~ The Thread Spinner ~ by Spiced Wine

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Chapter 2 ~ Entanglement ~

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~ Entanglement ~

The music of the fountain seemed to fill the room, laughing in the sudden silence.

Mélamírë said flatly, ‘No. That is not possible.’ Her voice came preternaturally calm. Her mind screamed shock.

I wish it were not. For thine own sake, I wish it were not.

He had thought himself inured to surprise, but finding this woman, laying like a wilted flower after frost, had proved him wrong. The power that crackled about her was familiar; he knew it too well to be deceived, yet subtly different, like one melody played on two separate instruments. And so he had looked into her mind while she slept, (not something he did willingly, save when a criminal came before him, but this time he deemed it necessary) and saw not only who she was but another world entire — and he had reeled. He would have said, as she did, That is not possible, but arguing against it would be bootless, since it clearly was possible. And the evidence was here before his eyes. But how?

‘Then look,’ he said simply. ‘But I must in conscience warn thee that it will not be pleasant, and there will be some places I cannot allow thee to go.’ Many places. Most of them. He gauged her expression, added gently, ‘I have no doubt of thy courage and hardihood Lady, but trust me, there are times, places,I do not wish to revisit, even in memory.’ From which there was never any escape. ‘But thou wilt need to know what I show thee.’

She said, in a strange tone, something of dark laughter in it, and something of tears: ‘He told me a man’s mind was no place for me to look into.’

‘I suppose it depends on the man,’ he said, not entirely disagreeing. ‘I will show thee enough to convince thee of the truth, no more.’
He saw her face harden on the fractional nod, and mentally saluted her. I am not sure how I would react to what she is about to discover.

It was difficult to allow her access, with that lightning-scent about her, the hum of the ring on her hand. The privacy of his mind was something he valued, even though Sauron could enter it with contemptuous ease. But it had been a long time now since he had heard that voice, felt that touch. Not long enough. And his freedom (he had always known it temporary) would not last forever, indeed he felt that it would not be long now before he was summoned, but he would enjoy it while it lasted.

Her silver-flecked eyes seem to expand like a cat’s and he braced himself, but her touch was not the same as Sauron’s; it was powerful, but more subtle, strong, but not brutal as Melkor’s had been, or the dagger-slice of Sauron’s (though as incisive). Vanimórë felt that she shied away from exerting her full mental faculties on him, probably on anyone. He barred the gates to the darkest places, retreated behind them.

She shuddered, lashes flickering, but did not blink, all her focus concentrated, intent. It took heartbeats only, but she would have discovered everything in that time. Or the most salient points at least.

Sight returned to her eyes and she stumbled back, her face registering astonishment, a burst of panic. Reflexively he moved to steady her, but with a visible effort she righted herself. Her long hands clamped each side of her head, and she closed her eyes, brows drawing hard.
She said, ‘The Threads of Vairë.’*

‘The what?’

‘Vairë,’ she repeated impatiently. ‘Vairë, who weaves the threads of Time.’
He could almost hear her brain spinning behind the star-grey eyes.
‘Time. And Space. Are you aware of the possibility—‘ suddenly she laughed. ‘the reality! of other worlds, other universes, many of them? that we, you and I and every other living thing, even the Valar, I assume, exist not only in one manifestation of Arda,’ she moved a hand to pat the wall. ‘but in others too? It may be an almost identical version, perhaps only a change of hair colour, a little height difference, or it may be vastly different.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, Sauron spoke to me of this. He found it fascinating, but I was not aware it was more than a theory.’ Art thou aware it is more, father?

‘He said it was a possibility.’ Her mouth curled wryly. ‘Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that there are countless possibilities and, until they are chosen, woven into the tapestry of Time — maybe Times is more accurate? they remain only possibilities. Except every possibility must be true — somewhere.’

He had seen that look before, that brightness of intellect focussed on one task. It was eerie.

‘I created a scrying device,’ she continued. ‘one that could show such possibilities, things that might come to pass. I developed the curwë for it.’

Impressed, he nodded. ‘There is no doubt thou art his daughter. Not that I doubted.’

‘I am Fëanorion,’ she flashed. ‘I am not only his daughter.’

