Musings of a Woodland King, part 2
Purple Gentian; a relative of Athelas, and a favorite of my husband for its health benefits as a digestive aid and in the reduction of respiratory inflammation. With its sweet taste and pretty purple color, it was popular among the children during their yearly run of coughs and sniffles. It is well that he only requires the root sections, for the flowers look ever so lovely in his hair.
Celandine; the proud symbol of my brother in heart, if not by blood. It has taken to growing on the western boundary of Eryn Lasgalen, near the Old Forest Road that comes down out of The Misty Mountains. Verily, I can time Glorfindel and Erestor’s springtime visits by the blooming of this cheerful flower. Unsurprisingly, the roots make a lovely mood-lifting tea, and the oil extracted from the rest of the plant does wonders for sore muscles after sparring with the very elf whose heraldry bears their sunny blossoms. Or so I have heard.
Wild rose. Our dearest Lady of Imladris could have written a small book about this particular flower. Aside from its popularity as an immune support and anti-inflammatory, rose hip oil became all the rage among the population of Imladris, and is still particularly prized among mortals for achieving glowy, radiant skin. As my wife’s dutiful test subject, I can confirm. But my favored interaction with the flowers was in picking bouquets of them at Cel’s side, and enjoying the pleasure of her smile and her company. Many a lovely conversation we had as she sat before me, allowing me to weave them into her honey-gold waves. I miss her terribly.
Scarlet Paintbrush; a boisterous, fiery and guileful little flower. Ever have they put me in mind of my dear Woodland Queen, for they are stubborn and strong, often pushing straight up between cracks in the rock. They carry nectar deep down in their tube-like blossoms, and are the exact vibrant shade of her lovely hair. Our little Las used to delight in wandering with Ithil and I through the Northern reaches of the forest, plucking the little trumpet-shaped flowers and sucking the sweetness from the ends. The plant is, however, toxic to consume in its entirety, though the dried and ground up blooms make a lovely red dye for cloth. It is not the custom of Wood Elves to entomb their dead, but we transplanted many of these hardy, cheerful flowers the day we scattered her ashes upon the western banks of Anduin, near the homestead of Beorn. He reports they are a favorite among his bees now.
Thimble berry flower—any berry flower really—are the favorites of our twin sons, for they promise the coming of fresh, sweet fruits. And where there are berries to be picked, there are pies, tarts, scones, jams, cordials, and—my personal favorite—wines to be made. It is easier now that the children are old enough to bring back enough to make such things as opposed to picking and bypassing their baskets in favor of eating them fresh off the bush. Many a purple and blue stained mouth was there to blame for near-emptyhandedness when they were little.
Niphredil, also fittingly known as Queen’s Cup. Prized for their silky, ethereal white blossoms that glow softly in the moonlight near the forest floor. It is no accident that the flowers that bloomed in their hundreds before the gates of Menegroth at the birth of Lúthien Tinúviel also covered the grounds of the House of Elrond the night our beloved daughter was born. Often was I greeted by their rich, sweet scent upon entering the nursery, as garlands of them were not only decorative and fragrant, but insisted upon by the fussing babe whose bassinet they adorned. T’was difficult indeed to lay our daughter down without them. The fact that I remember not how we got her to sleep in the depths of winter is perhaps telling. Their fragrance is still prized today in soaps, perfumes and scented candles.
Forget-me-not. I have every sprig of these delightful little flowers that my darling ‘Las has ever given to me pressed and saved in his favored book of Sindarin fairytales. While most of my journeys to Imladris to spend time with our family when he was younger were made with him in my company, the occasions that he was unable to come would see him pressing several stems of these sun-loving perennials into my hand with a kiss for good luck. Nowadays, he is the one visiting me from Ithilien, journeying to either Eryn Lasgalen or Minas Tirith, and, as before, he always has a handful of dainty blue flowers the exact color of his eyes to gift me. He dearly enjoys threading them into my hair as Arwen braids and Gimli teases that his cousin Dain might’ve been onto something with his pointy-eared princess remark. I shall never live it down, I fear.
The Fairy Slipper Orchid has been a favorite of mine since I was a boy. One of the first to burst forth from the barely defrosted soil, still littered with the brittle decay of last year’s flora. Striking in appearance, and hardy, it was this little flower that carpeted our front garden in Doriath on the morning of my birth. The one my husband would leave little bunches of on the pillow next to my dream-filled head on the morning of my begetting after we met. The one my little Las and Arwen would make flower crowns and bracelets of, both for me and for themselves so that we might match. The one that our twin boys used to carry, pressed and dried alongside their wild roses and purple gentian counterparts on the road during their swashbuckling travels with the Dúnedain. They can be found throughout Eryn Lasgalen in early spring, and the corms have a peppery taste when used in cooking.
The crown I bear in springtime is, veritably, the fairest of them all, for it bears the combination of each of these precious blooms. The cumulative display of all that I hold dear.
Part 1
