The Apprentice by pandemonium_213

<b>Acknowledgments and Author's Blathering</b>

Yes, it's verbose, but perhaps worth a gloss-through of a read.

Read <b>Acknowledgments and Author's Blathering</b>

All right. Here it is: my first major multi-chaptered salvo publicly tossed into the fray of Tolkien-flavored fan fiction. I'm actively writing other self-indulgent AU themed works in which the major canon character of The Apprentice has a significant role. This particular character informed me in his stentorian voice that he thought he deserved his own novella. Who am I to say no to the Dark Lord?

But first, the Acknowledgments!

I offer many thanks to JunoMagic and Dawn Felagund for beta-reading this. Juno and Dawn are the reasons I became involved with this whole crazy fan fic world in the first place. I was sucked into the vortex of no return by reading their wonderful stories. Beginning with my comments last winter on Another Man's Cage, many Songs of Power have flown back and forth across the ether between Felagund and me. Felagund is winning the contest which just goes to show that one cannot trust canon.

Thanks goes to Greywing for her constructive and characteristically humorous comments, and to Gandalf's Apprentice for her encouragement and her astute observation that my interpretation of Sauron might be somewhat similar to Milton's Lucifer in Paradise Lost. All the more reason that "pandemonium" is an appropriate handle, even if I didn't think of the Miltonian connection when I chose it. I extend many thanks to master smith Moreth for her technical sweetness and like-minded enthusiasm. Finally, thanks to my longtime friend, Nordic Berzerker, and to my son, Rampaging Frodo, for their pre-beta reads, suggestions and for their abstention from kicking me.

And now the Author's Incessant Blathering:

As with my other works in progress, which may or may not emerge from the dungeons of iBook-Angband, my re-reading of The Silmarillion after a long hiatus strongly affected my contemporary take on Tolkien. During that period of about twenty years, my favorite Oxford don changed from J.R.R. Tolkien (JRRT) to Richard Dawkins. Thus my post-modern readings of The Silmarillion and other works (Unfinished Tales, The History of Middle-earth, etc.) are colored by my experiences as longtime career scientist and skeptic. I have yammered about my current interpretation of The Silmarillion in my screed, The Tolkienian War on Science, published in the Reference Section of this site. Similarly, David Brin's essay, We Hobbits Are A Merry Folk: An Incautious and Heretical Reappraisal of J.R.R. Tolkien (see link in aforementioned screed), aligns with my current views of Tolkien. In spite of my criticisms, I still regard JRRT as a masterful storyteller and a sub-creator of the highest degree. If he were not, I would not be writing this.

Tolkien offered few details of his infamous villain, Sauron. Such a tactic effectively created a remote but very threatening presence in The Lord of the Rings. A more complete and perhaps "humanized" portrait of Sauron would have introduced ambiguity into the character and rendered him less potent. However, a more nuanced portrait of Sauron can be discerned in The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, "Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age," The Silmarillion; "The History of Galadriel and Celeborn" in Unfinished Tales; "Myths Transformed" in The History of Middle-earth (HoMe), volume X, Morgoth's Ring, as well as other notations throughout The HoMe, e.g., "The Lost Road," (vol. V), "Return of the Shadow,"(vol. VI), and "The Notion Club Papers" (vol. IX, Sauron Defeated). All of these serve as my "canonical" sources. I use quotation marks because it must be noted that most of these writings represent viewpoints of Tolkien's imaginary historians. As for my flagrant and rather heretical deviations from canon, I'll simply quote Brin:

Don't just receive your adventures. Toy with them. Re-mold them in your mind! Keep asking "What if...?"

My more humanized portrayal of Sauron -- variously known by his self-bequeathed aliases of Annatar, Artano, and Aulendil -- is that of a brilliant scientist/technologist who leveraged his considerable knowledge to gain power. Consistent with Tolkien's writings, he begins with good intentions. However, he descends into infamy due to his lust for power and the rationalization that his talents and organizational skills bring order to the world when in fact he is a ruthless control freak. This is an archetype I recognize all too well from my years of working in corporate America. Yet Sauron -- at least in his early to mid-Second Age manifestation -- strikes me as far more morally complex and even understandable than when I read JRRT's works many years ago as a young sprout.

My inspiration for Annatar/Aulendil in the form of a Noldorin man is based on my premise that he has an excellent understanding of human behavior. In the context of evolutionary biology, a "fair form" as a classically dark-haired, grey-eyed Noldo would be an effective means to win over the smiths of Eregion and insinuate himself deeply into their social structure because, to put it simply, he looks like them. This, to me, seems consistent with Sauron's penchant for working behind the scenes rather than appearing at the borders of Lindon or the gates of Ost-in-Edhil as a thinly veiled Maia with a retinue of sycophants.

