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, lovely people who've reviewed before!
Christmas? Hectic? Mad relatives? Surely not! Must go and do some English essays now. Argh. Homework. (Hint: reading reviews is more fun…) Hope you all had a lovely Christmas!
Chapter Eight
Eldarion has never before realised just how insistent a woman bent on marriage can get.
When he steps out of the Palace that morning, he is instantly met by a vision in scarlet and blue silk; Celeglin, her smile as dazzling as the snow, drops into a low curtsey, looking up at him through her lashes. "My lord Prince."
"My lady Celeglin," replies Eldarion evenly, bowing over her hand. "It is a pleasure to see you this early in the morning."
Celeglin's brilliantly white teeth dazzle him once more. "Oh, I do love to rise early and hear the birds sing. Sometimes I try to join them, but I fear my singing is far less tuneful!" She laughs, and Eldarion murmurs the expected compliment; he is rewarded by her hand on his arm as they walk out into the Courtyard.
"Where are you going this early, my lord?"
"To the Library," Eldarion replies blandly, and this evidently displeases the lady, for she frowns and they walk on in silence.
They have reached the Sixth Circle before she says airily, "Shall you find that girl – Eleniel – employment at the Palace when the Library is demolished? I am sure you do not mean to abandon her. If not, do try to impress upon her that I meant what I said about needing a maid."
Eldarion wills himself not to react. "I fear, my lady, that Eleniel would make a very poor scullery-maid," he says wryly.
Celeglin glances up at him. "Of course. I have seen for myself just how rude and uncouth the girl can be. Tell me, does she put on so many airs with you?"
"I have never known Eleniel to put on airs of any kind," says Eldarion rather more sharply than he intends, and Celeglin laughs that annoyingly perfect laugh again.
"Of course, I had almost forgotten your – well, I think we may call it an infatuation, may we not, my lord?"
"I would rather we called it nothing of the kind." There are times when Eldarion sympathises with his sister and her dislike of Celeglin; the lady has, on occasion, a sharp tongue.
"Well, have a care, your highness," says Celeglin, her tone mock-serious, "or she may ensnare you with her wiles – goodness, there she is. Doesn't she look a fright!"
Eldarion looks up. Eleniel is on the opposite side of the street, and has clearly not seen them; she is just rounding the corner, huddled up in a motley assortment of clothes. The thick boots she wears can only have belonged to her father. Eldarion watches as she dodges around a group of well-dressed young men who do not so much as glance at her, and wonders if it is only he who finds her beautiful.
"Why, she looks like a little peasant-girl from Dunland," exclaims Celeglin in a voice that is just loud enough for Eleniel to hear. Luckily, it does not look like Eleniel is listening. "Must you really go to the Library today, my lord? There is a skating party later, and surely…"
"I have sworn to help, and I do not break my word," says Eldarion shortly, still watching Eleniel.
Celeglin then makes the biggest mistake possible. "Yes, but only to a grubby girl from the lower levels! Come, my lord, you are much missed in court, and people are starting to talk. This dalliance with a commoner does not become you, and oaths to such people mean nothing."
Ahead of them, Eleniel looks around, and Eldarion realises that she is close enough to hear every word. Something in her eyes catches his, something entirely too much like misery, and suddenly Eldarion Telcontar hates himself, and he wheels on Celeglin, saying furiously, "Lady Celeglin, if you ever insult my honour or that of my friends in this way again, then it shall be an end to all civility between us, do I make myself clear?"
Celeglin blinks and laughs, only momentarily discomfited. "Oh, my lord, did we not have this conversation last night?"
"Last night?" Eldarion stares at her, remembering her tears and promises of the night before, and aware that Eleniel is standing still as stone a few feet away. His heart beats wildly. "We – so we did. By all the Valar, Celeglin, I – go. Get out of my sight." She takes a step backwards, blood draining from her face.
"My lord Prince! I…"
"I think you know in what regard I have held you," Eldarion tells her calmly, ignoring the growing crowd of curious onlookers. It will be all over the city within an hour, what he is about to say. "I think you know with what feelings I have tried to endure you, for Gondor, for the good of the country, always trying to believe that Idril was wrong about you, that your vices were merely the thoughtlessness of high-bred arrogance. I give in. I, Eldarion, Prince of the Reunited Kingdom, concede defeat, and so must you."
Celeglin looks around wildly. Eldarion watches her, really watches her for the first time in a long time, and sees the calculated desperation in her face as she flings herself down on her knees at his feet. "Oh, no, my lord! Surely – I speak my mind, but can you not forgive – for love…"
"I said nothing about love." Eldarion turns and starts to walk away; the crowd parts to let him through. Behind him, Celeglin staggers to her feet.
