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!
At last, an update (Indigo-Moon, the puppy-dog eyes are most effective, lol)! Sorry it's been so long – I've been ill, for starters, and I had an evil exam from hell, and – yes, well, it's not been a good month. I promise that I will not give up on this fic; it's a matter of finding time to work on it at the moment, but don't panic, I have a plan, and I shall stick to it :D
Chapter Nine
Eldarion does not sleep much that night. He lies awake into the small hours, tossing and turning, the day's events racing through his mind. Eleniel and Celeglin wander in and out of dreams that are born from waking, and when he does sleep it is to see flames reaching to the sky above the Library. He wakes with a start and a curse, and the big grey hound sprawled across the foot of the bed pricks her ears ever so slightly, eyes bright in the glow from the embers of the fire.
"That is enough of that," Eldarion mutters, and sits up, shaking his head to clear it. The hound lets her head drop back onto the coverlet and thumps her tail; the Prince swings his legs out of bed.
His intention is to get dressed and go outside, knowing from past experience that if he wakes up properly then he is far more likely to be able to sleep, but as he looks around the room his gaze alights on the tattered old book that he borrowed from the Library a few days ago. For a moment or two he runs his fingers over the faded spine, and then he pulls his chair up to his desk, sits down, and begins to read.
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Several hours later, the sun has risen, and Eleniel is running late. The work of the night before has taken its toll, and when she is woken by the weak sun on her face she is extremely disgruntled to find that her body-clock has failed her. She panics for a few minutes, before remembering that Eldarion has to sit in the City Council and will therefore be every bit as late as she. Idril, she feels sure, will still be recovering from whatever merry-making was to be had at the Palace, and so it is at a leisurely pace that she eats breakfast and sees to the cat, letting herself out of the door just as the bell from the Citadel strikes ten.
She takes her time walking up to the Library, expecting to be the first to arrive; to her shock, however, as she nears the Library she finds the door wide open. There is a tall, well-dressed man standing outside and whistling, and when he sees her he greets her in a cheerful manner.
"Eleniel, I take it?" he says as she draws near, grasping her hand and shaking it firmly. "I'm Elboron, Eldarion sent – why, it's the girl with the cat!"
Eleniel stares at him. "You're the soldier!" He is no longer wearing dirty chain-mail, and in truth is almost unrecognisable, but his blue eyes are every bit as friendly.
"Well, it is a small world," he tells her with a grin. "Eldarion described you in enough detail last night – I should have realised!"
Eleniel quells her natural curiosity to hear exactly how the Prince has described her. "It's an honour, my lord. I hope the journey from the borders went well?"
"It did, I thank you." He offers her an arm, and she takes it hesitantly. "As I was saying, Eldarion sent me down here with the men to supervise. They should be finished very soon; they certainly started early enough!"
"Men?" asks Eleniel, confused.
"Yes, the Queen sent them. They are mending the stairs into the gallery."
"Already? But – it was only yesterday that…"
"When the Evenstar wants something done," says Elboron as they descend the steps, "it is done fast. – Here we are, my lady, a veritable hive of industry!"
Eleniel stares as they enter the foyer. The ancient, crumbling staircase is gone, and in its place is one that looks as though it is made of solid oak; the dozen or so men who appear to have effected this change are hard at work, the sound of hammering ringing throughout the Library.
"Goodness," she says weakly. "It – I don't know what to say."
"Well, that's as well, because I can barely hear you," Elboron informs her. "Shall we leave them to it? They will not be much longer."
Eleniel agrees, and they make their way back up into the open air, where Elboron immediately engages her in spirited discussion about anything and everything; the formations of the clouds above them, the people that hurry past in the street, and even the robin that perches on the archway, feathers fluffed up against the cold. He is an entertaining and engaging companion, and Eleniel soon puts aside the feeling that she is being carefully scrutinised and enjoys the companionship.
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High above them, Eldarion is once more losing his temper.
"…extensive plans for buildings to be erected by autumn at the latest," Stelbin is saying smoothly, while the plans circulate the table. Eldarion exchanges glances with the Steward as the latter passes them to him. "The old building will be knocked down, and the stone re-used; they serve no purpose as they are, especially the old City Library."
