Peculiar by Ada Kensington

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Wine and Words

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Peculiar

"No.  Absolutely not."

"But Rúmil, this is the only way-"

"No.  It is not the only way.  There must be a hundred other ways through the Calacirya."

"It's quickest by far."

"I don't care."

"It's not that high."

"Do you think I'm blind?  There's snow on the peaks!"

"You're being obstinate."

"No, you're being obstinate by insisting on scaling the Pelóri as a means to avoid pursuit."

"And you're being obstinate by refusing to even consider the possibility."

"Then we have reached an impasse," Rúmil snapped, folding his arms petulantly and sitting himself down on the grassy embankment at the side of the road.  "We will not agree on our course. You would climb those ridiculous mountains, and I would do a million things other than climb those ridiculous mountains."

"They're not as ridiculous as you, oh great scholar, who is clearly all too used to tea and books," Fëanáro retorted, tossing his pack to the ground with a snort.

"And that is exactly why I'm not going clambering over the Pelóri," Rúmil answered acidly. "I am used to tea and books, not mountaineering. Even if I manage to haul myself up there, knowing my clumsy-footed luck I'll trip over my own feet at the top and go tumbling down a ravine. Then, when you finally get to wherever you eventually decide to go, you'll have to write a letter to the School telling them they're short one Loremaster."

Fëanáro's  impatient frown melted into a smirk. "Ha. I can see it now," he said. "My letter arriving. Dear Master Quennar, I am sorry to inform you that Rúmil has fallen into a ravine. We were climbing the Pelóri. I peered over the edge of the precipice, but it was a long way down and I couldn't see anything. My guess is that he is dead, but you'll have to check with Námo to be sure. If he is not dead, I'm sure he will find his way back. My condolences if he is dead - if not, my apologies. Fëanáro."

"Oh, I will be dead. Most definitely. And each and every day my fëa languishes in the Halls of Mandos you can bet I will be dwelling on your stubborn insistence on carrying out the ridiculous decision which led to my horrific and untimely demise. And when I get out," Rúmil whispered, narrowing his eyes, "when I get out, Fëanáro, the first thing I will do will be to find you and say, "I told you so."  And I will follow you forever and ever and ever, wide-eyed and haunted - spectral, like a wraith - until the end of time, repeating the same miserable refrain, over and over again-"

"I told you so?"

"Yes."

Fëanáro rolled his eyes.  "You are exaggerating, but very well.  If you're so against it, we won't go over the Pelóri."

"Brilliant. Astounding. I am overcome with joy. Thank you, Fëanáro, for seeing sense."

"There's no sense involved at all," Fëanáro replied, with a wry smile. "I'm just sick of listening to you moaning about it.  The very minute we set foot on the ascent, you'd be whining, and I have no doubt I'd have to endure it in my ear the whole way up and over."

"That was my back-up plan," Rúmil said with a note of sanctimony, lifting his chin in the air.

"And that's all very well and good," Fëanáro said pointedly, "but what are we going to do now? We can't stay on the road forever. We will be caught, you may depend on it. At this very moment Erdacundo will be-"

Both turned at the sound of a distant rumbling they had not yet heard over the clamour of their bickering. In the distance, approaching in a cloud of dust, was the mail caravan that journeyed twice a month between Alqualondë, Tirion and Valmar. Pulled by dozens of huge, long-horned, long-haired cart cattle, the caravan made its laborious way along the narrow coach road that wound through the Calacirya. Its destination, no doubt, was Valmar, having come that morning from Tirion, and before that, Alqualondë. Each cart would be filled with letters and parcels from all over Aman - though not so full they couldn't spare room for the odd wandering passenger or two.

Fëanáro turned to Rúmil and flashed a sly grin.

"There's a coaching inn at the banks of the Lindon," he ventured.  "The drivers and the footmen always stop there to feed and water themselves and their pack-beasts. I say we let the caravan take the strain until we reach the Lindon Inn. Rúmil, how well can you swim?"

"Lest you forget, I was born on Tol Eressëa," Rúmil replied, by way of affirmation. "But, Fëanáro, are you suggesting we swim down the Lindon? Forgive me for pointing it out, but that seems only marginally less insane than the alternative."

"It's that or scale the Pelóri," Fëanáro asserted, his eyes eagerly following the caravan as it drew nearer. "Though, the more I think about it, the more I like the thought of using the Lindon. The banks are strewn with boulders, the river is deep enough to float in, the water flows quickly and there are no perilous downward plunges or rapids for miles in either direction..."  He trailed off for a moment, lost in thought, but only for a moment. 

"Rúmil," Fëanáro said slowly, deliberately. "I have an idea."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"I think we will head for the Lindon. Make sure your boots are clean. We'll need to do a little bit of climbing," he said, then adding in response to Rúmil's cries of outrage, "only a little bit of climbing. Just high enough so we can jump onto the roof of one of the carts.  Look over there, see how close the road passes to that ledge?"

"Oh yes..."

"You could jump off that, couldn't you?"

"I'm sure I could."

"Excellent.  Then it's decided," Fëanáro said, with a glint in his eye. "Start cleaning your boots - make sure they're as clean as possible. If Erdacundo is running after us, he might bring dogs.  I will take care of that possibility and then we can head up, lie in wait and catch the caravan."

---

"Dig another one out, will you?  And try and get a good one this time," Rúmil called out to Fëanáro as he lay on his back on the cart roof, staring up at the clouds passing overhead in the blue sky.

Fëanáro's plan had worked wonderfully well. All it had taken was a hop, skip and a jump in clean boots over a few boulders for them to reach the ledge. Then Rúmil waited while Fëanáro dropped down to lay a false trail and spread pepper powder liberally across the road. The caravan was right underneath the ledge when Fëanáro came scrambling back up, swift and silent. They chose a cart near the middle of the train (towed by other carts with no driver or footman to spot them) and made the jump onto the roof, where they set aside their heavy packs, lay down and basked comfortably in the warm light of Laurel in.

To their delight, not long after they had made the jump, Rúmil had chanced to look behind and saw that the caravan had split at a fork in the road. He nudged Fëanáro and both watched the other half of the cart train heading south. They both knew what it meant. If the king had sent a search party, it would be difficult now to trail them - difficult, but not impossible. Reaching the Lindon was still all-important, but now it would be easier to get there without incident.

It was still a good six hours away, though. So Rúmil, feeling a little bored, decided to take advantage of the ready source of reading material trundling along beneath them.

"This one has potential," Fëanáro called out, letting the loading hatch clatter closed behind him. "It stinks of jasmine oil."

"Excellent. Crack it open, then, and let's hear it!"

Sliding his finger under the seal, the wax cracked and Fëanáro unfolded the slip of paper. As he scanned the contents, a smirk formed on his face.

"Wait till you hear this..."

"What?  Is it good?"

"Priceless."

"If it's a love letter, you have to read it in a voice," Rúmil insisted.

Holding the letter out in front of him, placing one hand on his heart, Fëanáro cleared his throat and began, in a desperate keening wail, "My heart, my love, my Lírillë, greetings to you, oh dear one, from your beloved, your Sindemir. Only two days it has been since we parted in great sorrow beneath the white boughs of Galathilion. Already I miss you more than I could ever say. My heart hurts. I cannot eat.  I cannot sleep. I think of you always. Though Valmar calls you home, the streets of Tirion recall your light, laughing presence and mourn its loss. As I do. I wish you were not there.  I wish with all my heart that you were here with me, in my arms, my Lírillë. My heart, though it is sore, takes comfort in the solace of a glimmering hope. I may yet be lucky enough to see you again soon. For it is rumoured the king and queen plan to visit lord Ingwë in Valmar-" Fëanáro's voice faltered for a moment, then lowered to its natural pitch, "-so the queen might let the young princess Findis meet her kin there."