"Enjoy her, then, your dirty little whore!" she yells, and her beautiful voice is so twisted by rage that it is virtually unrecognisable. Eldarion keeps walking. "You will be sorry, Eldarion Telcontar!"
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Eleniel, transfixed, watches the screaming Celeglin for a moment, then breaks away from the crowd to follow Eldarion at a run. He is moving swiftly, and it takes her a few minutes to catch up with him; when she does, she slows down beside him, not quite knowing what to say.
Eldarion looks down at her. He is frowning slightly, but gives her a rueful smile. "Eleniel, I am sorry that you were caught up in that."
Eleniel bites her lip. "I – it – it was no fault of yours, my lord."
"Was it not?" Eldarion glances at her again, and there is something in his eyes that she cannot quite define. "All the same, I apologise, both for just now and for last night."
"It is forgotten," says Eleniel firmly. "Though I am most glad that you and Idril will no longer be at each other's throats."
Eldarion looks remorseful. "Eleniel, I have been a self-centred pig."
"Now you are fishing for compliments."
"Are you maligning my heartfelt apologies, Lady Librarian?" he demands with the beginnings of a grin. "I shall be a self-centred pig if I wish."
"If you are ever in danger of being such, I shall inform you in no uncertain terms, my lord."
Eldarion shakes his head. "I have no doubt of it."
When they reach the Library, Idril is there waiting for them. Eleniel whispers urgently to her as they pick up the records what has happened, and it is a mark of Idril's character that she does not so much as mention it to Eldarion, merely wraps her arms round him briefly; he ruffles her hair, and they speak no more of it.
"'Darion, Naneth wishes to come down just before lunch," announces Idril a little later, armed with a duster and zealously dusting the shelves at the end of the right wing. Eldarion follows behind with a broom, and Eleniel ticks off the books from the catalogue. Very occasionally they have to stop and correct it when a book appears either missing or in the wrong place, but this wing has proved virtually untouched.
"Then I shall have to leave in a while," says Eldarion, coughing and waving a hand to dispel the flying clouds of dust. "Really, Idril, must you be quite so vigorous?"
"Right. Time for a change." Eleniel snatches the duster from the Princess, and dumps the records in her arms, then exchanges duster for broom.
"I could check the records," says Eldarion plaintively.
"No, because it is not your turn," says Idril primly. Both she and Eleniel laugh at Eldarion's mournful sigh; he has a tendency, when checking the records, to get left behind, having discovered some rare volume or other.
"My writing is neater than either of yours," grumbles the Prince, flicking at the spaces between the books. "I could go and fetch the Queen now, if you like."
"We can finish this stack first," says Eleniel inexorably, and they work in silence until Eldarion stops dead at the end of the row with an exclamation of surprise.
"We've finished the whole wing! – Eleniel, do you realise we have completed nearly two thirds of the Library?"
Eleniel leans the broom against the shelf and looks around. The sun catches on the newly cleaned shelves, giving the old wood a warm glow; the right wing looks as good as new. "There's still the gallery," she points out, smiling at both her friends. "And there's the left wing, and after that we have to find the storerooms…"
"I was being optimistic!"
"Now, children." Idril pokes her brother in the arm. "Eldarion, will you go and fetch the Queen?"
While the Prince is gone, Idril demands a full explanation of the morning's events. "I cannot believe I missed it!" she groans when Eleniel, not without a degree of satisfaction, tells her of Eldarion losing his temper. "I have been waiting for that moment all of my adult life, and it seems most of my childhood as well – oh, I am glad, Eleniel!"
"It was truly glorious," sighs Eleniel, swinging her legs over the arm of her chair.
"But she said all those awful things about you, in front of all those people!"
"None of them know me," says Eleniel with a shrug. "I don't believe she even said my name. I think it is the Prince's reputation that will be at stake, not mine."
Idril shakes her head. "No, I do not believe the people will ever think ill of Eldarion. People at court – like that odious Stelbin – may murmur behind his back, but it will get them nowhere."
"I am glad that we need not tolerate Celeglin any more." Eleniel rests her head on the rough material of the armchair, allowing herself a private smile. She has tried her best to forget Celeglin's comments, knowing that most of them have no substance, but for some reason the look in Eldarion's eyes as he leapt to her defence sends warm shivers through her.
"I am glad that she will not end up as my sister-in-law, queen of Gondor!" Idril exclaims, shaking out her long hair and twisting it into a knot at the back of her head. Eleniel looks at her curiously.
