Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)
Title: The Prince and the Librarian (#2476)
Author: Sazziel
Chapters: 5
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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: The Library of Minas Tirith is a dusty, disorganised mess, and it is the backdrop for the whimsical romance between the Heir to the Throne and the new Librarian as, together, they restore it to it's former glory, and unearth the hidden secrets of kings…
Published: 02 Jan 2006
Updated: 04 Feb 2006
Warnings:
Type: Romance
Characters: Eldarion; OFC
Chapter 1 - Prologue
Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful.
Prologue
The first time they meet, it’s because it’s a rainy day, and Eleniel is sitting at her desk staring out at the miserably grey view of the city when a voice says, “Erm – excuse me, my lady; are you the new librarian?”
She jumps and turns, almost upsetting her untidy pile of accounts of the Great Plague, to find a pair of solemn grey eyes gazing down at her from the face of the Prince of Gondor. She leaps from her chair. “You’re the Prince!”
The Heir blinks down at her. “I am, and you are…?”
“Eleniel. Sire. New librarian. My father handed on the job, as it were, that is, no sons and only me, and I like books so I was the obvious choice.” Eleniel stops talking and swallows hard. “Can I help you, your highness?”
A sudden disarming smile lights up the somewhat forbidding features of Prince Eldarion. “Ah – I believe you can. I rather think that this library contains a large collection of documents from Harad?”
Eleniel glances round. From her desk, she can see the whole of the dusty, disorganised library; huge, grimy windows let what weak light there is and the teetering shelves stretch to the vaulted ceiling. Eleniel thinks of her father, too disabled to do anything butclean a few shelves occasionally, and sighs. “Certainly, my lord. If they are anywhere then they are in here.”
Eldarion is also eyeing the vast room with some doubt written on his handsome features. “Really?”
“Oh yes, sire; but my father wasn’t able to do much in the way of cataloguing or, or cleaning, or anything really, and until I get it sorted out –“ which will take up the better part of the rest of my life, she adds silently – “I’m afraid that finding things is rather difficult.”
The Prince frowns. “Do you have no assistants?”
“No, your highness,” says Eleniel blandly.
“And how long have you held this post?”
“The best part of a week now, sire, although I have a fairly good idea of where some things are; I’ve been in and out of here all my life.” Eleniel watches him carefully. She doesn’t think he looks the kind of man to deprive people of their jobs out-of-hand, but she dreads having some obsequious palace clerk come in and start being officious.
Eldarion narrows his eyes. “And I suppose that a horde of cleaners would disrupt you considerably?”
“Yes, sire.” And then, because she truly does want to be helpful, she adds, “If you give me a few months, your highness, I’ll have that section in some sort of order for you.”
“And how will you accomplish that?” he asks her.
“Er, well, by having to large piles of paper; one for scrolls on the Haradrim, the other for – anything else.”
“You cannot trawl through the whole library by yourself! It would take years!”
“Begging your pardon, sire, but it needs to be done.” She shrugs. “And then I’ll try and catalogue what I can, although obviously not the gallery, the stairs are gone.” They both automatically glance up at the high balcony, where cobwebs festoon the shelves and paper covers the floor.
The Prince starts to lean against a nearby shelf, but stops himself just in time. “A thankless task.” He regards her with that narrow stare again, and seems to reach a decision. “I’ll send down people to help you. I had no idea that the library was in this state, and I’m sure the king did not know.” This is most likely true: the library of the Palace is rumoured to be a favoured haunt of King Elessar, and it is no wonder that he has never visited the City library, which in addition to being in a state of disrepair is largely acknowledged to have ceased to function.
Eleniel panics quietly. She can think of nothing worse than having a horde of palace servants kicking up the dust. “My lord, I’d rather – I mean, please don’t, I can sort it out if you’ll just give me a few months! The system is so complicated, and there are all sorts of scrolls down here, half of them in languages that no one speaks any more – some of them could be so important!”
Eldarion frowns. “We have a shortage of men with knowledge of this kind of – of…”
“Thing,” said Eleniel helpfully.
“Indeed,” says the Heir. “There are so few with the language skills, let alone the kind of patience needed, who are not already employed at court.” He flashes her a sudden smile again. “I shall find someone. No, my lady, I insist,” he adds as Eleniel starts to protest, and she subsides. When the Prince of Gondor insists, the unspoken rule is that he is obeyed.
“Thankyou, my lord,” she says quietly, dropping an awkward curtsey.
“It is a pleasure.” Eldarion executes a perfect bow, his dark hair falling forward, then turns on his heel and walks toward the stairs, the picture of Gondorian upper-class elegance in his long surcoat of dark velvet. Eleniel stands quite still as the sound of his footsteps fades, and the dust-motes gleam in the pale sunlight that breaks through the rain.
“He won’t be back,” she says aloud to the vast, forgotten room, and reaches for the crumbling words of long-dead kings as the dust settles once more.
Chapter 2 - Chapter One
Chapter One
When Eleniel next sees Prince Eldarion Telcontar, it is a fine, though cold, winter morning. Eleniel has wrapped up warm against the chill – there are no fires in the Library – and is about to start deciphering the last scribblings of Lord Dardin, Eighth Keeper of the Royal Tapestries, when she hears approaching footsteps and looks up, hand poised over the scroll.
The Prince is not dressed in black velvet today, but rather in sensible, close-woven tunic and leggings, with worn leather boots; he smiles at her as he picks his way across the floor.
“My lord,” says Eleniel in some surprise, standing up. “I didn’t think you’d – that is, I – “
“I keep my word,” Eldarion informs her as he reaches the old wooden desk. “To the best of my ability, at any rate.” He folds his arms and smiles at her, a little shyly. “I – was unable to find anyone with sufficient skills to aid you, however, and I do apologise. They all seem to think that their time would be much better spent at court, and I think you would not wish for unwilling or reluctant helpers?”
Eleniel ducks her head. “No, my lord.” Some part of her has been hoping that he might have found some eccentric scholar who could have heaved some of the heavier shelves around, but she is a little relieved not to have her sanctuary invaded by super-efficient cleaners. “I’m sure you did your best.”
“Hm.” The Prince quirks an eyebrow, and then laughs at the look of relief on her face. “ There is only one person, it would appear, who has both time and inclination to assist you, and that is myself.”
Eleniel laughs as well, as much at the idea of the elegant prince dusting cobwebs from furniture and fishing around underneath shelves for scraps of paper as anything.
