The Master of Puppets by Cirth

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Chapter 2


Uldor had been foolish, tricked into this situation by smiling faces and arms around his shoulders. It was only his second night at the Gap, and he was already being half-interrogated.

Gripping the edge of the trestle table that was sticky with spilled drinks, he took several deep breaths. The great hall was buzzing with the noises of clashing plates and singing and chattering. Along with that, the smoke from the fires and the candles made his head swim. He had accepted the large horn of ale without thinking much, and had underestimated its potency. Then again, the ale's effectiveness likely had to do with the fact that he never drank. He had tried fermented milk once in his village, at the insistence of a distant cousin, and had spit it out at once.

Somehow, he managed to seal his lips about the most important information, and instead chattered at length about his childhood. An hour passed by. Opposite him the four elves, also inebriated and swaying in their seats, seemed to have lost interest in political agendas. They listened to him with eagerness, their frowns replaced with big grins and their chins in their hands. All said and done, Uldor thought, elves could be terribly charming when they wanted to, with their clear voices and their quick, clever movements.

"So, I just bumped into them by accident," Uldor slurred, "but these boys, they didn't like me. They used to beat me to the ground as a child – "

"Why?" said one of the elves.

"I was small, and didn't like to fight. And I would hang out the washing and hug my brothers when they cried, so I was called a girl. Anyway, these boys chased me halfway through the village, and I ducked into the women's hut – "

"The women's hut?"

"You know. Women's hut. Kept supplies and things for that time of the month."

"Ohh," said the elves. A couple of them blushed, and another grinned.

"And these boys, I couldn't believe them. They didn't follow me in. Just hung about outside and called me names. Eventually they decided I wasn't worth beating to a pulp, and left."

"Good for you!" cried an elf, raising his empty mug. His cheeks were tinged raspberry-pink. "They have only themselves to blame." The others hammered on the table, knocking over a basket of bread by accident, and nodded their agreement.

After the meal was over, Uldor spent a good amount of time with his head jammed in a latrine, his hair tied in a slipshod ponytail. It was freezing outside, and his knees on the stone ground felt numb, but there was no point in going back inside to fetch a cloak. When he was sure he had emptied the contents of his stomach, he hauled water from a well in the courtyard nearby, swilled his mouth, and swore not to drink again. Trembling, and taking uneven breaths, he ran his fingers over his throat.

He had never in his life felt so alone.


Maglor wasted no time in testing Uldor's horsemanship. The next day at the cusp of dawn, he brought him to a pasture just outside the fortress and gave him a powerful mare with a glossy black coat. "Her name is Gilroch." Uldor stroked her nose, smiling, and she snorted and flicked her ears. Nearby, a groom with shaggy hair held a tall stallion. Horses had been Uldor's great love back in his village, and he rode them as often as he could, bow in hand and a quiver of arrows strapped on his back.

It was a cold day with an overcast sky. Mist had settled over the rolling plains and the hills that flanked the Gap, and the grass was grey with dew. Uldor could see his own breath, and rubbed his gloved hands together to warm them. He was already focused, but the grins of the elves who had come to watch gave him an unexpected burst of strength. To his shock, he was asked to ride bareback. He had never even heard of such a thing, and shook his head. "I cannot do that."

"I want you to try riding elf-fashion," said Maglor, somehow managing to sound both polite and murderous.

That could have ended better. Uldor had the sense to make light of his bruises and to laugh at his pains, despite the fact that he wanted to crumble into a heap on the ground and whimper. Maglor bit his lip, obviously striving not to laugh; Uldor wanted to hit him. "I will get you a saddle," Maglor said, and coughed.

Massaging his temples, Uldor thanked the gods for small mercies. Once he had proven to Maglor that he could switch horses at a gallop and shoot a straw target in the eye while riding, he cleared the wooden hurdles. A few of the elves clapped, while others stared, and Uldor fought not to feel too pleased with himself. His pride was cut short when one of the elves picked up a lute and began to sing a ridiculous song about his great courage. Soon the entire company was laughing and hooting at him; a couple of them were on their backs, kicking their legs.

"Do not mind them," Maglor told him in a placating tone, when he slid off Gilroch. "They like to tease."

Uldor grunted, unamused.

"Do you want some salve for your injuries?"

