joy, and happiness. Their garden grew, and the waters of Emyn Arnen fed it so it blossomed with a freshness that frightened men.

…A gift from the Elves, you may call it.

The horn of Rohan is being blown. I lift my gaze to the terrace above the one that I am standing on, and there stands Elboron. He stands proud and tall, and his hair billows gently in the wind.

The people below us fall to their knees; the sound travels up towards the fortress’s walls, and suddenly stops— all is still.

I watch him as he too stands still, and when he finally lowers himself to one knee, I lower my head. I know I too must touch the ground, but I will not. I hear the slight murmurs carrying through the crowd, even the Riders kneeling about me are whispering.

I do not care.

Let them say all they want, let them say that Celebwynn, daughter of Faramir, sister of Elboron, lacks respect for tradition and custom, for the new King of the Mark.

Let them say that she dons the colors of the House of the King with indifference, that she stands not like a true maiden of the land. Let them frown…Oh! Oh, let them think what they will. For I am loathe to bow down before Elboron’s newfound position as King, for I know that it will change him with time; corrupt him in ways that even I cannot fathom yet.

My brother’s eyes fall on me, and I feel rather than see the pity in them. They are kind, those eyes: too kind. ‘Please,’ they beg, ‘please try. Forget all that you have ever felt, all that you have ever wanted or desired… please, please understand.’

I wonder how long they will be so tender, those translucent blue eyes of his.

My knees embrace the ground just as the crown is placed upon his fair head, the gold glints in the light and instantly I shiver and look away.

“Elboron, King of the Mark, Lord of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor!” Proclaims a voice and the people rise, as one.

“Lady,” murmurs a voice, “you may rise.”

I do so slowly. I do not look to my brother, nor do I look up at the sky. Instead, my eyes fall down and trail over the slope of the land. The earth on the western side is dotted with white flowers; flowers that spring forth every season of the year.

Simbelmyne, they call it here, I suddenly remember.

‘Evermind,’ I whisper softly to myself, recalling my mother’s voice, ‘to remember forever those whom we have lost.’

I long for a single blossom, not for the countless ancestors who sleep below in the kingly barrow-graves; nor for Elfwine, the cousin and king I never knew; nor for the mother and father who lie so far away, in a land that has been taken away from me.

I long for a simple white flower, not for these reasons, but for the one standing so proudly and still above me…

For today, on the coronation of the new King of the Mark, I have lost the last thing worth living for… my brother.

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