I have drawn on my past experiences of my education in the sciences to create Aulendil as a thesis advisor to Sámaril, his apprentice, who is a Noldorin equivalent of an ambitious grad student. Aulendil is loosely based on one of the guys on my doctoral thesis committee. In his heyday, this professor was a larger-than-life character who held a named chair and was a member of the National Academy of Sciences. He was a formidable fellow, yet he occasionally displayed a warm side and even had a life outside of tormenting us grad students and post-docs, hard as it was for us to believe. A couple of the tales from the young men in his lab are incorporated into The Apprentice.

On the egregiously non-canonical use of Amanized Quenya in Eregion and Ost-in-Edhil: this is my personal bias, pure and simple. I have studied Latin, Spanish and Italian, and the language of Tirion has a feel that is closer to those than Sindarin does. I tend to pronounce Quenya in my head as if it is Italian (yes, my mistake). I make the self-indulgent presumption here that the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, i.e., the Otornassë Mírëtanoron, latch on to it as a language of solidarity against the more prevalent Sindar, and well, Thingol's long gone. That said, for simplicity I have stuck to Sindarin in a few cases.

As my disclaimer for the clumsy attempts at Quenya constructions, I will paraphrase a pop cultural icon: "Damn it, Jim! I'm a biochemist, not a linguist!" I welcome any corrections. I gratefully acknowledge Helge Kåre Fauskanger's Ardalambion, which was an excellent and fascinating resource for language questions when I was too lazy to flip through the pertinent sections of The History of Middle-earth.

Aulendil, one of Aulë's best grad students/post-docs gone bad, is prone to using modern scientific jargon. Google will help translate, but I am happy to interpret on his behalf if required. As to how he knows these modernisms, in addition to non-scientific ones, I tend to think that the Maiar and the Valar's flow of time, their sense of dimensions and even their universe(s) are far more complex than simply Arda. There's more than a hint of science fiction in this story, so for that reason and others, I classify it as AU. That's what comes of my reading way too much of the genre in my misspent youth. I figure if JRRT can write stories about "scientifiction" as he called it ("The Lost Road," "The Notion Club Papers"), I'm allowed the indulgence.

All fractal images are from Sven Geier's (Cal Tech) Fractal Bargain Bin.

Finally, The Apprentice was just a working title for this piece when I started writing it until I decided I liked the goofy pop cultural reference. However, my dark muse advises me that he will fry anyone who dares to compare him to Donald "World's Worst Comb-over" Trump.

<b><i>Chapter 1: Indistinguishable from Magic</i></b>

Read <b><i>Chapter 1: Indistinguishable from Magic</i></b>

"Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age" The Silmarillion, J.R.R. Tolkien, Houghton Mifflin Company, First American Edition, 1977, p. 286-287.

Seeing the desolation of the world, Sauron said in his heart that the Valar, having overthrown Morgoth, had again forgotten Middle-earth; and his pride grew apace. He looked with hatred on the Eldar and he feared the Men of Numenor who came back at whiles in their ships to the shores of Middle-earth; but for long he dissembled his mind and concealed the dark designs that he shaped in his heart.

Men he found the easiest to sway of all the peoples of the Earth; but long he sought to persuade the Elves to his service, for he knew that the Firstborn had the greater power; and he went far and wide among them, and his hue was still that of one both fair and wise. Only to Lindon he did not come, for Gil-galad and Elrond doubted him and his fair-seeming, and though they knew not who in truth he was they would not admit him that land. But elsewhere the Elves received him gladly, and few among them hearkened to the messengers from Lindon bidding them beware; for Sauron took to himself the name of Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, and they had at first much profit from his friendship. And he said to them: "Alas, for the weakness of the great! For a mighty king is Gil-galad, and wise in all lore is Master Elrond, and yet they will not aid me in my labours. Can it be that they do not desire to see other lands become as blissful as their own? But wherefore should Middle-earth remain forever desolate and dark, whereas the Elves could make it as fair as Eressea, nay even as Valinor? And since you have not returned thither, as you might, I perceive-that you love this Middle-earth, as do I. Is it not then our task to labour together for its enrichment, and for the raising of all the Elven-kindreds that wander here untaught to the height of power and knowledge which those have who are beyond the sea?"

