Stupid Stories for Irreverent Elves by darthfingon

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A Royal Education

Glorfindel, Fingon, FA 42

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Glorfindel's list of discouraging activities grew at a steady pace. He was beginning to suspect that he had no talents whatsoever.

"The purpose of high learning," Fingon told him, "is to gain experience in all aspects of courtly life. Not only reading and writing, which are common, but composition, rhetoric and discourse, music and dance, archery and swordsmanship, mathematics, history, and, above all, etiquette. These things must be learned. And don't give me that look. I'm trying to condense sixty years of royal education into a few lessons. Do you think this is easy?"

No, it was not easy. Archery was not easy. Music was not easy. Composition, worst of all, was not easy. Glorfindel was terrible at all of them. His shooting skills were on the poor side of novice, allowing him the distinction of being able to hit the outer edges of the target every time without fail. His swordsmanship was marginally better, though he still consistently mistakes that could get him killed in a proper fight. His singing voice would be more appropriate for cheeky drinking songs than courtly airs, and his tunes at the harp and mandolin always managed to come out as a long string of wrong notes. His compositions were fit to be burnt.

"Now I want you to try again," said Fingon. "This time, I want you to write me a letter of thanks. Pretend I've just sent you a present: let's say a lovely new silk shirt. Write a letter and thank me for it." He pushed an accusingly blank piece of paper across the table to Glorfindel, and sat back with an expectant look on his face.

Glorfindel rubbed his hands over his eyes. He found it difficult enough to say words of thanks to Fingon in response to a gift that had actually been given; to write such words about something make-believe was ridiculous. Foolishness. He grudgingly dipped his pen and set it to the paper. It made a petulant blotch, as if it somehow knew that Glorfindel had neither the skill nor the status required to write a formal letter.

Narrowing his eyes, Glorfindel began.

'Dear Findekáno. Thank you for the shirt.'

And that was all he could think of to write. Was there any more? No, those few words said exactly what he needed to say. They seemed, however, far too small and few on the vast expanse of empty page. He stared down, willing them to do something, perhaps multiply before his eyes and rearrange themselves into a grand and poetic missive, but nothing of the sort happened. The words clearly held him in contempt. It was hardly his fault that he was a terrible writer, when his subjects were so uncooperative.

Sullenly, he added, 'Sincerely, Lauron' below what he had written, and shoved the paper back to Fingon.

Fingon glanced at it with a raised eyebrow. For a moment, he was silent. Then, "Once, years ago, one of my cousins made me a thank-you note for a toy I'd sent him. He was three at the time, and hadn't yet learned to write. He only had a primary grasp of what the tengwar looked like. However, despite all odds, he somehow managed to print the word 'oil' in childish script in the middle of the page, followed by a drawing of a disembodied head with eight arms that I think was supposed to be me. It was, if not functional, at least amusing. Which is more than I can say for your effort. Now what does that tell you, if you can't even outperform an illiterate three-year-old?"

Glorfindel scowled. "You wanted me to thank you, and I did. It says right there, 'Thank you for the shirt.' What else am I supposed to say?"

"Dear Findekáno," Fingon said in a high and frilly, singsong way; "please allow me to thank you for the splendid gift you most recently sent me: the beautiful red silk shirt. Of course it fits wonderfully, as all the other clothes you've ever given me. What a talent you have, to know my exact size! The embroidery around the collar is simply stunning. Did you know, it is almost a perfect match to the colours on new sash I just had made? The two will look delightful together. Then," he continued in his normal voice, "you enquire after the person's family, say a thing or two about your own experiences of late, mention any recent marriages, births or scandals, make a comment about the current political atmosphere, and say one last thank you for the gift received. Your faithful friend until the final ending of the world, Lauron."

Staring at him, Glorfindel said, "I don't see why I have to learn this when you're here and can just do it for me, and do it better."

"You have to learn because there must be something in this world for which you have a talent. A man of the court must have a strength to show off in front of others, be it singing or dancing or shooting an arrow through an acorn."

"But I'm no good at any of those things!"

"And that is why you must have lessons," said Fingon.