‘Really?’ He was intrigued. ‘Thy mother is Fëanorion?’ He wanted to laugh incredulously, and yet...it was not that surprising when one thought about it. Sauron had a taste for brilliance, and the Fëanorion’s had always intrigued him.

‘Was.’ Grief darkened her face like the shadow of a blow cloud.

‘I am sorry,’ he said. And he was, but not in the least surprised. Was? Of course, was. What, didst thou use her just to get a child? Again? A different reality, perhaps, but the same Sauron.
‘Wine?’ He offered. ‘It is from Isfahan, and rather good.’

‘Who is your mother?’ She took the tart, stony white wine, drank.

‘Was, again, Lady. She was a woman of Finrod’s house. A captive. May I ask why he imprisoned thee?’

She tapped one finger against the goblet, long lashes veiling her eyes. ‘Do you wish to look into my mind?’

‘I did,’ he said with an apologetic little grimace. ‘when thou wert unconscious. Forgive me, but I had to know. There was power all over thee, in the air about thee like static. It felt like Sauron but not quite. I will not do so again. I look on mind-work as a kind of violation.’ Especially when Sauron used it to farrow into his thoughts.

She favoured him with a long, hard stare, but said, ‘He wanted my loyalty, for me to follow him. Do you know, he told me that, when I was born? I almost died. He spoke to me. I never remembered until long after, but the memory was there. He wanted me to follow him through love, not from fear as he had followed Melkor.’ She sounded bewildered. ‘How could he think it?’

‘As he imprisoned thee, I take it thou didst refuse.’

A flush bloomed along her high cheek. Her eyes blazed silver sparks. ‘Of course I refused! He put me in the hands of his servants, who dragged me like a slave to Mordor, to the Barad-dûr. And they—‘ Her mouth snapped shut.

‘That was stupid of him, then,’ he said. ‘Power is a corrupter. Perhaps his servants thought to please him by tormenting thee into obedience, but when men have captives in their power their basest natures often rule them.’ Especially when their prisoner is a woman, and a beautiful one, a strong one. Men seem to enjoy destroying them.

Tears glimmered, turned her eyes pure silver and reminding him poignantly of Maglor, but she was fighting them, this proud woman, flung into a Middle-earth that was not her own, battling the panic that he could feel radiating from her, the anger, the grief, the loss.

‘I do not judge people’s courage by their tears, Lady Mélamírë,’ he murmured.

But she did not weep. She threw back the massy black hair and screamed, a sound which brought the Prince’s women tumbling, wide-eyed, into the room. The primary wife, Jendina, summed up the situation with one look, bowed and retreated, shooing the other before her.

‘I thought...I thought he loved me!’ Mélamírë flung the goblet, which rolled with the ring of silver, shedding the wine. Her white teeth were bared, her eyes filled with fire, the fire of Fëanor’s blood and of Sauron’s. ‘He taught me, he held me in his arms, he was proud of me! And he...he...’
The tears came then, brief and scalding. She beat his shoulder with her clenched fist, and he did not move, only offering himself as something to rail against until she was calm.

It did not last long; she turned away, wiping her face, disappeared into the bathing room. Water splashed. Vanimórë picked up the wine goblet.
‘Wouldst thou like to be alone?’ he asked. ‘Should I send in the women?’

Mélamírë snapped aside the curtain. Her face was hard, resolute. ‘No, not yet. I need to talk to some-one who would not think me insane.’ She glanced about the room with a trapped, impatient look, grimaced. ‘I need to get out. Are there horses?’

‘Yes, of course. Thou art not a prisoner. But art thou strong enough?’

‘Yes.’ Her look dared him to disagree. ‘I heal quickly, and the exercise will do no harm.’

He acquiesced, but said, ‘I should come with thee, then. I know the land.’

She dressed in loose leggings, tucked into leather boots borrowed from one of the wives, and a voluminous cloak that covered her hair. Nevertheless, she was stared at as Vanimórë lead her out of the house and to the stables.

This was a summer hunting lodge, Vanimórë told her as they mounted and rode out. Much of Saikan was arid, hugging the desert but the Kanin Hills on its western border were gentler, the narrow valleys rich with springs and greenery. Silver and tin were mined there, Saikan’s main export.