It was in Eregion that the counsels of Sauron were most gladly received, for in that land the Noldor desired ever to increase the skill and subtlety of their works. Moreover they were not at peace in their hearts, since they had refused to return into the West, and they desired both to stay in Middle-earth, which indeed they loved, and yet to enjoy the bliss of those that had departed. Therefore, they hearkened to Sauron, and they learned of him many things, for his knowledge was great. In those days the smiths of Ost-in-Edhil surpassed all that they had contrived before; and they took thought, and they made Rings of power. But Sauron guided their labours, and he was aware of all that they did; for his desire was to set a bond upon the Elves and to bring them under his vigilance.

~*~

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."
- Arthur C. Clarke "Profiles of The Future", 1961 (Clarke's third law).

~*~

Somewhere east of Lindon, ca. 1200, Second Age.

The stallion snorted and stamped his hooves as the man approached him with the headstall. The man and the horse had only recently become acquainted, and both were uneasy with one another. The carbon-black beast was a magnificent animal, swift yet large enough to accommodate the man's height. Determined to win over the stallion, it was a matter of pride for him to avoid using a bit on the animal. When he reached for the horse's head to steady him, the animal curled his lips back, exposing his formidable teeth, and prepared to bite the man.

Control him. Break him.

No, be gentle. Persuade him. Show him affection.

The latter tack won over quickly since cajoling was to be his modus operandi. The man crooned to the horse with a low melodious voice, using the old language from Tirion, the speech with the rolling vowels that flowed like song, which appealed to him deeply. Given his destination, he made a point of using the pronunciation of the phoneme that indicated allegiance to the long dead but still influential patriarch of that diminished clan. The horse calmed as the man continued to speak softly and stroked the beast's muscular neck. He slipped the headstall over the horse's head, and then placed the light blanket and saddle over the animal. Soon he was on his way east and away from the borders of Lindon.

As he rode, he took inventory of his body, still unaccustomed to this form. He had only recently re-shaped himself, sequestered in a chamber of cyclopean caverns beneath the rising tower. There he had been protected during the vulnerable period of intense metamorphosis. Although he had previously worked his wiles among Men and Elves in other fair guises, he wished to bring the powerful Noldor under his influence. He gave considerable thought to human behavior. He knew that both Men and Elves were most comfortable with those who resembled themselves so he had crafted a shape like theirs.

He had reached deep within and twisted his molecular structure, an adaptation that had evolved in his species on a long forgotten world with a harsh, ever-changing environment. The Guardians of Arda had further enhanced his kindred's ability to change form, finding this useful in his folk, now servants of the Guardians.

He had selected the tiny elements that sparked among the twisting strands churning deep within his cells and prodded the protein machinery required for the re-sculpting of his form. Making subtle tweaks in this gene and that one, he fashioned his native foundation of twenty-three pairs of chromosomes into the patterns consistent with this world's humans. Then he had assembled the protein complex to bind to the master switch that orchestrated the interplay of biochemical systems peculiar to the Elves, resulting in their distinction as a sub-type of this world's humans. It was a minute genetic event that created the Elves' profound differences from their mortal kindred.

He had focused on each corporeal manifestation from the atomic to the molecular to the cellular to the organismal, from his skull to his toes to his liver to his fingernails. Like the humans of this world, the Maiar were most often female or male or, if they chose, aspects of both. Thus potent androgens shaped his bones, muscles and genitals, even to the extent of producing functional and genetically sound gametes. Every detail had to be ordered, perfect and believable.

When he had finished the transformation, he lay exhausted and had slept. Desperately thirsty when he awoke, he had gulped down water, the foundation of all biochemical reactions, and what he so craved after rearranging his molecular structure.

Thirst slaked, he had examined himself: tall, not inhumanly so, yet still imposing; long fingers on large powerful hands; muscular chest, shoulders and arms required for labor in the forges; smooth hairless skin except for coarse hair in the axillary and pubic junctures as appropriate to this race.

He had looked in a mirror then, and his reflection confirmed his goal as the face of a Noldorin man gazed back at him. His facial features were highly symmetrical, a distinctive Elvish characteristic that conferred that people's great beauty, but neither were his features absolute perfection because he did not wish to be uncanny. Handsome. Yes, that was enough. Silky-thick dark hair grazed his waist; he knew that copious, lustrous hair was a desirable trait — a sign of vigor and health — among these people. His eyes pleased him with their pale gray irises ringed with dark-soot borders. He had deliberately crafted his ocular genes to yield proteins that refracted silver-sheened light, reminiscent of mithril, a rare metal that the Elven-smiths coveted. Something of a subliminal message, he thought with amusement.

