Bookkeeper by StarSpray

Bookkeeper

It was a bright morning in spring. There wasn't a cloud to be seen in the clear blue sky, and the birds were singing in the hedgerows, and all the spring flowers in Elanor's garden were in bright bloom. By the window roses were climbing, pink and red, and daisies waved beneath them, mingling with the little golden flowers that were Elanor's namesake. She could not see them from her desk by the window, of course, but she could see the tops of the daisies, and the sunflowers down by the garden gate standing proud like golden sentinels.

In a few hours, after lunch, she would go out and do a bit of weeding, and tend to the vegetable patch and perhaps cut some rosemary from the herb garden to use with supper that night, if Elfstan remembered to fetch the lamb from the butcher shop. But at the moment she had other work to do.

On the desk lay the Red Book. It was still in quite good condition, though the edges of the cover and the pages were soft and worn by much turning, and Elanor knew that on the page where the dwarves sang the song about breaking all of Bilbo's dishes there was a stain on the upper corner—an accident from her childhood when she had gotten a bit too excited at the story and spilled her father's tea all over the table. It was lucky only one corner was stained. She had learned her letters out of that book, she and all her brothers and sisters. And now it was time to put them to real use. The book would not stay as it was forever—perhaps the Elves knew how to keep things like leather and paper from decaying, and ink from fading, but Elanor suspected those arts had been mostly lost when the Rings went away over the Sea.

Of course, she knew it wasn't the book itself that was the important thing—it was all the stories inside it. But she would be sorry indeed when her father's writing was no longer readable, and the maps old Mister Bilbo had drawn faded away or were lost when the paper crumbled.

For now, at least, the book was as solid and readable as it had ever been, and Elanor had decided it was better to start making copies now than to wait until it was nearly too late. She carefully laid out her papers—a great stack just off to the side, though she thought she would have to get more before she was done—and a good supply of ink and her favorite pen and penknife. She had watched her father make two copies of the Red Book, during his lifetime. One had gone down to Minas Tirith and the King, wrapped up with immense care and trusted to no one but Gimli. The other had been for Uncle Pippin and the library he had been putting together at the Great Smials, which had never had a proper one before, with what books there were just scattered through dozens of old mathom-rooms. Uncle Merry had done something like it at Brandy Hall, but he had come to Bag End to make his copy himself.

With the window open, Elanor could hear Fastred outside with Fíriel, somewhere out of sight. She could also look out past the garden and up at the hills where the White Towers gleamed in the sunshine. Elves still lived in Lindon, though fewer and fewer as time went on, and on starry evenings they could hear them singing. Elanor smiled, opened the Red Book, picked up her pen, and began to write.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…