Deeper Waters

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DEEPER WATERS
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Chapter 4


“Good morning, Heledir. I trust you slept well?”

The secretary nearly choked in his haste to swallow the last mouthful of bread, as Prince Imrahil approached. He brushed the crumbs from his face hurriedly, and began to stand to greet his lord.

“Sit down, please. There is no need for such formality here.” Imrahil smiled, and Heledir d nod not help but respond in kind. Only the hardest of hearts could fail to be moved by the pure happiness evident on the prince’s face.

He had arrived at the table with Legolas; evidently they had decided that royal decorum could allow one prince to escort the other to breakfast, regardless of the obvious implications. As Heledir glanced surreptitiously around the dining hall at the small knots of elves gathered there, he saw no surprise or disapproval, only smiles of greeting. But then these were the fair folk; one could hardly expect them to wear their emotions for all to read.

As Legolas moved down the long table to speak to Meluinen, Imrahil settled himself across from his secretary.

“Thank you, my lord, indeed I slept well; like a well-fed infant. And you, Sire? Did you pass a comfortable night?” As soon as the words escaped his mouth, Heledir realised how inappropriate his question was under the circumstances, and felt the furious blush rising in his cheeks. He looked down at his plate, aghast at his own loose tongue.

But if Imrahil noticed his discomfort, he gave no sign of it. “I, too, slept like a child. I believe the very air here is most restorative.”

Heledir looked up to see his master grinning at him like a youth of seventeen. Mortified, the secretary longed to turn away again, but felt it would be discourteous. Instead, he brought the conversation to safer ground. “Will you require my services after breakfast, Sire?”

“Nay, Heledir, let us both take a day of rest. I plan to ride out to look at the land; I would ask if you wish to accompany me, but I suspect that you have no desire to reacquaint yourself with your horse just yet.”

Even as the prince spoke, Heledir found himself shifting uncomfortably on the wooden bench. “Indeed not, my lord. I should be a happy man if I never saw the beast again.”

“Do not wrong good Thalion,” the prince laughed. at yat you really need is to become better acquainted, and take him out daily. The aches would pass, and we might make a true horseman of you yet.”

“Perhaps, my lord,” replied the secretary ruefully. “But I do not believe I will ever know the pleasure of a good ride as you do, Sire.”

Heledir caught Imrahil’s smirk before the double meaning of the words struck him. For a moment his shock at the prince’s amusement outweighed his embarrassment, until the thought came tm: m: ‘He is a soldier; he is accustomed to barracks humour, but I…’ Perhaps, if he wished hard enough, the ground would literally open and swallow him whole.

“Do not be so sure, good Master Heledir.” The prince spoke smoothly, but one eyebrow was still raised. “It is all in the practice, I assure you.”

Heledir squirmed, but his master must have taken pity on him.

“What will you do with your day?” Imrahil asked.

“The lady Velenda has requested that I visit her in the library; I shall go there this morning. Then I hope to walk in the forest. There are many plants here which I have not seen before.” He spoke eagerly, grateful for the change of subject.

“Ah, then I need not worry whether you will have an enjoyable time. I am sure Velenda will look after you admirably.”

Heledir was saved from examining this comment too closely by Legolas, who sank elegantly onto the bench at Imrahil’s side before the secretary could even think of getting to his feet.

The elf prince greeted him as an equal and enquired after his well-being. This time Heledir, aware of Imrahil’s amused glance upon him, chose his words of response with care. For once, he managed not to stutter.

The two lovers – it was impossible to think of them otherwise, for even the way they sat, close, not touching yet each so clearly aware of the other’s presence, spoke of their affinity – reached for the baskets of bread and dishes of honey, and began to eat. Heledir found himself with a dilemma; would it be impolite to stay and watch them, or more so to leave them at table so abruptly?

Once again, Legolas came to his rescue. “I see you have finished eating, but did you try the preserved bilberries? No? Then you must do so; they are particularly delicious.”

There was no chance to protest; the fair elf had already left his place.

“My Lord, you really need not . . .” the secretary stammered, as a wooden bowl heaped with fragrant berries and thick, yellowish cream was placed before him.

“Please, do not say it, Master Heledir.” Legolas’s tone was kindly. “You are my guest here, and my only concern is that your stay should be a happy one.”

He was sure he could feel his heart swell as he replied. “In truth, I do not know how it could possibly be otherwise.”

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As soon as he entered the library, it was apparent to Heledir why Velenda had requested his assistance, although she had not given further details at dinner. Finely carved shelves lined the walls, but they stood largely empty. A clutter of wooden crates filled the centre of the spacious room, and piles of books surrounded them. Of Velenda herself, there was no sign.

The books drew Heledir, as books always did; and he walked into the room, reaching for the nearest volume: a learned treatise on Noldorin heroic poetry. With its dark leather cover in such good condition, it could not be an original, yet it had gathered much dust. As he opened it to leaf through the index, the dry cloud filled his nostrils and he sneezed, effectively announcing his presence should anyone be there to hear.

Heledir started as Velenda appeared from behind the high shelves at the far end of the library. The volume in his hand lay forgotten as he took in the sight of her.

