Arahen's Calling
Seven fair elven maids danced a merry barefoot rondelet on the emerald grass, each clad in resplendant silk dresses with open surcouts and bodices and narrow waists set with golden chains, their hair decorated with elanor and wild daisies and pearls and precious stones strung with delicate threads of gold or silver made thin as spider silk and many times as strong by the most artful hands in Lothlorien. The tallest had hair black as midnight, a long aquiline nose dominating a narrow face from which bright gray eyes regarded the fair world about with an intense curiosity and the wisdom of millenia. Her limbs long and solidly built from the exertions of a warrior, though she was as graceful as any of the ladies who’d given their lives to the peaceful arts.
Arahen led the singing, as she was beloved for her interjection of songs that derived from peoples long forgotten. Even dwarvish songs, which she enlivened with a voice that made up for its lack of natural musicality with millenia of casual practice. The song she now led her friends in had its origin in Aman, so it was said, though none of the very old said they could remember it being sung there. Her friends believed Arahen herself must have written it, despite her protestations.
As the song ended, they all flung themselves as one on the grass and giggled at the silly ending, which Arahen improvised anew each time. The group of dancers sat upright for a rest as a young boy brought them a crater of wine and poured it into glittering silver cups in the shapes of foxglove flowers. An altogether perfect day, Arahen mused lazily. One of dozens she had enjoyed since she had made her abode in Celeborn and Galadriel's golden fastness. An echo of the West, she was told. And so she had been told by many who had been there. Whatever it was, it was a welcome relief from Imladris where travelers were welcome and the cares of the outside world lay far more heavily.
But oftimes the cares of the outside world may intrude even where time itself is held at bay. And so it was that as Arahen lay on the grass listening to the musicians strike up a new tune, a figure drew near, casting a shadow over her.
“You are Arahen of Minas Tirith?”
The tall girl rolled onto her side and sat up. The masculine visage looking down from red mantled shoulders bore an expression of stern impatience. Arahen nodded. The other girls felt the urgency of the visitor’s errand and though the music played on, the carefree tenor of the afternoon fell away. More and more they all felt it. Some were old enough that the feeling was familiar. Some wondered if another war was indeed nigh. Would they have to flee yet again to some other stronghold? Or would their Lord and Lady keep the tides of the world at bay again?
“I am,” said the girl as she sprung lightly from the green lawn, sweeping jet black hair away from her eyes.
“I am Menedlor of the Lady’s companion guard and I bear a message for thee,” the man said formally, bowing. “The Lady bids thee, travel into the north once more.”
Arahen’s jaw clenched a little in a flash of anger. But she only sighed. She had had periods of rest lasting centuries, but always the call came again. She had hoped for more than a few fortnights of gaiety, but the evil stirring outside the girdle of Altariel seemed not to care overmuch for her feelings. As ever it was.
The messenger continued, “Go forth to the Dunedain fastness in Esteldin. They will have more to tell when you arrive, I am informed.”
The left corner of Arahen’s mouth turned down and she narrowed her eyes. “The peril of the remnant of Angmar is as nothing to what rises in the East,” she said. But Menedlor could only shrug.
“Maybe that is so. By my troth, I am sure that it is. But the Lady herself has asked for you by name and I myself can assure you that the whole of the Council was in agreement that you be sent thither. I can say only that there is some design of the Council that you are thought best suited to fit.”
“Secrets?” Arahen said. “Here?” She looked around. Her friends glumly listened to the exchange.
“There are some things it was thought best not to reveal...”
“When the Quendi keep secrets from one another, then the Enemy is nearer to his victory than I had thought,” she said. “I shall go, then. Tell them! Go!” she waved the poor messenger away. Menedlor bowed deeply and went about his new errand as Arahen embraced her friends. “It is my doom to have no peace, it seems.”
