To Whom It May Concern by Anne Wolfe

To Whom It May Concern

Chapter One

Mt. St. Helens, Washington

“You are so lucky to live up here, Becca!” Ethel grinned through her shivers. “Back home it’s been an oven all month.” She shoved a persistent clump of dense curls back under her hat.

“What I’d give…” Rebecca’s three scarves muffled her voice considerably. “I don’t see how you can stand the cold, Eth. I’d rob a whole bank to be able to work from Mom and Dad’s.”

“Too bad I didn’t go into accounting. I’d go hiking every day after work if I had your job.” Ethel plunked her hiking stick on the rocky trail with every step.

“You can paint anywhere, can’t you? You could just move in with me.” Rebecca plied her stick with but the faintest whisper of sound, as if thinking she might see a moose plod into her field of vision if only she was quiet enough.

Ethel pursed her lips. “I guess, but Mom and Dad would get lonely.”

“Ahh.” Rebecca nodded. “Can’t have that. Maybe they could move up here?”

“Like they’re ever going to leave Great-grandpa’s farm.”

“Oh, yeah… Well, I’m sure we can figure something out. If you want.”

They walked in silence for some time, frequently pausing for water or a small snack.

Ethel squinted into the distance. “Hey, Becca. You see that?” She pointed a mittened finger in the pertinent direction.

Rebecca also squinted. “Well, I sure see something weird. Do you suppose someone tripped and dropped their flashlight?”

“Perhaps… Hey, there isn’t any rule against getting off the trail, is there?”

“I’m sure it’s disapproved of at the very least. The ground can’t be very stable— Ethel Sarah Meyer, what on this green earth are you doing?”

Ethel hopped off the beaten path and bolted for the glowing splotch in the distance. “I’m just getting the flashlight— I’ll be back in a jiffy!”

The light source was buried under a pile of small rocks, and indeed one more pebble might have obscured it from view entirely. Ethel swiped the top layer away, revealing—

“Oh, say it ain’t so.”

A brilliant white gem lay nestled among other, more common stones. It glowed.

She had read about such things as these, forbidden things which brought an ill fate to any who dared possess them. If her knees had not failed her, she might have stood. She might have returned to Rebecca. She might have left the whole ages-old, supposed-to-be-fictional mess behind her.

She could not stand. Her knees collapsed under her, and her saliva seemed to boil in her mouth. Oh goodness, she was going to throw up if she didn’t do something. She pulled her scarf off, and took deep breaths of the cold air. Eventually her mouth returned to its normal temperature. She replaced her scarf.

Since she could not stand, she sat.

Well. Perhaps she ought to think about things— it would certainly be better than running blindfolded, so to speak. She looked away from the jewel and shut her eyes.

The entire Silmarillion stood as good evidence for why she ought to calmly leave without even touching the thing— but someone who hadn’t even read The Hobbit might come across it and decide it would be a cool souvenir. Ethel shuddered to think of the bloodshed that would result from that— oh, bother it all.

She’d have to take it. She couldn’t trust anyone else with it.

Not wanting it to burn her hand, Ethel left her mittens on to grab the Silmaril and stuff it in her backpack. Shoving it down under the extra water and trail mix, she began the walk back to where Rebecca still waited with tapping toe and crossed arms.

“I got it!” Ethel forced a carefree grin.

“You’d better have. Why’d you sit down for so long?”

“Had to take a breather. I’m absolute garbage at sprinting.”

“Wimp.” Rebecca punched Ethel’s shoulder. 

Ethel laughed. “Oh, sure, Miss can’t-take-the-cold.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Come on, let’s finish this hike.”

To Whom It May Concern

Chapter Two

A Farm in Oklahoma

“Arrgh!” Inside her bedroom, Ethel mashed random keys on her laptop. “Why! Won’t! It! Sound! Right!”

She glanced at the time. Five-thirty. She had half an hour left until dinner. Only one hour she had needed to unpack, but three hours had not sufficed to give I Have Found a Silmaril - Inquire Inside the proper feel. It was short enough, too. So much grief over so small a thing.

