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The Valley is Jolly  by Canafinwe

Chapter XI: A Debate Resolved

When the evening meal had been eaten and the company had dispersed to the various pleasures of the night, Elrond ascended the back stairs as he had so many times in recent days. Tonight, at last, his departure was serene, for he knew that the child awaiting him upstairs was convalescing and had no need of his haste.

He found Estel sitting up in bed, frowning at a wax tablet that lay cast off over his knees. The boy looked up as his guardian entered the room.

‘You look well, Estel,’ Elrond told him, stretching the truth only a little. The thinness of the child’s face was alarming: he had been too slender for his height even before the illness, having shot up so swiftly in recent months that his body could not keep pace, and now the candlelight cast long shadows into his cheekbones and his temples. Yet his quicksilver eyes were bright and keen again, and the lines of strain had vanished with the deathly grey hue from his skin. ‘Your hair wants brushing.’

‘I have been in bed all day,’ Estel said. ‘Why should I trouble to brush my hair?’

‘It is not vanity to tend to one’s cleanliness and appearance,’ Elrond said, collecting a comb from his clothes-press and crossing to the bed. He placed his left hand on the nape of Estel’s neck, and with his other began to set right the unruly black locks. ‘If you wish to look like a wild thing, that is your own affair, but I prefer tidy children.’

‘You should have left the comb where I could reach it, then,’ Estel retorted impishly. ‘You told me that I had to stay in bed.’

‘Now I know you are healing: you have begun to talk back to me!’ laughed Elrond. ‘Someday I must teach you greater respect for authority.’

‘It matters not what I may say, so long as I perforce obey,’ Estel countered in a sing-song voice. ‘You have often said that one counsellor who speaks his mind is of greater value than ten who comply blindly with their lord’s commands.’

‘That is true,’ said Elrond; ‘but you are not my counsellor.’

‘I will be some day. And when I am – Ai! Atarinya, that pulls!’

‘If you had brushed your hair when you awoke, you would not have knots. Every decision has consequences, foreseen and unseen. This particular result could be easily predicted.’ Elrond spoke the words firmly, even as his fingers sought out the next matted piece of hair and worked it smooth before drawing the comb across it. This time it did not tug upon the boy’s scalp.

‘But the comb—’

‘Now, do not make excuses, my son. Had you wished to do it, you could have asked your mother to bring it to you. Or Glorfindel. Either one of them would have been happy to use it for you, too. Your choice was made freely, was it not?’

‘My choice was made freely,’ Estel admitted ruefully. He sat in silence while Elrond finished with the comb and plaited the dark hair with deft fingers. He plucked the piece of cord that bound one of his own braids and tied off Estel’s.

‘I see you have been studying,’ he said, picking up a book that lay cast off on the coverlet. It was the Númenorean lexicon that the boy had been using to learn the language of his forbearers.

His words provoked an immediate response. Estel tossed his head in defiance. ‘No, I have not!’ he exclaimed crossly. ‘I have tried, but I cannot do it! It is an impossible tongue to learn, and I do not understand why I need it at all!’

Elrond waited patiently. When no further outburst seemed forthcoming, he sat down on the bed, fingering the embossed spine of the volume. ‘I see,’ he said sagely. ‘Have you expressed your frustration to Erestor?’

‘No,’ Estel whispered, looking rather ashamed of his angry eruption. ‘I did tell Glorfindel how I felt...’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said that you must have a good reason for wanting me to study it,’ the boy said.

‘Do you think that I have a good reason?’ Elrond asked, cocking his head to one side and regarding his ward quizzically.

‘I know that you often act upon private motives, and I have never found your logic to be faulty...’ Estel hedged. Elrond nodded his assent, but did not speak. After a moment’s silence, Estel said vehemently; ‘But I cannot see the use of this language! No one speaks it: even in Imladris there are so few that I can count them on one hand! There are only seven books downstairs, and four of them have translations in both Sindarin and Westron. I will never have need of this tongue!’

