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. Erm. Keep 'em coming, guys! And please, excuse both the POV shifts and the interesting attempts at showing where they happen...
Chapter Six
"…for the last time, I have no idea what you are talking about! And how dare you follow me here!" The voice is Eleniel's, and she sounds both angry and frightened. Eldarion, who this morning has elected to walk to the Library with Idril – there are few people around, and it is a beautiful day, all crisp air and sparkling frost – hears the raised voices as he comes round the bend in the street; he stops dead at what he sees, anger rising in him like bile.
Eleniel is backed up against the Library door. A tall, burly man stands in front of her, his stance aggressive; behind him, three others lounge. They carry cudgels, and on their clothing is the symbol of a stag's head. Eldarion recognises it as the personal insignia of Lord Stelbin, and breaks into a run.
"You'll be out afore Midwinter," growls the man. "His Lordship doesn't want you poking round in what's none of your business. Then this place'll come down, and you'll be out of Emerald Street like a shot." He leers down at her. "'course, there's always employ for a pretty maid if you know where to…"
Eldarion's furious demand cuts across him. "What is the meaning of this?" he snarls, storming through the gateway, and the man's head whips around; he hastily lets go of Eleniel's shoulder and jumps back, stumbling in the long grass.
"Your royal highness, sir! I – a little misunderstandin', so to speak, over the matter of taxes, and…" He falters under the royal glare.
"Get out," Eldarion tells him tightly, as Idril arrives beside him, panting and white-faced. The blood is pounding in his ears. "Get out, and if I see you here again then it will go the worse for you." The man backs away, his expression terrified, and then turns and flees with his companions. "Eleniel! Are you all right?"
Eleniel nods, rubbing at her shoulder where the man grabbed her. She is pale, but appears unharmed; Idril slips a protective arm round her shoulders.
"Oh, you poor thing! 'Dari, were they men of Lord Stelbin? You know, the one with the creepy smile?"
"He's my landlord," says Eleniel with a shiver; Eldarion nods grimly.
"Yes, and I'm interested that he's employing mercenaries to do his dirty work. I've seen those men before." In the armies, during the last wars, when Gondor had been hard-pressed and the battles had been fought right up against the borders. "What was it they wanted?"
"I don't know. They kept saying that I was poking around too much, and it didn't pay to be too nosey – he plans to have the Library knocked down, by Midwinter, and everything burnt, he owns it, I can't stop him…" Eleniel scrubs a hand across her eyes. Idril offers her a handkerchief.
"Why now?" wonders Eldarion aloud, staring unseeing at the old stone. "Perhaps – it is petty cruelty, nothing more. If I had not brought things to the attention of the Council, then…"
"They've been trying to – persuade – me to leave ever since Father died," says Eleniel with a watery smile. "My lord, what do you think he meant by my poking round? The passages? Or is there something in the Library that he's afraid we'll find?"
"He can't know about those passages, surely!" exclaims Idril.
"Someone knew," says Eldarion absently, deep in thought. It is four days since his sister and Eleniel ventured into the passages, and since Eleniel heard the voices. Eldarion, knowing the strange things that can be heard deep underground, has been in two minds about this. "You heard a shout," he reminds her.
"It's – very far-fetched," says Idril doubtfully.
Eldarion gazes at them, and then abruptly reaches a decision. "Eleniel, I do not think that the Library is the best place for you this morning. You look tired." In truth, she looks more than tired; she looks as though she has been awake all night, her face is still pale, and her whole figure droops.
"I can still work," protests Eleniel. "I'm all right, just worried."
Idril nods almost imperceptibly at her brother. "Come, Eleniel, the fresh air will do you good. We will walk up to the Citadel. Brother, shall we meet you in the stables?"
Eldarion smiles at her. "If you like. Eleniel, may I have the key? I wish to check something."
Eleniel's sighs admits defeat. She rummages in a pocket and produces the key to the Library, which she then hands to Eldarion; he takes it with a bow, and watches Idril march her off down the street. The sound of the Princess's chatter fades as they round the corner out of sight.
Left alone, Eldarion makes his way down into the Library. As he comes down the steps he is struck by how much progress they have made; a rather over-enthusiastic Idril has swept the floor, and the windows have all now been cleaned. The area behind the desk is beginning to show some sort of order. It is far from finished – hundreds of shelves still stand dusty and unattended – but there are signs that it is possible.
Eldarion places the key on the desk and rummages in the top drawer until he finds what he needs, then sets off at a jog through the Library. When he reaches the hole in the floor, now covered by an old screen to lessen the risk of anyone falling down it, he pauses briefly to light a torch and then descends into the darkness.
