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Date Posted: 14:52:09 02/08/03 Sat
Author: Delwyn en Aragon
Subject: Delwyn's History Far Past--Near Past

Does trouble itself have a tangible form? If it did, surely it would have been molded into the dark-haired woman they called Tshilaba. She'd come with a band of gypsies into the quietly prosperous city of Aragon. It was then that the revered blacksmith, Arin fell in love with the gypsy beauty. There was no hope for a permanent union between the fair-featured blacksmith and Tshilaba, but a permanent bond was forged, and sealed in the form...of a child.


It was summer when her birth arrived, and time for the band of gypsies to move on. Tshilaba had no choice but to abandon her newborn child to her father and pray for the best, for the child was not welcome among the gypsy people. Unfortunately, as Arin would find, his bastard daughter was not welcome among his people as well. From the start, she was noticeably different from the other inhabitants of the city--who were all fair-haired, fair-skinned, and light of eye. Delwyn possessed black hair, and amber eyes flecked with green, causing them to sparkle like jewels in the sun. Her skin too, was far darker than her fair neighbors. She was an outcast.


Growing up did little to improve her status. Arin has only had sons before her with his late wife, and with no guidance, knew nothing of raising a daughter--so she became the fifth son. She became his apprentice at the age of six when she could just barely pick up even the lightest sword and handle it. From there she grew more skillful than imagined--for women were far greater at such small skills as stringing bows and carving handles. Her swords had the perfect edges on their blades, and her bows were light, carved to fit their master rather than carved for a master to find. And what good would four older brothers be if not to teach you how to use such weapons? By her tenth birthday she was besting them in short swords and accuracy in the bow, by fifteen she'd bested them in long swords and daggers. The villagers, did not look kindly upon this, as their black sheep was already an outcast. Now no longer was she the bastard daughter of the blacksmith, but she acted not even a bit like a lady, and insisted on observing her gypsy heritage.


Moving in to her eighteenth winter, her life was about to see a change. Her father had grown old and sick, her brothers had left Aragon to find homes in larger cities, one of them became a Squire. Delwyn had found herself leaving home more often than ever before to venture the long journey to the kingdom of Arundale into the province of Olden Moor. For once in her life she'd made friends--and of the most uncommon sort. Of all peoples, she'd befriended the elves--if you could call it such. Still they spoke of her in their native tongue, which even still would sting the young heart. Even so, at the passing of her father, Delwyn intended for this wooded place in foreign kingdom to become her new home. That, however, would never come to pass.


The death of Arin of Aragon - January 2
It had been early morning when she rode into Aragon. The youngest of her fair-haired brothers Fionnbharr (fair-haired) met her in the yard in front of the blacksmith's life-long homestead. Her heart sank instantly upon the sight of her brother. The chestnut mare, Duilia (brave warrior) was halted. Still dressed in her ceremonial vestments, Delwyn took the hand her brother offered and slid from the horse. "Has he passed?" she asked in a dark tone.


"Not as of yet--his time grows short, my sister. Go to him," encouraged the young blonde male, perhaps but five years his dark sister's senior.


His words were the only encouragement she needed. Her hands, trembling with cold and concern squeezed lightly those of her brother's before she took her parting from him and walked into the cottage. Everything once familiar now seemed alien. A pall hung in the air so thick it could have choked her. Outside, no sword-forging fires burned. That alone brought new chill to the once happy household of father and daughter. Silent footsteps moved her then towards the bedroom of the blacksmith Arin (noble strength ).


"Ho, Delwyn, we did not think you would be returning," spoke the familiar voice. It was that of the middle brother, Ceallach (brilliant-haired ) --a near mirror-image of his younger brother. Beside him sat the oldest brother, Caiside (curly headed ), who of all four children was the only one that possessed truly curly hair, which sat in unruly ringlets upon his head.


