The year is 3019. My name is Rhiannon Tinuviel. I am seventeen hundred and fifty-four years old. I am an elf from the city of Elrond, known to all as Rivendell. I am writing this history, not because I am some great and noble person who deserves to be remembered forever in the course of history, but because I am afraid that in these times of darkness I will forget who I am and how I came to be.
My mother is the only born of her parents and belongs to a noble line of elves who claim to be able to sing their history back to the Third, known in the journals as Enel and Enelye. She was born during a time of peace as are most Elven children. Contrary to the emotionless and detached façade that we present to the rest of the world, my people have a deep and abiding love for each other and cherish their children. As a child, my mother was no different and was indeed cherished to the point of being willful and headstrong and is still thus. Instead of being betrothed at an early age as is the way of our people, my respected grandparents encouraged her to remain theirs to indulge. Stories are sung not only of the power of her beauty, but the strength of her scorn. Many suitors were shattered by her. Never be fooled by the icy calmness of an Elf’s demeanor. Ice can burn as deeply and painfully as flame. Perhaps it was appropriate that she was named for the icy storm that raged at her birth. Whatever my Atar, Baelodar saw in Vonavin, I will never understand.
Long before the shadow fell on the Greenwood, my father was a friend to all races. Though he was a loyal and committed member of those who guarded the borders of Imladris, he often traveled to the cities of man and dwarf and did his best to maintain good relations between all. I sometimes wonder if somehow he did not smell a storm on the winds of the future and was attempting to prepare. In those times, he was called a fool by many, but as time has proved, he was far from one. It is written that his marriage to Vonavin was unexpected on both sides and the old ones said that this union would exist only in name.
It was Baelodar who taught me the use of sword and steel and horsemanship. When Vonavin discovered that I, her daughter, had a voice of some merit, she instructed me to silence it. It was only when my father overheard me singing to my horse one day that I was found instruction in not only its use but that of instruments as well. Though there were no arguments, there was a silent battle between them. One to hide and shadow me, the other to bring me into the sunlight and full bloom.
When we would return to Rivendell, I would be fairly sequestered as Vonavin would endeavour to have her daughter learn the finer skills of weaving and embroidery. No warp was ever straight enough for her and my weft was an abomination in her eyes. My stitches were never dainty enough and my needlework was a shambles. My clothes did not lie right, I did not walk with the proper grace, my hair was never styled in a manner according to my birth. It is no wonder that I chose my father’s company over hers or slipped away whenever possible. Thankfully, my kin cousin, Raveniel was always at hand and eager for adventure or simply picking flowers and telling tales.
Baelodar was solemn the day he came to tell me that I was being sent to the Refuge at Edehelion in order to further my education. He kissed me on the forehead and hugged me close as he whispered, “Atara wishes it, tinu. We’ll walk amongst the trees again.” He couldn’t have known that the next time we would meet would be through the smoke and thunder of war. It mattered not if my clothes and weapons were simple and crude (since I did not bring my proper clothing and weapons for what was supposed to be a quiet retreat of dresses, poetry, and art… a mistake I learned greatly from.). When the trolls came to the gate, when Lord Elrond appeared with a small contingent from Rivendell to drive back the invading evil, my Atar heard my singing before he saw my battle stained face. With Lord Elrond’s blessing, he returned me to my home and there was never talk of my leaving again.