Blood, Song, & Silver by MisbehavingMaiar

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Chapter 1

Part 1

 

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The emissary came from the West, and distrust preceded him.

The elves of Eriador had lived through the wars of Beleriand— Where, they asked, had this stranger been during that time? Who were his kin? What had been his alignment in the politics of the old world? What place, they asked, did a Vanya have, amid the flotsam of a sunken continent?

"He speaks silvered words, and spreads clean hands, offering to advise the Noldor in their own craft."  Read a missive from the High King. "This self-styled lord Aulendil is both over-confident and over-humble! Late to our struggles and to the realm; an outrageous dandy with outrageous claims. Nothing could be more irritating. Be cautious, cousin. The Valar have given us gifts enough already."

 

 

This chilly reception was slow in thawing, and Celebrimbor received the outcast from Lindon with blunt manners and little patience. Aulendil was invited to stay in the court of Ost-in-Edhil, if only so he could be better scrutinized.

When the emissary did arrive he was greeted by many whispers. He was, the king guessed, about the same age as his great uncle would have been, had he still been alive. He had a carven quality about his cheeks and chin and nose, but around the eyes and mouth there was a softness, a few criss-crossing lines as Men have, who have reached the middle of their years.

Celebrimbor thought him a strange chimera, as mismatched as his agate eyes (such odd, piebald eyes!); a Vanya, a smith favored by Aulë, a follower of the Valar gone willingly to mingle with the exiles… He could think of none before who came pieced together of such disparate qualities.

Before the throne in the capital, Aulendil made his formal introduction to the king and court, proving not only that was a nimble statesman, but that he was not lacking in charm.

“I do not say this lightly: what you and your brotherhood have achieved here in Eregion is beyond imagination. By the rumors, I thought perhaps that you had succeeded in building a second Tirion— but I was mistaken. Your grace, this city, its accomplishments… they transcend everything built ere now.” 

The emissary’s over-polite tone gave way to a note of genuine awe, enthusiasm clear upon the lines of his face. “It is the very diversity of this place wherein its strength lies— no other bastion of knowledge has had the aid of so many of the speaking peoples’ wisdom… the Quendi, the Khazad, the Atani; all working together to create beauty, and restore harmony to the earth. It is an honor merely to witness your history take place, to say nothing of participating in it.”  He laughed once in quiet self-derision. “It seems foolhardy at best to offer guidance to such an accomplished people. My words sound brazen even to my own ear! But I believe, my lords, that I indeed have something to offer you; an insight into knowledge that could make Eregion as bright as Valinor itself with the aid of its powers. A means to rebuild your nation in—“

Celebrimbor halted the emissary’s speech with an abrupt motion. Cold looks ran round the courtroom; the emissary had struck a sour chord.

“You are full of praise for myself and my city, but you may save your proselytizing. We have no desire for more aid from Valinor. We have not yet recovered from their last gesture of mercy."

"Your grace," Aulendil returned with an amending bow, “with all respect, you are mistaken. I am no missionary. I came of my own will, though my journey was sanctioned by my teacher, Aulë."

"Liar." Celebrimbor stood, caring not for the hushed murmurs that gathered around him. The councils of the High King echoed in his memory; he had a duty to weed out deceit, to hold the line for the surviving kingdoms of his people. What did praise mean, from the lips of a stranger fresh from the shelter of the West? Whatever came from Aman brought with it unwanted and unwritten tithes— and he would have none of it here, in the city he had built out of the wreckage of the Valar’s intervention.

"I was not so young when I left the Undying Lands. Aulë has naught to do with the Minyar, nor they with him. They stay huddled at the feet of Manwë, and only left their bells and star-gazing because the Lord of the West hiked up his skirts and waded over the sea! No Vanya ever suffered the soot of forge-work to mar their pious hands."  The king stepped from the dais and grasped his guest by the wrists, turning his palms upwards to display them to the court.

Celebrimbor’s own hands were worn smooth as dark weathered wood; their shape graceful and hard. The offending palms of the stranger, he noted, were pale by comparison, but rough and lined and etched with tarnish, like old silver;  the etchings of labor the same as his own. 

…Yet, the emissary also had long, clean nails that had been recently tended, and so with a bark of amusement to cover his chagrin, the Noldo spread his fingers. “Ah. I see the file for your nails has given you a callous."