‘I suppose it must seem that way,’ Elrond said. ‘I confess that I had thought that learning this language would give you pleasure: you have a gifted tongue, and you pick up dialects so swiftly. It is not like the Elven tongues you know so well, but neither is the dwarf-language, and you learned so eagerly all that I had to teach of that.’

‘I might use that tongue at any time!’ Estel protested. ‘Why, if I were well enough to go downstairs, I might even try it with the dwarves who are visiting the house! But Adûnaic...’ He gestured vaguely, and then let his hands fall to his lap with a discouraged sigh.

‘Who told you there are dwarves visiting the house?’ Elrond asked with a curious smile.

‘Glorfindel. O, Atarinya, when will I be strong enough to go down and meet them? I have never seen a dwarf.’ The frustration was supplanted by an eager, supplicating grin.

Elrond hesitated. It was imperative that his son learn tolerance of the many races of Middle-earth – and tolerance for dwarves was a taste that had to be carefully nurtured and slowly acquired – but the dangers were manifold. Even if he would not be exhausted by such a meeting, there was the need for secrecy to consider. Gandalf’s motley treasure-hunters were stout and single-minded, honest Children of Aulë, but dwarves were notorious yarn-spinners; particularly in their cups. If they carried from this house tales of a sickly mortal child who addressed the Lord of Imladris as ‘father’, word would inevitably reach agents of the Enemy. It was a choice, then, between Estel’s education in the cultures of the world in which he would soon be called to take his place, and his continued safety.

‘If you were not so peaked and wasted, I might allow it,’ Elrond said regretfully; ‘but I am afraid you will not be well enough by the time they are ready to depart.’

Estel’s smile wavered, but he was undaunted: his quick, analytical mind was already working out compromises. ‘Glorfindel could carry me down, and I could be propped up on a couch. I would be careful to remain warmly wrapped, and I would tell you as soon as I grew weary,’ he promised. ‘Please, Atarinya; I would so like to meet them!’

A healthy, happy child might not arouse any suspicions in honest dwarven minds, but an emaciated and ailing one could hardly fail to. Sadly, Elrond shook his head. ‘You cannot, my child. I am sorry. You cannot.’

The expression of disappointment on the boy’s face wrung at the Elf-lord’s heart. ‘So I must lie here like a prisoner, with nothing to do but study forgotten tongues and long for the day when I can get out of this bed,’ Estel muttered, casting his eyes away from his father and hugging his abdomen disconsolately.

Elrond reached out to stroke his head, but stayed his hand when he recalled how much Estel disliked it when his mother subjected him to such a gesture. Instead, he let his hand come to rest on the boy’s shoulder. ‘It is a grievous yoke to bear,’ he said; ‘but I think you know that it is necessary. We cannot risk your recovery on such an excursion, and we cannot have the guests asking untoward questions. Yet perhaps there are other things we can do to relieve your boredom. Are you ready for sleep?’

Estel shook his head, still wracked with melancholy. He did not meet Elrond’s eyes. ‘I am scarcely weary at all now. I have been feeling better since Glorfindel visited me.’

‘Yes, Glorfindel’s presence is a balm for the soul,’ Elrond agreed, thinking of his wise and merry counsellor who had served him so well through the centuries. It pleased him that Estel had struck up such a nourishing friendship with the Elf. ‘If you feel well enough, you might leave this bed for a while in my company. Though I am afraid I cannot take you to meet the dwarves, there is something else I would like to show you.’

The child looked up, puzzlement in his wounded eyes. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘You will see,’ Elrond said, smiling. ‘Do you feel well enough?’

‘I do not think I could walk very far,’ Estel said, a little embarrassed.

‘I would not have you walk at all: I will carry you.’

‘Then yes.’ The boy’s expression grew fiercely determined. ‘Yes, I am well enough.’

