Chapter One: Lowly Origins

My name is Elle, though that is merely a nickname. My full name is that of a greatly respected ancestor, but that is not important at this moment.

I was born on the plains of Rohan in a thatched farmhouse perched upon a grassy knoll. From the moment I could talk, stories of any kind were my lifeblood; I would curl up on my father's lap, wrap his burly arms around me, and listen while he told tales of ages long past. In his deep, booming voice I always thought fit for a wizard, he would weave the story together with rich imagery and hand gestures when words failed him. He had been a part of several battles in the past few decades, and hearing him relive the glory – and grief – of those days always held my rapt attention. I have him to thank for my love of faerie tales.

My mother was a petite redhead, quite a rarity in my culture. It was not uncommon for passerbys to stare openly when she would be outside with the laundry or shopping in the city. Her bright, green eyes oft flashed with mirth – or fire, depending on the situation. Her temper was frequently provoked, causing strife within the family and amongst her equals. Few dared provoke her wrath and fewer still called her friend for that very reason. She was not unlovable, just difficult. Her own husband had a rarely peaceful relationship with her. While very much in love, her temper and his short fuse did not produce a serene environment.

To say that the household was tranquil was nowhere near the truth. With two hot-headed parents and a docile child who managed to keep her head down, life was far from dull. Because both parents were often fighting over matters which could vary from an out-of-place broom to the season's crops, I quickly learned to evade such explosions by sneaking outside to hide under the massive sycamore tree close to the cabin. Their voices carried some but it was mostly drowned out by the sounds of the night. The wind caressing my cheeks with a soft whisper…the gentle coo of a bard owl…the quiet chirruping of crickets…my young mind was awash with the beauty of it all. As I lay there, I would remember the stories – the ones where the world was at war and the gods interfered for the sake of humanity. Visions of regal kings in glittering armor and lovely queens adorned with sparkling gems and flowing gowns flooded my imagination, often rendering me breathless.

Those nights, I would lift my face to the starry heavens and pray to these Valar Da spoke of, as the gods of my people had never given me cause to trust their provision. I would ask to be like those in the tales and legends passed down through the generations. I would implore Elbereth to bless me. Even at that age, I doubted someone like Elbereth would listen to a little girl but I begged nonetheless. Sadly, those prayers and dreams quickly dissolved into childish wishes and thus were pushed from my mind at too impressionable an age.

I was forced to grow up much sooner than I should have due to the influx of offspring. I gained twin brothers and a sister ere I reached two-and-twenty. The boys Einar and Iwar were independent from their first breaths while Hulda was my little shadow from the moment she could crawl. No matter their differences, the twins were always the best of friends – and especially protective of their baby sister. Most of their battles involved saving the "princess" (simply adorned in a crown of daisies and a gown made of a discarded blanket) from the evil dragon – a part I played very well. My siblings were one of the few joys I possessed living in the desolate prairie; the sole other I could claim for myself was writing under the sycamore in my journal so carefully crafted out of precious parchment and thin slabs of wood. Those days I spent bent over the pages, furiously chronicling anything and everything.

It was this practice that set the stage for the impending explosion.

On my twenty-third birthday, as the family all sat enjoying dinner, my parents began to discuss my future. "Mayhaps if we make it so that you have goods to sell in the city, you may find that your prospects become more numerous," Mother suggested offhandedly while she fed Hulda rabbit and bread.

"Mama, what goods? All my baskets and quilts are passable but not anything people would spare coin for." I sighed heavily, pushing food about my plate in a lackluster fashion. I knew where this conversation was heading.

"Well, dear, if you would spend more time perfecting the skill rather than filling your head with nonsense, those baskets might be worth something," Mother pointed out in a sweet but firm tone. She did not entirely approve of her daughter's voracious appetite for stories and songs.

