Already late - typical me. Anyway, enjoy!

Prompt: language | culture | beauty

One-shot for Day 2 of #lotrweek on tumblr

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There it was, that little shiver of delight that came whenever the new policy was missing a detail, or contained an error. King Elessar had asked him to review it, write a second draft - an improved trade manifesto to Dol Amroth. Faramir had spent days poring over the old one, deciphering the heavy legal language and comparing it to the King's hurried first draft.

His study was in a very quiet corner on the second floor of the Tower of Ecthelion - the very room, in fact, where Mithrandir had taught him as a child, struggling through lessons of geography and history while his mind wandered. The traditional Steward's rooms were just off the King's receiving hall and throne room, but Faramir had opted to use these only for ceremonial purposes. They brought back too many unpleasant memories of his father. King Elessar had understood at once, and given his official blessing for Faramir to retreat to this hiding place to do his more thorough administrative work as Steward, when his business brought him to the White City.

The only noise in the room was the soft scrape of his quill against paper, interrupted periodically when Faramir dipped it into the ink. He already had a pile of scrolls, half unravelled and scattered across his desk, copies of letters from various Gondorian lords,  and books spilling from cupboards and shelves, that he used for reference on his document. Yet - he read it again, just to be sure - there! An omission on a proposal that hadn't been resolved in the new policy.

Faramir stood up and stretched, going over to the window for a moment.

A shaft of sunlight streamed through, the sun almost at its peak in the bright blue sky. Good day for a hunt, Faramir thought, despite himself, and smiled. He'd take Éowyn out to the forest the moment this draft policy was finished, if this glorious weather persisted.

For now, though, he took his ring of keys from a hook on the back of the study door and set off for the archives.

They were like a sanctuary for him, even now, when the days of his youth were long past. He felt a sense of importance - the physical act of looking for a book, or a scroll, in the candlelit gloom and towering shelves and shadowy nooks of the Old Archives of Gondor, made him feel as though his work was not purely theoretical. Someone, sometime, had made the effort to document all this information; spent lifetimes working on the lives of the people of Gondor, recounting everything from laws (made or broken) to land boundaries from hundreds of years ago. It was hard, sometimes, to imagine anyone other than his father - or now, King Elessar - presiding in the throne room, throwing feasts in the Merethrond, holding counsel and court alike in the Great Hall, despite generations of kings doing so previously. In the archives however, Faramir got a true sense that people had lived here long before his time; meticulous records of their actions, hundreds of years old, crowded these narrow, dimly-lit halls. The evidence of the truth of all the old legends lived here.

It was incredible.

Faramir held up the flaming torch closer to the bit of paper he'd scribbled the location of a potential source on, to get a better look, and set off down the aisles. He stopped here and there to gaze longingly at some of the volumes, the dusty scrolls - one day he'd have the chance to read them, to discover their secrets. Now he was on a mission.

The sorting system of the Old Archives worked, more or less, but it was very complicated and hopelessly outdated. The first scroll he had in mind was nowhere to be found, at least on the shelf it was supposed to be, according to the archive guide (whose author, long-dead, had had the worst handwriting Faramir had ever seen). The second source was a book of figures with over a thousand pages - even the newly-minted Steward, with all his love of books and hopes and dreams for the archives, recoiled from that.

Finally, Faramir stopped by a cupboard of scrolls with a layer of dust an inch thick on the top. He sneezed about seven times before he finally found the one he was looking for amongst a mess of others, and the result was worth his watering eyes. It was labelled Land laws of Lamedon, dating back about a few hundred years. With their close ties to the princedom of Dol Amroth - it was perfect.

A quick glance showed Faramir that it was written in some form of elvish - only a minor setback. Due to his noble upbringing, he could read Tengwar runes without much difficulty, and translation of official documents into Sindarin had still been mandatory until the time of his grandfather Ecthelion despite the language not being spoken as frequently. Mithrandir had been very thorough in teaching Faramir these elvish languages, though he was not quite fluent.

However, upon closer inspection, Faramir realised to some consternation that the scroll was written in a form of elvish he did not understand. He made a halfhearted attempt to find some of his old rune charts, but some of the characters he was certain he'd never seen before.

Faramir thought about it. He couldn't simply leave his policy as it was - Prince Imrahil would be sure to spot the omission even if it was minor enough for King Elessar to let it slide. Imrahil was a decent man, a great soldier, but would not stand for loopholes in trade agreements if it showed Dol Amroth in a bad light. After the war he was trying his utmost to secure the future of his princedom for his sons, which was why he had called in a few favours to get this policy settled so soon.

