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Chapter Five: “Barefoot in Ithilien”
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The illness has passed, and Elboron waxes strong with the passing of each day. He walks in circles about me, and seeks forgiveness, though I have long forgiven him. For is he not just a man? And am I not just a woman? Our mistakes are what shape us, and without them, we are but the cold wind that blows down the from the mountains, finding rest only in the force of our emotions.

ElboronÂ’s eyes have grown distant, and I do not know them any longer. But when the sun shines playfully down upon his hair, and the gentle breeze of the nearing summer strums at his heart, I see again the smile I once knew, and it gladdens me.

At least he has not disappeared altogether, this brother of mine.

There is much to prepare for as the days grow longer, for soon it will be the High Day of Spring, when all of Rohan gathers to witness the blessing of the land by the King. Elboron will also precede and consecrate the wedding feasts that only occur in spring time; already the young maidens waiting to be wed are filling up the Golden Hall, their sashes and hair ribbons lay littered about.

Word has come that King Aragorn will ride to Rohan in time for the feasting, for Elboron is still Steward of Gondor, and I dare think that the King will come to remind him of the pledge he took in the silent ceremony after the death of our father.

For it was a silent rite, filled with the bitterness of things that are not right. Our father was too young to die, and the arrow that sent him from us did trouble the people– ‘for who would have shot the Steward?…So kind and wise was he‘, the people whispered.. Young he was not, but his heart still was, and so the people seemed to let the passing of time forget the number of his years.

“You must move your feet, Celebwynn,” instructs Eadric as I lift yet another sword and follow his fastidious movements. But it irk me to do so, and I think upon other things, until he grows livid with anger. For teaching me the art of swordplay does not lie light with him, and I know he thinks of other things… of the steed that awaits him in the stables and the feel of wind in his burnished hair.

“Go! I will not teach you today. You tire me, lady, and I need rest!” He finally exclaims for all to hear, grabbing the sword out of my hand and turning away. “To think, a daughter of warriors,” he mutters, but this only I am privy to. I do not mind, for I mist admit that I am a rather limp pupil, and cannot be shaped even by his masterful hand.

I fare little better with the weavers, who eye me scornfully as I enter their small room and sit beside their never still bodies. They all have a reason for their work, but my own spinning does not benefit anyone, not even myself. For many long moments I sit and ponder the etchings on the wooden table before me, my fingers seeking the nooks and crannies deliberately. I stand, and my eyes settle on the looms, and I watch, transfixed, as the shuttles move rhythmically with the tugging and the pulling of the womenÂ’s hands.

I am drawn to their hands; scarred they are, and tell of days spent in hard toil. My own hands are soft, save for the slight calluses about the thumbs, where I oft hold my blade when I move through the rows of my plants, my eyes searching for the insects that eat away at the tender roots.

Their hands remind me of the ElvesÂ’ fingers… not in their ruggedness, but in their fluidity– in their never still motions. For the Elves of my home did love to craft beauty, and their hands grew still only when they slept.

It was from them that I was taught how to hold a bow. Taught, yes; but never did I master the art. I would watch their hands flex as they held their weapons; the muscles of their palms so taught and strong that they seemed an instrument in itself. And though I watched, I never would understood the techniques or the practice of it.

—

“Celebwynn, do stand back,” announced Legolas, “the marksmen will hit you if you stand any closer.”

“But they are not men,” I mused, stepping obediently aside.

He raised an eyebrow and smiled, “No, they are not, but it is a term that all of Middle-earth uses, I daresay.”

I watched him pick up an arrow, and waited for him to lift it to his ready bow. But he paused and smiled down at me.

“How old are you now?”

“This is my sixth spring,” I announced proudly.

He shook his head, “So old, and you still cannot strike a target. Truly, Celebwynn, I am quite ashamed of you.”

I pouted childishly and stamped my booted foot, “It is not my fault that—-”

He placed a hand upon my mouth, as he had done often before. “Learn to accept criticism, child, and learn to take the willing blame.”

I sighed and nodded my head warily, for he was right. My father nor my mother ever thought to reprimand Legolas when he scolded me, for he was a friend and a wise one at that. Long were his years, and much could be gained from listening to his advice.

I watched him as he turned back to the bow in his hands, as I had done so many times before. Much of my life had been spent there, amidst the trees, in the woods beyond the palace where my motherÂ’s gardens flitted out into the valleys and forests of the Elves. Lord Legolas, as my mother had instructed me to call him, and his people were in many ways my own people, for I knew their habits as well as my own, and their home was as familiar to me as the deepest nooks and crannies of my palace home.

