Disclaimer: All the ages of Ea don't belong to me.

Dedication: For the wonderful people at Henneth-Annun Story Archive.

Warning: Note that I took some liberties in writing this fic.

1. In Which Our Heroine Proves She Has A Lot of Growing Up To Do

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Elenya, Urime, Year 20 of the Fourth Age

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Sweet Eru.

My tutor, complaining of my my loud mouth and revolting penmanship, gave me this empty book and ordered me to write in it at least thirty minutes everyday. He said that I needed a place to channel my mouthiness and learn to write better. So I am forced to write everyday in a stupid book in a stupid study when I could be doing something useful. I could be listening outside the door of the council chamber so I can learn how to manage a realm or in the archives looking up useful lore. I could even be in the training fields, practicing my swordplay. Not that I'm much good at it, but practice makes perfect, they say.

Curses, why is my life so miserable? You would think that a princess would have a lot more fun and freedom. Instead, I am stuck in a stuffy room, slaving to curl my T's just so while peasants run around doing whatever they wish. Gah, life is so unfair.

Oh dear, my tutor was looking over my shoulder. He told me to quit whining and start writing something of value down. Let's see, what would be of value enough to please my oh-so picky tutor and the rest of my father's oh-so picky advisors?

I might as well start with my name, age and place of residence. I am Elwing of the House of Telcontar, Princess of Gondor and the third daughter of King Elessar and his queen, Lady Arwen Undomiel, formerly of Imladris. I am currently thirteen years of age and reside in the King's House of Minas Tirith with my parents, my four sisters, and my younger brother who is my best friend in the whole of Middle-earth.

My tutor has just nodded and declared this entry enough for today. He then told me that I must be very careful with this book; otherwise, something terrible may happen to it. Perhaps it will fall ACCIDENTLY into a fire and be burned to ashes, rendering it totally useless. And it will all be an ACCIDENT, won't it?

That is all for now.

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Anarya, Urime, Year 20 of the Fourth Age

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Curses, I wasn't able to burn this last night. My mother watched me like a hawk the entire night - I wish that Elven eyes weren't so sharp at times - so I couldn't toss this without her noticing. My mother wholeheartedly approved of my writing in this book daily. She said that it would organize my thoughts. My thoughts don't need to be organized. I'm probably the most organized of all my sisters and brother. At least I don't leave handkerchiefs in the gardens like Celebrian or my sewing basket under the chamber pot like Gilraen.

All right, my chamber could be a little neater - my father used to rough it and expected us to do the same - but my clothes are always clean. If you don't notice the grass stains on the skirts, that is. At any rate, I don't need this book. Really, I don't!

My mother is currently staring at me. I swear, she can look right through the cover and see what I'm writing. Oh well, I might as well write something about myself here in case Mother or my tutor reads it. Otherwise, I'll be forced to do something unpleasant. Perhaps something like being forced to sew dozens of samplers. Anyway, let's start with my family.

My father is King Elessar or Aragorn or Wingfoot or Strider or Longshanks or Estel or Thorongil or whatever you want to call him. He's, as you know, King of the Reunified Kingdom and therefore, is busy all the time holding our land together. Unfortunately, I see him, oh, TWICE a week at the most since yet another problem with Corsairs harrying the falas. Stupid enemies, always ruining our family life. You see, I love Father even though he sometimes forgets to take a bath after coming home from war so I end up with mud on my gown and a nasty smell in my nose, but that's Father for you.

My mother, on the other hand, is quite different. Seeing as she's THOUSANDS of years old, she seems to know absolutely EVERYTHING, and I mean EVERYTHING. Like the time Eldarion and I hid a frog in Gilraen's basket which ended up frightening her so much, she landed in a fountain. The court thought it was hilarious. Mother did not.

Even though there were PLENTY of suspects within the court. I mean, ever since Father became king, there has been a positive boom of children - at least that's what Ioreth at the Houses of Healing told me - so there's no end of buckets of water and spiders and frogs crawling about the place. Yet, Mother simply zoomed in on us and forced us to stay inside for a week, polishing WINDOWS. We have servants to do our bidding, and we still have to polish WINDOWS. Like anyone cares if the glass is streaky.

Joy, we have just been called for dinner. I'm glad I can stop writing. I'm SO looking forward to tomorrow's entry.

