Sérëlindë Liriasîdh, a Silvan elf
About a week after midsummer
Liria spent her days in the library of the Peredhil Lord, reading and taking notes directly into a journal in her flowing hand. It was a quiet place, and it was rare that she saw anyone at all. One of the periannath was there occasionally; an older male whose face seemed to be familiar, though she did not engage in conversation with him. If he was there at all, he soon fell asleep within a short time, and thus she often continued her study accompanied by the light snoring of the elderly hobbit and when she next looked up, he was not there at all.
Her note-taking was rather personalised, for she would write it both in poetry and prose, using separate books. The prose was factual, generally, copied from the sources she found and put together with The poetry took longer, and it was chiefly the poetry that consumed her evenings, for she would wander under the stars with the tales in her head, composing and editing and trying out the rhythm and melodies by the Bruinen, allowing the rushing water to drown her song unheard. The following day, she would write up the songs she had made in her book of poetry, with a little fact-checking and cross-referencing, for she wanted the unvarnished truth.
Elrond himself came seldom to the library, but if and when he did, he did not generally disturb her study, absorbed as she was in the histories of the time before the Sun and Moon, and of course, he had his own business to complete. It had been perhaps a month when he did interrupt her, though.
"Sérëlindë?" he said quietly, standing in the doorway of the room.
Liria had stiffened immediately at his tone, for he sounded somewhat like her father. She looked up, startled.
Elrond's glance took in her entire situation. She was lain across the rug before the fireplace, the general area around her strewn with myriad books open at once, herself with ink-stained fingers (carefully kept away from his precious tomes) writing, writing, writing copious notes. She sat up at once, respectfully putting aside the books and meaning to get up.
He stayed her with a hand. "I have wondered, these last weeks, if you are aware of the beauty of Imladris," he began lightly. "Since you have set neither foot nor finger outside of my library in daylight hours." He kept talking rhetorically. "I wonder if you might like to
borrow a book. You might take it outside, or find some other comfortable place for reading."
Two spots of bright colour appeared on her cheeks, and she bit he inside of her lip. "I beg your pardon, hîr nín," she began. "I will go-"
"Nay," he stopped her immediately. "Do not misunderstand me. Your scholarship is welcome here, and you may spread out here
on the floor -" here his mobile eyebrows did a comical dance, indicating that he thought the chairs and desks more suitable, but that he was going to say no such thing when his expression clearly implied it without recourse to anything as crass as language, "as you like. I am just offering you an alternative," he explained politely. "You have my permission to take a book somewhere else for reading, or read outside, should you desire. The weather is beautiful and one ought not to spend
every day avoiding the daylight."
His gentle tease was kind, and she relaxed.
"Be iest lín, hîr nín," she acquiesced with a smile. "I will take a book and experience this daylight you speak so highly of, when I am finished here."
He nodded. "I am not sorry to have interrupted you," he offered casually.
Having spent almost her whole life experiencing the cutting comments of the Ar-Golwen, Elrond's remonstrance was akin to the buffeting of butterfly wings. Liria bowed her head mockingly and responded with unbecoming familiarity. "I appreciate your concern, O Saelon. I hear and obey."
"
In your own good time," he noted sardonically; he was smiling, but an eyebrow quirked with interest.
"As you say," she agreed, though she lowered her eyes deferentially.
He left her in peace then, laughing quietly. And if she went over that conversation wishing she'd not been quite so impertinent, then at least she didn't castigate herself for it too much - she was not a girl in her first century, to be told what to do and when to do it, no matter that he was Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Imladris and she was a guest in his library.
The shadows were not much longer when she felt she was done with her notes. With gloved hands, she put back all of the books she had been using and gathered her things together. She needed a bath, and before that some solvent to dissolve the ink on her fingers. Her exploration of the Years of the Trees was as complete as she could make it, unless new information came to light.
She walked back to her chambers joyfully; a new book in her arms, two books of notes completed. She tied a ribbon round her completed journals and put them away in a chest, withdrawing two more new ones for her next task and a familiar bottle. It was only a little after noon, and with an afternoon and evening of the waning sun ahead of her, Liria poured a small cup of wine and stepped outside into the daylight. The whispering of the wind through the trees was soft and welcoming, and the smell of the Dorwinion was so evocative of home that she felt for a long moment a sharp pang of longing for all that she had left behind.
The small considerations of her Noldorin hosts and the friendliness of her Galadhrim companions were no match for the familiarity and lovingkindness of her loved ones, and for the first time, she could understand her Naneth's concern for her, all alone in a foreign place. It would
not be long, she determined, perhaps another couple of months - less, if she applied herself. And she
would apply herself, she vowed silently, gazing over the valley and appreciating its aesthetic delights as she was bidden. It
was very pretty here, with its perennially autumnal colours dominating the colour scheme, sweeping even the great pines into inky shadows and highlighting the blue of the waters and sky. Comparing them artistically, Lothlórien too was
pretty, with its silver and gold, but she missed the understated beauty of her homeland with its lush greens and browns - moreso the vibrant Greenwood of her youth than the spreading darkness that now marred its beauty pushing ever against their borders - the very changeability of the deciduous forest brought interest and fascination and was to her eyes more beautiful for its ephemeral nature. Their King, too, loved the changing seasons, and his celebrations were wonderful - the seasonal ceremonies were among her favourite things. She had been gone half a year and already missed the winter festival, the spring equinox and was now missing all the midsummer feasts; she resolved to complete her work and return home before the autumnul equinox and its subsequent frivolities. It would mean a lot of work, but it would also mean she could go home again.