She was dressed all in grey, her tunic the colour of a dove’s wing, her leggings and boots the darker hue of a storm cloud. Her hair, almost black but glinting red where the sun caught it, was piled haphazardly on the top of her head, exposing the long curve of her pale neck. Her serious face wore a radiant smile of greeting, which seemed to do something strange to the beating of Heledir’s heart; as she approached, he could feel it quicken.

“Heledir! I am so happy to see you.”

“My Lady, it is my pleasure. . .”

“Oh no, Heledir. If we are to work together, as I hope we are, you must call me by my name; you owe me no title.”

“As you wish, V- Velenda.”

She nodded her approval. “Have you eaten? Does your prince have need of you? No? Then perhaps we can start straight away.”

“There is much to be done,” he said, casting his eye around the room, and counting more than twenty crates.

“Aye, and more than you think.” She caught his questioning glance. “These are recently arrived from Rivendell; a handsome gift from the lords Elrohir and Elladan. They bear the dust of their journey, which was a hard one; but worse, somewhere along the way the covering list went missing, so I am starting the cataloguing from nothing.”

He nodded sagely. “What information do you generally include?”

“I will show you.”

She beckoned him across to a long table at the side of the room, and drew a folder from the shelf behind. Heledir saw at a glance that he would have no difficulty in working with her; she wrote in a clear, open hand, and her system for classifying and cataloguing the books was logical and concise.

They talked as they worked, about the books for the most part. And what books they were! Heledir was sure that even were he to stumble on a dragon’s hoard, he would never again see such treasures as these. There were books of poetry and tales, telling of romance, of the beauty of nature and of heroic escapades from every age of the world. There were tomes of lore – of plants, herbs and healing; of the arts of war, of crafts and construction. There were books of maps, finely etched and coloured, showing in detail all parts of the known Earth. And there were volumes of history – not only of the elven kingdoms, but of dwarf-kind and man as well. Some of the works were familiar to Heledir, but the majority were gloriously new, a feast just waiting to be devoured.

Indeed, the only thing more fascinating than the books was the librarian herself. It was well that there was so much work to do; he had not the time to stand and stare at Velenda, as part of him longed to do. Instead, he listened, enchanted, as she spoke of the books as old friends; eliciting his opinion on those he knew, summarising with wit and affection her favourites amongst the others. He longed to say, ‘And now, speak of yourself,’ but felt it would be importunate to do so.

He did, however, manage to ask her if she always worked alone in the library.

Velenda laughed. “My Greenwood cousins like to read when the fancy takes them, but not one of them would be happy toiling here, when there is the forest, the river, the meadows to explore under the sun or the stars.”

“Not even your sister?”

“Tuillin? Nay, she is as enamoured of the wood-elf’s life as she is of her husband. She was ever so; when we were young she would shirk her classes whenever she could to go riding or shooting in the forest.” She picked up a slim volume and dusted it thoughtfully. “Prince Legolas helps me sometimes; I think because he feels he should, though he is an avid reader himself.”

Heledir caught her eye with a question.

“He favours the tales of great journeys, by land and sea. Although,” she dropped her voice and her eyes glittered, “he has asked me to let him know if I find any works of Selarad of Lindon in the crates.”

This obviously held some meaning, which the man could not divine. Smiling at his confusion, Velenda continued, “You do not know his writings? No, how could you - I do not imagine they have found their way into the libraries of men. Selarad is considered to be one of the great poets of the second age, and his work is certainly the most . . . sensual. They say he wrote of Gil-galad, although his style is too subtle to be sure.”

Heledir felt himself flushing at this excess of information, and turned to the crates once more.

The sun had long since vanished from the easterly windows when Velenda exclaimed in dismay, “Oh, I am a dullard for treating a guest so shabbily! You must be ravenous– I had quite forgotten about lunch.”

“Nay, do not concern yourself, I had not thought of it,” he replied politely. In truth, his stomach had been growling for the last hour or more; no doubt her acute elven hearing would have made her aware of the fact, had she not been so engrossed. Yet there was something so charming about her absorption in the work she loved, Heledir would have fainted with hunger before he had brought the matter to her attention.

She led him at once to the dining hall, where they found that lunch was long finished, and the tables all cleared.

“Fear not! I will not let you starve,” Velenda told the now rather anxious Heledir. She steered him into the kitchens at the end of the long hall, and towards a number of covered bowls on a table at the side. The man had the distinct impression that this was not the first time that Velenda had forgotten to eat with the res the the elves; no doubt the cooks regularly ensured that something was left for her.

At last they sat with bowls of delicious, green, sharp-flavoured soup and plates of bread, cheese and salad. The elf, Heledir noted with some satisfaction, ate as hungrily as he did, though not a crumb fell from her lips, and she lost none of her grace.

As they finished, she astonished him by saying, “And now, Heledir, tell me something of yourself. How came you by your impressive store of knowledge in such a short lifetime? Are you the son of a great scholar?”

