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. Everyone who's done so already, you have my undying gratitude and I offer you metaphorical chocolates :D
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 in Minas Tirith 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 Lord Stelbin, to his right, 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." Stelbin leans back in his chair, hair falling into his sallow face, 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 – " Stelbin starts to laugh, his eyes glittering with something like malice. "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 Stelbin?" 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 Stelbin lazily, 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 Stelbin, 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 any mysterious artefacts, 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 short-cropped 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; hefrowns 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.