The King's Scribe by Narya

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Chapter 1

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Fo.A. 171
Minas Tirith

 

There was no denying that they made a strange party.

The three Hobbits, Araphor was surprised to observe, did not seem overawed by their surroundings. They padded across the courtyard on their bare, hairy feet, pointing out the the curlicued spires and the intricately carved pillars with obvious pleasure, but with no more wonder than they might react to a butterfly on a country walk. Araphor couldn't help feeling stung – although the Hobbits had passed through Imladris on their way south. Perhaps the White City could not compare with the delights of the Last Homely House. Araphor wouldn't know, since he had never been permitted to accompany his father and grandfather when they visited their Elven kin.

“Next summer you may ride with us,” Eldarion had promised him. "Fourteen is past old enough."

But summer had raged through the lands with the terrible fury of the dragons of old, bringing droughts and fires and laying waste to the crops. The King's attention had been taken up with feeding his people, and rehousing and providing for those whose livelihoods had been lost. The trip to the north had been put off until spring.

Araphor sighed and kicked a stray pebble, sending it skittering into the shadows.

The Hobbits' companion turned at the sound, arching one sleek, dark brow. Araphor blushed. He was too familiar with the ageless beauty of Elves to find Talagand's looks unnerving, but there was something in the gaze of those strange silver eyes that cooled the breath and slid under the skin.

Like a sea-wind in winter.

“I don't think he liked you doing that,” Araphor's sister Muineth whispered as Talagand looked away.

Araphor held a finger to his lips. He knew well enough what Elven hearing was like. Muineth hadn't said anything rude or untoward, but her tongue often ran away with her, and he would prefer not to accidentally offend their guest. He had a feeling that he wouldn't want to see Talagand with his temper roused.

The Elf, strangely, seemed less at ease in the city than the Hobbits. Araphor watched him as they passed under the shadow of the library, noting how his eyes flicked over each archway and door. He'd seen men of the Guard do the same thing – scope out their escape routes and points of defence. It was not a habit one lost, even in peace time.  Still, Talagand's manner was pleasant enough. He nodded at those who passed them – though Araphor could tell that he remained aware of everyone and everything in his vicinity, like a hunting cat wary of the tables being turned, and the predator becoming the prey.

Their little group attracted some peculiar glances, and well they might. Three Hobbits, an Elf, and two of the King's grandchildren. Araphor snorted softly, earning another quizzical look from Talagand. All we need is a couple of Dwarves, and a wizard to send us on an adventure.

But Dwarves were seldom seen in Gondor now; few Elves walked in the gardens of Imladris, and nothing had been heard of wizards since the Grey Pilgrim sailed into the West at the dawn of the Age.

The library was a vast, square, gently watchful building on the city's Fifth Level, with two crenellated towers and small canted windows like half-closed eyes. Statues of long-dead kings peered down from the roof. Bracketed lamps, unlit, were fixed to the wall on either side of the great two-arched portico; above their heads, a pair of protruding bay windows gleamed in the late summer sun.

“Well, now.” The older of the two Hobbit women, who had introduced herself as Mirabella Took, trotted forwards. “Quite the eye-opener.”

Araphor grinned. “Oh, just wait until you see inside.”

“Is it really full of books?” the younger woman – Mirabella's daughter, Rose – asked. Her blue eyes were wide and round in her face as she stared up at the intricate facade.

“Quite full,” he assured them, the earlier prick to his pride now soothed. “And this isn't even everything.” There was a second archive up in the Citadel, which housed a few treasure-bound tomes and some scrolls and documents personal to the King and his family – although the bulk of the city's accumulated knowledge was to be found here.

Talagand removed the glove from his left hand and laid it on the sculpted mullion dividing the doors. “This is beautiful work. Dwarvish, I think?”

“Yes.” Araphor looked at him, surprised. “The folk of Aglarond rebuilt it for us after the Ring War...how did you know?”

