Crystal Clear. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

   There had been Noldor in Beleriand for four hundred summers. Even the most traditional tree-lovers knew the name Fingolfin. So when the wicker chest of gifts came to Maurn of the Birch-leaf clan, the whole family, and half the clan, gathered to watch him open it. Hagmar, the second son, who hated chipping stone, and secretly admired the crafty Noldor, watched in awe as the beautiful black-feathered arrows with silver heads were shown around. The very quiver was a thing of beauty, black, with silver patterns, as leaves and curling foliage. There was a flute, sweet as birdsong, and bolts of fine cloth that Maurn had given to his wife with a smile that caused both to blush.
   But when Maurn opened the small wooden chest with a painting of the tavern at Sarn Athrad on the lid, he, and all those near gasped in wonder, for the chest was filled with bright gems. Maurn put a hand in and picked up a great red jewel, then dropped it in horror
   "They are sticky!" he sniffed his fingers suspiciously, frowned, then licked his fingers and laughed and laughed.
   "What?! What is it? What has happened?" everyone cried at once, but to their horror, Maurn put the gem in his mouth and crunched it up! Hargam almost leaped to his feet, it was as though a blast of devilry had burst in the gathering, so shocked were the clan. But Maurn held out the chest to his wife.
   "My dear, try this."
   She looked at him doubtfully, but took a green gem and cautiously licked it, then smiled at Maurn and put it in her mouth, and said awkwardly "Sweet! They are sweet!"

   Emlin, landlord of the Riversmeet Tavern, at Sarn Athrad, had been keeping an eye on the raspberry bushes. There was something in there, he could feel it, with old forgotten senses that served no purpose in the busy kitchens. On the second day it was there again, and on the third day, when two of the sons of Fëanor the Doomed rode into the village, he drew Celegorm aside.
   "It is said that you know the speech of beasts."
   Celegorm smiled "Even the beasts say that."
   Emlin raised his brows, then nodded towards the raspberry bush "In there."
   Celegorm looked from him to the bush with a frown "What is it?"
   But Emlin did not know, and gestured with a shrug. Celegorm nodded. "Let none draw near, I will watch awhile. Tell my brother not to wait, but to dine without me."

   Celegorm stood by the millpond, seemingly paying no heed to the raspberries, but still as stone he listened, and faint above the churning rush of the mill wheel he heard breathing. But this was not the fast anxious breathing of a cornered animal, rather the steady quietness of a watching elf. Celegorm smiled.
   "Will you come forth? Or must I crawl into the bushes in my finest robe?"
   The young elf rose to his feet, raspberry leaves in his red-brown hair, and gaped at Celegorm. "How did you... I kept still as a stone, how did you..."
   Celegorm grinned "Well, youngster, I was taught by Oromë himself, whom you call The Hunter. I know the speech of beasts, and the sound of elven breathing! But what are you called? I am Celegorm, son of Fëanor."
   "Fëanor? He who cursed himself?"
   Celegorm tilted his head back and looked through lowered eyelids at the youth.
   "Are you forbidden to speak to me? I know that many of your people are. Shall I fetch Emlin, the good landlord?"
   "No! No, I mean, yes, we are... we will have nothing to do with those who do the work of the Enemy. But we are forbidden to come here, so...

   But it isn’t fair! I do not wish to dwell as my people do! I wish to learn... I want to make the gemstones!"
  Celegorm looked at him in astonishment, hosts of memories marched past his mind’s eye... "Who are you?"
   But the young elf looked at him with large eyes "I am called Hargam, son of Maurn, of the Birch-leaf Clan."
   "Well, Hargam, will you enter the tavern, and meet my brother? For he is gifted in the work of the hands, far more than I, and you may make your wish known to him."
   Hargam shrank back, looking up at the tall stone house, with many chimneys, windows, balconies and carvings; even covered as it was with climbing roses, and twining honeysuckle, it was a daunting sight to one who had never before left the trees. But Celegorm smiled "Wait here a while, I shall return."

