TRINKETS ON THE WAYSIDE

by Wayfarer
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)

Unwritten Tales: Mela En' Coiamin

SUMMARY
Gap-Filler: Estel has learnt his birthright and presents himself as Aragorn to Arwen. As he leaves Imladris to begin life as a Dúnadan, she watches covetly, recalling their first meeting and Elrond's words to her after.

Based on the narrative concerning Aragorn and Arwen in LotR's appendix A.

(Constructive criticism welcome.)

RATING: G. (Non-slash, non-language). GENRE: Drama.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Much thanks go to Avallon and Windfola for their valued feedback.

Eponymous elvish phrase courtesy of Avallon.

Much tears I have withheld, since my mother’s departure over the sea. It had fallen to me then, the duties of the Lady of Imladris. Oft I would journey to Lothlórien, to learn from my grandmother the lore of Yavanna. And though my grandmother’s embrace gave me much solace, still I would think of home and be eager for the journey back.

Always, the Household was most anxious about my unmarried state. Of a certainty, I had no lack of suitors, and it was a constant worry to many that I had remained unwed through the long years. And with my mother’s departure, many had thought that perhaps my destiny was tied to the people of my grandmother, that I would finally choose one from the great Wood of Gold. Little did they know -- my father’s gift of foresight I had not, but I had seen a vision of my future upon my hundredth year, and it lied not in Lothlórien, nor Imladris, nor even across the Sundering Seas.

Soon after my mother left, that vision returned to my dreams, a portent that I began to be afraid of, for it foretold a parting most bitter-- yet, if I have learnt naught else from my father, I remember this lesson well: naught was ever set in stone, even a vision as clear as this, seemingly burned upon my mind and eyes. It was not a matter to be dwelt on -- if it was meant to be, it will be, in its own time. And so I threw myself then into filling the role of the Lady of the House of Imladris

Little by little, the Household grew used to the new order, and to the absence of my mother. And as it became clear that I was not minded to wed still, the covet watch lost its intensity.

As ever, the welcoming warmth of the House upon my return would seem a little worn without my mother, but I drew comfort from the familiar feel of the House, with its unending hallways and song-filled rooms. At times I would that she had never left nor the drudgery of her duties fallen to me. But for the love of my father and to honour her legacy, I was not remiss in the discharge of my duties.

In time, I learnt to take pride even in the little things that made Imladris the Last Homely House: I looked forward to the journeys across the Mountains, to my grandmother’s teachings that I needed to continue to keep the House in a manner that would befit my mother’s memory.

And I have learnt too, that surprises await my return to the House always, for ever there were new things to see and new people to meet. Indeed, it was such a day that I first laid eyes on him.

I rested in my favourite arbour, recovering from the long journey home. Upon the teasing wind, a voice could be heard. The power of the minstrels it held not, yet in the singing was compelling enchantment for the familiar strains of the Lay of Lúthien tugged and drew me forth.

And there, among dappled shadows under the birches, I looked on him for the first time. He had thought I was the Lady of his song, and I remembered well how he thought he was dreaming, his cries of ‘Tinúviel, Tinúviel!’ ringing clear in the glade.

Astounded by the song he sang -- for he could not know how fitting that name was, if only in likeness of my fate with hers -- I had faltered.

‘Who are you?’ I asked, keeping, I hoped, my voice calm. ‘And why do you call me by that name?’

Perhaps he mistook my overwhelmed heart, for he hesitated. But he soon recovered for his answer was almost wroth: ‘Because I believed you to be indeed Lúthien Tinúviel, of whom I was singing. But if you are not she, then you walk in her likeness.’

A Man! I knew then who he was, but I coveted the possession of his name, and turned the speech as adroitly as I was able to.

‘So many have said,’ I replied. ‘Yet her name is not mine. Though maybe my fate will not be unlike hers. But who are you?’

‘Estel I was called, but I am Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, Isildur’s heir, Lord of the Dúnedain.’[1] He had presented himself with pride and joy, though it wavered as he finished and unease clouded his brow. It seemed his tongue had been too quick, and his mind had only begun to consider the words it had uttered rashly without proper leave. I had laughed even as I returned the courtesy, if only to distract him from the thoughts that troubled him.

