Chasing Mirages by Russandol

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Parley

Eönwë arrives at his destination and meets the foe he's been commanded to seek.

 

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3. Parley

We flew steadily East; every morning Anar dazzled my eyes, driven by Arien through the Gates of Morning into the sky. Until one day, one month after we left the shores of the Great Sea, we beheld our destination in the quiet hour before dawn.

A large town built of sandstone was nestled in a verdant valley surrounded by craggy hills; its many turrets and hanging balconies were silhouetted against the pale sky as an intricate lace of light and shadow. Beyond the imposing ramparts farmsteads lay scattered over the tilled fields and pastures, still covered by a blanket of sighing mist.

Lintavailë chose to land in a small clump of trees a short distance from any dwellings, but far enough that we should not be seen.

‘Remember, ask for Yúum Síihbalóob to find whom you seek.’

I bowed to my friend in gratitude. I was sad to part from him, the last link to my past, after enjoying his company for so long.

‘Keep well, Eönwë,’ he said in farewell. He flapped his wings twice, and before taking off he turned towards me once more. ‘Be wary! He has breathed evil for a long time.’

While I walked slowly towards the town, I considered Lintavailë’s warning and how it could impact my task, the success of which was my shortest route to freedom. Long had I pondered on the reception Mairon would grant me when I delivered myself into his hands.

My hope was that he would at least repay my past mercy in like measure and allow me to walk free if he chose to disregard Manwë’s summons; equally possible, however, was death in many dreadful guises or, worse still, captivity beyond the hateful imprisonment I already endured.

I was not so engrossed in my troubled musings as to ignore the novelty of my surroundings or the several pairs of curious eyes that turned to watch my progress along the road. I was poised for a challenge of some sort, but nobody questioned or stopped me, at least not until I reached the gates. Their polished metal scrollwork blazed amber as the sun climbed over the hills.

I was detained by the guards in charge, who were openly suspicious at my disreputable appearance, added to my inability to understand their questions. Amazingly, as soon as I spoke the name Lintavailë had given me, I was freed and encouraged to enter the town. Their repeated, almost anxious gestures directed me first down the main street, then towards the left.

Beyond the gates, I was hit by the sights, sounds, and smells of a bustling town awakening. The people from Kiinlúum seemed to value colour in their lives in a greater measure than any other folk I had met before. Their clothing was dyed in vibrant tones, both for men and women; their hair braided in more or less degree and laden with a multitude of beads painted in every hue, or made of copper and gold for those whose elaborate garments proclaimed their higher station.

Widespread prosperity was implied by the many baskets and crates full of assorted wares, carefully arranged by the doors of the numerous little shops and stores along the street, and by the many groups of people happily chattering and bargaining everywhere. As I walked slowly up the street, the breeze brought me appetising wafts of newly-baked bread and meat fried with spices, and the sweet scent of flowering geraniums

Nothing I could see suggested a town in the aftermath of a bloody war, and I wondered if this country, almost as far East as the Gates of Morning, had miraculously been spared the ravage of Melkor’s evil. The peoples of the East had been disdainfully called Men of Darkness by the Atani of the Three Houses, but in these mortal Children I could sense no trace of the shadow that had driven the ferocious warriors I had faced in battle during the War.

Twice I had to request further guidance, until I stood before a large stone house surrounded by lush gardens. The main building had two levels, with long covered balconies shaded by carved wooden shutters in the upper floor, and several graceful domed turrets at the top. Colourful potted flowers hung from all the windows, as they did in every dwelling in the town, even the humblest ones built of straw and mud bricks with thatched roofs.

Before I gathered my courage to approach the forged iron gates I nervously considered whether the end of the next hour would see me back in in Aman, facing the Doomsman in his Halls.

 

 ~o~

 

When the servants of Yúum Síihbalóob asked for my name by pointing at me several times and staring at me questioningly, I enunciated it slowly three times, until one of the men could reproduce it with enough accuracy. I nodded, with a smile to show my approval.