   Hargan disappeared back into the raspberries, but within moments the landlord came out into the garden carrying a table, and his people brought chairs and cloth, and laid the settings for a fine meal. Then Celegorm returned with another who resembled him, but with hair as dark as Hargam's own. Celegorm gave a low whistle and Hargam stood again, and met the sharpest eyes he had ever seen. Curufin, called The Crafty, looked at the wood-elf curiously. It was rare to even see them, they avoided fire even when they were on good terms with the elves who wielded it, but they had no words for the Fëanorians at all. The wood elf was in his thirties or forties, his skin browned by the sun, his hair burnished to redness, and his large eyes shone like the gems he would craft. About his neck he wore a leaf shaped of clouded green stone, about his waist a coarse woven kilt. There was a stone knife at his hip and a small pack over his shoulder, but otherwise he was bare, and empty-handed. 
   Curufin smiled "I am Curufin, Hargam son of Maurn. Will you sit, and eat with us, and we may speak of... gemstones."
    Hargam bowed, then looked to Celegorm, who smiled reassuringly and gestured to the chairs. Hargam took a great breath "I... gladly! I have so many questions! I... Stars shine upon this, the hour of our meeting!"

   They spoke of nothing for a time, sipping wine as Emlin brought forth bread, and soup, and laid them under the mighty chestnut trees that shaded the garden and filled the air with birdsong and the busyness of insects. Curufin watched the wood-elf, who looked in trepidation at the crusty golden loaf. He suppressed a grin and cut some slices, then bit into the fresh bread, and offered a slice to Hargam. With a slow hand the wood elf reached out, then took the slice and sniffed it.
   "What is it?"
   "It is bread, we make it from ground-up seeds of grass."
   Hargam looked at him in disbelief "This soft... this soft thing comes from seeds?"
   Celegorm laughed "Ah! The marvels of the kitchen! You cannot imagine the wonders they perform in there! Ha! No more can I! But Curufin here knows about these things, he will answer your questions."
   "But first" said Curufin "I would ask one thing of you. Tell me, Hargam, of your wish to make gemstones."
   There was a silence. Emlin, who had come out with a deep pie in his hands, paused anxiously, for when gemstones were spoken of, well, if half the tales were true... if even one of the tales...

   Hargam sighed heavily "It is not that I do not respect my father and mother, or my people... We have always had all that we needed and more! And I have been happy, living with the trees... But there are so many things, the cloth Fingolfin sent my mother, so smooth and soft, it warms my heart towards him that he could think to wrap my mother so tenderly! And this bread! Truly I am astounded that this has come from the seeds of grass! Why the very arrowheads were silver, and so beautiful..."
   Curufin smiled gently, but his eyes were cold "But you spoke of gemstones."
   Emlin came forwards, feeling oddly protective towards the wild elf, ill at ease with these notorious Noldor. Besides, he did not want trouble; despite all the tensions and even hard words, there had never been a blow struck at the Riversmeet, and he would do all in his power to keep it so. 
   But Hargam looked eagerly at Curufin "Oh yes! They were the most delicious thing I have ever tasted! I have thought of nothing else since. I came here at once, for the picture of this Inn was on the chest."

   Curufin and Celegorm looked at each other in bafflement, but Emlin put down the pie and laughed and laughed until the tears sprang to his eyes and Nesta came out to see what stirred him. Gasping for breath, he took the arm of his wife "My dear! The boy wishes to craft gemstones! Hahahahaha!" He hurried inside, as Nesta looked curiously at the baffled brothers and the puzzled wood elf. But before she could speak, Emlin was back with two chests. Hargam rose to his feet and pointed excitedly.
   "The gemstones! That... those are the very chests!"
   Emlin handed one to the youth and placed another before Curufin and opened it with a flourishing bow "Precious gemstones, made here at the Riversmeet, by my own sweet wife."
   Curufin gave a short bark of laughter, then ate one of the sweet gems. Celegorm looked uncertain for a moment, then understood that there was no threat, no threat at all. He shook his head at the proffered sweets.
   "No thankyou, I shall wait until I have eaten this pie. Mushroom and chestnut cooked in wine, with truffles, it is my favourite dish, and the reason I came here!"

