The Exile's Daughter

A Welcome Respite

It was just before midday when we had returned to the camp. In the few days we were gone, Ancalimë had trekked with Almarien and Firiel around the little valley, finding all sorts of treats ready for our return. They had been growing potatoes since they had arrived almost four years previously, and this was the first year the tiny crop had proved fruitful. The food they had gathered would make quite the feast for everyone, especially combined with Halbarad's deadly strength home-brewed ale.

It was an overcast, breezy day at the end of the harvest season. I sat by the river with Firiel and her daughter Raina, Ancalimë, and Almarien. Initially Legolas, Firiel's six-year old son Aranwë, and Galdor had joined us, but they were now far upstream, looking for fish to catch. "Nattering voices scare them off!" Galdor had insisted, earning a pebble to the head for his cheek.

From a distance I watched Legolas bend down, adjusting Aranwë's grip on his homemade rod. He helped him practice casting off the line into the river, clapping when the little boy finally achieved it on his own and leaning down to ruffle his dark hair.

"I often wonder what we did to deserve that elf." Firiel remarked, her eyes also on where she knew Legolas stood. "Is he teaching Aranwë to fish, Ness?"

"Yes", I answered, aiding her with my far-seeing eyes. "He's perfectly safe on the bank though. Legolas and Galdor will not let him join them on the rocks."

"Of course they wouldn't. They're cautious with the lives of others, those two, even if they show no such care for their own'." Ancalimë tipped the potato she had been chopping into a huge pot and started on another. "He's so patient with the children, I asked him more than once when he first joined us whether he was a father himself."

"He would not have left Mirkwood if he had children." I commented quietly, leaning more comfortably against the trunk of a willow and adjusting the undershirt I was darning. "There have been few elvish children born in Middle Earth in this age. The ones we have are precious beyond measure to their parents. You should see the way Lord Elrond looks at his three. He hates it when the twins come here."

"You are one of the youngest, surely?" Almarien asked, grabbing another carrot to peel.

"As far as I know, I am the youngest." I smiled at Raina's wide eyes.

"How old are you?" She asked. Firiel frowned.

"That is no question to ask a lady", she reprimanded. I laughed and shook my head.

"It may be a rude question for a mortal lady, but it is not so for the elves. I will have lived a thousand years soon enough."

"And you are the youngest?" Raina said incredulously. I smiled.

"Yes, I think so. You must remember that we live as long as Arda lasts. Many elves wed and had their children long before this age begun, and many choose never to marry."

"Why is that then?" Almarien leaned forward curiously, quite forgetting the carrots.

"Your race wed for life, but we wed forever. If you find out you are not suited to each other, the rest of the course of Arda would be considerably less enjoyable."

Ancalimë laughed. "You are too pessimistic. What if you truly love someone?"

I cut the thread as I finished my work, folding my undershirt neatly and reaching to my left to put it on my folded cloak out of the dirt. "When elves are betrothed, we give each other silver rings, which represent our intention to wed. Then we must wait at least a year. If you find in that time that you are not suited to each other, you give the rings back. If you are still willing, you wed. It is an ancient custom, but it means that most elvish marriages are happy ones."