I inspected the other Elves as they lined up in a contest of sorts that would prove who was the better archer; for the day at least. They were younger than Legolas, and none could outshoot him, for few had the experience that he had. I stared down the length of Elves, watching them smile and talk beneath the shade of the broad trees. My favorite was Elrein, the orphaned son of an unknown union. Unlike many of his peers, he was dark, and only the light of his eyes saved the features of his face from consuming the handsomeness of it. He moved with grace, and his laughter oft sounded through the hills, echoing from one dale to another. He was kind, and did not look down upon me as many of the others did, with scorn for my age and ineptitude.

For though he looked to be no more than one and twenty, he was as old as many of the ancient trees of Gondor, and had seen more than most men can see in several lifetimes.

Elrein did win that day, but only because Legolas stepped back and let the younger ones shoot, watching them with a keen eye. His glance fell upon Elrein, and he decided something that day.

“Elrein,” he announced, “you shoot well, and are skilled in much of our ways. I present to you Celebwynn, the Steward’s daughter. You will teach her how to handle a bow, and in a yearÂ’s time I hope to see much progress on her part.”

And Elrein accepted this kindly, and looked upon me with mirth. For he knew we were friends already, if not in words than in heart. And that summer we grew close, for I was a noisome child, and he was a silent Elf, and my babbling did ease the pain that echoed in his heart; a pain that I would only later come to understand.

We walked the unseen pathways of Ithlien that summer, and picked flowers in the shaded places of the wood. Often he would pick me up as we crossed over a stream or brook, and I would not stop my chattering, for in my childish mind, I thought that it was right for him to be so kind and agreeable. His laughter did sound more often when I was beside him, and we sought each other out to ease our own separate afflictions. I would come to him with tales of scraped knees and of unkind words from my brother, and he would listen, nodding understandably all the while. Only as I grew older did I realize that it did him good to hearken to me, for he could forget his own woes in my childish worries.

And my mother laughed at the sight of us, for a more unlike pair she had never laid eyes on before.

“Elrein, how patient you are,” she would announce with a laugh and a smile, “for I know how hard it must be to spend an entire afternoon alongside the prattle of my daughter. The Valar must look down upon you with favor, for never has anyone had to endure so much affliction.”

He would smile, “No, Lady– patience I have but little of, and CelebwynnÂ’s words are a soothing banter to my soul; and friends we are, and I hope will remain so until the end.”

And in this way he was different; for among the Elves of his age, only he found anything pleasant in the companionship of a mere human child.

But my mother did fret as time passed on, for she saw me as an unwelcome burden to him, and as the years passed she tried in vain to explain to me that I was a bother and a nuisance.

“He is far older than he appears, Celebwynn,” she chided me as the seasons changed and whirled about us, “and you are only a child to him. Aye, you will always be a child in his eyes.”

“We are friends, mother.”

“And when you grow into womanhood, what then? What will you do when you heart changes and you find yourself longing for companionship of a different kind?”

I stared blankly up at her, not comprehending. “Friends,” I murmured again.

“You will age, Celebwynn. You will grow older… and yet, Elrein will stay the same. Ever-young. What then, child?”

But I thought little of the fact that he was far older than I. Indeed, it did not sadden me as I aged to see him stay the same, for I found comfort in it— the Elrein of my past was the Elrein of my present and of my future.

Though all might change about me, he would not.

—

My thoughts dwell on the maidens who have filled Meduseld. Lovely they are, and sprite of step. I shirk from these young girls and their lithe youth. Though I am but five and twenty, their innocence stirs within me, and I watch them silently; these girls who will be wed on RohanÂ’s High Day of Spring.

I am old beside these maidens, and have seen more than they will perceive in a lifetime. For I have seen the walls of the White City, and even the distant hills of a land called The Shire. I have traveled this knobby earth and have seen much, and I still hope to see much more. But they are content to live out their lives in Rohan, with the man who has chosen them. I wonder if love is a factor in this land, and how many of these girls have agreed to a wedding because they wish to escape the closeness and familiarity of the homes they have been raised within.

Their gowns fill the halls with light and movement, and their laughter rebounds from the thick walls and sloping awnings. In their soothing beauty, I remember my own childhood; my own innocence, and the year that pulled me from childhood and into the light of painful young womanhood.

—

At the onset of my sixteenth summer, I was sent to Minas Tirith, to take my place as one of the many handmaidens of the Queen. I was late in my coming, for the set age of the handmaidens was ten and four, but I had resisted until my mother would no longer listen to my pleas. Though I had oft been to the White City, I had not been there for many a year. I was not anxious to part with my mother, for I feared I would lose her as easily as I had lost my father so unexpectedly.

