She stands in front of a mirror contemplating silently her own unassuming reflection therein.
She starts with her pale face and notes the way her features move when she tests a smile and then a frown. When she smiles, she looks much like her father. When she frowns, she looks like neither of her parents. Perhaps her sadness is wholly her own.
A hand reaches up and long fingers run through thick, dark locks, catching on a few hidden tangles here and there. That is also from her father. As are her eyes, darker than the night sky. But she remembers that her father's eyes always had the light of stars and jewels reflected within them. Hers are as deep and bottomless as a well. But what lies at the bottom of that well? The person she used to be? All the memories that plague her thoughts more often than not?
Or perhaps it is that which she does not remember; the gaps in her memory from that fateful day she is still too afraid to fill.
She notes that, where her father had been pink cheeked and ruddy, she has taken on her mother's alabaster paleness. Her long fingers, also her mother's, are cool as they ghost over the smooth skin of her cheek.
She runs her hand down the side of her neck and over the side of her arm. Her muscles are still there, unused after all these years because she doesn't have the heart for it. Her father taught her more than just his favored craft. Even in the days of peace, he had remembered the awful possibility of a return to the days of war. He had sought to teach his tender-hearted daughter his other talents. She had excelled as he expected. But even he knew that she would never have the heart to hold the great-sword in her hand in the face of evil.
Her dark gaze catches sight of her room reflected behind her and frowns -- she knows where she has hidden the blade -- before redirecting her gaze to her garments. Her grey dress is made with all the skill of her kin and yet it is no thing of great beauty or importance to her.
Her favorite color is sapphire blue. It has been a very long time -- thousands of years -- since she has worn anything in that color. Or any other color. At first it was an act of respect for those close to her heart who did not survive along with her. But now she realizes that, over time, she has become comfortable with it. Her mournful state has become her new normal without her fully realizing it. It is much like a cage, though she has become accustomed to it, fearing what could happen if she takes a step outside.
When her gaze travels up to the reflection of her face once more, she notices she is frowning again and schools her features into something more neutral. She raises a hand and places it against the cool glass of the mirror, splaying her long fingers wide until it covers what she can see of her face.
Over the years, Calidis of Eregion has become Calidis of Imladris.
Perhaps, she thinks, she should like to become more like Calidis of Eregion again.