"You will pardon me for mentioning it." Prince Elphir of Dol Amroth, lounging in his chair and drumming his fingers on the arm, speaks up for the first time. "I was led to believe that the Library was in the process of being restored to full working order, and in any case 'twould be a shame for such a collection to be lost."
Stelbin smiles slightly. "Indeed. Let me tell you, gentlemen; the young woman who is attempting to carry out this so-called 'restoration', in addition to having a part-time job as barmaid in one of the less reputable inns –" the King looks up sharply, but makes no comment, " – is at present one of my tenants. I own not only the Library but her house as well. She will not present a problem."
"That was not quite what I meant," murmurs Elphir sardonically, catching Eldarion's eye.
Stelbin spreads his hands in an expansive gesture. "My lords, I see no obstacles to this plan. The Library is verging on being a public hazard as it is; it should be knocked down."
Eldarion clenches his fists beneath the table. "I beg to differ."
Stelbin's smile is mocking. "You have objections, my lord Prince? – Youthful fancies," he continues, addressing the council at large. "His Royal Highness is determined that he shall be a knight in shining armour; rather touching, is it not?"
There are a few uneasy laughs. Faramir lays a hand on Eldarion's arm, and the King gives him a warning glance; Eldarion forces himself to smile. "I was referring to the lack of men available to carry out your plans, among other things. Of course, I do have objections, and I trust that they will not go unnoticed by this Council."
At the foot of the table, Aragorn shifts in his chair and clears his throat. All eyes fix themselves on him. When he speaks, his voice is calm. "Come, Stelbin. Surely these new buildings are unnecessary? The schemes in the lower levels are still taking up much of our workforce, and I must admit that I agree with the Princes – there is a wealth of knowledge to be found, I believe."
"Old rubbish. Long-dead languages, the words of dead men whose scribblings mean nothing!"
"Now, hold on a minute!" exclaims the head of the City's Teaching Guild, and there is a sudden babble of noise as everyone tries to make themselves heard, a dozen different arguments breaking out within seconds. Prince Faramir mutters something about small children and grown men, gets to his feet and bangs hard on the table.
"That is enough! Silence, all of you, and let us discuss this in a civilized manner!" He glares around at them, and most of them have the grace to look ashamed; those few who have stood up sink slowly back into their seats. The Steward of Gondor may not be a military man by choice, but he is well able to subdue a roomful of the most powerful men in the City. "Your majesty, the floor is yours."
The King nods at his Steward and leans forward. "As I was about to say – I feel that this plan of destroying the Library is a foolish one. There are centuries of learning there – Eldarion, I believe you found something of interest, did you not?"
Eldarion nods. "A book, detailing old heraldries, and if I am not mistaken written by Elendil himself. It certainly bears his mark, and the writing matches those few examples we have of it." A murmur of interest goes around the room. Stelbin, for an instant, looks murderous. "There is still the matter of the passages which run beneath the Library."
The King's upraised hand forestalls Stelbin's retort. "Eldarion, how near are you to finishing the renovation of the Library?" he asks bluntly.
Eldarion blinks. "I – am not the best person to ask," he says carefully. "The Librarian would know better – I should say a matter of weeks."
"Stelbin. When do you want to start work?"
"As soon as possible. I –"
"This is my judgement." The King stands, and the rest of the room hurriedly stands also. "Eldarion, I am giving you and the Librarian until Midwinter. That is two weeks. If, by that time, the Library is fit to reopen, then there will be no building site, and the Library will resume operation as a public convenience. Lord Stelbin, kindlydo not interrupt. If, however, the Library is at that time serving no purpose, the most important documents will be removed and Lord Stelbin may continue with his plans. Have I the agreement of the Council in this matter?"
It is a clever ruse. Eldarion watches as heads nod, some more reluctantly than others, and flashes his father a look of gratitude, even as he wonders how they are ever to finish the Library in two weeks.
"Good. This session is closed."
As the room empties, Eldarion sinks back into his seat, staring at his father. "Two weeks?"
Aragorn is gathering up his papers. He raises one eyebrow at his son. "Two weeks. Eldarion, I can delay him for no longer, you know that."
"Of course," mutters Eldarion, running a hand through his hair. Faramir perches on the table beside him.
"Something more troubles you," he remarks. "Come, Eldarion, tell uncle Faramir all."