”Indeed not,” he laughed wryly. “Far from it. I was born in Prince Imrahil’s castle; my father was a cook, my mother a seamstress.” He smiled at her expression of surprise. “Truly; I should probably have been a kitchen boy or a messenger, had it not been for my mother. She taught me my letters when I was very young, and found that I had a love of learning. Queen Glantathar was a good and generous woman; she interceded on my mother’s behalf with the prince, with the result that I was apprenticed out to the wisest old scribe in the city when I was eight years old.”

“A man of Dol Amroth?”

“No, he had come from Gondor with a shroud of secrecy about him. They say he was close to the steward until a terrible disagreement incurred Denethor’s rage and he had to leave. He was not an easy master, nor always a pleasant one, but he gave me more than I could have hoped for, and for that I am ever grateful.”

“And how long have you been in the prince’s service?”

“Nearly twenty years, since I was seventeen. The old secretary was ill and his sight failing; the prince took me on straight away. I have been very lucky.”

“So it seems,” she said gently. “You love him very much, do you not?”

“How could I feel otherwise?” Heledir’s reply was frank. “He is a great and noble leader, yet as a master he is always thoughtful and kind; he endeavours to make me feel that I am his equal.”

“In that respect, I believe he resembles my prince of Ithilien.”

The man realised that here, perhaps, lay the answer to his own unspoken question. The beautiful, wise, elf-maid before him had presumably left the erudite splendour of Rivendell for love of Prince Legolas. Maybe it was a love that went beyond the admiration of subject for royal leader; easy to imagine in a community as informal as this one. If that was the case, she must know her love to be doomed to remain unrequited, unless – he had no idea, he realised suddenly, quite how these matters went amongst elves, and with the rational part of his mind he had no wish to find out. Unfortunately those other parts, which had been so thoroughly stimulated by Velenda’s company all day, were not so easily appeased. Ludicrous as it was, he knew he would have to find out the truth, although the last thing he could do, of course, was ask her outright.

With a start, Heledir came back to himself in time to see Velenda’s face crease into a frown of concern.

“I am sorry, c – could you repeat that, please?” Of course, his stammer would choose this moment to re-assert itself.

“I was merely wondering if you would care to join me for a walk in the forest? On a day as lovely as this one, even I need to escape from the library for an hour or two to feel the air on my face.”

Heledir gave himself a good, metaphorical shaking, and spoke with more confidence. “I should be delighted. Thank you. Are you familiar with the names and classes of the plants here?”

She nodded. “Aye, most of them.”

”In that case, I would very much like to return to my room first, to fetch a notebook and pencil.”


“Ah, Heledir, you are truly a scholar after my heart.”

As she turned her dazzling smile on him once more, Heledir’s own heart did not know whether to sink to his boots or fly to the rafters. Despite his earlier musings, it suddenly became horribly clear to him that it was he, not Velenda, who was irretrievably doomed.


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{Extract from Heledir’s Journal}


She calls me a scholar, praising me for my knowledge and wisdom, and my mind resounds with the irony of it. For if she knew the true direction of my thoughts, she would realise that nowhere in Arda is there a man as foolish as I.

We sit at the long table, poring over the books and papers. Were she to move any closer, I would feel the heat of her body next to mine. My own skin burns at the very notion, yet she, her gaze fixed on the page before her, seems almost unaware of my presence, until she speaks.

Her absolute concentration on her work allows me to watch her, my own attentions unobserved. Her profile is noble and fine, her eyes dark grey and fringed with the blackest of lashes, long and thickly curled. Her glorious hair is piled atop her head without artifice; it is a measure for comfort and convenience, which owes nothing to vanity, yet serves only to enhance her delicate beauty. A stray tendril escapes and falls behind one pointed ear and across her shoulder; my hands grasp each other in my lap, to restrain the fingers that itch to touch it.

But it is the sight of her neck which so nearly undoes me. Her skin is not silver, like that of her elven prince; it is milk-white, perfect even at so close a range, surely both soft and firm to the touch. Were I her lover, I would run my finger along the curve that descends from hairline to collar, the gentlest of caresses for such a vulnerable part. I would press my lips to the place below her ear where the faintest of indentations forms, and breathe deeply of her intoxicating scent, like honey, lightly spiced with vanilla and cloves.

It is well that I can only dream of such touches. Were she to allow me such a kiss, I would surely die from the pleasure of it.

For twenty years or more, all the days of my manhood, love has spared me its sweet tortures. I had thought myself content with my lot, free of the tribulations that beset other men in its name. Never have I had a companion who understands my passions so well, and shares them so completely; never have I known what it is to desire another so intensely that my body trembles at the mere thought of her name. That I should find both, now, in one form so perfect, so near, and yet so distant, is wondrous cruelty indeed.

I am ashamed of my thoughts, and I know myself to be ridiculous. One such as she is so far beyond my reach that even by dreaming thus, I fear I am mocking her. And for my own part, surely I would have been happier in my ignorance, untroubled by the sugared barbs of love that plague me now.

And yet, had I the choice, could I possibly elect not to have met her, not to have melted in the brilliance of her smile, not to have listened, enraptured, to the lilting music of her voice? I would be an even greater fool than I am, were I to wish it so.

To be continued…