Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful.

Prologue

The first time they meet, it's because it's a rainy day, and Eleniel is sitting at her desk staring out at the miserably grey view of the city when a voice says, "Erm – excuse me, my lady; are you the new librarian?"

She jumps and turns, almost upsetting her untidy pile of accounts of the Great Plague, to find a pair of solemn grey eyes gazing down at her from the face of the Prince of Gondor. She leaps from her chair. "You're the Prince!"

The Heir blinks down at her. "I am, and you are…?"

"Eleniel. Sire. New librarian. My father handed on the job, as it were, that is, only one son and he's in the army, and I like books so I was the obvious choice." Eleniel stops talking and swallows hard. "Can I help you, your highness?"

A sudden disarming smile lights up the somewhat forbidding features of Prince Eldarion. "Ah – I believe you can. I rather think that this library contains a large collection of documents from Harad?"

Eleniel glances round. From her desk, she can see the whole of the dusty, disorganised library; huge, grimy windows let what weak light there is and the teetering shelves stretch to the vaulted ceiling. Eleniel thinks of her father, too disabled to do anything but dust a few shelves occasionally, and sighs. "Certainly, my lord. If they are anywhere then they are in here."

Eldarion is also eyeing the vast room with some doubt written on his handsome features. "Really?"

"Oh yes, sire; but my father wasn't able to do much in the way of cataloguing or, or cleaning, or anything really – he was in the war, and until I get it sorted out –" which will take up the better part of the rest of my life, she adds silently – "I'm afraid that finding things is rather difficult."

The Prince frowns. "Do you have no assistants?"

"No, your highness," says Eleniel blandly.

"And how long have you held this post?"

"The best part of a week now, sire, although I have a fairly good idea of where some things are; I've been in and out of here all my life." Eleniel watches him carefully. She doesn't think he looks the kind of man to deprive people of their jobs out-of-hand, but she dreads having some obsequious palace clerk come in and start being officious.

Eldarion narrows his eyes. "And I suppose that a horde of cleaners would disrupt you considerably?"

"Yes, sire." And then, because she truly does want to be helpful, she adds, "If you give me a few months, your highness, I'll have that section in some sort of order for you."

"And how will you accomplish that?" he asks her.

"Er, well, by having to large piles of paper; one for scrolls on the Haradrim, the other for – anything else."

"You cannot trawl through the whole library by yourself! It would take years!"

"Begging your pardon, sire, but it needs to be done." She shrugs. "And then I'll try and catalogue what I can, although obviously not the gallery, the stairs are gone." They both automatically glance up at the high balcony, where cobwebs festoon the shelves and paper covers the floor.

The Prince starts to lean against a nearby shelf, but stops himself just in time. "A thankless task." He regards her with that narrow stare again, and seems to reach a decision. "I'll send down people to help you. I had no idea that the library was in this state, and I'm sure the king did not know." This is most likely true: the library of the Palace is rumoured to be a favoured haunt of King Elessar, and it is no wonder that he has never visited the City library, which in addition to being in a state of disrepair is largely acknowledged to have ceased to function.

Eleniel panics quietly. She can think of nothing worse than having a horde of palace servants kicking up the dust. "My lord, I'd rather – I mean, please don't, I can sort it out if you'll just give me a few months! The system is so complicated, and there are all sorts of scrolls down here, half of them in languages that no one speaks any more – some of them could be so important!"

Eldarion frowns. "We have a shortage of men with knowledge of this kind of – of…"

"Thing," said Eleniel helpfully.

"Indeed," says the Heir. "There are so few with the language skills, let alone the kind of patience needed, who are not already employed at court." He flashes her a sudden smile again. "I shall find someone. No, my lady, I insist," he adds as Eleniel starts to protest, and she subsides. When the Prince of Gondor insists, the unspoken rule is that he is obeyed.

"Thankyou, my lord," she says quietly, dropping an awkward curtsey.

"It is a pleasure." Eldarion executes a perfect bow, his dark hair falling forward, then turns on his heel and walks toward the stairs, the picture of Gondorian upper-class elegance in his long surcoat of dark velvet. Eleniel stands quite still as the sound of his footsteps fades, and the dust-motes gleam in the pale sunlight that breaks through the rain.

"He won't be back," she says aloud to the vast, forgotten room, and reaches for the crumbling words of long-dead kings as the dust settles once more.