Northern Skies by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 11

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“Welcome to the library, young lord. My name is Lindir. We have met before, of course, but under the circumstances another introduction seems in order.”

The Elf smiled with confidence as he gave a small, polite bow, but slender fingers toying with the silver-tipped tie-end of his belt betrayed his nerves. Elrohir returned both bow and introduction, eying who he had been informed was Imladris’ youngest loremaster, newly reinstated to his former capacity of Elrohir’s tutor.

Elrohir had met enough Elves by now to know that Lindir’s twilight-dark hair, grey eyes and the broad set of his shoulders spoke of a pure Noldorin heritage.

Despite their shared background, Lindir’s appearance had nothing of Erestor’s commanding formality. His expression held far more curiosity and gentleness. The striking contrast between the two loremasters was accentuated by Lindir’s obvious lack of vanity. He appeared to have donned a formal sage-green robe for the occasion, but his hands had clearly been scrubbed in haste and still bore faint ink-marks, as did the fitted cuff of his pale grey undertunic. The overall effect was somehow endearing.

They had come to a passageway of arched stone the colour of ivory, with closed doors on either end. Unlike elsewhere in the house, the doors were cast bronze rather than wood. The room held neither books nor furniture.

Lindir noticed Elrohir’s eye resting on the doors, and in the fashion of harried scholars the world over, he dissipated his nerves by launching into a lengthy explanation.

“The library is housed in a wing of its own. We have tried to steer clear of wood and other flammable materials. This is but an anteroom, meant to induce quietness and remind visitors to leave any candles or lamps they might be carrying.  The library proper lies beyond.”

Lindir ran his palm down the geometrical etchings decorating the smooth bronze door panel.

“The doors are marvellous craftsmanship: heavier than stone, but perfectly balanced and very fair. Helwo, their maker, hails from Eregion. He used to head the workshops of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and he does Lord Celebrimbor proud.”

Elrohir smiled and nodded. He was utterly clueless as to who Celebrimbor might be, but well aware that admitting that would only delay the proceedings with further lecturing.   

With an inviting gesture Lindir opened the far door, and Elrohir was left speechless.

After the relative darkness of the anteroom, the eye was dazzled by such a wealth of golden midday light that they might have stood in a glittering snowfield atop the mountains outside. The hall, for it could not reasonably be called a room, seemed to contain more glass than walls. Its vaulted ceiling rose three storeys high, adorned with a glittering mosaic of precious metal, golden stars in a silver sky. Elrohir was surprised by the ostentatious display of wealth, a jarring dissonant with the understated elegance Elves seemed to favour elsewhere, before grasping the mosaic’s purpose. It reflected daylight to readers sitting at the tables below, lessening the need to risk lamps or candles.

Galleries sculpted of Imladris’ creamy stonework wreathed around the space. Every surface that was not a window was covered in bookcases and honeycombed racks for scrolls, chiselled with whimsical decorations of strange plants and creatures of fantasy, no two alike. Elvish craftsmen possessed a wealth of time to shape even mundane objects into works of art, and the greatest among them had lavished their very best on this place.

Lindir stood at Elrohir’s elbow, delighting in his astonished admiration. Elrohir tore his eyes away from his surroundings and turned towards his host in an attempt not to look wholly like a gawking rustic. Solemn silence reigned in the library, and he lowered his voice to what even Elves would consider a whisper.

“It truly is a marvel, though I imagine you hear that on a regular basis.”

Lindir smiled with genuine modesty. “There have been larger collections, in Lindon and Gondolin of old, but never one so varied and rich in knowledge gathered by all the good folk, Elves and Men and Dwarves. Your father’s love of language and lore has created one of the wonders of the North.”

“You would not be bragging if you said the entire world. The Lords of Umbar in their bottomless wealth have nothing like this.”

On hearing that, Lindir perked up like a clever fox spotting a wandering rabbit. “So there is truth to the tales that you lived in Umbar for a time. Erestor thought so, from your accent when you speak Númenórean. A most fascinating city, it would seem. The way their consonant use is shifting away from the old Númenórean modes of Gondor is remarkable, in only a few generations since the Atalantë ...”

Lindir steered Elrohir towards a side door, hidden between two towering marble bookcases. Behind it was a comfortable-looking study containing both a flat worktable and a slanted writing desk. A large set-glass window washed the space in bright midday sun.

