Chapter Text
It started slowly, as most things do, with the murmurs of people in the streets. It started with whispers among the learned of the Noldor about the the gall Prince Nelyafinwë had and how the Prince must be going through one of those phases the younger generation seemed to have. Prince Nelyafinwë was still young, most reasoned, and for all his wisdom Nelyafinwë had barely reached adulthood. It made sense for him to be brash. Even the wisest among the Noldor had their moments of folly.
That being said; most of the Noldor did not establish their moments of folly with something as grand as getting into debates with the guilds in Tirion. Ever since Nelyafinwë had published his thesis on access to current and accurate information being the right of all people, the guilds had become fiercely protective of their libraries and archival material. Their reasoning, some said, was valid. For who knows what could transpire if the information held in those special libraries wound up in the wrong hands? The rebuttals to Nelyafinwë’s thesis were quick to come and the Prince responded to every single one.
Information, Nelyafinwë proposed, was not only a right, access to it was foundational to maintaining a fair and just society. As such, Nelyafinwë wrote, the guilds who restrict information are stifling the Song and encouraging the stagnation of thought and progress.
Ridiculous, the guilds wrote back in an uproar, information was not some commodity that ought to spread like the latest trends. Information, they stressed, was vital to their work and it was important that only those that showed proper skill be allowed to access what the guilds held in their libraries lest the Song grow discordant. The idea that their society was stagnating because of their protection of information was ludicrous, they said.
People, Nelyafinwë theorized, would benefit from unrestricted access to information of all kinds. It would make them more respectful toward work they hadn’t the chance to try. In a similar vein, access to more information about what kind of work was involved in other professions could be a benefit to young people who have yet to settle on what they would like to do for the second century or so of their lives.
People, the guilds said, ought to know better than to mess with what they don’t know. Children, they stressed, ought to learn their first trade from their parents. It promotes family bonds, it ensures that the knowledge the family has gained throughout the years is not lost.
Have you considered, Nelyafinwë wrote back, that children ought to be able to chose what they learn, and who they learn it from? Most simply lack the access to information to make such a choice.
Then who would carry on tradition? The guilds asked as if they had just crafted an exquisite piece of work no one could argue against.
Prince Nelyafinwë, however, was not only a Prince of the Noldor, he was the firstborn of Fëanáro and Nerdanel. Which is to say, if there was one thing he excelled at, it was arguing. His next essay titled ‘More Than Blood: The Importance of Master-Apprentice Relationships in Regards to Carrying on Traditional Knowledge and Increasing Advancements in Craft’ caused an uproar in the guilds and had his mother and father break out in laughter as they read the title.
“Nelyafinwë isn’t wrong,” Fëanáro, who learned the bulk of his trade from Mahtan and even then had to wait until he married Nerdanel to access the traditions and secrets of his craft, said as he leaned on his wife’s shoulder, “It would be beneficial if more people were willing to share all their knowledge with their apprentices, and not hide other ways of doing things in a bid to placate the guild they are part of. Innovation and progress cannot exist in the dark.”
“New ideas always cause such a stir,” Nerdanel spoke, “But I suppose that is for the best. Still, I wonder how Maitimo will fare with all this attention.”
“He’s been the centre of attention most of his life,” Fëanáro said, “Just as I have been. It is part of his duty as a Prince of the Noldor.”
Nerdanel raised an eyebrow at her husband.
“Oh?” She said, her voice was light and teasing, “I suppose pushing for progress is also part of his duties as a Prince of the Noldor?”
“No,” Fëanáro said, “That’s just Nelyafinwë. If he sees a path towards progress, toward the improvement of something, then he will pursue it. Our son is single-minded when he wishes to be. ”
Nerdanel smiled and laughed.
“I wonder,” she said, “Where he got that from?”
“Prince Nelyafinwë, do you have a copy of Woven in Music: On the Connection of Weaving and Song?” The question from one of Morifinwë’s peers causes Neylafinwë to pause.
“I’m unsure,” he said at last, turning to face the weaver who accosted him, “Why do you ask?”
The woman shifted under Nelyafinwë’s piercing gaze. Even when the prince was kind, there was a sharpness to him that made others uneasy.
“I’m doing research into whether Song can be woven into fabric,” The weaver said, “Other research in this area has been limited. And the guild is refusing to allow me access to the material I need to further my research because I’m not ranked highly enough within the guild.”
“Should the guild not be supporting your research?” Nelyafinwë questioned, “It would be a break through in your profession.”
“It would be!” The weaver sighed as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, “Yet the guild keeps the information needed to further my research under wraps. For the safety of all, they said, to keep tradition alive, they said. But how are are we supposed to advance if we don’t take any risks? Tradition can live even as society advances, we do not have to lose where we come from in pursuit of knowledge!”
Nelyfinwë considered the elf before him. She was young, likely not much older than Morifinwë himself, and the passion she had for her work, for the research she committed herself to was evident in the flush of her cheeks and the steel in her words. It was likely that she came for to see on either the recommendation of his brother, or that she had read his articles arguing for equitable access of information and came to see him.
“Tell me where I can find you,” Nelyafinwë said at last, “I shall check my library and see if I have anything that may be able to help you.”
He did, in fact, find several books and scrolls in his library that might be of help to the young weaver. Although Nelyafinwë was unsure whether or not the weaver would appreciate his list of recommendations he slipped the list into the book regardless.
“Here you are,” he said when he found Morifinwë and the weaver speaking rapidly outside his home in Tiirion, “I was about to set out, only to find you accompanying my brother to my home instead.”
The weaver flushed, and Morifinwë greeted Nelyafinwë with one of his infamous scowls.