2. In Which (Some) Important People Appear

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Isilya, Urime, Year 20 of the Fourth Age

Minas Tirith, Gondor

I'm currently in the study that functions as my classroom. My mathematics lesson is over so it's now time to write in this accursed book. Orc bile, when it was time for this year's lesson plans to be announced, I hoped it was going to center on the history of the Second Age, statecraft, and speech.

Instead, I learn my lessons are going to focus on mathematics, composition and penmanship, and needlework, of all things. I can understand mathematics and writing to a certain point, but NEEDLEWORK? What use is knowing how to darn stockings when the fate of Middle-earth rests on knowing the right thing to say to an ambassador from Rhun? Arrggghhhhh!

My tutor whom I won't name is currently reading over my shoulder again. He's now glaring at me. Again. All right, tutor, I'll write something informative down.

My eldest sister is Gilraen, named after my paternal grandmother. Poor grandmother, forced to be the namesake of such a nasty person. Gilraen is so ladylike and proper. She always dresses properly for every event and says the right thing for every conversation. Her smooth, silvery-gold hair never has a strand sticking out, and her nails are always clipped and clean. Her stitches are always small and neat, and she never steps out of her proper place. If only they knew. . .

My tutor just told me to stop whining about my WONDERFUL sister. All right, let's go on to Celebrian.

Normally, a child is not named after a still living Elf, but since none of us will ever see my maternal grandmother in Valinor, my parents decided it wouldn't hurt. At any rate, Celebrian's not an Elf so it's not like we're stealing Grandmother's identity. I think.

I must say Celebrian is nothing like the grandmother whom my mother praises with no end. At sixteen, two years younger than Gilraen, she is a silly, empty-headed twit with no. . .

My tutor once again is glaring at me. All right, already!

Eldarion, the heir to the throne of Arnor and Gondor and so on and so on, is twelve. He's also my dearest friend. The older ladies shake their head at us and whisper about what a bad influence Eldarion is to a young lady such as me. Young lady, indeed. If I'm a young lady, hobbits are six feet tall.

Miriel and Firiel, the twins, are the youngest. The rhyming was unintentional on my parents' part. They're only two so they're not too bad. Yet.

My thirty minutes have passed so I can stop. Hurray!

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Aldea, Urime, Year 20 of the Fourth Age

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Uncle Faramir and Aunt Eowyn are coming!

Or rather, the Steward and Prince of Ithilien and his wife, the White Lady, but they're just as good as kin, in my family's mind.

I adore Aunt Eowyn. She's probably the strongest woman I've met (except for Mother, but she's something else). She defeated the Witch-King of Angmar for Elbereth's sake! Can Gilraen do that, tutor? No, she can not!

Uncle Faramir is one of the best men I know. He's so wise and gentle and understanding. I'm glad he's father's Steward.

The only problem is that they're bringing their sons.

Later. . .

I had to stop an hour ago. I had to have my new gown fitted for that ball Mother is throwing for Aunt Eowyn and Uncle Faramir when they visit. Gah, the only thing I hate more than needlework is having to stand still for HOURS to have a gown adjusted. I even hate it more than writing in this book, and that's saying a lot.

Now about Aunt Eowyn and Uncle Faramir's sons. Needless to say, they're not my favorite people in the world. Well, Elboron is not too bad. He's seventeen so I don't see him too much since he spends most of his time with other men.

However, I utterly DESPISE Eomund. He's probably the meanest, nastiest boy from here to Edoras. The last time I saw him, he told me I looked like a rat and dropped a frog down my skirt! Even Eldarion wouldn't do that! And what's worst, he only does those things to ME! Why me? What did I do to him?

All right, I did call him an ugly pig. Twice. And I did pour a jar of spiders on his bed when I was ten. But he deserves every single nasty thing done to him! Really!

At least their daughters are coming, too. That'll (hopefully) sweeten Eomund's impending and unstoppable visit.

The oldest, Finduilas, is nineteen and much sweeter than Gilraen. She always listens to me and never thinks of me as a silly child.

Little Morwen, who's six, is adorable. Everyone calls her "Elwing and Theodwyn's Little Shadow" because she follows me and Theodwyn around all the time and always does everything we tell her to do.

As for Theodwyn, she's my age and my best friend after Eldarion. She's studying to be a shieldmaiden like her mother once was and doesn't think about pointless things like fashion. The only problem is that she's Eomund's twin. Gah, no friend's perfect, I guess.

Anyway, they're coming tomorrow! I can't wait! (See, tutor? I only whined about writing ONCE.)

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Menelya, Urime, Year 20 of the Fourth Age

Minas Tirith, Gondor

They're here!

