Miruviel’s eyes widened. “What about the two scholars?” Glancing at Fearanië she added, “I myself have little time to linger beside open windows.”
Fearanië feigned innocence. “Sometimes folk speak in loud voices. But I have heard little about them, save that they arrived in Celondim some weeks ago, and are now at the library in Duillond, with Dorongur’s permission to study. But what does it mean?”
Holding up a hand to slow her chattering, Filignil said, “From the little I have heard, they work upon a private matter for Imladris.” Her face grew stern. “Be cautious with tittle-tattle, both of you. While most of Númenstáya know something is afoot with those ladies, we do not know anything for certain. They have not spoken with any save Captain Culufinnel and Lord Parnard to my hearing, and they have not told me anything about it. From what I gather it is something to do with their family history. Some scholars spend much of their lives trying to sort out ancient lineages–but that does not necessarily mean they are actually of noble blood, or that they are even interested to know more about it.”
Miruviel and Fearanië exchanged eager glances. “Is it a secret, Filignil? It sounds very interesting,” they giggled.
“It is no secret. I suspect the scholars will need to visit Mirkwood to find out more, if they have not done so already.”
“Where is Lord Parnard’s kingdom? Will he go there and reign over it?” Miruviel asked.
Filignil sighed. This talk was far from over. “If he is indeed a High Lord,” she almost snorted, “it could be anywhere, or nowhere at all.”
“Many of the oldest kingdoms are under water,” Fearanie explained. “Our lands of Beleriand were sunk beneath the waves.”
Miruviel knitted her brows together. There was so much that she did not know.
“Some of the Green-elves’ land remains. Not all of it was drowned under water.”
Filignil agreed with this, adding, “And your folk now belong to the Greenwood, Miruviel. Even if noble blood was found, Thranduil son of Oropher is king of that realm, as was his father before him. I do not recall his name. The Wood-elves have their nobles, just as we Noldor do, and I am sure they would already know if Parnard was one of them.” As she spoke she turned her head to the side. To dream was not wrong, but she did not want the maiden to be disappointed or worried. “Even if, by some strange chance, he and Culufinnel were discovered to have noble blood, I cannot see them leaving us. The Captain has his duties in Celondim and I know he takes those very seriously. And here in Númenstáya with his friends, and my cooking, and Miruviel’s strawberry cake, Parnard is happy, I know it.”
Miruviel blushed with pleasure, then a thought occurred to her. “But Filignil, although Captain Culufinnel has sworn fealty to Lord Cirdan,” she asked, growing serious again, “why would he not be the High Lord, when he is the elder son?”
Filignil shrugged. As far as she could tell, it was only the Halflings who considered Parnard to be a High Lord, whatever they meant by it. “I would say that Culufinnel enjoys being Captain too much to consider anything else. And as matters turn, though I want you to try your hand at a new aspic recipe, I was going to ask you to clean and air out the large room above the study and workshop: Lady Danel was of a mind to invite the scholars to stay with us awhile, before she rode out this morning.”
Both ellith sat upright with a start. “The scholars from Imladris will stay with us?” Fearanië brightened at the prospect. “I will help clean the room, and fill it with fresh flowers!”
Filinil chuckled.
“Of course we will help,” said Miruviel, almost breathless with excitement. .
“And though by nature and practice they are probably neat and tidy, they may drop paper on the floor, and leave books lying around. I want you both to check on them daily–that is, if they accept the invitation.”
Miruviel was already on her feet, her wicker basket in hand. “Come Fearanië. Let us get their rooms ready.”
Fearanië looked meaningfully at Filignil. “Do you want us to spy on them?”
“Oh, Fearanië,” sighed Miruviel.
“No! By the Valar, no!” Filignil cried. “I want you to make their beds and tidy up for them. But you can find out if there is any particular food or drink they require.” She frowned. “They are our honored guests. Do not forget that, Fearanië.”
The young Nolde smiled, unabashed. “But our eyes may alight unintentionally on what they have written,” she teased. Miruviel held a hand to her mouth, horrified.
“You shall not deliberately read anything.” Filignil regarded Fearanië with a reproachful gaze. “If you would become a lady, you must learn to act as one.” Then the housekeeper started off toward the hall, but stopped momentarily to say over her shoulder, “If I am pleased with the cleaning and the aspic, we may all ride into Duillond tomorrow, to seek them out and to restock on cheese, and herbs - and perhaps a ribbon or two.”
“Ribbons!” cried Miruviel, clapping her hands. The two maidens traipsed to the small house beside the lake. Inside Miruviel set her basket down on a table, and turning to her friend said, “Oh, Fearanie! You do say the most outlandish things. Why did you tell Filignil that you were eavesdropping?”