Elrond brought a heavy winter mantle from the clothes-press and made quick work of swathing Estel’s bony body in it, tucking the rich cloth around his bare feet. With a warm woollen shawl wrapped around his shoulders, he was adequately protected from the chill of the evening. Elrond lifted him in his arms, and bore him out of the bedchamber and up the back staircase. Estel remained very still out of deference to his bearer, but his eyes darted around, taking in the doors that they passed and the corners that they turned as Elrond made his way towards the western wing.

When he reached the door he sought, he was obliged to set the child down upon a bench in the corridor while he dug out the heavy ring of keys hanging under his surcote. Estel watched as he found the correct one and unlocked the door. A moment later they were inside, and he settled Estel in an armchair by the hearth. Moving swiftly through the dark, he plucked the flint and tinder from the mantelpiece and set about lighting several sconces. The flames illuminated the room with its round study-tables and its high glass windows – some of the few in the house that could not be opened – and its rows of laden shelves.

Estel looked around in astonishment. ‘The private library?’ he said. ‘But you said I was too young for these books!’

‘You were,’ Elrond told him, replacing the tools on the mantle and igniting a candlestick from the nearest wall fixture.

‘Have I grown so much in a few weeks?’ asked the boy.

Elrond regarded him sadly and yet with pride. ‘Tell me, do you not feel you have aged more in the course of your illness than you had in many weeks, or months, before?’

‘Yes,’ Estel exhaled, and from his suddenly sombre expression it was plain that he spoke the truth.

‘Then I think you are old enough now.’

The wondering smile crept back onto the child’s face as he eyed the room filled with heretofore forbidden knowledge. ‘Can I read any of these?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Elrond said. ‘It will be some years yet before I show you the archives that lie beyond that far door, but the books in this room are now yours to peruse as you wish. You can read any of them... save the volumes on this shelf here.’

He indicated a shelf on the interior wall, sheltered from the windows by an outcropping arch. Dust was not allowed in the libraries of Imladris, and yet these rows looked untouched nonetheless. There were heavy, leather-bound volumes and broad folios wrapped in linen, and the three lowest shelves were given over to heavy leaden cylinders stamped with the catalogue of the scrolls within them.

‘Why am I not permitted to read those?’ asked Estel, at once bewildered and intrigued.

‘I did not say you were not permitted to read them: I said you cannot.’ Elrond picked up one particularly slender, delicate-looking tome and caressed its gilded cover. ‘These are the books written in the language of Númenor, which you have admitted to being unable to learn.’

‘I did not say I was unable,’ Estel said rather edgily. ‘I said that it was difficult, and I could see no purpose to it.’ He eyed the volume in his foster-father’s hands. ‘I did not realize there were other books...’

‘There are. They are too precious to be stored in the main library: these are all very old – older than Elladan and Elrohir. Some of them were even brought over in the Crossing of the Faithful when they fled the wreck of Númenor.’ He came and seated himself in a chair near the child.

‘Was that one?’ Estel asked, nodding at the book that Elrond held.

‘No. This book is the work of one of my pupils; a young Mortal who dwelt in Rivendell long ago, before I had children of my own. He was not overfond of books or of lore, and he wished rather to be trained as a warrior alone, but in time he came to see the importance of such studies, and he applied himself to the creation of this book. The task was a lesson in self-discipline, and it imbued him with patience and an appreciation for the written word that he had not previously posessed. This volume represents the painstaking labour of two years.’ He held it out towards Estel. ‘Have a care: the pages are more brittle than other volumes you have held.’

Estel looked at the cover. ‘Did he bind it, too?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Elrond admitted. ‘Erestor saw to that, for bookbinding is an art unto itself, and it requires many decades of dedicated study to perfect. My pupil transcribed the text within, and he created the illuminations. It was that task which consumed so much of his time.’

Estel opened the book with care, turning the leaves as gently as Elrond could have wished: he was a very considerate child when he set his mind to be so, and extraordinarily patient. The Elf-lord watched as he studied the meticulous but artificial and occasionally lopsided script that marked the aged parchment. When he reached the first illumination, Estel giggled softly at the sight of the imperfect drawing: an adolescent’s careful academic attempt at reproducing the classical style. He looked up quizzically. ‘How old was the person who made this?’ he asked.