“Enough Nelyo,” Morifinwë said and waved his hand in the air as if he were shooing away some pest, “Do you have the book she requires or not?”
Nelyafinwë smiled, amused at his brothers brash behaviour.
“I do,” he said, and handed the woman in question the book. Watching her eyes light up set a fire in Nelyafinwë’s chest. His smile grew. “I included a list of recommendations—similar works that might be helpful—tucked behind the cover. I hope it proves useful to you.”
The woman beamed at him as she clutched the book tightly to her chest.
“Prince Nelyafinwë! You have my utmost thanks! If aught comes of this I will be sure to let you and your brother know!”
“No need to let him know,” Morifinwë scowled, pleased, “I on the other hand will be happy to hear if this research bears fruit.”
The woman blushed and Morifinwë turned to glare at his brother.
Shaking his head, Nelyafinwë chuckled.
“I’ll leave you two to it then,” he said graciously, “If you need anything else, I’ll do my best to help you find it.”
When Nelyafinwë began to amass his library in his teenage years, he did not anticipate ever loaning any of the materials within it out. He did not anticipate being asked for material on weaving, agriculture, and metal work. The guilds, he had assumed like most others did, would surely share all the information they had with their members.
Evidently, Nelyafinwë was wrong. After loaning one book out, he soon finds himself accosted almost daily by others wondering if he had material on something their guilds had restricted access to. He did, of course he did, one of the privileges of being a prince meant that if Nelyafinwë wanted something, there was little anyone else could do to prevent him from having it.
There in was the problem, with so many asking for material from his library, Nelyafinwë had yet to do more than take down the names of those who borrowed the material and when they took it out. He did not know when the material in his collection would or if it even would.
Unsurprisingly, It was Morifinwë that came up with a solution.
“Loan limits,” Morifinwë said one night as he listened to Nelyafinwë explain his problem, “Say a month or two, that way you have an estimate on when the books will return.” Morifinwë paused. “If say, you had a card with the title and author of each book or scroll you have, then you could write down who has it and then have a card attached to it with the names of who are waiting for it.”
Morifinwë paused and took a look around Nelyafinwë’s home.
“If you like,” he said with a glint in his eyes that said he would have his way one way or another, “I could go through your material and make a list of what you have. It’d be up to you to make and organize the cards though.”
To be frank, Nelyafinwë did not expect his library to grow legs and walk off. That is, however, what it seems to be doing. He would be more mad about it, but truth be told, he most of the books in his collection had only been read once, and it felt wonderful to see those books make their way out into the hands of those that needed them.
Whispers around Tirion grew about Nelyafinwë’s library, it was only a matter of time before the guilds got involved.
“And what is this?” Nelyafinwë’s voice was calm. There was no edge to it. No sharpness that would have angered the Guildmaster in front of him. The scroll the that the Master of Weaving held trembled in his hand. The lack of anger in Nelyafinwë’s voice, the confidence and poise he held himself with despite the fact he must have known what the scroll the representative chosen by the other Guildmasters held was unnerving.
The elves gathered outside of Nelyafinwë’s makeshift library—his own home—watched with gazes like hawks. Nelyafinwë himself looked down upon the representative, his smile was not mean or cruel. It was amused, gentle. The kind of smile one might use when entertaining a child.
It raised the hairs on the Guildmasters neck.
“The guilds in Tirion have come together to demand that you cease your unlawful circulation of information pertaining to our professions—”
“Unlawful?” Nelyafinwë’s eyes flashed with something like amusement. “And what law has made the distribution of information unlawful? Here I thought that in Tirion, the gem of the Noldor, accessing information would be encouraged.”
“When the information is accessed through the appropriate channels, and by those with the background to make proper use of it, we shall encourage it,” the Master Weaver said, “Your distribution of knowledge without any proper safeguards is dangerous.”
“Is it now?” Nelyafinwë did not take the offered scroll. “Are you insinuating that my people are weak-minded? That they are unable to withstand the knowledge kept on chains by you and yours?”
Murmurs broke out in the groups of those who stayed to watch. To dare and imply that those under the care of the royal family family were weak-minded was to insult the royal family itself. For if the royal family was lacking in wisdom and skill, then wouldn’t it follow that its citizens would lack wisdom and skill as well?
The flush that burns through the face of the Guildmaster was a sight to behold. His mouth opened and closed like that of a fish. It had seemed as if Prince Nelyafinwë had truly angered the elf in front of him.
“We work for the people!” The Guildmaster proclaimed, “Our job is to ensure that the people of Tirion are safe—”
“Oh?” A spark lit up Nelyafinwë’s eyes, those who knew him would say he was well and truly amused. “It is not your duty to keep Tirion safe, it is the duty of those of Finwë’s blood. You say you work for the people, yet you aim to restrict their access to material that would have them lead more fulfilling lives. Is that your version of safety? Stagnancy? We the Noldor must know that progress comes only from risk. If giving my people the information they desire is considered a risk, then so be it. It is a risk I will gladly take.”
“If Prince Nelyafinwë were so keen on his duties, he would not let the books and scrolls, the information, that he possess as a Prince of the Noldor be disseminated into the public conscience.”
“It is a risk,” Nelyafinwë agreed, “But is it anymore of a risk than working in a forge? Is it more of a risk than working in a mine? It is not. You fear the information I give, the materials that I loan, because you and yours wish for a monopoly on the information my citizens possess. I will not allow it.”
“If it not your choice—then it will be that of your King Finwë’s that will end this matter!”
Neylafinwë threw his head back and laughed, the light of Laurelin casting his hair in a fiery light.
“So be it,” he said, his grin wide and proud, “Though let it be known that should my grandfather rule against me, I will become a most disobedient grandson.”