The Light is Still There by Aldwen

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Chapter 4

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Day draws towards evening when there is an impatient knock on the door of my cabin. I put aside the sketchbook I have nearly filled with quick drawings to pass time during the journey and rise to open. When I see who is there, irritation flares up again.

“What do you want?”

This time, my cousin does not reply in his usual quick and biting way. Instead, he stands silent on the threshold for a few moments, frowning, clearly ill at ease.

“I need your help.”

I raise my brows. “Did you just misspeak, Ingwil?” After days of him taunting me, I am not inclined towards kindness.

He waves his hand impatiently. “Listen, Arafinwë, I think I can figure out the language of Hither Lands. But I need your help. Your gift of mind-talk. My ability at ósanwe is… somewhat lacking, at least for a venture like this.”

“I guess one cannot be brilliant at everything.”

“Indeed not. Will you come?”

I regard him in disbelief. The arrogant fool has not even understood the mockery in my words. For a heartbeat I am tempted to slam the door in his face. But we need to understand the language of the Elves of this land, and ósanwe may help. Therefore, I nod and follow him with a resigned sigh.

Súlion is awake and risen from bed, his tattered clothing exchanged for a Telerin sailor’s garb. A faint smile curves his lips when he sees me, but it disappears at the sight of my cousin, a stranger he has not yet met.

“Súlion, this is Ingwil,” I speak to his mind. “He has some skill with languages. If you would consent, we would try to understand some of your speech.”

“Certainly.” He looks at me, then at Ingwil and nods.

“How shall we proceed?” I ask my cousin.

He furrows his brow for a while, thinking.

“Ask him to name things,” he then says. “Those I will tell you. Slowly and clearly.”

I nod. “Very well.”

And so we proceed. I speak to Súlion mind-to-mind what Ingwil tells me, he replies aloud in his language, and Ingwil listens attentively and writes everything down in a notebook, underlining some parts of words or connecting them with lines. At first there are only words - words denoting things and actions, words describing features. Then come parts of sentences or entire short phrases. My cousin clearly knows what he is doing. His face glows with excitement; it is a face of one immersed deep into something he loves, of one carried away by the pursuit. Maybe his verses are born like this too, with the same ardent passion and devotion.

Many pages are already filled with words and phrases when Ingwil stops asking. A long silence falls as he scribbles swiftly in his notebook. Then he raises his head and looks at Súlion. And then, he speaks to him.

Súlion’s eyes at first widen in disbelief, but then he replies excitedly. Ingwil shakes his head; it is too fast. Súlion repeats his words more slowly. Ingwil laughs in delight.

“I understand! I can understand him!”

He speaks again, a somewhat longer sentence; Súlion smiles and replies, and corrects him in places. Their conversation becomes more and more fluent. Ingwil looks in his notes and sometimes asks my assistance, but that happens more and more seldom. It seems that words he has already collected are enough to lead him to new words; line after line of swiftly drawn Tengwar appears in his notebook, words clustered together or accompanied with quick sketches. In this moment I have forgotten his insults and feel something very near to awe. My cousin truly has a brilliant mind.

Dusk grows in the windows, and I rise to light the lamp. Suddenly Ingwil looks at me and laughs.

“I got carried away, cousin,” he says. “Come, I will explain this language to you. It is indeed not too complicated; I am certain even you can learn it fast enough.”

I swallow the insult, for I wish to learn the language of this shore, and the fastest way now is through my cousin’s instruction. A few more hours pass in learning. Ingwil explains well, I must admit that; soon I am able to grasp the meaning of Súlion’s words and put together simple phrases. Nothing like the elaborate sentences my cousin already builds, of course. He speaks Sindarin, the tongue of the Elves of Endórë, like he speaks Quenya – savouring the beauty of subtly joined words like pearls on a string, relishing in his skill and the sound of his own voice. This irritates me, and at last I fail to hold back a biting remark.

“You are truly brilliant in the matters of language, cousin,” I say. The conceited smile that appears on his face vexes me further. “Indeed, you almost come close to Fëanáro in this regard.”

His smile disappears instantly, his eyes flash.

“Do not compare me to him!”

“Why not?” I shrug. “You know, it has occurred to me that you are quite similar in many ways, the swiftness of thought not the only one.”

The blow is apparently well-aimed and painful. Ingwil springs to his feet and rushes out of the cabin, slamming shut the door.

Taken aback by his sudden departure Súlion looks at me. “Why did he leave?”

I chase away the faint feeling of guilt; then turn away from the mind-talk and reply with words. “I said… something he not liked.”

“Something he did not like.” Súlion corrects me. “Is he your brother? You are so alike.”

That is true, we look alike. We are of the same height, our hair is of the same shade of dark gold, our eyes are of the same blue hue. Even our faces have similar features. But it ends with appearance. Ingwil is arrogant. I am not. Ingwil always puts himself forward, and his voice rings over all others. I usually stand aside and listen. Contrary to my cousin, I listen to other people.

“No.” I shake my head, faintly irritated by Súlion’s remark. “Not brother. He is…” I leaf through Ingwil’s notebook and find not the word I seek, so I must explain it. “His father is my mother’s brother.”

“Your cousin then. I thought you must be of the same family.”

“We are not friends.” I shrug. “He does not like me. I do not like him.”

“Still, he is of your family.” A strange, sorrowful expression appears on his face as he says that.

“Are you not weary?” I ask, to steer the conversation away from Ingwil.

“A little,” he admits. “But we can talk some more if you want.”

“No, rest. We shall talk again tomorrow.” I rise to go, seeing that he rubs his eyes. “I am glad to speak your language with you. To learn. I am…” I look in vain in the notebook for the words ‘grateful’ or ‘thank you’. “What do you say when someone does something good for you? Or when you receive something?”

“Hannon le.” He smiles.

“We say - hantanyë,” I reply, noting the similarities. “Thank you, Súlion. Rest well.”

When I leave, I take Ingwil’s notebook with me. Instead of bringing it to him at once, I sit all night by the light of the lamp studying it. The further I get, the better I notice the rules of the language, the words that are the same or nearly so in Sindarin and Quenya, the underlying structures that are different in some respects but alike in others. Now I can see that somewhere far back in time there was one tongue that branched out in two different directions. Morning already colours the sky when I close the notebook, take it to Ingwil’s cabin and slide under his door.