It was a good night to be indoors. Even above the crackling of the fire, the noises of the kitchen, and the din of the inn’s common room, the wind outside shrieked. Every now and again it would rush down the chimney, bringing with it a few snowflakes that were quick enough to escape the unmerciful fire.

But the door opened, and all fell silent. Including the wind.

There in the doorway stood an old woman, brushing snow from her clothes. Purposefully, slowly, she strode to the bar, ignoring the stares of all around her, and asked for a mug of beer.

The man who sat nearest her finally found his voice. “That is a fine bow you have there, Grandmother,” he said, his eye inspecting the delicate curve of the weapon that was slung on her back. “Whose is it?”

She smiled. “Mine.”

The man was startled. Old women simply did not own weapons! A thousand questions formed in his mind. But all he asked was: “Who are you, good lady?”

At first, she did not answer. At last she said, “In the land where I was raised, I was called Avarfanawen.”

Many in the inn gasped.

***

I know it must seem very strange to you when you ask a human what her name is, and she replies in Elvish. If I ever had a human name, it is long forgotten, for I do not remember life before the elves.

They found me roaming Mirkwood alone when I was about three years old. I could not tell them how I came to be there, or where my parents were, or even who I was. The guards who keep the boundaries of that land, master trackers all, searched for miles around, but could find no trace of other humans.

“We can tarry no longer,” their captain said at last, “for we stray from our duty. One of us shall take her to the Halls and seek council of the king’s advisers on what we are to do with this child.”

Though I was very young, I still remember my first glimpse of the city in the trees as I rode in the arms of a guard who looked younger than the others. I remember laughing at the way the green-tinged shafts of sunlight that trickled through the luscious canopies and chased shadows.

Soon, we reached King Thranduil’s Halls. There we met a score or more elves, all of them beautiful and bright, neither young nor old. All eyes turned on me and the musical babble of conversations hushed. “Councilor!” the guard called, ignoring all others, “we have found this child within our borders with no sign of how she came to be here.”

The councilor approached, a stern-looking elf. “What is it?” he frowned. “It’s not a … a dwarf child, is it?”

“She is too long in leg to be dwarven. She’s human. We searched, but saw no sign of her kind. What are we to do with her?”

“Well,” the councilor said, examining me closely, to assure himself that I wasn’t a dwarf, “perhaps she belongs to the people of Lake-town, or maybe Rohan.”

“Perhaps she is hungry,” came a quiet voice behind the councilor.

All faced the speaker. For all their beauty, none was as captivating as this elf. What I noticed most were his eyes, large and somehow sad. As those eyes fell on me he did not smile, but his face was far warmer than those of the elves around me. He bent so that I did not have to crane my head so far to look up at him. “My name is Legolas. What is yours?”

“We could not persuade her to speak, Your Highness,” the guard said.

“No? Perhaps she is weary, and will talk to us after she has rested.” The prince held out a hand, and I took it. I followed him through the Halls until at last we came to a small bedchamber. “Here you may retire from your journey, and sleep if you like. I shall have some food prepared for you soon.”

Though I remember the softness of the bed and the sweet smell of the breeze that found its way in through the open window, I do not remember what thoughts I had before sleep took me.

I awoke when Legolas himself brought a dish of fresh fruit and a small silver jug of milk. “Thank you,” I whispered even more quietly than the elves spoke.

“Ah, then you do speak!” he said. “Tell me then, child, who your parents are, else we shall not know how to find them.”

I could not remember. I shook my head.

“Pray tell me what is your name, then?”

Again I could do nothing but shake my head. Somehow I was aware this was something I should know, and I began to cry in frustration and fear.

Legolas patted my hair with his soft fingers. “Do not despair so quickly, little one!” He frowned in thought. “Might you have been sent to us for a reason, I wonder? If you have no name, I shall give you one. Among the elves, you shall be called Avarfanawen.”

For the first time I could remember, I smiled.

King Thranduil soon heard that his son had made a pet of a human child. “You do not expect to keep it, do you?” he demanded

“While we seek her parents, I will regard Avarfanawen as my guest in this home,” Legolas said.

“Avarfanawen? You have given her an Elvish name?” The king was not pleased. “And if parents cannot be found, what then?”

“If parents cannot be found, she shall abide with me as long as she wishes.”

“Humans,” the king said, in the same manner he would have said vermin, “do not live among elves.”

In the seasons that followed, I stayed close by the prince’s side. All I ever learned that was of worth, I learned from him. He taught me to read and to write. To craft a bow, to string it, to fit it with fine arrows, and to fire it with deadly aim. I learned to sing songs of elven history.

But I could never learn to walk silently. Grace eluded me. And senses I was not born with could not be developed through practice. In fact, there were some in Mirkwood who called me the Clumsy One.

Elf maids had their own names for me. I was not fair like them – my skin was colored like parchment and my hair like bark and my eyes like night – and they called me the Dark One. I did not have fine elven bones, and they called me Broad Shoulders. Though Legolas assured me there was nothing wrong with my singing, elf maids of the court laughed at the loudness of my voice.

Not a few were there in Mirkwood who refused to call me Avarfanawen, and it was only because I held the favor of Legolas that they did not torment me further. The king ignored me whenever he could.

A score of years is merely a moment for the immortal elves, but in that moment I grew up. And now I was restless.


| Part II |
| Index |