Fëanáro stared oddly at the paper for a long moment. Then he set it down without reading another word.

It was strange.  They had been so busy trying to leave Tirion behind them that Rúmil had not had a chance to discuss the queen or the birth of the king's daughter with Fëanáro, and the boy for his part hadn't asked. Rúmil's insides squirmed guiltily. He wished Fëanáro had not found out this way.

"My father has an attendant called Sindemir," Fëanáro said quietly. "I hope that letter was not from him. I'll never be able to look him in the eye again."

There was a moment of silence. Rúmil knew exactly what Fëanáro wanted to ask.  It was not long in the coming.

"Is that her name, Rúmil?" Fëanáro inquired, turning away to stare out across the plains, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the cart. "Findis?"

"Couldn't say for certain," Rúmil replied. "I didn't stay long enough to find out. I don't think your father's attendant would have any reason to lie, though."

"It's a terrible name. Findis," Fëanáro said, his lip curling as though the very act of uttering it left a bitter taste in his mouth. "Finwë plus Indis makes Findis."

"Quite literally," Rúmil quipped before he could stop himself. Fëanáro threw him a withering look over his shoulder.

"Thank you for reminding me, Rúmil," he said caustically. "As if I could forget..."

Rúmil sighed and gave himself a good, hard, mental thrashing.  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It was rather insensitive."

"Hmn."

Rúmil supposed that was the closest he could get to having an apology accepted by Fëanáro. With a sad smile, Rúmil slid across the roof of the cart to sit cross-legged beside him.

"I did get a look at her, though," he ventured.  "At Findis."

"Oh. What did she look like?"

"A squalling child," Rúmil said, truthfully.  "All pudgy little fists beating the air. Red-faced. Small. Bundle-like. Easily lost in fabric."

Fëanáro allowed himself a wry smile but did not answer.

"To tell you the truth, I'm not that fond of children," Rúmil confessed. "Don't know what your father sees in them. My sister has children. Too many children. Two boys and a girl.  I remember when her eldest was born - he must be about your age now, actually - and I went back home to visit."

"And?"

"I chapped on their door, was welcomed inside, and as soon as my arse touched the seat in the parlour, my brother-in-law - grinning all over his face - shoved his first-born in front of me and hollered: "Here is your uncle Rúmil! Go!  Go and see your uncle Rúmil!"

"Since my eldest nephew at that point did not possess the necessary motor skills to be able to reply, "Why, thank you father, I'll do just that," and pick himself up and walk over to me, I realised, with mounting horror, that I would have to hold him."

"So what happened?"

"I took him under the arms, held him out in front of me and sort of winced at him. Then he started crying."

"Of course he started crying! You don't hold babies like that."

"Well I didn't know that at the time, did I?" Rúmil complained. "I know it now, though, and do you know what, Fëanáro? Children still don't like me. I think your father's mad to have wanted any - including you!"

It was a joke of course, but still, Rúmil was relieved to see the flash of a smile on Fëanáro's face.

"I think he's mad too," Fëanáro replied. He drew his legs up into his chest and rested his chin upon his knees, contemplating the miles and miles of grassland that stretched out around them in all directions, dotted here and there with distant settlements. 

"He does love you, you know," Rúmil offered, a gentle reminder.

"I know. And that's why I have to be here," Fëanáro murmured. "I have to go away. It's better for him."

"And how is that?"

"Because I hurt him."

Fëanáro's head slid lower and lower until his forehead touched his knees and Rúmil could no longer see his face.

"I do not want to hurt him," he went on, quietly. "But I do.  Because I am strange and unhappy."

"You are not strange."

"I am. I know I am. I remember once, after I had an argument with Atar, he said to me, shouted at me, "Curufinwë, for all the stars in the sky, why can't you be normal?"

"He apologised to me afterward, but I knew from the way he said it that he really, truly meant it. I lay awake wondering that night if in fact I was not normal, and came to the conclusion it must be true because I don't really have any friends. The next day I made a promise to myself that I would be normal from then on. I tried my hardest. I packed all my tools away, tidied my workshop, combed my hair, dressed in my finest robes and joined Atar at counsel. I remember the look on his face when I walked in.  He was so happy. So I sat through it and listened quietly to the lords' idle prattle. Then I went to dinner and sat through it too, enduring in silence yet more idle prattle. I went hunting, I visited the provinces, I held my tongue, kept silent and nodded at intervals. I was normal."

"I kept it up for quite a long time," Fëanáro went on. "But even though it made Atar happy... it made me miserable. While I was trapped in one of those interminable, fucking dinners listening to a stupid woman droning on about something equally stupid while having no clue what she was talking about, I had one of those horrible sinking moments I sometimes have when a black mood steals over me and wraps despair around my heart. I realised then and there that I would never be normal, no matter how hard I tried. I could never be like Atar, who is so free and easy with his conversation, who seems to enjoy the company of these people and who cares about what they say. I could not be like him. I could not make him happy.

"The thought was awful. I just could not take anymore. I ran from the room, up to my own rooms, shut the door behind me and I lay there on my bed and wept because I felt so hopeless. Atar came knocking on my door later. I told him to go away at first because I didn't know it was him, but he came in anyway - Atar always does - and he sat down next to me. Do you know what he said?"

"What did he say?"

"‘You do not have to do this, Curufinwë,' is what he said. And then he gave me a kiss on the ear because I would not let him see my face and said, ‘Come, let's unpack your things. Your workshop looks awfully bare.'"

"So he knew all along?"

Fëanáro nodded. "By nature I am so strange, the act I had put on was obvious. He could see that I was trying and that meant a lot to him, but he did not want me to make myself miserable. I told him that I was trying because I wanted him to be happy, but he told me not to be silly, said that didn't matter, and that he loved his odd Curufinwë best of all."

Fëanáro's faced twisted and his hands moved to cover his face for a moment. "But I don't see how, when the odd Curufinwë that he loves hurts him so much."

"We cannot both be happy," Fëanáro said finally. "And I think this is a good time for me to go away. He will want to be with Findis and I will only make things worse because I cannot be normal and pretend to be happy. Do you see now?"

"Yes.  I think I understand."

"Please don't tell anyone I told you this," Fëanáro urged, turning suddenly to Rúmil. "I haven't told this to anyone before and I only told you because I thought you'd understand."

"I do understand, after a fashion," Rúmil said slowly. "I know what it feels like to be considered strange."

"You do?"

"I was not always so smart-mouthed and confident, Fëanáro.  In fact you may not believe it, but I was a very shy child, and did not speak much. I'm afraid to say I was a something of a target; a little too kind and gentle. I was bullied mercilessly at the local school by other children who were not as strange and not as clever, but much more popular and likable than awkward, silent Rúmil who shuffled his feet and clutched his books under his arms as though they were his only friends (which they were, by the way.)

"Every day at that bloody school was a trial. They would call me names, which I will not repeat here because even though I claim to have put it behind me, the sting of humiliation still pains me when I recall them. They tripped me up, emptied my satchel in the playground, hit me over the back of the head with rulers, pulled my hair, stole my shoes and made me walk home in the rain without them, caught me down by the docks one day and pinned me to the floor and rubbed rotten fish guts in my face."

Fëanáro frowned and said, "That's horrible."

"It was. I went home crying most nights, wondering why people hated me so much, since my sister did not suffer at all. My mother and father were understanding, though, because they were odd and clever too, and they told me that if I worked hard, they would see about getting the money together to send me for interview to the new School in Tirion."

"You got a scholarship in the end, though, didn't you?" Fëanáro said, smiling. "My mother paid for it."

"How do you know about that?"

"I had to help the scribes make spare copies of the old accounts as punishment one day. I saw the entry in there."