Untouched by shame, Aulendil smiled a little cat smile. "Alas, I cannot pretend I have been in a forge very recently, your grace! My travels have taken me around the continent, reading and learning and recording all that I could. Rest assured, I can still tell when the fire’s hot enough for steel."

He winked.

But the king’s face hardened. "I too, have traveled, and studied under many roofs. Yet I, in all my travels, have never heard of a wandering Vanya scholar, keen on smithing."

Aulendil blinked. "I have been mainly in the East…"

"Enough." Celebrimbor hissed through bitten teeth, and the court went silent as a cairn. “The council has heard your offer, and shall now adjourn to give it due consideration. And as for you and I, we will speak. Alone. Follow."  

In a heavy swirl of piled silk, the Noldo rounded into a council chamber, and when his guest followed with quiet tread, he locked the door behind them.

In the sudden close privacy of the room, the two regarded one another in stifling silence.

"You—" the king laid his hands flat upon a map table, "—will tell me, 'lord' Aulendil, exactly where you come from, and what your purposes are here." Celebrimbor bent, fingers spread over the newly divided continent. "And I warn you, if you are not more forthcoming about your identity than you were with Círdan and Gil-Galad, I  too, will have you expelled from my realm. You have peddled your wares to them already, and have felt their boots on the seat of your britches. So I suggest you not waste words with me." He snorted. "If you are not a missionary, and no spy for Aman: what are you?"

Lines of hurt appeared on the emissary’s forehead. "Your grace! Please excuse me, I did not mean to cause offense by my visit! I had hoped I was becoming better acquainted with the Noldor, but I see now that you do not trust me at all…"  

He lifted a thumb to his distinguished brow, as if in thought, or regret. "…You are right to be suspicious. I have not been entirely honest with you, or your kin. It is long past time I apologized, and cleared the air."

The Noldo inhaled and curled his fingers, holding his breath as curiosity and validation mingled in his chest.  

The folds around the Aulendil’s eyes deepened, and his voice came slow with candor. "I am not a Vanya. I am not even, strictly speaking, one of the Eldar. I am a half-maia. One of Aulë's folk."

Celebrimbor felt his jaw drop; he shut it again quickly.

The emissary continued, "…Curumo, the Cunning, begat me upon a noblewoman of Ingwë’s house. It was no happy union as Thingol and Melian’s was… after strife between them, my birth was a gift that brought no joy to either. And, though indeed I left Valinor at Aulë's behest, to bring light and knowledge to his favored people still in Middle Earth," the emissary continued, "—I left also because I did not belong in that land. I am not, nor will ever be, entirely welcome in either race, or as anyone's kin."

Aulendil glanced across the yellowed map, his face looking older still. "I am as dispossessed as you are, King Tyelperinquar; in this company of exiles and craftsmen, I had hoped to find solace…. But I do not blame you for sending me away. I have kept too much from you, betrayed your trust. I shall take my leave."

How dare you say that name. How dare you presume to be as lost, as abused by Fate as my people… The king thought. How dare you, a Vanya, a Maia— Yet, somewhere within, a dam burst, and he found himself biting back a wave of furious empathy.

How could he, twice an exile, now an orphan, fail to recognize the plight of one unjustly stripped of roots? Of one, he dared to guess, who had felt not the love that ought to be between father and son. Who might understand.

"Wait—" In the silence Celebrimbor swallowed, and lifted his palms from the table open and extended. “I see I have been… ungracious to you, lord Aulendil. My colleagues spoke of you with prejudice, and in my suspicion I made accusations that circumstance has clearly made painful for you to defend yourself against. I swear by my blood, my star, your secret is my secret… I will not send you to further exile, as my kin have done. Let Eregion be your home now."

"Your majesty!" The emissary exclaimed, lifting his head.

The king clucked and waved a hand, clasping those of his guest, warm copper folding in the cool and white.

"You may call me Tyelpe, as do all my smiths… Accept my apology, and let us begin this meeting anew." He gave the emissary’s hand a squeeze. "Join us tomorrow, at the Temple of Silver. I will introduce you to the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, and you may elaborate on your ideas. You may not meet with their agreement, but you ought at least have the chance to be heard.”

