Stars of Varda - An Elven Love Story (Thranduil)

8. Starry-Eyed

"I am not much of a painter..." Gwendes lowers her brush and contemplates her forest scene. The corners of her mouth turn downwards. "My hand refuses to cooperate the moment I lift a brush."

I flit my eyes to Gwendes' painting and then back to my own. As with everything, she is unforgiving of herself. If there is any need for improvement, it is with perspective. But her use of color is enviable; the greens of the trees and blues of the river are striking in an unconventional way for Elvish art.

"Next time you should give me a lesson in pottery making."

"I would like that very much."

We stand on a grassy clearing overlooking the river and tall waterfall beyond. I have painted the panoramic view before, at both sunrise and sunset. But my focus has never included the solemn statue watching the scene in silence, having remained there for nearly three-thousand years. As the surrounding forest has darkened with time, the statue's gaze has remained transfixed on a faraway point in the distance.

The Queen of the Woodland Realm is beautiful, even in carven stone.

Gwendes sighs. "I feel more confident with clay. In truth, I feel more confident with archery than painting..."

"Tis the one thing I cannot do to save the entire realm." I smile, remembering my conversation with Thranduil. "Give it some time and you will hear Legolas speak of my failed lessons."

"How did you fail them?"

"By never once hitting the target. To give Legolas credit, he kept his patience until my thousandth miss."

Gwendes' mouth forms an O-shape.

"To think, when I was an elfling I wished to become a warrior."

Gwendes laughs. "I had the very same dream! I am not skilled enough to be a warrior by any means, but I can hit a target on the rare occasion. It was actually my brother who taught me..."

She drifts off. Mentioning her late sibling has the effect of removing her smile. The silence is now deafening, even with the thundering water and the distant shouted commands to soldiers in the training grounds.

"I have decided..." I lift my brush from the canvas. "...your brother is as legendary as Ronir the Silvan from his stories."

Gwendes blinks. "He would have liked hearing you say so. But he was only a simple soldier and potter. He had no grand adventures like his written heroes."

"Have you forgotten his current grand adventure?"

"What do you mean?"

"He has surely left the Halls of Mandos by now." I look at the statue of Thranduil's wife. "What greater adventure than the land of the Valar? I imagine him exploring it fully, from the Gardens of Lórien to the highest peaks of the Pelóri Mountains."

"I have never thought of it like that." Gwendes' smile returns. "But I believe you are right."

"I believe I am as well."

I dip my brush into a dark shade of gray on the palette. The Queen's countenance in my painting is not as forlorn as her one in stone. I imagine her more wistful, as though missing the lands of Lindon and her family there. I imagine her having trouble adjusting to the endless forest of the Greenwood, so unlike her airy coastal city. Perhaps the sculptor exaggerated a normal longing for home.

The only thing I can remember of the Queen is her hair. As a child I believed it was spun gold, created by the Dwarves in the mountains. But she died before I learned otherwise.

Though the dullness of the stone will never be a substitute for gold, the sculpture captures the length and fullness of the Queen's hair; it frames her petite face and cascades down her back like a still waterfall.