"Well you are quite right.  My parents didn't need to scrape together the money because Quennar was so impressed with me, he sent a letter to your mother singing my praises and informing her of my less than affluent position. She set up a fund for me and I was the first to receive a scholarship."

"Did you like it better there?"

"Oh Fëanáro, it was a world away from my torment at the local school.  I was so much happier there. Classes were more interesting, the teachers knew what they were talking about, and most importantly, the children there were all like me. Finding out that there were people like me out there, people who weren't necessarily like everyone else, well it was wonderful. I found my voice and my personality and a measure of confidence as I discovered how it felt to be happy and appreciated. I missed my mother and father and my sister terribly, of course, but I had found my place and was content to stay there.

"I think that's what you'll have to do, Fëanáro. You'll have to find people who, even if they're not exactly like you, at least love what you love and are willing and able to understand you and keep up with you."

"And how I am going to do that?" Fëanáro asked, looking uncertain.

"Well, you've found one already, haven't you?" Rúmil answered with a magnanimous grin, pointing to himself with both thumbs in what he was sure was a very silly gesture. "That's the hardest part over. And you can thank your father for it."

He felt an odd, warm feeling he could not quite describe when Fëanáro ventured a cautious smile in return.

"Not sure if I want old fish-gut face," Fëanáro said wryly.

"Beggars can't be choosers," Rúmil retorted smoothly.

"I suppose you're right," Fëanáro replied. "One's better than none, after all."

"That's right! Now all you have to do is not fall out with me."

"Aie, all these conditions!" Fëanáro exclaimed with mock exasperation, tossing his hands in the air. "I never realised I would have to work to keep you!"

"It's not that hard," Rúmil chided. "I'm actually quite easy-going. Unlike you.  It's me who's going to have to do all the hard work here, I feel.  And even if you do fall out with me, as long as it's nothing serious all you need do is send me some wine and all will be forgiven."

"I think I might occasionally be swayed back into friendship with jewels, paper and books. And metals," Fëanáro said thoughtfully. "Those are things Atar gets me when he's trying to win me over, and most of the time it works."

"Apart from the paper, those are all quite expensive. And add books to my list, too, by the way."

"Wine can be expensive, you know. Unless you prefer the cheap cat's piss they sell in-"

Fëanáro's eyes narrowed and he broke off suddenly. He held a hand to shield his eyes and scanned the horizon. Puzzled, Rúmil turned his gaze and saw what had caught Fëanáro's eye.  Someone was riding hard across the plain, kicking up dust in their wake. They were heading for the caravan.

"Shit!" Fëanáro hissed, grabbing Rúmil by the arm.  "It's Erdacundo!  We have to hide!"

"What?" Rúmil exclaimed, shrill with panic. "Are you serious? Where? Where can we hide?"

"In the hatch! Quickly! You go first!"

"What? You're joking, I won't fit in there!"

"Yes you will," Fëanáro asserted.  "Bend yourself round like a U. I'll hold the hatch so it doesn't force itself shut.  Go, go!"

Crawling across the roof of the cart as fast as he could, Rúmil reached the edge and hauled the hatch open. Taking a deep breath, he let himself fall forward, throwing his arms out so he could catch the inside of the cart and pull himself in. He felt Fëanáro giving him an extra push before he tumbled inside, landing on sacks full of letters that slid and spilled everywhere under his weight. The hatch closed and the light went with it. It returned only briefly when Fëanáro came crashing in behind with the packs. In the pitch black, he felt and heard Fëanáro move around, then come to rest with a rustling of letters.

"Rúmil, where are you?" he whispered.

"Here," Rúmil said, reaching out blindly and happening upon Fëanáro's foot.

"Just checking I hadn't landed on your head."

"Where is he now?"

"He was making for the head of the caravan, so I don't think he spotted us. He's alone. No dogs. If he had any, the pepper must've sorted them out."

"Thank goodness for that..."

With an anxious jolt in the pit of his stomach, Rúmil felt the cart shudder to a halt.

"Erdacundo has hailed them," he heard Fëanáro say in the darkness. "We'll need to be silent. Try and stay as close to the hatch as possible. Then, if he peers in, with any luck he won't be able to see us. Cover your legs with letters, and try not to breathe."

His heart hammering, Rúmil pressed himself tight against the back wall, buried himself in between the sacks of letters and waited.

It seemed like an age.  But then came the footsteps and the voices.

"Well, we haven't seen anyone of that description, sir..."

There was a dull clank of metal. The loading hatch of a cart further down. Fëanáro  was right. Erdacundo was looking inside and checking every cart in the caravan. Rúmil began to feel a little nauseous.

"I mean we get them all the time.  There's a bunch of young apprentices who hopped on just outside Orrostar and a couple more lots that have hopped on and off but haven't come over to chat. Most of the time we don't pay any attention, sir, unless they cause trouble."

"Have you seen two people? Two travelling together?"

Rúmil stomach churned. Two people. Two travelling together. Erdacundo was looking for him too. He knew. He knew...

"Yep. A few of them like that, sir. A couple of lots hopped off at the fork. Took the wrong end of the caravan, I bet, haha."

"What did they look like?" Erdacundo asked brusquely. Another hollow clank of metal followed.

"Can't say. They're all in their travelling gear, and besides, it's too far away to tell. They often climb on at the back or near the middle and we can't always see them from there - and as I said, sir, if they're not causing trouble it's no concern to us."

There was a pause and another clank of metal.

"Is it two young lovers you're after? Running away to get married? We get that a lot, sir, and sometimes the fathers and brothers show up. We can keep an eye out, if you like, but I'm not promising anything-"

There was a heart-stopping moment as above them, the hatch creaked open and light flooded in-

Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please...

-only to vanish as Erdacundo slammed the hatch closed.

Beside him, in the dark, he heard Fëanáro let out a sigh of relief. They sat a long time in silence, listening to the clanks of metal grow more distant, until they heard not too far from their cart, the voice of the coach man and Erdacundo mounting his horse with the familiar jingle of metal and spurs.

"You can always ride with us if you like, sir. But if you're determined to catch the southern train, then I wish you luck. We'll keep an eye out, but as I said, we can't promise anything."

"Thank you for your help. I apologise for causing a delay. If you see anyone matching the descriptions I gave you, send word to Erdacundo at the palace in Tirion."

"I will, you may be assured of that. Safe journey, sir!"

And with a clatter and a drumming of hooves, he was gone.

They did not speak until the caravan began moving again.

---

A long, juddering six hours later, the caravan made its final stop at the Lindon Inn. At some indeterminate point in their journey, Rúmil had dozed off. The loud thump on the side of the cart startled him awake with a snort.

"The Lindon Inn!" a harsh voice bellowed outside. "Everybody out, come on! I don't care if you're going on to Valmar, you'll get a room here like everyone else! Come on, out!"

He felt awful.  The inside of the mail cart was dark and the walls were slick with condensation. A sour film coated his tongue and he was fairly certain the potholes in the coach  road had juddered each and every one of his neck muscles into an aching knot.

"I'm paying for a bed," he announced croakily.  "I don't care what you say."

"Oh, you're awake. Good timing," Fëanáro replied, from somewhere in the opposite corner. There was a rustling of letters as he stood and a groaning creak as he opened the hatch and silvery light spilled in, along with a welcome gust of fresh air.

"And yes, we'll have to pay for a bed," he went on.  "It's a little too late to be swimming down the Lindon. The water will be cold."

Fëanáro's breath hitched as he reached out of the hatch and grabbed hold of the edge of the roof, pulling himself up in one fluid movement.

"Give me your hand and I'll pull you out," Rúmil heard him call.

With a groan, Rúmil managed to push himself to his feet and crawl over the sacks of spilled letters.  He stood on shaking legs and raised his hands out of the hatch.  Fëanáro caught them in a tight grip, and in three, two, one, hauled Rúmil out of the cart.