Aragorn. With the foresight of my kindred, I had perceived immediately it would be a name of legend to the world. I was affronted by the perception, for I wanted to hold a part of him for my very own. I resolved then that he would be Estel to me for ever: the world may jostle for the attention of Aragorn, but I would have naught less than the entirety of Estel’s love.

That very night, I was summoned to the study.

Father sat reading a large book. Mother’s last weaving hung as it always had, and I sought refuge in studying it; touching it soothed the foreboding I felt.

‘What ails you, Arwen?’ Father said after a moment.

I stopped fingering the tapestry and turned to him, bewildered by his query. ‘Why think you so, Father?’ I asked.

‘You were not yourself at dinner,’ he replied, and I heeded not the tone of his voice.

‘Nothing ails me, Father,’ said I, returning to the comforting feel of the threads on the weave. Indeed, I had barely attended to any save Estel.

‘Nothing?’ he pressed. ‘You addressed Elladan as Elrohir and it is nothing?’

Indeed, keen to hear him tell of his first ride with them, I had asked Elrohir to let Estel finish the tale. But for the disbelief on both their faces, I would not have realized that I mistook one for the other. I had laughed, and waved away the mistake as a sign of tiredness though I knew my brothers thought otherwise. Yet, I could not bring myself to confess, though it was not my wont to dissemble from Father.

Suddenly, I recalled what the maidens said, when they thought I could not hear them sharing their heady gossip of such things.

‘So ‘tis true, and the same bewitching thrall binds me,’ I murmured. ‘Naught of my true feelings would I reveal willingly, leastways ‘twas the appointed time and place.’

Then I gasped, for Father was ill-pleased and I knew I had spoken aloud. Despite my careful composition throughout the long years against this day, I was faring no better than younglings barely out of childhood.

‘Father --’ I began.

‘I know what it is that ails you, and so did your brothers, even if no one else marked how you followed his every move and heard only his words,’ said Father. He rose then, finally abandoning all pretence of reading the book.

‘I know too what it is you wish,’ he said, almost too gently. ‘But need I remind you of what must come to pass ere the day of your choice? Would it help to persuade you to know this: long was our council yesterday, and the truth of his heritage newly disclosed. Even as a goblet must be emptied before it can be filled anon, so too must he be given time --’

I shook my head, denying the truth of his words: ‘Father, I only wish to know him better.’

‘Child!’ he cried, suddenly fierce in his discomposure.

Confusion roiled, for he had never raised his voice at me before. So surprised was I that I almost tore the weave in my tightened grip.

The glint in his eyes softened as he realized what he had done. In an even tone, he said: ‘Grant him the grace to overcome the loss of his old life and to grow into the new.’ Father paused then, and it seemed that he found it difficult to utter his next words. ‘Ere he becomes a match for the Lady of Imladris, Isildur’s Heir has much to prove,’ he said finally.

In silence I considered his words. It seemed that Father belittled Estel’s lineage. Yet, his true feelings did not easily escape me. A twist of cruelty turned in his side, for such were the choices before us. Hope it was that stood between us: the riven hopes of a father and the secret hope of a daughter.

I sighed: ‘Father, what should I do?’

‘Dear child,’ said Father, as he held my hands. Then he grew stern.

‘Would that it were otherwise, but he does not require the disclosure of your thoughts to clutter his mind; leave be, Arwen.’ said Father.

So grave was he that I had no illusions to his good humour if I were to insist on drawing nigh to Estel.

There was naught I could say that would change Father’s stance. In search of solace, I left Father’s rooms then.

I found myself in the weaving room as a nightingale sat on the window-sill, enjoining me to lighter thoughts with her song. But to my ears, it sounded mournful, the perfect foil to a moonless night.

The loom recalled the happy times when Mother instructed me in the weaving-craft, days far beyond grasp, as, it seemed, my newfound hope.

Elladan and Elrohir found me, they who knew me well. But even to them, I spoke of aught but the pain. It was too new yet, and I would that it was another sitting with me -- Mother! But for the sundering Sea, I would flee to her.

Yet, I knew she would laugh while I protested.

‘Come now, my child,’ she would say. ‘It had taken but a century for you to accept it. You had chafed so at the slow passage of time. But what is Time, and what is a century but a small measure of its endless flow? You have spent a score to school yourself and await his coming. Yet, now you see him before you, what do you do? Fly to me at the slightest test. There is naught that would be satisfactory, is there?’