There is something hidden down there, and Eldarion Telcontar is determined to find out what.
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One thing that Eleniel finds strange about the Princess is her propensity to talk almost constantly. Climbing the hill to the Citadel, Idril keeps up a stream of chatter – observations on the people around them, the weather, their surroundings, and stories of her own wild misadventures that she weaves effortlessly into the conversation. She is a masterful storyteller, and Eleniel finds herself giggling repeatedly at her droll anecdotes of life at Court, the petty jealousies and the harmless intrigues, and the plotting of various noble-born women to secure the affections of the Prince. She does not know the people in the stories, or if she does then it is only by rumour, but by the time they reach the stairs to the Citadel she is laughing so hard at the idiosyncrasies of Lady Denara's ill-behaved terrier that she does not notice where they are until Idril breaks off to greet the guard.
"Are we really going into the Citadel?" Eleniel asks nervously. She has only ever been in the White Courtyard on public holidays, such as in celebration of victory in battle or, seven years before, the birth of Princess Siledhel.
Idril, already halfway up the stairs, turns to look at her questioningly. "I thought we might sit somewhere out of the way. Is something wrong, or…"
"No, no, not at all," says Eleniel hurriedly, acutely aware of her heavily darned clothes and uncombed hair. Idril flashes her a sympathetic smile.
"We shall not meet many people – the law-courts are in session, and this time of day is not the most fashionable." She gives a mock-bow and presents her arm. "Come, let us enter in style!"
The Courtyard is indeed nearly empty, save the Guards around the White Tree and a few loiterers who bow to the Princess but do not speak much beyond a murmured greeting. Eleniel stares up at the Tower of Ecthelion, gleaming white against the sky, the symbol of the Kings of old, until she grows dizzy and staggers backwards; Idril, who has obligingly stopped, catches her with a laugh.
"It is impressive, is it not?" she remarks. "One day, we shall have to ask Father if we can show you the view from the top; there is a tiny balcony – you can't see it from here – and when you stand there, it feels like flying." She gives a self-conscious laugh and tugs Eleniel by the hand over to the low wall, from where they can look down on the City and the Pelennor far below, the wall of the Rammas Echor a thin line drawn on a child's landscape. This is Minas Tirith, city of Kings, greatest power east of the Sea; Eleniel feels a sudden fierce pride in her as the chill wind lifts her hair. Beside her, Idril shivers.
"Oh, I do dislike the cold! Shall we find somewhere out of the wind?"
"That would be nice," agrees Eleniel, and turns. As she tears her eyes away from the view, she sees a tall woman walking towards them, richly dressed and of considerable beauty, and looks at her companion. "Idril? – I think…"
Idril has turned, also, and Eleniel is surprised to see her eyes harden as she steps forward. "It is Celeglin," she mutters, low enough that Eleniel has to strain to catch the words. "What does she want here? – Lady Celeglin, well met." This last in a more normal tone as the lady draws near.
Seen from up close, the Lady Celeglin is even more beautiful. Her pale skin is flawless, her dark eyes and hair a startling contrast, and the cut of her dress leaves little to the imagination; the fashion is for plunging necklines and clinging cloth, this season, and for dark, rich colours. She is the epitome of sophistication, and her smile and the tilt of her chin indicate that she is perfectly aware of the fact.
"Princess," she says in response to Idril's rather cold greeting, and drops a perfect curtsey, wine-coloured velvet rustling about her. Her voice is lower than that of either Idril or Eleniel, rich and clear. "I hope I find you well?" Her gaze flickers downwards, just for an instant, over the plain woollen clothes that the Princess wears. Idril's lips tighten.
"Perfectly, I thank you. And yourself?" Gone is the smiling, chattering girl of a moment ago; Idril is every inch the Princess, meeting Lady Celeglin's gaze with a haughty stare of her own. Eleniel marvels at the icy tension between them.
"Well enough." Celeglin's smile is dazzling, but hard; her eyes are cold. "You have not been much in civilised society these past few days, your highness? And it was remarked upon this morning that the Prince…"
"We find amusement enough," says Idril smoothly. Celeglin's eyes flicker to Eleniel, who swallows hard. "I believe my brother has already informed you of our project – this is the Lady Eleniel, of the City Library; Eleniel, this is Lady Celeglin of Lebennin." Idril's tone suggests in no uncertain terms that Lady Eleniel of the City Library is equal, if not superior, to Lady Celeglin of Lebennin. The latter does not bow, but merely nods frostily; Eleniel gives her pleasantest, most meaningless smile and bows.