It was enough to make Glorfindel's head ache. He was perfectly ready to give up altogether and admit that he would never belong to the world of lords and nobles, with his stubborn lack of required talents. He saw nothing wrong with resigning himself to a life of standing silently, unnoticed, behind Fingon, who was irritatingly good at everything. Fingon could write letters, of thanks or praise or concern or condolence, and he could compose sonnets and prose with words flowing like wine from his thoughts to the page. He spoke just as perfectly, besting everyone in debate. His swordsmanship was unmatched. His skills with a bow were excellent. He rarely sang, but when he did, his voice rang clear and silvery-smooth. And he knew things. Whether the topic was history or current politics, Fingon always seemed to be better informed than anyone. From Glorfindel's point of view, there was simply no sense in competing.

"Perhaps... we should try something else," Fingon said slowly. "How do you think the dance lessons went?"

"Laughable."

"I see. And the mandolin?"

"Worse."

"Singing?"

"Please don't make me."

Sighing, Fingon folded his hands in front of him and leaned into the table. "Have you considered at all that it might be your poor attitude that keeps you from success?" When Glorfindel gave no answer, apart from a roll of the eyes, he continued, "How about you tell me what lessons you hate the least."

Glorfindel shrugged. "I don't know... I suppose arithmetic isn't too bad. I mean, that's either right or wrong, isn't it? No room for judgement and no talent needed."

"True," said Fingon. "Though I doubt you'll ever dazzle noblemen and win respect with your astounding powers of subtraction. Arithmetic is a necessary life skill, not a courtly pastime. Choose something else."

Glorfindel was silent for a moment, considering. "I guess... I don't mind talking to people. Conversation. I could work on that."

Fingon shook his head. "I'm sorry. No. You still speak like a Vanyarin peasant. No matter what eloquent words you learn, I suspect any conversation partner will have trouble hearing anything past your harsh pronunciation of the letter H, the touchy TH issue, and your stubborn insistence on saying Z instead of R."

"I do not have a harsh pronunciation of the letter H!" Glorfindel snapped.

"Yes. You do. It's reminiscent of a drunken Sindarin blacksmith. In fact, until you learn that words should come from behind your teeth and not from the back of your throat, I'm forbidding you to speak in public."

With a growl that sounded far more like an un-Noldorin hard H than he intended, Glorfindel leaned over and put his head down on the table. "Then I'm not good at anything," he said, words muffled. "You might as well dress me in pale blue right now and let me live as your uneducated servant forever."

"That's a bit extreme," laughed Fingon. "Come on. Sit up. We'll find something you can do."

But Glorfindel remained bent over, face hidden by his arms. "No. There's nothing. I have no business trying to live in your refined and royal world."

Fingon picked up the failed thank-you letter, turning it over in his hand and holding it up against the window's light. "You know..." he said slowly. "Your words may be ridiculous, but your actual writing, the penmanship, isn't bad at all. We're going to try one more thing."

He stood up from the table and crossed to the bookshelf on the far wall, returning with a large, red-bound volume, which he set open at Glorfindel's elbow. "I want you to copy this page. Text and illumination both. We have no coloured ink, so just do the black lines for now. In the meanwhile, I'm going to have a bath." And with no further instruction, he left.

In Fingon's absence, Glorfindel briefly considered two things. First, that the page was bordered with winding pictures of animals, and he had always been taught that that drawing any living creature was an insult to its likeness, and therefore an insult to the Vala who created it. Second, that he and Manwë were no longer on friendly terms, so this did not particularly concern him. In fact, it was a satisfactory sort of defiance, to dare to draw an animal now. There was nobody to stop him. He took up the pen, and copied one careful black line after another.

It was mostly finished by the time Fingon returned. He had done all but the bottom right corner. Fingon came to stand behind him, watching for a moment in silence while he worked.

"Have you had much practice in drawing or painting?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "No." Apart from pretending to paint lucky patterns on the walls of Amma's house with water, he had done nothing.

Fingon picked up the paper and set it down directly beside the original to compare. It was neither as exact nor as flawless, but the result overall was good. The proportions were correct. The lines flowed evenly.

"If I didn't know that this was your first attempt," Fingon said at last, "if I hadn't just set you this trial, I wouldn't believe you if you told me you had never before worked as a artist."

"I haven't."

"I know." Again, Fingon took the paper in his hands, turning it over to examine the back and see if any ink had been applied too heavily and bled through. Few spots showed, and those only faintly. "How did you find this?" he asked. "Easy? Dull? Frustrating?"

"Easy, I suppose," Glorfindel said. "Well, not easy, but... not straining. It took some concentration. But I liked doing it."

Fingon smiled at him in a curious, appraising way. "Good. That's good. I think we've found your talent."