‘He began when he was nearly seventeen. As you can see, your hand is better already than his, and you do not even understand the language.’

‘Did you make him study Adûnaic as well?’ asked Estel.

‘I had no need to: it was his mother-tongue and he spoke it as perfectly as you speak Sindarin or Quenya. His name was Valandil, the son of Isildur and the first independent king of the North.’

Estel knew his history well, even though he did not realize that it was his own. ‘Elendil’s heir,’ he said. ‘He was too young to go into battle, so he remained here and thus survived the massacre of the Dûnedain at the Gladden Fields. I did not realize that he was your pupil.’

‘All the children who have dwelt in this valley have been my pupils,’ Elrond said; ‘though not all have received quite so much of my tutelage as you have. I see, however, that you need still more than you have been given. We shall have to work together on your work in the tongue of Nûmenor, and then perhaps you can read that book yourself.’

‘What is it?’ Estel asked.

‘It is the tale of Tar-Aldarion, the sixth king of Númenor, and Erendis his fair lady wife. Valandil chose for this exercise a tale he had heard many times throughout his childhood, though it is a tale seldom repeated now. In that book it is preserved as it was told of old, by the Men to whose history it belongs. No translation can ever do justice to a story as its own tongue can, just as songs written in Elvish sound strange in Westron.’ Elrond folded his hands and waited, allowing Estel time to ponder his words. ‘Now tell me why I wish you to learn Adûnaic.’

‘Because it is a part of the past that must be preserved,’ Estel said. ‘If no one learns it, then it will vanish into the darkness, and it will be as if it never had been.’ He looked at the shelf of Adûnaic texts. ‘I suppose that is all that remains of the lore of Nûmenor,’ he remarked. ‘The rest would have been lost when Arnor fell.’

‘That is not quite true,’ Elrond told him, smiling a little at the boy’s pensive countenance. ‘There endure some texts, I am told, in another treasury of knowledge far from this valley. In the white city of the Men of the West, in the archives of the Stewards in Minas Tirith there remain still some works in the language of their long fathers. I have never seen them, and perchance I never will, but it may be that one day one of my students, who has been instructed by me in this “useless” tongue, may travel there, and decipher those scrolls and learn something of the founding days of Gondor that has been forgotten even by her lore-masters.’

‘I understand now,’ Estel said gravely. ‘Knowledge must be shared in order to be saved. I promise I will apply myself more diligently to my studies.’

‘And I in turn promise that I shall make time to speak with you in the language of Númenor. That makes it easier for you to pick up a tongue, I think,’ Elrond observed. ‘You have a gifted ear. That is a fortunate talent; it will serve you well through all the years of your life.’

Estel raised a judicious hand to his mouth in an attempt to disguise a yawn. He blinked slowly and tried to hide his weariness, but Elrond plucked the book gently from his fingers and returned it to its place with the others. He moved along the walls, snuffing the candles with quick puffs of air. ‘And now to bed, little one,’ he said fondly, and gathered up Estel and his wrappings. Once outside, he locked the door. He would have to see about getting a key cut for Estel, now that he had been promised free run of the library.

The boy remained once more very still while Elrond carried him, his head resting against the Elf-lord’s shoulder. Indeed, Elrond thought the child had drifted off to sleep in his arms, but as he stepped off of the last stair and started down the corridor towards his chamber, Estel spoke.

‘Atarinya?’ he murmured. ‘Are you certain I cannot meet the dwarves?’

Elrond laughed softly. ‘You are incorrigible, my son, but I am immovable. I am sorry. I will do my best to contrive to have you introduced to Gandalf, now you are once more among the living and can appreciate the uniqueness of that experience, but you cannot meet the dwarves.’

‘Hmm,’ Estel said noncommittally, yawning once more. By the time Elrond reached his bedchamber, the boy truly had slipped into peaceful slumber.





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