"I am surprised," says the lady to Idril, ignoring Eleniel completely, "that the Prince is so very engrossed in this little – project – of yours." She reaches out swiftly and catches Idril by the arm, drawing her closer, and her next words are soft, but pitched just loud enough that Eleniel hears them. "Have a care, my lady, that the Prince does not forget what he owes to Gondor. Dalliances are all very well, but this one is not so beautiful that it is worth the displeasure of King or country."
Idril shakes herself free, drawing breath to utter some furious retort, but Lady Celeglin has already turned on her heel and is walking away from them, skirts swishing across the stones, and Eleniel grabs the Princess by the arm. "Idril, no! Let her go, she can take her unpleasantness elsewhere!"
Idril gives an actual growl of frustration, spinning around and stalking to the wall. "Oh, she is the limit! She is poison itself!"
Eleniel rubs her nose, trying not to think on Celeglin's words, with their inferences that are so very dangerous. It is rare that she takes an instant dislike to anyone, but in this case, she feels justified. "I can see why you and she don't agree."
"Don't agree?" Idril laughs grimly. "We despised each other as children, and nothing has changed since then. She still makes snide comments and is the most appalling snob, and I still offend her by thwarting her attempts to become Gondor's next Queen." She turns to Eleniel, face now anxious. "Don't mind anything she says, Eleniel. It is all bitter emptiness, nothing more."
Eleniel begins to walk back across the Courtyard, glad that the brisk wind gives an excuse for her pink cheeks. "I shall forget it. Do – do you think that Prince Eldarion really would marry someone like that?"
Idril is silent for longer than Eleniel expects. Her features are troubled. Eventually she says slowly, "If he does, I shall not soon forgive him." Startled, Eleniel tries to imagine how Eldarion could possibly stand Celeglin's company; she knows his opinion of the socially ambitious. "If he was not so bound by, as our friend puts it, 'duty to king and country', then he would not entertain the idea for an instant, and – oh, it is so frustrating!" They are passing the Fountain; Idril sits down on the rim and Eleniel perches beside her. The Princess trails an idle hand in the water.
"Eldarion has Ada's gift," she continues, still more slowly than is her wont. "He can read the hearts of men. Oh, not their minds, but he is such an excellent judge of character; that's why he avoids the Court. He always says he can't stand the sycophants. But – well, he has known Celeglin since we were children, and sometimes I fear that he feels it incumbent upon him to…" she trails off and looks hopelessly at Eleniel. "He still persists in thinking our enmity a childish feud. He doesn't want to think ill of her. And Eldarion Telcontar can be incredibly stubborn."
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Far beneath them, in the breathless hushed dark underneath the Library, the man in question leaps aside as several tons of steel threaten to decapitate him; he then jumps backwards hurriedly as blades whistle through the air from the other direction; they sever the length of string that he holds.
The exploring is not going quite according to plan.
He has found the lever that locks the sliding floor in place. That was relatively easy, and he decided that it might be as well to follow the passage a little way; what he was not expecting were the hidden pits and deadly, silent knives.
Eldarion curses and retreats, but he leaves the string where it is, and when he gets back to the entrance he crouches to scratch the Ranger symbol in the dust for 'danger ahead.' Idril, at least, will recognise it, and before leaving he takes careful note of the floor around it. If any new footprints disturb it, he will know.
Something catches his eye, and he looks closer. Right in the middle of the floor, something glitters gold in the torchlight. Curious, Eldarion brushes away the dirt and prises it out of the ground, bringing the torch closer to see more clearly.
It is a heavy gold pendant, of some intricate design, like to many of the symbols of Gondor's noble houses. Eldarion doesn't recognise it; he turns it over, rubbing away at the dirt. It appears to be very old. With a frown, he slips it into a pocket and brushes over the place where it had lain.
When he reaches the royal stables, which are on the opposite side of the City to the Library, he finds both his sister and Eleniel inside with the horses, and lingers in the doorway for a moment unheeded.
"…really think that we may find something?" Eleniel is asking, her tone doubtful. She is perched on a bale of hay. Idril, who is in the stall opposite with her mare, pulls a sceptical face.
"It would be lovely, wouldn't it? Oh, Eleniel, surely there is something!" A long nose nudges her in the back of the neck and she pats it absent-mindedly. "Are there no old records somewhere for your family?"
Eleniel looks down at her feet. The sunlight catches across her hair. "Maybe somewhere. I don't have them, if so. And – I cannot risk being thrown out of the house. I've no relatives..."
"We'll find the deeds," says Idril firmly, and then she sees Eldarion. "'Darion! Where have you been? You're covered in dirt!"