"It's just a feeling." Frustrated, Eldarion heaves a sigh. "Why does he want to close the Library so badly? Why now? Idril thinks that I'm being paranoid, and it's just malice, but – I know there's more to it than that. Stelbin is hiding something."
The two older men exchange glances.
"Eleniel heard voices in the passageways under the Library. Stelbin doesn't want us down there. I call that suspicious." Eldarion gets to his feet with a grimace; the muscles in his neck have seized up from poring over the old book at the dead of night.
"Keep an eye on him. Keep an eye on the Library, and especially keep an eye on Eleniel," says the King with a frown.
"What! Eleniel? You can't think she would – that's absurd…"
"Peace!" The King looks around the room; it is empty but for the three of them. "Of course not. But I happen to know that Eleniel is being watched."
"By who?" says Eldarion, bristling.
"Stelbin was right, Eleniel has been working at an inn. I understand that she does so in order to make ends meet; Stelbin taxes hard. She was caught out last night, though, because there is a new barmaid, and I do not believe it to be coincidence that this barmaid was recently employed by the Lady Celeglin of Lebennin as a scullery-maid."
Eldarion groans aloud. "I might have known. But – you don't think Celeglin and Stelbin…"
I do not know." Aragorn's lips twist. "I would not be surprised, but Celeglin is more than capable of revenging herself on Eleniel for imagined wrongs. "
"I will be careful," promises Eldarion.
"And how might you have come by this information, your majesty?" asks Faramir wryly.
"I have my ways," says the King with great dignity.
Faramir, straight-faced, looks at Eldarion. "Was not his majesty absent from much of dinner last night?"
Eldarion shakes his head solemnly. "A sudden influx of paperwork, the Queen was told."
"Imagine if a rumour were to reach her ears…"
"Get out, the pair of you!" cries Elessar, and the Steward and the Prince retreat, laughing.
Eldarion parts ways with Faramir in the courtyard, and sets out for the Library. It is a grey day, bitterly cold once more, a watery sun filtering through the clouds, and as he walks he feels his spirits sink once more. Eleniel, he feels sure, will not be pleased with the news he brings.
When he reaches the Library, he finds Eleniel and Elboron sitting on the rickety bench; the latter hails him cheerfully. "'Darion! How was the Council?"
"As perverse as ever. Next time, I shall expect you to be there," snaps Eldarion. "I have never met anyone less in need of recovering from a long journey."
Elboron raises his eyebrows at his friend. "What's biting you?"
"Bad news, I fear." Eldarion looks at Eleniel, who looks bewildered. "Stelbin made a complaint. He has building plans, and he wants to knock the Library down."
"But we knew that," says Eleniel with a frown.
"Yes, but now it's been put to the Council, and – the King has stalled him. Eleniel, how long will it take us to finish the Library?"
Clearly nonplussed, Eleniel stares up at him. "I don't know. A month?"
"We have until Midwinter. That's two weeks. After that, we can do nothing."
Eleniel jumps to her feet. "Two weeks? Two weeks to catalogue that entire wing, and then the gallery! And when we've done that, we have to find the storerooms, and Eru alone knows what is hiding down there…" she visibly regains control of herself, biting her lips together so hard that they go white and sinking back down onto the bench. "I'm sorry, my lords, I – it – it just seems such a waste, and…"
"Not at all," says Eldarion firmly. "I think we have some work to do."
"But it's hopeless! We can't possibly finish…"
Eldarion crouches down so that he is at her eye-level. "Lady Librarian, there is always hope." She sighs.
"I had a horrible feeling you were going to say something like that," she mutters with a reluctant grin. "You are right, of course. Where's Idril?"
"I dispatched her on a mission," says Eldarion. "That book that I took home a few days ago – I think it was written by Elendil. She has gone to consult with some of the scholars."
"Really?" Eleniel looks delighted. "Goodness, to think it must have been hiding away for all those years! Perhaps we may find another?"
"Perhaps," agrees Eldarion, unable to keep from smiling at her sudden enthusiasm. Behind him, Elboron clears his throat.
"Lady Eleniel, I should like to offer my services."
"Accepted," says Eleniel immediately. "I – I think that the more people, the better."
