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Rumil set down his quill, at last satisfied for the day. His elegant penmanship scrawled across twelve pages of parchment. He blinked several times when he realized that the chamber showed a shade of orange, instead of the light, soft hues of dawn. Had that much time really flown past him? He glanced at his guests, of whom he'd extracted another tale, but neither seem offended to have been kept the entire day.
"One last question," Rumil admitted, refusing to let embarrassment dust his cheeks.
The dwarf huffed as a smile played under his faded beard. Rumil can still see a few bits of red between all the grey hair. "Isn't it always."
His companion, a blond elf, elbowed him.
The dwarf rolled his eyes once. "Proceed, Master Rumil. Let it not be said that a dwarf be the one to stop history being writ."
Rumil chuckled, picking up his quill. "It's been several centuries since you went upon this quest. Do you find that it hard to recall these events now?"
It's the sort of question frowned upon, but Rumil hasn't written the books he has by being kind and not asking the personal, invasive questions. He was curious if Valinor has been able to preserve the dwarf's memories. It would be a wonderful gift, if so.
Rumil waited, but the silence prolonged enough for him to glance over....and have ice fill him from the feet up to find the elf in a staring match with his companion as the dwarf laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. The shorter must feel Rumil's gaze, for his wrinkled face also glanced over, a dark promise within it's depths.
"Master Dwarf?" Rumil queried, laying his quill down again. He's touched something fresh, something he should not, but he cannot say what.
The elf took in a shaky breathe. "Sometimes it fades."
Rumil inhaled sharply. No, it cannot be. Not on Valinor!
"Aragorn and Gandalf suspected, I think, towards the end when we built our boat. The hobbits..." The elf stumbles and glances up at the dwarf. " Frodo, Sam, and Mera...No, Merry....there was another I know... One more..."
The elf continued, his fingers twisting the crimson robe about him. "But I cannot see...as if...as if a fog of shadows warps my vision. It wraps around me, ever tighter. I remember some things, some grand moments, but then it goes...goes..."
The elf stared off at the mosaic of the first battle against Sauron on the wall opposite.
The dwarf sighed. "Some days are better than others."
"I had not heard."
"It was his wish. He is...afraid to tell any of you." The dwarf snorted. "Y'all are perfect here and he is not, how could he shame you by blighting that?"
"That is not -!" Rumil half rose, a hot lava flaring in his chest and melting the ice which froze him.
"Peace!" The dwarf held up a hand. "I feel not this way. It is his own words, his own fears."
Rumil sat. "Do none else know?"
"Master Elrond. The Lady Galadriel. Gandalf. The trees." The dwarf huffs. "Back over the sea, the trees helped keep him mind, but these trees here are...new. They know not his mind's path and they are slow to learning."
So few. Only four to aid with such a heavy burden. Rumil cannot fathom the ache, the fear, the silent tears that must always live with this young elf - for he is young I'm comparison to so many here. He is selfishly glad it is not he that Eru has call upon to this. To remember, that is why he writes so much, so all can know. But...to have his abilities slowly striped away, to be able to do nothing....this is the curse of the second born, of men, not elves!
"And they can do nothing?" Rumil heard himself say through numb lips.
"Nay," the elf replied for his friend. His tired, blue eyes find his ancient ones, hold them, challenging him to be the first to look away. Rumil does not. He is not ashamed. Saddened, yes, but not ashamed. The warrior nodded, one battled hardened soldier to another. "They have tried, but it is...too far gone."
"I am -" Rumil started, but the elf abruptly stood.
His lips pull into a small smile that make Rumil wince. "Come, Gimli, we've taken up too much of Master Rumil's time."
The dwarf, Gimli, grunted. "Course, laddie. I hear Lady Galadriel has invited you to her hanging house again."
The elf laughed, head ducking as he shook it. "It does not hang."
The dwarf nodded a farewell to Rumil as they walked out the door and down the hall. "Tell that to my eyes. They know what they see."
"Are you sure?"
"Am I..." Rumil heard the dwarf splutter. "The nerve! An dwarf, unsure. No, get back here! You pointy eared, bloated, twit, you take that back!"
Rumil touched his parchment with the tips of his fingers. He's forgone other things in his history books. Why not this? There was no need to draw out young Legolas' pain. Soon, it will be known, but perhaps he can soften it for the next generation. Yes...perhaps...he looked over the story told today. He can at least give the young elf his rightful place in history.