Faramir rummaged about some more trying to find a different scroll - or at least a translation into something he could work with. This stirred up even more dust, which caused him to sneeze so violently he banged his head on the top of the cupboard and had to sit back and swear quietly to himself for a bit before starting again.

It was all in vain. This scroll, in a language he did not understand, was his best - and only - option.

Then something fell into place, and Faramir hopped up from his position on the dusty archive floor, laughing out loud. Why had he not thought of this before? He put the scroll into one of the protective cases that were available at the warden's desk, and set off to find Queen Arwen.

Faramir found the queen in her audience chamber - a large, spacious room lined with curtains of soft white silk that fluttered in the gentle breeze, blowing in from the courtyard outside, and large, comfortable chairs. Queen Arwen was sitting in one of these, listening to a young lady pouring her heart out. Lingering in the open doorway, Faramir recognised the young lady as Meluieth, newly married to Elphir, son of Prince Imrahil - perhaps she could also provide some feedback on his policy, if she had the time. The queen spotted him in her peripheral vision and gestured for him to come in.

"I understand your concerns," she was saying, gravely. "However, I would advise you to be more open about them. Share your grievances with your husband. It is likely he does not realise your anxiety."

"Oh, I know you're right," Meluieth sighed. "It's just so hard."

Arwen looked into the young lady's eyes - Faramir knew how daunting that was, having been on the receiving end a few times. His queen's eyes were like nothing of this world - depthless grey, like crystal. However, Lady Meluieth squared her shoulders in a show of real determination as Arwen spoke.

"I can see the strength you possess, even if you cannot," she said. "Coming to me was the first step - that alone took courage. I'm glad we had our talk now, instead of in twenty years when change would be a thousand times more difficult."

Meluieth hopped up, and dropped a deep curtsey, finally smiling. "I'll talk to my lord tonight. Thank you, your Grace. Good afternoon, my lord Steward," she added, hurrying from the room before Faramir could stop her.

"What was that about?" Faramir asked, curious.

Arwen tilted her head slightly. "I don't want to break her confidence. Suffice it to say, when Princess Lothíriel leaves for Rohan, Meluieth will be the first lady of Dol Amroth and she is feeling rather nervous about it. In her own words, her mother raised her to run a household, not a whole city, and certainly not both at once. What can I help you with, mellon-nîn?"

"I need your help with a translation, your Grace," Faramir said, bringing over the scroll. Arwen unravelled it on her lap as Faramir took the chair Meluieth had just vacated.

"This is for the new trade agreement, is it not?" Arwen asked, running her fingers over the lines of elegant script and smiling slightly.

Faramir nodded. "What language is it, and why on Earth was it used to write out a list of land laws from Lamedon, of all places?"

"It is a form of Noldorin, one that I have not seen in a long time," Arwen said absently, engrossed in the text. "And any reason I can think of for this particular translation is only speculation. Perhaps a party of elves was passing through the area, and stayed with the Lord of Lamedon for a time; or perhaps some scholar translated a few random documents to improve his limited knowledge of the language. The latter is probably more correct, as there are some grammatical errors."

Faramir's face fell. "Then I probably can't count on its accuracy in my policy draft."

Arwen nodded, sympathetically, though she smiled. "No matter how much you love the Old Archives, Lord Faramir, perhaps it would be best to write to Lord Amarthon and ask for the current land agreements between Lamedon and Dol Amroth - or at least their own historical records."

The Steward of Gondor looked wistfully at the scroll, one last time, before rolling it back up and putting it back into the case. "I probably ought to have done that to begin with, your Grace. Thank you for your help. One of these days I will sort out the Old Archives properly."

"The whole archive, by yourself?" Arwen's lips twitched with amusement. "That would be a fierce undertaking indeed."

Faramir laughed. "With the help of as many scholars as I can find, naturally."

"And your queen, as resident identifier of strange languages," Arwen inclined her head. "Now go, my lord Steward, and hurry back to your draft before a storm breaks out over the forests of Ithilien, and the Lady Éowyn brings forth her wrath upon your desk for keeping you away from her for too long."

Faramir laughed again, bowed, and hurried. He had a letter to write, and sunshine to enjoy, - the war was over. Life had meaning once more.