Aulendil pressed Celebrimbor’s hands in return and smiled; not the little cat smile he'd worn at court, but a toothy, handsome grin. "My king… Tyelpe. Thank you. You have given me everything I could have wished for."

______________

Golden motes swarmed in the light filtering through tall windows beneath the intricate vaulted ceiling of the auditorium.

A hemicircle of benches  beneath bristled with men and women of many races, all wearing the chain and badge of the Guild; gilt and embossed with the symbols of their respective trades.

Despite its scale and grandeur, the Temple of Silver felt quite intimate, with the steps for the assembly hemmed close to a central dais. Painted wood embellishments and richly colored tapestries made the arena splendorous, rather than austere.

At the center podium, Aulendil ascended the steps, his steps echoing faintly. Seated at the farthest right, Celebrimbor crossed his legs, his eye trained on the members of the Guild, while preamble and formalities came to a close.

The golden chain around the emissary’s neck gleamed new-minted, and blank.

"Brothers and Sisters in smithcraft, artificers, scholars: I did not come here to belittle your knowledge. What you have accomplished here in Eregion pushes the very limits of what can be done with metal and mineral, when one has only the naked eye to study with."  

Some amidst the audience raised eyebrows, unimpressed. Other stared, grim-mouthed, at the newcomer from the West.

"What I propose to teach you lies beyond what the eye can see. It will begin with lenses—"

"Our lenses are the finest ever ground by Khazad masters; carved out of diamond and polished with the hide of unborn lambs. With them you can spy all the stars of Elbereth, or all the puny, invisible monsters living in a drop of pond water!" snorted a bristling old dwarrowdam, her beard twisting and grey.

"Ah, but can you count the fibers of the hairs on the monsters’ legs?" Aulendil chuckled, tucking his hands into his sleeves. "The Khazad are, indisputably, the finest lenscrafters in Middle Earth." This seemed to satisfy the wizened master’s pride, for she eased back into her seat. "In Aman, however, with the aid of the gods, we have found that there is nearly no limit to what can be observed with precise enough tools." His voice dropped, melodious and reverent. "Indeed, given the right vantage point, one can not only see more stars in heaven than Varda ever dreamt of, but even the infinitely small points of matter that separate being from nothing. It is chilling, perhaps, to know that there is equivalent space between the stars, as there is between the particles that make up our bodies."

In the silence, Celebrimbor shifted, imagining the depths the emissary spoke of.

"My lessons will begin with lenses wrought of glass—" Aulendil continued, "And lead to lenses of the soul; for spirits, like light, can be focused, directed, and harnessed to great power. With them we can bend the essence and qualities of matter to our will."

"Can you turn lead into gold?" Spoke one dark-haired smith, sitting in the shade of a carven pillar. His eyes were bright with restrained fire.

"Ach, that fool notion again? How many times must we prove to you, Thuindor, transmutation is pure fantasy! Your old master was a great metallurgist, and a friend of the Firebeards at that, but he was also a moon-brained fanatic with a head full of gaseous notions!" This from a ruddy-haired dwarf in the second row.

The dark elf sat straighter, his mysterious air dispelled somewhat by a nasal voice and a petulant tone.  "Master Eöl saw with eyes unclouded! He saw the past the mundane possibilities of metalworking, Brother Barazbund!"

"Look, my friend,  Eöl was a fine smith, and I say this as a Khuzd! But he was madder than a hive full of blue hornets!"

Bickering erupted from the enclave, echoing through the rafters until Celebrimbor held up one hand for silence.

"I beg your pardon Master Aulendil. These two will go on for days if we do not head them off."  He said, cocking a half-grin. "Please, continue."

The emissary’s expression had grown cattish again with secret amusement.

"Well… I don’t wish to upset the balance of what appears to be a beautiful friendship—"  the audience chuckled. "But indeed, transmutation of that sort would require a vast expenditure of energy. I doubt any but a Vala could accomplish such a feat. But other significant mutations are possible— as you well know! Many of you are chemists, yes? Complex elements can be reduced to simpler ones, and those same simple components can be rearranged to form new, nearly unrecognizable, creations. Perhaps not lead into gold, but certainly carbon into graphite, or carbon into diamonds."