Indeed.

Yet, Father spoke true. By my given oath then, I would not seek closeness with Estel, yet neither would I ignore the brother brought up in my father’s House: from that day forth, the Lady of Imladris was polite but aloof to the young Man, the stranger I hailed as ‘brother’. And yet, it was clear, maybe, to father that ere long, my word I would find most difficult to keep for I was drawn to his companionship: it was most difficult not to warm to the earnest young Man.

Thus it came to pass ere the seasons changed: Estel was to leave for the lands of his fathers.

Though I would it were not so, still I knew it would have been fruitless to deny its coming -- I would likely have more success stemming the tide upon the Havens’ shore. And so, on the morning he bade farewell, I stood by Father’s side, masked in indifference.

Then I fled to wait within the pavilion, for I knew he would pass beneath it to gain the bridge.

With care, I watched as he strode to the bridge. I began then to whisper: ‘Mela en' coiamin ...’ The words sat strangely upon my tongue, unused to them as I was.

‘Mela en' coiamin, think not that I am unmoved ... I would cleave to you if there was naught else to consider. But I shall await your return. Yea, I wait, restless, fearful of all that may go awry, for who can say with surety which will come to pass?

‘Not for cowardice did I keep these thoughts close, but for the knowledge that my presence will be more hindrance than help for the path you must tread. Alone you walk, but never in solitude. Raise your head if you are ever weary, and while the Evenstar is high, I will relieve a measure of your burden from afar. But for now, begin your journey and live anon your life --’

His pace had slowed to a halt as he reached the other bank.

Taken aback, I gasped for he turned around, his eyes boldly looking at the half-concealed high pavilion where I hid. Hastily I released the vines.

I hoped he took the swaying vines as a mere sign of mischief from a gust of wind. But he lingered. His eyes flared as they swept through the foliage.

My arms crossed in self-embrace as I soothed my frayed courage. Green light flooded my vision and I smiled despite my giddy head, for I had retreated far into the pavilion unawares. Unbidden, a giggle escaped: Alas, that I should fear discovery in my home!

I stepped toward the vines again, parting the green curtain with trepidation. Still he stood there.

But he cannot know that I am here! Alarmed, I took care to stay behind the leaves.

A knowing smile played upon his lips.

He bowed, solemn. And in his eyes I read the intent; but for the wisdom of age I would have thrown myself into his arms. Yet, I was dismayed for it showed his tender years despite my brothers’ claim that he was wise beyond his age.

He turned toward the road again, his step light, yet full of purpose. Long did I stare at the place where he last stood before he vanished into the greensward. Already it seemed time stood still -- how hateful is the chore of waiting when its end is nigh!

As the cool wind dried my tears, I thought of the time that was laid before me, and my mother’s words ere she stepped onto the westward ship rang in my ears: “Time. Its flow is both fast and slow at once -- ever it seems to rush by much too quickly when one is happy, and yet it would stagnate and make of sadness long drawn out moments most difficult to bear. If the burden ever tires you, dear daughter, do not forget that I await your passage into the West. Mela en' coiamin, fare thee well.”

It was aught I could do to echo her last words: ‘Fare thee well.’

Footnotes:
[1] All italicized dialogue before this mark quoted verbatim from The Lord Of The Rings - Appendices; Appendix A, ‘Here Follows A Part Of The Tale Of Aragorn And Arwen’

Translations:
Mela en' coiamin = Love of my life

Writer's Notes:
This story, written in 2002, was my second attempt at LotR ficcing, Unwritten Tales: Into The Dark Again being my first.

musie had thought, and still thinks we got in over our heads about all this romancy stuff, and for once I agree with him. Frankly, we do do mild levity/tongue-in-cheek satire/silliness/filking a lot better, ala The Twelve Days Of Precious (ME Carols anyone?)

But I digress. Despite the very valiant efforts of Windfola and Avallon, we still have not managed to get MEC done 'right', and this is entirely our own fault, of course. We've let Windfola and Avallon down.

But, I'm still putting MEC, in all it's imperfections, up, as a trifle; who knows, maybe some chance encounter will help us make it 'right' at last.