In Celebrían's dressing room, Losgael was helping her mistress to get ready for bed. As she brushed Celebrían's hair, Losgael went over the same lock several times, apparently lost in Elven dreams.

“You seem preoccupied tonight, Losgael,” said Celebrían.

“Aye, my lady,” Losgael replied, “I am. 'Tis a pretty spider's web I have allowed myself to be caught in!”

“What is it, my dear?” Celebrían asked, turning to her lady-in-waiting.

“My lady, I do not think I like Lord Glorfindel any more,” said Losgael, a bitter feeling rising in her breast. How could she pretend she had not heard him say those awful things?

“Losgael,” Celebrían replied patiently, “it is possible to love someone even if you are annoyed with him.”

“Your love for your lord is perfect,” declared Losgael. “I long for such a wonderful thing for myself!”

Celebrían laughed, her voice sounding like the waterfalls that tumbled incessantly outside.

“Why do you laugh, my lady?” Losgael asked, distressed. “Are you mocking me?”

“No, Losgael, my friend,” Celebrían soothed, “but what you said amused me so much I cannot help but laugh. Do you know I sometimes shout and throw cushions at my husband?”

Losgael backed away, shocked. “My lady, I cannot believe you said that.”

“Losgael, why are you so surprised about this?” Celebrían asked, clearly worried about her lady-in-waiting.

Losgael sat down. Everything she had ever believed about anything had begun to crumble. Bits and pieces had been falling ever since she had confided her desire to be with Glorfindel, and cracks widened in her understanding of the world she thought she knew. No, this had been going on for longer than that. She had never truly taken Brethilgwen seriously, and when that lady told her that Elrond and Glorfindel mimicked Heneblhûndî and laughed at her, Losgael had not really believed it. Could it be true? Would such great and venerable lords act like naughty elflings? If that was true, maybe her lady did indeed throw cushions and shout at her husband. But this was not how things were supposed to be! Her soul rebelled against the very idea.

“Losgael?” asked Celebrían, “Is all well with you?”

“Ai, my lady,” Losgael answered, “it is hard for me to accept the idea that any great and noble Elves would conduct themselves in an unbecoming way. What would people think if they knew of these things?”

Celebrían moved closer to her handmaid and held her like a child. “Oh, Losgael,” she soothed, “my dear one. We Elves are people, not puppets, and take as much pleasure and pain in the world as anyone else does, whether Elven or mortal. We laugh, cry, shout, cheer, sing and play like the other people here. Sometimes we do things that may be frowned upon, but I tell you, it is impossible to live up to the expectations of others all the time!”

“I did not believe that Lord Elrond and Lord Glorfindel would mimic Heneblhûndî and laugh at her,” Losgael said in a quiet voice. “I did not want to.”

“Actually, that was Brethilgwen,” said Celebrían, arching an eyebrow. “Heneblhûndî's downfall is her pride in her lineage. Brethilgwen's in her desire to escape the lowliness of hers. It makes her do some foolish things, such as aping the manners of those of higher rank.”

“Then that story of Heneblhûndî's silly walk, popping out in front of Lord Glorfindel and dabbing at the corner of her mouth...” began Losgael.

“...was a falsehood when applied to her,” finished Celebrían. “Brethilgwen has another unfortunate habit. She lays the burden and the shame of her own shortcomings on others by attributing her actions to them. I suppose she hopes to escape the reputation that such behaviour has earned her by passing it on to someone else. It has worked in part: many people believe her stories and Heneblhûndî needlessly bears the name Fool; but the relish with which Brethilgwen tells these tales has earned her the name Shrew. She has not won, as she supposes – she merely found another way to lose.”

“I have always preferred to believe we are better people than that,” Losgael said ruefully. It was to be expected of evil people to behave in evil ways, but what of the good?

“We are,” said Celebrían, “every time we choose to be.”

“What are you going to do about Brethilgwen?” asked Losgael, in the hope of some restoration of her ideals.

“Nothing,” her mistress replied.