“Will you let me?”
Eleniel stares at him. “Are you serious, your highness?”
“Perfectly, I assure you.”
“You – but – with all respect, sir, you’re the heir to the throne! You can’t go cleaning out City buildings!”
Eldarion’s brows snap together. “It will be my city, one day. I have a good knowledge of ancient languages, and I am quite capable of wielding a broom…”
“No brooms,” mutters Eleniel. “Got to dust first.”
“…and moreover, I can move heavy furniture for you.” The Prince stares at her sternly. “Is there any objection, other than my rank?”
“Well, no,” says Eleniel, flustered, “And I’m honoured, but – but surely you’re busy, too busy to…”
He sighs. “May I sit?” he asks, and at her nod drops into the spindly chair on the other side of her desk. He leans forward as she sits also, cautiously. “I am not at all busy.”
“But surely there’s affairs of state and – and things.” Eleniel has a very vague notion of politics, and what the duties of a prince entail, but she is fairly sure that it includes things like arguing with foreigners and negotiating.
“Yes. Up until last month, there were plenty of things to occupy my time.” Eldarion absently runs one hand through his hair. “I have been away from the city for the past two years, as you may be aware. I was with the army, in Arnor.” He looks wistful. “I was of some use. But now – now I have been recalled, and while I dearly love Minas Tirith, I miss having a – a purpose, you might say. The law courts are interesting, but I am not needed there; my sisters are still in Ithilien, and my friends are in Arnor. This place was once beautiful, and so much learning – it should not go to waste.”
Eleniel tucks her hair behind her ears. She keeps it unfashionably short, because it is heavy and hot in the summer, but now she wishes that she had some covering for her lower neck; she pulls her shawl closer. “Can you read Adunaic, sire?”
“Yes. And I’m fluent in Sindarin, Quenyan and Rohirric, with a spattering of Valinorean – though anyone writing in that tongue is a fool, in my opinion – and passable Khandian. My Haradric is a little rusty. I can read most scripts. As for the dusting…”
“I’ll teach you,” says Eleniel with a smile. “You’re hired, my lord, although I cannot afford much in the way of wages.” She is delighted to see an answering grin on his face.
“Your enchanting company will be all the payment I require,” he says, grey eyes twinkling. Eleniel, flustered once more, stands up; he stands too, an expectant look on his face.
“Right,” says Eleniel firmly. “We need a starting point. I think that if we start with this floor – we really don’t have a lot of choice, to be honest – and maybe catalogue as we go, that will be easiest…”
“Shall we start at the far end?”
Eleniel steps round her desk, treading carefully so that she doesn’t stand on anything, and moves out into the centre of the foyer. Before her, shelves march down to the far wall, which is dominated by a colossal round window; it is so dirty that virtually no light comes through it. Paper litters the floor, and one stack of shelves has fallen over so that it rests on its neighbour. “Yes, I think so. Wait, let me find something to write with…” She darts back again and rummages in one of the drawers, trying not to let her excitement show, and passes parchment, ink and pens to the Heir.
He points to a huge, overstuffed book, which lies on the floor behind her. “Is that the – the catalogue?”
“Ah. Yes.” Eleniel picks it up carefully, coughing as clouds of dust arise. The ancient parchment crackles ominously, and she cradles it gingerly against her chest. “Shall we, your highness?”
Eldarion gestures gracefully, allowing her to precede him. Eleniel sneaks a glance at him as she passes, and wonders how he manages to look every bit as royal as he had the day before, even though he is clad in plain clothes and his long hair is tied back with a piece of string. She’s not entirely comfortable with the idea of the Prince of Gondor engaging in menial tasks as yet; although Eleniel has led an extremely secluded life, preferring books to people and avoiding most of her peers like the plague, she is perfectly aware that Prince Eldarion is one of the most powerful and sought-after men in the kingdom, not to mention the fact that one day he will inherit the throne. There will be no – expectations, she tells herself firmly, hefting the book in her arms. None at all. Yes, you are being helped by a prince, but that prince is sure to lose interest as soon as he realises that there’s nothing down here but dust, mice and books.
The prince in question is looking around with some curiosity as they proceed down the main aisle. Dark corridors open off to either side of them; what many people do not realise is that the library is a virtual warren, and that it extends far under the ground. Eleniel knows for a fact that her great-grandfather used the left wing to store firewood, but that is as far as her knowledge goes, and she is unwilling to venture down the dark corridors without some kind of light.
“Well,” says Eldarion, and Eleniel realises that they have reached the window; she turns around to gaze up at the teetering stacks. “Where shall we start?”
Nearly two hours later, they have some kind of rhythm going, and have cleared almost half of one of the stacks. Eldarion perches on the rickety old ladder that has been eventually located propping up the remainder of the stairs to the gallery; being the taller, he can just about reach the top of the shelves. Eleniel sits cross-legged on the cold stone floor, and writes down the names of the scrolls and the books as he reads them out; they have agreed after some discussion that this is not - as indicated by the library plan from two centuries ago – the section on Great Military Manoeuvres, but is in fact the section on Khandian etiquette.
“An account by the twelfth steward of Gondor, upon the occasion of his first meeting with the Ambassador,” calls down the Prince. “Mainly complete, fairly good condition.” He leans precariously downward, the ladder creaking ominously, and carefully deposits the volume on the growing pile on the floor. “Pages a bit loose. And that’s the end of that row.”
Eleniel neatly ticks off the title in the ancient directory, and then writes it below the long column of others on the fresh parchment in front of her. “At least nothing seems to be missing – there are a lot of things that aren’t in the records, though.” She rubs her nose absentmindedly, forgetting that she has ink smeared across her fingers.
Eldarion sits gingerly on the top rung. “Would it be time to stop for lunch yet, my lady, or do you wish to keep working?” His voice is carefully controlled, but his expression reads before I expire from extreme hunger. Eleniel bite her lips together to keep from laughing.
“I believe it could be,” she agrees, and stands up, wincing as stiff muscles protest. Eldarion descends from his lofty perch, and Eleniel lets out a breath that she hasn’t realised she has been holding; it would be a fine state of affairs were the heir to the kingdom to injure himself in her library.
The Prince offers to buy lunch, and departs to the outside world while Eleniel takes the opportunity to wash the ink from her hands and face. By the time he returns, she has located another armchair; they eat hot pies in companionable silence until Eldarion, lounging in his chair with effortless grace, says, “So, my lady librarian, what secrets does this place hold? Buried treasure? Ghosts?”
