Chapter Text
Ninquelótë paused as she walked past the archives, her arms full of books one of the healer’s apprentices had been using. Why was it the medical books were always the heaviest and the ones no one put away? She closed one large book left open on the table, and looked at another, admiring the intricate drawing of a heart and it’s vessels. She’d just closed it when she heard it.
Was that giggling? Children were allowed in the archives, of course. They needed to learn, however there were not only delicate books in the section that needed careful handling, there were delicate subjects that were for more mature audiences.
The giggles came again and she set the books on a table, walking towards the sound.
As she thought, the Master’s youngest and Lord Glorfindel’s daughter. The two were thick as thieves, and made a pretty picture sitting in one of the window nooks, looking at ….”Girls!”
They slammed the book shut and looked up guiltily as red suffused their faces. Arwen regained her composure first as Erestor’s lovely but truly intimidating wife gave them the look that said she was waiting for an explanation. “It was out already.”
Moving to the table, Ninquelótë took the book and sighed. “Your father’s apprentices were looking up various things, but they should not have left this out.”
“Adar says a hröa is just a hröa and there’s nothing to get all worked up about.” Laurelandë hurriedly added “My lady,” when the woman raised a regal dark eyebrow over a cool grey eye.
“Yes, he would say that.” Ninquelótë said in a dry tone and turned, book in hand. “We’ll see if he still thinks that when you’re fifty, Laurelandë.”
Watching the archivist leave, Arwen wrinkled her nose. “What happens when you turn fifty?”
Laure shrugged and reached for the book of stories they had been perusing before. “That’s scads of years away, Arwen! I’ll be OLD.”
“Not as old as our parents.” Flipping the pages forward, Arwen pointed to a drawing of a figure perched on the edge of a mountain top. “Look at that. Looks nothing like your father.”
Laure wrinkled her nose. “He looks scary. Scarier than the balrog. What is up with that horrible hair? Adar has great hair.”
“Laure, your adar is scary.” As her friend scowled, Arwen laughed. “He is! Remember when he found us down in the vaults looking at the stuff from the Second Age? He nearly had kittens!”
It was funny now, but at the time it had been vastly Not Funny. “He couldn’t fit through the bars,” she said with a grin.
“Until you let him in!”
“He’s my dad!” As if that wasn’t enough of an explanation and Arwen heaved a mournful sigh, Laure huffed. “He was really serious, Arwen!”
“He was definitely upset and I’m not even sure why. All that was in there was a bunch of old swords and daggers and stuff. I was hoping we’d find something awesome like a dragon egg or a skeleton that could be Maglor and then people would have to stop asking Adar about him.” Arwen flipped the page, skimming past the boring ones of Fëanor and his idiot sons. “My dad made sure no one could get in there after that unless they had his permission.”
“How does that work?” They had gone back to see what was done, but it looked exactly the same and they had not tested it twice knowing parental forbearance only went so far.
“Dunno, how does the valley stay hidden?”
“Did you ever ask your brothers?”
“Fat lot of help they are!” Arwen stopped at the image of Turin and his sister and wrinkled her nose. “How did he not know she was his sister?”
“They were mortal?”
Giving her friend A Look, Arwen shook her head. “Mortals aren’t dumb though. Look at the Dúnedain.”
“YOU look at the Dúnedain.” Laure flipped to the next page. “They’re scruffy and dirty and have hair on their faces!” Apparently other places too if that drawing was right. Ew!
“So did Beren!” Laughing, Arwen flipped forward several pages. It wasn’t like they couldn’t recite the stories word for word.
Laure tapped a finger on the table for a moment, thinking about all the things their lessons never covered. “Arwen, do you think your uncle grew hair on his face when he chose to be mortal? I mean, just how does that work? Presto chango, you suddenly have a hairy face and get wrinkles?”
“Laure!” Arwen laughed. “How would I know?”
“Arwen.” Suddenly very serious, Laurelandë held out her hand. “Pinky swear with me that you will not choose to be mortal and grow a hairy face without first telling me.”
“Okay.” Arwen wrapped her pinky around the other girls’. “I solemnly swear to tell you first before choosing to be mortal but I won’t grow hair on my face, Laure! The Dúnedain ladies don’t.”
“That one did.” Laure shuddered. “Remember the really big hair growing straight out of that humongous mole?” Wife of some Ranger, the women had come to Imladris to celebrate Yule or whatever it was they called it and the girls had spent the entire feast trying not to stare at her. “My mom about freaked out when she saw that mole, but I thought the hair was way more gross.”
“What happened to her?”
“Who?”
“The woman with the huge mole!”
Laure shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not allowed in the healer wing anymore unless Naneth knows I’m coming.”
“Why?”
“Oh my gosh, Arwen! The last time I just went looking for Nana….” She leaned in and whispered. “There was a lady screaming her head off and threatening to cut her husband’s ….” She gestured to her lap. “Off!”
“His …leg?”
“No!” Laure gave a pointed look and gestured again.
“Well, what? You’re gesturing kind of-“
Laure leaned closer and whispered in her ear and Arwen’s eyes got wide. “NO!”
“Sshhhhhh!” They started giggling again, and covered their mouths.
“Really? She was going to cut it off?”
With a shrug, Laure sat back. “Nana hustled me out of there and I never could get her to tell me the rest.”
Arwen sighed and flipped to their second favorite story, that of Finrod and the werewolves. “Do you think there will EVER be a day they stop whispering or talking with their minds and let us know what actually goes on around here?” Said with the indignation of a very grown-up twenty-one-year-old.
“Maybe when we’re a bazillion years old.” With a grimace, Laure turned the page. “Those werewolves give me the creeps, Arwen.”
“Grandmother said they all died out a long time ago.”
“Was that when you asked if he really used his teeth on the thing?”
“Well, yeah! I mean, she should know, right?”
Laure, five years older, was quiet a moment and shook her head. “How about this. You ask your brothers how the valley stays hidden and the vaults impassable, and I’ll ask Nana about the lady with the hairy mole.”
“That’s two questions for me and one for you.”
“One for each brother!”
Arwen shrugged. “Okay.” She elbowed her friend. “After all, you’re the one who’ll have to hear what gross thing your mother did if she does tell you.”
“Maybe she gave her a shaver.” She’d seen those in the healer’s wing once when Orniel had to shave Elrohir’s hair in one place to stitch up a super gross cut.
“For one hair?”
“She probably grew more,” Laure said with great wisdom.
“Beleg?” Now a little concerned, Arwen studied the dark hair on her forearm and noted the near absolute lack of hair on her friend’s arms. “Given that I have mortal blood, if I ever need one of those shaver things, will you get one for me?”
“Of course, Turin!” Laure stood and closed the book before returning it to its shelf. “Come on. Bet my mom has stovies for us!”
Watching the girls race down the hall and out the door, Ninquelótë laughed as she pushed their chairs in and left to make her own way home.