Disclaimer:      I neither claim Middle-earth nor the folk, be they Fair or Foul.

Ch. 11

A WEAVER OF TALES . . . OR A HISTORIAN?

            "When will you hold the Council, Lord Elrond?" Gandalf wanted to know.  He stood before the roaring hearth in the Hall of Fire, his shoulders stooped and his staff seeming to be the only thing keeping his thin frame upright.  To an observer, such might have seemed to be the case.  Lord Elrond knew otherwise.

            "Tomorrow morning, Gandalf," Elrond answered.  "After the sun rises."  He listened for a moment, to the pattering rain outside.  He could see it fall not so far away.  "I fear our guests would find it most uncomfortable at the moment.  Let us hope for the sun's bright rays."

            Gandalf nodded, though he found the sound soothing.  The rain seemed to wash away the worries and cares from his old bones.  At least, for the moment.

            She laughed.  "Oh, but, Gandalf, it makes me feel so alive!" She spun about, perhaps for no other reason than to annoy her mentor.  "Isn't it beautiful?"

            "Alright, Atira, enough of this nonsense."  Despite himself, he smiled.  She found the oddest things to her liking.  Gandalf beckoned her under the dry overhang.  "Come on out of this wretched rain."

            She stopped spinning to look over at him, her face alight with suppressed laughter.  She gave him a mischievous smile and shook her head.  "No."

            He shook his staff at her threateningly.  "Now you listen to me, young lady.  We haven't come all the way to Rivendell so you can--"  Gandalf stopped short as he was almost bowled over by a young elf running out into the storm.

            "Sorry, milord!" he cried, hardly giving the older Istari a second glance.  He ran to the rain-drenched child. 

            "Glorfindel!" she cried out, her voice filled with inexpressible delight.  He lifted her high in the sky and spun her around and all the while her laughter rang out like silver bells.

            Gandalf sighed.  That had been so terribly long ago, he was surprised he could recall it so easily to mind.  Glorfindel had been an adolescent at that time, he remembered, young to most elves, though thousands of years in reality.  Atira and Glorfindel had become friends very easily and readily and though he had aged (however slowly), she had not.  Now, the elf looked well into his middle years (according to elven standards; humans nor dwarves nor hobbits could tell the age of an elf, not even by appearance) while Atira still looked to be a child, as she always had; a young lady entering womanhood.  Though, if one looked into her eyes, they would find wisdom there not even found in the eldest of humans.

            Gandalf rubbed his eyes tiredly.  Not anymore, though.  Sauron had taken that away from her.  She remembered nothing of before.  He had taken everything.

            "What is it, my friend?" Elrond asked, noting the disturbed look in the wizard's eyes.

            "Nothing, Lord Elrond, nothing," Gandalf shook his head.  "Just the tired rememberings of an old man."

            Elrond nodded in understanding.  "We all regret what happened.  Some would even say hate.  I do not claim such, Gandalf, but I know some who would."

            "Yes.  I would.  And Glorfindel, too, perhaps."

            "Perhaps," Lord Elrond agreed.  "Their friendship was never matched.  Nor do I think it ever will be."

            Gandalf shook his head, as though deep in thought.  "I'm not so sure, Lord Elrond."

            The half-elf looked up at the wizard.  "Indeed?"  But Gandalf did not answer, for his eyes had fallen upon a shadowed figure standing in the rain.  Quickly, it ducked out of sight.

            He hadn't meant to spy on Gandalf . . .

            No, don't lie, Frodo Baggins, not even to yourself. 

            He had meant to spy on Gandalf.  Frodo had been home several days and he still hadn't been able to see Apryl.  He didn't really know why he wanted to so badly, maybe it was because he felt responsible.  Yes, that was it, he felt responsible to make certain she was all right.  Besides, she had been kind to him in her world; the least he could do was return the favor.  A difficult task, though, when he couldn't even find her.  Either he was asleep or she was asleep or Gandalf had his gnarled hands on her or Lord Elrond was denying the hobbits the right to see her.  It was a very exasperating matter!

            So, in a desperate attempt to find out what was going on, Frodo had searched out the House for one very deceptive old man and, when he had finally come across him, had found he and the Master of the House talking.  But if truth were told, the hobbit hadn't learned anything to his benefit.  They hadn't discussed Apryl at all . . . .

            Or had they?  That last bit . . . Frodo was unsure what they had been referring to.  Something about the elf, Glorfindel, and . . . someone else.  Apryl?  Perhaps.

            But then Gandalf had seen him and Frodo had thought it best to disappear.  You could never tell with wizards.

            Frodo wandered the halls, debating what to do next.  He hadn't gone far, though, when he farely bumped into a she-elf, who came around a corner at a fast pace, clear determination in her green eyes.

            "Whoa, watch it," she cautioned not unkindly, when he rebounded off her taller self.  She held out a hand to steady him.