"And I did not think that I should see either of you here," she replied, holding out her arms to her brothers. The three of them embraced, sharing condolences with one another, although in their hearts they all knew that Delwyn would feel the most pain from her father's passing. Tears were now on the verge of falling, stinging her eyes with their salty heat, but still she broke from her brothers and stepped closer to the bed where her father lay. "What illness takes him?" The words rang in her memory so clear as though they'd been spoken in this moment, and then her reply. "An illness which the elves know nothing about. Age is what takes him..."


"Ho, is this the end for me?" came the gruff voice, weak from the cough that had raped his vocal cords over the previous three days. "Has the angel come to take me home?"


"Father, it is me," her voice laced with the threat of tears. Slowly she sat on the edge of the bed and took his aging hand into her own. "No angels shall come to you on this night, and if they should, I shall not let them bear you away from me," reassuring herself more than him. His hand was brought up to her lips so she could kiss the back of his hand, tears falling there upon him. She knew it was selfish to wish his life prolonged, but she could not help the feeling. Her father and brothers were the only family she'd known, the only friends she'd known, and now she was losing the dearest of them all.


The old man closed his tired blue-gray eyes for a moment, taking control of his hand to place his finger against the gold charm which dangled around her neck, though it was hidden by the white and silver garments. "What does your necklace say, child?"


Delwyn too closed her eyes for a moment before reaching into her mantle and pulling forth the gold chain, upon which hung a small gold heart with three words inscribed upon it. "Whatever the weather," she told him, not even having to look at the necklace.


"That's right--and why does it say that?" he asked her, a smile forming on cracked lips.


"Because..." she began, voice shaking. Her hand squeezed tighter around his then. "Whether the weather be cold..." she started into the familiar chant. "Whether the weather be hot. We'll be together whatever the weather--whether we like it or not," she choked out.


"Even death will not separate us child," his smile grew just a bit, eyes opening to look upon his daughter. When she'd been but a child and fearful of being separated from him, he'd taught her that little saying, and it had held special meaning to them both through the most trying of times. "I will live on in your heart for the rest of your years as long as you do not forget me."


"Oh papa, how could I forget you?" but even as she spoke, Arin's eyes closed once more as he settled into a slumber that would be his last. And the lone daughter of his four children would keep a vigil throughout the night. Her brothers dispersed as evening drew near, leaving her on her own now to watch her father pass through the darkest night he'd ever known.


The lamp is burning low upon my table top. Snow, softly falling. The air--still, in the silence of my room. I hear your voice softly calling. If I could only have you near to breathe a sigh or two. I would be happy just to hold the hands I love on this winter's night with you.


In her mind memories of her childhood played out. Days of celebration, days of sorrow, days of joy, and days of pain. Her sixteenth winter had passed, and her father asked the feudal lord to make an announcement in the spring, as was custom for all the young women in Aragon to be announced, that she was now ripe for marriage. "Arin, noble blacksmith of Aragon, no one wants to marry your bastard daughter. She is of gypsy blood and will only deceive and steal from any man that took pity on her and let her within his house. If you had been wise you would have dashed her skull upon the rocks when she was birthed!" How those words of the feudal lord of Aragon had stung her heart, and still the scar remained. Delwyn remembered her father holding her as she cried for days after it had happened.


She stood then from her chair beside his bed and paced around the room, listening carefully to Arin's labored breathing. Was there nothing that could calm her restless spirit on this night? There was one--but now the distance between them spread so great that no span of time nor travel could reach beyond that yawning gap. Her heart grew cold. Crouching down on the ground, her arms wrapped around her and held her while she rocked there on her heels for what she thought were only a few passing moments, when in actuality it had been longer than the span of an hour. Finally she stood, wincing as the tightened muscles stretched once more to carry her to a chair where she would find only short-lived moments of fitful dozing.


The smoke is rising in the shadows overhead. My glass is almost empty. I read again between the lines upon each page the words of love you sent me. If I could know within my heart that you were lonely too. I would be happy just to hold the hands I love on this winter's night with you.


