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Chapter 17 – Unheard Voices

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The evening was hours old, but Mírra could not sleep.

She turned on her side as she lay in bed, facing the windows, where moonlight streamed in through open curtains.

They had departed this morning, all six of the visitors. A small escort would accompany them as far as Calembel, just as had been done before the arrival. Kind farewells were said on all sides, but Doran and the princess had parted with a greater understanding of each other than they had previously known.

And now, in Doran’s absence, it was thoughts of him that had kept her awake for so many hours. It hardly made sense to her but then, during all the days of his visit, Mírra could hardly recall an instance when he had not occupied her thoughts.

Two nights previous, it had been just the same. She had returned to her chamber following the celebration and stayed awake in a half daze, as the hours passed by almost unnoticed, the sensation of his kiss still lingering. Running her fingertips over her lips, she could still recall it even now, the pleasant softness of his mouth touching hers. Sighing, Mírra pursed her lips together, slightly moistening them, as the memory of the embrace flooded her mind.

Curling her body slightly, she brought up an arm to hug her pillow, and blinked her eyes knowing full well she was no closer to reaching slumber.

And all over a man you hardly know, she could not help thinking, recalling her conversation with Doran in the stables.

The circumstances of their meeting had been so unexpected. Life does take unexpected turns, Doran had said. But it was too late to turn back on feelings at this point, unexpected or not.

Was it indeed true that she hardly knew him? She knew that he loved his son, and his family. He must have loved his wife, although he had not spoken to Mírra of her. He was honest and direct. Her father seemed to think him a good person, and all the things she had learned from Doreth told her that he was kind.

And beside all these things, she knew how she felt in his presence.

Mírra flipped the sheets aside, wondering why she even needed them in the summer heat. Sitting up for a moment, she eventually rose from the bed and crossed to the other side of the chamber, to her small table. I cannot do nothing.

As she lit a small lamp, the room was soon bathed in faint yellow light, to help her search for paper, pen and ink. It was not something she did often, but she had made a promise.

Soon Mírra was seated with pen in hand and, in the very smallest hours of the morning, quietly began to write.

* * *

"You look tired," Lúthea told her older sister the next morning.

The two of them were in the library. Mírra looked up from where she sat with her cheek resting in her palm. Her eyes must have looked far away.

"I didn’t sleep very much last night."

Lúthea hopped down from the stool that she had stood on to shelve a book. "Why, what’s wrong?"

"Just thinking about things, I suppose."

The younger princess came to sit on the other side of the table, saying nothing, but looking expectant all the same. Mírra folded her arms on the table and leaned forward, resting her chin on a forearm. She glanced back at her sister briefly.

"I know he’s only been gone for a day, but… I keep thinking about Doran," she admitted.

Lúthea began to toy with the book in front of her, fiddling with the leather reinforcement at the corner.

"You like him very much, don’t you?" she said quietly.

Mírra smiled a little, and nodded as a tinge of pink colour appeared on her cheeks. She raised herself up slightly and went back to resting her cheek in one hand, meanwhile tracing a knot in the table’s surface with the fingers of the other.

"Last night I kept remembering everything that happened between us." Her smile increased. "I started to write a letter."

"Really?" Lúthea returned the smile, excitedly. "What did it say? No, sorry, you don’t need to answer that, it is between you and him of course.’

"I began to ask questions. But I don’t know if any of it is the right thing to say. I do not exactly have much practice with this sort of thing."

"I’ve looked at some of the collections of letters here," said Lúthea thoughtfully, looking at the books that surrounded them. "People write for many reasons."

"I am quite sure whatever I write will be far less eloquent than anything in this collection."

Mírra continued to look down at the knot in the table, her expression doubtful. Meanwhile Lúthea leaned forward over folded arms, taking up a position similar to the one her sister had abandoned.

"But why did you want to write the letter in the first place?"

Mírra responded in a soft voice. "I just… I felt like I wanted to talk to him again. I missed him." She looked across to meet her sister’s curious gaze.

Lúthea shrugged. "That sounds like the right reason to send a letter to me. But Mírra, is it really such a good idea not to tell mother and father?"

"Perhaps not. I don’t know." She bit her lip, the blush returning to her cheeks. "I’ll think about it."

She picked up a book and began leafing through it absentmindedly. Not a moment too soon, the girls’ mother appeared at the entrance to the reading room. Arwen gave a light knock before stepping in.

"You are well prepared already, I see," said Arwen as she surveyed the few volumes that Lúthea had already stacked at the end of the table.

It was the younger princess’ turn to blush.

"I couldn’t wait to get started," she said as her slim hands flitted to the books she had chosen.

Arwen looked over to her oldest daughter. It was unusual to see Mírra in the library. But then, they had not had much time to themselves recently, with all the visitors to the city.

"Do you wish to join us, darling?"

