1. Shadows
The small girl crouched at the water's edge with her weight balanced on the balls of her feet and her knees on a level with her chin. She was a spry, graceful figure, in the peculiar, animalistic way that no grown-up – even an Elven grown-up – can be graceful, for she still possessed an unselfconsciousness in her movements that Mannish children of her age had long since discarded. She was Arwen, child of a Half-elf, and eleven years old.
She was sorting pebbles. Two large grey eyes peered into the swirl of the river and two clever little hands followed, sifting and smoothing and occasionally drawing up a blue or tawny-coloured stone. She had several piles, for skipping upstream beyond the vineyards where the water ran smooth, for carrying back to the cool green behind the house and admiring, and a couple of really lovely ones set aside as presents for her mother.
Her mother was a great collector of beautiful things. She had visited many places and made her home a haven for travelers who brought back wonderful objects for her shelves, from interesting bits of driftwood and dark geodes from the cliffs of Lindon to gorgeously painted Southern books. Arwen was proud of the spray of alder cones and the abandoned chrysalis she herself had found that stood in a place of honour in Celebrian's study.
Another stone caught her attention and she skittered sideways to pick it up and admire the white vein of quartz lancing across its surface. It had a bit of a bump on one side, so she tossed it back, marking in her mind the path it would take as the water jostled it along. She could come back and fetch it in a while, after the river had worn its surface smooth.
The wind shifted eastward and Arwen stood up, sniffing happily. The valley's orchards were already white with blossoms, and the hills beyond were uncurling in a slow green yawn, its morning breath smelling of small, damp ferns and last year's moss. Arwen picked out the scent of a fox, a hind, and a lot of birds, and wrinkled her nose in brief vexation until she remembered the name of the big, dark squirrel, foreign to Lothlorien, that her mother had pointed out on their journey thence last fall.
Then the breeze brought another smell to Arwen's nose: travelers. In and of itself, this was nothing extraordinary. Arwen knew that in the summer months Imladris hosted a regular thoroughfare of merchants, messengers and minstrels, and even during the winter she had watched some few hardy Elvish wayfarers skitter down the slopes to escape the mountain storms. But she had seen naught but Elves and one Dwarvish caravan since she had come to the Misty Mountains, and Elves these newcomers plainly were not.
Leather, horses, wool, and metal, thought Arwen, as she ran along the river bank toward the bridge, but without the smell of rock dust and ore that clings to the Dwarves no matter how far they ramble from their mines. There were Men on the path in front of her, certainly. What else could smell so new and strange in Arwen's nose, but so lively and interesting? She skipped lightly across the bridge, then took to the trees as nimbly as a squirrel. The beeches and pines on the far side of the Bruinen had thick, straight limbs that cris-crossed in Elven highways and hide-aways all through the ravine. She dashed along these, propelled by curiosity and the sheer joy of being in motion, high above the sightlines of the men on the trail.
Near the top, not too far before the pines trailed off into heathery scrub, she spotted them. There were three. They trod the narrow path cautiously, leading strong but rough-coated dark horses. The leader was enormous to Arwen's eyes; broad and barrel-chested, though actually a little shorter than either Celebrian or Elrond. His hair was thick and black and curly and his eyes were sky grey. The two who followed were not so tall, but closer to Elves in their proportions. One had a narrow, pointed face and extraordinary hair, white and black interspersed, that looked grey when Arwen squinted to blur her vision. The other was brown-haired and muscular, and wore an expression of mingled eagerness and trepidation much like Arwen's own.
Arwen darted behind the trunk of a fat evergreen, clambering lower in its branches. There were other Elves on the heights, but they were unusually quiet, merely observing the travelers from discreet perches. Arwen hopped over Findarion as she went past, and her friend made a playful swipe at her foot before turning his attention back to the progress below. The men were speaking. "I feel we are watched," said the brawny one earnestly, in little more than a whisper, "but I see no one." Arwen's eyes widened and she supressed a giggle. His Sindarin was elegant, but his voice was startling.
