Time passes for the Elves in different ways than it does for the Mortals. These differences are apparent in how they each appear and grow as children. By an Elf-child’s first year from birth, they can walk, talk, sing and dance with ease. One might happen across a group of Elf-children happily playing and think them all just children of maybe seven years of age – not realizing that these Elves are all twenty years old or older.
Elven youths might take between fifty and a hundred years before they attain their full stature and beauty, and in that visage would they remain for their lives. To mark the occasion and to celebrate the youth’s coming of age, an Elven house might hold the Mereth Minuídhrinn, the “Feast of the First Year”, where the young Elf would be presented to the community as an adult of responsibility and a credit to their house. The feast would be a time of joy and celebration, and it would also be an event where a young Elf might be introduced to or meet their first beau, now being of age and approachable for marriage.
For the House of Anorwë, this is a very special occasion. Ten years have passed since the fall of the Falas, and Carcírion and his beloved Gilalaith are planning the First Year for their adopted daughter, Seregrían. The young Elf-maid has lived in their care and under their roof in relative comfort, if not always harmony. Many times Gilalaith has had counsel from Seregrían’s instructors regarding her behavior among the other youths; Carcírion attends these sessions rarely, he being at sea on errantry, thus it falls to Gilalaith to listen to the comments and complaints regarding their mercurial ward.
It is after one such meeting that Gilalaith calls Seregrían to her garden, her favorite area of their house and her personal retreat from cares. Over the years Gilalaith has never once raised her voice at Seregrían, though she has spoken with firm and stern tone that Seregrían respects – and this is one of those times.
“Young elleth,” Gilalaith is saying, “this is now the fourth time I have had to hear words from your masters at lessons, and I endure those as I may; but this time, you have stepped over the bounds of patience. Rudeness to your lesson-masters I might abide; but brawling I shall not tolerate. You might not think it matters, but your behavior shows badly upon Carcírion and myself, can you not see that?”
“Even if that behavior rises to not my defense, but yours?” Seregrían replies angrily. “They spoke against you, and that I shall not tolerate, can you not see that?”
“Against me, you say? What is this story? What was this that made you so angry that you started throwing things?”
“I wasn’t ‘throwing things’, I was merely pushing chairs and desks out of the way so that I could get close enough to Maribar to get my fingers in his eyes!”
Gilalaith bites the inside of her cheek to stop the laugh, then “But what did Maribar say that doomed his eyes to your judgement?”
Through clenched teeth Seregrían says, “That you were a traitor to your kin, that you sold your body to a Grey-elf for a roof over your head, the same as I did – and I replied, ‘Then let this Grey-elf show you how blind you are, son of kinslayers!’ And he began retreating, shoving chairs between us as he backed away – and those were the furniture I was ‘throwing about the room’. Can I help it if others happened to be where I threw them?”
Gilalaith is silent for a beat, her lips in a flat line, then speaks again. “And this Maribar is a Noldo, I am guessing? And also mistook you for one, by your appearance alone?” Seregrían nods, her eyes downcast. They sit for a silent moment, and when Gilalaith speaks again, her voice is gentler and patient.
“You are my daughter in all but blood, ever since you appeared at our door bearing Carcírion’s pendant and promise. Yes, you have the features and the bearing – and the hot temper – of the Noldor, that is plain to any who see you. But for all that, yes, you are of the Sindar, as you told me the tale of your birth parents’ journey; but all those things are of the past, they simply are. I want you to focus on what you shall be.
“You are plainly not happy with your lessons, Seregrían. Others see it, and in their youth and folly they torment you for it. But you, I am quite certain, are meant for higher things of thought and deed. And I have taken thought as to what those things might be. Now, you know that we are holding your First Year Feast soon, and the good news is twofold: one, I have heard that Carcírion is about to return just in time.”
“He is!? Oh, that’s wonderful!” Seregrían exclaims, her face transported to delight.
“And second,” Gilalaith goes on, “I have received word that completes a surprise I held in store, one I was going to wait until the feast to give you. One of the guests at the feast shall be the Mistress Gwathnim, one of the Gwaith-en-Gelydh, the House of the Lore-masters; and she has consented to interview you.”
“Interview – as in, she’s going to accept me in to the Gelydh!?”
“That entirely depends upon you, my young hothead. But I have explained to Mistress Gwathnim at length regarding your studies, especially your aptitude for reading and rote-learning. These are qualities she has expressed interest in, especially for a possible apprenticeship.
“But all that shall come in time. First and utmost, Seregrían, this feast is to celebrate you and your coming of age. Enjoy the day, for it is yours. But I hope that, as you enter the endless summer of the life of the Eldar, you become the mistress of one thing: your temper. For I fear that will always be your greatest challenge, maybe even your undoing.”
Next Chapter: "The Glass and the Window"