"You're heavier than you look," Fëanáro groaned, as he flopped down, flat out, on the roof, exhausted.

"What can I say? I must be big-boned," Rúmil replied, happily, ignoring Fëanáro's jibe. He never thought he would have been so glad to feel the wind on his face.

"Please tell me the food is edible in this place," he went on.  "I could do with a good square meal."

"They do a good pottage, with generous portions, and their apricot pastries are nice when they have them."

"How's the wine?"

"Good.  They have merchants from all corners of Aman staying here, and some of them pay in bottles for a bed for the night."

"And the rooms?"

"Basic, clean, comfortable. There are no cockroaches or lice, if that's what you're getting at.  The mattresses don't crawl around at night."

"Sounds wonderful."

"It is one of the better coaching inns."

"Then let me pay for this one, Fëanáro.  I owe you for the travelling gear."

"Don't be stupid, it was not all that much."

"Yes it was," Rúmil insisted.  "The boots are good - worth as much or much more than a room for the night alone, never mind the cloak and the pack and the oilskins.  I will pay for the inn, and I will brook no argument."

With a sigh couched somewhere between amusement and exasperation, Fëanáro sat up, swung his legs over the side and jumped off.

"Fine!" he called out.  "Then it is a perfect opportunity to order a bottle of the finest red in the house! I could even be generous and supply the whole inn."

"Oh yes," Rúmil retorted.  "If you're wanting to remain inconspicuous, that's a fine way of going about it..."

Primly, Rúmil shuffled closer to the edge of the cart. Clinging tightly to the ledge, he lowered himself down inch by inch, until his arms were stretched far as they could, before he dropped, his feet hitting the gravelly road in a cloud of dust.  Already a small crowd of people was gravitating to the front of the Inn: dribs and drabs, made up of stowaway passengers and drivers and footmen.  Rúmil and Fëanáro followed, adding to the growing number, falling in behind two young women who were gabbling away in Vanyarin.

Inside, the place was warm and dimly-lit. Fat, wax candles hanging on brackets lined the wooden-panelled walls.  At the end of the queue was a counter attended by a tall, gangly young man with a loud voice and a good-natured grin. A ledger sat open in front of him, and he pointed down the corridor to a group of three who set off with their packs and disappeared up a flight of stairs.  Above the young man's head was a notice board, written untidily in white chalk. It read:

"Welcome to the Lindon Inn! The best board and bed you'll find on the road!

Three silver pieces a night or equivalent per room (to be discussed with Neldor or Hwindë.) Meals are included if buying a bed. Wine is not included.

Tonight's menu: meat pie and gravy with herb mashed potatoes; beef bone pottage with stacks of rice, barley and chunky vegetables; fresh-baked bread and rolls with mixed grain; apple pie; the Lindon Inn's famous apricot tarts.

We bake lembas! Stock up here!

Privy is three doors down on the left."

Three silver pieces a night.  There were plenty coaching inns that charged more than that - and more still for food.  The Lindon Inn, it appeared, was a very reasonable establishment. Not for the first time, Rúmil counted himself lucky they had spotted the mail caravan. Instead of rummaging around his coin purse for silver and looking forward to a warm bed and apricot tarts, he would've been shivering somewhere up the peaks of the Pelóri.

With the silver pieces jingling in his hand, he rocked back and forth on his heels, peering distractedly about him.  Another group were pointed down the corridor by the attendant and disappeared up the stairs. Rúmil and Fëanáro were now next in line.

"They have those apricot tarts you were talking about," Rúmil mused.  "I think I might have to try one, if they're included in the room rate."

"You should. Last time, I was lucky, and they gave me some custard too."

"I would kill for custard right now."

"I would for a bowl of that pottage," Fëanáro replied. Then he lowered his voice and added, "And to be frank, Rúmil, I'm fucking starving.  The dawdlers in front are in serious danger. If they don't hurry themselves up, I'm going to have to knock their heads together and give them a thrashing with that ledger..."

Rúmil was still chortling as the young Vanyarin ladies swept off up the stairs, mercifully unaware of Fëanáro's low opinion of them. He had to apologise twice to the attendant for not being able to give his name properly, who was, it turned out, one of the proprietors and was the very Neldor mentioned on the board.

"So your name is Rúmil?  Not Ruhahahaha?" Neldor the proprietor inquired, with a mischievous grin.

"It is Rúmil, yes.  Sorry. I cannot stop laughing. It is entirely his fault," he added, pointing at Fëanáro, who looked the other way.

"You know, you're the third Rúmil we've had this week!" Neldor exclaimed, as he scribbled in his ledger. "What is it about this place that attracts Rúmils?"

"The wine, probably," Fëanáro muttered, which elicited a bright peal of laughter from the proprietor.

"Funny you should mention that, sir," Neldor said gleefully.  "For the last two Rúmils were also big into the wine. The one before that preferred ale, though. And what is the name of your companion, Rúmil?"

"Curvo," Fëanáro announced, before Rúmil had time to assume him an alternative identity.

"We've had a few Curvos too in our time," Neldor said brightly, scribbling again.  "Hey, you don't happen to be a craftsman, do you? I know names do not always represent their bearers, but most of our other Curvos have been crafty in some form or other, and I have a little job that needs doing."

Fëanáro hesitated, and Rúmil stepped forward and answered for him.

"He is, actually," he said, revelling in the look of shock passing briefly over the young prince's face.  "What is it that needs done?"

"Well, about a week ago, Manwë sent us a little gift in the form of a unexpectedly breezy day. I was out in the patch, digging potatoes for Hwindë because he'd run out, and a necklace of mine was caught up in a tangle with the spade and came out the worst for it. I wouldn't normally bother, but the thing belonged to my father and I'm rather attached to it. I would send to Tirion for a smith, but it's such a small job, it's almost not worth the bother. I'd waive the bed and board if you could fix it, sir."

"Well you're in luck," Rúmil, the consummate salesman, said, "for fine metalwork of all kinds is his speciality - and I know for a fact that he has a few tools hidden away in his pack."

"Rúmil, I'm not sure-"

"I'll throw in a bottle of wine and two squares of lembas for your trouble," Neldor urged. "I know it is but a broken trinket, of not much value to a lord or lady or even to you, sir, but it means much to me."

Rúmil nudged Fëanáro hard in the ribs.

"He'll do it! Won't you?" Rúmil said, fixing Fëanáro with a significant look that said: ‘There is a bottle of wine riding on this.  A free bottle.  Why can't you see how much this means to me?'

With a sigh, Fëanáro turned to the proprietor and said, "Very well. If it means much to you, I'll do it.  Bring it in when I've finished eating and I'll have a look at it."

"Thank you, sir.  I will be forever grateful to you!" the young man exclaimed.  "I'll give you the best room in the place - that's the top floor, third door down.  It has a writing desk and paper and pen and there are two beds, so you won't have to snore in each other's faces, haha!"

"Thank you to you too, sir, for your generous offer," Rúmil replied graciously, grabbing Fëanáro by the shoulder and propelling him along the corridor. "We shall return shortly."

As they trudged up the short flight of stairs, out of sight and earshot of the proprietor and the other guests, Fëanáro muttered, "What was that you were saying about remaining inconspicuous?"

"Oh, be quiet," Rúmil said with a dismissive wave of a hand. "A travelling craftsman with a common name exchanging a favour for bed and board is not exactly an uncommon occurrence.  This is exactly what I was talking about earlier. Your uncanny affinity with metal and jewels does not have to be confined within the walls of the palace in Tirion. If you offer your services to those who are in need, they will repay you in kind and think kindly of you.  If your service is good, you might even be called back.  If it is outstanding, you might even be able to make a decent living out of it."