The grey-haired man chuckled and cast a keen-eyed grin out into the woods, but it was the big, black-haired fellow who answered in a rumbling bass: "Aye, lad, watched and heard, too. Even your sneezes sound like thunderclaps to the Elves, so speak no ill of them!" The younger man's eyebrows shot skyward and he glanced contritely around him. The big one laughed. "Do not be so uneasy! Elrond is friendly. Shadows do not enter this place."
Arwen liked their manner, and liked the rough, furry quality of their voices. She dangled impishly behind a screen of leaves, gazing intently at their sun-dark skin, the lines that traced the shapes of their frowns and smiles, their coarse hair and heavy gait. They were neither lovely nor graceful, but the child recognized, obscurely, something kindred in them, a kind of changefulness and vitality that chimed a soft chord of yearning in her heart. Findarion laughed softly, his voice pitched for Elvish ears. "They themselves are as like to shadows as anything that comes here." Arwen frowned, uncomprehending, but did not turn to ask the Elf what he meant. The travelers were moving on, and she followed, shy still, but intensely curious. She trailed in their wake across the bridge unnoticed, and slipped noiselessly into the high, lush grass on the other side.
Up ahead she heard other voices, and saw her mother emerge to greet the guests. It was Celebrian's custom to honour travelers this way, as she was a great traveler herself and loved news of the world. Arwen turned back to look at the men in time to see their leader smile and quicken his pace, which made the little girl slither quickly back behind denser foliage, then dash toward the house, eager to witness this first meeting.
The entrance to the Homely House was neatly paved and studded with tall lilacs. Arwen slipped between a pair of these and stood still. To the left was an archway that led to another, wider yard of packed earth, with stables on its far side. To the right the flagstones gave way to a grassy slope that swung around the side of the complex to tumble into broad, terraced gardens full of flowers, and beyond those orchards and vineyards and vegetable gardens stretched out along the valley and up into the heights. The house itself was large, but not built to intimidate. It was at once cozy and spacious; inviting and secure.
Celebrian stood on the steps. Imladris' Lady was an exceptionally tall Elf with her mother's clear, keen gaze and level brows. Her hair, pulled back from her face but unbraided, fell thick and straight and silver. She wore blue accented with pale green at her wrists and hem. "Welcome, Brevard, son of Brethun, King's Messenger," she said in her clear, deep voice, "and welcome to your companions!"
"Lady Celebrian!" said the leader warmly, and, abandoning his horse, he strode forward and bowed low over her hand. "My Lady," he repeated, "I bear sad tidings, the nature of which you must already have guessed. I would speak of them to you and your husband as soon as your convenience allows."
"Elrond is on the orchard heights, and will have seen your arrival. I doubt not that he hurries to us even now." She lifted her gaze to include the other men. "Please come inside." Without further ceremony Celebrian turned and led the travelers inside, kindly exchanging a word or a brief touch of welcome with each as she ushered them into a comfortable cloakroom lined with broad benches, boot racks and stout wooden pegs. Two more Elves appeared carrying pitchers of water, and left again with instructions to prepare more substantial refreshment. In the midst of the brief bustle Elrond himself appeared, striding in from the opposite end of the hall, but after clasping hands with each of the men he left them to their ablutions with assurances that he would await them in the terrace room.
Arwen was torn. Her mother and father had linked arms and moved off toward the terrace, heads bent together in conversation. If she followed, she might be able to hear something interesting. But still more fascinating were the creatures in the cloakroom who had not noticed her when she scurried behind them into the house.
She looked into the cloakroom. The one called Brevard was exchanging his boots for a pair of soft shoes. The smaller man with grey in his hair turned to hang up his cloak and caught sight of the figure standing in the doorway. His eyes widened, and then he winked. A startled crease appeared between the small person's brows. "Brevard," said the man softly, "you are being observed."