   Curufin laughed, the air was easy with relief, Nesta shook her head and hurried back to see to the other guests, but Emlin stood with the cloth folded over his hands and looked down at the wood elf.
   "Would you like to stay here with us, and learn the secrets of the kitchen?"
   "I... may I really? I would like that very much! But what of these?" he held up a sweet "How in the void did these come to be? By your hands!?"
   "Well, Nesta is the one for sugar, I do not have a sweet tooth, but she loves them..."
   "Sugar? What is sugar?"
   Curufin laughed "Aye, Emlin, what is sugar?"
   Emlin looked baffled, Hargam looked intently from one face to another, but all were smiling.
   "I... wait..." Emlin darted inside and returned with a small pottery bowl with a close-fitting lid. While Hargam was marvelling at the bowl, Emlin lifted the lid.
   "This is sugar."
   "But surely that is salt! Even my people know salt, it is one of the... one of the blessèd foods... I do not know if I should speak of these things..."
   Curufin looked at him with interest "Blessèd foods, do you mean the things that must be eaten to sustain life? If you do not eat salt you will wither and die?"
   "Must be eaten, yes, the blessèd foods. But how can salt be sweet?"
   "This is not salt, this is sugar, taste it!"
   Hargam took a pinch of sugar and licked it off his finger, then leaped to his feet.
   "Blessèd food! By the void, what marvel is this? How has this salt been made sweet? How have you done this thing?"
   Curufin laughed, but Celegorm looked at him with a slight frown.
   "Yes, how do you make sugar?"

   The shed was stacked with beets, humble beets, pale and wrinkled, with leaves wilting. Emlin took a thick-bladed knife and cut the ends off a score and threw them into a basket, which he gave to Hargam, then another which he carried himself. In the large busy kitchen, he found a quiet corner and handed Hargam a knife.
   "Now then, just cut off these hairy roots, and peel away the skin, then into this pot."
   When all the beets were peeled and rinsed, Emlin got an even sharper knife.
   "Carefully now, thin as you can, slice them up."
   The thin slices floated in water, and together Emlin and Hargam lifted the great pot onto a stove.
   "Now we must wait!"

   The sons of Fëanor were taking their ease, Curufin had his eyes closed and his head thrown back, his long legs stretched out before him, hands clasped across his chest. But Celegorm was stooped over the chest, hunting among the sweets for a purple one. 
   "What flavours are they, Curufin? What are these tasty purple ones?"
   "Hm? Oh, you cannot tell, not from the colour, it could be anything. Do you not recall when father made blue sweets that were raspberry flavoured? How surprised Maedhros was!"
   "Must have been before my time I'm afraid."
   Curufin snorted, and shook his head, but did not look up. For once, however, Celegorm was in the mood for speech.
   "I like it here. Sometimes I think I'd like to stay here."
   Curufin slowly opened his eyes and looked at Celegorm, then around at the village by the ford. It was a crossroads and meeting place for all Beleriand, but no more than a few hundred elves dwelt there. Most people, Noldor, Sindar, wood elves, dwarves, even men, merely passed through on their travels. But nearly all stopped, for rest, water, food, supplies, repairs... It was a busy place, smoke rose from the chimneys of forge and hearth, and the sound of hammers, saws, axes, wheels, shouting and song rang out among the chestnut trees.
   For a moment, Curufin thought he could see what his brother meant; there was a peace amidst the bustle, everyone knowing what to do and doing it as well as they could, and seeing what they had done... It was a different world to the schemes and intrigues of Himring, or even Tirion. For a moment he wished that none of it had happened, that father had been born here, had lived in Riversmeet, and that instead of fashioning fantastical gems, he had fashioned merely delicacies to delight the children...

   He laughed then, for had not these same delicacies tempted Hargam to rebel against his own people, and leave them?

