Chapter Eleven

And now that I have an internet connection again, Chapter Twelve is half-written and should be up much, much sooner. Sorry, guys. Reviews are always great, however :)

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Nine days later, Eleniel receives a shock when she is awoken at the crack of dawn by the frantic voice of Idril calling her name.

"Eleniel!" A dull pounding echoes throughout the house; Idril must be banging on the front door. Eleniel rolls out of bed, hitting the floor in a tangle of sheets and nightclothes, and staggers over to the window.

"It's too early," she croaks, easing the window open and sticking her head out. "What do you – agh!" she drops the window; it lands with a resounding crash on her head and she retreats, cursing. The laughter of Idril and her retinue of soldiers floats upwards.

"I came early because I have news!" calls the Princess. Eleniel, hopping on one foot while she struggles into her dress and her stockings at the same time, rolls her eyes. "Really good news!"

Battleaxe, curled in a fluffy ball on the end of the bed, stares in the direction of the window as only a cat can. Eleniel throws her shawl over her shoulders and heads for the stairs, feet clattering on the old wood.

"What's so exciting?" she pants as she wrenches the front door open. "It's only just past dawn, Idril, what…"

Idril's cheeks are flushed with excitement; she bounds forwards and envelopes Eleniel in a hug, apparently oblivious to the admiring eyes of the soldiers. "I found the papers – Eleniel, I found it, written by Elendil himself!"

"Found what?" Eleniel grasps the Princess by the arms as the taller girl teeters dangerously on the slippery stones. "Idril, you – you can't mean…"

Idril grabs her by the hand and tows her over towards the waiting horses. "Come on. We have to go and see Ada."

Eleniel lets herself be pushed towards a horse. "You found proof that the Library is mine? But where?" She eyes the horse warily. "I can't ride, you know, Idril."

A burly soldier helps her to scramble inelegantly onto the horse's back; she clutches at both reins and saddle as they move off. Idril clatters along beside her, talking excitedly. "I was looking through that Division of Lands, last night, and I found Elendil's plan to divide up the City, and it says that whoever holds the title of Lord Archivist or Librarian to the City – that's you – shall also be recognised as sole owner of the grounds of the Library, and lots of land nearby, and a huge old house on Emerald Street. It's true, Eleniel, it is!"

Eleniel still cannot quite believe her ears; she grabs for the saddle as they round a corner. "So I – I own the Library, really, and the house? And – oh, if this works, Idril…"

"You'll be a real Lady," Idril crows. "Not that you weren't already, but now you can marry Eldarion –"

"What!"

" – and we can finish the Library, and Stelbin won't have a leg to stand on because you'll own all his land!"

They have reached the entrance to the Citadel; Eleniel slithers to the ground as Idril jumps lightly down beside her, dismissing the soldiers with a nod. She grabs Eleniel's hand.

"Come on, I told Ada we'd not be long – come on, Eleniel!"

Eleniel receives little more than a vague impression of wealth and splendour on her first visit inside the Palace; it all flashes past in a blur as they run through the maze of corridors, people stepping hurriedly aside to make way and staring after them. By the time they reach the big wooden doors the King's inner council chamber, both of them are out of breath and Eleniel is thoroughly lost.

"I brought her," Idril announces, bursting in through the door.

The King is seated at his desk; he looks up, and Eleniel is immediately horribly conscious of her uncombed hair and mismatched clothes. "My lady," he says, rising and coming round the desk to bow low over her hand. "I am sorry my daughter saw fit to wake you quite so early, but I think this may be of some importance."

"Of course," says Eleniel, flustered.

"Here," says Idril, picking up a book from the desk and passing it over. "Read this."

Eleniel peers at the faded ink. "'I, Elendil King' – etcetera – 'do hereby decree that whomsoever holds the post of Archivist or Librarian to the Library in this City shall be known as Lord or Lady of the Realm, and to this end do grant' – why, this is half of the Sixth Circle! And land in Arnor? But I…"

"Sit down, my lady," says the King, guiding her to a chair. "I must look into this, and confer with some of my advisors. The title, at least is yours."

"What about Stelbin?" Idril asks impatiently. "Ada, have you told him yet?"

"He is the complication. He must have deeds of his own, probably perfectly legitimate ones – the question is as to which claim takes preference. I am sorry, Lady Eleniel – I cannot do other than abide by the law in this."