I lifted my head and set my jaw, still aiming for geniality. If Mama would not stoop to cutting words and harsh remarks, I refused to be the first. "It may seem superfluous to my existence, but all that writing and recording means something, Mama. In fact…I am glad you mentioned it." I sat up a bit straighter, firmly ignoring the erratic thudding of my heart. "I was wondering if perhaps I may journey to Gondor with the next autumn caravan. I might find some way to study in the Minas Tirith Archives and become a scholar." There. I said it. The dream that I had not dared to speak aloud even to myself for fear I would find some fault in it.

Silence reigned. Even Hulda, too young to understand the situation, had turned somber, her pale eyes flickering about the table. Mother's own face reflected blank shock which washed away to reveal disbelief mingled with a swiftly-growing wrath. Before she could formulate a response, Da stepped in, seeking to preserve the peace. "My dear, that is a noble goal…but you do realize that that is not a woman's position. No scholar would accept you for fear of being laughed out of the kingdom."

I could feel the hope beginning to deflate within me, but I strove for optimism. "Da, things are not the same as they once were," I insisted, knowing in my heart that I uttered empty words.

Father shook his head once. "Not so much that women become chroniclers and recorders of history. No, dear…I cannot, in good conscience, give you permission to travel alone to a city teeming with all manner of dangers. You may not be a child anymore, but you will never be old enough to go anywhere alone – especially in times as dark as these." He gave that comforting smile fathers often give to children whom they have disappointed and returned to his meal, signaling the end of the conversation.

Being the clothead that I was, I doggedly pressed onward. "Da, I just…I want a chance to make something of my life. I honor what you and Mama do here, but I do not believe that such a life is what I desire." I exhaled deeply and sat on my hands to keep them from trembling. "I-I know that this is a silly notion, but I want to make an attempt at the very least. It is something I have dreamed of for years now."

"Perhaps that is why you have suffered in the other areas of your life – you have pursued this fanciful belief that you can be something other than a farmer's wife," Mother, having found her voice, returned and with a vengeance. She sought to goad me into heated debate so she could lash out, and she was quickly succeeding.

Stung by my parents' apathy and already aggravated to the breaking point, I foolishly took the bait, not caring a wit about the potential consequences. "Is it so difficult to understand that I wish to enjoy what is left of my life ere I give it away? I never said it would be easy, but at least I want to try instead of giving up and following the path placed before me! Did you not have any ambitions to make an impact on the world – however small – before you married Da and bore us? And what of you, Da? What were your hopes and dreams before Mama entered your life? What is so hard to comprehend about this?!" I was rambling and I knew it, but I could not just sit back and let them get their way simply because they said mine was too difficult or impossible.

Father arched a brow at the tirade and spoke in measured tones – a sure indication of his growing lack of patience. "I know 'tis hard to accept, but you must realize what an irrational concept this is. A young woman travelling with a convoy of questionable morality to a city of even fewer proper integrities in hopes of being a scribe when the occupation is made up of old men and the occasional boy? If I did not know you any better, I would think you were trying to get away from here." Here, he paused and focused a sky-blue eye on me, silently daring me to persist in this argument of departure.

I did not disappoint. "I am, though," I replied bluntly, matching his level gaze. "I yearn for something more – something with purpose. Not that farming is not important; I just…am not happy here." My cheeks flushed hot at the confession, my already fluttering heartbeat faltering at the look in Father's eyes.

He rose and stepped away from the table, visibly calm but with a dangerous look in his cerulean stare. "I see that I have let this childish fancy of yours proceed too far," he said coldly as he leaned forward on bent knuckles. "Clearly, you believe yourself to be in a heroic tale where the gloomy stablemaid becomes the subject of the young prince's affections, and after a long trial of heartache and distress, she is rescued from her dreary existence and swept up into a life of dashing knights and stern kings upon thrones of ebony. If you would allow me to say just this..." He leaned forward a bit more, nose nearly touching mine. "You…are not…in a faerie tale." He spat the words as though they tasted bitter. "You are my daughter, and by morning, you will have abandoned this notion that you are destined for the Gondorian Archives or by the Valar, I will make sure that you have no say in your future. Am I understood?" His voice, sharp and cruel, pierced like a dagger through my ribs, and his normally gentle features had hardened into a visage of spent patience and fierce determination.

