Before seeking the stables, I decided, after having some trouble finding the Hall of Fire without the help of Miss Adri, that I should learn my way around the Last Homely House a bit better. Simply meandering, taking in the beauty of the architecture and its many flourishes, I taught myself how to find the porch, the Hall of Fire, my rooms, the exit, and most importantly, the library. I didn't want to struggle to find it at sunset.
The weather was exceptionally warm for the season; it felt like a day in mid-autumn that is straining to remember the last flourishes of summer. The valley seemed not to know winter had found the lands around it; most of the trees still bore leaves in browns and golds, and the air had a wholesome and pleasant taste. It was a surprisingly long walk to the stable, but I had nothing but time, with nightfall a long way off. I spent much of the day simply exploring the paths of Imladris, crossing its many bridges, gazing at waterfalls, and listening to bird-song. How lovely the valley is, and how much more so it must be if you have someone to share it with.
For all the elegance of their construction, though, the stables were surprisingly similar to those I worked in. While the Elves might have an uncanny knack for having horses heed their wishes, and even Rascal behaved for them the way a horse might, otherwise, the work of a stable-keeper seems much alike between Elves and Men. Not even the Elves have figured out how to keep horses from making smelly messes, or found a better way to keep up with them than straw and shovels. The stable-keeper didn't seem much to mind me standing around watching, but he was far more resistant to any offers of help, or any inquiries about the craft; I left the stable little wiser than I had been when I found it. But it was good to visit Kestrel and Rascal, and be sure they were well tended.
As I made my hurried way back to the Last Homely House I encountered Miss Adri, who greeted me warmly and asked me how things had gone with Mirwen. She didn't seem surprised by the results, nor by my accounting of Mirwen's off-putting demeanor, but she was heartened that I was expecting an answer this evening. "Prob'ly we can be goin' tomorrow then," she said, "but I gotta do some'at else when we gets to Bree, for a couple days. See y' in the mornin'." And off she went. I wondered what her business was, that kept her so aflutter even here in the valley; but after all, it was her business, not mine.
Though everything about Rivendell, even its very air, seemed determined to fill one with serenity, I nevertheless grew anxious as I made my way back to the Last Homely House and sought out the library. I half wondered if Mirwen might not have found something in one of her books to occupy her, and forgotten about my question entirely. Indeed, as I approached her, she seemed deep in contemplation of some tome. I bowed and offered a cordial greeting, and when it elicited no response, I risked calling her "híril nín" as Miss Adri had taught me. I don't know if I pronounced it poorly, but Mirwen held up a finger, and I waited.
"There is much to be said, and learned, about the crafting of lanterns and similar handiworks that is fascinating," she finally began, not even looking up at me, "and the idea of a lantern with the properties you describe seems like it might have been promising, had it been presented to, or had it occurred to, one of the Ñoldor smiths of past Ages. Whether it would have been possible to make such a thing or not, I cannot say. I spoke to Hemeldir about it, as he is perhaps the most skilled master of the forge that yet lives, more so even than those of Laurelindórenan. He expressed doubts about the idea; not that such a lantern might be made, but that it would be able to do what your people believe it could. And he doubted that any that live in this Age could craft such a thing. We are not what we were in the days of Fëanor , nor even Celebrimbor; much has been lost or forgotten, and more yet set aside as we ready to leave these lands." These last words seemed melancholy, but not dissatisfied.
"But while I think it most likely that no such lantern was ever crafted, at least not as you describe it, Peace-Lover, I cannot say that this is so for certain. Had such a thing been created, one would expect that there would be some memory of it. Amongst one of the elder Elves that dwell here, but even the Lord of this valley knew nothing of such a lantern, when I spoke to him about it. Or in one of the histories recorded in these tomes. I spoke to many others who are better read in matters of history than I, since language is my primary area of study, and none found any more than had I. But it could have been made in secret, perhaps. If so, sadly, I cannot tell you where it could be, or anything else about it. All I can offer you, is that you may wish to ask your Thane whether the tale might be no more than a bard's fancy. I am sorry you've come so far only to have no better news, and I give you thanks for sharing your tale. I bid you welcome in Imladris, Peace-Lover."
And with me still reeling from these words, she turned back to her book, and once more it was as if I had already left, for my humble thanks and addled questions were for naught. In time I made my way back to the Hall of Fire, to stare blankly at the plate of meat and vegetables that was placed before me, scarcely touching it. I had allowed myself to hope she would somehow have an answer for me. In months past, I had accepted my failure, and the inevitability of reporting it to the Thane; yet I had also nurtured some quiet hope that I dared not utter to myself, that the Elves might pluck a triumph from the darkness. I still, I realized, kept that hope even after this news, imagining that the Elves of Dwimordene might know what even Mirwen had not. And I wondered if that hope were not like a stone in my boot.
But the idea that the lantern had never been: this was the more troubling. It had certainly occurred to me before, idly, but I never took it seriously. Could the counsellors of the King have mistaken a bard's tale for a true account? Why would any bard make up a tale of such a lantern, without the tale then telling of how it was used in some glorious triumph? Or perhaps the tale had been told that way, but only a fragment was remembered. Possibilities whirled through my thoughts faster than my slow wits could catch them, and in frustration I set aside the chase. I could do no more than present what I'd learned to the Thane. Let the wise make what they could of this wisdom; it was not mine to unravel.
Still, not even the legendary comforts of the Last Homely House could make my sleep untroubled that night. Before my closed eyes I saw the Thane, displeased, at the knowledge I brought; and I imagined Prince Théodred falling before some dark fate, and Théoden King hanging his head in grief at the loss, with all of the Eorlingas behind him, raising their voices in songs of lamentation. All save me, for I was not welcome to mourn the fate it had been set before me to avert.
I rose and packed away my possessions to be ready for an early departure, more to keep myself busy than to prepare myself, as it would only take a few minutes in the morning anyway. As I tucked away the carved wooden leaf, I wished, for the first time since leaving, that I'd brought the lamb I'd carved. It sat, leagues away, beside the bed in Hookworth I rarely used, watching over a house that was not mine. I couldn't even say why it brought me comfort to hold, since it was, if anything, a token of another failure; but nevertheless, I wished for the reassuring feeling of its solidity in my palm. It was long before I could find rest.