"That will be four of us," says Eldarion, nodding at his friend as he stands. "Would you like to wait for Idril, or shall we make a start?"
Eleniel rubs her nose, for once not smearing ink over it. "I think we should make a start. The builders left a while ago – I will go and see what sort of state the gallery is in. Yes, my lord, I know it may not be safe," she says as Eldarion opens his mouth, "but I am lighter than either of you, and the floor will hold up better under my weight."
"Very well," says Eldarion grudgingly, "but we are using the rope."
Idril, when she marches down the stairs into the Library an hour later, is met by the sight of Eleniel halfway around the high gallery, the rope tied around her waist stretched tight and in the middle of an argument with Eldarion.
"…not even the remotest possibility that this floor will give way. It's solid stone, these cracks have been here for time immemorial…"
"Yes, just awaiting the day when a little extra weight tips the whole balance! How do you know it's safe? You said yourself, you know nothing about…"
"Oh, and I suppose you do, your royal highnessness?"
"I should hope so, the Dwarf-Lord of Aglarond is my adopted uncle! Eleniel…"
Eleniel, high above him, gives an exasperated sigh. "What do you propose, then?"
"Oh, for the love of the Valar," Eldarion mutters, and within a few seconds he has joined her. She glares at him.
"What happened to it not being safe?"
"You've already trodden on this part," Eldarion says reasonably, crouching down and studying the crack that runs across the stonework. "You're right, as it happens; this is only a crack in the outer layer. It was probably there when this was built."
"Well, that's a relief." Eleniel waves down at Idril, who waves back. "Idril! What did they say about the book?"
"'Darion was right!" calls the Princess. "They got very excited, and didn't want me to take it back again, but I insisted – how does the gallery look?"
"As good as can be expected." Eleniel tugs ineffectually at the rope around her waist as Eldarion moves past her. "There's a lot of dust, a few too many spiders for my liking – my lord, I hate to sound inept, but please will you untie me from this rope?"
"Yes, when we're back on the ground." Eldarion has reached the far end of the gallery; he runs one hand across the spines of the books, marvelling as the dust falls away to reveal faded titles. He peers closer. "Well, well. I think we may have found the – oh, no, surely not!"
"What?" Three voices chorus instantly. There is a muffled grunt from Eleniel, then she appears at his side, looking flustered and rather annoyed.
"My lord, the next time I let you tie me to a rope…"
"Look!" Eldarion eases one of the big volumes out from the shelf; it crackles ominously and a cloud of dust blossoms around them.
"'Being a Full Account of the Division of the lands of Gondor and Arnor, and of Private Ownership in the Cities of those Lands,'" reads Eleniel aloud. "'As set down by Elendil, High King, and later his son Isildur' – but…"
"Here are your deeds!" In his excitement, Eldarion squeezes her tightly about the waist. "Eleniel, if anything can tell us who really owns the Library, than this can!"
Eleniel's face is flushed and her eyes are bright; Eldarion finds himself wanting to do nothing so much as kiss her, and he stands hastily as she says, "But this – this could be – I mean, we can't rely on it, there might not be any deeds, but…"
"This could save us! Eleniel, if we work through these…"
"Wait. Slow down." Eleniel places the book carefully back on the shelf. "My lord, we can't assume that – I mean, it's a lovely idea. It always has been a lovely idea," she adds rather desperately, eyes pleading. "But it's more than likely that one of my ancestors just made it up. Old men, you know, with active imaginations. How often do these things survive throughout the ages?"
Eldarion fixes her with a stern gaze. "My dear lady librarian, my own ancestors achieved far greater insignificance than did yours. Would you attribute the line of Elendil and the ascension of Elessar to the active imaginations of old men?"
"No," mutters Eleniel. Below them, Idril clears her throat significantly.
"Eleniel, 'Darion, are you two going to confide in we mere mortals?" she calls up, her tone annoyed. Eldarion glances over the stone rail and sees her standing directly below, hands on her hips. "I think that one of us should take that book home and start reading through it."
"Easier said than done," replies Eleniel. "There are about twenty volumes, it looks like. We would have to read fast, and we must do some work today." She looks thoughtful. "If we start cataloguing up here rather than doing the other wing, we can see what there is. Does that sound like a good plan?"