            "F-forgive me, Lady," he stuttered, blushing to the tips of his pointed ears.  The elven folk always made him nervous and he wasn't quite certain why.  Perhaps it was for their god-like beauty and grace. 

            "Morgainne," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.  She looked down at him critically.  "Are you Frodo?" she wanted to know.

            He nodded.  "Frodo Baggins, Lady Morgainne."

            "Morgainne," she repeated, a hint of irritation in her voice.  "Just Morgainne."  But a moment later a smile crossed her lips.  "Yes," she said.  "You look exactly the way she said you would."

            " 'She', milady?" Frodo asked, confused.  Then, "I-I mean, Morgainne," for her eyes narrowed dangerously.

            The elf smiled; nodded.  "Apryl."

            Frodo's blue eyes widened.  "You've met Apryl?"

            Morgainne withheld a secretive, if sad, smile.  "Yes, little one, I have."  In a manner of speaking.  Morgainne hadn't seen Apryl since she'd come home.

            He frowned up at her.  "She's spoken of me?"

            "Of course.  You are the one who brought her here, you know.  In fact, she's rather eager to see you again, Master Baggins."  Morgainne gave Frodo a kind, almost grateful smile.  "You did her a great service."

            "How do you mean?"

            Morgainne frowned.  "You haven't seen her yet, have you?"

            He shook his head.  "No."

            Morgainne looked down the hall, back the way she had came.  "Pity," she murmured quietly, but Frodo heard it nonetheless.  She turned her gaze back to the hobbit and smiled kindly; though her eyes were distant, sad perhaps.  "She's with your cousins."

            "Merry and Pippin!" Frodo exclaimed in surprise.

            Morgainne smiled, sudden laughter coming to her eyes.  "Yes, those would be your cousins, wouldn't they?"

            Frodo turned, as if to go to them right away, but Morgainne spoke:

            "She is asleep."

            "Asleep," he repeated, disappointment evident in his voice.

            Morgainne laughed.  "That doesn't mean you cannot see her.  Apryl loves her bed and if you wait for her at her own convenience, you won't ever get to see her."

            Something occurred to Frodo.  "What is she doing with Merry and Pippin?"  He frowned.  "Sleeping, you said?"

            The elf nodded and shrugged.  "Who knows with Apryl."  But she's undoubtedly having the time of her life, asleep or not.  Although Morgainne had never actually read the history of those in a time far ahead--a history called The Lord of the Rings--Apryl had more often than not expressed her absolute adoration of the hobbits.

            "You have to love them.  Merry's so sweet; he's such a gentlehobbit.  And Pippin's so . . . well, Pippin!  A typical hobbit tween," she'd say with a laugh.  "And Sam--oh, Sam!  Look!  Look at this part," and she'd shove the book under Morgainne's nose, then take it away just as quickly--even before she could get the words into focus.  She'd never know what so enraptured her about Sam, for Apryl would already be talking of Frodo.  "I love him," she'd say, her eyes scanning something or other referring to the Ring-bearer, a great sadness--a longing perhaps--evident in her voice.

            Aside from the occasional drawing (Apryl had always been quite fond of sketching people--or hobbits, as the case may be), Morgainne had learned very little of her best friend's diminutive hero.  That he was the Ring-bearer was one of the rare bits of information Apryl had mentioned.  It wasn't that her friend didn't trust her, for what was there to betray in a person that was surely fantasy?  No, Apryl had not let slip the events and outcomes of The Lord of the Rings because she had wanted Morgainne to witness the adventure firsthand.  She was doomed to disappointment, for the elf had never touched the book, no matter her friends urging.  The consequences, she knew, could be very great and very devastating.

            "Thank you, Lad--M-morgainne," Frodo dipped his head respectfully, then scurried on down the hall.

            Morgainne couldn't help but smile after him.

            Apryl didn't sleep very long, an hour or two at the most, but when she awoke Merry was gone.  A smile tugged at her lips as she thought of him. 

            Never in her life had she ever dreamed a hobbit would sing to her.  And not just any old hobbit--not a Bracegirdle nor a Boffins nor even a Grubb, but a Brandybuck!  One very special Meriadoc Brandybuck, a cousin and companion to the Frodo Baggins.

            Apryl frowned.  And where are you, Master Baggins?  Why haven't I seen you yet?

            She'd met him, yes--she'd even laughed with him in the rain--but that was on the Other Side; present Earth.  It wasn't the same.  Besides, she'd only realized it a second before her world had gone topsy-turvy and she'd found herself in a place that wasn't a place, in a realm that had no right being a realm. 

            She shuddered.  What was that place?

            But Frodo had been with her then and she had talked with him, though she couldn't quite see him nor place him.  Then he had gone. 