She sat the leggy grey horse with ease, holding one rein as she turned to look back at the lodge sprawling among its gardens.
‘Jendina said you visit every two or three years.’

‘Saikan is an ally of Sud Sicanna. Yes, I like to...encourage my alliances. A personal visit often does that.’

She sent him a wry glance, then sank back into silence. A track lead gently downhill under the shade of trees. A stream flowed beside it, cool and dark, plashing over worn rocks. Birds piped and the emerald shadows wavered in a soft breeze. Vanimórë watched the set of the woman’s shoulders, saw the tension still coiled there. Of course. He wondered how he would have felt had he woken to find himself in another time.

‘I need to understand how this happened.’ She reined in. Her profile was pure and hard against the blowing green. ‘Did he do it? But he said he could not manipulate the Threads. Or was that a lie, too?’

‘Probably not. I think he would have, if he could.’ He considered. It was not possible to tell, with Sauron. ‘It may have been an accident, if there is any such thing when it comes to the Threads, or perhaps it was thee. Thou hast Ainu blood, thou wert fleeing, terrified, furious. I told thee of the storm that blew up out of nowhere. And is it not impossible that thou shouldst come here, where I am, one if the few who would see what thou art and believe thy tale?’

She frowned, her mount pawed at the earth.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That is too much of a coincidence. Or at least highly unlikely.’ He smiled, waited while she thought. ‘This time is long after mine, historically. And what I saw in your mind...the Ring....’ On the words fear and fury burned her thoughts bright as a bonfire. ‘The Ring did not avail him anything.’

‘The Last Alliance won that war, lady, but Gil-galad died, and Elendil and Anárion, and two thirds of the wood-Elves under Oropher, and so many others. And the Ring was not destroyed. I would not, myself, call it a victory.’ He could not keep the old sorrow from his voice.

‘And he — Sauron — was not destroyed. You are sure of that? Absolutely certain?’

‘I would know were he gone from the world, Lady. But he was much reduced. At first I could only sense he existed, but over time his presence became stronger. He has not called me back, not yet, but I think he will. And soon.’

She drummed long fingers on the saddle-bow. ‘That was why I could not feel him when I woke. Or only something like a distant echo. So if the Ring were destroyed, would he be?’ The horse walked on.

‘He is Maia, I am not sure they could ever be completely destroyed. I asked him once. He had put so much of his power, his essence into that ring...but he laughed.’ She favoured him with an unsmiling stare, brows pinched.

‘Where wert thou planning to go?’ he asked.

‘There is a kingdom,’ she said, ‘Bharat. It is rumoured to be hidden, guarded by power. If that’s true, It is somewhere he will not find me.’

‘Ah yes, I know that feeling well.’

‘You could never escape?’ She slanted him a look.

‘His hold on my mind is too strong. I tried, when I was younger. he always drew me back.’

Her mount sprung suddenly into a canter. He followed. The track was clear and there was no danger for an experienced rider. Her robes billowed out behind her, as if she would race ahead of her fears, the shock of displacement, the hurtragefear of her father.

They came out of the cover of the trees, followed the stream across a flat pasture where goats moved, protesting, from their path and the sun fell hot. The stream debouched into a small lake, trees crowding to drink of the moisture. It was a quiet, green place, the water deep and clear. The horses pulled forward to the shore, dipped their heads to drink.

Vanimórë unsaddled black Seran, opened the saddlebag and drew out a packet of flat bread, soft cheese rich with garlic and herbs, dried figs, a flagon of wine. He spread them on a clean cloth, sat down. Mélamírë pushed back her cloak, folded her legs under her and tore a hunk of bed. Seran nuzzled at her and she smiled as he took the offered chunk from her hand.
‘He is a beauty,’ she said. ‘and knows it.’

Vanimórë looked affectionately at the great stallion. ‘He is a cantankerous and ill tempered bastard. But he has a great heart. He suits me.’

They ate for a while in silence, the horses tearing at the sort grass. The sun spangled the pool, a fish rose to the surface as shadows veiled the water, concentric rings spreading out. Mélamírë propped herself on one arm, sipping the wine. Her eyes were distant.
‘I have no idea what I can do,’ she murmured. ‘or even where to start. I am not even sure that this is not a dream.’