All day long, I stared out the window, looking for their arrival. At breakfast, Mother scolded me for letting my porridge go cold, and started lecturing me about how many people all over Gondor would be happy just to have that one bowl of porridge. Let them have it, I say; I hate porridge.

During morning lessons, tutor (I still won't give him the benefit of having his name written here.) yelled at me for not solving the equation on the board. Gah, who needs equations in real life when some of my dearest friends are coming any minute?

At afternoon lessons (They change every day.), Armsmaster Hirvegil made me run around the training yard twice for not practicing my swordplay. And the training yard is HUGE. I was on the verge of COLLAPSE when I was done.

Finally, we (Except for Father, he's out in Lossarnarch and will arrive tomorrow.) were sitting down for the evening meal when Eldarion looked casually out the window and yelled. Loudly.

"Eldarion, what in Elbereth's name are you shouting about?" Mother said, rubbing her pointed ears. Elves, as I said before, have sensitive hearing. Poor Mother.

Eldarion was practically jumping out of his seat. "Mother, they've arrived!"

At his words, Mother's demeanor changed from annoyed to serene. "Good. Come along, all of you. Watch your posture, make sure your clothes are neat, and mind your manners." Valar, Mother, they're practically kin.

Then, she looked sternly at my sisters and started jabbing her finger at them. "Gilraen, don't be so bossy to the younger children. Celebrian, try not to fall all over Elboron. The two of you should also help Aerin (the nurse) with the twins." Miriel and Firiel simply giggled and clung to to Aerin's skirts while Celebrian and Gilraen groaned, Celebrian especially. Elboron is high on her list of handsome, marriagable boys. Father says she is going through a stage; I say what Celebrian needs is a functional brain.

Mother turned her attention to Eldarion and me. "Eldarion, watch your language. Words heard in the barracks are not to be spoken here."

Eldarion snickered. "Yes, Mother." As if he would actually listen.

Mother sighed and said, "And Elwing, dear, watch that tongue of yours. Try to refrain from being catty with young Eomund."

"I'll only be catty if Eomund is catty first," I said.

Mother shook her head. "No, Elwing, you WILL be polite if it should kill you."

I grumbled. "Fine. Just make sure I'm not buried next to Lady Andreth after I explode."

Her eyes narrowed. "Elwing. . ."

"Yes, Mother!"

Mother smiled and went back to being serene. "Well then, let us go down." And we all went down to the great hall.

I saw Aunt Eowyn first, and I immediately forgot what Mother told me and launched myself at her. "Auntie!" I screamed. I could here Mother sighing as I did that. Hang protocol, in my opinion.

Aunt Eowyn caught me and squeezed. Tightly. The only problem with Aunt Eowyn is that her embraces are too tight. That's all right, though. What matters is what's inside. (At least that what all those philosophers talk about, anyway.)

She let go and whispered into my ear, "Elwing, how is the needlework?" I had told her about the needlework several weeks ago in a letter.

"Horrible, of course," I whispered back. "The lady who teaches me to sew says my stitches are the worst she's ever seen." Not that I care. I don't need it if I'm going to be someone important someday. What am I going to do, you ask? (Tutor is looking over my shoulder again.) Err, ummm, well, I don't know, but I will know someday, you'll see!

She winked at me. "Don't worry, Elwing. I wasn't much good at needlework myself at your age, and I turned out fine."

I smiled and then nearly started when I felt a tap on my back. "Do you have a kiss for an old man, milady?" a voice said.

I smiled again. "Of course, milord." I immediately planted a kiss on Uncle Faramir's cheek.

He laughed, his gray eyes twinkling. "Well then, may I steal the fair lady at your side for a bit?"

"Of course," I said, and Aunt Eowyn, laughing, immediately went over to Uncle Faramir and tucked her arm into his. They then went over to greet Mother.

Finduilas, meanwhile, winked at me and walked over to chat with Gilraen and Celebrian. I don't understand why Finduilas likes the "Terrible Two" so much. Maybe Finduilas is trying to reform them. Not that I think the THEY will ever change.

As for Elboron, he went over to converse with Eldarion due to a lack of men his age around and completely ignored Celebrian's not-so subtle attempts to attract his attention. Someone should remind me to switch her rose-scented perfume with brine tomorrow.

I felt another tap on my shoulder and spun around. Theodwyn was behind me, dressed, surprisingly enough, in a green dress. Theodwyn is a notorious tomboy, more so than I am.