They reached the third floor and tramped along the short corridor.  In the first room, someone was snoring so loudly Rúmil could hear it through the walls.

"I would like to be able to make a decent living out of it," Fëanáro replied with a vague smile, after consideration. "I know I don't have to, but I want to."

"Then this is the first step," Rúmil said smartly, dumping his pack at the door while he fumbled at the latch.  "How fortunate you are to have snared yourself a talkative innkeeper.  If you pull this off, he'll tell everyone he meets how the young craftsman, Curvo, from..." Rúmil trailed off, letting the latch drop.

"Shit..." he said. "Where are we saying you're from?  Your accent places you squarely in Tirion, so not much further from there."

"You have a nephew my age, don't you? I could be your nephew, Curvo, from Tirion. Since you've already told everyone your real name, you can still be Rúmil, who was born on Tol Eressëa but who has lived a long time in Tirion.  What are you going to say you do there?  You can't tell them you're a Loremaster at the School."

"I'm a scribe who indulges in a bit of private tutoring on the side," Rúmil offered. "Really, It's the only thing I can convincingly get away with."

"Very well.  Where are we headed?"

"Valmar?"

"Why would we want to go to Valmar?"

"I have no idea..."

"Wait," Fëanáro said with a snap of his fingers. "Atar is headed for Valmar, yes?"

"According to his poor attendant's correspondence, yes."

"Then we can say we missed the festival for Findis in Tirion, but we are intending to catch the tail end in Valmar."

"Except that at the first sign of Laurelin tomorrow, we will be forsaking the caravan entirely and plunging into the river Lindon?"

"Exactly."

Rúmil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  "Very well. That sounds perfectly plausible."

He turned his attention to the latch again.  It was a bit stiff, so he had to give it an extra tug before it gave way with a squeal of metal and a grinding crunch. It was a rather ominous sound.  Rúmil cringed and Fëanáro immediately leaned forward to survey the damage.

"Well, you can fix that too, if I've broken it!" he said cheerfully, which earned him a withering look from Fëanáro. "Come on, don't worry about that! Let's dump our packs in here and head downstairs. That bottle of wine is calling."

"I didn't know you spoke wine."

"One of the lesser-known tongues of Aman.  If you come down with me right now, I'll make up for not paying for the room by buying another bottle of their best and I'll teach you how to speak it properly.  How about that?"

"I think that just about makes up for selling me into slavery," Fëanáro said wryly.

"Excellent!" Rúmil exclaimed, clapping his hands.  "Then get in there, leave your pack, bring your tools and follow me!"

---

In the end, the bargain was more than worth it. It took Fëanáro only a few minutes' work with a pair of tiny pliers to bend the broken links back into place.  He even gave it a clean - which it needed, apparently - with a cloth soaked in white spirit that made the small cluster of sapphires set in its centre sparkle. Neldor was delighted with the result, and disappeared into the kitchen and emerged again with a jug of hot custard, which Rúmil and Fëanáro poured liberally over the apricot tarts when they arrived.

Neldor, in fact, was so pleased with Fëanáro's work that he decided Fëanáro was very interesting indeed, being so young and so skilled, and he decided, after the rush of patrons abated, to sit at their table for a chat.

"So you are from Tirion, then?" Neldor inquired of Fëanáro.  "Your accent is familiar."

"I am from Tirion," Fëanáro replied.  "Is it so painfully obvious?"

"Hey, everyone from Tirion is painfully obvious," Neldor quipped, once again topping up Fëanáro's glass.  Rúmil wasn't certain if the proprietor realised that Fëanáro was still a little young to be taking so much unwatered wine. Not that Fëanáro protested. He seemed quite content to sustain the illusion. Far be it from him to comment, Rúmil thought.  If Fëanáro woke up feeling like the underside of an Orc's arse, then that was his prerogative.  It would be a salutary lesson in how to speak the language of wine.

"We get a lot of merchants from Tirion," Neldor went on.  "Norno the head driver on the Tirion to Valmar route - he's sitting over there by the door - he stops here all the time and you sound more or less like him.  Everyone from Tirion has that slightly obnoxious twang."

"I take it you do not hail from Tirion?" Rúmil asked casually.

"Certainly not!" Neldor scoffed.  "Hwindë and I were born and bred in Mánamar."

"Then what are you doing way out here?"

"We like it out here," Neldor said, simply. "Atar took us here to teach us how to fish when we were little - Hwindë is my older brother, by the way, apologies for not explaining earlier. I take it for granted everyone knows that now, haha.  But yes, we fell in love with the place. When we heard the old owners were looking to move on and buy a farmhouse, we jumped at the chance. Hwindë is an excellent cook and I am an excellent host and book-balancer. It was fate!" Neldor said, laughing. "We're young yet, but we had not been careless with our money. Hwindë and I, we pooled all our savings together and bought the place outright. Best thing we've ever done!"

"You're doing a good job of it too," Rúmil said, truthfully. "It's a fine place."

"Why thank you," Neldor said graciously, raising his glass. "Everyone loves it.  Never a complaint."

"Except from certain young men from Tirion who feel unduly slighted by their excellent host's remarks about their accents," Fëanáro retorted with a wry smile.

"Aie, no, Curvo!" Neldor exclaimed with a conciliatory wave of a hand. "I mean no harm.  I love all of those who hail from Tirion!"

"Even our obnoxious accents?"

"Especially your obnoxious accents!"

"OI, OI?  IS THAT YOU GIVING THAT YOUNG MAN A HARD TIME?" a loud voice boomed, carrying through the air.  Rúmil's head turned in time to see another tall figure approaching, dressed in soiled cook's whites and so like Neldor in appearance it could only have been his brother.

"He's from Tirion, Hwindë!" Neldor laughed, as the cook pulled up a chair with a loud squawk and straddled it, folding his arms over the top rail.  "That's all you need to know."

"Pfah, don't listen to a word my brother says," Hwindë scoffed.  "He's winding you up. Atar's from Tirion. Used to work for the king and everything- pour us some of that red, Neldor, I'm gasping."

"Really?" Fëanáro said, suddenly interested, ignoring the look Rúmil shot him across the table.

"Really."

"What did he do?"

"He was a scribe," Neldor answered.  "Quite high up, actually. He used to sit in the Councils and take the minutes. Knows all the lords' names and their business."

"So he's not there anymore?"

Neldor hesitated, an awkward look passing over his face.  "It's a rather touchy subject, to be honest..."  He trailed off for a moment, eyes flickering from left to right. Then he leaned forward and whispered, "Atar didn't approve of the king's remarriage-"

"Really didn't approve," Hwindë muttered.

"-and it wasn't a matter for discussion with him. He was - is still - rather keen on the Old Laws and he didn't think that they should have been changed for any man. When he heard that the king wished to remarry, he... wasn't very happy.  He didn't even tell the king he was leaving, which was rather rude. No way back after that."

"But everything worked out in the end!" Hwindë said cheerfully.  "Atar ended up in Mánamar, doing bits and pieces of scribe grunt work - and he met Amil!"

"They still own the Tavern there.  The Flying Pig, in case you ever travel out that way," Neldor added, with a knowing wink.

"Ah, you have experience in running hostelries," Fëanáro mused.  "It's all beginning to make sense now."

"Well it would be a right fucking circus if we came into it blind," Hwindë snorted. "Can you imagine two greenhorns trying to run a busy place like this on their own?  No chance!"

"Like I said. It was fate," Neldor said lightly, swirling his wine in his glass. "Some people are just meant to do certain things. Look at you," he added, pointing at Fëanáro, "fixing the tiny links in that chain as though you were doing nothing more difficult than scratching your arse! You should find an apprenticeship somewhere.  I'm not joking.  There are loads of places crying out for someone like you.  All the smiths go to Tirion nowadays.  There's none left in the provinces."