Brevard looked up, and smiled. He had a nice smile. "Well, Mabdor, so I am." Then, having finished with his shoes, he stood up and bowed. "Good day, little mistress!"
"Good day," replied Arwen, trying not to be discomposed by the deep, gravelly voice that rolled out from behind his beard. "Are you men from Arnor?" she asked stoutly.
"Indeed, from Annuminas in Arthedain, mistress. My name is Brevard son of Brethun and I am Messenger to the King of Arnor. These are my companions Mabdor son of Madoch, and Jodrin son of Haldan of the House of Greenspar." Brevard's companions bowed.
"I am Arwen," said Arwen simply.
The messenger's eyes twinkled. "Indeed," was his reply. "It is a great honour to meet the daughter of Elrond Half-elven and Celebrian of Imladris."
Jodrin had filled cups with water and poured the rest into a basin. Now he stood splashing water on his face and scrubbing his hands. Brevard moved to join him, while Mabdor picked up a cup and drank. Arwen watched them for a moment, then realized what was missing, and trotted over to the cupboards at the end of the room. She pulled a couple of towels off the shelves, came back, and shyly touched the big man on the arm. "Oh, excellent," he said, smiling, taking them from her and handing one to his comrade. Mabdor washed his hands as the other two dried, then the three of them glanced at each other, long habit forestalling the need for words.
A thought occurred to Brevard, and he turned courteously to the girl. "Lady Arwen, would you do me and my friends the honour of showing us to the terrace room?"
"Yes," said she, and turned and led the procession out the door and past the Hall of Fire to the bright, big-windowed room where Elrond waited. A spring-scented breeze blew in from the gardens, skimming over a pair of settees and several chairs that had been pulled close to a low table. The Half-elf was pouring wine; his wife was seated, writing on a scrap of parchment that she handed to a serving-woman. Celebrian rose as her guests filed in. She nodded at Arwen, who circled behind her and stood quietly.
"Welcome," said Elrond gravely, setting down the decanter. "For as long as you choose to remain, our house and hospitality are yours."
The men bowed, and again Brevard spoke for all three. "Lord Elrond, Lady Celebrian, I thank you." He paused long enough to draw forth a folded missive sealed plainly with the Northern Star. "Let me not delay in the discharging of my errand… The Dowager Queen is dead. King Eldacar, her son, has bid me give to you this letter." He handed the document formally to Elrond.
Celebrian answered him. "Your tidings come as no surprise. Nevertheless do we mourn for Yavwë, for she was dear to us. To Eldacar will we send our cordial greetings and our sympathy." She looked at her husband, then seated herself and gestured gracefully. "Be seated now, son of Brethun, son of Madoch and son of Haldan. Your journey must have left you weary."
The messengers wasted no time in sinking down into the chairs. A meal was brought in, and while the Lord and Lady perused the letter from the King, the men gratefully turned their attention to the array of meats and salads, cold pitchers of water and wine, trays of early strawberries, and great round loaves of bread, golden with pollen flour and steaming from the heat of Imladris' ovens.
The talk renewed, beginning with the passing of the queen, then shifting to the changes in the court and the city of Annuminas. The palantiri kept the lords of the land abreast of large events in politics and trade, but Brevard and his friends painted a finer, more valuable picture of the forces influencing Arnor. The petty feuds, rivalries and romances, enterprises and ambitions of the powerful and the power-hungry threaded their way through a tapestry of anecdotes that stretched into the afternoon. What had started as a brief refreshment lengthened into a leisurely and pleasant repast as the food, the sweet air of the valley and the keen audience worked their own kind of good on the messengers. Only when they noticed the darkening sky did they rise and make their way to their separate rooms, and thence to the bathhouses, to change and bathe before joining the rest of the household for the evening meal.
Arwen was captivated. She had not spoken the whole afternoon, but sat silent and watchful in a chair next to her father. Elrond, too, had been quiet, content to let his wife guide the conversation. Once the three had left he turned to his daughter, eyes gentle and bright. "There's my other race, love – what think you?"
