You're never far from me T.A. 2063 (Galadriel)
Jun 3, 2018 20:37:40 GMT -5
Post by Mîrioniel on Jun 3, 2018 20:37:40 GMT -5
Eighty years was a lifetime in the world of Men, but for those of the Eldar, it was but a grain of sand upon a beach, too insignificant to draw notice. The seasons rolled through their continual loop, life flourished, perished and resurrected again. Even the lives of the Eldar would rejuvenate, upon some distant date, nobody could predict. Time had lost all meaning, it was but a social construct that no other non-sentient creature in the Arda measured. The Ents certainly paid no heed to it, and Mîrioniel no longer paid heed to the passing of time. The year nineteen eighty-one would be recorded as the year that the last Sindarin king of Lothlórien, Amroth perished, drowned in the Bay of Belfalas. The nearest town was named after him in tribute, Dol Amroth. For his betrothed, she had vanished in the aftermath of the his death, with many presuming her dead.
The Song of Nimrodel had spread, though Mîrioniel had not admitted to penning the verses, though she heard the strains of it trail through the woodland, and the sorrow it was sung with. There was no doubt there were those who would mourn the passing of Amroth and his betrothed, or those who commented that their story was the saddest ever sung throughout the realms.
Mîrioniel had isolated herself from the population of Lothlórien, living near the river that ran through the Golden Wood, now named after her mother, Nimrodel. She had dwelt there since returning from a failed attempt to find her mother. The elf maiden had embarked upon the quest, immediately after the arrival of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, with Lothlórien's newest Marchwarden, Haldir. Theirs was not the auspicious journey, no trace was found of Nimrodel, nor did they make it all the way to Edhellond, before they were forced to turn back. Mîrioniel had been sunk in sorrow, and once recovered, found she could not abide to live in Caras Galadhon, it was too full of life and joy, reminding her daily of all that she had lost.
Eighty years she had remained alone, none had tried to persuade her to return, though she knew that eyes still watched over her. For the longest time, the pain was sharp, cutting and stinging, she grieved until she thought she might follow after her parents. Mîrioniel couldn't remember when the pain began to diminish, it never fully departed, it simply didn't hurt so keenly. It was a simple existence, with the river, and its constant burble a comfort to her. There were no external worries that harried her, and she lived fondly remembering the moments of life and laughter, until the warmth turned cold, leaving her heart heavy. In more than one way, she felt like a wounded soldier, forced to give up the fight.
If it was not a damaging enough blow that she had lost her family, she had also lost her place within the community. The very occupation she had been moulded for, was no longer open to her. Haldir had reassured her that every elf had their worth, even without a crown, and as wise as those words were, Mîrioniel struggled to grapple with the sense of loss. There was not a road she knew that led her anywhere. First her father, then her mother, then her regency. Galadriel and Celeborn were the finest leaders; strong, wise and powerful, her selection could not have been better. It was the only comfort she could take from this. Above everything, she had put Lothlórien first, and ensured the realm would thrive.
There was no conscious decision to return to Caras Galadhon, she simply woke up one morning and followed the sun toward the centre of the woodland realm. Once again she was aware of eyes following her progress, sentinels in the trees, who had passed many a year and more without seeing her. Even after all this time, the only thing that had changed were the trees, growing tall and strong, but the paths, and the flets were all the same. This had been the place she grew up in, and she knew it intimately. Although it was no longer hers to rule, it didn't mean that it didn't make up some of her identity. The elf maiden couldn't let go of that, or she risked letting go of herself completely, losing her spirit and fading to nothingness.
Her feet had carried her to the flet were visitors were greeted, that sometimes doubled as a space for meetings. There was no one there, and as her eyes roved over the space, they were drawn inextricably to the entrance that the King of Lothlórien would make his entrance. For the single beat of her heart, she expected to see her father, before remembering it was not possible. Mîrioniel let out a heavy sigh, a single tear forging a path from the corner of her eye, and on to her cheek. This took courage, and she would not flee now.