Talagand smiled and replaced his glove. “Long years of practice.”

“Aren't you too hot in those?” Muineth asked, eyeing his leather-clad hands.

The smile tensed – but then Talagand gave a shake of his lovely head, and nodded towards the portico. “Lead the way, your Highness.”

Inside the air was cool and the light was soft. A long, cloistered walkway stretched before them towards a vast arched window, and a vaulted ceiling curved overhead. Alcoves framed by carved scrollwork lined each wall; some of these were hung with fine curtains or fitted with screens, to provide their users with privacy and peace. All housed carefully boxed scrolls or shelves of books – some bound in cloth coverings, no bigger than the span of three fingers together, others fat and heavy and bound in hide. The air smelled like sweet old cake and summer wine.

“It's halfway to being dark,” whispered the third Hobbit – a dark-haired young man who had been quiet until now. If he hadn't been a Hobbit, Araphor would have placed him at around twenty-five or twenty-six, though he knew the lifespans of Halflings were not quite like those of Men. After introducing himself as Isembard Hornblower he'd said barely a word; there was a gentle burr in his voice that was absent from Mirabella's and Rose's, and now his cheeks flushed crimson as his voice echoed down the gallery.

Araphor smiled at the Hobbits' reactions. Surely, even in Imladris, there could be nothing so fine.

“It has to be dark,” Muineth whispered back. “Or near it. Findegil says that direct sunlight harms the books and scrolls.”

“Are you sure that Master Findegil won't mind our intruding?” Rose asked.

Muineth choked. Talagand, who had been gazing at a carved plaque depicting eight fell men with their swords held high, turned to her in concern.

“It's quite alright,” Araphor answered, since his sister was trying hard not to giggle. “Findegil's used to being interrupted by us.” They had paused by an alcove covered by an embroidered curtain; Araphor drew the curtain aside, and grinned at the occupant – a tall, slender Elf-woman with silver hair bound in a thick braid. The three Hobbits gasped in astonishment. “Aren't you?”

Findegil looked up from the book she had carefully positioned on her lectern. Used to her as he was, Araphor was struck anew by her beauty in this dim, quiet place. She was not at all like Talagand – her loveliness was that of sharp spring light and sudden rain, breathing life into stale winter air. He still wasn't entirely sure why she had stayed after Prince Legolas sailed and the other Elves of Ithilien went West, or returned to their King in Eryn Lasgalen. Some said that she owed a life debt; others speculated that she had once had a mortal lover, and stayed behind in his memory. There were even whispers that she was no longer welcome among her own kin, though Eldarion was quick to silence any such tales.

She folded her arms and surveyed each of the group in turn, raising her brows at Araphor's angelic smile, and pausing for a long, long moment as her gaze rested on Talagand. “I'm quite used to being interrupted by you and your sister, yes, but it's rare for you to bring me visitors.”

Araphor cleared his throat. “Findegil, may I present Mirabella and Rose Took, of Great Smials, Tuckborough” - Mirabella and Rose dropped into neat curtseys - “Isembard Hornblower” - their companion blushed even more deeply, and bowed - “and Talagand of Imladris.” Talagand laid a hand on his breast and inclined his head, though he didn't take his eyes from Findegil. “Mirabella, Rose, Isembard, Talagand, this is the King's Writer, Findegil.”

“I am honoured.” She gave Talagand a last considered look before turning to the Hobbits with a charming smile. “How may I be of service?”

Shyly, Rose drew a large cloth-wrapped parcel from her travelling bundle and handed it to her mother.

“I'm afraid they haven't fared too well in recent years; our youngsters are so fond of the stories, and they aren't always careful.” Mirabella undid the ribbons holding the cloth in place, revealing five thick books bound in cracked wine-coloured leather.

“It's the Red Book of Westmarch,” Muineth informed Findegil – unnecessarily, Araphor thought, since Hobbits were unlikely to bring any other book all the way to Gondor.