“Bother it all,” she muttered for the forty-seventh time since she had found that thing. “I’m not writing some sort of full-blown business letter, I don’t have enough information for that… Well, better slightly inaccurate formality than flippancy. Draft eight… no, draft three… no, draft eight.” That second paragraph still seemed off… No, no second thoughts allowed. The Important Persons probably had senses of humor anyway, especially when the jokester was willing to work with them.

The eighth draft of I Have Found a Silmaril - Inquire Inside went something like this.

To whom it may concern:

The writer of this letter has found one (1) of the objects known as Silmarils. The writer of this letter wishes to return this object to its rightful hereditary owner; thus, if that rightful hereditary owner shall see this letter, it shall be that rightful hereditary owner’s duty to contact the writer of this letter. The two parties will then decide on a meeting ground where the transfer of the property will take place.

If one who is not the rightful hereditary owner of the discussed object shall read this letter and that person shall attempt to retrieve the discussed object, it shall be understood that that person deserves what is coming to him.

-TheStubbornestShoelace

þÞþÞþ

A/N So in all seriousness, just pm me if you’re interested. ;)

Reviews will be rewarded with virtual peanut butter cookies, or sugar cookies if you’re allergic.

See y’all next fic!

Ethel squinted at the screen for 4.53 seconds, had second thoughts, and deleted the bit about fraudulent claimants deserving what they got. She posted it, and the click of her mouse rang like a death-knell in her ears.

Ethel peeked out the window, hoping all the combined armies of the remaining elves wouldn’t be converging on her parents’ property en masse. Well, realistically, that would probably only be about ten elves, maybe twenty. If she, Mom, and Dad each had guns, and they fired at a rate of one per minute, and she allowed them to all miss every other shot, and they saw the elves coming from at least… fourteen miles away-- Oh, good grief. She’d just put out as open an invitation for peaceful negotiation as she had the resources to. She didn’t need to make battle plans.

Besides, considering the property, thick with all the trees Dad could get to grow, no one would see any hostile forces coming until those forces got to the lawn. Bother it all.

Ten minutes remained until dinner-time. She looked under her bed. No wildlife save a wayward cricket and a few lovestruck moths disturbed the Silmaril, safe in its Tupperware box.

She poked it a bit closer to the wall.

An absurd amount of caution? Almost certainly; Beren hadn’t had any troubles until Carcharoth got involved, and Ethel had never killed anything more sentient than deer. But there had been wars, and thousands of people had died, and at least she ought to respect the things. In any event she didn’t want to try to explain it all to Mom and Dad.

Nudging a few of the crickets’ deceased brethren out of her path, Ethel started the walk to the bathroom, her heart thudding all the while.

To Whom It May Concern

Chapter Three

A Farm in Oklahoma (Again)

Ethel stared at the brief message, a heavy pit of dread forming in her stomach.

‘I am interested in your offer. I cannot write much now, but I am very willing to negotiate a return of property,’ wrote a person by the name of the-last-of-his-house.

As she went to the author’s profile, the pit of dread grew worse and worse. The profile itself was virtually nonexistent, only saved from complete oblivion by the list of works. (One, for The Silmarillion.) That work, titles The Autobiography of Maglor Feanorian, looked to be one of the most popular ongoing works in the entire fandom. How had she ever missed it?

The sprawling, detailed work spanned already from the author’s earliest memories to his father’s exile from Tirion, and looked to be updated daily. She read a few chapters, but as it threatened to pull her in entirely and leave her commission’s prepared canvas still blank on the morrow, she made herself close the window. She could read it later, when she had fewer worries.

What little she had read did have a particularly realistic feel to it, and all the recognizable characters were unfailingly in character, even in childhood.

Bother it all. The message certainly seemed genuine, and at least she’d be rid of the thing. She’d be impulsive for once in her life.

Riding a shaky wave of adrenaline, Ethel thought out her message to the-last-of-his-house. ‘I am very glad to see your message,’ her quivering hands typed, ‘and I am very willing to return your property. I do not have the resources to travel very far, but I can probably get anywhere in Oklahoma, north Texas, south Kansas, southwest Missouri, or west Arkansas, if necessary. If you wish to choose the meeting location, please reply with the necessary information.’

She made herself send it. She made herself shut the computer down, stand up, and walk over to her easel. She made herself get out the paint, and start forming the shape of dancers in motion.