   As the sun was setting, Emlin beckoned Hargam and gave him an apron to wear, and they lifted the pot from the stove. The syrup was lumpy and cloudy, full of bits of broken beets. Hargam shook his head.
   "I cannot believe it... This will become sugar?"
   "Oh yes, but first we must strain it. Here."
   A great funnel, lined with fine cloth, had been set in another pot and Emlin nodded towards it.
   "We must pour all this, slowly, into there."
   "And then?"
   "More boiling! But this time I must watch, and you shall watch with me. The heat of the fire is important... But you know nothing of fire, do you?"
   Hargam shook his head "I feared it, we all hate it, and fear it, for it destroys the trees, and the creatures that dwell among them. We cannot bear to see them harmed."
   Emlin nodded slowly "I saw the wildfire cross the plain once, and all the creatures ran screaming before it until they fell with heat and exhaustion. It was a terrible sight, I do see why you fear it so. But we can tame the fire, and cage it in our little stove, and enjoy the warmth, and the ways it changes our food, like sweets."
    "Yes, that is the difference between our peoples. You think you have tamed the flame, but it is not... it is not the kind of creature that can be tamed. Even Celegorm cannot speak its tongue, and none can know the heart of it. For what is the will of the flame? To devour! It seeks the destruction of all that lives, even as the Enemy does, who wields it as a weapon."
   "Yet you carry a knife..."
   Hargam looked startled, his hand flew to the knife at his side, and he drew it forth. It was chipped from smooth stone, the edge sharp as glass; Hargam laid it on the table.
   "It has never shed blood."
   "No more has my stove! But you may be right, perchance we shall all perish in a flame of our own setting. But my people have gathered round the hearth for too long now to forsake it. It is not only warmth and light and the means by which we make sweets" he grinned at Hargam, who grinned back "It is woven through all that we do, all that we are. It is like a creature that chooses to live amongst us, as the hound does. Yet still, the hound is strong, with sharp teeth, and could slay an elf if provoked. But we do not fear the hound, though we respect them. So with the flame. I shall teach you the sparking and the dousing of flame, that your fear may be tamed."
   But Hargam shook his head sadly "Alas... The flame has a spirit that strives ever outwards, as water flows downhill. The flame may no more be contained than the water. Less, for the flame can fly on the smallest of wings, leaping to set new sparks, ever hungering for the least chance to spread."
   Emlin put his elbows on the table and set his chin in his hands.
   "I hope these are not Blessèd words, that you should not speak to outsiders?"
   "No, it is merely the thought of my people."

  They watched until the moon was high, as the syrup darkened and thickened, filling the now empty kitchen with a powerfully sweet scent that made Hargam crave more of the gemlike sweets. But Emlin was a renowned host, who was watching him closely, and the chest of sweets appeared as if by magic before the delighted Hargam. They talked of the life of Sarn Athrad, and Hargam told Emlin of his family, and of the wanderings he had undertaken with his people. At last Emlin rose and laid out some flat pans.
   "Now then, youngster, give me a hand, and mind, this syrup is hotter than the fire, and more dangerous, for it sticks to the flesh and keeps on burning, though there is no flame." And together they poured the thick brown syrup into the pans, spreading it, thin and even, until each pan was filled.
   "What happens now?" Hargam asked excitedly, but Emlin smiled and shook his head.
   "Now we rest, especially you! And in the morning we shall invite your family to visit here, if you are to stay, for they will wish to see you safe and well."
   Hargam gaped at him, then nodded "You are right. It would be better. I am only thirty seven, it is early to be leaving home..."
   Emlin looked thoughtfully at him "No, no, you are not leaving home, you are staying with us awhile, to learn some of our ways. But there is always room in Sarn Athrad for a keen, sharp lad like you. You have a home here now, for as long as you care to stay."

   In the morning they inspected the pans, and Emlin grinned "Now to add the fairy dust!" and he sprinkled the dark syrup with fine white sugar. Hargam looked curiously at him.
   "Will that turn it white?"
   Emlin paused and stood still, staring at the young elf.
   "White? No. No, this will be brown sugar, look." He opened another lidded pot and showed it to Hargam, who took a pinch. It was different to the white, richer, with a distinct flavour, but it was stickier, and it was not white, nor did it bear any resemblance to salt. 
   "But I wish to make white sugar, and gemstone sweets, and, and everything."
   Emlin dusted the sugar from his hands and sat down "Well, that is a pity. I had just taken to you too. Ah well. We do not make white sugar. I am a Sindar, myself, born and raised in Beleriand the fair. You need Noldor crafts, for white sugar. Indeed, I myself do not know how it is made. But you are in luck, for Curufin is called The Crafty, and after the pleasure in meeting you yesterday, I am sure he will take you to Himring to learn this, and all else that you wish."
   Hargam went white as sugar, and rose slowly to his feet "I could not..." he breathed.
   Emlin laughed "Why not? You are in the presence of the flame even now."