Humiliation complete, I felt my body slouch in both fear and defeat; despite my agony, I stoutly refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing my broken heart. Instead, I jutted my chin in a final act of defiance that I did not feel and managed to snap, "If you will excuse me…" and rose unceremoniously from my seat. I turned on my heel and marched towards the door, jerking the latch up and slipping out into the night to the sounds of a fist striking the table and my father's deep baritone demanding that I return to the table at once! I had barely let the door slam back on its frame before the rush of hot tears overflowed onto my cheeks.

I sought refuge in the only place I knew: the roots of the old sycamore tree at the foot of the hill. Curling up with knees to my chin as I had done so many years ago, I let the sobs come violently. I wept for my dreams, unsupported by society and family, and for my future, which looked utterly bleak as of now. My hands tangled in my hair as I rocked back and forth, crying ugly tears of self-pity and loathing. I knew I was being unfair and selfish, but in that moment of grief, I cared not. I had wanted this one thing so terribly that I had stupidly refused to see the bad in it. They were right – no one would take me seriously. Any job prospects in Minas Tirith or any other major establishment would be offered in a spice shop or worse, a brothel. Even that has more potential than living here, I thought bitterly. At least there I would be wanted and taken seriously. The guilt was instantaneous but I pushed it aside for the time being as the tears finally subsided and practicality returned.

When it came down to it, my ultimate goal was simple: leave the prairies. Truthfully, I did not mind if I spent the rest of my life in Edoras or even in as far off as Bree in the eastern reaches of the Shire: I just wanted out. Out of this routine life of waking, eating, breathing, sweating, dusty plains with more rocks than trees, and hot, dry winds that peeled the skin off your flesh. Away from the austere lifestyle that demanded the same of every member of forthcoming generations – to live and reap the fruits of the land. My gut-wrenching desire for adventure and change was overdeveloped so much so that anything seemed better than this.

After much thought, I came to the conclusion that I could not remain if I had any intentions of following through with my plan to become something more. Wiping tears from my eyes, I took a few calming breaths and got to my feet. A quick glance at the cabin revealed that more time had passed than I had thought: the candles had been extinguished, meaning that the household had given up waiting for me to return and gone to bed. I was thankful for this small mercy.

Upon quietly slipping into the house, I found my father asleep in the rocking chair by the dying fire, the embers glowing steadily and sending up sporadic showers of sparks which briefly contributed to the illumination of the room. I tiptoed to the shared bedroom and silently rummaged about until I found my leather saddle bag. I packed my knife, skinning tools, waterskin, and two extra pairs of socks. I found my cloak and boots, and then set about preparing myself for travel. My long hair twisted into a thick plait, I slipped into my best chemise and workdress, a simple flax gown. With a final glance at my snoring baby sister, I carefully opened the door and slipped into the kitchen to stuff the bag with whatever travel-handy food I could come across; I ended up with a few biscuits, an assortment of dried game, and some leftover fruit from dinner. Filling the saddlebag to the brim, I tossed it over my shoulder and headed for the door.

At the last second, I paused, hand on the latch. My mind was at war; half wanted to stay and sort matters out, and the other half urged me to travel into the unknown. Glancing towards my father slumped in the chair, his worn face free of worry and concern, I murmured, "Forgive me, Einar, Iwar, Hulda…I never meant to hurt you. Mama, Da…I hope you understand. I love you all." With a quivering lip, I stole over to Father's slumbering form and lightly kissed his cheek. The corner of his mouth tilted up in a half smile, adding to my growing misery, and he mumbled something in his sleep as he shifted in the chair and resumed snoring.

Before all resolve was lost, I slipped out the door and lowered the hatch into place, stealing away into the night.