"That, now, I deem a worthwhile pursuit! Diamonds at least are useful! Why this obsession with gold, gold, gold? I’ll never understand." The elderly dwarrowdam crossed her arms.

Aulendil’s feline smile remained, while his eyes narrowed. "Gold." He raised a finger, and the gathering hushed once more. "You are right. It has few industrial applications. One cannot make a drill of it, nor with it coat a lathe… Yet gold has other properties." He licked his lips.

Celebrimbor found he was holding his breath.

"Gold, besides being extremely malleable and an excellent conductor of heat and energy, is remarkable in that it has a long and extremely potent memory for spells. It can retain and even amplify the enchanter’s will to such a degree that it can even be said to retain a fragment of the caster’s soul." He spread his hands, themselves glinting with precious metals. "…And of course, it is exceptionally beautiful."

"It is said that gold was the first invention of Morgoth; that it is as hungry for secrets and mischief as he was." Said a woman who had not spoken before that moment. She was an elf similar in age to the emissary, her austere face lined with the faint tracery of years.

Celebrimbor turned instinctively to hear her. Airalassë had been by his side since the long retreat;  a soldier, a mentor, and a much-needed friend.  

Her arms crossed lazily as she continued. “In my experience, Brother Speaker, enchantments seldom benefit honest people, nor do they always land in the service of good masters.“   Murmuring spread.

The tension between a tentative friend and his oldest one (who still lived) made the king run a rough hand over his chin nervously.

It was a general truism that the Eldar preferred the silver-hued metals over gold, and that there was a long-held belief that gold was somehow corrupt in essence. He did not want Aulendil to think they were a superstitious folk; neither did he wish for the master smith to say anything that would make him disagreeable to the enclave.

But the suspense did not last. Aulendil carried on smoothly. “That is true of many things. Power itself is neither good nor evil. In wicked hands, even a blessed creation can become a source of sorrow, and good men may make use of evil tools to achieve lawful goals." Then the emissary’s smile became somewhat brittle, "…And as for the notion that gold is inherently corrupt, it should be remembered that Melkor— that is, the Black Foe, could not create anything himself, but only twist what already made to his purposes. The dark lord can hardly reach us with his malice now, from beyond the Void."

A blessed creation in the hands of the wicked recalled the Silmarils stolen by Morgoth, and evil tools used for lawful ends brought to mind the cursed sword of Turin Turambar, the dragon slayer. For a stranger to Middle Earth, the emissary knew their history, and knew it well enough to paint it in forgiving light for the present company.

Celebrimbor exhaled gratefully, seeing Airalassë tilt her head in a cool, but at least not openly combative, appraisal of the speaker. The king clapped his hands thrice.

"Well spoken, Master Aulendil! I speak for us all when I say that I am eager to see through these new lenses of yours. True innovation is so often the result of a new vantage point from which to view the world. However, I must caution you… I know you are fresh out of Aman, land of the gods! But if you wish to make yourself a permanent home here on the continent—" Celebrimbor shot a sideways wink at the podium, "—You will have to stop referring to the Dark Lord by his first name."  

General laughter ensued as Aulendil flushed red and took a sheepish bow. "Caught out as the lore-loving bookworm I am! Your highness makes it clear how very much I stand to learn in exchange for my outlandish philosophies."  

And with that, the assembly droned excitedly in dismissal. It was clear from the tone of those passing that the newest member of the order was not yet entirely above suspicion, but neither had he failed to gain admirers.

As the hemisphere of seats emptied, Celebrimbor lingered in the lecture hall, catching Aulendil by shoulder on his way to the door. "I hope you were not offended by the many interruptions. The Order is an argumentative lot, with a great many strong opinions between them.  But I promise you, you have their attention."

"I fear rather that I may have offended several of them! I do not even know their names yet…" The master smith sighed.

Celebrimbor clapped his hand on the smith’s back heartily, choosing to forget his distress over Airalassë’s critical gaze. "Hah! If they are offended, it means they are thinking! There is no shortage of theories or questions here, but sometimes, I confess, we find ourselves turning over the same ground. We do not think big enough!" The king swept an enthusiastic gesture. "We pulled up this city out of a camp of refugees and barren rock, and we can do even more! Too much time we’ve spent only trying only to remember what was lost…" he swallowed, for that loss was immense, and it was not yet far enough behind them to be free of sting. "Salvaging what we can is necessary, but I long to do something new with all this knowledge, all these great minds mingling together! Never before in history has a place like this existed. I tell you, Aulendil," he grinned and found himself clutching both the man’s shoulders, halting him mid-step, "you truly are a gift to this city. You will help us achieve great things, I feel it."