"What of you, Idril? Surely you must be as courted by young men as Eld – the Prince is by women."
Idril makes a face. "Yes, but they are all terribly dull. The only one who has ever had any conversation to speak of is Elboron – the Steward's son, you know. But when I fall in love it will be all fire and passion and undying devotion, like Beren and Luthien."
"Goodness," remarks Eleniel. "How uncomfortable."
There is a murmur of voices, and both of them look round at the stairs. Eleniel stands hastily, smoothing out her skirts. It sounds as though Eldarion has brought more than one person; footsteps clatter and a little girl, dressed all in blue, hurtles into the foyer.
"Idril! Idril! Is this the Library? – Oh, it's huge!" The girl stops in her tracks and gazes around in obvious delight. She is about eight or nine years of age, but there is such a marked resemblance to Eldarion in her face that no one could mistake them for anything other than brother and sister. Her raven hair is escaping from its plaits and her cheeks are flushed from the cold.
"Eleniel, my youngest sister," says Idril gravely. "Siledhel, this is Eleniel."
The youngest princess spins around to fix Eleniel with a delighted smile, holding out her hand to shake. Eleniel takes it, curtseying as she does so. "Oh, at last! I've been longing to come here and meet you, see all the books, and 'Dari says there're secret passages and all kinds of things!"
"There are, my lady, but I fear they are unsafe at present," says Eleniel with a smile.
"Unsafe, and you would likely lose your head, if my experience is anything to go by," says Eldarion from behind them. Eleniel turns, and her heart skips a beat.
Queen Arwen Evenstar glides down the stairs on her son's arm. She is almost as tall as he, but slender as a willow-wand, and the few silver streaks that are threaded through her hair do not mar her beauty; the wisdom of the ages is in her eyes.
"Mother, this is Eleniel," says Eldarion. "Eleniel, the Queen."
Eleniel, wondering frantically why the Queen is so much more terrifying than her husband, curtseys once more, trying not to wobble. "Your majesty."
A firm but kind hand lifts her chin, and Eleniel finds herself staring into eyes that seem as bottomless as the sea. She holds her breath, trying not to flinch, and feeling impossibly young. Eventually Arwen smiles, a smile every bit as dazzling as her son's. "I am honoured, Librarian. My family speaks well of you." Her gaze shifts, taking in the Library, and Eleniel breathes again. "I am most impressed."
"As are we all." Eldarion looks down at Siledhel, who is tugging on his sleeve. "What is it, little star?"
"Can we see the secret passages? Please, Eldarion?"
"You shall see the entrance, and if you like we shall go home by one, but the biggest ones are unsafe." Eldarion grins at Eleniel. "Are they not, Lady Librarian?"
Before long, Eleniel finds herself conducting a guided tour of the Library, aided and abetted by Eldarion and Idril. The Queen asks intelligent questions, and tells Eleniel of the library at Imladris, where scrolls reaching back as far as the First Age are still kept; Elessar is planning to move them to Gondor, as the House of Elrond grows ever more isolated.
"We could move them here," suggests Idril at this point.
Arwen, to Eleniel's surprise, agrees with her. "Yes, we could – Ada always intended the library at Imladris to be open to all who wished to see it. Would this be agreeable to you, Eleniel?"
"It – it would be wonderful, but – but it is likely that there will soon not be a Library, your majesty."
"Ah, yes." The Queen runs one slender white finger down the spine of a book. "Lord Stelbin himself has informed me of his plans." She looks Eleniel directly in the eyes. "Let us hope that they come to nothing."
"We are not intending to give up without a considerable fight," says Eldarion firmly, "but until he formally announces his plans we can do nothing. I am afraid that we have not found any deeds to the place yet."
"There is still hope," says Arwen softly, then she smiles brightly. "My dears, it must be getting late – we must go to greet the new arrivals this evening."
Siledhel looks up at Eleniel. "Elboron is returning from the North," she informs her. "'Dari wants to see him for news of the army and Idril wants to see him so that she can keep him to herself all evening."
"You little horror," says Idril fondly.
As they emerge from the shelves, the Queen looks up and gives an exclamation of surprise. "Why, there is a gallery!"
"There is, my lady, but we cannot reach it; the stairs are gone," Eleniel explains.
"Then they must be repaired! I shall send some men down – would tomorrow morning be convenient, Eleniel?"
"But – but I thought the Council – I mean, thank you, your majesty, but the King said…"
Arwen smiles; her expression is, for an instant, almost smug. "Ah yes, but as Queen I can give you the help as a gift from the Crown. Estel is treading as carefully as possible with the City Council at present; I have no such worries – is that not right, Eldarion?"