Eleniel sniffs. “Nothing of the kind, my lord. A few secret passages, maybe, and it is rumoured that somewhere is hidden the last writings of Elendil…”
“Really?” The Prince sits up. “What else? Where do the passages lead to?”
“I couldn’t possibly say, my lord. I know of the location of two; one has caved in, but I think the other leads to the Palace.”
Eldarion blinks. “Impossible.”
Eleniel says with a shrug, “I’ve never followed it, but my father did once; he claimed that it links to the Palace Library.” Then, because he looks worried, “I am the only one alive now who knows of it, sire. My father never told a soul.”
“Your father is…”
“Dead? These two months, sire.”
Eldarion frowns. “But you have a mother?”
Eleniel hugs her knees to her chest. “Not since I was six, your highness. It’s just me and the cat – my brother is away with the armies.”
“But surely it can’t be safe for you – a young woman, living all alone!” says Eldarion, shocked. Eleniel bursts out laughing.
“The neighbours keep an eye on the house while I’m gone, and the cat is an excellent guard. I manage.” To keep him from returning to the subject, she jumps to her feet. “Shall we try and finish that stack today, your highness?”
“A very good idea,” replies Eldarion, and lets her lead the way.
It is nearly dark when Eleniel shows the Prince the passage to the Palace. It is rather unoriginally hidden behind an old statue, but Eldarion is delighted, confessing to a childhood love for secret passages with a boyish gleam in his eyes.
“I found all the ways in and out of the Palace apart from this one, it would seem,” he says, blowing on the torch he holds to further ignite it. “Did you know that there is one leading from Lord Imrahil’s town house to the kitchens? He used to say that it was the most useful thing he owned.” He peers up the dark passageway. “At least this way should mean that I can re-enter the Palace without being seen, which believe me, is a blessing.” He looks round at her with a smile. “I shall see you again tomorrow, my lady.”
She shakes her head. “Eleniel, please. And thank you, sire. I – well. Thank you.”
Something passes over his face, but it is gone before she can name it. “I believe it is I who must thank you, Eleniel.” He grabs her hand and kisses it, and then he’s gone, the torchlight disappearing due to the upward slant of the tunnel.
Eleniel stands there for a moment, then turns and makes her way back through the darkening gloom, up into the busy, everyday world of the city.
Review? D
Chapter 3 - Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Two days later, Eleniel and Eldarion have finished clearing two sections, and are busy replacing the books on their shelves, having been numbered and recorded in Eleniel’s ever-growing catalogue. The shelves have been dusted, and already a difference can be seen as they begin to fill; looking around her, Eleniel can almost believe that they might one day succeed in restoring the whole place. At present, she is crouched on the floor, neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle to look under the stacks; it comes as something of a relief that there is nothing underneath, although she makes a mental note to check next time before filling the shelves.
“There’s nothing down there that I can see,” she says, standing carefully.
“Maybe I should have a look on the top,” suggests Eldarion’s voice, slightly muffled, from the other side. There is a scrabbling noise, the shelves wobble slightly and Eleniel moves back hastily; it is sturdy furniture, however, and the Prince of Gondor appears three feet above her head, looking rather surprised. He grins down at her, and Eleniel cannot help but grin back.
“I’d like to meet the person who took it into their head to leave books up there,” she says, stepping back to keep him in view. “Can you see the whole lib – please, if you value my sanity, don’t sta – oh, must you, your highness?” this last somewhat despairingly; Eleniel has learnt over the past few days that Eldarion Telcontar can have a distressingly low regard for his own safety.
“Sweet Elbereth,” says Eldarion, “this place is vast. I can see the walls, though,” he adds in what is obviously an attempt to be optimistic.
“Couldn’t you sort of – kneel down and see the walls?”
The Prince looks down at her, one eyebrow raised in amusement. “Lady Librarian, are you implying that my sense of balance is not reliable?”
“My lord Prince, I have not the faintest doubt that your stance is firm as the very rock of the Ered Nimrais themselves,” sighs Eleniel, “and I fear that the floor is as hard.”
Eldarion laughs, and obligingly kneels. “There. I shall not fall – it is a strange shape for a building, isn’t it?”
Eleniel knows what he means. Instead of fitting the regular shapes of the buildings around it, the library spreads along the outer face of the Sixth Circle, underneath the posh and gleaming houses to either side of it. The narrow entrance forces visitors to walk down a steep flight of steps before they reach the foyer with it’s great vaulted roof; from outside the city, it appears to cling to the walls, and the wings snake along to either side of it. “Very strange,” she agrees, pulling her shawl closer about her shoulders.
Eldarion is gazing up, now, at the roof itself, all intricate carving and sweeping lines of stone. Eleniel takes the opportunity to smile at the smudge of dirt adorning his left cheek. He really is very strange, for a prince; Eleniel has been brought up under the firm belief that Royalty are not subject to the same things as ordinary people, but has been forced to drastically change her opinion after hearing Eldarion’s very inventive language the day before, when the only two copies in existence of ‘The Illustrated Guide to the Heraldic Symbols of the Third Age’ fell on his unprotected head.
The prince in question disappears from view once more, and there is a rattle as he descends the ladder. “I’m not sure who built the library,” he says, back once more on solid ground. “Do you know?”
Eleniel wrinkles her nose. “Well, according to Father, my family did. He used to say that somewhere in here are the deeds to this whole street, as well as land somewhere in Dol Amroth. Personally, I think it highly unlikely.”
“Hm.” Eldarion looks thoughtful. “I think that rent in these parts is paid to Lord Stelbin.”
“It would be,” says Eleniel sourly. Stelbin is her landlord, too, and the rent rises whenever he comes to the City. “I must go and find some more ink, my lord. Where shall we do next?”
“Maybe down the end?” suggests the Prince, gesturing to his right. “We may even find your mysterious deeds!”
“Unlikely, my lord,” says Eleniel under her breath as she hurries back to her desk. She drops down on the floor to rummage through her aging bag for ink, reflecting as she does so that before long she will have to buy some more, not to mention more parchment; as she stands again, ink in hand, Eldarion shouts something incoherent.
“Sorry, my lord?” she calls. In answer, there is a resounding crash, which echoes around the library.
“Oh, ye Valar,” breathes Eleniel, and sprints toward the sound, images of collapsed shelves and unconscious princes whirling through her mind. She skids around the corner and is momentarily blinded by the sun, weak as it is; she runs forward anyway, and gasps in terror when arms grab her about the waist.