The scrapes on Uldor's arms and legs stung, but he was not about to humiliate himself further. He yanked off his gloves, scowling. "I am fine. Thank you for your concern."

Maglor arched an eyebrow. "Are you annoyed, Uldor?"

"Wha – no! Why should I be?"

"If you insist," Maglor said, and stroked Gilroch's mane. She tossed her head and tried to nuzzle his palm. "Five-and-twenty you may be, but you are very much a sullen child. By the way, you passed the test. Congratulations." He gave a warm, encouraging smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Uldor stuttered a thanks, feeling his cheeks grow pink.


Control your temper, Uldor thought. Keep your head down.

"I am just waiting for him to stab us in the back," muttered one of the elves at a nearby trestle table. He had been talking about Uldor – more accurately, making up stories, everything from murder to necromancy – for some time now. Another elf – a sturdy fellow with small metal rings in his earlobes – did not smile with the others, but put his chin in his hands and narrowed his eyes.

Uldor clutched his mug tighter and stared into the watery vegetable soup, at his distorted reflection. He had been ravenous when he entered the great hall for dinner, but now his stomach was twisted into a knot, and he'd lost his appetite.

"And that other tribe," the elf continued. "They are no better. I met some of them at Himring a couple of years back. Sordid characters - shifty eyes, so dark you cannot tell what they are thinking. I cannot understand why Lord Maedhros gave their leader the name Bór."

"Shut up," said Uldor.

The table next to him fell silent. After a moment, the elf who had been speaking looked at him sharply. "What?"

Uldor was shaking with fury. He stood up, almost tipping over his chair. "Bór and his people are stalwart and true. I have known them since I was a child, and they would sooner walk barefoot across fire than betray their friends. And if you talk about them that way again..." He trailed off, feeling his cheeks grow hot. What could he even threaten them with?

"You'll what?" the elf said, appearing amused. "Stand there and stew? Your wit is lacking, Easterling."

Uldor was ready to knock the fellow's teeth down his throat, consequences be damned. But before he could do anything, the elf with the earrings put his hands on the table and said, "That is enough, Alagon. You have never even spoken to any of these people, and it will do you good to hold your tongue, for once."

"Come now, Miluinir," said the other. "You are not siding with him, are you?"

Miluinir's expression was grim. "I am. He has done nothing to provoke you. Leave him alone."

Uldor had had enough. He left, advancing towards the north wing, the back of his tunic damp with sweat. Aside from some stares and sniggers, he was ignored. As he reached the dim stairwell, a voice said, "I'm sorry; are you all right?" It was Miluinir. From this close, Uldor could make out thin scars on his face and neck, and saw a dagger at his belt; he was probably a soldier.

Miluinir continued: "Don't mind Alagon; he's a lout. Talks nonsense about everyone, from his companions to people whose very existence is dubious."

Uldor nodded, feeling awkward, and then gave his name. Miluinir smiled, the lines on his face deepening. "I know who you are. Your horsemanship is a thing to marvel at, for a Man. Your archery is not lacking, either. I was surprised when I saw you today at the field; never expected such grace and power from someone so bloody short." He released a loud, booming laugh, putting his hands on his hips.

"Thank you, and I'm not that short," said Uldor, in equal parts peeved and flattered. The top of his head came roughly to the other's chin. "We are taught riding at a young age, and hunt and fight on horseback."

"It shows," Miluinir said brightly. "I am looking forward to practicing with you. Do you drink wine?"

"No," Uldor said quickly, holding up his hands and shaking his head. "I don't drink at all."

"More's the pity. We could have shared a mug of ale, outside beneath the stars. But we should do something else together. Play music, perhaps."

Uldor smiled at last, feeling warmth spread through his chest. The homesickness and the bitterness receded somewhat. He was beginning to take a shine to this elf. Of course, it would not do to be friends, but Uldor could have used some polite company; recently loneliness had washed the colours from his life somewhat. "I play the flute, and sing."

Miluinir stepped forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder, almost knocking the wind out of him. "Splendid! I can't sing for pudding, but have played the lute since I was a child."

Uldor secretly thought that all elves could sing unfairly well, but only gave an awkward smile. He was about to wish the other a good night and head up the stairs when Miluinir said, "Is tomorrow evening convenient for you?"

"What?"