There is a knock at the door, and at Aragorn's request to enter a boy appears around it. "Lord Stelbin is gone from the City," he announces. "He is expected to return later this morning."

"Thankyou, Eron." The King dismisses the boy and turns to his daughter. "Idril, why don't you take Eleniel to find some breakfast? I am certain that you dragged her up here without waiting. I shall send for you when Stelbin makes an appearance."

"If he does," mutters Eleniel.

"He will come," the King says sternly. "He would not dare do otherwise."

The Palace kitchens are large and warm, filled with an organised mass of people. Idril and Eleniel sit at the table in the middle of it all, Eleniel eating fresh bread and trying not to show that it is the first square meal she has had for two days, while Idril chatters to the kitchen staff. Her head is swimming with unasked questions.

"Idril," she says slowly, "if I don't own my house, Stelbin will turn me out now for sure."

"Then you'll come and live here," says Idril with a shrug. "In fact, I shouldn't wonder if you come officially under the protection of the King, being an unmarried noblewoman living alone – have you heard from your brother yet?"

The unease concerning Taeglin, never far away, resurfaces in force. "I – no. No, there has been no word."

Idril frowns. "You will surely hear soon."

Eleniel bites her lip.

There is a commotion on the stairs, and the same messenger from earlier races into the kitchen. "Message from the King, your highness, my lady, could you attend him immediately?"

"Is Stelbin back?" Eleniel and Idril ask almost simultaneously.

"Yes, my ladies." The boy hovers impatiently while they get up from the table. "The word is that he's in a foul mood."

Idril ruffles his hair as she passes. "Oh, I do hope so," she says gleefully.

As they approach the King's study, it is obvious from the interested crowd of people outside that something is going on; as they draw near to the door, Eleniel hears raised voices.

"…intolerable! I will not stand for it, Elessar!" Stelbin has his back to the door; he whirls as they enter. "This is a lie," he hisses.

"The evidence lies before you," Aragorn says steadily. The book lies open on his desk, pages flapping in the draught from the door. "I would ask that you produce your own deeds to the land, so that we may best determine…"

Stelbin's face is white with rage. "I'll be damned if I…"

"You will control yourself, my lord," snaps the King. "Lady Eleniel has kindly consented to submit to the rulings of the council and you would be advised to do likewise."

"Lady? That, Elessar, that is no lady, but a common whore!"

Aragorn sighs. "Lord Stelbin, I think my son has already had cause to reprimand you for speaking in this fashion. My own reprimand will be far harsher, I assure you. Go."

Stelbin's eyes are full of hate. "You would make me homeless," he says, visibly controlling himself. "Your majesty, your highness. My lady." He brushes past Idril and Eleniel and out of the door.

Aragorn sits down heavily in his chair. "I fear that we have not heard the end of his displeasure," he remarks, more to himself than to his daughter and her friend. "I am sorry that you had to bear witness to that." He frowns at his papers. "How goes the Library?"

"We have made progress. A lot of progress."

"Good. Keep on making it."

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The rest of the morning seems to pass in a sort of blur. Eldarion and Elboron turn up at midday with an enormous pile of parchment and scores of ink-bottles, and both congratulate Eleniel on the news.

"Though of course, we never doubted it," says Elboron airily, flicking his duster across the spines of a row of leather-bound books. "Fate wouldn't ever play quite such a hard hand as to have Stelbin win this little game."

"He might yet find his deeds to the land," protests Eleniel.

Elboron laughs. "If he does, then he has more foresight than I give him credit for. None of the old nobility can prove they own their land, it's just an accepted fact that – 'Darion, are you all right?"

Eldarion, just in front of Eleniel, is standing stock-still with an odd expression on his face. "I thought I heard something."

Eleniel feels a shiver run down her spine. "What kind of something?"

"I'm not sure." Eldarion listens for a moment longer, then shrugs. "It was probably nothing. Sorry."

"I am hungry," Idril announces from behind them. "Shall we break for lunch? I think we might go somewhere expensive and fashionable, brother, what say you?"

"In honour of the occasion, of course!" Eldarion smiles at Eleniel. "Come, Lady Librarian, let us introduce you into high society."

"High society?" Eleniel eyes him with misgiving. "They would throw me out of the door, I rather think."

