Chapter VII – 'Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo'

6 Narwain, 3001

Though my father was hesitant to allow it, Mithrandir taught me the Elvish language as soon as I was old enough to learn. It is a language both beautiful and sad, full of mischief and at the same time lamentation. To speak the tongue of the Elves is to have an insight into a world where mortal men are not allowed to trespass, a world that I will never have an understanding of.

The mystery of the Elves fascinated me for years throughout my childhood, and the questions in my mind led me to create fantasies about the Elves that any lore-wise scholar would have been flabbergasted to hear. I invented that Elves were half the height of normal men, green-faced, and bedecked in strange costumes of bright blues and purples complete with festive, pointy-toed shoes. Elven characters sprung into my head, and I sent them on countless adventures that I acted out by myself on lonely summer days when the sun was warm and Boromir was nowhere to be found. They faced dragons, conquered sea serpents and balrogs and trolls of all levels of ugliness. It was not until I had my first encounter with Elves that these crude fantasies disappeared from my thoughts forever.

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"Faramir, come away from the window and cease your daydreaming!"

The tutor's sharp, whining voice was enough to jolt Faramir back to his senses, and he turned to find that the breeze he had let in through the window had scattered the poor man's papers all across the floor.

"I am sorry, Master Gilion." Faramir bent over to help his tutor retrieve the sheets. "I was merely remembering that Mithrandir departed almost four months ago now, and he assured me that Elves would be visiting Minas Tirith very soon, come all the way from Lothlórien!"

Gilion frowned. "You oughtn't give heed to that old man, Faramir. You know what your father thinks of him."

"Aye," Faramir grumbled. "I do."

"You are nearly thirteen now, Faramir. You ought to begin separating yourself from childhood legends such as those of Mithrandir."

Faramir was shocked. "The Elves are not a legend, Master Gilion!"

"No, they are not, but they are beginning to fade from this world." Gilion looked over his enormous spectacles at his young pupil. "Their time in Middle-earth is nearly ended, and the Age of Man will begin very soon. Their significance in Gondor is all but obliterated by years of mistrust and little contact. The Elves of Lothlórien in particular are not to be glorified. Their sorceress queen has been known to capture the hearts and minds of men and hold them forevermore in her clutches beneath the golden leaves of her enchanted wood. I would not spread Mithrandir's rumors about their visit, if I were you, young lord."

Faramir hesitated, caught between believing Mithrandir and believing Gilion. The thought of an Elven sorceress queen was startling, although it was an interesting thought… Perhaps her subjects had all been entranced by some spell, and they were bound to wait upon her day and night for all the rest of eternity, ensnared by her boundless beauty!

"Faramir! I asked you to stop daydreaming!"

At that moment, one of Denethor's servants opened the door and bowed. "Pardon me, Master Gilion, but his Lordship wishes to enjoy his tea in the company of his two sons. I'm afraid I must steal Faramir away for the time being."

Gilion threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "Very well! If his Lordship commands it, then so shall it be! Go, Faramir, but return here the instant your father releases you!"

By the time he finished his sentence, Faramir was already out the door. He loved old Gilion dearly, but he was an awful teacher. One must make a topic interesting to expect thirteen-year-old boys to pay attention. His prompt arrival at tea evidently surprised Denethor, whose eyebrows raised coolly when he saw Faramir approach.

"On time today, are we?" he asked with a cynical smile. "Normally you are so enraptured in your studies that it seems the servants can hardly pull you away…"

Faramir shrugged uncomfortably, taking a seat across the table from his father.

"Answer me with a 'Yes, sir' or a 'No, sir' when I ask you a question, Faramir."

"Yes, sir, I am on time today," Faramir said respectfully. "Gilion hadn't given me an assignment yet, and I—"

"A simple yes or no will do." Denethor's sneer had vanished into a cold frown. "Sit up straight and don't slump your shoulders like that. You'd think that I raised you without any manners." He sniffed disdainfully and sipped silently at his tea, glaring at Faramir over the edge of the cup. Faramir straightened up, unable to meet his father's eyes.

Several minutes later, Boromir strode cheerily in. Full of confidence, his step was accented by a masculine swagger that seemed to complement his handsome, mature countenance. His smile seemed to be bright with a kind of self-assurance that Faramir envied, knowing that he could never master such poise. No one could ever have mistaken Boromir for anything but the son of the Steward of Gondor. Denethor smiled.

