Frozen. Cold. Stone. How else could I describe the heart of my pitiless father? In his cruel manner, he had surely sent my love on death's errand. Why? Maybe it was to protect me. Maybe he feared for me...or maybe it was his realm he feared for. Such an impossible task...had he truly believed? Nay, he knew Beren would surely die. And indeed, he would. To save me, he would be so heartless. For a moment--a brief, fleeting moment--I had seen it in his eyes. The longing for that light he had long ago lost. The light of Valinor. For that--and only that--would he give up his most treasured possession...me. Impossible.

I belong to no one. Slowly, I turned to face my father, who sat proud and sure as some god of old upon his throne. Sadly, I proceeded, and knelt before him and placed my hands on his lap. Strange, they were wet. I did not remember crying...yet I could remember near nothing of the past hour. My head spun, a lost snowstorm of the psyche.

He took them in his. Despite the raging fire I thought was surely consuming him from the inside, they were cold. The sudden fierceness I had laid on him melted, and I turned my eyes, until then averted, to meet his gaze.

He gazed back with a strange feeling, that of pained understanding. Long held pain must be within him, I thought. That which kills mortals. "Before you were born," he quietly explained, "there were stars with a brighter pallor than now."

*

Pondering my fathers strange message, I gazed o'er the land from my high perch. The wind gently swayed the branches of the birch tree, and I rode along with it. The sun blazed on his funeral pyre in the west, and a sudden thought struck me.

"Far down within the dim West, The Sun has gone unto His rest

In Varda’s womb he doth reposes, Like the dusty funeral roses

That lay withered on the vine, Drowning in the blood divine

The mourners, their measured footsteps falling, ,are all the world, their lament calling

We bow our heads; the procession passes, yet, then, pray, where are the ashes?

Tell me, all of you who gaze, upon the Sun’s last dying blaze

This holocaust that must be doused by night, where are the ashes, the ashes of Twilight?"

I heard a voice below me. "Tinuviel?"It was Daeron. "Tinuviel, why do you sorrow so?" I continued to stare onward. He sighed and tried again. "When will we laugh and dance again?" Silence. " Tinuviel, will you not sing for me?"

I smiled coldly. "No, Daeron. I’ll not sing for you. Not today."

"When will you sing again?" he cried.

"When my love returns," I said, sliding from my perch and onto the grass, "a conqueror!"

***

The time had now come. Surly by chance it seemed to them. Nay, rather it was fate. In any case, they had come. Elves, and Men, and Dwarves from all of Middel-Erthe,chosen by Illuvatar to decide it’s fate. Theses beastly dwarves and wicked men had come to my father for council, and were staying here, at the last homley house. Joy.

My mother had long since left, and so, as the daughter of Lord Elrond, it was my duty to represent her. Yes, for now, I was the lady of Imladris.

I truly detested the position, having to be dignified and proper for the title’s sake. It was a mere illusion. In truth, I would be running free o’er the fields, or dancing under the moon and star fields (it would suprise them to find I am mad as a wizard 'neath my docile appearance). Instead, I had to gracefully sit and look important at the many opulent feasts and meetings.

"Patience, Tinuviel." My father would always say. How could I be patient? I was like one of the many statues of Rivendell, fair to look upon, yet rigid as stone. My council indeed was wise, wiser than that of many who had come, yet some, especially the dwarves had thought a "woman’s" opinion was worthless. I wanted to smack each and every one of them. And would have, had Father not been there, though I will not admit I ever actually looked for a good time to do so when he was not...

These dwarves drove me mad. They had no respect for nature, or my father’s grand collection of books and artwork. They cared only to return to their caves as fast as they could manage and acquire their gleaming rocks. "They cannot see as we do," father said, "have pity on them." I did try, father, I did. Truley.

The Men that had come were no worse. Though better behaved than dwarves (who behaved like wild beasts), they took only a feigned interest in the grand knowledge that lay before them, within their very grasp, and wandered aimlessly. Men were so close, and still refused to open their many wonders.

They could not see past the physical form. When speaking to me, I could see the lust in their eyes. They did not see that I was wise or that I was the daughter of Elrond, only that I was fair to look upon. Nothing more. Some had gone so far as to entangle their fingers in my tresses as I passed, or brush my cheek as we spoke. They truly believed I felt the same as they.Poor, poor, ignorant Men. Why would they not just see? I had an urge to smack a great many of them, too. When father was not around, of course.

Estel never treated me as they. He was always kind and respectful, knowing I was the Lady of Imladris and as of yet still a pure, untouched maiden. Soon I would be his bride, but until that moment, I was still young and my father’s child. He was wise and fair as an Elf lord, and knew well not to touch me least I willed it.

My heart grew sick at the thought of being departed from him. On that somber morning in bleak December, we parted...for a time. I could see the many dangers ahead, yet I rejoiced at the thought of the sun after shadow.

Before he left, I told him that  my love was true. In his hands I placed a braid of my shorn hair to bring him luck, and told him to think of me. "I will, always, vanimelda.," he said ,"and when I return, it will be to you." With that, he kissed me softly and left. The Fellowship of the Ring, fleeing from great peril into greater peril. Without the dark, how can you pass into dawn?

As I contemplated this, I heard a familiar voice say, "Milady, what troubles thee?" I looked down to see my portly hobbit friend, Bilbo. The sun shone through his whispy white hair as he padded over to where I stood. "Would you like to hear of the time I fought the dreaded fyr draca*?" (A tale I had heard a number of times corresponding to how old Tom Bombadil is) I sighed. "Perhaps later, Bilbo."

"Excellent!" He exclaimed, beaming."I was sitting outside of my hole, smoking my pipe..."

***