Idril seizes her arm with a wicked grin. "'Dari, Elboron, we'll meet you in that little place on Telerin Street. Eleniel, my dear, I am going to give you some proper clothes."

"I can't do that!" Eleniel protests as she is towed in the direction of the passage to the palace. "Idril, I'll look silly, I'll look like a servant dressing up in her mistress's gowns!"

"You won't," says Idril impatiently. "You will look beautiful. It'll give Eldarion just the shock he needs to do what he ought. Come on, Eleniel!"

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Idril, it transpires, has a wardrobe that seems as big as Eleniel's entire house, and more gowns than she could ever hope to wear. Eleniel, standing dazedly in the middle of the Princess's bedroom while a veritable army of maids fuss around her, tells her so.

"People keep giving me dresses," says Idril with a sigh. "Usually visiting dignitaries. The trouble is that they all wish to flatter me, so the waistlines are horrifically small." She regards Eleniel critically. "Anna, I think that green affair - the one from Harad, the silk one."

Eleniel allows herself to be manoeuvred into position as seemingly yards of material descend upon her. "I'm going to feel awfully overdressed," she protests, voice muffled by the silk.

"Nonsense," Idril says briskly. "You will – oh, Eleniel, you look lovely!"

"Do I?" says Eleniel dubiously. A maid swipes at her head with a hairbrush and she ducks instinctively. Hands tweak the cloth into position around her, then turn her so that she faces the large mirror.

"See?" Idril says smugly, coming up behind her.

Eleniel stares, unable to think of a comeback. The green silk falls in graceful folds, making the most of her height and accentuating what figure she has. As she watches, a maid pushes a jewelled comb into her hair; she reaches up and touches it, awed. The woman in the mirror is Eleniel, but not Eleniel; an elegant lady of fashion gazes back at her, not a girl in her mother's woollen cast-offs. "Idril, I – thank you," she whispers.

"Stand up straighter," Idril tells her, somewhat ruining the illusion by grabbing at her shoulders and forcing them back. "Better. You will do very well. Anna, my cloak, and my spare for Lady Eleniel."

Eleniel follows Idril out through the Palace, still in a sort of daze. She is conscious of the many admiring glances that she receives, and is unsure whether to attribute them to the dress or to her companion; she keeps her gaze firmly on the floor, and only really relaxes when they leave the Citadel.

"I refuse to take a guard," Idril says under her breath as they walk hurriedly past the gate. "It's only a short walk, just around the corner here – oh, I cannot wait to see 'Dari's face!"

"Idril," says Eleniel, trotting to keep up; the unfamiliar shoes are slightly uncomfortable. "Idril, about – about Eldarion, please, please don't…"

Idril gives her a wide-eyed look of innocence. "Don't what, Lady Librarian?"

A few minutes later, with a low bow, the doorman announces, "Her Royal Highness Princess Idril, and her companion Lady Eleniel , City Archivist." He shoots them a puzzled glance, but Idril sweeps past him with a brilliant smile and Eleniel, caught up in her wake, follows helplessly.

"Brother," she says primly as they approach the raised table in the corner, "My lord Elboron, may I present Lady Eleniel?"

Both men start from their chairs. Elboron laughs delightedly. "Congratulations, my lady," he says, raising his glass. "A true transformation."

Eldarion looks rather like a startled deer; he blinks several times before saying, "Eleniel, I – you – you look…" he swallows hard, and meets her eyes, seemingly with an effort. "You look…"

"Oh, stop stammering, 'Darion," says Idril, smacking him lightly on the head.

The lunch is pleasant, if slightly nerve-wracking; Eleniel is horribly conscious of the many curious eyes upon her, and even more aware of Eldarion, who appears distracted to the point of confusion. He seems unable to meet her eyes, and drops his fork so many times that she begins to seriously wonder if he is well.

Towards the end of their meal, the doors open once more and the doorman calls out over the quiet hum of conversation, "Lady Celeglin of Lebennin and Lord Stelbin."

This time it is Eleniel's turn to drop her fork; she curses and ducks under the table to retrieve it as her three companions swivel to glare at the doorway. "How dare they," says Idril furiously under her breath.

