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. Thankyou, those who've reviewed before, for thou art all, without exception, moste dear to mine heart.
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, my lord prince, 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. Helooks hot and dishevelled, with 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, do; 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 neighboursare all mostly 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 narrow, dilapidated 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 on the roof! 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 merry 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, but is still some way from 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 in an attempt 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, the Princess gives a little smile, and then they have turned the corner and are lost to Eleniel's sight.
Eleniel, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders and being jostled repeatedly by the crowd, does not follow the procession up into the Sixth Circle, seeing the crush around the Gate; she does not even stay to see the brightly-dressed ladies pass, but turns and makes her way back to her house, humming rather tunelessly under her breath. There 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.