She laughed softly to herself, knowing herself for a fool. She had not known what she was giving up when in her eagerness to impress the Ar-Golwen she had left her home. She was perversely pleased that she'd done it though, for she would not give up the knowledge that her departure had brought. It was worth it, to discover that what made her happy was what she had had all her life. Even the bittersweet remembrances of loved ones long lost to war against the forces of darkness brought the sure knowledge that Námo had them in his keeping, and their loss had knit their small family closer.
Feeling very far from her close family, Liria took a sip of her cup of wine as she sat down on the swing, turning her mind from minute considerations of the apology her Naneth deserved. Such things could wait, at least until she was closer to that journey home. She stared up at the sky and breathed out, feeling a sense of calm she hadn't had before; as clouds crossed the sky in sweeping drifts westward, she leant back into the cushions and kicked off her slippers, curling her feet under her as was her habit.
The cushions on the swing on her balcony were luxurious, and she soon sank back into them as she picked up her next history book. The thrill of excitement that hit her as she realised she was heading into the First Age was heady. She knew much, of course, for the Ar-Golwen had known a great deal before he had moved on, but from hereon in there would be new information to fit in with the old, new opinions to sift for truth. Liria felt a thrill of trepidation and anticipation, suddenly impatient to get started.
Just like the Ar-Golwen, she thought, remembering the look he'd had the last time she'd seen him, that last night in their library, and the memory of him, so desperately
hungry for the knowledge she was going to bring back, slid suddenly into sharp focus.
~~ * ~~
They had been in their favourite part of the library, a small chamber out of the way and private, hidden out of the way beyond the Ar-Golwen's workshop. The dark carved wood bookshelves enclosed the occupants in a cosy glade, the hearth warm and comforting with its furs on the flagstones and long low chairs nice and close, for reading or talking by firelight. Lamps encased in glass hung at strategic points, though unlit so as not to distract from the fire's glory - only the occasional glint in the darkness any clue as to their presence. Sunlight, which streamed down through a mirrored chimney above their heads during the day
"I do expect you to return within the decade," he'd jested, when he'd seen her packing a number of empty journals and a shocking amount of ink.
She'd narrowed her eyes at him. "You, whose knowledge surpasses everything we have in the Library, said we need more!" she'd accused.
"Your Library is a little thing," he'd returned mildly. "It holds a little of the knowledge of the Sindar who came from Beleriand, and a great deal of the history of your Silvan elves amongst whom they settled. But the Ñoldor, of Gondolin, of the Edain -" his dark eyes looked haunted as he stared into the middle distance. "Of Andor, and of the changing of the world, we have but half-truths and myth. Little have the people of the Greenwood cared for the history of Arda, especially since the Last Alliance, and still Oropherion cannot bear to talk of that time. Even of great Doriath and its fall we have only tales half-told and no detail.
"There are many things about which I know nothing, or perhaps only in part," he'd said softly. "You are fortunate indeed to have been granted this opportunity, and I- I am fortunate that you would take it. I only jest, take all the ink we possess, for I would know the whole, for good or ill. I would know peace."
She had smiled then, and he'd responded to her ripple of amusement with a sardonic smile. "If ever an elleth did not fit their name!"
Liria had swallowed her smile then, the jest falling rather flat, since she was more than aware that half her name was extremely unfit. It seemed odd .
He'd risen then, and laid hand on her shoulder, "It may be many moons before Liriasîdh becomes you in all nuance and meaning," he'd murmured soothingly. Then he'd flashed a smile at her, "Until then, perhaps you are
Bruimîr!"
Liria had tried very hard to be offended, but unfortunately had burst into horrified laughter. When at last she could talk, he was pouring rich red wine into two silver bowls.
"At least you didn't call me
Alagoeol again!" she'd choked out.
He had paused in his pouring, delighted. "It is long since I called you that!" he'd chuckled. "Have I not always said you are my best pupil!"
"I am your
only pupil," she'd pointed out. "No one else would endure the barbs of your wit!"
"And I would not suffer the dullness of their lack," he'd agreed, holding out a bowl to her. "Bruimîr-nín, since we are agree that you are my best and brightest, let us talk of what you will find in the house of Elrond Peredhil."
Resigned to her newest designation, Liria had taken the wine and supped, settling in to listen to the Ar-Golwen, letting the cadence and timbre of his rich voice wash over and through her as he talked of the Peredhil Lord and his lineage, and the importance of reading such things as he might have written personally, regarding his own history and that of his ancestral line.
~~ * ~~
Liria took another sip of her Dorwinion wine, wondering at the vividness of the memory.
The beginnings of sunset were far off, on this summer's night, but she thought she might bathe and go down for supper shortly. The book on her lap began with the tale of Fëanáro, and thus she flicked through the pages to where she left off, at the point where Morgoth earned his name, destroying the Trees and stealing the Silmarils. She was quickly absorbed again into the mess of lies and deceit that followed, with Fingolfin unwittingly caught up in the Kinslaying and the subsequent further betrayal in the burning of the boats. She felt for him, loved him a little, but couldn't help but think it would have been better (for his fëa, at least) to have returned to Valinor and admitted his wrongdoing to the Valar. Still, as she read of the crossing of the Helcaraxë, she found herself admiring his stalwart heart again, and it was at this hopeful juncture that she decided to pause in her reading, and head down for the evening meal. Perhaps she might even go to the Hall of Fire tonight.