#fouryearsoldandfeared

Ah, now this is a story worth telling.

Picture, if you will, dear Anon, a grand gathering in Rivendell’s halls, where lords and dignitaries had assembled for a discussion of great importance (or so they believed). Among them was a certain Lord Faelion—an elf of considerable age, impressive lineage, and an ego so vast it could have its own postal system.

He was the kind of elf who believed wisdom was dictated by years alone, and that any who had not seen at least three Ages of the world should remain silent in the presence of their betters.

Unfortunately for him, Arwen was four years old.

Now, young she may have been, but Arwen had spent her years listening to her father and his advisors, absorbing the art of debate as naturally as she did the Sindarin tongue. She was also, at this tender age, under the impression that she was already an adult—because, as she reasoned, she could read, she could write, and she could (as she often reminded those around her) put on her own shoes without assistance. This made her eminently qualified to participate in any and all discussions.

And so, when Lord Faelion made the grave mistake of dismissing something she said with a condescending "Little one, this is a conversation for those who understand such matters," Arwen straightened her spine and proceeded to annihilate him.

With perfect posture, a deceptively sweet voice, and the cutting precision of someone who had spent a lifetime (or, well, four years) observing her father handle insufferable dignitaries, she launched into what I can only describe as a verbal disembowelment.

She began with a simple, innocent question:

"Lord Faelion, how many books have you read about this?"

He scoffed. "Many, child."

"Oh," she said, tilting her head. "Then why does Ada always say that the wise do not claim to know everything?"

The room fell silent.

Lord Faelion’s lips parted, as if attempting a rebuttal, but Arwen was not finished.

"And," she continued, "if you were really wise, you would know that speaking down to people makes them not want to listen to you, which means you are not a very good teacher, which means you cannot be as wise as you say you are."

She clasped her hands delicately in front of her, blinking up at him with large, guileless eyes. "Ada always says that wise elves help others learn. So maybe you should read a few more books before saying you understand everything."

I watched Lord Faelion’s soul leave his body.

The assembled company exchanged stunned glances, the kind one gives when witnessing something both horrifying and awe-inspiring.

Lord Elrond, always the composed ruler, pressed his fingers together in deep contemplation and very diplomatically told Arwen that it was not polite to dismantle others in front of an audience.

Then, later that evening, when he thought no one else was listening, I saw Lord Elrond settle Arwen on his lap at the dinner table, handing her his untouched dessert without a word. She accepted it with the grace of one who expected such tributes, happily digging in as he smoothed a hand over her hair.

"Next time," he murmured, pressing a proud kiss to the top of her head, "try not to do it so thoroughly, my dear."

He was grinning.