Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: Five points to the person who guesses which artist I am referencing.

Chapter Five: In Which the Prince Learns about Painting

One warm day a week after the henna episode, Eldarion walked down to Seraphine’s house with a basket of fresh strawberry tarts from the kitchens slung over his arm.

He had managed to wheedle the tarts out of the head pastry cook, pointing out that they ought to share their culture with the Haradric princess, as she was sharing hers with Eldarion. When that had not quite worked, Eldarion had resorted to the tricks that Mr. Brandybuck and Mr. Took had taught him on their last visit: big eyes, pouty lips, and woeful sighs. The cook had put a basket together and all but flung him out of the kitchen. But it had worked.

Seraphine answered the door herself when he pulled the bell. She was dressed more formally than before, he noticed, in a red and gold dress with an embroidered belt, ornate jewelry adorning her neck and ears. Eldarion wondered if she was going out.

“Ah, Eldarion, excellent,” the princess said, smiling at him.

“I brought you tarts from our kitchens,” Eldarion replied, holding the basket out. “I didn’t know you were going out.”

Seraphine stepped out onto the porch and shut the door behind her. “I was expecting you. Come along, bring the tarts, and thank your cook for me.”

She started off down the street, and Eldarion hurried to follow her.

“Where are we going?” he asked, walking alongside the princess.

“I thought to look into some of the shops today,” Seraphine replied. “Not the dress shops,” she added quickly, seeing the look on his face. “Art shops. I believe the word for them in your language is ‘gallery’.”

“Oh,” Eldarion said. “Like paintings?”

“Yes, exactly so. You can learn much about a society by what its artists produce.”

Eldarion thought about this. His mother’s people had a focus on the past, always looking back to the Elder days. The Rohirrim wove tapestries of their history, and decorated their cities in their traditional styles. The Gondorians were the sort to hearken back to yesteryear, but since his father had become King and defeated Sauron, they looked towards the future. The result, his parents had once explained to him, was that they were looking forward and creating new forms to reflect that view. Eldarion related this to Lady Seraphine, who smiled and nodded.

“Yes, Gondor has been rather shaken up, culturally,” she said. “Some view this as beneficial, others as a lamentable tragedy.”

Eldarion laughed. He had heard courtiers muttering about their culture becoming less Numenorean, although his parents did not seem to think so, and overturned old traditions without difficulty. He knew that at his own birth, his parents had refused to allow the court in to watch, and had declared the old tradition of sequestering the King’s Heir alone, away from his mother, until the court approved him, to be inhuman and illegal. He rather appreciated that.

“How do you know so much about Gondor?” he asked.

“I read,” replied Seraphine. “And I watch, and listen. Also, when I was coming here, I spoke often with the Dol Amroth sailors. Once they got over the initial mistrust of me, they spoke quite freely.”

Eldarion dodged around a lamppost. “About art?”

“There were other people on the ship as well.”

“I did not know that you can sail from Harad to Dol Amroth,” Eldarion said, puzzled.

Seraphine reached out to grasp his sleeve as they hurried across a street. “You cannot. You must be a part of the long desert caravan to Umbar, where there are ships from Dol Amroth to bring paying passengers up the Great River to the White City. There are wagons at the docks to bring a passenger and her baggage to the White City, as well.”

“I knew about the wagons,” Eldarion muttered, embarrassed, and Seraphine smiled.

“Perhaps I will find a map and show you my journey. Here we are.”

They had arrived at the gallery, a small shop with flower boxes under its windows. The princess ushered him through the door. The warmth of the outside faded to pleasant coolness in the brightly lit room. A woman in a blue dress bustled over to them.

“Good morning, my lady and my little lord,” she greeted them. Eldarion scowled, resenting being referred to as little, but Seraphine merely smiled. “Is there anything I can do for you today?”

Seraphine bowed to the woman, hands together as usual. “We would like to tour your gallery, madam. I was told you are open most mornings.”

The woman smiled. “Ah, yes, of course. We have a new exhibit, by a promising young man from the Lebennin region. His name is Caradogan.”