The entirety of the process had been much more challenging than morphing into a beast of horror, because those were mere cloaks. This was a more complete and exacting transformation. The new form's appearance would reach deep into the brains of the Noldor and trigger ancient neural recognition patterns: he is one of our own, part of our tribe, a member of our troop. It was a form to put the Noldor at ease, to encourage familiarity and to allow him to insinuate himself into their social structure.

More difficult than the transformation of his body was the dissociation of his mind so that his darkest thoughts and designs were contained and separated from the rest. The Eldar were perceptive. He wanted them to see a persuasive, charismatic personality with deep knowledge, even kindness and affection, and not their hated enemy. His personality already had a tripartite quality. Long ago, he had compartmentalized his thoughts to best be able to serve his master effectively and survive the cognitive dissonance his servitude initially engendered. For the task at hand, he required even more profound demarcations among his three aspects.

He had excised his darkest self, he who had long served his master, he who lay hidden deep in destroyed Angband and waited for his master's return. He extracted the tentacles of his pathological aspect that had driven Felagund from the island and claimed it as his own and who had been humiliated by that half-Maiarin witch who reclaimed it in turn. Then he carved out the bright personality -- the creative one -- who sang in harmony at the beginning and who toiled with Aulë, his beloved former mentor who vainly tried to protect him from the master's influence. Overseeing all was the cool, calculating mind, full of cunning and wisdom, who served as the governor of all his thoughts: the mediator between the dark and the light, and detached from emotion. The detached mind brought the bright one to the fore and placed the dark aspect in a cerebral vault where it rested, diminished and hidden.

In spite of the painstaking craft that he had applied to his mind and body, his overtures to Ereinion and Elrond had been rebuffed. Their initial interactions with him were cordial, friendly even, but in the end, after years of war and hardship, neither was inclined to trust this unknown being in Eldarin form who claimed to be an emissary from the Valar. In particular, Elrond became suspicious. The perelda had managed to turn the King's mind against him in spite of his efforts to win them over to his designs. This rejection, although disappointing, was not altogether surprising. It did not put an end to his plans for he knew of another population of the Eldar who would be far more willing to accommodate him. His inquiry had been met with great enthusiasm, and the Noldor of the city near the foothills of the mineral-rich mountains had invited him to join them in their work.

~*~

He spoke softly to the animal, and the stallion broke into a canter. The wind of early spring, the bite of winter still lingering in it, rippled across his face and neck and sent his loose hair streaming behind him. As the muscles of his thighs contracted and released, he marveled at their strength and coordination. He turned his eyes to a kestrel circling in the eastern sky. He noted the subtle patterns under its wings and tail feathers, a testament to the keen sight of this Noldorin form. He thrilled to a slight pang of hunger, reminding him how much he enjoyed the gustatory sensations of wine, fruits, roasted meats and even simple bread.

He was exhilarated.

I wish to remain this way. This is natural; this fits my original template.

The darkness hissed, distant and angry. The wise presence was measured:

As long as it suits my needs, then I will remain in this form, but do not become overly attached to it.

He ignored his internal dialogue, and he began to sing as he had sung eons ago in the Chorus. He thought that he ought to sing the music of the Elves as consistent with his appearance, but he could not bring himself to sing the tiresome lays of the Noldor, many of whom now wallowed in abject misery and regret. He had no use for the insipid music of the Teleri. The Vanyarin hymns to the Valar, far removed from Middle-earth and unconcerned as to its fate, repulsed him with their misguided faith. The culture, if it could be called that, of the Dark Elves was beyond his regard at the present.

With his rich baritone voice, which would later be described variously as mellifluous, commanding and sepulchral, he sang of what he knew: galaxies spiraling in the far reaches of universe, the sun's plasma flaring into its corona, the deep oceans and tides of his adopted world, the tectonic clashes of the plates of the earth, and the weaving together of gold and silver, seamlessly translating his Valarin mother tongue into the musical Elven language. He pressed his left heel ever so slightly against the animal's side, twitched the reins just so, and he rode toward Eregion.

<b><i>Chapter 2: The Interview</i></b>

A short list of primary characters and a glossary may be found in the End Notes of this chapter.