The small Elf squirmed, uncertain what her answer was. "I like them," she said inadequately. Her child's intuition sensed much, but could not articulate. They have to struggle to understand things, just like I do. The world is new in their eyes, just like in mine. They remind me of waterfalls and bear cubs and young pliant trees.
"So do I," said Celebrian, and Elrond glanced at his life's love. Arwen climbed onto the settee and leaned against her mother. "They are good people, and wise in many things, though there are some Elves who have not the wit to see it. They remind me of how much there is in the world to learn."
"Each Man is a world in himself," said Elrond.
"I will learn," said Arwen.
***
Late in the evening the King's Messenger made his way to Imladris' library. It was a large, high room, more ornately decorated than the rest of the house. Stacks, one case deep, filled the second level, which ran along the room in an open ring. The space below had sliding ladders standing at the ready on the walls, and worktables and deep, comfortable chairs filling up the floor. The library had no windows, although one wall was devoted entirely to maps. A great, latticed skylight let a spray of stars and the waxing moon shine in. Brevard set a candelabra aglow and fixed it firmly in a table bracket. The light warmed the colours of the bookbindings and glanced delicately off gilt molding.
He crossed the floor, pausing in front of a table to admire a copyist's open manuscript, then turned to face the shelves. He was looking for plays. Valandil, a great lover of poetry, had devoted considerable resources to the expansion of the royal library at Annuminas, and Eldacar clearly meant to continue that work. He had commissioned two new masques already, and had showed interest in resurrecting some of the works of the Numenorean Masters. Most of these were in Gondor, but Imladris' library was not to be scoffed at, and Brevard had high hopes that some of the Elves' own theatricals would prove adaptable to mortal attention spans.
Milthon, Daeron, Sophiel, Celelamo. The messenger pulled a fat blue volume off the shelf, smiled to himself and turned around, and blinked. He had been followed. Elrond's little daughter was standing not three feet away, staring at him with the deep blue-grey eyes that characterized the Half-elf's family. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asked quickly, a strong fatherly instinct displacing courtesy in his startlement. The small being blinked back, then looked affronted, and Brevard recollected himself.
"I am not tired," he was informed succinctly. "I can stay up for a whole week."
"Forgive me," said Brevard sincerely, and sat down in the armchair at his shoulder, the better to talk to Arwen face to face. "You reminded me of my own daughters just now, and I forgot my manners. I would not be so bold as to tell you when to go to bed." He paused, thinking for a moment about the habits of the Elves he knew. "You have made me curious, though… Do young Elves really sleep no more than once a week? You are the first of my acquaintance, you see, and I should like to repair my ignorance." It was hard, he reflected, for a mortal to tell how much Elves slept, for they seemed to keep irregular hours, often spending whole nights in song, or vanishing into the woods where, for all he knew, they slept in trees. Surely, though, young Elves as well as young mortals, both being occupied with the process of growing, required more rest than their elders.
Arwen's affront had vanished in the pleasure of finding herself a teacher. "When we are little we sleep almost every day. Also we sleep in the same place. When we are grown we learn how to spare our energy, and refresh ourselves as we move. I am learning to do that."
"Are you indeed? Then how much a grown Elf sleeps varies greatly according to how active she is, I suppose."
"Yes, but grown-up Elves like to dream, and lie for hours and hours doing nothing." Brevard grinned at this declaration. Arwen sounded as though she had little use for such meditations.
"If young Elves spend as much time running and jumping and climbing trees as mortal children, I can well believe that they and their parents both earn their rest. It is a great comfort to have a familiar bed to return to after a busy day."
"Do mortal children sleep every night?"
"Yes," said Brevard, "just as mortal grown-ups do. They sleep a few hours longer until they are big, but they love to pretend they are never sleepy, and often must be coaxed to bed with stories. Every night I tell a story to my daughters, or they will fuss, and climb out of bed and pad about the house looking for hobgoblins or glasses of milk or dolls they have left lying on the nursery floor."