"The smart ones know where the money is," said Hwindë.  "And where the work is, to be fair.  Though there is that man up in Formenos. The mad jeweller. Can't stand heat for some reason, so he lives up there in the north. And the one who does the metal and made that weird copper fountain in Valmar.  The guy with the red hair."

"Mahtan," Fëanáro supplied.

"That's him!" Hwindë exclaimed, snapping his fingers.  "Well remembered."

"Of course he'd remember," Neldor said pointedly. "You can't be a craftsman and not know the Masters!"

"I know someone who has managed to win an apprenticeship with Master Mahtan," Fëanáro explained. "I'm afraid I do not know the jeweller from Formenos."

"His name is Enerdhil, and he is mad," Neldor said frankly, taking a swig of his wine. "You don't want to be going up there. Your fingers will freeze fast to your tools before you've done five minutes of your time."

"Better off seeing if your friend can get in a good word for you with Mahtan," Hwindë said, nodding sagely.

All further conversation was cut short, as a great crash from the table by the fire, occupied by the Noldorin apprentices from the mail cart, made them all jump.  There were shouts and laughter and curses and a great flurry of hands as each of them sought for rags to soak up the jug of ale they had upended.

"Élehto, you ham-handed troll!  Look at the mess you've made!"

"You're buying another jug!"

"Argh!  Look at the state of my trousers!  They're soaked through!  I'm going to have to sit all the way to Valmar in these tomorrow!"

"Good. They're already wet. That'll save you pissing yourself from the drink!"

With a sigh, Neldor stood and bowed to Rúmil and Fëanáro.  Hwindë pushed back his chair and grabbed his washcloth, tossing it over his shoulder in a businesslike manner.

"Time to herd the apprentices," Hwindë said.  "Nice meeting you both, by the way."

"Thank you again for fixing my necklace," Neldor added graciously.  "And if you ever do take that apprenticeship, please don't end up like that lot."

Fëanáro smiled a mysterious smile and said nothing.

For a moment after the proprietor brothers left to clear up the apprentices' mess, Rúmil and Fëanáro sat in silence, contemplating their half empty wine glasses. 

Then, after long consideration, Fëanáro spoke.

"Do you think I should take an apprenticeship?" he asked.

"You'll have to if you want to make a living from it," Rúmil said frankly. "You won't gain any recognition without having served some time with someone or other."

Another pause, during which Fëanáro began to chew on his fingers in a manner oddly reminiscent of his father.  Then he said, slowly, "I think I have a place in mind. Somewhere I want to go."

"Mahtan?"

"No," Fëanáro said, shaking his head.  "I want to find the jewel smith."

"The mad one?"

"Yes."

"From Formenos?"

"Yes."

"That's hundreds of miles from here!" Rúmil squeaked, feeling a touch faint.

"If you could see your face right now..."

"It is no wonder!" Rúmil exclaimed, outraged. "I have never walked that far in my life!"

"You'll get the hang of it, I'm sure," Fëanáro said dismissively. "We can reach Formenos in ten days.  Fifteen if the weather turns foul."

"Which it often does, up there."

"Have you been?"

"I have not been to that frosty, warmth-forsaken wilderness, no."

"Then how do you know?" Fëanáro said sensibly. "You might even like it.  I have only ever seen snow at Taniquetil, and I'm keen on the idea of skiing."

"Hurling yourself down a mountain with two planks of greased wood strapped to your feet?  You would..." Rúmil snorted, taking a generous swig of his wine.  "And you think you'll have time for that when you win your apprenticeship? You'll be chained to your bench all hours of the day."

"Sounds fine to me," Fëanáro replied.  "I'll be in the warm."

Rúmil rolled his eyes.

"Plus, if we're heading for Formenos, it won't make sense to jump into the Lindon tomorrow morning," Fëanáro went on, regarding Rúmil closely with a calculating look that reminded him again of the boy's father.  "We'd be going the wrong way. In fact, it would make more sense to take the caravan further on to Valmar.  From there, we have a good chance of catching another, heading north."

"Oh, you do know what you're doing, don't you?" Rúmil said with a wry smile. "Playing on my predilection for the warm and the dry and the comfortable."

"I am going to go to Formenos," Fëanáro said, his eyes glittering strangely.  "I could walk there on my own - would be quite happy to walk there on my own - but you could say I am looking out for you, since I know you feel obliged to accompany me."

"Well, thank you. How awfully generous of you," Rúmil replied thinly, shooting Fëanáro a knowing look, which the young prince accepted with an odd half-smile. "The mail caravans are a fine method of transportation. I would be glad to join you - as long as I can find some sort of occupation up there.  Sitting in a frozen hut, twiddling my thumbs in front of a dying fire, is not an option."

"You could teach," Fëanáro offered.  "Or you could do bit work as a scribe, like Neldor and Hwindë's father.  Or you could even consider this a sabbatical and conduct a little research.  There is comparatively little treating the dialects of the north, I have noticed."

"Enough, enough!" Rúmil insisted, somewhere between amusement and outrage at such open and shameless manipulation. "You have convinced me."

"Then we head for Valmar tomorrow?"

"It seems to have turned out that way, yes."

"Then how about you fulfil your promise and teach me a little on the language of wine?  There is still half a bottle left of that red," Fëanáro said.

"Very well, I'll teach you," Rúmil answered, refilling both their glasses until the last drop drained from the bottle.  Then he leaned forward and said with a sly smile, "This is where I get my revenge, Fëanáro. When I am through with you, you will wake in the morning feeling like the Tulkas has been drumming on the inside of your eyeballs, I guarantee it."

"We'll see," Fëanáro replied.

He raised his glass and Rúmil followed suit.

"To Formenos and the north and to whatever it brings," Fëanáro said.

"Almien," Rúmil replied, as their glasses met over the table with a quiet clink.

---

"Come in! Come in, Erdacundo! How nice to see you!" the king exclaimed, throwing his arms out in welcome as Erdacundo stepped smartly into the drawing room.  "Please, do sit down and take a glass of wine. Or two! Or three!  As many as you like! This is a time of festival, after all, and a very special occasion."

"My lord, I do not think-"

"Nonsense," the king interrupted.  "Sindemir, please attend to Erdacundo.  Fill up a glass for him, and be generous."

With a wry smile, Sindemir set about his task, directing a sly, little wink at Erdacundo. Both knew each other well and had been long in the king's service, and Sindemir knew he never took wine on duty. Behind the king's back, Sindemir mouthed: "Lots of water in it, yes?"

Erdacundo nodded, relieved and sorry in equal measure, as a large glass of wine would've made what he had to tell the king a whole lot easier.

"I have a daughter now, Erdacundo," the king went on, merrily.  "It is odd to say, but it makes me so very happy."

"I am glad, my lord."

"Her name is Findis.  She looks very much like her mother and her kindred.  Beautiful golden hair."

"Yes, my lord."

"A strong grip, though, which is plainly Noldorin.  She wrapped her little fist around my finger and almost tore the damned thing off, haha!"

"That must have been a surprise, my lord."

"It was, indeed!  A very nice surprise! And speaking of nice surprises, I received an invitation from Ingwë only this morning, expressing his desire for us to come to Valmar so he may congratulate his niece and meet our beautiful, little daughter for the first time.  Isn't that wonderful?"

"It is, my lord.  Quite wonderful."

"Though..." the king began hesitantly, his expression darkening a little, "I am not sure how Curufi- no, excuse me, Fëanáro (Valar take it, will I ever get used to calling him by that name?) - I am not sure how he will behave, as he was not exactly wonderful last we went to Taniquetil. I am not looking forward to telling him at all."

"I don't think that will be much of a problem, my lord."