"Turfuin held us late to spar against the Rangers," Boromir explained, wiping sweat off his brow. As he passed Faramir's seat, he tousled his little brother's hair. Faramir smiled in the hope that Boromir would sit beside him, but instead Boromir took a seat at the end of the table so that he could put his feet up. "This particular troop only just returned from Ithilien, and Turfuin said it would be a good opportunity for us to spar with the best of the best." He paused for effect, then added with a grin, "He hinted that I might be added to the Ithilien Rangers very soon. Their captain seemed very impressed with my swordsmanship, and I told him that it comes from lots of practice with my little brother." Faramir flushed with modest pride.

"Congratulations, Boromir," said Denethor, delighted. "I knew that it would only be a matter of time. I wonder how long it has been since they have had an eighteen-year-old with the Rangers." He chuckled. "Probably not since I was so young."

"Were you with the Rangers at that age?" Boromir asked. Faramir peered down into his teacup. Military conversation bored him dreadfully.

"Of course," Denethor answered. "As was my father before me. It has always been a tradition that the sons of the Steward are the finest swordsmen in Gondor." His glance flickered to Faramir for the briefest of moments. "Although, if your brother continues to spend more time with his nose in a book instead of practicing with the blade, he may well be delayed several years from joining the Rangers." Faramir turned red again, this time because of shame.

"Nonsense," Boromir snorted. "Faramir may not be too well versed with a sword, but with a bow in his hand he can hit a target a hundred yards away, dead-center! You've yet to watch him at archery, Father."

"I would rather he master the sword before the bow. The sword is a much more traditional weapon for the sons of lords."

"Yet you must admit, archery requires a great deal more grace and dexterity, and if it is where his strength lies, then why not encourage it?"

Faramir said nothing as they bickered. He hated when they argued over him. He would rather that Boromir stay silent and leave it be instead of causing a row every time Denethor criticized him. After a quarter of an hour listening to them banter on and on, Faramir half-rose from his chair.

"Excuse me, Father—may I go?" he asked nervously. "Master Gilion asked me to return quickly…"

"You will sit obediently until I dismiss you!" Denethor shouted. "I do not care one wit for what Gilion has to say about it!" Faramir sank timidly back into his seat, quiet after being so harshly chastised. Denethor looked back to Boromir, who was now as silent as Faramir. "Come, Boromir, I wish to show you a few relics from my time with the Rangers. You may wait for me outside." Boromir began to protest, but Denethor frowned and so he got up and left. Faramir fidgeted in his seat. Denethor stood.

"Stay here," he commanded sternly. "Do not move, do not speak, and do not weep! You are thirteen years old, and it is high time you started acting it!" Faramir had made no sign that he was inclined to weep, but he knew that Denethor believed him to be weak, which was why he had warned him against weeping. "When I send someone for you, you may return to Gilion, unless it is late. If it is late, go immediately to bed. I expect to see you promptly for breakfast tomorrow morning."

Then he was gone. Faramir closed his eyes and sat patiently for what seemed like an eternity. The sky outside darkened slowly, first to a purplish-red, then to royal blue. Hours passed, and still Denethor had sent no one to relieve him. He let his breath hiss between his teeth. His tunic clung to him, damp with sweat in the hot evening. At long last, the doors at the end of the hall opened, and Faramir nearly cried out in relief. Young boys are not meant to sit for hours staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles in the floor, and tracing cracks in the wooden table with their eyes.

But the trio of figures who entered through the doors had not come to relieve Faramir from his silent punishment. They were tall and blonde, and their ears came to points at the tips. Their robes were long and made of a silken grey cloth, and soft riding boots adorned their feet. Their eyes were like pools of clear water, like dappled leaves in the spring, like the silver snow of the cold season.

It struck Faramir very suddenly: They were Elves.

They began to speak to one another in their native tongue, and Faramir struggled to pick out words among their long, quick, flowing sentences. Remembering Mithrandir's lessons, he managed to put together a hollow skeleton of their conversation.

"Where is the…?"

"Could…have been so…leave us…?"

"Such a lord…Gondor…once was."

"Look!" This was in Westron, and Faramir jumped in surprise. All three Elves were smiling now. "A child!" Two of the Elves were maidens, and their hair hung down in long braids. It was one of these who had spoken just then, and Faramir's eyes were fixed on her. He remembered what Gilion had told him about the sorceress queen of Lothlórien, but it seemed a ridiculous thought now. Could one so lovely and kind be a wicked sorceress?