Vanimórë thought of his own dreams, and dreams within dreams. Shuddering away from them, he locked them away.

‘I wonder if I exist in this reality, and if so what I am doing. Perhaps I did serve him, or perhaps I was killed in the war, or made my way to Bharat. Perhaps I was not born in Ost-in-Edhil at all.’ Her eyes turned to him. ‘And do you exist where I came from? He never mentioned a son.’

‘Interesting to speculate is it not? Perhaps the Vanimórë of thine own Middle-earth is enjoying a truly wonderful life. Bastard.’

Her eyes were heavy on him. ‘I do not want to believe that he could do what he did to you,’ she said slowly. ‘I saw enough, and I know there was a great deal more you concealed. And I do not want to accept — not yet — that he lied, that he feigned love for me, for my mother. That it was nothing. Do you understand?’

‘I understand,’ he assured her. ‘It is natural to expect love from our parents. Even orcs have some familial affections. And perhaps the Sauron of thine own world did love thee. It is important to remember we are not speaking of the same person.’ Her black brows crooked, beautiful mouth tightening. ‘He did not kill thee, he wanted thee to follow him through love, as thou hast said. And he, personally did not hurt thee. At least not physically, though I grant that emotional wounds take far longer to heal, if they ever do. His servants overstepped their bounds, and I imagine they will pay for it.’

‘You are trying to comfort me.’ A faint note of accusation.

‘Yes,’ he acknowledged. ‘But I also think it likely to be true. He holds no love for me. I am useful, no more. But that does not mean another Sauron, a little different, might not love a daughter.’ He had one. He had Vanya And she was nothing to him but a commodity he would have thrown away on Melkor.

Her face shook, she averted her head, dark tendrils curling as they escaped the loose braid. She was so guarded he felt she might scorn his sympathy, and then he had to laugh inwardly. In that, she was exactly like him.

Abruptly, she leaned forward, pulled off her boots. ‘This pool is safe for swimming, I assume?’

‘Perfectly, yes.’ He drew a drying cloth from the saddlebag, handed it to her.

She walked down to the bank, a little way under the trees and after a moment, he heard the soft splash of water, saw her swim strongly out toward the centre of the pool. She trod water for a moment, then dived down. While Vanimórë did not think she had any suicidal tendencies, at least at the moment, he watched nevertheless, mentally timing. He did not relish the ensuing battle if she did decide to drown herself on impulse. Not that he truly feared she would; if she could keep her mind focussed on the problem of returning to her own Middle-earth, it might keep such thoughts at bay. He almost wished (on an inward grimace) that Sauron was around to ask about the Threads. Who else was there?

Her. She must know as much as anyone.

The sunlight slanted longer now, spearing gold down through the trees. Mélamírë’s sleek black head broke the surface, and she swam like an otter toward the shore. Vanimórë busied himself saddling the horses as she emerged.

‘Gallant,’ she said when she had dressed herself. ‘Are you as considerate of your wife? Or wives?’

‘Well, I hope my wives would not mind my looking at them naked,’ he grinned with a spice of mischief. ‘But I am not married.’

‘Ah. You prefer men?’

‘I take what I can get, and grateful for it.’ He lead Seran forward. ‘Wouldst thou like to try him? We have time to ride a little longer before dark.’

She flashed him a challenging smile and mounted gracefully. Seran, who carried no-one but Vanimórë on his back, snorted and then proceeded to act as perfectly as if he were on parade. No doubt Mélamírë could have handled him had he misbehaved, but clearly Seran sensed she would stand none of his nonsense. Vanimórë gave the stallion a mocking look. ‘Oh, thou art a terrible old charmer.’

Beyond, the land sank toward the margins of the desert. With a soft click of her tongue, Mélamírë let Seran have his head. The stallion’s strong hindquarters bunched as he launched into that effortless, floating gallop, running toward the horizon, a black arrow loosed from an Elven longbow, the woman bent low over his neck, damp hair whipping.

The grey horse was strong and fleet-footed, but he was not Seran. When, at length, Mélamírë slowed, circling, she was smiling as she patted the sleek, arching neck. Behind her the desert stretched far into the West.
‘Where did you get him?’ she asked. ‘Almost he could be bred of the horses brought from Valinor.’