Mírra stood somewhat sheepishly and crossed to her mother. Arwen wondered if there was something amiss, but chose not to voice her concern.

"Ah, I do not think I am much for reading, at present. Perhaps I shall go out for a ride instead."

"Very well. I hope you enjoy the sunshine then."

Giving Arwen a quick kiss on the cheek, Mírra quietly made her exit.

"Now then," said the Queen, taking a seat beside Lúthea at the table, "what will we look at today?"

They had already been through a substantial amount of Imladris’ collection. Arwen was quite impressed with how quickly her daughter had taken it all in. Lúthea moved from book to book enthusiastically, and had been quite absorbed with the poetry anthologies in particular.

"Well..." the girl bit her lip once more in eagerness. Her quick eyes followed the movement of her hands as she made a survey of the books in front of them. "I was reading through the literature before Midsummer started, but now I thought maybe we could look at some more of the histories? We only read a little bit about Rivendell in the beginning."

"True enough," Arwen admitted. Whether intentional or not, she had shied away from her father’s work. Perhaps I have put it off for too long. "What is this one here?"

Lúthea read aloud, carefully. "’The Founding of Imladris and a History of the Bruinen Valley.’ It has some illustrations as well."

"Your Sindarin is quite improved," said her mother with some delight, as she noted the elvish characters on the book’s cover.

"I’ve been practising." Lúthea smiled and sat up a little straighter as she replied with a small amount of pride.

Arwen was struck with a curious thought. "When was this written?"

"Third Age... 563," Lúthea said after some page flipping. "Why?"

"Hm. It is almost as old as I am." The Queen looked thoughtful.

Lúthea could not be sure what this meant, but appreciated the quality of the materials, in any case. "They have been well taken care of."

"Indeed." Arwen saw her daughter grow quiet, staring at the pages in front of her. "Not to worry, darling, you shall not harm them."

"I won’t, I promise."

As Lúthea quietly turned her attention to the first section of her history, Arwen mastered a small part of her misgivings, and took up a volume of her own.

It did not take long for her to recognise the handwriting. Centuries ago he had put these words on the page, and yet she could so easily find the memory of it; watching him bent carefully over his desk, much like her own daughter was now.

Arwen looked up to see Lúthea regarding her somewhat apprehensively.

"Something is wrong?"

Arwen answered softly. "I have not looked at these in a very long time."

"It was my grandfather who wrote them, wasn’t it?" Lúthea asked carefully.

Meeting her daughter’s grey eyes, Arwen nodded.

"How wonderful," said the princess, looking back to the page with a renewed appreciation. "Then I can learn more about him as well."

The Queen observed her reading for a moment, pressing threatening melancholy away from the corners of her mind. Who am I to prevent it?

* * *

As soon as she was in the open air, outside the city, Mírra began to relax.

Breathing in deeply, she turned her face upwards to welcome the sunshine. It had been so long since she’d done this, just lead her horse and go – near the mountain, on the outskirts of the city, it did not matter where. At the moment she seemed to be heading toward the Anduin.

The river.

Mírra sighed with only a mild twinge of apprehension as she approached it. Tugging on the reins, she brought her horse up short of the riverbank. There was nothing unfriendly about it. Both the brightness of sunshine and the blue sky were reflected in the water’s surface.

There was nothing threatening about this place for her. How different the Morthond was from the Anduin, in her memory.

After a while Mírra began to guide her horse on a light trot, following the briskly moving current. As she finally turned away, the city came into view.

At one time she would have ridden back at all speed, but today she allowed herself to feel the sunshine on her face, and ignored the wind that tugged at the long braid of her hair.

She began to turn over words in her mind, surprised to find herself eager to put them down on paper.

I did not expect the river to bring me to you. For those briefest of moments I was lost, frightened, alone. I thought that memory would stay with me always.

But now a different memory has replaced it, and I am not frightened anymore.

As she drew near to the stables, she was not even aware of the smile on her face.

* * *

The following morning brought a much similar scenario, with the two sisters again together in the same reading room.

Lúthea was pulling a few books down from a new shelf, one that was within her grasp. She was only slightly stretched on tiptoe.

"There. I think these will be enough to start with." She returned to the table with her finds.

"Have you been through the whole set already?" Mírra teased, feeling much calmer than the previous day.

Her sister smirked. "Very funny."

She began to sort through the books she had taken, all from an anthology about Eriador, when she came across one that did not match with the others. It was smaller, with a deep blue cover.

"What is that one?" Mírra asked.

"I don’t know. It must have got in by mistake." She set it aside for later.

Mírra returned to her previous task. "Luthea, you must admit how much you like this. I’ve never seen you move so fast through books before."

"But these things are about our family. Some of them are even by naneth’s father."

"Really?" Mírra’s brow creased momentarily. "He is no longer living, not in Middle-Earth."