Read <b><i>Chapter 2: The Interview</i></b>

Ost-in-Edhil, Eregion ca. 1490 and onward, Second Age

Throbbing pain above my brows awakens me at dawn. My mouth tastes no better than the shit strewn by the rooster that I hear welcoming the sun from somewhere within the city walls. I wonder how much I had to drink last night - apparently more than I should have. Istyar Aulendil had uncorked bottle after bottle of red wine, the serce valaron, which we guzzled as we celebrated Ferenwë's graduation from journeyman to master. I lost track after several glasses. The Istyar hosted the party at his comfortable row house as he so often does for these occasions. It was a warm evening, so we all sat out at the chestnut-wood and slate table on the stone terrace that faces West and overlooks the hills along the Glanduin River.

Sixteen of us toasted Ferenwë last night: the two grand men - Aulendil and Tyelperinquar - of the House of the Mírëtanor, and their respective journeymen, the apprentices and us lowly assistants. I'm not sure when I arrived home. I vaguely recall weaving along the cobblestone streets under the dim blue light of the street lamps, my arm thrown over Teretion's shoulders, as we made our way to our homes.

Both Istyari were amusing, but my master - Aulendil - was in fine form. He regaled us with his trademark sardonic humor. We writhed in sycophantic stitches, all of us laughing louder than we needed to because of our adulation - because he is, after all, The Istyar. He sang, his dulcet baritone made a little furry by all the wine. We all howled at the ribald innuendo in the old smiths' drinking songs from Aman. Istyar Tyelperinquar tried to keep up, but it was a challenge for him. He is a talented man, too, but he is not The Istyar.

Now my bladder will no longer will be ignored. I swear the damn thing is the size of a culuma. I sit up, and my head spins, but I lurch to the lavatory, uncover the chamber pot, and take aim seriously since my mother will be appalled if I miss. Releasing a satisfied groan as the pressure is relieved, I flick myself dry, managing to catch every drop in the chamber pot, quite an accomplishment in my addled state. I replace the lid and pour water into the basin to wash my hands and face.

After I splash the tepid water on my face, I look in the mirror. My hair hangs like torn curtains. It is badly in need of washing, but I have no time to go to the baths this morning. My eyes are reddened from so little sleep, and the hints of dark circles smudge the skin beneath them. I have been studying diligently and cramming as much as possible into my brain these past several weeks, and last night's indulgence only added to my sleep deprivation.

With Ferenwë's graduation, a journeyman's slot will open for an apprentice to be selected for the position. Subsequently, an assistant will advance to an apprenticeship under Istyar Aulendil's tutelage. I hope to fill the apprentice's position. "I hope to." What an understatement. No, I am living for it. I am not the only one though. My fellow assistants, Teretion included, are vying for the same opening. Advancement in our discipline is competitive, and everyone knows of the Istyar's selectivity.

I fell asleep in my clothes so I strip and give my armpits and crotch a perfunctory wash. It's an exercise in futility since the forges will be scorching today in the early summer heat. After drying quickly, I dig around in my small armoire and find a pair of well-worn breeches and a light shirt, the latter of which I will just pull off once I enter the forge. Still, my mother will not tolerate me sitting at the kitchen table shirtless. I yank my brush through my hair, which should reach my waist in another month's time, I would think. We are all aping the Istyar's waist-length style. Like him, we bunch up our hair to the napes of our necks and wrap it with long strips of leather when we work in the forges. So I secure my greasy and unruly hair now.

Pain jolts to the top of my skull as I trot down the stone stairs. My father sits at the kitchen table, and my mother stands behind him, plaiting his hair in haste before he rushes off to the latest job site. He is the senior master in the Guild of Stone and oversees the new construction in the Guild of the Vine's quarters at the north face of the city. The thriving vineyards have increased the need for more thick-walled cellars and storage chambers so his masons are hard at work.

I pour myself a mug of hot tea and sit beside him. He stares at me, his slate-blue eyes squinting with mild parental annoyance.

"When did you get home last night? Or should I say, this morning?"

"Good morning to you, too, Atar. I don't know. Sometime before dawn."

"You're burning your candle at both ends, boy. You'll need to have your brain sharpened with some rest if you're fortunate enough to be interviewed by the Istyar."

"I'll manage, Atar. None of us sleep all that much." I burn my tongue on the hot liquid in my desperation to get a stimulant into my system. After just three gulps of the tea, I feel my headache receding. I fill my plate with a piece of oat bread, a bunch of grapes, and a sizeable chunk of sheep's milk cheese. I tuck into my breakfast with vigor.

"Sámaril, you're inhaling your food," my mother admonishes as she finishes weaving the ends of my father's plait.