The man stared at him, unblinking. "Your faith in me gives me more confidence than I can say! I am eager to begin as well.  I must prepare many samples tonight if I am to have anything to display for the seminar. Will I see you tomorrow in the main forge?"

"Unquestionably, my friend."

Friend, he said, and found he meant it.

____

In the coming months, Tyelpe discovered by slow observation and daily meetings the habits of his new companion.

When not at the forge or in symposium, Aulendil might be found exploring the foothills and valleys of the Hithaeglir, looking up at their clouded peaks, lost in thought, or sometimes swimming in the long baths of the Quartz Bastion, relaxing in the mountains’ thermal springs. 

Age had not decreased his vigor, for Aulendil demonstrated he could work a bellows or swing a hammer without tiring, but he declined to hunt or spar with younger, hot-blooded elves.  His time alone was spent in stately pursuits; reading and writing, his long legs spread and a tome balanced in nimble fingers, a thoughtful scowl furrowing his waxen brow.

When he spoke, the master smith reminded the king of some of the great orators of Tirion; grandiloquent and precise of diction. During lectures he would pace in even measures, his hands tucked within the sleeves of his robes.
...After a glass of wine or two, however, the man’s jokes could be as coarse as a tavern stool, and when his conversation turned to matters of his art, he seemed almost dwarvish in his passion.

In his precision and focus, he was much like Celebrimbor’s father had been; yet in all other ways he was different. And that, to Tyelpe, was a source of disquiet.

At work, the familiar pace and the pragmatic omission of formality drove him into the groove of old habits; soon he found himself following Aulendil’s instructions as if he were an apprentice in his father’s forge again, and not a leader of craftsmen.

With the familiarity came the expectation of old rebuke— he had never been a fumbling student, but his father’s wishes had not always been plain. Like Fëanor, his father had had a mind as clear and sharp as glass, but few words to spare in explaining himself. Tyelpe often thought, that if it hadn’t been for the necessity of training his son, that Curufin would have preferred to work alone in all things. Certainly it had seemed that way when Tyelpe failed to interpret an unspoken desire, or achieve a standard of perfection that only Curufin understood.

So when, in the pursuit of a new method he miscalculated the necessary heat for the coals, it took him by surprise that his error elicited no biting remark on his intelligence or moral fiber.

“Ah!” Aulendil put his hand over Tyelpe’s in guidance. “Close. A few degrees more, it’s a whiter heat for mithril. There you have it. Perfect. Now, hold it there.”  

“I’m sorry, I should have—“

“Eh?”  the Vanya smith blinked in confusion. “No need for an apology, Tyelpe. Goodness, this is your forge after all. You’re doing fine.” He laughed, and returned to work.

And that was that.

The heat in Celebrimbor’s face had nothing to do with his proximity to the furnace then. Fool. Dost thou imagine thy cousins would be so hasty to apologize for imagined offenses? Thou art a king, Tyelpe! Remember it!

Eyes were upon him at all times, both at home and afar. He could not behave like a boyish novice, even if his mentor were thrice his age. But despite all his long habit and discipline of keeping in check a quick temper and hot blood, Aulendil left blooms of inconvenient emotions wherever he touched, against which he was defenseless. It was not flattery, for the master smith gave no accolades where none were deserved, and a king could not afford to yield to sycophants— it was simply that in his mind, he had no suitable space for praise. With no adequate vessel to contain it, it overflowed quickly into pride and embarrassment.

He expected always that a qualifier must follow a compliment, or for a weighty responsibility to accompany each word. But it was not so; whatever he did that pleased the forgemaster was earnestly and sincerely assessed, often with a wink.

“Clever, Tyelpe! Would that I had thought of that…”

“Do not tell the dwarves you have surpassed them in metallurgy, we’ll have another war by lunchtime.”

“Ah, the skill this took! Is Aulë missing more than one Maia?”

Even with a graceful exit planned, Tyelpe often found his store of words uncharacteristically empty, with no witty riposte or even thanks at the ready.