“Stop, Eleniel!” says Eldarion’s voice close to her ear. She blinks so that her vision clears, and looks down; a gaping hole in the floor is inches away from her feet.
“Ah,” she says. “Erm – there’s a hole in the floor.”
“There is indeed,” agrees Eldarion, releasing her. Eleniel steps back, her cheeks burning. “It would appear that if one presses a certain stone in the wall, it opens.”
“I wonder where it goes?” Eleniel puts down the ink-bottle carefully and crouches downto peer into the hole; she can see a few steps winding their way down into the darkness, but nothing beyond that. She looks up at Eldarion, and they reach an unspoken agreement.
“Lucky that there are torches,” says Eldarion, pointing, and Eleniel accepts the aged wood; he strikes a light, after rummaging in pockets for his tinderbox.
They descend into the darkness, Eldarion leading, waving his torch in front of him; the stairs are a narrow spiral, and soon they lose sight of daylight. Eleniel concentrates on not slipping.
When they reach the bottom, there is a feeling of space. The torches illuminate a cavernous underground room, carved from the rock; three dark entrances loom ominously. “It’s an entire underground system,” says Eldarion softly; his voice nevertheless is echoed and amplified by the rock.
“Which way shall we go?” asks Eleniel nervously. There is something intimidating about the dark, silent openings.
“Straight ahead,” says Eldarion, kneeling to sketch something in the dirt of the floor; Eleniel recognises the Ranger symbols from books she has read.
“Somehow, there must be air down here,” she says as they walk into the dark passageway; as if to prove it, a draught whistles past them.
“Yes,” says Eldarion thoughtfully as the torches flicker. “But I don’t see any openings. There must be ventilation shafts in here somewhere.” He arches an eyebrow at her. “Your ancestors were very thorough, Lady Librarian.”
“Why thank you, my lord Prince.”
They walk in silence for a good few minutes before Eldarion clears his throat and says somewhat awkwardly, “Tomorrow I must tell the Council about these tunnels. They could be dangerous.”
“What about the passage from the Library to the Palace?” asks Eleniel without thinking; there is the barest hint of a pause before the Prince answers.
“I see no reason to disclose that information.”
Eleniel smiles to herself.
“It’s whether any of them could be used as a route into the city that is the issue here,” continues Eldarion. “I have no wish to be blamed for an invasion.”
“Nor me,” mutters Eleniel.
Ahead, the texture of the darkness changes, and a solid wall comes into view. They stop, and Eleniel watches the Heir run his hands over it, to no avail. “It would appear that the way is blocked,” he remarks.
“Perhaps it’s blocked by magic?” suggests Eleniel.
“In a city of Men? Unlikely.” Eldarion runs his fingers through his hair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Either someone blocked the passage, or there’s a lever here somewhere…” he trails off.
Eleniel turns her attention to the sides of the passage. A suspiciously smooth patch of rock catches her eye; curious, she reaches out to touch it, and yelps in surprise when, with a grinding noise, it slides backwards. “Oh!”
“Best stand back,” Eldarion warns, and hastily takes his own advice as the wall ahead of them begins to move, swinging inwards on some invisible hinge and letting in a stream of unbearably bright light. Temporarily blinded – in Eleniel’s case, for the second time that day – they both shield their eyes.
When the dancing spots fade from her vision, Eleniel sees before her a grand, spacious room, where dustsheets cover the furniture and spiders spin webs from a huge chandelier in the centre. She recognises it instantly, and blinks in surprise.
“Whose house is this?” wonders Eldarion, stepping out into the room.
“No one’s, sire,” says Eleniel, and he turns to face her, one brow raised in query. “We’re in the old house on Emerald Street. I used to play in here as a child.”
“Emerald Street?” the Prince’s brow furrows. “On the Fifth Circle?”
“Yes. I live around the corner,” adds Eleniel, and he laughs.
“Wait, I have it now. The stories in your family also say that you own this house?”
“Well, yes,” says Eleniel defensively, folding her arms. “It’s also said to be haunted, which is why it’s deserted.”
Eldarion is shaking his head. “My lady, my lady – are there any other parts of this kingdom belonging to you that I should know about?”
“I am perfectly content with the Library,” Eleniel says firmly.
Eldarion makes a mock-cringing bow, wringing his hands together and affecting a nasal whine. “In your domain, mistress, I am but your humble servant.”
It takes them a while to find the lever to swing the wall back into place, but once they have done so Eleniel shows Eldarion the way out of the house; a window in the scullery with the catch rusted through. It is an undignified scramble, even more so than when she was twelve, but the Prince makes not a word of complaint; they soon stand at the side of the street, Eleniel trying to smooth her ruffled hair.
Emerald Street is directly below the Library, and the gate to the Sixth Circle is but a few yards away. The house is the largest in the neighbourhood, bigger even than some of those in the street above; the sweeping forecourt and imposing frontage give it the look of a lord’s residence. Locals pass it on the other side of the road. Any deserted mansion will inevitably gain the reputation of being haunted, and this one is no exception.
“I must take my leave of you here,” says Eldarion a little wistfully. “My father wished to see me – I think he is suspicious of my days being so suddenly filled.”
Eleniel nods, something twisting in her stomach. Eldarion takes one looks at her and says sharply, “I do not break my word, Eleniel.”
Eleniel meets his grey eyes, and believes him. “No, my lord. I’m sorry.” He still looks rather hurt, so she adds, “Shall I see you tomorrow?”
His face relaxes into one of those charming smiles. “Yes. Would you like me to lock the doors at the library? – I go to the stables, not to the palace.”
“Could you?” asks Eleniel in some relief. “And I must go and try to find some more parchment; we’ve almost used it up.”
“I’ll provide more parchment,” says Eldarion. “Call it – funding from the City Council, who will never notice it’s gone. Until tomorrow, then.” He kisses her hand as always, gives her a brief, warm smile, and then walks briskly away from her along the crowded street, his head bowed. Eleniel stands and watches him until he rounds the corner, out of her sight; then, jostled by the people hurrying past her, she makes her way slowly home, her heart curiously light.
Chapter 4 - Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Eldarion Telcontar, at twenty-eight, is already said by many to possess the wisdom of a man three times his age. His reputation as being fair-minded, learned, and above all diplomatic goes before him into other countries on the swift wings of Rumour, and foreign kings face the son of Elessar with the disturbing, nagging thought that the clear grey gaze of the sombre young man can read their very minds.