The fire set by her brothers required tending, and as she could not sleep she busied herself with this task. Another log was added within the stone hearth and the ashes stirred to glowing life, expelling more of their heat into the room. The flames engulfed the dry wood, crackling into a warm glow once more. Delwyn walked from the room then and into the outside world, blanketed with snow. She needed a moment away. Lifting her skirts, she climbed upon several rocks and then made the short leap to the roof, landing lightly upon it. She crawled to her favorite spot upon that old roof then, a place where she had spent many a night as a child and young adult.


A hand searched within her mantle once more to find that gold charm. The chain unclasped she allowed it to pool in her palm. Amber and green eyes looked upon the charm, her forefinger stroking it as though it might shatter with the slightest touch. The inscription: Whatever the weather... Tears threatened once more, but were withheld as she read those words. Fingers curled into a fist, closing the charm within her palm. She had never thought to dream of this day, to prepare for this day.


Her head was turned to the east then, eyes closing. "Mihno ves'tacha...I wish that you were here with me," she spoke the words softly, though they were forbidden. "Tonight your world is not so sullen as my own." Her head was bowed as raven tendrils whipped about her face in the wind. Half an hour passed. For the second time her ceremonial robes were soaked through with snow and the chill had set in. Delwyn descended from the roof carefully, but then hurried inside once more


Her father still lived for now, and that gave her a chance to change from her wet clothes to something warm and dry. Delwyn disrobed and dried off before replacing her silvery feminine garments with more common clothes. A forest green dress of rough fabric to ravage her tender skin, already raw from exposure, and upon that was overlaid a suede-like mantle with golden loops to line its borders, a vine design of roses imprinted upon it in the deepest red. Her hair was then brushed and braided and she returned to her father's bedside. Once more, worried eyes closed, but only to rest...


The fire is dying now. My lamp is growing dim. The shades of night are lifting. Morning light steals across my window pane where webs of snow are drifting. If I could only have you near to breathe a sigh or two. I would be happy just to hold the hands I love on this winter's night with you.


When she awoke the fire was nothing more than smoldering cinders. The candle beside her had burned itself out, hardened wax dripping down the noble pewter which had held it. Her eyes, seemingly now more green than the honey-gold, looked towards the window. The sky was beginning to lighten. Arin had passed during the night as she knew he would. Her heart felt strangely peaceful, comforted by the dreams that had come to her. As the sun continued to rise, its light fell upon the wooden floor at her feet. The snow had stopped falling save for a few flakes that drifted down. A light breeze stirred the snow, but otherwise, the white world outside remained undisturbed. A red bird landed upon a bare tree, shaking from a limb the snow that weighed it down. The only source of color she could see. Emotion welled in her heart--sympathy, for she knew all to well how that bird felt--cold, and alone. Turning her face then to the body of her father, which had grown pale and lacked in warmth, a bitter smile touched her lips. "Whatever the weather...good night papa."


Delwyn rode back to Olden Moor the next night to retrieve Lirael before the elves took her to Chirk. She met with Adaron in the forest and was given the young Drow. Now charged with her care, she was beginning to get herself into perhaps more than she could handle, but pride would not let her back down, nor ask for help.


She returned once more to Aragon. The days that followed passed uneventfully although there were whispers throughout the city that she had stolen a child. Everything seemed to flow normally until the night that Adaron showed up. Their conversation was short, formal; however, at the end of the night words became heated and noble elf left angrily.


At first she only wept at her folly, but then decided to ride out after him. With Lirael safely resting in the basement, Delwyn mounted the chestnut mare sans saddle and urged her towards the village. It was a mistake. She had not even made it to the center of Aragon when the townsmen stopped her. The mob pulled her from her horse and began to whip her. They accused her of stealing the child from another family. "Confess that you stole her, you gypsy whore!" they shouted. She fought against the men that held her as the cat o’nine tails lacerated her dark flesh.