I was led into a spacious room open to a bright inner courtyard, where a fountain gurgled merrily under the shade of orange trees. I breathed deeply the sweet scent of their blossom, one of Yavanna’s most precious gifts to Arda.

The chamber was lavishly decorated with thick rugs and tapestries of convoluted floral and geometrical designs in vivid colours. Tall shelves along one of the walls groaned under orderly lines of books, amongst which nestled a multitude of strange instruments and sculptures. Several scrolls lay unrolled on a table, covered in minute, precise writing and depicting diagrams of what at a glance looked like a complicated mechanism. A beautiful inlaid wood casket full of uncut precious stones lay open next to them.

“Eh-on-weh” was the only intelligible part in the announcement that introduced me into the presence of the master of the house, who sat by the garden on a comfortable arrangement of cushions. He lifted his head sharply at his servant’s words. A cat-like creature as large as a mastiff, with golden fur dappled in dark spots, lay stretched lazily at his feet; when I stepped forward, it fluidly rose to a standing position and bared its fangs at me, as if sensing the unease of its master.

Despite all my corporeal limitations, I recognised Mairon immediately, even if he had substantially changed his appearance since the last time we had met. Equally, he saw my true being through the hröa that caged me.

I had never been a good judge of physical beauty, which meant little to those of my kindred, but I had known enough Children to appreciate the exquisite perfection of Mairon’s features, modelled like mine on those of the Noldor. His skin was a pale shade of amber; his hair, raven black, was split into dozens of braids twined with thread and decorated with gold beads, in the fashion of the local people, and he was richly clad in flowing gold and black silk, in stark contrast to my travel-stained garments.

His striking fairness was, however, eclipsed by his slate eyes, tinged with the deep indigo of thunderstorm clouds, and yet sparkling with the brilliance of the mighty presence veiled by the disguise. Even I, well used to the presence of the Valar, the most powerful beings in Eä, was drawn by the smouldering intensity of his gaze.

While it was impossible to deny the confident power he exuded or the lordliness of his bearing, no dreadful aura of darkness or any other mark betrayed him as Moringotto’s most feared minion.

His initial stare of incredulity was swiftly replaced by guarded courtesy. He bid me sit with him and spoke a command to his servants, who bowed low and left the room at once, quietly closing the door behind them.

I eyed the cat warily, but Mairon merely laughed and pushed it firmly to one side, out of my way. He took something from a box and offered it to the beast. Its long sharp teeth snapped loudly over his fingers, but he seemed utterly unconcerned.

‘Aranincë is harmless to friends,’ he declared while he stroked the animal’s head and throat. This conditional reassurance, clearly a warning too, was barely sufficient to ease my fears when his pet came back to sniff around my legs.

Two female servants entered carrying gleaming pans, filled with warm water into which they scattered many handfuls of scarlet flower petals. One of them knelt by my side to wash my hands and feet. I watched Mairon wriggle his toes as they were massaged with perfumed oil by one of the young women. I sighed with pleasure at the same treatment, a blessing for a tired traveller, even if I had walked little. Two other servants arranged mouth-watering dishes, goblets and jugs of juice and wine on the low tables brought before each of us; they plumped the cushions behind our backs to ensure our comfort, bowed respectfully with hands brushing their foreheads and left. I glanced hungrily at the food but my host issued no invitation.

Once I had pitied Mairon and allowed him to quietly slip out of my tent into the wild. Several times over the past few years, and even during my journey upon the wings of Lintavailë, I had pictured him as a lonely fugitive struggling for survival. Now I nearly laughed at such blatant fallacy.

‘This is no casual visit to enquire about my wellbeing,’ he stated flatly.

His eyes had narrowed and studied my every move. I would have preferred to delay the telling of my purpose but I was given no such choice.