At the moment, the Heir to the throne is coming dangerously close to losing his temper.
The Lords of Gondor regard him from their seats around the long, oaken table with various degrees of bored indifference. It is a chilly morning, and the sky outside threatens snow; the fire roars in the hearth, a red glow casting its light over the room.
“My lord Prince,” drawls an overweight, richly dressed man from the other end of the table; Eldarion recognises him vaguely, and then recalls that he is Lord Ginledon, lately arrived for the winter season. “Surely the money of the Council can be better spent than on clearing underground passages?”
“A waste of the City’s resources,” puts in another voice.
“As if any army would dare come against Minas Tirith,” continues Ginledon, one be-ringed hand idly playing with the ends of his hair. “We could seriously damage the foundations of the houses in that area by excavating…”
“I do not propose excavation,” says Eldarion, and Ginledon gives a desultory laugh.
“Ah yes, your highness, but what you propose and what you may wish to do are sometimes entirely different, are they not?”
The Prince raises an eyebrow in polite but dangerous enquiry. “My lord?”
“Well, for a start, there was the pension scheme.” Ginledon leans back in his chair, smirking round at the assembled nobles. “Half our money from the taxes that year was spent upon the languishing widows of sadly deceased soldiers, and it will be this year. Admirable in principal, granted, but we were unable to finish the building work on the Fifth Circle. And as for the policing of the lower levels – “ Ginledon starts to laugh, his chins wobbling. “Why, I believe that Nightingale Street has seen the arrest of no fewer than seventeen of our finest young gentlemen, behaving only as red-blooded Gondorians ought…”
“Your point, lord Ginledon?” snaps Eldarion, clenching his fists beneath the table.
“My point, Prince Eldarion, is that while your schemes are often most ambitious in terms of protecting the poor and upholding the good of the City, they cost us money! They upset the people that should not be upset! They – “
“Enough,” says a quiet voice from the head of the table, and heads that have been avidly following the tense confrontation whip round immediately.
Aragorn Elessar, king of Gondor and Arnor and the Reunited Kingdom, regards the members of his Council sternly. He is a commanding figure, upright and kingly, and though his hair is now a silver-grey he is as vigorous now as he was when he came to the throne.
“My pardon, your majesty,” says Ginledon contritely, but the King does not so much as look at him.
“Prince Eldarion, do you believe that this underground system could constitute a threat to the people of Minas Tirith?”
Eldarion meets his father’s gaze. “Yes, sire, I do.”
“And you wish to take time to search both these passages and the City Library?”
“Yes.”
A muttering breaks out around the table. Father and son do not break eye contact, carrying on a silent communication.
It is hopeless. They will never agree to it, says the King’s look.
Eldarion stares back. I need to try.
“We will put it to the vote,” says the King abruptly. “All in favour of granting the Prince’s request?”
A few hands are raised, but it is less than half. Among them are Faramir, Steward of Gondor, who shoots Eldarion a sympathetic look, Prince Elphir of Dol Amroth, and various men of the City Guilds, all powerful men whose good sense is renowned throughout the kingdom; on the other hand, the friends of Ginledon and other malcontents are joined in this instance by those who have a vested interest in the constructions on the Fifth Circle, where most of the City’s builders are employed.
“And there we have it,” says Aragorn briskly. He nods at Lord Faramir. “I hereby declare this session closed, my lords.”
The room empties slowly. Eldarion pointedly ignores the smirking Ginledon, who leaves the room with Lord Stelbin, deep in conversation. He dislikes and distrusts both men, in Ginledon’s case because he considers him to be an ambitious coward – nothing so deadly – but in Stelbin’s case for no reason whatsoever, other than that he sends shivers down Eldarion’s spine. This fact greatly disturbs the Prince, as he tries his hardest to judge everyone on their merits; Stelbin is quiet, not overly sycophantic, and though he taxes his land hard he pays his own. There is no reason why Eldarion should dislike him so, but he has long decided that it is merely the results of an over-suspicious nature.
“My son?” The King has appeared noiselessly at his side, a rueful smile on his lips.
“Father,” Eldarion sighs. “I apologise for pushing the Council.”
“Please, do not,” says Aragorn dryly as they leave the chamber. “It made for interesting viewing, I assure you. I’m only sorry that you didn’t get your workforce; I would be interested to see what lies beneath these streets, as well as what secrets the Library holds.”
“I did mean it, what I said about a threat to the City,” says Eldarion, unable to prevent a note of defence from creeping into his tone; Aragorn notices it, of course, and laughs.
“Of course you did. And you are quite right; we cannot know who knows about those passages. If I were you, I would wait until you can command a voluntary workforce – Elboron returns soon from Ithilien, as do your sisters.”
Eldarion runs a hand through his hair as they pass out into the cold morning. The court with its fountain is deserted; the White Tree leans over it with icicles hanging on its leaves. “Eleniel would hate to have hundreds of people invading her Library, anyway. She – is very proud.”
“The librarian?” Elessar gives his only son a shrewd glance. “Will you manage to restore the place, do you think? I warn you, the land is owned by Lord Stelbin, and he has recently been threatening to knock down some of the buildings in that area.”
“I believe that Eleniel may own the Library herself.”
“Ah.” Aragorn nods.
“If we can find the deeds to the place – “ Eldarion breaks off suddenly, as a bell clangs, sharp in the frosty air. “I’m late. Good day, father!” he takes off running, the King’s laughter floating after him.
When he arrives at the Library, Eleniel has just started to clear the shelves of the next section; sneezing in the clouds of dust, Eldarion joins her. Together, they work hard, with a brief halt for lunch; Eleniel does not speak often, and Eldarion finds her presence soothing after the irritations of the Council.
“Knock down the buildings?” she repeats, when he tells her of Stelbin’s alleged plans. She looks up at him from her seat on the floor, eyes wide. “But – there’s – he can’t knock down the Library!”
Eldarion frowns. “If we could but prove that you own the land, then…”
“And how am I to do that?” demands Eleniel. “I don’t even own a mysterious locket, much less useful pieces of paper!”
“Perhaps there is something in here,” says Eldarion firmly.
“Not in the section on Fine Wines, there’s not,” mutters Eleniel, doodling on her parchment, looking down so that her russet hair falls forward and hides her face. Eldarion gazes down at her from his rickety ladder, and feels a sudden surge of protectiveness.