Despite Elrohir’s apprehension the unusual contents of Lindir’s personal bookcases made for an irresistible diversion. Elrohir less than politely drifted away from the loremaster’s linguistic ramblings to stare openly.  

At first sight it was a jumbled clutter of seemingly random objects: statues, helmets, weapons of various kinds and household items like pot-hooks and glassware. On closer inspection their one uniting characteristic was a complete lack of Elvishness. Most appeared to be of Dwarven make, but some had far more exotic origins.

Elrohir was struck by a wave of memory as he contemplated a mask of gilded ebony, such as the people of Harad’s far south used in the wild revels honouring their fierce gods. He forcibly recalled himself from a wide sky of desert stars, his heart pulsing with the drums and the exaltation of sunrise after a night’s dancing.

Lindir’s voice had fallen quiet. Elrohir whipped around, but his apology died on his lips when he noticed the bubbling enthusiasm radiating from the Elf.

“I have been wondering about that one for a long time. We obtained it from the royal archives of Osgiliath. A savage tribe from the Far South once presented King Elendil with it, or so I was told by the Gondorian archivists. They were loathe to give up shelf-space to what they considered the primitive work of wild men, and their loss became my gain. Tell me, is it truly from Harad?”

Elrohir was struck by the realisation that he had once known others like Lindir. Quiet and withdrawn people, single-minded enough to be perfectly satisfied in the company of naught but their work, but sure to open like a flower when others took a genuine interest. He thought of a passionate lute-maker, a dear friend devoured by the desert war. It was strange, to see such familiar traits in an immortal Elf.

Elrohir gave Lindir a warm smile. “Even further south. Beyond the desert, near the inland sea. That they travelled so far to offer tribute to the King of Gondor … it boggles the mind.”        

Lindir looked at him shrewdly. “Perhaps they sought to turn Elendil’s eye south, encouraging him to strike down their Black Númenórean oppressors. A moderately successful venture, it would seem.”

Lindir demonstrated an entirely unexpected grasp of Haradi politics. Elrohir was wholly surprised to meet an Elf whose gaze wasn’t fixed upon the ancient past and the West. His curiosity got the better of him.

“What, exactly, do you do for my parents?”

Lindir laughed heartily. “You mean what is my purpose in this house beyond theorising about language and scribbling on your father’s good vellum?”

Elrohir was glad the Elf did not seem to take his forthrightness ill.

“I am Imladris’ ambassador with the Dwarves, mainly the Longbeards of Khazad-Dûm, though I have ventured underneath the Blue Mountains a number of times. I do not reside in King Durin’s halls permanently, simply because no Elf could. I do visit at least once in every generation, and your father sends me out whenever a particular matter needs settling.”

Elrohir beheld Lindir with a new respect. “So you speak Dwarvish?”

Lindir nodded with no small amount of pride.

“I have both Dwarvish tongues, the speech they call Khuzdul as well as their signs, named Iglishmêk. I learnt them when I was barely older than you are now, as the apprentice of Pengolodh of Gondolin himself, on his sojourn under the mountains. Ost-in-Edhil still stood then, and the friendship between Elves and Dwarves was greater than it is today. The Khazâd remember this. I have their trust and good will, a highly lucrative thing when handled adroitly. Much of our prosperity is built on trade with the Dwarves. Durin’s folk are forever in need of supplies given that they neither sow crops nor husband animals, and they pay in mithril. The Sindar are much closer than we are, but they tend to cherish their age-old grudges like heirlooms, and there is little trade between the Khazâd and Lórien or the Greenwood.”     

A lecture at every opportunity was clearly second nature to Lindir.

With visible reluctance the loremaster turned away from the shelved items towards his work-table. He pulled up two chairs and cleared its surface, replacing an armful of densely written scrolls with a wax tablet and stylus.

“This said, comparative linguistics and foreign tongues are passions of mine. It pains me we have no time to speak of them at length today.” His tone was truly regretful.

“You and I have no mean task before us; in fact, we have several tasks. Before anything else I am to teach you your letters. Meanwhile we will improve on your Sindarin, grammar and pronunciation both. Please do not take me ill, but you have a rather distinct Númenórean accent, and your syntax needs work.”  

He shot Elrohir a measuring glance, sounding his response.