"What kind of story?"
"Bedtime stories! Full of magic and mischief and adventure. The kind that make for marvelous dreams. Ah, but your dreams are not the same as ours, are they? Men's dreams are echoes and extensions of the things they do in the daytime. They are rather like stories. We can never tell where they are going to go next."
"But that is what my dreams are like!" cried Arwen. "All full of jumbled up stories and songs and feelings. Nana is teaching me the dreamsongs, now that I am grown, and how to find their melodies and paths, and read the signposts."
"You must be taught to dream? That is extraordinary!"
Arwen tipped her chin up and bit her lip. "I learned to walk by myself, but it was easier when Ada held my hand. And I wanted to learn faster when I saw my brothers running. Our dreams have lots of layers, you see."
"I understand you perfectly," said Brevard, smiling in appreciation of the child's neat metaphor. An eternity to learn apparently does not slow the growth of intellect, he mused.
"I would like to hear a bedtime story," said Arwen suddenly. "Glorfindel tells me stories, but maybe they are not the same as yours."
"A good teller makes every story his own!" Brevard exclaimed. "Hmm," he said then, looking around the room, feeling unexpectedly energized. "I could tell you about the Thrush and the Dragon. That is a favourite with Danris and Kael. But that story goes best with illustrations. Let's go over to the candle, and see how it may serve us."
"What will you do with the candle?" Arwen wanted to know.
Brevard turned around again. "Have you never seen shadow pictures before? Sit here." He pulled a deep-cushioned chair close to the table and Arwen obediently climbed up, tucking her legs beneath her and leaning into its arm. He cocked an eye at her and waggled his brows mysteriously. "Now watch."
He extinguished all but one of the candles in the holder, and set it so it glowed against an old and fading map of lost Beleriand. Perching on the edge of the sturdy table, and pitching his voice to match the cozy sphere of light, he began to speak.
"Once upon a time…" the oldest and most universal of spells cast its net. Then the messenger's hands began to move. A thrush appeared, balancing delicately on a branch, silhouetted by the flame. The gnarled undergrowth of a forest sprung up below. Smoke curled from a mountain. A king held court, a hunt rode, a fox leapt, and a dragon hurled itself into the sky. The pale old map on the library wall fair danced with an ephemeral dramatis personae, for Brevard's big hands had been entertaining children for fifteen years. Arwen, who was better acquainted with open spaces and starlight than candles in closed rooms, had never seen such magic storytelling. The shadows lived, briefer than dragonflies, but vibrantly as anything she had ever known. The soft night deepened. Finally the fable ended, just as all good stories do.
"Tell the part where he mimics the fox and the shrew again," the little girl begged, "and the king tricks him with the riddle dance."
"No," said Brevard, "the story is finished. You cannot jump back into the middle. In any case, we ought to find my friend Mabdor in order to do the riddle dance properly. He is much better at the voices than I am."
"Nonsense," said a new voice then, and Brevard turned to see Elrond standing in the doorway, his grey eyes agleam in the candlelight. "Your voices were excellent." The Master of Imladris glided into the room and stopped next to Arwen's chair, resting a hand on its tall back.
Brevard eyed the Elf-lord, caught between pleasure and apprehension. It was, after all, no accident that he had never seen another Elf-child. The Elves were notoriously protective of their youngsters, and disliked any interference in their education. Elrond's gaze was mild, though, and even amused. Brevard's own good humour jostled back to the surface. "Maybe we should hold a contest," he suggested. "But I would lose to his dragon, I warrant."
"It must be a most astonishing dragon," Elrond opined.
"I like yours!" interjected Arwen, as Brevard twisted his fingers speculatively.
"Thank you. But his – undulates – in a manner that I have never been able to copy. It is very magnificent. Mine merely flaps." A pair of small wings appeared and flapped a bit.
"They're not big enough," said Arwen. The wings drooped despondently.