“Come, Eleniel. Pessimism does not suit you,” he tells her briskly, and she sighs.
“No, my lord. Sorry.”
Aware that his companion is shaken by the news, Eldarion feels a twinge of guilt for saying next what he does. “I’m afraid that tomorrow I will have to leave early; the party arrives from Ithilien in the afternoon, and I am expected to be present. I have not seen my sisters for several months now.”
Eleniel looks up again. “Oh, then I hope it doesn’t snow too much for them to get through.”
“I should think that the roads will be fine,” says Eldarion. “But I do apologise.”
“Not at all,” says Eleniel immediately and with a smile. “They are your family – of course you wish to see them!” she stands up, shaking the dust from the skirt of her plain dress. “I think that it’s growing dark – I need to get home and reassure the cat that I’ve not deserted her.”
“What do you call your cat?” asks Eldarion curiously as he descends the ladder. Idril, the eldest of his sisters, has a battered and evil-tempered ginger tomcat which she worships, and which in turn occasionally allows her to hold it. Whenever Eldarion goes near it, it glares at him as though he were singularly responsible for the crimes of the world. Eldarion, consequently, is a confirmed dog-lover.
Eleniel makes a face. “My dear brother named the poor thing. He called her Battleaxe.”
Eldarion grins. “It could be worse. My sister’s cat is called Lothlorien.”
That startles a laugh out of her. It is a nice laugh, reflects Eldarion, although it is used far too sparingly; he gathers up the unused parchment for her, a great pile of it that he has stolen from the Palace storerooms, and they start to make their way back down the Library.
It is fast becoming dark, and Eldarion does not see the tall figure sitting on the steps until they are quite near and an amused voice says, “Well, my son, I congratulate you; you have made an impressive discovery.”
Eldarion bows. “Father. May I present Eleniel, the Librarian?” Eleniel, beside him, makes an awkward curtsey, still clutching the records.
“The pleasure is all mine,” says the King kindly. He stands up and smiles affably at them. “My lady, I am very much impressed. I had no idea that the City Library was so – well, large.” Eldarion hides a smile; Elessar has probably been here for the past hour, silently exploring the place and listening to their spontaneous conversations unseen.
“Thank you, your majesty,” says Eleniel nervously. She puts down the records on the desk.
“I wish you both luck in your – endeavours.” Aragorn’s face remains impassive, but to Eldarion, his tone speaks volumes; he glares at his father, who looks back innocently. “I am unable to provide you with the help you require, unfortunately; this building belongs to the City, not the Crown.”
Unless Eleniel can prove her claims. Eldarion sighs, wishing not for the first time that the Council were made up of more forward-thinking individuals, but knowing as he does so that Elessar is reluctant to wield the power to reform such a group. It is, at any rate, better to have the malcontents grumbling in the open than behind closed doors.
“I shall have to persuade the Queen to pay you a visit,” the King is saying, and Eldarion blinks. Queen Arwen has her own powers, which she often uses to great effect; it is very hard to refuse a request when the eyes of an elven-queen are boring into one’s soul. “Come, Eldarion; we are expected at the Embassy, I believe.”
“Which will give me an excellent opportunity to astound all present with my complete ignorance of Haradric,” says Eldarion wryly. His vocabulary is limited to ‘Surrender!’ ‘We need food and water’ and, usefully, ‘Your mother had carnal relations with the son of a pig’.
“You will be your usual charming self, I am sure. My lady, it was a pleasure.” The King bows, and then leaves, running lightly up the stairs; Eldarion turns to Eleniel with a wry smile.
“Until tomorrow, Lady Librarian.” He kisses her hand, with its ink-stains and rather dirty nails, and follows his father out into the darkening day, leaving her standing there with her cheeks flushed.
Aragorn is waiting for him under the arched entrance; he raises an eyebrow as his son approaches slowly. “Eldarion? – I think that what you are doing is a fine thing.”
Eldarion shrugs. “What else could I do? Eleniel needs the help.”
“You know perfectly well that most others would not have dreamt of it. And I like the young lady– she has interesting views. I think that she would not look out of place at court. She has Numenorean blood in her, you know, despite the hair; not beautiful, perhaps, but certainly striking,” adds his father, watching him closely.
“No doubt.” Eldarion sets off down the street at a brisk pace. “Come on, ancient warrior, or we’ll be late,” he calls back over his shoulder.
Aragorn smiles, a small, knowing smile, his eyes fond as he watches the upright figure of his Heir, who walks with the long and assured strides of a Ranger. “No doubt,” he echoes softly, and follows his son, his worn boots making scarcely any noise on the cobbles.
Chapter 5 - Chapter Four
Chapter Four
When Eleniel arrives at the Library the next day, she is carrying two buckets and two coils of thick rope, and wearing a pair of her brother Taeglin’s old breeches. Eldarion is there before her, wrapped in a cloak and leaning on the gatepost; he raises his eyebrows in polite enquiry as she draws near.
“Windows,” Eleniel tells him, setting down the buckets and easing the heavy rope off her shoulders; the Prince hurries to take it from her. “They badly need cleaning; I thought we should have a rest from cataloguing.”
“An excellent idea,” says Eldarion rather doubtfully, hefting the rope, “but surely you don’t think – you can’t mean the windows at the front?”
Eleniel frowns. “Yes, that’s what the rope is for.”
Eldarion takes a step backwards. “Wait a moment. My lady, I am not…”
“No, you’re not. I am.” Eleniel grins up at his look of horror. “Come, my lord, I am sure that you can take my weight on a rope!”
“But – but I could drop you!”
“Then we shall tie it to the pointy bits on the roof. It’s perfectly safe; there’s an account written somewhere by my great-great-grandfather of how he did exactly the same thing.” Eleniel picks up her buckets again. “There’re steps up onto the roof, right there beside the entrance. You take the rope up, and I’ll go and find some water.” She departs, biting her lips to keep from smiling.
There is a well at the end of Emerald Street, just below the Library; Eleniel fills her buckets and walks rather more slowly back up the hill. Looking up, and shading her eyes against the bright sunlight, she sees a dark figure crouching on the edge of the roof and peering down at the very long drop.
The steps onto the roof are small and steep, not intended for frequent use, although Eleniel has often gone up them on warm days, to sit on the warm stone and watch the life of the City far below, the lofty mountains and the Tower of Ecthelion soaring behind her. Today, the stones are cold. The roof is domed, with a broad walkway around the sides; the cool breeze whips around Eleniel’s ankles as she edges carefully forwards, extremely conscious of having no hands free to hold on, until she reaches the wide, smooth platform at the front of the building.
