Not Shortened by Anne Wolfe

Not Shortened

Read Not Shortened

It had rained for two full cycles of the moon.

 

Rain was a blessing, Anárion reminded himself; rain was a blessing, especially after two years of drought. But even the blessings, these days, tended to flood the valleys, wash away every withered crop from the fields, and freeze Anárion’s feet within his damp socks.

 

He sat by the study window, busy making a new copy of an old Quenya book. The old-fashioned script was stately, he supposed, but it was difficult to read. By now he had left off parsing the actual meaning of the words, only copying each character into a newer, simpler style.

 

The door to the study opened. Anárion looked up— it was grandfather.

 

“How goes the work?” asked Amandil.

 

“Slowly,” said Anárion. “And I fear that this damp may ruin all that has gone before. This is not good ink, you know.”

 

“Perhaps,” said Amandil. “But it is a good book. I think Ulmo will spare it.”

 

Anárion’s hand shook, and three great drops of ink fell from his pen to the desk. Quickly he blotted it up with the ink-rag. He laughed mirthlessly. “Well! In that case, may all the ridiculous pamphlets and posters and books of heresy that they store up in the capital be blurred into nothingness, if Ulmo takes charge of such things.”

 

“May they,” said Amandil quite seriously.

 

“What—” stuttered Anárion. “Well— Why, if— if the Valar take a personal interest in everything that happens, then surely these years have shown that we are forsaken! Two years of drought, and at this rate a year of rain, and what next year? Will fire come down from the Meneltarma, and cover over our houses to make a land for a better people?”

 

“Perhaps,” said Amandil, “perhaps. If the time ever comes that the Valar deem such action necessary, I imagine I will agree with them.”

 

By now Anárion had very nearly forgotten the book. “Do you think that time will come?” he asked, sitting very far forward in his chair. “Or do you think Númenor may yet be saved?”

 

“All of it?” asked Amandil. “No. Not now. Some of it? Perhaps, perhaps. It isn’t the island that matters, you know, or even the people, over the span of many years. The ideas matter. And a noble idea will withstand any flame.” 

 

“Only if people know about it,” said Anárion.

 

“Which is why we copy our books,” said Amandil.

 

They fell silent. Amandil attended to the high shelves, looking for the book that he had wanted all along. Anárion copied down the next page of the book.

 

“The rain lightens,” murmured Amandil, and indeed the sun had begun to fill the little study. One sunbeam landed on the old Quenya book, bringing a bit of faded gilt back to glimmering life. In gold a mighty eagle had been outlined, holding the head of a dragon in its beak.

 

Anárion looked at it. To any trained eye the lines appeared stiff and graceless. But on a whim he dipped his pen again in the ink, and drew a new eagle on his own book, in the very center of the page, twice as large as the old picture had been. And below the eagle he copied down the corresponding verse.

 

Is the breadth of the skies diminished?

Is the length of the wind shortened?

The skies remain, and the wind remains,

And all that is borne on the wind remains.

---

Chapter End Notes

It may be interesting to note that Arnor, the name of the realm which Anárion will go on to found, could theoretically be translated into English as "Noble Flame".