The king's eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

"And why is that?" he asked cautiously, then pausing, before adding, "Where is he, Erdacundo?"

With a small sigh, Erdacundo reached into his satchel and produced the note Fëanáro had written.  The king took it, and with an anguished expression, perused its contents.

"How long has he been gone?" the king asked quietly.

"I have not seen him since the day I had to escort him back to his workshop. That is now almost two days ago. I am certain, though, that he has not been gone that long, my lord.  Minyandil said he looked in on him yesterday morning and he was in his workshop, copying a book. His tracks also tell me this.  He climbed out of the window above the gardens early last night. Then he jumped onto the hothouse roof and cut through the copse of trees before scrambling down the eastern face of the crag."

"Aie, I have told him before not to do that!" the king exclaimed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"The tracks also tell me, my lord, that he was not alone."

The king's head snapped up.

"Who?" he demanded, his gaze steely and penetrating.

"Master Rúmil is gone, my lord.  There is no sign of him anywhere. Not even at the School.  It is likely he is with him.  And that they left quickly.  But not together.  They met at the foot of the east face. Rúmil had been running."

"Hmm..."

"My guess, lord, is that Rúmil spotted him and caught up with him."

"Then, pray, why didn't he tell me?"

"I do not know, my lord."

"And where are they now?"

"I tracked them to a few miles outside Orrostar.  There is no trace of them after that.  They likely jumped on the mail caravan. I rode hard and managed to catch up with both trains-"

The king's face fell.

"- but I could not find them. They could be anywhere by now. The trail is cold, my lord.  I am sorry."

The king managed a small, rueful smile.  "Do not be sorry, Erdacundo. You have done all you can. All we can hope for now is that my son will return sooner rather than later. I will send word out that he has gone wandering.  Hopefully, someone will spot him. Thank you for letting me know."

Erdacundo nodded and rose to his feet. Bowing his head respectfully to the king, he turned to leave, striding towards the door, when the king's voice caught up with him. He halted upon the threshold and turned on his heel.

"Erdacundo?" the king asked quietly, turning his son's note over in his hands and regarding it with an odd, closed expression.  "I will ask you a question, and please answer truthfully."

"My lord?"

"Do you trust him?"

"Trust who, my lord?"

"Rúmil."

Erdacundo considered the idea for a moment, then replied, "I believe so. Yes. There is little artifice in him. Not very good at lying at all. You might have had a quarrel with him in the past, but I am sure he is not considering that. He has your son's best interests at heart and I think the young prince Fëanáro likes him. In fact, I know he does because he has told me. They are similar."

"Hmm..."

"My lord?"

"Thank you, Erdacundo.  That will be all."

---

In hindsight - Rúmil considered, as he half dragged a dangerously swaying Fëanáro up the stairs - demanding Neldor supply him with that third bottle of their finest was not the brightest idea he'd ever had.

"Rúmil," Fëanáro murmured in his ear.  "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Then hold it in until we get to the room. I don't want you fouling the hallway," he said in a tone that was kind, yet firm. It was a tone he used regularly on the first year intake whenever he found himself obliged to attend to any of the poor sods who had gone a little mad with the freedom of the place and overindulged.

"Once you get in, you can be sick in peace," he went on, "and no one else will know but me, alright?"

If he was being perfectly honest, the drink had gone to his head too, but he was nowhere near as bad as the young prince, who did not possess his many years' experience. Fëanáro's cheeks blushed red and he slurred his words as he spoke.

 "I don't think I like the language of wine," Fëanáro said, as they reached the top floor and staggered down the corridor, stopping in front of the door to their room.  "It's... it's not very clear."

"What do you mean?" Rúmil said, trying with difficulty to undo the wretched latch under the influence with Fëanáro's arm hooked around his shoulders.

"It doesn't let you know when you should stop... Oh, here, let me," he said, lurching forward and undoing the latch in the blink of an eye.  "I mean, I felt quite well not half an hour ago... but then I felt this odd feeling... that my mind was effervescing and that my eyes weren't moving as fast as my head."

"The language of wine is a subtle one, indeed," Rúmil explained, kicking the door open and heaving the young prince across the threshold and dumping him unceremoniously on the single bed nearest the window. "Next time, perhaps, you will know when to stop once you feel your brain beginning to effervesce."

"Rúmil, I'm still going to be sick..."

"Be sick all you like now. There's a piss pot under your bed," Rúmil offered helpfully, as he kicked his boots off and set about searching for his nightshirt.

There was an urgent clatter from the other side of the room followed swiftly by the  delightful sound of Fëanáro enthusiastically spewing into a chamber pot. 

With a sigh, Rúmil ceased his fumbling search for his nightclothes and looked over.  Fëanáro was sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, doubled over the iron pot and was making an awful noise. Strands of his black hair were stuck to his face and some of the ends had dipped into the vomit, which appeared to be mostly wine.  Rúmil shook his head.  He couldn't have that.  Not when the state the boy was in was, technically, his fault.  He had been the one who had bought all the wine, after all. He had achieved his revenge, but at the cost of staying the night in a room that would now smell of sour wine sick.

"I'm... never doing this again," Fëanáro moaned, as Rúmil sat down on the edge of his bed and gathered his hair away from his face.

"You're going to be an apprentice.  Of course you're going to do this again."

"If Atar could see me now, he would throttle me..."

"I don't doubt that.  Aren't you lucky he isn't here?"

"I feel fucking awful. Why didn't you tell me I would feel this awful?"

"Significant omission? A quest for vengeance for seeking to drag me to the north? A certain misanthropic desire to see the irritating heir to the throne of Tirion chucking his guts up into a piss pot?  There are many reasons."

Fëanáro laughed, which was a mistake, as it set off another spectacular wave of nausea that lasted for a few minutes until he was able to pause and collect himself long enough to murmur, "Rúmil, have mercy. Do not make me laugh, please..."

"Very well.  I concede," he said kindly, giving the stricken prince a quick pat on the back.  "I'll shut up and let you concentrate.  Stick your fingers down your throat and get it all out.  Shout if you're overflowing and I'll grab the other pot from under my bed.  Then it's a glass of water and straight to sleep, alright?"

His head practically jammed into the piss pot, Fëanáro nodded miserably.

Rúmil hoped it wasn't going to be a long night.

---

The long echoing corridors in the palace in Tirion were empty, for Telperion was waxing full, its slow silvery light drifting lazily through the tall windows.  A lone figure wandered along them, clutching tight to his chest a small bundle wrapped in the finest silks.  The bundle stirred briefly, letting out a tiny cry, and Finwë, the high king, smiled at his newborn daughter.

"Hush, little one," he soothed.  "We will let your mother rest a while. Come, and I will show you something wonderful."

The child, placated by his warm tone and the nearness of her father, felt safe and drifted into sleep as the king slowed and came to a stop outside a door halfway down, which was painted carefully to blend in with its surroundings.

"This is your brother's workshop," he whispered.  "You will not know it at first, for I did not.  When Curu- Fëanáro painted it this way, I walked past it twice, only realising my error when on the third time I strode past in an ire and he was standing in the open door, arms folded, laughing at me."

The king paused, a sad smile on his face, and carefully nudged open the door.

"Shall we go in? I think we shall, for there are lots of interesting things to see inside. You will marvel at his talent. Your brother is very clever..."

Quietly, the king entered, closing the door behind him. Carefully, he set Findis down upon a bench and set about lighting the oil lamps.  The flames flickered into life, illuminating the painted walls, crammed with delicate, complicated interlaced borders and a uniformly beautiful text he could not read. An ache of longing seized his heart, and he sought comfort in his tiny daughter.