‘I breed all my cavalry horses,’ he said. ‘Some from the north, from the lands of Calenardhon where great horses run free. I cross them with the horses of the desert. Seran has fathered fine foals.’

‘You have a cavalry? There are wars, then?’

‘Skirmishes, sometimes, tribal conflicts. Mostly, I fight for my allies if they ask for help. No army has marched on Sud Sicanna in a long time.’

They swung back toward the hills, their shadows thrown long before them.
‘Why Sud Sicanna?’ she questioned. ‘I mean, why did you choose it to rule?’

‘I knew the city well,’ he said. ‘I might have gone further, after the Last Alliance, but what was the point? He will call me back and I think sooner rather than later.’ He was conscious of those grey eyes on his face. ‘And the ruler was a rapist and killer of children. I knew he was a voluptuary who kept many pleasure slaves, and drove them out into the streets when he was bored of them, but until I arrived there after the war, I did not know his secrets.’

‘You killed him?’

‘Yes. He had over-reached his hand, taking the child of a captain of the guard. With the palace guards and the city soldiers behind me, it was easy. So I took Sud Sicanna and have ruled it ever since.’

‘Could you not have sought Valinor? Sauron could not reach you there.’

‘Hells, no!’ She looked startled at his emphatic denial. He said more quietly, ‘No, Lady.’

Her brows lifted. ‘You think they will punish you for being his son?’ There was more than one question in her words.

‘The answer is: yes, they would, but that would not be the first or greatest reason.’

She hesitated, bit her lip. ‘You cannot know that.’

‘But I do know it.’ The memory of Gil-galad’s punishment after death and Tindómion’s shattering grief could still enrage him, make him wish for power, power enough to throw the Valar down, make them crawl.

‘Very well,’ she conceded, ‘But that is something I do need to know, as I think you will agree.’

‘I hope it will not be necessary for thee to deal with the Valar at all.’

‘I’m not overjoyed at the prospect myself!’

‘Suffice it to say unless thou art as spotless and blameless as the legendary snows of high Taniquetil, thou hast little chance of their favour.’

She blinked. ‘Then it would seem that many people would not find favour in their eyes. No-one is spotless. Do you mean I might be...punished for my Fëanorion blood as well as my father’s?’

‘Probably not the Fëanorion blood, no. Although with those bastards, who knows? If the Valar in thine own world are different, more reasonable than they are here, then I am glad of it.’

The wind was dying, the sun dipping swiftly toward the limitless West. In the low, intense light the hills before them looked vivid, flat, like a painting on glass.

Mélamírë nudged Seran into a trot, turned her head toward him.
‘So if you will not seek Valinor, and I do not blame you, then why not make this life as...pleasant as possible, at least while Sauron is gone?’

‘Thinks’t thou it is not, Lady? A time of not being his slave is wonderful, I assure thee.’

‘Vanimórë,’ she said dryly. ‘Are you trying to fool yourself or me? The women said you have no wives. Do you have any companionship at all? I can’t imagine it is easy for people to become close to you.’

‘I am wounded.’

‘I’m sure,’ she smiled drolly. ‘Do you not have children? They at least would be companions and, if dynasty concerns you, they would continue your rule of Sud Sicanna.’

‘It does not concern me.’ He looked straight ahead. ‘I cannot father children, Lady. It was something Melkor did, long ago.’

She caught herself up with a little gasp. ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘And if I could beget children, Sauron would claim them. Or he would try to. I would give no child my life. I would rather kill them at birth.’ He stamped down on the passion in his voice, said, more calmly: ‘Unmarried rulers are a magnet, Lady, and in this land for ambitious men more than women. Canst thou imagine the poor girls being groomed to fill my bed, my third wife, my fifth, my eighth? There is something distasteful in that.’

She was eyeing him gravely.

‘You could be right. Yes, and I can imagine it is difficult to live among Men, knowing they will die. I have known the Secondborn all my life, and it never gets easier, but that is no reason to hold oneself aloof from them.’

‘Do I?’ he asked. ‘hold myself aloof?’

‘But perhaps you have no choice,’ she mused. ‘their ever-living prince, that would cause isolation.’

‘It does, of course, but I do love my people.’ It had surprised him, his sense of obligation to them, his capacity to care.