“Wonderful,” Seraphine said, bowing again.

For a sum, the woman allowed them to wander the brightly lit rooms. The paintings by the young artist-who was, according to the proprietress, a loud and brash man-were a stunning mixture of light and dark. Eldarion found himself captivated by the images. Characters from legend and song, his mother’s people, paraded across the canvas, but he had never seen them painted like this before, depicted in moments of passion. Luthien danced, illuminated by the moon while everything else was in darkness, Beren a mere hint in the bushes. Maglor stood on a barren coastline, light from the dying sun hitting his face and nothing else. There were the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, were Beren and his elvish companions waited for their deaths. Eldarion stared. He had seen all of these tales illustrated before but never with such force. The contrast of light and dark was almost supernatural.

“This Caradogan is a fine artist, is he not?” Seraphine said. Her voice echoed off of the paneled walls. “What do you think of him?”

Eldarion frowned, contemplating the Luthien painting. Truth be told, he didn’t know quite what to make of this artist. “I…don’t know,” he said slowly, struggling to find the right words. “It seems like, well, like magic. Elves don’t really have magic, you know, it just seems that way to mortals, but this painter, he…he makes it all spooky. With the way the light is.”

“Supernatural,” Seraphine suggested. “The light and shadow play on the figures in such a way that it makes them seem life-sized. Glorious characters made simple and touchable, set in wild or dingy settings. The light pierces the darkness and makes us focus only on what is important.”

“Yes, that’s it, exactly,” said Eldarion, relieved. “How does he do it?”

Seraphine folded her arms across her chest and contemplated the Luthien painting.

“I have no idea,” she said at last. “Perhaps we can ask the proprietress to recommend some books for study.”

Eldarion nodded and bounded towards the front of the gallery. “As long as they’re interesting,” he called over his shoulder.

Seraphine smiled. “Of course,” she murmured.

*****

Later they ate lunch in a small teahouse near the gallery. Eldarion set out the strawberry tarts while Seraphine ordered lemonade and a plate of small sandwiches.

“I’ve never been down here,” Eldarion said, looking around at all of the people. They were in the fifth circle, where many merchants lived and worked.

Seraphine sniffed one of the tarts and took a dainty bite. “New experiences are always opportune times to learn. I rarely left the palace in Harad, and so this freedom of movement is a treat, for me.”

Eldarion nodded, took a small sandwich and ate it slowly, thinking. He wondered if he could ever draw something as powerful as the Lebennin artist. He knew that he could draw; he had a fine hand for detail.

“Do you think I could learn to paint like that?” he asked the princess.

“I think you could try,” she replied. “Draw something, then come to my house and show me whenever you finish.”

That night, Eldarion sat on the floor in the family parlor, surrounded by supplies from his art box: paper, drawing pencils, watercolors and brushes, and pastel crayons. He had thought long and hard about what to draw, and had finally settled on the tale of Earendil. He knew the story well-it was one of his favorites-and had decided that Elwing approaching the ship as a gull would be the best thing he could do. And so Eldarion concentrated, hard, on making the correct lines and shading.

“Tell me about this artist,” his mother said, from where she was rocking his littlest sister.

Eldarion needed no further encouragement and proceeded to spill out the day’s adventures to his parents. Arwen got a funny look on her face when he mentioned the subject matter.

“Did you like the paintings, Elda?” she asked.

“Most of them,” replied Eldarion. “I would like to see them again, though.”

He fell silent, concentrating on his drawing, making the water and sky very dark, while illuminating Elwing and the Silmaril, as well as Earendil standing on the deck of his ship, waiting for his wife. He was not quite satisfied when he was finished, but on the whole, Eldarion thought he was on the right track.

“Very good,” Arwen said, when he showed her.

Eldarion turned it back to face him and studied it critically. “It needs work. But I’ll take care of that later, I think. Ada, I have a question.”

“Yes?” Aragorn asked, noting his son’s speculative eyes.

“Where do you think I can find musicians?”

TBC