“But she tells awful lies!” Losgael protested.

“My husband has the greater wisdom in this matter,” Celebrían said gently. “When I asked him about it, he said, 'Let the leaves fall where they will, for all of them reach the ground.' I understand this to mean that since Heneblhûndî's arrogance is being reined in by the stories going round about her, and Brethilgwen loses more than she gains, things should be left to continue as they are. Sooner or later, both of these ladies will come to realize how foolish both of them have been.”

“That seems unfair to me,” said Losgael. She looked down at the floor and picked tiny particles of dust off her dress. She could not look her lady in the eye. Where was the justice in this matter?

“Those were my words when I discussed this with my husband,” said Celebrían, patting Losgael's shoulder. But now I understand why he will not interfere. If we call them to account for their actions, they will feel even more put upon than they already do. Remember, the things they do come from feelings of inadequacy. Making them feel worse will not make things better, and will not make them better. By leaving them to discover for themselves the consequences of their actions, we leave them with no-one but themselves to blame for whatever happens.”

“I understand,” said Losgael, and looked up at her mistress. “Why should we punish them when they can punish themselves? Our lord is truly wise.”

“Indeed he is,” Celebrían agreed. “I intend to write a book of his provebs.”

“I would be proud to help you with this, my lady,” Losgael replied. She took up the brush and attending to her lady's hair.

“Thank you, Losgael,” Celebrían said with a smile. “Now tell me, what transpired between you and Lord Glorfindel?”

In the recovery room, Glorfindel lay back feeling sorry for himself. Piles of blackberry pies of every shape and size rose up in tiers around him. Their sweet, tart scent filled the room. He could not bear it. When someone came in next, he would ask them to give the pies to whoever wanted them.

Elrond walked in.

“Elrond, my friend,” pleaded Glorfindel, “please will you take these away?”

A wicked grin spread across the peredhel's face. “Now really, Glorfindel,” he told his friend, “where are your manners? Surely you would offer hospitality to those who come to visit you?”

“I thought you had come here to aid me, not torment me,” Glorfindel groused.

“Ah, poor Glorfindel, such a burden to carry!” Elrond teased. He took one of the pies and ate it. “How can you possibly bear to be so adored?”

“Ai, Elrond!” Glorfindel complained, “they love me not for myself, but for my name, for the glory of my history and for my rank. If I were a stable-hand, their eyes would be fixed elsewhere!”

“Then we have a solution!” Elrond said with a playful grin. “I shall have you demoted forthwith to stable-hand.”

Glorfindel frowned.

“Or not, if you would rather suffer the torment of ladies constantly clucking around you like hens in a farmyard,” said Elrond. “The choice is yours!”

“You know,” Glorfindel said, sitting up, “you really are the most annoying...”

“Your great strength...” said Elrond, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I am trying to address this,” said Glorfindel irritably.

“I did but jest,” said Elrond in conciliatory tones.

“I know, but I need someone to listen, Elrond,” he complained. “I am always having to contend with ladies wanting to own me the way they own their dresses or jewels. They claim to be in love with me, and I would greatly enjoy it if they did, but their love is not real. Worse still, it seems they cannot tell the difference between love and lust or a desire to own someone.”

“So despite all the attention you are getting, you feel unloved,” Elrond said, his gaze fixed on his friend.

“Well, not exactly,” Glorfindel told him, trying to make himself understood. He was no good at this kind of thing. The advantage of being a lady was that one could pour forth the contents of one's heart without being ridiculed for it. Trying to do so as a warrior of renown only made him look foolish.

“Is there something I could do to help?” Elrond asked, leaning towards his friend.

“I am aware that some people think I am conceited,” said Glorfindel thoughtfully. It was amusing to make fun of people who were conceited, particularly if they mistreated others, but he had no desire to be laughed at himself.

“Who said that?” asked Elrond, sitting up straight.