Eldarion is there waiting, running the rope through his hands and still looking worried. Eleniel notes that he has tied the thicker rope onto a sturdy part of the decorative stonework with knots that look as though they would hold up one of the Mumakil from Harad. “Eleniel? – Are you sure that you want to do this?”
Eleniel sighs. “Yes. Come, your highness, you were the one clambering about atop high shelves the other day!”
“Not a hundred feet above the streets!” protests Eldarion. “And I recall you being worried even then!”
“That was for your safety,” says Eleniel primly. “Will you help me tie myself to this rope?”
The Prince rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath that Eleniel does not quite catch, and grabs the end of the rope. “Arms up,” he instructs, and passes it tightly around her waist, and then between her legs, standing close to her to tie the same complicated knot that he has used on the roof. He then looks at her sternly. “Right. Get to the edge.”
Eleniel meekly does as she’s told.
“Face inwards,” Eldarion tells her, bracing the rope against his left side and taking up the slack. “Good. Hold the rope with both hands. Now, lean back.”
“What, right back?”
“Yes, right back.” Eldarion scowls at her. “I will not be responsible for you slipping and breaking every bone in your body, though it would be much easier were you not determined on this foolish venture.”
Eleniel gulps and leans back, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the great drop beneath her. She does not usually have a problem with heights, but is beginning to feel that there is a distinct difference between standing safely with solid stone behind one and finding oneself suspended only by a piece of rope.
“I’ve got you,” says Eldarion’s voice from somewhere above her. “Now. Step backwards.”
Only pride prevents Eleniel from speaking; she squeezes her eyes tight shut and steps back.
There is a tremendous jerk as her foot slips. Eleniel yelps in terror as she plummets downwards, then smashes painfully into the wall as the rope around her waist tightens; above her, Eldarion curses in what sounds like a form of Quenyan, then yells down, “Eleniel! Are you all right?”
“I think so,” calls back Eleniel, somewhat shakily. She clings to the rope for dear life. “Can you lower me down?”
“I can try.” Eldarion’s voice is strained. “Wait, let me – right. Are you sure you don’t want me to pull you up?”
“I’m nearly there now,” points out Eleniel. Her heartbeat has slowed back down to something resembling its usual rate. “Are you all right?”
“I am. Look, I’ll lower you – I’ve made a turn in the rope, so that should make it smoother. Just use your hands to fend yourself off from the wall.” Eleniel starts to descend, and does as he says, taking note of cracks in the stonework that she can use on her way back up.
Eventually, she stops moving, dangling at the top of the huge circular window. Eldarion’s voice floats down. “Is that far enough?”
“Yes!” She squints up against the sun. “Can you lower the first bucket with the soap in it, please?”
“Hang on.” Eldarion’s head disappears, and Eleniel takes his advice literally, grasping the rope with both hands. Through the grimy window she can see vague shapes of shelves in the Library. Luckily, the glass itself appears to be intact; this side of Minas Tirith is sheltered from the winds, and the glass is thick and durable.
A scraping sound calls her attention upwards. A bucket is descending, sloshing occasionally when it catches on the walls; Eleniel ducks her head to avoid drips. “Eleniel? Is that far enough?” shouts the Prince.
“I think so!” Eleniel reaches carefully for the bucket and pulls it towards her; digging around for the cloth in the cold, soapy water, she tentatively starts to rub at the old glass.
It is hard work, and after two hours or so have passed they are both tired. Eldarion swings her to and fro across the surface of the window, winches her slowly downwards, and fetches fresh water for her when she runs out, while Eleniel scrubs away with a grim determination. By the time she reaches the bottom of the window, the muscles in her shoulders and back are screaming in protest, and she looks up at the Prince with difficulty.
“Finished,” she yells. “Pass me the fresh water?”
Eldarion lowers the last bucketful, and Eleniel sloshes it against the window. The dirty water runs away down the wall, and the clean glass shines in the pale sunlight.
“I’m pulling you up,” shouts Eldarion. “Try and fend yourself off from the window.” She starts to move jerkily upwards as he winds the rope around the stone; by the time she is able to grasp the edge of the roof, she can hear Eldarion’s heavy breathing. She clings there, dizzy with relief, her eyes screwed shut, and is wondering how she will ever get over the edge when his voice says in her ear, “All right. I’ve got you,” and she is lifted over the edge of the roof and let down onto the flat platform.
Eleniel opens her eyes, and the world sways as she tries to stand; Eldarion catches her with a laugh and makes her sit down again, collapsing next to her. He is hot and dishevelled, his shirt sticking to him and his hair everywhere. “Well, my lady, that was certainly an experience.”
Eleniel lies flat on her back, enjoying the feeling of blissfully solid stone beneath her. “It was,” she agrees. “And I’m sorry I was so stubborn.”
“No you’re not,” says Eldarion with a tired grin, and Eleniel cannot be bothered to dispute the point. “I take it that the other windows will be easier?”
“Oh yes.” Eleniel props herself up on her elbows. “The long ones all open inwards, so we can do them from inside.”
“Good,” sighs the Prince, and flops backwards as well. “Oof! Oh, Eleniel, both your muscles and mine will hate you for this tomorrow.”
Eleniel huffs a laugh, shivering as the chill breeze lances through her damp clothes. She likes Eldarion best when he is like this, less painfully polite and infinitely more human. “I think that lunch would be welcome, my lord.”
“A good idea – are you cold? Here – ” he wraps his cloak firmly around her, ignoring her half-hearted protests, and then pulls her to her feet. “Come, if you move then you will be warm again. A brisk walk down to the Fifth Circle…”
“Hot food,” says Eleniel with another shiver, watching him untie the ropes. He shoots her a worried look “And then I’ll do some cataloguing.”
Eldarion hands her the buckets, and they leave the roof, clambering down the narrow steps at the side of the building. It is good to be back at ground level again, and Eleniel feels her head begin to clear as warmth seeps back into her hands. The Prince, true to his word, marches her along the street at a vigorous pace, not letting her slow down until they have reached the bakery two streets below; he buys them both hot pastries, and they eat them as they make their way back up to the Library.
By the time they reach the entrance, Eleniel has warmed up considerably; she hands him back his cloak with a word of thanks as they come down into the foyer.