It could make working together a maddening gauntlet of unexpected sentiment, when it ought to have been a cool and untroubled meeting of intellectual minds— so he told himself. The hot breezes of youth had no more place in his life; he was lord of Eregion and of the greatest smiths in Middle Earth! He had not survived the War of Wrath by accident after all.

He had known that a deluge was coming, that trying to hold on to the past was folly. Fate rode roughshod over that country and he had not stayed to be trampled by it, joining the refugees of Belegost and Hollowbold as they fled over the Blue Mountains to wait out the storm. Filial duty had pulled one way, and he had pulled the other. If praise and acceptance were what he craved, he had been born into the wrong family.

Yet, he thought, if he had known that the Valar’s war would drown half the continent, taking all the history of his people down with it into the sea… he would have… he did not know what. Perhaps not flown so quickly from what was left of his roots.

Celebrimbor shook his head to clear it of shadows, focusing on the rhythm of his friend’s nearby hammer to bring him back to the present.

Today was for working, he reminded himself. Today would be a good day. There were no meetings to be had, no more letters to write nor documents that required his approval. Only the furnace, the workbench, and the grindstone.

There would be no more pre-emptive apologies. There would be only camaraderie and learning. He worked his jaw and huffed a brusque, committed sound before removing the mirthril bar he’d been keeping in the fire and bringing it to the anvil for drawing out into sheets.

Throughout his workshop, tables were scattered with the various geometries of a dozen projects; squares and bars and beads of metal that would align into intricate metal knotwork when they were assembled. Tyelpe yawned reflexively seeing the pile of gauged wires he’d been up all night twisting into filigree.Tedious, but satisfying work.

"Brother Barazbund came earlier today with your order of topaz. He said because you insisted on the emerald cut, he chose a flame-tipped rough over the pale yellow. He says if you waste it on something 'flimsy' he will personally shave you bald."  

Across the forge Aulendil laughed. "I cannot tell if that means he likes me better or worse than before…"

"He insists he hates you! Admires your work, but takes great umbrage towards your face and person." Tyelpe assured him.

"Ouh? What a shame. I’m quite taken with him. I’ve always liked my Master’s people, even if they’ve never much cared for me… but," the voice grimaced, "I’d happily risk a savage barbering if it meant I could put his work station in order."

The Noldo bit his lip grinning, picturing his friend’s discomfort perfectly even with his back turned. "He says he knows how it’s organized!"

"He knows more than god, then! There is going to be a king’s ransom of diamonds lost through the floorboards if so much as sneezes! His beard has probably swept up more wealth than—" There was a clank of metal and a flood of blue cursing. “Oh mother of spiders! That hurt! Remind me not to speak to you while you’re being an ass. Expansive gestures in the forge are dangerous.”

Tyelpe had to brace himself against the anvil, snorting with laughter.

"Is—" he choked, wiping his eyes. "Is anything broken?"

"No."

"Is anything disorganized?"

"…I’ll see you in hell, Ñoldo."

He assumed there was a rude gesture he was missing. If it were possible to die from laughing silently, he’d be in Mandos soon.

"As soon as you’re done crippling yourself from mirth, I have something to show you. A private lesson."

"Very well," Tyelpe assented, setting down flatter and mithril. "I see how you reward impudence."

"Hah." Aulendil drawled. he was perched with one leg on a workbench, arranging before him a number of vials. Most the king recognized; two were a mystery.

"Can you guess, my royal apprentice, what I am using to bond this silver?" He gestured to a sheet of granulated silver, spools and beads of filigree arranged delicately atop it, ready to be soldered. Later it would be cut free of the extra sheeting, mounted with a clasp, filed, then polished to gleaming; perhaps it would be set with the much-discussed topaz, or filled with colored enamel.

Tyelpe craned his neck. "I see salt, copper and iron oxide, distilled beech ash, salt, silver dust, silicate, wax, tallow…" the last two were liquid, familiar but unidentified. "These are components for fluxes and solders. If you are bonding sterling, I would think… the salt and oxide mixed with wax for flux, silver and copper dust for solder? Though if you are planning to put the piece to the fire more than once, I would use a hard solder of pure silver first, and the copper mixture after, so that the second weld does not melt the first."  