"It sounds an excellent plan," says Eldarion, pulling her to her feet and leading the way back down to the ground floor. "Shall we make a start?"
Getting the materials organised and deciding where to start in the gallery takes some time, but eventually they split into two teams, with Eldarion and Elboron cleaning shelves and moving books into the right places while Eleniel and Idril catalogue them. The gallery is a mess; stacks of scrolls and books litter the floor, and in some places the cobwebs are so thick that they attach themselves to Eldarion's hair, turning him silver-grey. Despite this, they work fast and determinedly, and it is not until they have just started the section on Plants and Herbs of Arda that an interruption occurs.
Elboron is reaching around the back of one of the shelves, after a crumpled pile of paper that looks as though it has been a nest for many generations of long-dead mice, when his shoulder brushes against the wall and the rumble of machinery suddenly echoes throughout the Library. Eldarion, behind him, sees the wall begin to move and drags his friend backwards as the stones move slowly and ponderously apart. Elboron swears roundly in Rohirric.
Eleniel and Idril come running. The former skids to a halt beside Eldarion and looks positively delighted. "Oh, well done, my lords!"
"Well done for what?" Elboron demands. "I could have gone headfirst down that hole!"
"I think you may have found the storerooms." Eleniel peers cautiously into the newly-revealed archway.
"Only think how thick the walls must be," says Eldarion in wonder. There is a stairway leading down into darkness; a dank, musty smell wafts towards them, together with a blast of cold air. "Eleniel, do libraries usually store things in walls?"
"No, but they may hide the entrances to their storerooms." Eleniel wrinkles her nose at the smell. "We need torches, before we go down there."
"No need," says Idril, pushing forwards. "Look, I can see daylight!" She slips past Eleniel and disappears down the stairwell, her voice echoing cheerfully up at them. "Come on, it's not so bad – oops, nearly slipped there…"
The other three heave identical sighs and follow her.
True enough, there is light, of a sort. The source can be seen when they reach the bottom and are faced with a huge, mouldering collection of broken shelves and furniture, lit by arrow-slit windows on the side which must, Eldarion thinks, look out across the City. By the smell of it, damp has invaded through broken glass.
Eleniel sets off across the floor, Idril in tow. "I don't think there's much down here," she says, her voice strangely muffled. Eldarion stays where he is, poking about gingerly in a box full of old papers. Elboron crouches down beside him.
"She is determined, I give her that," he remarks quietly.
"Eleniel?" Eldarion glances up at his friend. "Stubborn, certainly."
"I met her last night," muses Elboron. He sits back on his heels, gazing out thoughtfully across the storeroom. "She came to see if she had letters, I think, and she seemed worried. Does she have relatives in the army?"
"A brother." Eldarion watches Eleniel and Idril, over at the narrow windows; the latter is craning her neck to try and see out. "Father thinks that she is being spied upon."
"Spied upon?" Clearly surprised, Elboron raises his eyebrows. "Why? – Oh, but wait, has this something to do with Lady Celeglin?"
"Why is it that this city is as secretive as a mumakil in a treehouse?" Eldarion asks rhetorically. "Yes, it is something to do with Celeglin. And I cannot shake the suspicion that it is somehow linked to Stelbin's plans, and that there must be some kind of reason that he wants us out of the Library."
"You must show me these secret passages of yours," Elboron says with a yawn, stretching his arms above his head.
"Not mine, Eleniel's," Eldarion corrects him.
"She is different to what I expected," Elboron says seriously. "I half-expected to find some frightfully boring middle-aged spinster, despite assurances to the contrary. What will she do if we do not finish the Library?"
"She will not be made homeless, not if I have any say in the matter. She could be companion to Idril, if she would consent, or if not – the royal Library, perhaps, or…"
"Are you going to marry her?"
Eldarion swallows hard but says nothing. Away across the storeroom, the Eleniel has found some ancient rusting horn-like instrument; the appalling noise that it makes sends both her and Idril into fits of laughter.
"'Darion?" Elboron peers into his friend's face. "Are you?"
Eldarion releases his breath in a sigh. "I – it is not as simple as that," he says in a low voice, picking his words with care. "If I were to – there are her feelings to consider, which must come first, and she has given no indication, and I – aside from that, there is my duty to the kingdom."