Her shaking hands added an effect almost like motion blur.

To Whom It May Concern

Chapter Four

Tulsa, Oklahoma

‘I will travel wherever will be most convenient,’ he had replied. ‘Please send a location, date, and time in your next message.’

‘Tulsa City-County Library, noon, February fourth,’ she said back. Hoping to sound more obliging, she added, ‘If that isn’t too soon.’

‘It is not too soon. Which branch?’

‘The one right in downtown Tulsa.’

‘I see, thank you. I will be there at the appointed time.’

‘Do you need directions?’

‘I do not, but I appreciate your cooperation.’

The last message gave her such a warm and fuzzy feeling as to almost overrule the voice in the back of her head screaming, ‘You idiot! You’re talking to a stranger on the internet, and worse, giving him your location! This goes against everything you were ever taught about responsible internet usage!’

Regardless of personal misgivings, she stuffed the Silmaril in an oven mitt, to muffle the light, then drove herself to the library on February fourth, and started so early for fear of heavy traffic that she reached it an hour before the appointed time. Across the freezing parking lot she made her way, then spent fifty-three minutes roaming the various aisles.

At the fifty-fourth minute, her phone softly pinged. She had an email.

Ethel set the Silmaril in its Tupperware container on a nearby shelf. Setting her laptop on her left forearm and bracing the back with her hand, she typed the password right-handed. She had a message from the-last-of-his-house, it seemed.

‘I am here. You have the Silmaril, I hope.’

‘I do.’

‘Good. Where are you?’

‘In nonfiction. I’m the one looking nervous and holding a laptop and a Tupperware container.’

He replied no more, so she shut the laptop and stepped out into a main aisle.

A tall, dark-haired man— well, elf, she supposed— stood in the entry. He held a laptop, and was asking a librarian something. The librarian, as he replied, pointed toward the nonfiction section.

He turned around, and Ethel quite forgot that breathing was necessary for life. Not from something as petty as attraction, but from the sheer fact that this— this was a living being, to be sure, but he was history, had seen it and shaped it. The very air around him seemed weighted with an unspeakable age.

Maglor looked right in Ethel’s eyes. She quaked, but shifted the container into her left hand to give a small wave of recognition with her right. He nodded in response, then turned back to the librarian, who was not done talking.

The librarian finished. The elf turned, and walked over to her. He set his laptop on a nearby table. “Are you the stubbornest shoelace?”

Her face flushed. “Um, yes. It’s kind of a dumb username, but, uh…” She set her laptop and the Tupperware container on the same table, then held her right hand out to shake. “Um, you can just call me Ethel. It’s shorter.”

He smiled (though it didn’t look happy) and shook her hand. “I see. I suppose you already know my name.”

His presence seemed to fill the whole library— and what was she supposed to do with her hands? “Ah, yes, sir.” She settled for clasping them behind her back. “Well, I know how it’s written, in the Roman alphabet at least. I’m not sure exactly how it would sound out loud.”

“Hmm.” He raised his eyebrows as he looked about the room. “You said you had the Silmaril. Did you speak truly?”

“Yes…” She pulled a folded piece of blank printer paper from her pocket. “If you don’t mind my asking, the… um… the Eldar heal faster than humans, right?”

“Yes…” He crossed his arms, the smile gone. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, how long would you take to heal from, say, a paper cut?”

“What…” His brow furrowed, but, after looking at the piece of paper for a few seconds, it went back to normal. “Ahh, you mean to test me. Very prudent.” He held out his hand. “Here, give me the paper. I do not think it should take more than a minute to heal.” He unfolded the paper, then swiftly slashed the edge across his left thumb. As Ethel watched, almost forgetting to breathe, the unbleeding gap closed, then the skin knitted together, leaving no scar.

She looked at her watch. No more than thirty seconds had passed. “Well. I guess, uh…” She grabbed the container that held the Silmaril and held it out to him before she could have second thoughts. “Here.”

He took it. “There is naught in here but…” He held it up, close to his narrowed eyes. “An oven mitt. Do you mean this to be some sort of joke?”