Ever since Námo spoke my doom, I had pictured this scene on countless occasions and decided that I would reveal the full truth, without sparing my bruised pride. So I recounted my judgement in the Máhanaxar, my banishment inside a hröa, and my arrival outside the city that very morning. Mairon did not interrupt or ask a single question. When I concluded my tale I looked at him as if inviting a response, but his attention seemed exclusively bent on flicking an invisible piece of fluff from the immaculate cloth covering his table.

Deliberately, he faced me at last.

‘How presumptuous of your masters, Eönwë, to send their chastised servant to knock at my door with such demands!’ he sneered.

I clenched my hands and bit the inside of my mouth in an attempt to control myself and remain silent.

‘Yet I pity you!’ For a brief instant he smiled ruefully, almost fondly; then a deep frown darkened his fairness and his eyes bristled with shards of steel.

‘I was Melkor’s right hand, his faithful advisor, confidant and ally. I helped him create armies and together we built his rule over Endórë to contest that of his craven brethren. To do so, I ordered the ruin and torment of thousands without compunction or regret; my servants raided and burnt anything in their wake, and under their whips they brought me endless lines of thralls to suffer misery and abuse at my hands and those of my minions. I tortured; I murdered; I raped.’ His voice was chilling in its calm enumeration of his crimes.

Without rush, he served himself wine, but did not offer me any. I watched his nimble hands in fascination; his long fingers dyed in the colour of blood by the reflections of the wine as he took a sip and placed the beautifully carved goblet back on the table.

‘You, ever the faithful vassal of Manwë, fought the hordes of the Black Foe of Arda, broke the peaks of Thangorodrim, emptied the pits of terror buried underneath, wrestled their dark master to his knees and locked him into the links of Angainor. Anyone would agree you deserved to be granted honour and rewards beyond measure for such deeds.’

I could not look him in the eye, well knowing what his next argument was likely to be.

‘Sadly for you, I chose to remain free from the yoke the Valar threw at me, like a bone to a dog, because I could not bear the thought of enduring life as their despised thrall. Because of my defiance you are disgraced, diminished and banished, and yet your lenient masters dare send you to command my return to face their justice.’ He poured contempt into the last word, and again I could not refute his logic.

‘What do you think I can expect from them, Eönwë, if all you received was their ingratitude? Were I to grovel my abject repentance at the Ring of Doom, would they condemn me to the maddening emptiness of Mandos? Would they perhaps allow my release long ages from now only to endure their scorn for the rest of Time? Tell, me, was that also the fate of my former lord?’ His tone was  bitter, but in it I distinctly heard an undertone of fear.

‘No, it was not,’ I answered at last, in an unsteady voice. ‘He was cast out of the Door of Night into the Void.’

I shuddered at the memory, and Mairon’s sharp mind drew the inevitable conclusion.

‘Will you rejoice in watching me be swallowed by the eternal night when the mâchanumâz give the order that condemns me to the Everlasting Darkness [1]?’

A dark flame of rage flared in his eyes. Abruptly, he stood. I leapt to my feet and learnt that his height surpassed mine by about a hand breadth, a fact that only served to remind me more acutely of my peril.

‘A brave but futile errand, O Herald!’ he cried. ‘Go back to Valinor, beg your masters for forgiveness and bask in the radiance of their righteousness. Dawdle with them in their little garden of bliss to while away the ages of Arda, far from those whom you forsook as marred.’

His voice had turned to icicles, frozen and sharp with undisguised hatred. I winced at his biting choice of words. Mairon was nothing if not precise in his use of language, in whatever tongue he spoke.

In his face, I saw disdain. Time measured in a few heartbeats stretched painfully in the hostile silence between us. I wondered if I could craft an argument that might move him, but there was none. I squared my shoulders in a vain attempt to mask my defeat, bowed, and began to walk towards the door, hoping I would find one of his servants to ask them to return my boots.

‘Eönwë, wait…’ he called.

I wavered, uncertain, then took another step. I had failed, but I would not tolerate any more derision, least of all from him.

‘Eönwë!’