Eldarion grins ruefully. "I have been doing some exploring. Eleniel, the passages are unsafe; I followed the one that the two of you followed last time, and it reacted rather, er, violently."
"What happened?" Eleniel and Idril both speak at once, and all three of them laugh.
Eldarion explains about the lever that levels the passage, the swinging blades, and finally about the necklace in the floor. Eleniel takes it from him and examines it, but is as clueless as he.
"I don't recognise it," she says with a shrug, handing it back. "It could belong to anyone – someone could have dropped it down there, or…"
"Not a symbol of your house?" says Eldarion hopefully. "Special librarian coat-of-arms? Magic amulet to catalogue the section on Gondorian trade routes?"
"Wishful thinking, my lord," says Eleniel dryly. "I think that had we possessed such a thing, it would be a prized national treasure by now."
Eldarion offers both of them an arm, and they saunter out of the stables, deep in speculation, and coming up with increasingly wild theories for the use of the amulet. The streets are busier now, and people bow as they pass; Eldarion notes with amusement the strange looks that Eleniel receives. She appears oblivious to them, laughing with Idril and himself, and although, to Eldarion, she still looks tired, her colour is better and she seems over the fright of the morning.
He watches her as she talks, planning the afternoon's work, her eyes determined. It was a jolt, that morning, the realisation that this – this strange friendship, the timelessness of the Library, Eleniel herself in all her charming, stubborn determination – can be lost so easily, and Eldarion's jaw tightens as he thinks of Stelbin.
Briefly he contemplates wild courses of action – exposing Stelbin before the Court, challenging him, throwing him from the City – before he realises, frustrated, that there is nothing to challenge him with, no grounds for the accusations. The land belongs to Stelbin, as does the Library, and he has every right to do with it as he wills. Once again, there is nothing to accuse him of, nothing but silent witnesses and the deep, nagging suspicion of a paranoid Prince.
"My lord?" Eleniel is looking at him strangely. "Are you all right?"
Eldarion shakes himself mentally. "I'm sorry?"
Idril giggles. "Off in a daydream, 'Darion?"
"I was thinking," protests Eldarion. "It requires a great deal of effort, sister, surely you know that?"
"It is not a problem that I frequently encounter," says Idril blithely. "Eleniel and I were just agreeing that we should make a start on the right wing this afternoon."
"The wings should be more in order," adds Eleniel. "I know that my great-grandfather started to update the records under Ecthelion, though when Denethor came to power he was called away to the wars. He says in his journal that he started with the right wing, and no one has touched it since then."
"As long as you can find those records, Lady Librarian," Eldarion teases her, and she narrows her eyes at him.
"Are you implying something about the way I organise my records, O Prince?"
"As if I would dare!" cries Eldarion, only partly in jest; Eleniel is sensitive in the extreme about her filing system, which he is privately convinced consists of one part organisation to three parts luck. The right papers seem to float to the top of the pile by pure coincidence. "I have a great respect for your, ah, system."
True to form, Eleniel is able to find the leather-bound book a very few minutes after lunch. Eldarion once again entertains the notion that there is a kind of magic at work, the sheer power of all the silent tomes, unread for centuries. He remembers his mother, Arwen Undomiel, her hushed voice telling tales of how the Elves first began it, and how the words took them, caught them and bound them to the world, to each other, and he remembers the utter stillness of the Library at Imladris, and a homesick boy sitting in his grandfather's chair and feeling a sense of protection, the words of his ancestors surrounding him, his own history mingling with theirs.
Then he thinks of Eleniel and smiles. It is all very well to compare her to an enchantress, to think that she wields power through the Library and that it bows to her will, but then when she drops the heavy books in a cloud of dust, curses, and sneezes six times in a row, he is forced to accept that it may not be the case, and that no enchantress would have such appallingly illegible handwriting in their ancestry.
The afternoon slips past. The right wing is in such good order – it has been centuries since anyone has added to the Library – that they agree to do no more than a cursory check of the shelves, cleaning as they go; they cover nearly half of it before Eleniel calls a halt, pointing out the lengthening shadows.
"I fear that we shall not find the other wing in such good order," she says ruefully as they say their goodbyes. "Nor the storerooms. I can't believe how much we've done today!"
"Nor I," says Idril hugging her, and then looks at her critically. "Eleniel, do go and have a good night's sleep. If you're not here in the morning then we shall start without you."
The early evening is chill. There is the promise of frost in the air, and the stars seem to hang heavy in the velvet black of the sky, pinpoints of brilliance. Idril and Eldarion take their time walking back up to the Citadel; the streets are once more empty, and they pass from starlight to shadow to the bright lights of houses in near silence. The Princess is so quiet, in fact, that Eldarion is compelled before very long to ask her if she is well.