“No, no! It’s inside the mitt!” She held her hands out in front of her, as if surrendering. “I didn’t want it glowing everywhere and attracting attention, and that’s just what I had on hand. That’s all. It’s inside there, I promise.”

He twisted it open, then gingerly removed the oven mitt. He looked inside it, and a beam of light struck him in the face.

He looked at it for some time before stuffing the oven mitt back into the container.

“You can keep the Tupperware and the oven mitt,” Ethel ventured. “I don’t need them, really. My mom keeps buying things like that on sale then giving them to me. I’ve got an overabundance of them.”

“I see.” He closed the lid. “I thank you for your cooperation.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a dark leather wallet. “You will want some sort of compensation, I suppose…” he said as he looked through the uncreased bills.

She was just glad to be alive, really. “Well, I’d not refuse it, but of course I don’t wish to impose-”

He pulled out multiple hundred dollar bills, folded them in half, and handed them to her. Good gracious, at least a thousand dollars sat in her hand! So caught up was she in trying to count the cash without dropping any that she forgot to politely insist she couldn’t possibly take so much.

This smile was faintly reminiscent of that smile her parents used to get, back when she was very little and still did funny things. He returned the wallet to his pocket. “Are you familiar with any good restaurants in this area?”

“I’m afraid the most high-end I ever really go is Cracker Barrel, sir.” She picked her laptop up again, just to have something to do with her hands. She hugged it close. “The food is good, at least I think so, but… um…” Where had she been going with that? She frowned at the floor.

“Hm.” He briefly grimaced, then set the Tupperware next to his laptop and began stretching his fingers as he spoke, as from a cramp. “So long as they have food other than hamburgers, their fare would seem as the very finest, after the trip here.”

She snorted with laughter, but hastily backtracked. “I don’t mean any offense, sir, but it’s just the strangest mental image-”

“Roast boar is in short supply in these latter days.”

“Of course- I didn’t mean it in reproach. I just thought-” She stopped. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“Few do,” he said, whatever that meant. He stretched his hands before him, and performed an odd series of motions, almost as if- Oh, he was pretending to play a harp. A bit strange, but she had known pianists who did much the same thing. Apparently satisfied with whatever he had been testing, he picked up his laptop and the Silmaril. “As I said before, I thank you for your cooperation.” He turned to leave.

“Wait! I- um…” She fumbled her phone out of her coat pocket. “I- would you be willing to take a picture?”

He turned back, half-facing her. “Why?”

“Um- well, I wouldn’t be putting it on the internet or anything, I promise, it’s just- this is a bit extraordinary, and I’m not used to extraordinary things happening. Not to me, at least. And I don’t know if anything else extraordinary is ever going to happen to me again, and I’d like to have something to remind me. Even if I go all forgetful when I get old.” Seeing he still appeared skeptical, she continued, “If I wanted to go around publishing that all… well, all that actually happened, I would have done it already. I’d just have gone around talking all about it the instant I had the slightest shred of evidence.”

“I do not need to be told that.” He stood still for a long few seconds. “Very well,” he said, dumping his possessions back on the table, “but be quick. I have a long drive ahead of me.”

Ethel hurriedly decided on a facial expression that she hoped was neither too gleeful nor too glum, ran her tongue over her teeth to verify that no bits of her breakfast remained stuck between them, and turned the phone onto inside camera mode.

The picture was of course slightly blurry, but it was a picture.

He left as abruptly as he had arrived, after some generic farewell.

Ethel stood in the library, every foolish instinct stirring inside her. She wanted to run after him, to beg for— something. She didn’t know what. Knowledge, maybe. A chance to become history in her own right.

An old daydream returned to her. She had seen herself on a battlefield, falling in service of an honorable war—

Ethel blinked, firmly, and put all her facial features back where they belonged. She did not at all want to die, or to do the sort of thing that would put her in a history book. It was all leftover delusions, and she never should have gotten into Romanticism as a teenager, or Classicism, or whichever -ism it was that set all these yearnings in her heart.

She went home. She had promised to paint a vase of daisies for a senior citizen in Wyoming.

Whether she was content with her life thereafter is another thing entirely. By the time she turned forty I have it on good authority that she had nearly managed it. But she was never satisfied. None can be, who have glimpsed one remnant of that high, fey world that was.