"Father treads carefully because he is worried, mother. There is something brewing, we believe." Eldarion smiles at Eleniel. "Don't worry, Lady Librarian, they cannot oppose the Queen."
"I would watch any such attempts with great interest," says Arwen serenely. "Eleniel, we really must take our leave, I fear. I shall send men down as soon as possible in the morning. It was a pleasure – oh, where is that child of mine?"
"Hiding," says Eldarion cheerfully, darting sideways; there is a squeal and Siledhel emerges from one of the aisles.
"Oh, 'Darion, why do you always know?" she demands as the others laugh.
"Because I am infinitely wiser than you, and far more observant." Eldarion reaches out and grasps the end of one of her long plaits. "Hah! A leash!"
Amidst much giggling and laughter from all concerned, they take their leave. It is early yet, but Eleniel dissuades her friends from coming back to do more work that evening; wains are expected with Elboron, and she is hopeful of finding a letter from Taeglin and writing a reply. As she tidies up the desk and puts the records back in their proper places, she wonders what she will write of. Secret passages and mysterious lockets? Prince Eldarion's eventful love life? She has told him virtually nothing of her new friends.
It is still light when she reaches home, and after feeding Battleaxe she goes next door to see if any messages have been left; Drietal at the Dancing Southron seems to know any news or gossip in the City. When she pokes her head around the door, he roars out a welcome and Andralen insists on feeding her before she can get a word in edgeways.
"There is word that wains have arrived," that worthy lady informs her, watching Eleniel eat with a protective air. "Mayhap they bring news of your brother. Eat it all, girl, those cheeks of yours are far too thin and pale."
"Thankyou, Andralen," says Eleniel dutifully, taking another mouthful of scaldingly hot soup and wincing as she burns her tongue. "Er – may I come and work tonight?"
Andralen frowns. "Money running low again? Of course, taxes is due any day now – oh, lass, I'm sorry, but we've got a new maid working here full-time. Used to be scullery-maid to some fancy lady up at court."
"I could come and sweep the floor," says Eleniel desperately. The question of money has been nagging at her; Taeglin's army pay is mostly spent on food, and she always relies on a few weeks' work at the inn to pay the taxes.
Andralen leans across the bar to poke her husband in the arm. "Drietal! The girl here wants work."
Drietal turns obediently, his brow creasing. "I am sorry, Eleniel, the new girl does all the washin' up. Ye could sweep the floors, but I doubt we could find much in the way of coin to pay you, and 'twould not take you long."
Eleniel grins at him "It's all right, Drietal, anything's better than nothing. I'd like to see what the wains have brought from the North first, though, if I may?"
Andralen pats her hand. "Of course it is, dear. I'm only sorry we can't do more. It's not right, a young lady of learning like yourself begging for a job."
"Taeglin may be home before very much longer, and times will be easier," says Eleniel, slipping down from her seat. "It's been five years since he was last on leave – many thanks for the food, Andralen, I shall see you a little later!"
Eleniel slips back into her own house for an instant to collect her cat. Battleaxe regards her through narrowed eyes. Eleniel picks her up; the cat is skinnier than she would like. "Come one, you lazy feline, you've not been outside all day," Eleniel tells her, tugging the door closed and walking away down the street. Battleaxe shoves a cold nose under her chin.
The walk down to the Fourth Circle is a brisk one; there are not many people about, and the air is crisp. Eleniel lets Battleaxe walk most of the way; she is reasonably confident that the cat will not take it into her head to go off without her, but has an old rage and a bit of string for a leash just in case. For the most part Battleaxe trots along behind her, gaining them some amused smiles from people who pass them in the street.
The lower levels are busier; it is market-day, and the smell of roasting chestnuts fills the air. Eleniel picks up her cat once they reach the Fourth Circle and threads her way through to Central Square, where a crowd has gathered about the messengers from the armies and the wains that have accompanied them.
"…looks like being a peaceful winter, apart from those few skirmishes reported right up on the border," one man is saying. He is dressed in chain-mail, well-made but worn, and his horse is slurping noisily from the trough nearby. A few others are gathered round him. "The scouts say that the garrison is well-supplied, though the report will doubtless tell us more."
"Will the troops be soon sent home, think you?" asks another man curiously. "There are men that can be pulled out of Umbar to guard the Northern borders."
"That is in the hands of the King," says the first man cheerfully. "I intend to cease all serious thought from this moment onwards, gentlemen, and enjoy the merry-making. Good day to you!"