Fortunately, Adaron had met with Talar just outside the city. The elves easily heard her scream and rushed back to the city to come to her aid. The splayed whip was held above a villager’s head ready to deliver a potentially fatal blow to the bloodied body of the gypsy girl when an arrow pierced straight through his wrist. The battle, though it could hardly be called such, left eight of the twelve men dead, the other four having run off before they could be killed. Talar hauled Delywn’s broken form back to her home where he cleaned and wrapped her wounds. It would no longer be safe for her there, and they all knew it. It was decided that she and the child would ride out with the two elves that night to make the four-week long journey to Tel’Oira Eldamar—The Eternal Elvenhome.


For many days of her journey she’d faded in and out of consciousness due to blood loss. Most of the time she needed Adaron to keep an arm locked tightly about her as they rode to prevent her from falling off. Riding in such a close proximity to the elf had yielded some interesting results in her travels. She found that she had memorized his heartbeat, his rate of breath, even the way his voice rose and fell when he spoke to Talar. There was still something about him that made her fearful, and yet drawn to him at the same time. He was a mystery that needed to be solved.


A new life. What I wouldn’t give to have a new life. There’s one thing I’ve learned as I go through life: nothing is for free along the way. A new start. That’s the thing I need to give me new heart. Half a chance in life to find a new part—Just a simple role that I can play. A new hope. Something to convince me to renew hope. A new day. Bright enough to help me find my way. A new chance. One that maybe has a touch of romance. Where can it be? A chance for me…


They arrived in Tel’Oira Eldamar after the course of a month. It was by far the most beautiful place she’d ever seen in her natural born days. The Elven city was warm, a paradise in the winter of the mountains that surrounded it. She was given a room with her new daughter that was far nicer than anything she’d lived in. Perhaps this was just what she needed. It didn’t come without responsibility of course. She was charged with the care and education of the child. She’d never been a mother, and certainly had no hopes of ever actually becoming one, so this presented more than a slight challenge to her.


She spoke with Lord Mallorn about whether or not the child would be allowed to stay among the light-skinned elves. The council had yet to make a decision when tragedy struck. While Delwyn was out exploring with Adaron, Lirael fell into the river and drown. Her body was found nearly two miles down the river. Delwyn’s heart was crushed. The closet thing she would ever have to a child had been lost to her because of her own careless misguidance.


A new dream. I have one I know that very few dream. I would like to see that overdue dream. Even though it never may come true. A new love. Though I know there’s no such thing as true love. Even so, although I never knew love, still I feel that one dream is my due. A new world. There’s one I want to ask of you, world. Once, before it’s time to say adieu world, one sweet chance to prove the cynics wrong. A new life, more and more I’m sure as I go through life just to play the game and to pursue life, just to share its pleasures and belong. That’s what I’ve been here for all along. Each day’s a brand new life…


It was a desperate attempt on Delwyn’s part to be strong. She’d suffered so much in so little time. Her father’s death, a betrayal of her own kind, and the death of what would be her only child. Yet she could not show how deeply the pain affected her. She still had yet to grieve for her father’s passing, but it was important to her now to show the elves what she was made of. This will undoubtedly come back to haunt her in coming years. She knew in her heart that there was no chance of her getting married. She was a half-breed, an outcast among men. In Elvenhome she felt safe—she felt like she belonged there despite the difference in races. She’d even taken to learning the Elven tongue. Unfortunately she realized that she’d lost her heart as well to Adaron. He knew nothing of it fortunately; however, Talar knew everything of it after a slightly tipsy dinner confession. "Should I be jealous yet?" she asked him when speaking of Adaron and the elf princess. "No. Why would you even ask such a thing elendil?" Talar replied. "Because," she said, leaning in close to whisper to him. "He is mihno ves’tacha…what you would call A’maelamin,’" which translated into ‘my beloved’.

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