"Nice dress, Wyn," I said with a smirk.

She scowled. "Say one more word, El, and I swear, I will trounce you so hard at our next sparring session that you'll have bruises on your rump for a week."

"Those are big words, Theodwyn, but is there anything behind them?" I said. "Besides, I've been practicing." It's only a minor lie. Surely, a lie so small won't hurt. Will it?

Theodwyn snorted. "Really, Elwing? I remember the last time we sparred, I disarmed you three times within thirty minutes."

This time, I scowled. "Well, you have the Lady of the Shield-arm as a teacher, so it's not fair. Father's too busy to teach me. Otherwise, you would be the one without a weapon all the time. After all, Father's supposed to be the greatest swordsman in Middle-earth."

Theodwyn said, "While I agree with the part about your father, El, I still think I would beat you. You NEVER practice."

"That's because my bloody tutor never gives me any ti-"

"Hello, Rat-face."

I turned around to look into a pair of very familiar gray eyes. "Hello, Eomund," I said through gritted teeth.

"What, Rat-face, cat got your tongue?" said Eomund with a smirk.

Theodwyn sighed. "Leave her alone, brother."

Eomund ignored her. "Rat-face, I'm starting to think the cat SWALLOWED your tongue."

Ignore him, I said to myself. Aloud, I said, "Isn't it a beautiful night?"

Eomund snorted. "Trying to change the subject, are you?" he said. "Bema, Rat-face, I've never seen anyone come up with a comeback as bad as that one before."

Remember what Mother said, I told myself.

"If that comeback was bad as you say it was, what would you call your horsemanship?" I said sweetly. "After all, doesn't your twin sister beat you all the time when you race?"

Hang what Mother told me.

Eomund's face reddened. "Why you-" he began.

"You two!"

Our heads both whirled around. Our mothers were both glaring at us. Most of the people milling about stared, too. Mother snapped her fingers.

"Stop that nonsense at once!" she commanded. "Elwing, what did I tell you?"

"Hold my tongue, Mother," I mumbled. No use being catty when Mother was angry.

Aunt Eowyn marched over to Eomund and grabbed his arm. "What did I tell you?"

"No arguing with Rat-face," he said.

Aunt Eowyn narrowed her eyes. "Her name is ELWING, Eomund. Apologize. Now."

Mother nodded and waved her finger in my face. "You, too."

We walked as slowly as possible to each other. "I'm sorry," I mumbled.

Mother glared daggers at me.

"I'm sorry, Eomund."

Eomund grumbled and finally said, "I'm sorry, ELWING."

Both of our mothers beamed, and Mother said, "Let's go to dinner, shall we?

We all started walking towards the dining room. Theodwyn laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. However, as we passed Eomund, he stuck his tongue out at me.

I knew it was rude, but I stuck my tongue at him back.

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Gilraen's hair: Since Galadriel was blonde and Celeborn was silver-haired, I tend to think Celebrian (due to her name as well) had silvery hair. That's why Gilraen hair is a silvery-blonde.

3. In Which A Rivalry Is Explained

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Earenya, Urime, Year 20 of the Fourth Age

Minas Tirith, Gondor

I HATE EOMUND!

Nine minutes later. . .

Tutor read my book. AGAIN. He then told my mother. The rat. Now I'm here again, writing in a horrid book thanks to a horrid teacher. Sweet Elbereth. . .

Tutor just read over my shoulder and suggested that I explain my irrational hatred of Eomund. How is my hatred of that WEASEL irrational? He deserves every bit of hatred I feel for him!

You know why, Tutor? Because HE was the one who started our feud back in the day when we were six.

You see, I was at Emyn Arnen for the first time with Mother to visit Aunt Eowyn and see Theodwyn and the Weasel for the first time. I was dressed in blue, and Mother was wearing purple while Aunt Eowyn's dress was the same color as the fresh green grass. I could remember the smell of the air and wildflowers, the color of the brilliantly blue sky, the whinnies of the horses in the stables, the. . .

How do I remember this all if I was only a wee child? Well, er, um, I just have an excellent memory, Tutor. Some people just have EXCEPTIONAL memories, you know.

Anyway, Theodwyn was ill that day, and the Weasel had disappeared before I could meet him so I had no one to play with. I was wandering around the grounds, picking flowers and singing bits and pieces of a song I've heard:

There is a pin, a merry holed pin

beneath an holed play mill.

And there they drew an ear so round

That the Man in the Moon himself came down

one night to drink his pill.