Lúthea nodded. "I... I wanted to ask her more about it, but... I wondered if it would upset her."

"Well, the High Elves are sailing to Aman."

"But Mírra, I do not understand. Does she not have the same chance?"

Mírra remembered having this conversation with Eldarion once. They were both aware of where their mother’s parents were, but they were also aware of how little was spoken of them.

"I know. But father cannot leave, and so she must stay with him."

"They never talk of it."

"If you are truly so curious, why do you not ask her?"

"I don’t know. She would have spoken of it by now, surely, if we were meant to know?"

Mírra shrugged. "But these books are here, are they not? It could be, that she does not know how to start."

* * *

Whether it was shyness or not, Lúthea found herself reluctant to voice any questions to her mother that day. The afternoon wore on, and they leisurely made their way through the volumes that the princess had chosen.

Occasionally Arwen would stop and ponder an illustration, or read a short passage aloud. Lúthea saw her slowly becoming absorbed by everything, running her fingertips over the text as if renewing some kind of connection. Even the cadence of her voice took on a different tone when she spoke in the language that was so familiar to her.

As the hours passed Lúthea felt she could picture in her mind all of Imladris’ terraces, the white waterfall of the Bruinen river, even the lush gardens. All because her mother was there to give voice to it.

It was with a small amount of regret that she realised the afternoon had worn nearly to a close, and would need to put away the tales for another day.

"Do we need these ones any more?" said Arwen, gesturing to a small stack of three or four books on the far side of the table.

Her daughter shook her head. "I think I can put them away now. They’re from the next room." She hopped over to collect them, and briefly stopped next to her mother again. "I’m glad you looked at these with me, nana. Thank you."

Arwen smiled warmly. "I am too, darling. You are quite welcome."

Wearing a shy smile of her own, Lúthea slipped away, leaving Arwen to survey the remaining contents of the table.

As she stacked the few books that were left, she came upon a small blue volume that looked different from the others. Wondering for a moment if it belonged with a different collection, she examined it. There was no title on the spine or cover, and the binding was simple.

She flipped to one of the opening pages to satisfy her curiosity. It seemed to be a diary.

It is different here, Arwen read. The birds sing strange pleasant songs. The roar of the Bruinen is so unlike the rush of the Celebrant.

Her stomach unexpectedly twisted as she realised she recognised who the handwriting belonged to. To have gone back to her father’s work was one thing, but this... this was entirely different...

But he is here, most important of all, the entry continued. How exciting it is to wake and see him there next to me. As soon as he sees I am awake he reaches out for me, and I for him. I never expected I would feel so complete, so comfortable in the company of another

It is made for protection, this place. Elrond would be slower to admit it, but one cannot help but feel safe the moment the valley comes into view. Here I am happy.

Arwen soon realised her mother must have begun it in the days of her parents’ early marriage, but how late would it continue? Would even go to the time when...

After hesitantly turning a few more pages, her question was answered.

How can this land that has brought me so much joy now only brings me fear? The wounds cannot heal. You have tried, meleth-nîn, I know you have, to banish the shadows from those corners of my mind.

But still there seems to be no light or lamp that will chase them away. And yet I cannot keep from fearing the darkness, knowing that it will never disappear.

"Oh, naneth," Arwen whispered, closing the book and raising a hand to her mouth.

She was trembling now, fighting to regain composure that had been hastily, unexpectedly lost.

At the doorway, Lúthea stayed back, and remained quiet. She did not enter until she saw Arwen rise.

"What is it?" she asked softly. Her mother’s face was calm, but her eyes seemed slightly damp.

Arwen swallowed. "It is only something that took me by surprise."

"Will we prepare for dinner now?"

"Soon, I think." Lúthea heard melancholy in her voice. "I will meet you in a little while, darling. There is something... I think I must do before then."

* * *

There were still a few brief hours of daylight left for Arwen to take a ride alone. She was overcome by some feeling, she knew not what, but somehow she had to get away from it.

But no matter how fast she rode, the sadness still managed to chase her.

She had pushed doubts away when it concerned her father’s writings, but her mother... They had never properly said goodbye. Celebrían had never known the man her daughter married. And neither of her parents would know her children.

If only you could see them...

Whether it was due the wind, or the speed with which she rode, a rush of air blew wetness from the corners of her eyes. Her chest felt tight. She needed air.

Arwen pulled her horse to a stop as she reached a small grove of trees. She dismounted, trying to breathe. But then there was an ache around her heart that did not want to leave.

Please not this… anything but this. This must pass, it must…

She had found a way to still enjoy Midsummer, even knowing what it meant, and she had proudly encouraged Eldarion, in his travels to her family’s country.

She had pushed the sadness aside before, somehow she would find a way to do it again. It would pass.

What if it does not pass? Her mind persisted, as she stood leaning next to the tree for support, her breath now coming in gasps as her eyes grew cloudy. What then will I do?