Misfits

Part 22

Posted: October 2003
Author: Kharessa Bloodrose

*****

The great library of the Last Homely House was warm and inviting, arranged to encourage visitors, and designed to reflect Lord Elrond's relaxed, informal style. The cherry wood shelves did not loom over hapless visitors, towering upward in an intimidating tower of knowledge, but were of such a height that the topmost books could be reached with only the aide of a low stool. Many of the lower shelves bore scratches and scuffs, and not a few of the lowest were scarred with small bite marks from a time when the twins had been teething babies. Wide windows let in bright morning sunlight, and there were no dark or hidden corners. Even the furniture had been chosen with an eye toward comfort rather than appearances. Aside from the necessary long tables and chairs where study and research took place, there was a scattering of softly cushioned, mismatched chairs, ottomans, and even a small sofa on which visitors could relax while they read.

It was a room that Melpomaen had always enjoyed spending time in, and he considered it a privilege that he had access not only to the main library but also to the connecting rooms where ancient scrolls and certain private volumes were kept. He had spent hours at those long tables, painstakingly transcribing the words on crumbling scrolls to smooth vellum pages, writing and checking inventory lists, and doing odd bits of research assigned to him by the head archivist, and, later, by Lord Erestor himself. He had loved the scent of leather bindings and dust, paper and ink, the smells of polished wood, and the garden fragrance that wafted in through the wide windows when the wind was right. The library had been both haven and heaven to the young elf, but now he could not find peace amidst the books and dancing golden dust motes.

A series of crates, lids levered off and set carefully aside, had been arranged in neat order beside one of the tables. Lord Elrond had made quite a few acquisitions in Caras Galadhon, not to mention some few that had been delivered from the human lands during his absence from Imladris. Most of the books, scrolls, and maps that had arrived were of historical interest, but there were also a few collections of illustrations, a set of fancifully illuminated fairy tales, and even a few works of fiction set during the Last Alliance.

Melpomaen examined each with a critical eye as he carefully wrote down each title, author, and genre on his inventory sheet. Some would need recopying; others needed their bindings repaired or replaced. Several of the scrolls were in particularly bad condition, though still legible, but the maps, at least, were mostly in decent condition. There would be much work for the house scriveners in the weeks ahead, not to mention the work of shelving, re-organizing, and re-copying of the official inventory list. It was work that could be delegated, for the most part, but Melpomaen knew that he would find himself doing many of those tasks himself. There was little else that held his interest since returning from the Golden Wood, little else that could keep his mind from thoughts of his stay there.

The work that had satisfied and fulfilled him now seemed hollow, and the beauty of Imladris was unable to lift his spirits. After weeks of feeling as if he were under the scrutiny of countless eyes and the subject of countless conversations, he now felt paradoxically alone. He felt himself haunted by hazel eyes, by a tall shadow that walked with him but was helpless to speak or touch. He could not count the number of times he'd thought of Haldir, wishing that he could turn and comment to him on something he'd seen or read. He imagined himself inviting Haldir to the river or down to the stables. His mind's eye conjured images of the imposing elf standing at the archery range, leaning in the library's doorway, reclining on his bed.

"Melpomaen," a voice spoke from the library's entrance, and the young elf jumped, startled. A blot of ink marred the surface of the inventory sheet, and his brow knit in a scowl as he turned to face the intruder. A moment later his expression smoothed as he recognized Lord Erestor.

"I'm sorry, my lord. I will re-copy this immediately."

"My concern is not for the paper." Worry was apparent in the older elf's dark eyes. "Have you not taken lunch, Melpomaen?"

"I'm not hungry. I thought it best to continue here."

Erestor frowned, crossing the room to quickly examine Melpomaen's work. As usual, it was precisely done, perfect save for the splotch of ink halfway down the length of the page. For a long moment, Erestor stood irresolute, dark gaze fixed upon the page, seemingly caught between speech and silence. At last he spoke, choosing his words with care.

"Melpomaen… it seems to me that your thoughts are far from here."

"If you have any complaint with my work-"

"No, no. Your work is excellent, as always." He let the paper fall to the table. "However, since we have returned it has been noted that all you do is work. Your presence has been missed not only at the dinner table, but also at breakfast and supper on more than one occasion. You've been spending far less time with Arwen, as well."

Melpomaen blushed, but forced himself to face the elf lord directly. "Forgive me, sir, but I had not thought that my affairs were of such interest to others." He had expected Erestor to take offense, call him to task for insolence and then leave him to his work. Instead, the elf lord smiled.

"Of course you are of interest to us. You are a part of this household, and some day you shall be more than an under librarian preparing lists and shelving books."

Melpomaen lowered his gaze, saying nothing. Erestor nodded as if Melpomaen had agreed wholeheartedly with him, idly trailing his hand over the cover of a leather-bound tome lying between them on the table.

"Would I be wrong if I were to guess that your thoughts are with Haldir of ‘Lorien?" he asked gently, and Melpomaen glanced up swiftly, surprise evident in his expression. Erestor chuckled. "Aye, I believe I would be correct in that assumption."

"My lord, I assure you, whatever may be troubling me will have no affect on my duties here; you need have no worries in that regard."

"I am not in the least worried about your duties." Erestor replied. "Young one, do you truly believe that is all any of us are interested in? That as long as you perform your duties well, we have no thought of you?" Again Melpomaen did not respond, and Erestor sighed. "Melpomaen, I have served as advisor to Lord Elrond for many long centuries, have been at his side before Imladris was built, and shared my thoughts with him at his asking since time out of mind. Now I would ask you if you would hear my advice."

