A sweet, slightly musty fragrance scented the air within the archive, the scent of aged paper, glue, and ink. It was a place for sober elves, brought there by their desire to study the histories of ages past, or to record their last memories of Middle-Earth before making the sea voyage west. For much of the day two scholars sat at a table reading and occasionally remarking to one another. Such an occurrence was common enough in the archive and no one there found their presence remarkable in the least. They were dressed in their usual plain grey robes that hung straight from their shoulders, and their hair was also gray and swept up with side combs carved of laurel and beech. No jewelry nor ornament did they wear, for scholars who spend less time on their dress are more ready to lose themselves in the dusty depths of ancient texts.
“…though my mind has grown a touch rusty about those great-grandsons, those twins cast into the wild wood.”
Tatharem looked up from her book. “What about them, dear?”
“Well, they were never found, as you well know.”
“That reminds me of a place, also named Wildwood, that is situated to the northeast, although I am unsure if there is any cave and waterfall there: the lands have greatly changed since the Sacking of Doriath, and the place where the twins of Dior Eluchil were abandoned may no longer exist–” Her low, slightly nasal drone halted as someone entered the archive, a glass of wine in his hand.
A short silence ensued, then Saelril whispered, “Why, it is Parnard; some folk call him the High Lord, for reasons unexplained.”
“Indeed?” Tatharem peered through the murky light of the candle-lit room for a better look. His outfit was sleek, sharply tailored, and undeniably stylish, though its heavy, intricate embellishments bordered on the ostentatious. Still, the luxury of it was captivating. Her eyes tracked up from the ornate fabric to his long, silvery-black hair, which was curling more than usual because of the humid weather.
Although the Wood-elf had passed the Duillond archive countless times on his way to the wine seller’s stall, he had crossed its threshold only once, years ago, to escape a heavy rain. The place looked much the same, he thought, and noticing that two ladies were regarding him closely, approached them in an easy and unconcerned manner. Determining that his presence was not unwelcome, he bowed low. Polite introductions were exchanged.
“Books, everywhere! Have you read them all yet?” Parnard laughed a loud, fruity laugh at this jest of his, and the guffaw ricocheted off a hundred leather-bound spines, shaking a fine mist of dust from the centuries-old volumes.
“Not yet,” Tatharem replied matter-of-factly, her face expressionless. She was not in the habit of smiling.
“I noticed you earlier outside, watching the wind stir the fountain flowers,” observed Saelril.
“Well—ahem!” Without any sign of embarrassment or timidity he explained his purpose: he was seeking learned counsel, and the scholar’s archive in Duillond seemed the best, and closest, place to find it.
“Our counsel is not always straightforward. We shall help if we can,” Saelril said, tucking her hair behind her ears. It was her tendency when excited.
“Quite so. We will advise as we may.” Although Tatharem remained unsmiling and spoke without the rapt enthusiasm of her fellow scholar, her manner was open and not unkind.
“Excellent news! You see, I came here in the greatest of haste after speaking with Estarfin and Danel–”
“He means the two Noldor with whom he resides,” Saeril noted to Tatharem.
Parnard’s eyes widened in surprise. This grey-garbed person whom he had just met must have somehow divined that from the few words he had spoken. He was deeply impressed and made even more eager to lay his dilemma before the feet of the learned scholars in hopes of a solution. “Yes, my good friends, the Noldor. Now, I do not wish to cause any alarm—but it vexes my very soul to confess that my armor, the finest masterpiece of steel in all the land, was stolen by a pack of sweaty Corsairs (those seafaring ruffians) conspiring with a particularly odious and treacherous dwarf. And at present I am on a quest of retrieval.”
“We have not seen your stolen armor.”
“No, no, no. Please allow me to explain.”
Tatharem set her book aside. It was a dense, dry record of elven genealogies that had held her attention for many hours. She rose to her feet, and in a voice as exciting as a bowl of lukewarm porridge said, “You have my undivided attention, Lord Parnard.”
“Thank you. I have since learned, on good authority, that those thieving dogs have parcelled out my suit of armor and trucked it off to market as so much—truck.”
She drew back, her thin fingers fluttering toward the high collar of her robe as if to shield her throat. To the bookish Sinda, Parnard’s mild indignation was palpable, and a bit overwhelming.
“Some of it was taken to Gondor, while some was sent to far-away Umbar. The city of the Corsairs,” he explained, unnecessarily.
“But men are the wrong proportions for elven armour,” Saeril protested. The younger scholar of the pair, she was quicker to voice judgments of opinion than her more reserved compatriot. “They are too stocky, with wide chests and big, short legs. Certainly, they have no dress sense, and will wear what they want, where they want.”
“We should not speak too much about them, Saeril, else we alarm the librarian and the clerks.” Tatharem cast a dolorous, heavy-lidded glance around the archive. “Oh—we are alone.”