Eldarion listens as a bell tolls from the Citadel. “I must leave before very much longer. Is there really time for us to start the cataloguing again?”
“Probably not,” agrees Eleniel. It is becoming a major operation to set up the records. “After you’ve left, my lord, I think I’ll go and watch the Royal Family arriving.”
Eldarion’s lips twitch. “Aye, all of the Royal Family bar two. Still, if I had gone to Ithilien then I would hardly have met you, would I?”
“Why did you not go to Ithilien?” asks Eleniel curiously.
“A number of reasons.” The Prince drops down into one of the dusty chairs. “The first was that the King requested my presence for the law-courts and councils that were running at the time. The second was that said councils were dealing with issues which I felt were important to several schemes that I have initiated – the pension for bereaved families of our armies, for example.” Eleniel nods; the pension scheme, at the time, had caused a great uproar in the City Council. Looking at Eldarion’s serious face, she wonders if he is aware that he holds an almost heroic status among the poorer inhabitants of Minas Tirith; with the gradual ending of the wars against the South, many families have found their livelihoods cut short and their men-folk either dead or unable to work.
“The third reason,” continues Eldarion, unaware of her scrutiny, “is that were I to have gone to Ithilien, I would most likely be engaged by now to some simpering lady-in-waiting. Most of them are quite – determined.”
Eleniel laughs. “I thought that there were less noblewomen in the City of late. They must all have followed the Queen.”
“Oh, they did,” says Eldarion wryly. “Most of the court has gone. Tomorrow, the Citadel will once more ring to the sycophantic laughter of Gondor’s nobility. And before you even begin to look morose, Lady Librarian, I have no intention of abandoning you for the pleasures of the Court – although I may bring a sister, if I am allowed?”
“Of course,” says Eleniel, blushing, and wondering which sister he means.
“Thank you.” Eldarion gives her one of his sudden charming smiles, and much to her annoyance her blush intensifies. “I think that you and Idril will get along well together.”
“She is – the eldest of your sisters?” Eleniel has always found it hard to remember the exact ages of the three princesses, but she does know that Princess Idril was born four months after herself, nineteen years ago.
“Yes – around your age, I should imagine.” The Prince stands up, stretching. “I must go and make myself look presentable, or I shall disgrace the family. I must also go and be polite to Lady Celeglin, who I doubt has yet forgiven me for not following her to Ithilien.” He eyes her speculatively. “Keep warm, Eleniel.” He kisses her hand and departs, whistling, for the Citadel.
Eleniel takes care to coil the rope and store it behind her desk, reasoning that it might one day be useful, then picks up her buckets and, locking the heavy oaken door behind her, walks at a sedate pace down to her small, untidy home on Emerald Street.
When she arrives, her neighbours have without exception congregated at the end of the street, where Guards line the route that the Royal Family will take. Slipping past them, Eleniel walks along the road against the flow of people until she reaches the dilapidated, narrow house that is sandwiched between the Dancing Southron Inn and a larger, newer dwelling, home to the proprietors of the herb-store opposite.
Drietal, landlord of the inn, is standing at his door, wiping out a tankard with a damp cloth. He waves at Eleniel, who raises her buckets in greeting; Drietal and his wife are good people, and often let her wipe dishes and take leftovers both for the cat and for herself. “Ho there, Eleniel! Not watching the parade?”
“I will be!” calls back Eleniel, setting her shoulder to her front door and slamming her body-weight against it; it bursts inwards.
Drietal laughs, his belly wobbling. “We saw you earlier. Like a squirrel! Who’s the young man?”
Eleniel sets down her burden in the messy hallway and pokes her head back outside. “None of your concern, Drietal!” she says cheerfully.
Drietal’s wife Andralen appears beside her husband and flicks him with her wooden spoon. “Enough, old fool! The girl’s business is her own. Eleniel, you’ll take a pot of my vegetable soup tonight. I’ve made too much again, can’t think how I manage, mind like a sieve.” She winks hugely at Eleniel, brushes aside her attempts at thanks and shoos her husband indoors. Eleniel shoves her own door shut behind her and makes her way up the crooked wooden staircase to her bedroom, where she is greeted by a haughty stare from the grey cat curled at the foot of her bed.
“Hello, Battleaxe,” sighs Eleniel, picking her way across the book-strewn floor to rub her cat behind the ears. Battleaxe permits this regally, her yellow eyes blinking in lazy enjoyment. “Yes, I’m home early. I should stay in if I were you; the streets are heaving.” She changes hurriedly into a dress, leaving the breeches strewn across the bed, and runs out into the street again, to join the throngs of cheerful people.
The Royal Family is extremely popular. The people have long grown used to their Elven Queen, and a fierce loyalty to her and to her children is evident as they stand laughing and chattering in the middle of the street. Eleniel worms her way forward, and has nearly reached the front when the cry goes up, “The Queen! The Queen is coming!” and the cheering starts.
First come the Guards, riding past on their fine horses, their armour decorated with the tree and stars of Gondor. Then, behind them, the Queen on a grey palfrey, in robes of midnight blue; Eleniel cheers with the rest and stands on the tips of her toes to see the serenely beautiful face. On the side of the Queen nearest to Eleniel trots a pony, its saddle empty, and on the other rides a young girl with flame-red hair; Princess Lhachel, pale-faced and tired-looking, but smiling.
Behind the Queen, Eleniel sees Eldarion, astride a massive grey stallion that ambles along peacefully and holding the youngest of his sisters, Siledhel, before him. She waves at the people, who cheer harder; the youngest child of Elessar is beloved for her sunny nature and her child-like beauty. Eldarion turns in the saddle to say something to the tall young woman riding beside him; Princess Idril, clad in grey, already famed for her beauty and her sweet nature.
A tall man in front of her obscures Eleniel’s view for a moment; when he moves, she sees with a jolt of surprise that both Eldarion and his eldest sister are looking in her direction. Eldarion quirks an eyebrow, and the Princess gives a little smile, and then they have turned the corner and are lost to Eleniel’s sight.
Eleniel does not follow the procession up into the Sixth Circle; she does not even stay to see the brightly-dressed ladies pass, but turns and makes her way back to her house, where she sits down in the tiny kitchen with Battleaxe curled on her lap, and loses herself in tales of the First Age, of heroic deeds and long-ago battles over forgotten wrongs; before long, the only sounds are the gentle purring of the cat and the crackle of the turning pages.
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