            I'd best find Gandalf, she decided.  He'll know where I might find Frodo.  If he'll tell me, she added a moment later, as a discouraging afterthought.  But then, Of course he will, she assured herself confidently.  Why wouldn't he?  But then, she sighed.  Cause he knows whom you really are.  Though she wasn't quite certain she believed she was a wizard--or wizardess?--she knew it mattered little.  She was someone from a time far in the future and she held the knowledge of events yet to come.  That was the real concern--the real danger.

            Stretching and yawning until her ears popped, Apryl got to her feet and padded softly over to Pippin, who still slept soundly.  She watched the even rise and fall of his chest for several moments and smiled fondly at him. 

            But her eyes strayed to his round face and she had to stifle a whimper.

            How much pain did he have to endure?  Even now, as she watched, a small moan escaped him, though whether it was caused by pain or ill dreams, Apryl could not tell.

            I'm sorry, Pippin, she told him silently; mournfully.  I am sorry.  So terribly sorry.

            She was reluctant to leave him but so, too, was she reluctant to remain.  She had caused him his pain, perhaps it was best to leave him be, stay away so she couldn't hurt him again.

            Apryl walked to the balcony, noting not at all that the rain had ceased, and turned at the last to look upon the hobbit.

            "I'll make it up to you," she promised softly.  "I will.  I promise."  She turned then and, spying a beautifully crafted staircase leading up into some great unknown of Elrond's House, her curiosity flared.  She stood there for a only a moment before, the matter decided, she ran over to them and, looking back only once, began to climb.

            Gandalf, she told herself, I'll find Gandalf. 

            The staircase led her up and around, in a curving motion that gave her a view of nearly all the grounds.  Her feet felt for and found the way, for she was too preoccupied with the surrounding beauty, her eyes wide in wonderment and awe. 

            The trees that surrounded the House appeared to be maples and cedars, in all aspects save for their size.  Apryl didn't think she'd ever seen trees so large and magnificent, branches that seemed to yearn for the playful tickle of passing clouds.  There were several flowers down close to the ground (not many, for fall was at hand) that she could never name, that were as beautiful and delicate as any she had ever laid eyes upon.

            The staircase led her to a landing, which in turn brought her to other stairs, some leading up yet again and others leading down.  She chose down.

            Hobbits don't like heights, she recalled.  If I want hobbits, I'll have to first find the ground.

            She made her way slowly down the steps, her eyes reluctant to leave the fabulous view.

            I thought you wanted Gandalf, a more observant part of her pointed out.

            She shrugged.  So I did.  But she provided her other self with no further explanation.

            Apryl soon found herself in a garden.  A path of stepping-stones led her away from the stairs and she followed their lead for a time, letting her eyes wander over many a beautiful things.  It wasn't long before the meandering path led her seemingly to the very heart of the garden.  In its center there was a statue of a women--whether elven or human Apryl could not tell, perhaps a little of both.  She was tall and serene, delicate in every and all manner. 

            Apryl stared at it for several moments; there was something about her face that caused Apryl to pause.  Though the eyes were vacant in the manner of statues, there was something very different about this statue.  The girl couldn't decide for certain but it seemed to her that there was a great sadness hidden in the woman's cloudy orbs.  Apryl felt a deep sorrow when she looked upon that ancient face--for ancient it surely seemed.

            "I love to come here in the morning," a voice behind her declared, causing Apryl to start and turn.  "When the sun hits her just right, it seems she is flesh and not stone."

            It was the man from the night before, the one who had been talking with Gandalf at Lord Elrond's dinner table.  He smiled at her.

            "Forgive me," he said kindly, "I did not mean to startle you."

            Apryl shook her head, "N-no, I just didn't know anyone else was around."  She realized suddenly that she still had on her nightgown.  Her face burned red.

            The man seemed not to notice however, but moved forward to better look at the statue.

            "She's very beautiful," Apryl commented, her eyes rising to the woman's face once again.  "Who is she?"

            "I don't know," he said calmly, as though he wasn't suppose to.  "And neither do half the elves of this House, though they certainly regard her with high honor.  I suspect Lord Elrond knows, though I have never asked him."

            "She seems sad," Apryl said softly, studying the sorrowful expression.

            The man glanced at her, his brown eyes regarding her for a moment before, "You are well liked here, I have seen."

            Apryl looked at him in mild surprise.  "Me?"

            He nodded.  "I do not know what it is, but I have my suspicions.  You are special, that is obvious enough to me.  But why?"  The man raised his hand to halt any words on her part.  "It is not my business, Lady Atira," he said, then smiled, "but, then again, little is.  But I think it is not your place to tell me what I would like to know, and it most certainly is not my place to ask.  So I will refrain."

            She watched him for a moment, mildly wary, but then broke into smile.  She liked this man's manner.  "You know my name, sir, but I am afraid I do not know yours."

            He gave her a very charming smile.  "Tolkien, milady," he said with a dip of his head.  "Tolkien the Historian."

*****

            Continuation of Disclaimer:  And I most certainly do not claim Tolkien.^^