Fearanië smiled indulgently. “It is good to be informed.” They ascended the small spiral staircase, and peered around the spacious bed chamber. All seemed in good order, if a bit damp and dusty. Fearanie’s eyes settled upon a wooden container of delicate red lantern flowers. The plants needed watering. “I will fetch a window pole to let in some fresh air,” she announced, and headed back downstairs.
Miruviel rummaged through a cabinet and found dust cloths and linseed oil. Then she stripped the linens from the two beds down to the mattress ticking, and after polishing the bedposts and cherrywood chest, plumped up all the pillows.
Fearanië returned with the window pole in one hand and a jug of water in the other. “Here, let us have fresh air to go with fresh bed linen." Putting down the water jug, the young elleth opened the high arched windows. She smiled again at her friend. She rather enjoying working with her.
Inside the cherrywood chest Miruviel found clean linens, neatly folded, and piled them on top of the table, then flipped both mattresses over. “Do scholars even notice such things as we are doing?” she wondered.
Having taken up a dusting cloth, Fearanië was polishing several pots and ceramic jars that were nestled in a corner. She paused for a moment to think, then replied, “I am sure some do.”
“I am not sure these two will,” Miruviel tittered.
Fearanië grinned. “Some are so consumed by their studies, they would forget to eat if food was not placed under their noses. But I do not know enough about these two scholars, not even their names, though I believe one is named Saelbeth? I could be incorrect.”
“‘Book-bound’. That is what we call them in the Greenwood,” Miruviel said as she pulled the sheets over the mattresses, neatly folding and tucking the corners.
“Yes, an apt term for some. Probably not the Loremasters, though. They like wandering, just as much as books.” Fearanië removed a lid from a jar and peeked inside. She coughed and waved her hand in front of her nose. “Whew! Incense with the fragrance of salt water and warm sand, brought back from Forlond, no doubt - a memory from that time we spent there.”
“There was a group of scholars who would all eat at the same table in the King’s Feasting Halls. They would eat bushels and bushels of gravy and drink wine like it was water. I think they were his court advisors.” Miruviel slipped the pillowcases on the pillows and absentmindedly stared at the fire.
“Advising a king! My, what a responsibility that must be. Filignil can say what she knows about the Greenwood, but I know better. You do know there were Silvan Kings in the Greenwood, long beforeThranduil and Oropher arrived there?”
“They were very fond of sweets, too, that group…” Miruviel trailed off, then spinning around on her little feet, cried out, “Thranduil is not our true king? Then who is?”
Fearanië ran light fingers over the strings of a harp that stood beside the door, then began cleaning its stand. “I hear Thranduil is a good king–but he is a Sinda, not a true Wood-elf. He is an outsider.”
Miruviel dropped the pillows back in place and gathered up the old linens for washing. She took up the hearth broom and began to sweep out ash. Her eyes were not on her work.
“Thranduil is the acting King,” continued Fearanië, “as was his father was before him, before the Last Alliance, but most of his people, not the ruling court, are descendents of the Nandor. They had their own leaders, and their own king, for a little while.”
Miruviel dumped the ash in a small receptacle to the side of the fireplace, then took up a poker and stabbed and jiggled it against the blackened grates to loosen the charred, half-burned logs. The iron clattered loudly against the stone.
“Lenwë was their king, I believe, and after his death it was Denethor, but he never took the title King, and was sadly slain at Amon Ereb by the forces of Morgoth before King Thingol could come to his aid.”
“Why do you know so much about this?”
“Lady Danel told me. She said there were some Green-elves at Amon Ereb much later, when Thargelion fell. The Noldor were aided by them. I wonder if that is why she is so fond of Parnard? He might remind her of those kind-hearted Laiquendi.”
Miruviel looked around the room, her expression thoughtful. “I hope these scholars are tidy. Lord Parnard leaves wineglasses all around his rooms. I suppose I should not bring them to him, if I do not wish to take them away again.”
Fearanië smirked. “Parnard does enjoy his wine, does he not? If you want to know more about the people of Lenwë and Denethor, I shall look in the library to see what I can find, and speak with Danel when she returns. I am rather interested in finding out who first ruled the Greenwood, you know.”
Miruviel nodded, a shared eagerness kindling between them. Fearanië was welcome to hunt through dusty tomes, but as far as she was concerned, a living lord was vastly more interesting than any old dead king. “Not much left to do,” she said, leaning against a bed and drawing a hand across her brow. “Just a good sweeping is needed.”
Taking the hint, Fearanië grabbed the broom and finished up.
“I think I shall like these scholars better than that terrible Talkale,” Miruviel confided. “I would never want to be like him. Have a care, my friend, with your studious ways, so that you don’t end up being a sour grey-headed scholar!”
Fearanië laughed at that. “As if I would!” she declared, and flexed the muscles of her arm.