“Estarfin and Danel did not warm very much to the idea of going to Gondor to look for my armour,” Parnard pressed on, his eyes bright with sudden intensity. “They each had their reasons, and I am sure they are very good ones, but…” He searched for the right words to frame his plight. “Danel said she went there and did not give a fig for it. It was plump full of tombs and inconstancy–”
“That is a very wise observation, Parnard,” Saelril interjected.
“--while Estarfin thinks nothing of anything Men do. He has a longstanding grudge against them, to put it mildly, and whenever he sees the Secondborn, he imagines the grass growing over their graves.”
Dark rumors to this effect had long been afloat in Imladris. “It occurs to me,” Saeril said, a knowing look in her eyes, “that if Estarfin went to Gondor he would not return. Neither would very many Gondorians return to their homes. ‘T’would be akin to tossing a lit torch into a room full of Orkish blasting powder.”
“Indeed, Gondor contains many thousands of stalwart men within her borders,” Tatharem agreed.
He stared at the two elf-women for several moments. “Thousands of men, you say?”
“You would be leading your friends to their doom,” Saeril said.
Tatharem furrowed her brow. "And then you must consider Gondor's allies," she cautioned. "Not even Fëanor and his army could hope to kill so many—not with all the Men of Gondor's seven fiefdoms standing together."
“Then we shall be stealthy, and sneak into their city wearing disguises.”
Saeril shook her head. “Brave, but reckless—just like the lords of old.”
“Oh, really?” said Parnard, looking remarkably pleased with himself for someone being called reckless. “And did it end well for them?”
“No.” She crossed her arms so that her hands vanished into her sleeves. “They usually died. The Lords of the Noldor are famed for their recklessness and are prone to sudden, fiery impulses. Noldorin blood is not without its dangers. They sometimes act without fully engaging their minds.”
“Ah, yes,” he sighed with the air of a weary survivor. “There is often a lot of shouting: ‘For the House of so-and-so!’ and so forth. Then, inevitably, the furniture is smashed to bits.”
A shadow crossed Tatharem’s placid face. She turned away, whispering a soft remark about losing the faith of the Valar.
“‘When faith is lost, so is favor,’” Parnard said. He quickly caught himself. The words had rolled off his tongue with an unexpected glibness that left him feeling rather impressed with his own wit. Where had he heard that saying before? There was a shadow lurking behind its meaning. He knew, in a vague and distant way, that the Noldor had a dark history; some he encountered seemed to forever lament their lost treasures and fallen kingdoms, while others did not speak about them at all. So far, despite his years-long friendship with two of their kind, the infamous history and guilt of the Exiles, the Kinslayers, remained beyond his ken. They preferred it that way.
Hearing the old proverb sparked joy in the ancient scholar’s heart. A gem of wisdom falls from his lips, she thought to herself.
“Then you believe it is a fool’s journey that will end in misfortune?”
“We are not seers, Lord.” Tatharem turned toward the deeper and dustier recesses of the archive, trailing her fingers along the shelves until she found the brown leather map case. Inside nestled a yellow cylinder of parchment that she carefully unrolled and weighed down with several small stones. “Herein is kept a map of the South Kingdom and what its men call the ‘White City’, or Minas Tirith.”
His eyes darted across the faded ink lines on the vellum. As the scale of the Men’s realm unfurled before him, his expression shifted from eager anticipation to something resembling mild indigestion. “What are these little dotted lines?” he asked, tapping at a series of faint dashes transecting the northern marches of Gondor.
“Those are the borders of the holdings of the horse-riders. Unfriends,” she emphasized.
Parnard snapped his fingers. “Now I recall it! I tramped through a portion of that land some years ago with a large host of Noldor who were all fired-up like a bright band of candles eager to melt themselves, so fierce was their anger. It was not that bad a journey, though Estarfin wore out the soles of his boots, so I lined them with paper to keep the water out. It only made his feet soggy.”
After confessing his inadequate cobblering skills, he proceeded to make a minute inspection of the map’s topography, using his thumb to gauge the distance between the Ered Luin and Minas Tirith. The scholars retreated to a corner and began to hurriedly whisper.
“Too many Elven lords were lost due to their foolhardiness and pride. We cannot encourage this,” Tatharem insisted.
“Well, of course! My thought is to counsel patience. Telling them a thing is impossible only goads them on. Although their pride may be less, the Woodland Folk are twice as foolhardy than the Noldor.”
“A contrary wind blows through their minds. Remember King Oropher? He might have had some Noldorin blood— a strange theory I have heard, which might explain his inordinate pride and rashness.”
“It is a strange theory, indeed! Oropher’s particular failing was marching to war with inadequate weapons and armor. His real battle was against the inescapable shadow of Noldorin blood—he could not bear the thought of being upstaged by their wild and proud legacy, and he threw his people into ruin because of his hubris.”
A half smile almost tugged at the corners of Tatharem’s mouth. “We two are fortunate not to share that particular frailty.” The comparison was, of course, utterly ludicrous.
“Then we are in agreement,” Saelril tittered.
They returned to the table and flanked the Wood-elf, their faces as calm and inscrutable as those of two weathered caryatid figures, Tatharem resting a hand on the margin of the map, while Saelril kept hers snugged into the folds of her sleeves.
