“Alphaear,” came the gentle voice of her ring-sworn, her beloved. She stands on the grassy banks of the river in the peaceful Valley of Imladris, but no greater peace could ever be brought to her than by the presence of the one she loves the most. The night is cool, and she shivers through her thin silk dress as she turns to look at him.
“Eriston,” the elleth exhales as he stands next to her along the gently trickling river. The gently lapping ripples capture the reflection of the moon high above the mountain peaks, and she tries to catch the distorted images of their faces in the water. Unlike her expression, peaceful and serene, she realizes that her lover’s brows are tightly knit, and his lips draw a thin line. She raises her gaze to look at him, mirroring his expression of concern. “Is all well?”
The ellon takes in a deep breath, tilting his head to look up at the stars. “I need to speak to you about something important,” he murmurs, “and I have been praying that you and I shall settle on the same answer.”
A cold trickle of dread begins to run through her, from her throat to her stomach, where it settles deep inside of her like a disease. “You know you can speak to me of anything,” Alphaear says, and despite her fear, she reaches out to take his hands in hers. “So please, lay it bare.”
“It is about where we are to go from here,” Eriston tells her, and he pulls one of his hands free of hers to instead brush it gently through her hair. A flicker of confusion dances across Alphaear’s face, and so he continues. “There are those who wish to reside here in Imladris with Elrond. Others who wish to join the High King in Lindon--and others still who think the best course of action would be to sail to Valinor.”
A tightness in her throat makes it difficult for Alphaear to speak her next words, fearful of where they may differ in this matter. The grief of losing her mother in Eregion’s fall is still fresh--too fresh, only mere moons have passed since she had to bury the once-beautiful jewel-smith in the ruins of the home they had made for themselves here. She forces the words out regardless. “And what do you wish to do, my love?”
“I wish to sail,” he answers readily, dark eyes burning holes into hers earnestly. His jaw is set firm in its place, the very taut nature of his posture making it far too obvious to Alphaear that his mind was made up--but so was hers, which makes it harder still to choke out her answer.
“I do not,” she says in a simple, quiet voice. “My father has been lost to Beleriand, and my mother I have just buried in these lands. I do not wish to leave them.”
Despite the gentleness of her reply, Eriston responds with ire, stepping away from her. “What? So you will linger here amongst the ghosts? Why would you not sail--where we could be at peace? Free from war, from strife?”
“What is peace if only we know it, Eriston?” Alphaear counters, her voice tender with the temptation to break into tears at his stepping back. “Why should we not stay to help those here know the same lack of strife? This is our home as much as it is theirs--these stars saw us borne; they have seen us grow.”
“War is upon our door, Alphaear,” her betrothed reminds in a harsh tone. “A great doom is upon us, and it would be folly to remain when we have the chance to leave. We can build another home. We can bear and raise new life under safer stars. Will you come with me?” He asks, holding his hand out towards her.
…
“I will not.”
The day is cold. The sun is blocked out by thick grey clouds, darkening the gloom over the scene at the Forges of Imladris. A light drizzle of rain disturbs the surface of the water nearby and dampens the clothes of the small throng of elves gathered at the time of the setting sun. Two figures stand on either side of the hot flames of the forge--one prepared to leave as soon as the grievous ceremony was complete, and the other who would remain: both actions to be done with hurt.
Two silver rings are taken, one from each elf, and set over the heat of the fire to be melted down. Eriston watches the flames with an expression of mourning; his pale blond hair is braided over his shoulder, his bag of supplies packed--he is ready to leave for Lindon, and then beyond, and he has put off the inevitable for as long as he could.
Adversely, Alphaear is watching him--her long silver hair has been pinned elegantly atop her head. She is wearing a thick dress and matching cloak of black, mourning. She has much to mourn. The loss of her home, the loss of her family, and now the loss of her beloved. Yet she bears her grief well and does not weep. Now hers are the lips drawn into taut lines; hers are the eyes that attempt to bore into his with an earnest pain.
The flames cast a sickly orange hue on the two who are parting--and too soon, far too soon for a betrothal to be over, are the rings naught more than molten silver. Eriston releases a breath he did not know he was holding, and his teary gaze turns to Alphaear. His cheeks are slick from the rain and tracking tears. Although he reaches a hand out towards her, desiring to say something, the elleth turns away from him in silence.
Without sparing him a second glance, she stalks off. Her boots leave a resounding step in the dirt that has been softened by the rain, and the hem of her dress and cloak are muddied as she goes. Although her footfalls are without falter as she follows the well-rehearsed path to the House of Elrond, it is all she can do to keep her composure collected while in the eyes of others. As soon as she finds herself alone, in her chambers, she weeps.
She stares down at the bowl of water on the floor. With it carefully placed beneath the moonlit window, she can see her reflection well. Her tears have all gone now. She has none left to cry, and in their wake, what is left is only resolve. Resolve that if none will choose me, then I will choose me.
The silver blade of her dagger catches the light of the moon as she raises it up towards her face, casting a dim glow over the room. She does not falter in her movements, however, shaking her head to let her silver waves fall to her waist. Alphaear takes a deep breath as she holds the knife near her chin--and then she cuts loose a lock of her hair. Once the first dusting of hair falls to the floor and disturbs the water of the bowl, every single one that comes after it comes easier.
Every slice is choppy and uncertain, her vision blurred by the shaking of the water. Soon, her hair is short, cut to her chin; most of the locks are now scattered about the floor. She exhales shakily, holding the knife in her hands. So, I am on my own now, and I am my own and no one else’s. She twists the dagger in her palm, before scowling at the reflection that stares back at her in the thin line of silver.
So, to war I shall go.
art source found here