It flowered into visible relief when Elrohir laughed. “I know. One or two of my relatives have mentioned it.”

Lindir, too, chanced a smile. “In a few years’ time you will grasp the magnificent irony of a son of Elrond of Imladris having anything less than perfect làmatyàvë. By then we will have remedied it.”    

He handed Elrohir a piece of vellum covered in blocks of calligraphed Tengwar.

“First of all, tell me what you know already?”

Elrohir shook his head dejectedly. “I am afraid I read only Haradi, not Elvish letters.”

Lindir suddenly beamed as if Elrohir had passed him a sack of diamonds.

“So the Haradrim do write? In a script of their own?”

If the loremaster had bubbled with quiet enthusiasm previously, it had now swollen to a fountain. “And of course Glorfindel never thought to mention it to me. He made the Haradrim seem an entirely preliterate culture. Serves to prove that decent observations in the field are too much to expect from a warrior.”

He winked conspiratorially at Elrohir; who nodded silently, perplexed. The sheet of Tengwar was summarily laid aside and replaced with the wax tablet.

“Show me?” Lindir beseeched as he eagerly pressed the stylus into Elrohir’s hand.

“What would you have me write?”

“Your name, perhaps?”

Elrohir complied, only realising midway through that force of habit had made him write his Haradi name. For a moment Lindir sat transfixed by the flowing script, then shot to his feet.

“Oh, I knew it! We have just the thing!”

With that exclamation he spun, robes aswirl, and disappeared through the door to the main library. Elrohir tried his best not to laugh out loud, all melancholy dispelled by the pleasant chaos that seemed to reign this peculiar corner of Imladris. In moments Lindir sailed back into his study, bearing an engraved metal cylinder the size of a quiver.

“This has been laying around ever since Erestor’s last venture to Annuminas. He took it off the royal librarians’ hands to keep the scrooges from scraping the vellum for re-use. It is said to have come from the Venturers’ Guild archives in Númenor. They had no idea what it was, and neither did we. I would be much obliged if you would settle a few long-running wagers?”   

With practised ease Lindir lifted a roll of ancient parchment from its protective housing and laid it out on the table, careful to touch only the leather tags attached for the purpose and not the sheet itself.

Elrohir bent over it, and could not help but smile at the sight of old friends.

“It’s a collection of songs, well-known ones. Most of these are being sung to this day, in Harad.”   

“What does this one say?”

“A very sappy love song. 'Your eyes are a gazelle’s, your lips like pomegranates, your rear  a …' well, so onwards for about ten stanzas.”

Lindir positively buzzed. “And this?”

“Part of an longer tale, a classic of two sundered lovers. ‘I shall engrave your image in blackest ink under the lids of my eyes, so that I may gaze upon you in my eternal sleep.’”

Lindir shot him a pointed look. “How cheerful. And very Mortal.”

Elrohir smiled apologetically.

“That’s Harad. Songs invariably end with the deaths of all involved in the ghastliest of ways, but they have their beauty, before that.”  

Lindir grinned.

“You will have a readily developed taste for Noldorin lays, then. I will start you on the Noldolantë.”

Elladan had already read his brother a couple of tales, of an evening, and Elrohir smiled.

“Ah, yes. Betrayal and amputated limbs. It made me feel right at home.“

Both laughed together, briefly unguarded, before the sight of Lindir’s smooth, high-cheeked face reminded Elrohir who he was talking to. Had their fates been different, and Lindir a Haradrim, or merely human, Elrohir knew for sure they would be friends.

Lindir was kind enough not to mention the sudden fall in Elrohir’s mood. Gently as a mother handling her newborn he returned the scroll to its cylinder and closed it.

“This is a fortunate discovery. The whole document shall need copying soon. Its vellum is aging, it will crumble to dust in the span of a few long-years. Would you be so kind as to make a book of it, with an annotated Sindarin translation alongside the original text? A fair copy as a courtesy to King Valandil’s library would not go amiss. Consider it the first task I will set you as your tutor.”

Elrohir was taken aback by the very idea that he should be remotely capable of crafting a book, much less one fit for the library of Imladris.

“Surely many others here are far better suited to the task? All I ever wrote were tallies and dispatches. I am neither scribe nor bookbinder, and I haven’t the first notion of Tengwar. All you will get out of this is a costly waste of parchment.”