“Losgael,” sighed Glorfindel. “She said, 'you are too complacent to try to understand what drives us to behave the way we do, my lord.' At first I thought it was unfair of her to expect me to make such an effort, but then I realized she thought I was arrogant and uncaring. It is not a reputation I wish to have.”

“I can understand that, Glorfindel,” said Elrond, with his hand on his chin, “but there is little I can do about it. You know why they fasten their hopes upon you: they want a lover and protector, but they want the best there is. You are among the highest ranking Elves here and on Middle-earth. If I were a lady, I would desire you.”

“I suppose that is why we are such good friends, Elrond,” said Glorfindel, with a laugh. “You are not a lady!”

When she had finished her service to her mistress, Losgael was free to do as she wished, so she went to the sewing room. There she saw Heneblhûndî, who was making a pair of leggings. “Heneblhûndî,” she said to her friend, “what are you making?”

“Leggings for one of the cooks,” Heneblhûndî replied, and pouted.

“You seem to be unhappy,” Losgael said, as she sat down beside her.

“I am unhappy,” Heneblhûndî said resentfully. “That awful Brethilgwen! Do you know what she said to me?”

“Something that added insult to injury?” asked Losgael. She reached out and put a hand on the other lady's shoulder.

“'Ai, Heneblhûndî, you are as ridiculous as your name!' and right in front of Lord Glorfindel too! I was mortified,” she confided.

“What happened?” asked Losgael, with prurient interest.

“He came limping from his sickbed and told us both, 'I am appalled to hear such harsh words being exchanged. Why are you so hateful to each other? I know each of you has designs on me, but neither of you has impressed me at all because I know what lies beneath all the simpering and fluttering about. Trouble me not with your prattling and mincing. I have no interest in you at all!' I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me!” wailed Heneblhûndî.

“Ai! Those words were painful indeed to hear,” said Losgael, sympathy sweetening her voice, “yet there is truth in them. He does indeed hate to see us mistreat each other so. He thinks it is a great evil when Elves are discourteous to Elves.”

“I have much to be discourteous about,” Heneblhûndî complained.

“Indeed you do,” agreed Losgael, “but you do not have to rise to the bait like a fish every time you see a worm.”

“What do you mean, Losgael?” asked Heneblhûndî.

“Brethilgwen says things that make you feel small and worthless because she is jealous of your heritage, Heneblhûndî,” said Losgael, hoping to make her friend understand. “When you cite your lineage, she feels low, and tries to pull you down with her. Do not allow her to do that to you, else you will become like a farmer's dog, and come running when she whistles for you.”

“You are right, Losgael,” Heneblhûndî told her gratefully, “but what can I do? I have borne the name 'Fool' for so long. People believe the lies Brethilgwen has told about me.”

“You speak truly,” said Losgael, “but Brethilgwen bears the name 'Shrew.' People may believe her, but they love her not. Let us change your name, and see if we can change your destiny.”

“What did you have in mind?” asked Heneblhûndî.

“I would like to give you an epessë, a new name to live up to,” said Losgael in formal tones. “Stand up.”

Heneblhûndî stood up.

“I name you Maerdess,” said Losgael, with both hands on her friend's shoulders.

“I thank you for the name, Losgael,” said the other lady, “but I fear...”

“Nonsense!” declared Losgael. “It is Heneblhûndî who bears the bad name. Maerdess is a new beginning for you. Shed your old name and reputation like a snake shedding its skin, and be the person you know you can be, for my lady says, 'We can be good every time we choose to be.' Choose to be good every time you want to hide your shortcomings behind your lineage, and walk away instead of arguing with others.”

The newly-named lady hugged Losgael. “So be it: from now on, I will be known as Maerdess.”

Losgael smiled. “The hour grows late, Maerdess. I bid you goodnight.”

Maerdess smiled. Her heart swelled inside her. A new beginning would give her chances she never knew she had. Her thoughts turned to the Harvest Ball. She had an idea, and the means to carry it out. She picked up her needle and finished off the leggings as quickly as she could, then made her way to the textile room.

TBC...