"You will not run away from me, will you?" he said sadly, as he picked her up and carried her over to his son's writing desk, where he sat down and stared at the wall, as if he felt looking at it long enough would untangle the riddle and see it all suddenly make sense. "You are so young, you cannot even begin to know grief. I dearly hope that you will never know it. I wish your brother did not know it. He is so very unhappy. That is why you cannot meet him. He is gone away. Gone away with that bastard Rúmil, who was here for a but a day and has stolen all your brother's affection for me."

The king paused for a moment to take a breath, as he could feel the horrible sense of impotent anger tightening his chest.  

"I am so jealous of him, I cannot stand it," he whispered fiercely. "It makes my heart ache to think that my son prefers him, to think that he would seek out his counsel over mine, to think that your brother believes himself so unloved he would run off with a stranger rather than endure another second of my company-"

The king's voice hitched and he felt again that all-too familiar ache that often accompanied thoughts of his eldest.

"Aie... I miss him, little one.  I miss him terribly, though he has only been gone a day. Why can't your brother see how much he is loved? Why does he wish to hurt me so? Why does he write these... these things upon his walls, which I cannot read?  Why is Rúmil allowed to know what they say and I am not? I am at a loss. I do not know what to do. I do not know what to say. I do not even know where to begin with your brother, for there have been so many false starts I fear he has lost patience and will never let me try again. His heart is hidden from me.  He will not let me near it, and I cannot see how I might try and fix it..."

A thought occurred then to the king, and he sat, cradling his daughter and biting at the tips of his fingers as he turned that thought over and over again in his mind.  At length, he appeared to have come to a decision, and very gently, he walked over to the window ledge and laid his daughter down.

"A moment, little one," he said.  "I will not be long."

The king began to walk around Fëanáro's workshop, systematically going through every drawer and shelf and ledge and nook and cranny he could find, searching, searching for anything that could ease the awful, jealous ire that was consuming him from within. 

It took him quite a while, for he was thorough, and by the time he turned his desperate attention to his son's writing desk, Findis was beginning to stir again.

"Hush, little one," he said, absently, as he ran his hands over the underside of the desk for what felt like the hundredth time.  "Give me a moment. But a moment longer..."

A frantic and fruitless search followed until only the locked desk remained.  He knew his son would have hidden the key elsewhere, so he retrieved a thin pick from one of the many small drawers near Fëanáro's workbench and began to work at the lock. It was not long before his single-minded determination paid off.  He felt a rush of triumph as the lock clicked and the drawer slid open.  Inside were pieces of paper with half-finished sketches, bits of clay models, an old mould for something the king didn't recognise and likely had never been cast, a thin stack of unbound quires kept together with a loop of string and a slew of broken and half-finished trinkets.  But that was fine.  He was not expecting to find anything in the drawer itself.

Slowly, carefully, methodically, he checked the desk drawer as he had done all the others, searching desperately for what he knew in his heart should be there, sliding his fingers into every corner, poking, prodding, testing.

There cannot be nothing, he thought desperately.  There must be something here.  There must be something Rúmil learned from. Please let there be something here.  There must be, else I will go mad...

He did not quite know how he had done it, but there was a muted click and something under his fingers gave way. His silent pleas were answered.

Nervous, for a reason he could not divine, he reached up behind the false panel and happened upon something soft and book-shaped.  Grabbing it eagerly, he saw that it was indeed a book, and upon opening it to the first page, he felt a thrill of excitement as he recognised not only his son's hand, but that he had written in a language he could understand.

And there they were. Laid out on each page, beautifully illustrated, were the strange symbols Fëanáro had devised, whose meaning he had kept from him for so long.

From the window ledge, Findis had begun to cry softly.

He knew it was wrong. He knew he should not have felt frustrated with her, but he did. Guilt fought with impatience and lost as he strode into his son's bed chamber and rang the bell for service. After a short wait, Minyandil appeared in a flurry - his hair a-tangle and his eyes puffy from lack of sleep. The king did not know whether to laugh or cry at the young man's expression when he saw him standing alone in his son's bedroom in the wee hours of the morning. Poor Minyandil. He must have been expecting Fëanáro.

"Minyandil, I apologise for waking you at this hour, but would you please take Findis to her mother?" he said as kindly as he was able.  "I have something I must do."

"Yes, milord. Of course..."

The king waited until Minyandil's voice and footsteps faded away entirely before he turned his attention to his son's book of symbols. Reaching for pen and paper and ink -items always near to hand in Fëanáro's workshop - he sat down at the desk and began, slowly but surely, to translate the text painted upon the wall.

He knew as soon as he had finished the first line what Fëanáro had copied, and the realisation of what it meant hit him like a punch to the gut, making his heart hurt horribly.  Out of sheer bloody-mindedness, he continued, wanting for some reason to see it out to the end, however bitter than end might prove.

There was something at the foot of the wall, though, that was not a feature of the original.  Something that was painted in a dark green ink, by a hand that was tall and narrow and slanted and unlike Fëanáro's.

It was a message, and it read: "It was like that when I got here. Honest. Rúmil."

The fragile feather quill pen cracked in his grip as the king's fists curled with rage.

For a long while, he sat at his son's writing desk, his head in his hands and thought very hard.

At length, he rose, picking up the small volume, intending to take to back to his study to memorise every last word of it, to read it from cover to cover and back again until he could recite Fëanáro's letters in his sleep.

When he arrived, he sent immediately for Erdacundo.  When he arrived, Erdacundo found it strange when the king informed him that he wished all the day's councils and meetings to be cancelled.  He found it stranger still when the king requested two buckets of white paint - an odd request at an odd hour - but he did not query that request, for his sovereign had a steely look in his eye that would not be gainsaid.

When the paint was delivered, the king calmly made his back way to his son's workshop.  Closing the door behind him and locking it so he would not be disturbed, he laid out dustsheets very carefully so as not to mar Fëanáro's tools and surfaces.  Then he retrieved from a battered bucket the largest, widest-bristled brush he could find and began to paint over every inch of Fëanáro's immaculate work.

By the first stirring of Laurelin, all trace of it was gone, and the king sat alone on the floor, weeping for what he had done, and because he loved his son so much that it hurt.

No one would ever understand.

Not really.

---

---

Chapter End Notes

Names:

All except Enerdhil courtesy of the Quenya Name Generator (http : / / elffetish . com / names . html)

Sindemir, the butler - grey jewel

Lírillë, his secret girlfriend - little song

Neldor of the Lindon Inn - beech

Hwindë of the Lindon Inn - birch

Norno, the head mail cart driver - oak

Master Enerdhil of Formenos - now this one is a different case. I was hunting around for Tolkien craftsmen and came across this name. He is a possible creator of the Elessar and a possibly mythical smith of Gondolin. As far as I'm aware, the dh cluster doesn't appear in Quenya, but since I don't have a clue how to turn Enerdhil from a Sindarin form(?) into Quenyan, his name will remain Enerdhil until anyone can give me an accurate alternative. (Unless the Quenya form sounds rubbish, in which case it will remain Enerdhil.) No one even knows what his name means, which makes everything so much more difficult. The Sindarin form of the name doesn't presuppose that he was born in Beleriand, though, because many Noldorin words and names underwent Sindarization while they were languishing in exile. Therefore, in this story, because I need someone to teach Fëanor who is not Mahtan or Aulë, I've used some dubious canon to my advantage and dragged this guy into the limelight. He's interesting. You'll love him. Honest.

Élehto, the clumsy apprentice - star spear

Mánamar - blessed dwelling

Notes:

About that fic which inspired Moicallë, Indis's Vanyarin maid. I got a kind message from Annawen Ereiniel, who informed me that the story in question is Anadûnai, by darth fingon. The character is a dentist, not a barber, but meets Elrond in a barbershop setting. I did not remember this because I am a dumbass. You should read the fic, though. It's good. :)

Thanks:

Thank you to Erulisse for the review on chapter four. ^_^