Lindir shook his head. “Bookbinding is a trade onto itself, one we will leave to its masters. But I see no reason why you should not write out the pages. You do not strike me as ungainly. In just fifteen years you can develop a passable hand at calligraphy. You could finish both the book and its copy in five more, working at your ease.”

Elrohir could only stare in disbelief at casually being set a task so momentous it would take half a lifetime to complete. By the time he finished he would be seventy years old. By rights his body should fail him then, and release his soul to Eru. He knew for a fact it would not, that he would not look a day older than he did today, and the unexpected reminder of his own otherness stung.   

Lindir, being an Elf, could not begin to understand his sudden melancholy, but tried to ease it nonetheless.

“You do not have to do this, if it grieves you somehow. The book itself is not the main objective, though I admit I am aching to read it. Your education is.”

Elrohir shook his head. “I will try.” He knew he sounded far from enthusiastic.

Lindir’s tone turned grave.

“Lord Elrond has good reasons for sending you here before setting you to any other teachings. Your time in this library will soon prove wisely spent. A Noldorin noble is always a scholar. Complete mastery of words and letters is expected of one of your lineage. Your writing will be judged as much for its beauty as for the contents. It will represent you and the entire House of Eärendil across Middle-earth and beyond, to those who may never meet you in person.”

Lindir shared the peculiar Elvish habit of watching Elrohir’s eyes to read back the effect of his words. There was curiosity in Lindir’s own, to see what stuff Elrond’s second son was made of.

Elrohir laughed inwardly. Mostly pragmatism, was probably the answer.

“A miracle in just twenty years is a tall order, Master Lindir. We should get started.”

Soon two dark heads were bent over Lindir’s parchment. Talk flowed between them, punctuated by laughter that grew easier as the afternoon wore on.   

A sudden knock on the metal door rang through the study like a bell-strike, startling them both. Elrohir looked up for the first time in what he now realised had been hours. Beyond Lindir’s window the sun was setting, streaking light changing the ivory stone of the walls to poppy red.   

Lindir jumped to his feet, cheeks flushed. “I do believe I was meant to walk you back to your rooms an hour ago. Surely that is Master Ardil, come to see if you have tied me to my desk and run off.”

They exchanged a conspiratorial glance.

“Would you like me to pretend that I did? It should save you an upbraiding.” Elrohir’s whisper was only half-joking.

Lindir laughed, mirthful and unrestrained. “Do not trouble yourself on my account. My forgetful tendency has worn out Erestor’s sternness through the years. He has given up on berating me.”

Lindir swiftly opened the door to reveal a smiling Ardil. Elrohir felt a sudden wave of kinship with the ancient Sinda. He, too appeared to feel out of his element in the silent library, where Elves were the only living creatures amidst their inanimate works of stone and parchment.

“He is all yours, Master Ardil, with my sincere apologies for running so late.” Lindir gave a polite bow, which Ardil returned.

Elrohir followed Ardil, and they easily fell into step with one another. Intrusive as it was, Elrohir had to admit he no longer minded Ardil’s constant companionship as much. The man’s quiet but adroit manner had defused many an awkward situation, and he seemed to possess an endless patience for Elrohir’s difficulties.

Ardil sent Elrohir a searching look. “Did you enjoy your lesson?” There was another layer behind the question, one Elrohir could not fathom.

Knowing Ardil, he opted for practicality. “Lindir has important things to teach. And he is a pleasant man.”

Ardil smiled with genuine mirth and a tinge of relief. “That is well. You will need your letters.” In the next instant his tone sunk as for an admission, or some great confidence. “The library is not a place where you should necessarily linger. Certain other teachings are equally worthy of your attention, though you are not well enough for them yet.” He gave Elrohir an affectionate look. “In the spring perhaps, when you have gained some strength.”

They had reached the family dining room. The door stood ajar, spreading a wedge of golden lamplight on the patterned tiles of the hallway. Inside, Elrohir saw Celebrían rise from the table at the sound of their footsteps, beckoning him with a smile. Ardil had melted into the shadows of the darkening hall before Elrohir could ask him more.

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Chapter End Notes

And so Elrohir begins to connect with his Elvish heritage - or at least the Noldorin parts of it.

Thank you for reading, of course I'd be thrilled if you let me know what you think of this new chapter! 

See you next week, when Elrohir is shown the Sindar side of things.

Idrils Scribe