"What is your name, child?" she asked. As she spoke, the other maiden stepped closer to Faramir, muttering something in Elvish. The last, a princely-looking Elf, looked on with an expression somewhat like amusement. Faramir was so busy staring at the three of them that he forgot to answer the Elf maiden's question. "Have you a name?" she repeated, laughing merrily.

Faramir opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again when he remembered his father's command not to speak. He nodded his head, yes, but it only seemed to confuse the maiden.

"Can you speak?" she asked him gently. Faramir nodded again fervently, dying inside with each moment that he could not open his mouth and speak to these three graceful people before him!

"Is this not the Steward's boy?" the princely Elf asked the second maiden. "He bears his father's semblance, as well as the mark of Gondor." He gestured elegantly towards Faramir's white tunic, which displayed a silver tree stamped upon it.

"Are you Denethor's son?" the first maiden asked, still smiling. Faramir nodded again, biting his lip to keep from speaking. "He must be the younger, Faramir. It is a pity that he is mute…" She put her hand sympathetically upon his cheek, and tears sprang to Faramir's eyes as he desperately shook his head again. Oh, he had promised his father that he would not weep, as well!

"What is it, child?" The second maiden knelt beside him and frowned, drawing her neat little eyebrows together in the center. "Where is your father?" After this, though, the three of them slipped back into Elvish, and so Faramir did not understand much as they continued speaking. Large, fat teardrops slipped down his cheeks, but the first maiden cooed and wiped them away as she whispered something sounding very like an Elvish lullaby in his ear.

"Faramir!" A fourth figure ran through the doors and stopped, gaping in awe at the trio of Elves who stood in a circle around Faramir. "Faramir, what…?"

"Excuse us, Lord Boromir," said the princely Elf, bowing at the waist to Boromir. "We were told that your father would attend us in his hall, but we found only young Faramir here."

"Yes, I know," said Boromir wearily. "We have been looking for him restlessly for a half of an hour! Faramir, why have you been sitting here all this time?"

Faramir shook his head through his tears, unable to stop crying.

"Is he not mute, Lord Boromir?" asked the first maiden.

"Mute?" Boromir blinked. "No, my Lady, he is not. Speak, Faramir! Speak!"

Finally, gasping, Faramir opened his mouth. "Father told me that I had to stay and sit and not speak or move or weep until he sent someone to find me, and I have been sitting here all this time waiting and not doing anything at all, only now I have gone and made a mess of everything by crying, but I could not help it because the Elves are so beautiful that I wept to stay silent when they spoke to me!"

The Elves smiled among themselves again. "A sweet boy," the first maiden said. "Yet I think it is past time for him to be in bed."

"No, it is not that, my Lady!" Faramir replied. He blushed when he realized that he had contradicted her. "I mean…I have already thirteen years. I do not need to be in bed already."

"Yes, but you are weary," she insisted.

"No, my Lady, not I."

She began to hum a lullaby to him, and the second maiden smiled and whispered in Elvish. Meanwhile, the princely Elf was speaking with Boromir, but Faramir found that the lullaby was making him very sleep, so he did not hear what the two of them said. By the time he woke, he was lying in his bed the next morning, and in his left hand was a string of gilded leaves surrounded by beads of gold and silver, each engraved with the same Elvish words: Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo.

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One thing I learned from my adventure is this: Never argue with an Elf, for you will never win. To this day I insist that I did not feel the least bit tired before she suggested that I was. The other moral I can gather from the experience is this: Though Men may be wise and shrewd, there are none wiser or shrewder than the Elves. Their eyes are unclouded by jealousy, fear, or greed, and so they can see both farther in distance and deeper into the heart than any human. It was a year or two before I realized that the Elves never believed that I was mute, except perhaps that I have no voice of my own.

I still own the bracelet of leaves that they left me. It is a womanly trinket, yet I keep it as a reminder of the day when I realized that there was nothing in the world I wanted to be but a scholar of Elvish lore. It reminds me that I am not only a soldier, just as I am not only a puppet commanded by my father's voice.

I forgot about the Elvish inscription on the leaves, until the day before last when I rediscovered the trinket hiding protected in my drawer. By now I can speak Elvish as fluently as can be expected of someone who has been speaking it for only five years, and I now know what the Elvish means: "A star shines on the hour of our meeting."

Indeed, my Lady, it did.

Narwain

(January)