Melpomaen blinked, startled and more than a little pleased that the chief advisor found him worthy of his time. He nodded, eyes dropping to the floor as he waited for Erestor to speak.

"Compromises are not always made in the counsel chambers, and a compromise is not an agreement by which two people receive part of what they want. A compromise is an agreement in which two people, for whatever reasons, agree to accept part of what they do not want. Do you understand me?"

"I'm not sure that I do," Melpomaen said slowly, mulling over Erestor's words.

"Sometimes we come across that which we desire, desire so greatly that we are willing to give up something else in order to have it. The question is how much we are willing to give up, what we are and are not willing to negotiate. How greatly do you desire this elf, Melpomaen? How much of what you don't want are you willing to accept for him? It seems that the all-or-nothing approach is not suiting you."

"This is who I am, my Lord." Melpomaen said softly, encompassing the library with a gesture of his hands. "This place, these people."

"Neither the library, nor the counsel chamber, nor even the demands of Lord Elrond define me, young one," Erestor said. "Nor do I believe that you are so shallow that you can be defined by a room full of books."

"I don't know what I want, my lord."

"No?" Erestor questioned, raising an eloquent eyebrow. "Well, then perhaps this is best for now. Distance is clarifying, and the poets say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. I bid you good day, Melpomaen."

*****

His own chambers lay on the southern side of the Last Homely House, overlooking the relatively plain side yard view. Nothing but forest beyond the yard, trees upon trees, leading to the mountains and eventually to another, more captivating forest. Melpomaen sat on the trunk at the foot of his narrow bed, gazing out the window and thinking of Lord Erestor's words.

A single sheet of paper lay on his small desk by the door. The inkwell was uncapped, and a quill lay beside it. His idea had been to write a letter, but he had no idea what to write. What was left to say to Haldir, his lover whom he had left with only a limping apology by which to remember him? Haldir who was jealous, Haldir who was overly protective, who demanded so much merely by looking at him, and who communicated his need through touch when he couldn't communicate it in words. Haldir who lived within a display case world, one that revealed his shortness of temper and prickly demeanor with cruel clarity, who had his reasons for being what he was, and who had nothing to hide behind save for those very traits by which he was known.

Haldir, whom he could not stop thinking about.

He'd already attempted one letter, his thoughts circling around Erestor's comments on negotiations and compromises as he'd written it. It had come out cold and oddly judicial in tone, something that might have been the work of an arbitrator working out a contract between two unruly parties. Melpomaen had read it over and known that Haldir would not accept it, and he needed Haldir's acceptance. The warmth and beauty of Imladris had become dust. It no longer mattered that Caras Galadhon was a city that had made him feel hideously exposed, an instrument of flesh and tightly strung nerves played by gossips and ever present watchers. Imladris, however, had become a sort of purgatory in which time passed slowly and painfully. It would be no great sacrifice to trade one form of misery for another, especially now that he was uncertain as to where misery truly lay, or what the source of it was.

He thought of the off-hand comments Haldir had made, about Lord Celeborn's library, and the office staff that worked out of both the royal talan and the Guardians' headquarters. An image of the great library of Caras Galadhon rose in his mind, and he paused, considering. It was not the environment he was accustomed to, as it did not possess the warm openness of Lord Elrond's home. He'd said that he could never feel at home there, but Haldir had countered that statement, saying that there was no law that servants of the court must live within the royal talan. Melpomaen's expenses within the Last Homely House were few; he'd managed to save a respectable amount of money. A home of his own was not beyond his means, though it would have to be a small one.

He could see a list of opposing desires forming, what he wanted and what he didn't want, wishes that could only be fulfilled with the acceptance of that which was less desirable, want tempered with uncertainty. It was a risk, but one that he knew he had to take, not so much because he wanted to, but because he could not live with the not knowing. He could not tolerate the endless days and nights of wondering if he'd made a mistake, of wondering why he was haunted by hazel eyes

Melpomaen rose from his trunk, turned his back on the view of the forest and returned to his desk. His hand moved with sure confidence as he covered the blank page with his neat, even handwriting, his letter addressed not to Haldir, but to the head archivist under Lord Celeborn's advisory staff.

*****

Lord Erestor signed the letter with a flourish, and sprinkled fine sand over the wet ink. His dark eyes were smiling as he glanced up at Melpomaen, and, much to the younger elf's surprise, he produced another letter from the top drawer of his desk.

"You'll want to post this one, too. It's my recommendation," he said with a grin. Melpomaen stared.

"But how did you know-"

"It's my business to know these things," Erestor answered in a tone of mock self-importance. "Little escapes the notice of the chief advisor of Imladris. And," he continued in a more serious tone, "I do think this is a good idea for more practical reasons, as well. For one who has political ambitions, learning the ways in which others rule isn't a bad place to start."

"Thank you, my lord. This means a great deal to me," Melpomaen replied. Erestor carefully brushed the sand from the first letter, and handed both back.

"No thanks are needed, young one. May Elbereth's blessings go with you."

"Are you sure, then, that-"

"Of course." Erestor waved a negligent hand. "The rest is all formalities. I'm sure you'll be hearing back in about a month, and I daresay you can keep yourself busy in the meantime."

"Of course, my lord." Melpomaen bowed. "Good day to you, then, Lord Erestor, and again, you have my thanks."

*****

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