from essenceofarda

a poetically #blessed ship 💖

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from notbecauseofvictories

A VERDANT HEART 

Arwen is her father’s daughter. She might have her famous ancestress’s aspect, her mother’s grace—but there is a certain resilience that runs in the line of Elrond Half-Elven, a hard-hearted beating will to endure. It carried her father through the loss of his brother, his king, his wife, his land; it will carry her through this too.

Arwen kisses the smooth granite tomb, the grand names he had won for himself—but he was always Estel to her, in a private selfish sort of way. I gave Hope to the Dunedain—yes, of course, and she had taken a little of it for herself, just enough to keep under her ribs, and warm her, just enough

by Eru, she had loved him.

Her brothers offer to escort her to Lothlorien, her son—the high king, now, though it seems only yesterday she was holding him swaddled in her arms—offers to marshal a guard, but she refuses. Instead, Arwen saddles her own mare and ties her little pack to the saddle, makes a few quiet goodbyes and then slips from the city walls when the air is still dawn-cold and grey.

(In truth, there are not many goodbyes to make. She knows more tombs than living men these days, since Faramir was laid to rest in the white city beside Eowyn, and Legolas and Gimli sailed for the West. Minas Tirith has not been so populated in an age, and yet it feels empty and emptier by the day.)

Lothlorien has grown ragged around the edges, without Arwen’s daernaneth to tend its gardens. Except for a few Silvan elves, who watch as she passes through the woods, the palaces and rooms have been emptied out. Arwen is alone.

Yet when Arwen makes her way to the mirror of Galadriel, she finds a woman standing there. Her copper-bright hair falls to the small of her back, and as far as Arwen can see, she is scooping dead leaves from the water. (Arwen imagines that without Nenya, Lothlorien no longer lingers in perpetual summer, but moves through the seasons with the rest of Middle Earth.)

Arwen clears her throat.

Oh, the woman breathes, straightening up. Forgive me, I…

Who are you? Arwen demands.

I am Tauriel, Captain of the Guard in Mirkwood. Lothlorien’s northern marchwarden, Haldir—when he left for the West, he tasked me to look in on Lorien occasionally. And you? 

I am Arwen Undomiel, granddaughter of the Lady Lorien.

Tauriel startles, then drops down into a low bow. Lady, she says respectfully. And—you have my condolences. The death of King Elessar grieves all Middle Earth.

She is very young, still. Arwen feels suddenly ancient just gazing upon her. Yes, I know. Tell me, Captain Tauriel, if one wanted to work off one’s grief through the labor of their hands…

Lady, I can—

Teach me, Arwen says. She is tired, she is so tired, but her spirit is hard, and she will endure. Teach me.

Captain Tauriel is skittish, quiet, overly careful not to offend the Evenstar—but she is a patient teacher and Arwen learns to wash hangings in the great and steaming vat, scrape platforms of leaves, dig up roots for re-planting after the winter. I am neither maid, nor gardener, nor mistress of a house, Tauriel says vaguely apologetically, when they come across some task she does not know how to accomplish. But the Lord Celeborn’s library is a strange collection of many things, gathered throughout his meandering interests, and there Arwen sits many nights, reading Quenya by candle-light.

She burns her fair skin brown, and grows accustomed to falling into bed still-aching, smelling of burnt leaves, roasted garlic. She wonders if even Aragorn would recognize her now, half wild and well-read

It takes almost full autumn for Tauriel to warm to her, to talk about her sisters, her king, her work, the one she had loved—he died, is her short explanation, until one night when she mentions his name, kili, son of dis and Arwen is not so ignorant she does not recognize the names of Durin’s heirs.

(There is a strange kinship in knowing that her companion also lost an unlikely love—Arwen had two centuries with her mortal husband, and Tauriel had only so many days with her dwarf, and still, and still—)

One morning, Tauriel comes with her rucksack slung over one shoulder. I must return to Mirkwood, lady, she says. If you are still here, come spring…

Come back for the planting, Arwen says, embracing her.

(Arwen stays through the winter, inviting the few Silvan elves to share of her table when the days grow long. Then it is spring again, and Tauriel returns to look after Lorien as she promised her marchwarden. Arwen pins her hair up, develops callouses where the shovel fits into her hand. They dig holes for bulbs, re-plant the trees—Lothlorien has never seen potatoes and peas planted beneath the mallorn, but Arwen thinks of fresh carrots and does not mind so much.

Her brothers come to see her, come summer, and are bemused by her flame-headed companion, still quiet and cool—though Arwen has learned to read Tauriel’s silences, her warmth. Lothlorien is no longer the dream-valley, but it is green and fulsome, and it is a good place. Perhaps that is enough. Are you happy? Elrohir asks her quietly one night.

Yes, Arwen says. Yes.

Arwen is Elrond’s daughter and Galadriel’s granddaughter, and she endures, making the world green where she walks.)