The hoss has a ritzy cat

that says a five-ringed riddle.

The . . .

I KNOW that I completely ruined the song sung by the Ringbearer on the night he met Father at the Prancing Pony in Bree, but I was only six years old. Little ones always ruin songs. Look at Morwen, the twins, the littlest princes and princesses of Rohan and Dol Amroth, any child under the age of seven. Just yesterday I remember the youngest child of Lord Mardil singing, Earendil was a milliner that was marrying our vermin. . .

Ha! Judging from the look of absolute horror on your face, I win. Sort of. Anyway, the point of this entry is to justify my hatred of Eomund so let's get on with the story.

I was just walking around, not bothering anyone when I stumbled on a tree-lined pond in an isolated corner of the gardens. It was a hot day so I decided a swim would ease the heat. I stripped off my garments. . .

I KNOW that's improper, but I was only SIX. There was no one around so I assumed it would be fine. Anyway, I was having a good time, wading and paddling when HE showed up.

Realizing that he should not have seen me in my state, I swam as far out as I could (Which wasn't far, I admit. My swimming skills were limited, at best, and I wasn't very tall.). And the Weasel had the audacity to STARE at me.

"Why are you here?" I demanded.

The Weasel just SHRUGGED. "I live here, and this is where I swim when I'm hot." He stopped for a bit. "Can you get out? I want to swim, and we both can't swim here."

Naturally, I was angry. I got there FIRST, and he just told me to get out. He didn't even say PLEASE.

"Why can't I swim here, too? I have as much right to swim in this pond as you do, er -"

"Eomund. And we both can't swim here. You're a GIRL. Girls and boys can't swim together," he said.

"Who said so?" I asked.

He scratched his head. "Everyone." Eomund then puffed himself up, making himself look like a overblown bullfrog in the process. "Anyway, who cares? Since MY father rules Emyn Arnen, that means you have to get out when I tell you to. So get out, um, -"

"Elwing." By then, I was FURIOUS. That wasn't Uncle Faramir's son. Uncle Faramir's son wouldn't be rude to a girl so he must be lying."Well, my father rules Arnor AND Gondor so that means YOU have to go away when I tell you to. So YOU get out, you blown-up toad."

His face screwed up. "You're lying. A princess of Gondor wouldn't insult anyone, especially a prince. And you're too ugly to be a princess."

I felt my cheeks heat up. I know I wasn't very pretty at the time, and I'm not very fair now but to hear it from a rude boy I didn't even know made me dislike him even more.

"Well, you're the liar. Uncle Faramir would have never had a son as horrid as you, you worthless, lying weasel!"

"If you weren't a girl, I'd go in there and punch you right now!"

"Go ahead. I bet I can punch you harder than you can."

"You, a GIRL? That makes me laugh."

"I can too. Your so-called mother is a girl, and she beat up the Witch-king of Angmar!"

'Mother is different. She's a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, and you're just a little rat-faced spider!"

I started to move toward him. "Spider? You're going to be pig-feed by the time I'm done!" That was when I realized something we had both forgotten. I had absolutely nothing on. . .

Stop smirking, Tutor. You're supposed to be on MY side. You're MY tutor, not his.

Anyway, Eomund stopped, and his eyes widened a bit, the toad. As for me, I sank into the water and wrapped my arms around my body.

"Stop staring, you little beetle!" I shouted.

All of a sudden, an odd look came into his eyes. He smirked and bowed a little. "Well, I can't help it. So forgive me, Lady Elwing. I'll be on my way now."

I stared down at the water and sighed with relief, but all of a sudden, I felt suspicion creep into my mind. He wasn't going to give up this easily, would he?

I looked back up just in time to see him reach for my clothing which had been lying neatly near the roots of a tree. "Get away from those!" I screamed.

At my words, he snatched up my clothing, gown and all, and started running. "Ha, ha, Rat-face!" he shouted back.

"Come back here, you filthy rodent!" I shrieked as loudly as I could, but he naturally didn't stop. So I ended up staying in the water, shivering and shaking, but too afraid to emerge without my clothes. I ended up staying there for HOURS.

By the time, my Mother and a manservant found me, I felt feverish and hazy. I remember Mother shaking her head and muttering about "silly, thoughtless children" while wrapping me in warm coverings and pouring something wonderfully warm down my throat, but I was too sick to understand or even care.