"You used to quote duty to me as a reason for letting Celeglin pursue you," says Elboron wryly. "If you are uncertain of her feelings, then why not ask her?"
"And risk the loss of her friendship? Have her think that I – no, I cannot, not now." Eldarion thinks, has thought, of a million possible reactions from Eleniel, and by far the worst is the idea of her thinking her trust in him betrayed. He can imagine the hurt in her eyes far too easily.
There is another coarse blast from the unfortunate horn, then a metallic crash, and the two men look up to see Idril and Eleniel picking their way back across the floor. Idril is carrying a rusty sword-blade, but they are otherwise empty-handed. "Nothing worth salvaging," says Eleniel cheerfully as they draw near, "which is a relief. I was sure we were going to find piles and piles of things that would all have to be recorded and moved; as it is, we can empty the room, mend the windows and start storing books in here."
"Good!" Eldarion jumps to his feet, all too aware of Elboron's smirk. "Eleniel, shall we continue with the gallery?"
Once they have left the damp and unpleasant underground room, work progresses swiftly. The Herbs and Plants section is followed by an extensive collection of writings in Rohirric, for the translation of which Elboron proves invaluable, and by the time darkness starts to fall they have cleaned and catalogued nearly a quarter of the gallery. Looking far happier than she was earlier in the day, Eleniel eventually calls a halt; they descend the steps discussing Rohirric written poetry, which is valued for its rarity and its beauty.
As agreed, they each take a volume of the 'Division of Lands' to look over that night; Eleniel apologises profusely for causing bother until Idril tells her bluntly not to be ridiculous. They are stiff to each other for approximately two minutes, until Idril apologises and Eleniel agrees to be less diffident. "You're our friend, you goose," Idril says affectionately. "Besides, we want Stelbin to win as little as you. Just imagine what a blow it would be to him to find that you owned some of his land!"
Shortly thereafter, Idril and Elboron take the passage back to the Palace. Eldarion insists on seeing Eleniel home; as they leave the Library by the main door he tells her at last about the danger he thinks she may be in.
Face bathed in ghostly yellow light from the lantern she carries, Eleniel makes a face. "I knew about Laleth," she says. "A man at the bar told me." She frowns. "He was odd, now. Tall, wearing a cloak and a hood, never showed his face – do you think…"
"I think I know who it was, and I think he is fairly trustworthy," says Eldarion hastily. "Eleniel, all I ask is that you are careful. Try not to be alone with this Laleth, and be very careful walking home after you finish at the inn." He frowns. "You never told me you had to work at an inn."
Eleniel opens her mouth to reply; Eldarion inwardly curses himself, realising how his words could sound, and hastens to reassure her.
"Forgive me, I didn't mean – I just had no idea that you were taxed so hard by Stelbin. I…"
To his relief, Eleniel laughs. "Never mind. I'm not offended, my lord! I think," she pauses, evidently searching for the right words, "I think I – I know you better than that, now, to think that you would – I mean – I trust you," She finishes lamely, and goes a charming shade of scarlet.
Eldarion feels a warm glow spread through him, and struggles to quell the ridiculous urge to grin like a maniac. "Thankyou, my lady," he says, and settles for an affectionate smile instead. She slips her arm through hers, and they proceed down the street in a comfortable silence.
When he has seen Eleniel safely to her door, Eldarion starts the journey back up the hill again, his mind whirling. He is so preoccupied that he is two streets away before he notices something out of place.
There are footsteps, following him.
Eldarion thinks for a moment, then settles upon a string of curses under his breath in fluent Qeunyan. He carries on walking, apparently unconcerned, but his hand, hidden by his cloak, slides to his belt, and he gradually draws the long dagger that he keeps there, while listening to the soft footfalls behind him draw ever closer.
So intent is he on the unknown follower that he is unprepared for the dark figures who leap from an alleyway, and before he can counter the attack he finds himself slammed to the ground so hard that he sees stars. His hands are pinned to the snowy stones, the dagger knocked away; he kicks out, and hears a grunt, but then his legs are being held, and there must be at least three of them, and he is about to put up a better struggle when, suddenly, ice-cold steel is at his throat.
"Do not move," says a deep voice, somewhere above him. "Your Royal Highness."