"We should get back to work soon anyway," says Eleniel hurriedly, emerging from under the table. "If we just leave…"

"I don't see why we should," Idril starts, but Eldarion cuts across her.

"No, Eleniel is right. There is no reason why we should cause a scene." He smiles at Eleniel, the first time he has done so all through the meal, and she could swear he blushes. "We still have work to do, after all."

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"We're so close to finishing," Eleniel murmurs, standing in the middle of the foyer, apparently oblivious to all around her. Eldarion watches her out of the corner of his eye, fiddling with the untidy pile of books on the desk. "We have – how many days? Four?"

"We'll manage it," says Idril confidently.

Eldarion looks up at the high vaulted ceiling. Dust-motes swirl in the sunlight, dancing prisms of light that blur the outlines of the old stone. His head throbs dully, a reminder that he hasn't slept properly for weeks. "Eleniel, have you paid any thought to where you will live now?"

Eleniel frowns. "Why should I live anywhere – oh. Oh, I see." She taps her lips with a finger. "If I own the house on Emerald Street, then that would be ideal; if not then…"

"Where did you leave that book, Idril?" Eldarion turns to the desk. "Surely it will tell us more – it would be useful if Eleniel owned some land that Stelbin does not."

"It's there on the desk." Idril's skirts swish on the floor as she moves over. "It's – why, it's gone!"

Eleniel pales. "Gone? It can't be gone, it…"

"Someone's stolen it!" gasps the Princess excitedly.

There is a commotion on the stairs. "Message for Eleniel daughter of Serion!" comes a distant yell.

Eleniel visibly pulls herself together. "Down here," she calls, and looks at Eldarion. There is a fierce glint in her eyes. "I'd wager my life that Stelbin has stolen that book."

"Either that or Idril has lost it – unlikely, sister, I know," Eldarion adds hurriedly as the Princess glares at him. "We will find it again."

"Eleniel daughter of – my lady, my lords." A man dressed in dirty armour clatters down into the foyer and bows low.

"Is something wrong?" Eleniel asks, stepping forward. "If you're from Stelbin, then you may tell him from me that…"

"No, lady, I m not from Stelbin," the man interrupts, eyeing Eleniel appreciatively. Eldarion fights the urge to hit him. "I bring news from the North."

The change in Eleniel's demeanour is startling; her face drains of all colour as she darts forward and seizes the man by his arms. "The North? The army?"

"A letter, lady, the wains were mixed the other day and…" the soldier trails off as Eleniel snatches at the crumpled paper and tears it open, her hands shaking. "Lady, I fear that…"

Eldarion starts forward, a horrible sense of foreboding rising in him. "Eleniel? Eleniel…"

Her eyes dart across the paper, then still. Like a statue, she stands there with the scrap of paper clutched in her hand.

"Eleniel, what is it?" Idril says anxiously. "Is it good news or bad? Is it…"

"Dead," says Eleniel hollowly, and turns away. "Dead." Her voice floats back to them as she walks away down the library, dwarfed against the massive structure, steps faltering but quickening.

"Valar, no," breathes Eldarion, and without a second thought he runs after her. "Eleniel!" She stops at his shout but does not turn, trembling, eyes filled with tears. "Eleniel…" he catches up with her and touches her on the arm, and she turns, and suddenly crumples against him in hysterical sobs. Eldarion holds her and murmurs meaningless things, whole being centred on the girl in his arms who is not as strong as she would like the world to think, dimly aware of Idril's shocked outburst and Elboron's questions. None of them matter at the moment. Eleniel's heartbroken sobs strike him like blows, and he feels that horrible frustration, wants to take revenge, do something, because, nothing, nothing should be able to do this to the woman he loves.

"He – he's dead, he, I knew it was true but I didn't want, I couldn't believe it, oh, it's not fair, it's not fair…"

"It's never fair. It's never, ever fair." Eldarion smoothes her hair helplessly. "War is the most unfair thing in the world."

Idril is reading from the letter, which Eleniel has dropped on the floor; she hands it to Eldarion in silence. He takes it with his free hand; the letter is terse and to the point.

It is our deepest sorrow to inform you that your brother Taeglin son of Serion died in action on the fifth day of this month. It is not possible to transport the body for a funeral at this time. Be assured that all arrangements have been taken care of and monetary affairs will be set to rights as soon as…

Eldarion does not bother to read any more. "I'm sorry," he whispers into Eleniel's hair. "I'm so sorry."