I spent two, whole WEEKS in bed ill with fever. Eomund had to asist with several unpleasant tasks for months (neither of which were cruel enough) besides having to apologize to me in front of most of the residents of the hall. Aunt Eowyn and Uncle Faramir also sent me a beautiful set of riding gear for my little pony and several gorgeous books to make up for their son's behavior, but I will never forgive him. I could have DIED if Mother hadn't found me in time. And that's why I hate Eomund, the so-called weasel son of Uncle Faramir.

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Author's note: (peeks out) Please don't kill me for messing up the "Man in the Moon" song (pgs. 155-156, Frodo, The Fellowship of the Ring) and the first line of the "Song of Earendil" (pgs. 227-230, Bilbo, The Fellowship of the Ring) I did it in honor of all the times we have misheard a song's lyrics. After all, we all have done it at one point in time. Especially as children, right?

Disclaimer: I ripped off the idea of list-making from the Princess Diaries by Meg Cabot. Yes, I like those. So sue me.

4. In Which Elwing Attempts To Analyze

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Elenya, Urime, Year 20 of the Fourth Age

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Curses, curses, curses!

Tutor had a case of stomach trouble yesterday so I CONVENIENTLY forgot to write in my journal yesterday and hoped that Tutor would forget about checking to see if I wrote in it.

That didn't happen.

This afternoon, Tutor DID check to see if I wrote in it. He then marched over to where I happened to be having an important, VERY intense match of cards with Eldarion and plopped this wretched book in my lap. That rude interruption completely broke my concentration which contributed to my losing the card game. And worst of all, Eldarion is going to gloat for days because I happen to be THE Champion Card Player of the children of the House of Telcontar and have never been beaten by any of my kin. And it's all Tutor's fault!

REASONS WHY I WANT TUTOR SACKED (I'm never going to write his name in this book. Not ever!)

1. He is always trying to poke his overly long nose into my business.

2. He is too bossy and critical. (I am a princess! He can't boss me around! (Oh dear! I sounded like Anarmiriel! And Anarmiriel is the most spoiled, selfish, self-centered brat-who-calls-herself-a-lady I have ever met.))

3. He gives me too many lays in Sindarin to translate into Westron. (Why do they need to be translated in Westron, anyway? They sound better in the original tongue!)

4. He spend too much of our study time in mathematics. (I'm never going to use many of those formulas in real life. So why do I need to learn them?)

5. He is still making me write in this book and actually believes it will somehow help my penmanship. (I don't need help in penmanship! What did you just snort, Tutor? I know my handwriting looks like chicken scratches, but I can read it and so can Mother. All right, trying to decipher my handwriting frequently gives Mother headaches, but she can still read it!)

So there!

Hmm, list-making is fairly interesting; I'll write another.

WHY ELDARION IS MY BEST FRIEND

1. He's fun to be around.

2. He's the only one allowed in the soldiers' barracks; therefore, he hears new curses and teaches them to me.

3. He thinks of the best pranks. (One of the best pranks he ever thought of was the time we dusted the inside of Celebrian's undergarments with a powder concocted of various plants that makes one itch. Once Celebrian put that on, her skin was red and bumpy from her scratching all throughout yestare. Of course, Mother found out, and the punishment inflicted on us was rather unpleasant, but all of it was worth the show of Celebrian fidgeting and embarassing herself throughout the day, especially in front of Belegorn, Lord Hurin's son, who Celebrian happened to have set her sights on for a potential husband.)

4. He is far better in mathematics and Sindarin than I am so he tutors me in those subjects. (Tutor, Eldarion does not give me the answers all the time! He really doesn't!)

5. He isn't mean to me and Theodwyn like other boys. (Such as Eomund.)

Hmm, who knew list-making could be so helpful in purging oneself of anger? I'll write another.

REASONS WHY NO ONE BELIEVES GILRAEN, CELEBRIAN, AND I ARE SISTERS

1. We do not look the least bit alike. (Gilraen is tall and willowy with pale, pale skin and smooth silvery-gold hair. Celebrian possesses a diminutive height, a rather ample figure, a rosy complexion, and wild black hair. I happen to be somewhere in the middle.)

2. Our behaviors vary. (Gilraen acts properly all the time. Celebrian is considered hopelessly silly and lovesick. Everyone thinks I'm too much of a troublemaker and tomboy.)

3. We do not act like sisters. (At least that what some people say. Mother says that our quarreling all the time is what sisters do.)

4. Few believe that two people can produce three such vastly different daughters.

5. We. . .

I must stop. It's time for my final fitting. The ball is tomorrow evening! I can hardly wait!