This was common knowledge for gold and silversmiths; he wondered what his mentor could mean by testing him on everyday practices.

Aulendil made a circular gesture with one hand. "…And? What am I using for binder?"

Tyelpe squinted at the unknown liquids. One was clear and viscous and ringed with bubbles, the other dark and suspiciously red. "…Soap? Water? Rust?” He guessed.

His teacher, the emissary, a man of eloquent words and elegant behavior, leaned forward and spat into the first vial.*

The king wrinkled his nose. It was the most jarring, borderline obscene thing he’d seen the Vanya do. "You’re joking."

"I am not. And the second?"  

"I… dare not guess. No. It isn’t."

He rolled up one sleeve, displaying a shallow cut on the heal. "Blood."

Tyelpe sat down heavily.  "You reveal yourself to be a disgusting barbarian. Why are you using blood and slaver as soldering medium?"

A glint of fire caught the smith’s eye and he crossed his arms, a finger held aloft. “One— because it is a lightly acidic, liquid material that easily distributes our silver and copper dust, and two—“ he held up a second digit, “because it is part and product of the body. The blood, meanwhile, contains some iron, true, but its main purpose is the same as the aforementioned: it contains remnants of the one who is responsible for the smithing.”

“Is superstition at the core of this lesson?” The king shot his friend a suspicious look. “It sounds like a fertility charm made by old wives of the Atani.”

“It is not superstition, nor is it hedgemagic; not if one has the willpower to complete the task.” Aulendil’s face grew serious. “Do you think your grandfather’s work contained only crystal?” And Tyelpe’s frown deepened in turn. It was not lightly that anyone mentioned the Silmarils in his presence.  

“I want you to think of these,” Aulendil gestured to the fluids, “as a different kind of solder, for a different kind of weld. When one infuses something of one’s body into metalwork, it becomes easier to affix the essence of one’s spirit, or the essence of a thought.” He glanced at his pupil sidelong, gauging his attention. “But it is necessary first to isolate that which one wishes to imbue. Remember when I spoke to you of lenses of the spirit? A thought or a soul must be focused, in order to be transferred."

“I am not entirely ignorant of what you speak. An old friend of mine was well versed in Khazad rune magic; our work together featured it. But many of us no longer trust in enchantments…  Our fathers and forefathers knew of magic, and Song, and how it might be applied to our craft. But we left much of that behind in the old world, and there it stays. We have not yet decided, whether or not it is for the better.”

“Song, yes! That is the lens! And there is one I can teach you.” Aulendil continued, seating himself beside the king so their gazes were level. “The world was made of Song and from it, all great magics continue. It is necessary to creating of any item of power.”

“…Which I have not yet assented to the making of!” Tyelpe’s eyes narrowed. “You are my teacher. But it is for me to decide what is made in my forges, in my kingdom.”

He all but flinched when a hand grasped his knee gently; Aulendil leaned forward by a small fraction, the creases on his handsome face deepening with feeling. “I know. And you are a good king, Tyelperinquar. You brought something beautiful out of the ashes, made a haven for those who have suffered too much already, as you have. I know that you have only their well-being at heart, their protection. And you wish to move forward from the past, which betrayed so many of us—” he caught himself, amending, “of you and yours, foremost of all.” 

“…Were you on the continent for the final battle?” Tyelpe asked with a start. He hardly knew why he asked it, except that candor was in the air, and his face was already warm with too much attention on himself.

Aulendil blinked slow, and nodded as if remembering. “I was. Under Ingwion.” He shook his head, gold but for the grey at his temples. “I would rather not speak of it, if you do not mind.”

And Tyelpe swallowed a stone in is throat. “I’m sor—“ he coughed, “I apologize, if I have opened an old wound.”

He waved a hand, releasing the king’s knee. “It is forgotten. But more to my point, everyone in Eregion, the survivors, have lost what can never be regained. My wish, and yours too, if I’m not mistaken, is to prevent such loss from ever happening again. And Tyelpe— we have the power to do it, here, now! With the techniques I am about the teach you.” He met the king’s eyes in unblinking honesty. “Trust me.”

“I do.” He heard himself saying, tongue dry.

“Then I will teach you the Song of Binding.”

---

Chapter End Notes

To see a video of the discussed goldsmithing techniques, see this video.