This time his tone was imperious, yet I did not turn, and instead braced myself for the sharp claws of his pet on my back, or a blade through my heart. The sudden weight of his hand on my shoulder made me flinch; his feet had made no sound on the soft woollen rugs.

‘Will you break your fast before you leave?’ he asked. For an instant, I froze, believing I had misheard him. ‘I would hear tidings from the west.’

I never fathomed what prompted Mairon to offer such a conciliatory token that day. Pity at my plight, requiting the mercy I had once shown him? The memory of our friendship, that died once he gave his allegiance to the Black Foe? Or a devious design to lure me to his cause?

I accepted his invitation. Hunger spoke louder than hurt pride or caution. Despite his request for news, we spoke little and mostly watched each other warily over the food.

‘Have you been here long?’ I queried tentatively, curious about his new life.

‘A handful of years. After I left you in Beleriand I wandered for many seasons before my steps brought me to Kiinlúum.’ I waited, but he did not elaborate.

‘You seem to have been welcome.’ I waved my hand at the comforts around us. ‘Where did all of this come from?’

‘I work, Eönwë. My skills have bought me a reputation as a smith of some talent.’ He smiled briefly. ‘My modest wisdom is valued amongst the local nobility.’

‘Yúum Síihbalóob. What does it mean?’ I asked him.

‘Lord of Gifts,’ he answered, almost with reluctance, and shrugged at my curiosity. ‘I was given the name. I have spared the odd piece of silver to the street urchins and others in need. Nothing much, really.’

After the meal, we drank cups of a sweet infusion that brought to my mind the images of green flowery meadows and trees weighed down with ripe fruit. Our stilted conversation had died, replaced by an awkward silence. I breathed deeply from the scented steam, while my imperfect senses strove to recognise the delicate flavours. Reclined on the soft cushions, weariness threatened to overpower me, now that the tense anticipation about our encounter had faded. I longed for a bed, or at least, for a few armfuls of hay.

'Where will you go?' Despite his soft voice the question echoed loudly and yanked me out of my stupor.

'Westward,' I answered tiredly. 'To Lindon, where Gil-galad Ereinion rules over the remaining Noldor. I will depart as soon as I can procure some supplies, and maybe a horse.' I hoped the coin I had would suffice.

'The journey to the Great Sea is long and full of peril. Crossing the desert could dispatch you to Mandos unless you are well prepared.' He sipped slowly from his cup and considered me thoughtfully. 'I advise that you join one of the merchant caravans, for safety.’

'I will heed your wisdom in this matter.' I began to rise to offer my gratitude for the meal and bid my farewell, but he placed his hand on my wrist. My hröa awakened at the firm touch of his skin on mine as if he was, after all, charged with an invisible power. Disturbed, I pulled my arm away.

'Stay here, Eönwë, until you make other arrangements.' His invitation was almost a command.

'There is no need,' I replied with as much pride as I could muster. 'I would not impose my company on you.'

‘I insist.'

'Why?' I was tempted, but also suspicious. 

'Out of civility,' he replied evenly, 'I cannot refuse my hospitality to one who has no kin or friends.'

Hearing the truth spoken aloud stung.

I accepted. I could have wept with relief, if not joy.

Over the following days, with help from his servants, I made enquiries which ended in arrangements to join a large caravan travelling to the realm of Rhûn, about ten weeks’ ride to the West. I sought Mairon in his workshop to notify him of my plans. He considered me silently for a while before he made a proposal that left me speechless.

‘Stay with me for a year, for a yén if you will, Eönwë [1]. I would have you verify the sincerity of my repentance, of the pledge I spoke to you when we last parted, that I would strive to repair the damage done by my deeds. In time, you may be willing to carry back to your masters the assurance that they no longer need fret about me. Who knows, you may well gain their pardon before the two ages of your banishment are spent.’

After brief consideration, I answered. ‘I am grateful for your offer, Mairon. I will stay gladly.’

I was relieved to have regained a purpose.

 

 

[1] yén (Quenya, plural yéni) long-year of the Elves, equivalent to 144 of our years.