‘Perhaps, but it is an overarching care, a general concern.’ She circled one hand. ‘Laudable, but easier than a personal connection, a deep commitment.’

‘Thou art speaking of love.’ He smiled, remembering Maglor, wondering where he was now, only knowing that he lived. There had been something between them, forged of pain, and hate and desire, but he could not name it love. It was too furious, too desperate.
‘But perhaps thou wouldst tell me of Ost-in-Edhil?’ He changed the subject. ‘I never saw it until the war.’
His words deflected her as he knew they would.
You were there? You attacked Ost-in-Edhil?’ Any softness had gone from her face and her eyes were like lances.

‘I was there, yes.’ Their gazes held. He had no excuse and would offer none.

Her shoulders stiffened.
‘Ost-in-Edhil. They said it mirrored Tirion, in Valinor. We had a row house, with a garden and terrace looking West.’ Her fingers tangled in Seran’s mane. ‘And I was — am — a craftswoman, apprenticed to the Otornassë Míretanoron. I earned it. I picked up my first tools when I was scarcely more than a babe and he — my father — encouraged me in everything.’

‘He would appreciate an intelligent child,’ Vanimórë said. ‘I do not imagine that was pretence.’

‘I knew from a young age he was different, one of the Fey, and sometimes he could be frightening, but I had no doubt at all he loved me, wanted to protect me.’ And savagely, ‘And do not humour me with platitudes, a father who loves their child, their wife, does not do what he did!’

‘I never thought he knew how to love,’ Vanimórë mused. ‘Maybe Celebrimbor, when he spoke of him...at least that was a meeting of minds he cherished.’

Mélamírë’s face was white, furious, and beneath it anguish screamed.
‘What is it?’ he asked gently.

‘He tortured Tyelperinquar.’ Her lips hardly moved. ‘The man he called the brother of his heart. I didn’t see it, not all of it. I think I was knocked unconscious but I saw him holding the hot irons. I didn’t...’ Her voice wavered. ‘I hardly recognised the monster as my father.’

‘He did the same in this world,’ Vanimórë said. And I killed him, Celebrimbor. Sauron wanted me to, for all his words. And he knew I would.

Tears glinted. She dashed them away. ‘I want him to rot,’ she hissed. ‘I want him to scream as Tyelperinquar screamed.’

‘He might yet.’ He reached across to touch her shoulder. ‘He never really wanted to destroy the Elves, rather rule them. Had they bowed to him...’ He shrugged. ‘I did not think they would, but he could be very plausible, very charming when he wanted to be.’

‘Indeed.’ Bitterly. ‘And he was, for a long time. Brilliant, and alarming, at least to many, and sometimes to me, but he loved me, he loved my mother, and all the time, all those years he had one end in mind. My mother died, and he tortured Tyelperinquar, and I don’t know what he would have done to me, in the end.’

Neither did he. And there it is, thou dost not know. She wanted to believe her father would not have hurt her.
‘But he did not torment thee,’ he said. ‘Thou didst effect thine own escape. Perhaps he did love thee and thy mother. Remember, he is not the same person.’

Shockingly intelligent eyes pinned him. ‘And not all that different, if he tortured Tyelperinquar both in my world and this one.’

‘Perhaps the difference between them is that he loved thee, Lady, in thine own Middle-earth.’

‘Does it anger you, that he could at least, dissimulate and pretend to love me?’

‘Ah, Lady, thou art acute.’ He pressed a hand to his heart. ‘In a way, yes. I hoped, once, that he might love me, but that was so long ago. And I beg thee not to regard my — admittedly — confused emotions.’

‘You do not permit yourself much weakness, do you?’ she observed shrewdly. ‘I understand why, but jealousy would be a perfectly normal reaction.’

‘And neither dost thou permit thyself much weakness,’ he returned. ‘For I do not count a few tears. And we both know why. Because where would it stop? How long could we scream before our minds gave way?’ Or perhaps that had already happened, long ago, in Angband, or Barad-dûr.

‘You are correct,’ she replied tightly. ‘I cannot allow myself any weakness. And certainly not here.’