"Oh, yes, of course," says Idril at once, flustered; glancing at her, Eldarion can see the barest hint of a frown. "I was just…"
"Thinking?" he finishes for her, and she flicks his arm. "About what?"
"Eleniel," says Idril bluntly. "I'm worried about her. She truly does fear losing the Library, Eldarion."
Eldarion sighs. "Of course she does. And whatever Stelbin's reasons for wanting her out are…"
"There is no reason," says Idril impatiently. "The man's just malicious. It's to spite you, 'Darion, this insistence that he wants her to leave. I don't think he's hiding anything other than a deep dislike of you and Ada."
"Maybe." Eldarion looks up at the stars as they turn a corner. "I just – you know how he was, when we passed that law about the brothels, and how sure we all were that he was mixed up in the thick of it…"
"Those children," murmurs his sister with a shudder.
"Precisely!" Eldarion runs a hand through his hair. "There were never even any charges, because we could find nothing to charge him with! Even when – oh, believe me, he is guilty of something…"
"If only we knew what," says Idril wryly, then she abruptly changes the subject. "We met Celeglin in the Courtyard today, you know."
"Did you? I hope you managed to be civil."
Idril's eyes flash. "'Civil' is not something that I associate with Celeglin. She was downright rude to Eleniel."
"If you did not provoke her so…" Eldarion heaves another sigh. "I think that you may have to accept that sometimes you and I differ in our opinions of people, and I…"
"Eldarion Telcontar, if you marry that woman I will never speak to you again!" Idril wrenches her arm from his and fixes him with her most furious glare; surprised, Eldarion takes a step back.
"Idril, when will you grow up?" he demands, then lowers his voice. "I will marry where I must. Surely you can see that. If you must know, I consider Lady Celeglin to be far the…"
"What is wrong with you?" cries his sister. "She is the worst possible – she is the worst you could ever choose! Where is your famed judgement, Eldarion of Gondor?"
"Then who would you have me marry?" hisses Eldarion. "She is eligible. It would be an advantageous match; Lebennin would benefit. Maybe I do not love her, but I know no ill of her, and in intelligence and beauty she is far superior to the others who solicit my attentions!"
"But she is…"
"I know no ill of her," Eldarion repeats, "and as far as I can see, this silly feud between you is as much your fault as hers! If I cannot marry where I love, then I can at least marry for Gondor!"
"Eleniel?" gasps Idril.
There is a moment's beat of complete silence, as Eldarion becomes conscious what he has said and feels realisation slide into his heart like a stiletto knife-blade between his ribs.
"Ada would never…" begins Idril, but Eldarion stops her, the invisible wound an ache in his chest that he covers, forces away from him, forgets and denies all in a heartbeat.
"No. But I would. There are more important things than whatever my feelings might be at stake here. Let me fool myself, Idril, let me marry Celeglin, and please, understand that I do it for Gondor. Please, sister."
Idril's eyes are brimming with tears. They stand frozen in the middle of the street for a moment, and then Eldarion, with a sigh, folds her in his arms. She scrubs at her eyes with her sleeve and mutters something; Eldarion, with a frown, bends his head closer. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm not giving up, 'Dari," says Idril firmly. Her eyes are determined. "Celeglin – it's all wrong, and I refuse to believe that she has any affection for you…"
"And if I choose to believe that she loves me?"
"Then I pity you, Eldarion," says Idril softly, seriously.
Eldarion shakes his head and offers her his arm, and they proceed up the hill, to where the light and laughter and music flows from the Citadel, and leave the dark streets empty and silent once more.
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Deep underground, the weak light of a candle, and a voice says, measured and even, "There will be no more delays."
Dark eyes glitter. One flawless finger traces idly across red lips. "It is – difficult. The Princess is suspicious, and there is an added complication. The girl from the Library…"
"She will be disposed of, in due course."
"Good." The red lips curl in a smile. "He has been most – evasive."
"Have a care." A note of warning enters the voice. "We have not much longer. If he is not secured by Midwinter, more drastic measures will have to be taken, and I trust I do not have to elaborate on them."
White shoulders shrug. "It is all the same to me. Drugged and cooperative or valiant and dead – the Prince is a valuable tool, but one we can do without if needs be, am I not correct?"
"You are most correct, my dear," says the voice, with the barest hint of a smile. "Now, begone, before you are missed. I shall follow in a while."
The light flickers, and silken skirts swish across the floor. It is silent, then, until the candle leaves to the sound of soft footfalls, and complete darkness fills the innermost parts of the city, far from the light of the high cold stars.