Elrond chuckled, but his eyes were searching the middle-distance. "I had a friend who made such pictures," he said thoughtfully. "He died, years ago, and I forgot about them. At the time I thought I knew better ways to tell stories."
"A fitting pastime, perhaps, for a fleeting race?"
"Aye, perhaps," said the Elf to the Man, and his eyes were grave. "But transience holds its own peculiar power. An arrow's flight is brief, but its reach is longer than a sword. Whence comes the allure of the players' masque if not from its irreproducibility? And transience," here Elrond paused and turned to look at Arwen, "has a very powerful daughter." He waited, and Brevard smiled. The Lord of Imladris had countless occupations and talents; foremost in his heart he was a teacher.
Arwen was accustomed to this kind of game. She cocked her head and bit her lip, but her answer did not take long. "Memory!" A smile of pleasure flashed across Elrond's face and he laid a hand on his daughter's glossy hair.
"Aye, Lady Arwen," said Brevard, and as he spoke his hands lifted and moved across the light. A flock of birds sprang up and whisked their way along the wall into darkness. "The shadows vanish, but the stories they tell linger in memory, do they not? And memory may live on in the mind, the heart and all the senses and help stir up new stories as the ages pass." Arwen was staring entranced at his fingers with wide dark eyes.
"This night," said Elrond in a different tone, "must also soon be transmuted into memory, for some of us. To bed, Arwen my sweet! No, do not protest; you have not dreamt for two days and I can see you yawning." Arwen squeaked, swallowing her yawn, but then Elrond's hands were firm about her shoulders, and Brevard, too, rose, mouth solemn but eyes twinkling in the candlelight. The two men exchanged a glance, and together they moved toward the door, one pausing to take up the candelabra, the other gently steering his wayward daughter. Brevard allowed his smile to reach his mouth as the Lord of Imladris and the little lady padded off toward their private quarters, then grinned outright as Arwen was scooped up altogether, drooping against her father's shoulder.
Brevard turned in the other direction and made his way down to the Hall of Fire, for he was not yet tired, despite the days of hard riding behind him. It was empty and quiet, save for the soft gossip of the embers in the hearth, and he pulled a chair close to that small sound, set his candle at his side, and opened his book. He had not been there long when he felt a door open behind him. A tall, shadowed figure made its way across the room, and bent to coax a flame from the ember-glow.
"Hello again, my friend," said Brevard.
Elrond turned. "We have many things to speak of," he said, rising gracefully and seating himself next to the messenger. "I would hear more of Varie and Lissel, and your own daughters, as well as of Eldacar and his court." He gave a small, peaceful sigh, then cocked his head so Brevard saw firelight spark in his eyes. "But first, friend, I wonder if you might take this candle and demonstrate your dragon once again? I think I may have the answer to your undulation."
Brevard's swift laughter boomed out into the hall as Elrond wiggled his fingers experimentally. Upstairs a small girl slept, and dreamt of wheeling birds and brave, bright, transient kings, and shadows dancing on the dappled ground.
***
Notes:
I've read "Laws and Customs" with its description of the Elvish aging process, but my story hinged on Arwen's having both the wide-eyed simplicity and the physical stamina of a human eight-year-old. I compromised, pushing her up to eleven, and here are my rationalizations. :-)
- First off, she's got some human blood, so I figure I'm allowed a bit of leeway, anyway.
- I'm positing that Elvish "maturity" is more complicated than human maturity. A fast-growing human girl might reach adult stature by 15, but she'll be in her twenties before her body really settles into its shape, her hormones stabilize and, most importantly, her mind can deftly maneuver through complex thoughts. So, by the same token, say that Elves reach a more-or-less human level of physical and mental agility not too long after humans themselves, but until they've grown beyond that into their, well, superpowers, they are considered immature.
Make sense?
In other news, the hobbits' line about, "her whom few mortals had yet seen," was misinformed. They could have gotten away with, "her whom few mortals alive in the year 3018 had yet seen." They said the same thing about Galadriel, and that's just silly!