‘What wilt thou do, then, Lady?’ he asked. ‘I leave with my men in two days time. Thou canst come to Sud Sicanna, and I can provide thee with an escort and coin to journey south if thou wouldst still seek for Bharat. But I cannot help thinking it would be better for thee to head North, to Imladris, maybe. I can likewise have thee escorted to Umbar and hire a ship to take thee to Lindon. At least they are Elves and would have some understanding.’ And there was Tindómion who would, in her world, be close kin. ‘There may be people who can help thee. Glorfindel would be there.’

The reaction was there, subtle but unmistakable.
‘You know him Glorfindel? How?’

‘When I was captured on Gorgoroth, in the war of the Last Alliance.’ When he had made damned sure he was captured. ‘I was put in his charge for the rest of the siege.’

‘I know Glorfindel.’ And well, he would wager. ‘In my world, not in this.’

‘I cannot imagine him as being very different in any world,’ he said with a smiling look back at the few times they had been together, passion spiced with rage, with the scent of blood and a long, dragging war.

The laugh strangled itself. ‘In some ways, he will be, I assure you.’

‘Art thou concerned the Elves would not accept thee?’

‘I was accepted.’ She twisted her damp hair in one hand, let it fall about her shoulders in dark spirals. ‘They were almost unbearably kind, in fact. Elrond helped pull me out of the pit.’ Her breath heaved once. ‘But that was there, in my world.’ Her eyes glinted. ‘Did they accept you?’

‘I never told them who I was,’ he admitted. ‘I doubt they would have let me go had they known.’

‘Perhaps not,’ she agreed. ‘Then how did they account for you, an Elf serving and fighting for Sauron?’

‘They thought I must have been very young when I was captured,’ he said. ‘And they saw that Sauron was linked to my mind, that I was bound to his will. In the end, they had far more important things than me to deal with. It was a savage war, Lady, and it solved nothing. Isildur cut the One Ring from Sauron’s hand, but refused to destroy it, calling it weregild for his father’s and brother’s deaths.’

Unconsciously, he thought, her finger circled her own gleaming ring.
‘How would they have destroyed it?’

‘If they had thrown it into the lava of Orodruin, from the Sammath Naur where it was forged, it would have been destroyed. He told me that, once. If there was any other way, he did not reveal it to me.’

Mélamírë closed her eyes. ‘And why did they not do that?’ It was almost a plea.

‘Elrond was with Isildur, and tried to persuade him to throw it into the fire. He refused. I would have kicked the stupid bastard into the fire with the Ring, but Elrond is a much kinder man than I am.’

Almost she snorted. ‘Truly.’ Her mouth curled a little, then straightened. She glanced North. ‘I wish I could be sure beyond doubt that he cannot manipulate the Threads. How can I believe anything he said to me? I thought I heard his voice say my name before I collapsed by that pool. His name for me, Náryen. I fear he knows what has happened, that he might follow me.’

Vanimórë put a hand over his eyes. ‘Hells, I hope not. The last thing I wish to contemplate is two manifestations of Sauron in my own Middle-earth, even if thine would be glad to be shot of him. Thou canst not leave me here with two of them, Lady!’

She snorted. ‘How powerful is he, the Sauron of this world?’

‘After the loss of the ring?’ Vanimórë made a see-saw motion with one hand. ‘Impossible to know, as yet. He is not going to come walking into Sud Sicanna any time soon, I think, but he would not do that anyhow, he would send for me, Malantur probably, his Mouth.’ His own twisted on memories of that poisonous bastard. ‘In his strength, his mind is like a wall of fire against mine. It grows stronger, but it is not yet as it was before. As to whether he will regain his former power, I cannot even guess. I am surprised he survived, but he does seem to have a talent for surviving.’

‘He does that,’ she nodded. All of a sudden she was decisive. ‘I will come to Sud Sicanna, then. At least to begin with.’

‘Very well,’ he said, bowing over the saddle. ‘Thou wilt be welcome, Lady.’

‘Istyanis,’ she corrected. ‘I earned that title and even here, it is still mine.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Istyanis.’

OooOooO

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Chapter End Notes

* The Threads of Vairë. These are from the Pandë!verse, specifically The Writhen Pool:
http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=1785
Galadriel commissions Mélamírë to make what becomes known as The Mirror of Galadriel. Aulendil and Mélamírë mention the Threads.