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It takes some time before Eleniel's tears have subsided enough for her to speak. Elboron, in the meantime, volunteers to take the news to the Palace, and Idril hangs around relatively unobtrusively in the background; when Elboron returns, Eleniel is sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs, looking tired and drained, her eyes red and swollen. She seems a far cry from the enchanting creature of the morning.

"Bad news, I fear," says Elboron in a low voice to Eldarion, who comes to meet him at the door. "Stelbin, it seems, has produced his own deeds to that land, and has decided that Eleniel's been a disturbance long enough."

"What do you mean?"

"He's evicting her," says Elboron bluntly. "She can't go home, because she doesn't have a home."

"The library, what about the library?" Eldarion feels a lump forming in the pit of his stomach. "It would kill her to lose now, 'Boron, it…"

"The king has bought us more time. He's told Stelbin that the original deal still holds – as long as we finish the Library, he's not to knock it down." Elboron rubs a hand over his face, and lowers his voice even further. "How go the plans for the – incident – planned for the ball?"

"We are no nearer to an arrest," Eldarion answers, his voice equally quiet. "We have spies everywhere, but so does the enemy. They know we suspect something, but how far it goes – I am beginning to think that making an arrest on the night is the only solution."

"The Queen knows?" Eldarion nods. "And Eleniel, does she know?"

"She – knows there is danger." Eldarion sighs. "Damn this whole affair, I – I can't tell her. It's too dangerous. The spymasters tell me that we would risk losing our upper hand."

"Upper hand." Elboron snorts softly.

"Yes." Eldarion glances behind him. "It is Stelbin. It must be."

"Five days." Elboron exhales softly. "It's a waiting-game."

"Eldarion?" Eleniel has come up behind them unnoticed. "I – I think I'll go home and…"

"Eleniel, I'm so sorry. You can't," says Eldarion heavily. "It's – it's bad news, I'm afraid, it – Stelbin has found his own deeds to the land. They take precedence."

Eleniel stares at him. "I – I have no home?"

"We sent men down there," Elboron breaks in, exchanging an uneasy glance with Eldarion. "They are moving your belongings into the Palace."

"I have no home," Eleniel repeats, and drops to the floor in a dead faint.

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In a room, far below the Library in the dark secret places of the City, a man says softly, "I feel we are winning, my lady."

"Winning? Because you've removed a girl from her home?" The woman smiles, red lips lustrous in the candlelight. "Surely you rejoice prematurely, my lord."

"There will be no more – interruptions." The man leans back, regarding her complacently. "Her brother is dead. She has lost her home. All she is left with is a worthless title. The Prince is distracted…"

"He looks tired," she remarks.

"He is tired. Too tired to operate with his usual – style." The man chuckles. "He thinks he will arrest an assassin on the night."

"What a surprise he will have," purrs the woman, "when the knife slides into his heart and…"

"Hush." A glare. "Do not say it aloud too many times, my lady, or we put ourselves at risk even more."

"Risk. Pah." She favours him with a brilliant smile. "In three days' time the Prince will be dead, along with his cursed mother. Gondor will be ours."

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The day rolls on towards night.

In the Palace, Eleniel lies asleep in a bed that seems too large, her cat curled under her chin and a scrap of paper clutched in her hand. Her dreams are confused, full of blood and unseen battles and the face of her lost brother, but at the edges lurks a figure cloaked in black, a stiletto blade held loose in his hand.

Eldarion sleeps in a hard chair with one hand on his dagger, tense even when at rest, the lines of his face deepening in the flickering firelight. He dreams of a falling city, of a white tower that crumbles and of foes that dance just out of reach, and he dreams of Celeglin's glittering smile and a white hand beckoning him to destruction.

Idril sleeps in restless stages, unable to stop the hands that reach for her, drowning in seas of hate-fuelled whispers.

Elboron dreams that he fights for the West, and dreams of Numenor.

The King sleeps at his desk, plotters and assassins weaving in and out of his dreams, the rough hands of barbarians snatching at his beloved city, and elven music that plays a haunting frenzied warning.

The Queen does not sleep. She stands in the moonlight and whispers a hymn to Elbereth, and listens to the night.

The City whispers a restless warning.

Beware.