“It's past time we had some new copies made."  Mirabella's voice was apologetic.  "We only meant to take them as far as Rivendell, but Lord Elrohir told us their best scribe sailed ten summers past, and that most of their records were sent here long ago.”

Findegil nodded. “I see.”

“And of course we have the Thain's Book here, which is full of notes and corrections,” Araphor put in. “And plenty of first hand accounts; we can show you the catalogue, and help you to cross-check, and -”

“Shouldn't you two be at your lessons?” Findegil interrupted, looking at Araphor and Muineth.

“Nedior is in council with my father and grandfather; they're busy with the relief plans. They asked us to accompany our guests.” Araphor gave a winning smile. “And to help, if we can.”

“I see,” she said again, the corner of her mouth curving. “And of course you'd rather spend the last of your summer burrowing around in my library than practising arithmetic.”

“Naturally.”

Talagand gave a soft, musical chuckle; Findegil looked at him sharply, her head held to one side, as though listening for something that danced out of reach on the breeze. “And you? What draws an Elf of Imladris so far south, with none of his kin for company?”

“I met with the Periannath on the road to the Misty Mountains, and offered to be their guide.” Talagand's tone was perfectly civil, but Araphor had spent enough time observing his father and grandfather to recognise the taut neutrality in his voice. “When their errand is complete, I will see them safely back to their borders.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime I will help in any way I can.” Talagand gestured at the Red Book of Westmarch. “This is a remarkable document. It would be a tragedy if it were not fully revised and preserved.”

“Revised?”

“Naturally.” Talagand nodded towards Araphor. “His Highness is quite right. We should at the very least ensure it is checked for consistency against any other copies you have here.”

“And Talagand knows so much!” beamed Rose.

“He sang for us on the road.” Isembard's cheeks turned red again. “I've never heard anything like it. And such tales of the old days...”

Findegil closed the book she had been studying. “Perhaps Master Talagand has some corrections of his own to make.”

Talagand gave an elegant shrug. “Perhaps he does.”

Her eyes sharpened like shards of blue glass. The air in the alcove prickled and cooled, and when she spoke, her voice was still and stern. “He should know, though, that I will not permit anyone – High Elf, Hobbit, or King Eldarion himself – to handle my books with gloved hands.”

"Why not?" Muineth demanded.  Araphor shot her a glare.

"It makes one clumsy."  Findegil's eyes did not leave Talagand.  "If you cannot feel the books in your hands, you are more likely to mishandle them, or damage them by accident."

For a moment Araphor thought that Talagand would turn and leave. The silver eyes flared, and the smell of books was subsumed by taste of a gathering storm – then the dark-haired Elf shrugged again and pulled off his gloves. It was instantly apparent why he wore them; his right hand was horribly scarred. The skin was twisted around the bone as though it had melted and been reset. Araphor swallowed; Muineth gasped, and then bit her lip and blushed; the Hobbits politely averted their eyes.

Findegil nodded slowly, as though this was exactly what she had expected to see. “Very well, then. Let us begin.”

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Chapter End Notes

Since no definitive date is given in canon for the sailing of the Last Ship, I am going with “not quite yet”, hence there still being Elves in Imladris, and Findegil remaining in Gondor even after Legolas's departure. (I'm still not entirely sure why she stayed. There's another, longer story there, I suspect.)

There is no basis in canon for Findegil being female, or an Elf - but as far as I'm aware there's nothing to contradict it either.

There is a line in The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen which could potentially undermine my theory of Elves still being around at this point; as Aragorn lies dying in Fo.A. 120, he refers to the gardens of Imladris “where none now walk.” I am going with this being a later addition that sounds poetic. Who would have been near enough, except Arwen, to hear Aragorn's last words – and in her grief, would she really have passed them on?

RealElvish.net informs me that Talagand translates as “harper.”