“It is only for a year,” she murmured, holding me close, “and though I will miss you, and long for your return, I know that it is better done sooner than later. Do not fret, not much can change in a year…”

As handmaiden to the queen, I had little to do, for the Lady Arwen had no need of servants or maidens. I walked the corridors, and looked out towards Ithilien, waiting for the seasons to slowly pass so that I could once more run barefoot beneath the trees. The feasts and banquets of Minas Tirith were lovely enough, but amidst the splendor, I found myself but a growing shadow.

… For the daughters of Elessar and Arwen filled the city with beauty, though they were but faded visions of their graceful mother. Oft I would watch them pass: the three sisters of the House of Elessar, the eldest princess older than myself, the middle one born but three months time before me, and the youngest only a year after. Kind they were, and as gentle as the doves that woke me each day with their tender warbling.

“I would walk with you, Lady Celebwynn,” announced the Queen one subdued morning. And so we meandered through the city, and the peaceful silence of the morn did fill me with joy.

“You are not happy here?” She asked as we watched the sun lighten the clouds near the far reaching horizon.

“I miss my home; my people. I miss Ithilien,” I replied, for I could not help but speak the truth in her presence.

“But something else has wearied your soul Celebwynn, daughter of Éowyn. The ache of your heart fills our halls with foreboding, and I see it as plainly as I see the sun rise each day. Speak, and explain yourself.”

“My face fills with shame to think that I have caused you grief, my lady,” I responded, for I did not wish to tell her what troubled me: Aye, I sensed she already knew.

She turned and looked upon my face, studying it slowly and with no thought of pity upon her clear brow. Then, as though she had decided something, she turned away and I followed the pattern of her steps.

“Do my daughters fill you with shame, Celebwynn?” She murmured. The ring about my heart did lessen, for though her words did strike a chord, it was not what had worried me.

“Aye, my lady,” I readily agreed, “Beside the swans of Minas Tirith, Celebwynn of Ithilien is but a gull or crow.” I said it lightly, for long ago I had accepted the truth that the beauty of my mother had not been mine to claim, nor would it ever.

Arwen nodded her head, and smiled gently, turning once more to me. “I will not speak deceit, child, and tell you that beauty is yours to lay hold of, but your face and your features are appealing enough, and the strands of your hair and the beam in your eyes are more than enough to make do. Not all men seek refinement of body, and some are said to search for delicacy of spirit.”

I turned my head at her words, my movement mirroring of my motherÂ’s… for she too turned from her pain until she could no longer bare it. I gazed back at my Queen, and she bent her head and kissed my temple as a mother would. Before we turned back towards the palace, she stared earnestly into my eyes.

“Do not think that I am satisfied with your answer, Celebwynn. For a young girl’s step can be as heavy as yours for one reason alone, and I know it is not what you think of as your lack of beauty that burdens you.”

I remained silent, and beneath the eaves of the city, she took hold of my hand. “I would not tell you this, for I believe one must find her fortune alone; but the dimness of your stride does trouble my heart, so I speak to bring you peace:

‘He misses you, child.”

—

I returned to Emyn Arnen that following summer, and though I had been saddened at leaving Minas Tirith, my mind was filled with the joy of my return. For a year I had not lain eyes on my kin, for though they were often visitors to the great city, we were not given leave to see one another. I had often scoffed at the foolish ancient law, but all such thoughts quickly vanished as the arms of my mother and brother warmed me as they never had before.

I was seventeen, and was no longer the sprightly child that had left Ithilien in silent tears. I had sprouted upwards, just as my mother had when she had been my age. My face had lost much of its childishness, and even I could feel its angular differences when I touched it. My mother held my face within her cupped hands, and stared back with wonder at me.

“You have changed,” she murmured.

“As have you, mother,” I said, noting the tiny spread of wrinkles about her bright eyes.

“Go,” she finally whispered into the folds of my hair, “the wood awaits you.”

I ran through the grass barefoot, as I had longed to do for many an hour in Minas Tirith. I frolicked in the leaves and embraced the birches, and in my gaiety, I even kissed my reflection in the gentle spring of Scentinth. In the peaceful shade I rested my head, and dreamt of things I no longer can recall.

I awoke to find Elrein before me, sprawled out on the sweet grass and staring into my face with a smile. We did not speak for a long moment, and when I finally threw back my head and laughed, he picked me up in his arms and spun me around, as he had done when I had been but a babe.

“You are no longer as light as you once were!” He exclaimed and I laughed even harder, for it was true: the food of Minas Tirith was filling.

“How have your people faired, Elrein?” I asked later as we walked by the stream, plucking shafts of grass and tossing them into the bubbling waters.

He paused, and looked up at the darkening sky, and instantly I regretted my words, for I had remembered too late that the Elves I spoke of were not his people.