“See you the seven-layered fortifications surrounding Minas Tirith?” began Tatharem in her solemn and stolid manner. “To get there, you must cross through many miles of territory inhabited by feuding tribes of wild Men, traversed by brigands and roving bands of Orc, and teeming with innumerable wicked-hearted creatures. Tell him of the multitudinous dangers inside the Central Wilderness*, Saelril.”
“Alas, Estarfin would cut his way through the lands as a farmer threshes hay.” Saelril had resided in Imladris for a time and knew something of the Noldo’s misdeeds, which had been the talk of the Valley at one point. It was said through local gossip that he was now living in a remote village far to the west. “But Lord Parnard does not need me to tell him to be wary, so I shall not.”
“It certainly does not take a seer to foresee getting skewered on the road,” he muttered. His newly kindled enthusiasm, which had blazed so brightly before, was suddenly reduced to a feeble flame.
Tatharem inclined her head slightly in a subtle gesture of approval. “We elves are granted the time and wisdom to wait with grace. That you must also consider.” Parnard looked confused, so she added, “‘Waiting is bitter, but the fruit is sweet’.”
“It is easy to want all things as soon as possible,” Saelril chimed in. She tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. “Lord Parnard, many lines among the Noldor, and a few of the Sindar too, were snuffed out due to pride and impetuousness.”
“We implore you to wait and be patient, and in good time, what was lost shall be found.”
“Are you saying that my armor will return to my possession, no matter what I do, even if I was to do nothing?”
The scholars stared at one another. The idea of achieving something by doing absolutely nothing presented a novel and surprising paradox. Hours later, both scholars would be elbows-deep in discussion over this new theory of non-action.
“Not…entirely,” Tatherem responded, her manner less assured now. “Think of a riverbed, Parnard. It is built of countless stones, and you are but one of them. You seem to believe you can sit still, yet expect the current to carry you to your fated shore. But you fail to realize that if even one stone shifts, the riverbed beneath the water alters. Your agency is part of that very riverbed; move out of position, and you change the flow of the river itself. Even against the dark currents of destiny, your own will may still turn the tide. But you must take care.”
“I shall have you know that I am a very careful elf—the carefulest elf on both sides of the mountains.”
“May I remind you that your armor is in a city of men, nay, in two cities. If you go to either one it is likely that you shall never return. Your priority instead should be to secure your lineage.”
“Saelril speaks the truth, Lord Parnard.”
“Now I see what you are driving at: you think that I will not brood over my lost possessions if I am occupied with a wife.”
“It is your destiny we speak of, not your feelings. This is our counsel. Armor does not secure a future—a wife and children do.”
“Hmpf! Then where can Destiny tell me to find them? Because the wife I wished for spurned my hand.”
“Oh? Who was it?”
He drew himself up to his full height as if insulted by Saelril’s question, and replied with an air of gloomy pride, “Her name does not matter.”
“Is there no other elleth you are at least fond of? One who holds you in high regard?” she persisted in a gentle, beseeching tone, determined to help, struck by his good looks and sympathetic to his lovelorn plight.
He thought a little, and answered, somewhat stiffly, that many ladies held him in high regard.
“Good, good. Then there is hope.”
Tatharem held a finger up. “Keep your eyes open. It is a common fact that misplaced items are situated directly in front of a person, only to be noticed when one has stopped looking. Love is similar; oftimes it is right under one’s nose, and found when least expected. Make it the object of pursuit, and it will lead you on a merry chase. Follow it like a butterfly that roves from flower to flower, and very possibly you might find that you have caught it, but likely enough it is gone, eluding your net. Yet if you sit quietly, it may alight upon you.”
Parnard put a hand on his hip. He had not expected to receive this kind of counsel. "I have absolutely no idea what you just said,” he admitted. “Nevertheless, it is good of you, mightily good of you to try and buck me up, but—” He sighed, draining the last drop of wine from his cup. “This is what I have decided. I will not go to Gondor. I will not do it! My mind is utterly made up, and on this point, I am as unshakable as the stars in the firmament.
“Please do not mistake my stubbornness for ingratitude. Both of you have been very helpful and I am in your debt—just say the word, and you shall be warmly welcomed at Númenstáya. Danel owns quite a number of books that you might find interesting, though what they are about, she would have to tell you herself.”
The scholars looked at each other, their eyes gleaming as they mistook Parnard’s casual invitation as the beginning of a grand gesture of lordly patronage, with all the accoutrements: unlimited parchment, expensive inks, and a comfortable, private archive where they would not need to worry about the cost of beeswax candles or winter charcoal. Far outshining these advantages, however, was their deep love of discovering forgotten truths about complex familial connections amongst the clans of the Eldar. “We shall gladly visit. A scholar’s work is nothing without a worthwhile subject to study,” they responded, bowing their grey heads in quiet satisfaction.
And you, High Lord, are our most ambitious subject yet!
*: Enedwaith
