Finwëan Ladies Day 7: Arwen
When she was young, Arwen loved the library of Rivendell more dearly than any other place in her city; the gardens and courtyards were pretty, but there was little else for her to do besides sit and admire the sight of the waterfalls flowing between the trees. The Hall of Fire was only full at evening time, and she felt ill-at-ease around large gatherings of people anyways, being a quiet girl. Elladan and Elrohir went hunting often, or else spent their time sparring, and she cared little for swordplay. Her father was always in his study, and no one went into her mother’s room anymore.
But the library’s doors were always open and inviting, and in it she could find any sort of thing to enthrall her—legends, poems, songs, instruction manuals for various lost arts, and best of all, history books that told tales of the epic deeds of her ancestors.
Arwen had always been proud of her heritage, just as her father was. She even enjoyed the company of that strange, sad-looking Elf that sometimes visited Rivendell, whom her father said was some uncle of hers. He told her stories and sang songs, but never stayed for long, and had never told her his name.
Her ancestors, she read, had done many great deeds—some good, some grand, some bad, and some grandly bad—that set them apart and branded their names in history forever.
There were Elves who fought battles, Elves who became Kings, Elves who started wars, and even some Men who were as strong as Elves.
Arwen knew all of these stories—and all of these people—by heart, so that even though many of them were dead and gone, she felt like she had personally come to know her fabled grandfathers, uncles, and cousins.
Her favorites, though, were the women of these legends.
Míriel, a Weaver of Vairë.
Findis and Lalwen, sisters separated by war.
Galadriel, her grandmother, who was just as wise and noble as the records said.
Aredhel, a Princess of a secret city, the heroine of a tragedy.
Idril, who defied the Valar and walked to Valinor on silver feet.
Nerdanel, a simple sculptor turned high Lady.
Arwen saw herself in all of these noble, wise figures, and hoped one day to be remembered like they were. Remembered for her grace, her beauty, her strength, her choices that changed the world.
She had never been drawn to the sword, or particularly strong-voiced, but she looked at the stars and she dreamed.
And even if all Arwen could do was dream, and hope for a better world, and perhaps indirectly pull at the strings of fate, that would be enough for her.
This is just a short, 450-word-drabble I did to close out my run of Finwëan Ladies Week; young Arwen reading about and admiring all of the women who formed history, which I think ties in all I've written about before and gives a new flavor to the series.
I am so proud of myself for completing this challenge, and so thankful to all of you who have supported me during this week! I look forward to participating in next year's Finwëan Ladies Week, as well as any other Silmarillion and Lord of the Rings challenges that cross my path! Namárië, until next we meet!
