Pages and Leaves
Torech Besruth, Falathlorn, Lindon
46 Yávië in the Reckoning of Imladris
Seven years have passed since the birth of my sweet Bainiel, and six years since the birth of my son, my handsome Ardanion. I recall clearly the events leading up to Ardanion’s arrival; after Bainiel just the year before, we were better prepared for the birthing ordeal, or so we thought. My son arrived at the Lair, as his sister did, but the sameness ended there. I carried Ardanion for a full eleven months, and he was birthed without the dramatic ordeal or painful trauma which Bainiel wrought upon us all.
Ardanion’s growth has been as different from Bainiel’s as could be. My son (and I delight in writing that!) is a quiet child, with little noise or chaos in his wake, the opposite of his impish sister. He learned his letters and speech every bit as swiftly, and the children have inherited my appetite for lore, but they differ in direction. Bainiel is studious and intense in her book-learning, always pressing me to delve into more esoteric studies. Ardanion, however, delights in history and legends and myths; he also always asks about how he is different from the other children here in Falathlorn. Happily, there have been very few instances of confrontation about their mixed heritage, and they have been handled diplomatically, when need arises at all.
I know that dear Cutch has noticed these things, how could he not? Bainiel is a copy of me in many ways, whereas Ardanion is a true scion of his father’s heritage (though both possess their father’s nose…). Family trips to Duillond or Celondim show further the children’s traits, with Bainiel impatient to arrive at the end of the journey and Ardanion’s head on a spindle turning this way and that, not wanting to miss a thing. I know that Cutch delights in his son’s ways, as do I – in my turn, how could I not?
As I contemplate the years and my children, I still am taken with amazement at the incredible changes in my life over these last turnings of the seasons. I gaze out the window at the two of them at play; Cutch has swept up the leaves into a massed pile, and they delight in running and jumping into the leaves, scattering them over the grounds and loudly calling for their father to make the pile again.
Leaves, such an allegory. The seasons have been like leaves; they blossom, they grow with the sun, they change their hues and fall to the ground, only to be renewed in a march of days. The years have been like leaves to me, for seasons almost beyond reckoning. Leaves, like pages in my books, turn and become record like the piles my children scatter.
The leaf dies; but the tree goes on.
The years pass; and my family goes on.
My children, my husband, and my love.