Eleniel moves on, and by dint of shoving reaches the front of the crowd. "Eleniel daughter of Serion, Fifth Circle!" she yells at the man who stands beside the mailbags, holding a scroll on which is written the names of those to whom letters have been sent.
He runs a practiced eye down the list. "Nothing, sorry," he tells her. "Next!"
"Nothing?" asks Eleniel, a sick feeling settling in her stomach, and is knocked out of the way by the next in line. She loses her balance and slips on the packed snow; Battleaxe, spooked, hisses and darts away from her, the leash trailing uselessly in the snow.
"Battleaxe! Oh, you silly animal!" Eleniel scrambles upright and runs after her, but Battleaxe can move fast when she wants to and she can see no sign of her. Eleniel crouches down and peers through the legs of the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of grey fur, and is just resigning herself to an evening of searching when someone clears their throat above her.
"I believe that this is your cat, my lady. Would you like to claim her?"
Eleniel looks up in surprise. The young man whose conversation she overheard stands there, holding the reins of his horse in one hand and a disgruntled Battleaxe in the other. "Oh! Many thanks, sir."
"Not at all." The man helps her to her feet and looks at her curiously. "Are you quite well? You look rather pale."
"I am well, I thank you." Eleniel cradles Battleaxe against her, trying to dispel the gnawing fear within; Taeglin always writes, always.
"Not bad news?" persists the man. His blue eyes are friendly and concerned. "Are you sure you are not ill?"
"No news, and I am in perfect health, thank you," Eleniel replies with a little smile. "Good day to you, sir."
"A pleasure." He bows and leads the horse away through the crowd; Eleniel begins the walk back up the hill. Andralen and Drietal will be waiting.
Back at the inn, there are more customers; the bar has been reclaimed by the regulars, who greet Eleniel pleasantly enough and offer to buy her ale. She declines, and reports to Drietal, who tells her that she can be a barmaid for the evening as they appear to have more customers than is usual. To Eleniel, the inn looks no busier than normal, but she merely thanks her friends and gets to work.
The evening wears on. Eleniel makes the acquaintance of the new barmaid, who gives the impression of looking down her nose at the whole world, and absorbs some of the local gossip. The customers grow fewer as the hour grows later, so that by the time Drietal calls her off-duty there are only a few determined souls left drowning their sorrows and a cloaked and hooded man in the corner who has nursed the same tankard of ale all evening.
Eleniel collapses gratefully beside the bar. Drietal pours her something from one of his mysterious bottles and makes her drink it. "You look worn out," he says, leaning on the counter and watching her with beady black eyes.
"Working all day," says Eleniel with a yawn. Meeting the Queen seems as though it is a lifetime ago. "I can't thank you and Andralen enough, Drietal, really."
Drietal shakes his head. "We can pay you little enough, lass." He shoves a clinking purse across the counter.
Footsteps sound behind Eleniel, and she turns wearily to see the hooded man who has sat in the corner for most of the evening. Drietal nods at him. "Calling it a night, sir?"
"I think so." The man's face is almost completely hidden by his hood; Eleniel can just make out a nose and the gleam of eyes. "Do you work here often, miss?"
Eleniel blinks. "Occasionally, sir. When taxes are due, mostly."
"I see." The stranger slides some coins across the bar to Drietal. "Have you no family?"
"Only my brother," says Eleniel, the sick feeling returning as she remembers; for the first time in almost five years, no letter… "He's in the North, with the army."
"Was there a letter, Eleniel?" asks Drietal.
Eleniel looks down. "No. And he always, always writes."
Behind her, the stranger draws breath sharply. Drietal says mildly, "He missed the baggage-trains, perhaps."
"Perhaps. Let us hope that it is so." The stranger looks around, to where Emeren, the new maid, is wiping a table. His voice, when he next speaks, is low. "Tell me – Drietal, isn't it? – did the other young lady once work in one of the houses in Sixth Circle?"
"She did," says Drietal, evidently confused by this interest in his barmaids. "Some lady at court – let me see, what was the name…"
"Lady Celeglin?"
This time it is Eleniel's turn to stifle a gasp. The hooded man draws back and looks at her, his eyes glinting in the light from the fire.
"Watch your back, my lady. A woman spurned will go to any lengths for revenge." With that he is gone, moving with long strides out of the firelit room and pulling the door gently closed behind him.
Eleniel stares after him, a chill running down her spine, suddenly dreading the cold walk home and the lonely shadows of her darkened house; it strikes her, with all the force of sudden fear, that she has made her first real enemy.