"To play music. I'd love to hear you play."

"Um..."

"I'm sure you're brilliant," Miluinir continued blithely, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a childlike, carefree manner. "I'll be there, cheering you on. You can just play something short, if you want." He looked so honest and kind and gullible that Uldor felt more than a little guilt twist in his gut. He had no desire to play his flute in front of all these elves, who were likely waiting for his fingers to stumble over the holes so they could laugh at him. Truth be told, there was a fair chance he would ruin the performance, considering he had not played the flute in some months.

Somehow his mouth did not obey his mind, and he found himself saying, "Tomorrow sounds fine."

"Shake on it," said Miluinir, extending his hand. Uldor hesitated, before squeezing the other's fingers. For some reason, it felt a little like a sentence.


Uldor was woken by bright sunlight on his face. He groaned and stuck his knuckles in his eyes, and raised his head; he had fallen asleep sitting up in bed, trying to ease some nimbleness into his fingers by playing his wooden flute. Now there was an awful crick in the back of his neck.

Blinking blearily and yawning, he glanced out the window. It was a clear day, and the vast plains were a lush, dark green. Judging by the position of the sun, it was about the seventh hour. He wrapped his duvet around himself with chilled fingers and tried to enjoy the view, but after only a few moments nervousness began to gnaw at him again. What was he going to do? He didn't feel prepared at all for the evening. He wanted to cancel the plan, but he'd promised Miluinir he would go through with it, and he disliked breaking promises.

After choking down white bread, cheese, and fat apples at breakfast, Uldor returned to his chamber, took his flute, and began to practice again. It was an old melody, not entirely simple to play, but very sweet in sound. His father would play it for him sometimes, when he was a child.

Some time later, sweat began to form on his brow and slide down his cheeks, despite the cold. He flapped his tunic, sighing, and put his flute to his lips again.

A knock at the door made him jump, and he all but shouted, "Come in!"

Maglor stepped inside, a furrow in his brow. His hair was scraped back in a messy bun, and he was clad in a sweat-stained tunic and an age-worn, dark green jacket. "I was wondering what you were doing," he said in a vexed tone.

Uldor swung his legs over and stood up on the floor, striving not to fidget. What was Maglor trying to imply?

"You were supposed to be in the courtyard for training at the tenth hour."

Uldor blinked. "Oh," he said. "Oh, no." He had been so engrossed in practicing for the evening that he'd forgotten about the schedule that he was supposed to follow. Half-panicking, he looked out the window. It was well past the eleventh hour.

"Not the best impression, son of Ulfang," Maglor said, narrowing his eyes.

Uldor wanted to sink through the floor. Swallowing, he returned, "I deeply apologise. It will not happen again." He bowed his head to reinforce his point.

Maglor's nodded, and then gestured to the bed. "You play well. The sounds were very interesting. I have not come across them before." He had quite the flair for changing topics in mid-air, but Uldor didn't have time to feel perplexed.

"You were listening?" he said, narrowly managing to avoid the word 'eavesdropping'. All of a sudden he felt a shade less embarrassed for neglecting his training. The next moment he remembered that Maglor was reputed to be the greatest musician of the elves, save perhaps some Sindarin fellow whose name Uldor could not remember. His throat went dry, and he wiped his damp palms on his trousers. Was Maglor impressed, or was he just mocking him? As far as music went, Uldor must have sounded like a bumbling toddler trying to impress a demigod.

Ignoring the question, Maglor put his hands on his hips and said, "Play that for me again."

Uldor wagged his mouth a few times, desperate to refuse. Then he picked up his flute from his pillow, sat down, and began to play, praying his fingers would not betray him. Maglor's stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his visage inscrutable, blank as a new sheet of parchment. Uldor struggled not to squirm under his gaze. When the song was over, Maglor said, "I enjoyed that, truly. Your tutor must have been skilled."

"That was my mother," Uldor said, relieved.

"I congratulate her, then. You must play more songs for me some time, preferably without the constipated expression. But now, you will change your clothes and come to the courtyard. I will not go easy on you." He left, closing the door behind him.

Uldor did not stick his tongue out immediately after. He did not.


Notes:

Gilroch - 'Star Horse'

Miluinir - 'Friendly/Loving/Kind Man'

Alagon - 'Rushing/Impetuous One'


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