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 – thanks to everyone who reviewed last time, you are all amazing people and it gives me warm fuzzy feelings D
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.
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