It was hard for me at times to remember that Elrein the Light-hearted had not been born to the Elves of Mirkwood, but had been found beside the slaughtered bodies of his people; of his parents. Where they had come from no one knew, and Elrein, my gentle friend, would search for them until his days grew dark and numbered.

Finally, he spoke, and looked down upon me with gentleness.

“They live as before, and caress the wood with what is left of their power,” he announced, speaking of Legolas’ people, “some have departed for the Gray Havens, others will soon follow.”

I took this in with sadness, and did not speak.

“WhatÂ’s this— the girl who could never be still of lips as a child grows silent?” He teased, drawing me close. I stiffened in his embrace, and my gaze fell not on his face, but on the green of his tunic. Long had I dreamt of his arms, but never had I spoken of my desire, for despite the Lady Arwen’s whispered secret, I still remembered my mother’s warning.

One finger lifted up my chin, and he smiled tenderly at me. “As a child you looked me in the eyes, Celebwynn. Why do you now avoid my glance?”

“It hurts so,” I whispered, “please let go of me, Elrein.”

“And what if I do not?”

I frowned, and finally looked up into his jaded eyes.

How lovely they were, with flickers of gold and amber filling them with light, and framed by a hood of darkened lashes.

“Then I would have to say that Elrein grows cruel with the passing of time.”

“Celebwynn…” he paused and smiled sadly, “I hold your heart in my hands, do I not?”

The color rose to my cheeks, and I turned quickly away; but I could not lie, not to him.

“… Aye, that you do,” I whispered feebly, for I had not planned on revealing my sentiments to him that day, or any day to follow, for I would always think of my mother’s gentle counsel.

“And what if I were to give you mine?”

“I did not ask for it,” I breathed.

‘But I have longed for it…Â’ I thought softly to myself.

“No, that you have not,” he agreed meditatively. His grip on me loosened, “But it is the custom of the Elves to return gifts with gifts, and a young girl’s heart is a very precious gift indeed, even among us.”

I watched him as he stared up at the darkening heavens, at the sky now saturated with fistfuls of flame and fire. He closed for his eyes for a moment, and when he finally opened them, he smiled and held out his hands to me, “What say you, Celebwynn, Silver Lady of Ithilien: will you have my heart?”

He wrapped a finger about my silver hair, gently tugging on it. A knowing smile played on his face, and I felt the earth move and weaken beneath my trembling legs.

And despite myself, despite what I knew… despite the gnawing of my mind, I took his hands in my own and gazed back at him gravely.

“I would have it, but only for as long as you have mine,” I whispered back. And Elrein smiled, and wrapped me in a forgiving embrace.

“Then I will hold it for ever.”

And later, as he took my hand and walked me back towards my home, leaving me at the edge of the gardens I had so missed, his lips touched my cheek.

“…I will hold it, Celebwynn,” he whispered, “Aye, and I will cherish it until the end grows dim.”

—

These are my thoughts in the noise and dim of the Golden Hall, and I flee from them.

I hasten down the road that leads through this simple village, blind in my impatience to escape the thought of Elrein and my past. For the memories are not all sweetness, and the bitterness of not having him beside me darkens the far corners of my mind.

A figure calls out to me, and I turn at the sound of the voice.

“Lady!” An elderly woman approaches at a ragged run, bent with age and labor. I stand still and look not at her, but through her bent form. “Lady… please, please come!”

I frown and pick up my skirts, moving towards her slowly as my mind embraces the world of the present once more. “What is it that you need?”

She shivers, though the sun is high in the sky, and grasps my arm, “It is my daughter, please, please come with me! The healers have no potion to ease her pain; please, please come quick!”

I rest my eyes upon her hand; gnarled it is, and dirty. I shudder and she quickly removes it.

“What makes you think I can help?”

But she is pulling me, and I see the fear in her eyes: she fears for her daughter. “They say you have a way with herbs; that your hand is the hand of a healer,” she stops suddenly and looks me in the eye, “Aye, and they say you are a daughter of the land; our land. You are Éowyn’s daughter.”

My mother’s name upon this gnome’s lips stills me, and I dig my heals into the dirt. “And what good does it do me, to be the daughter of your greatest shield-maiden?” I lift my arms and push away at the air before me, closing my eyes to fight off the thoughts within me. “What good does it do,” I repeat, “if I am not her?”

But she has no time for mere quibbles, and roughly pulls me along. I wrench free of her grasp and stand back.

“Lady,” she implores wildly, stretching out her hands to me, “wonÂ’t you come? … WonÂ’t you help?”

I turn and hasten away.

For I am no healer.

Aye, I am not my mother.

—