"Sorry, Amil. I need to get to the forges."

"Well, it's not good for your digestion."

My pestering little wren of a sister has arrived for breakfast and is eager to get in her digs one way or another. This morning she takes aim at my lean physique.

"He'll stay skinny no matter what."

I roll my eyes but otherwise ignore her. I clear my plate and mug from the table, and complete my morning's chores. After I kiss my mother and father goodbye for the day, I ruffle my little sister's hair, and she mock-slaps at me. She may be an acute pain in my buttocks, but I love her anyway.

"When do you think he will interview you?" my father asks as I am nearly out the door.

"Ai, Atar! Ferenwë only graduated a day ago! It may be some time yet before the Istyar begins his selection."

"I can only hope you're ready." My father has high expectations, and he has layered some of his own ambitions onto me. My acceptance as the Istyar's apprentice would certainly give him bragging rights among his fellow masons in the Guild of Stone. For a people who place such high value on scientific and technological knowledge, this apprenticeship is not insignificant.

"I believe I am. Don't worry about me."

My father smiles, and it is a rare smile that lights his face, a handsome face that has seen too much pain. "Very well. I won't worry about you. And Sámaril?"

"Yes, Atar?"

"That lisped pronunciation. It sounds affected."

I sigh. Thanks to old King Thingol's antiquated edict, Sindarin is the predominant language of Elves in Middle-earth, but Quenya has been reinvigorated amongst the Noldor of Eregion. We speak nothing but Quenya in the smithies, and for that matter, this is my mother tongue at home. The Guild of Smiths, again aping its two most prominent masters, has taken this to yet another level by eschewing the more common sibilant sound of 's' in favor of the voiced fricative. Both Istyari favor this archaic pronunciation, particularly Istyar Tyelperinquar, who descends from that famous clan.

"That is how we speak in the forges, Atar. I will see you all later!" I scratch at my scalp as I take my leave.

"Don't forget to stop at the baths this evening, dear!" my mother calls as I step out the door.

My parents are fussy and worry excessively about my sister and me. I understand why now that I am older and know more of their history. They are refugees from Ondolindë - Gondolin - and have been through hell to arrive in this peaceful city, which has embraced the culture of our people. They were married long before they produced my sister and me, my mother giving birth to us only after they settled here. I also know that my father followed the old High King, Nolofinwë, across the Helcaraxë, so he has seen far too much death in his long life. Hence, he tends to be dour, she tends to be nervous, but I know they mean well.

The towers of the city are just now turning vermilion from the rising Sun. The House of the Mírëtanor is sited at a high level in the city, so that the prevailing winds can be directed by huge ducts to drive the furnaces. I arrive at the massive doors, which shine with gold, bronze and silver plating and inlaid gemstones, but they are wide open now, obscuring part of their intimidating beauty. The masters and junior members of the Otornassë Mírëtanoron climb the roughened black granite stairs before the doors, and pour into the building as we ready to start our labors. I make my way through the hallways and up stairs, past the well-lit workshops and laboratories, and enter the dimness of the forge itself.

The forge reverberates with the sharp strikes of hammer on steel. The acrid odor of smoldering coals combined with hot metal permeates the air. In spite of knocking back liter after liter of serce valaron last night, the Istyari each stand at an anvil, pounding out blades. Evidently they have been at this for some time since this is the way they warm up for more exacting work. Although each excels in fine work with jewels, crystals and exquisitely small gears, the Istyari are also talented in the more robust crafting of weapons, armor and tools.

Istyar Aulendil also has knowledge of methods that far exceed those familiar to us in Middle-earth but apparently are commonplace in Aman. He has helped us perfect innovative alloys. He has guided us in making the lamps - glowing with cool blue light - that light our streets and homes. He has ground and polished the crystals that allow us to see with precision the very distant or the very small. He has shared his expertise in chemistry, which in turn has been applied to advancements in both metallurgy and medicine. He is sought after as a mentor because of his deep and expansive knowledge. That is why I have been studying so hard - to pass the exam to become his apprentice and learn these mysterious arts from him.

The Istyari look as though they could be brothers or at least near relatives. They are tall men, made muscular by their work. Both have the classic Noldorin features of dark hair and gray eyes although Istyar Aulendil's thick hair is longer, and the irises of his eyes have an almost metallic cast like mithril. He rarely wears the traditional smith's leather apron and most often works in the forges clad only in breeches and smith's heavy boots. The sparks and flames have little effect on Istyar Aulendil, and we have even seen him handle hot metal with his bare hands. "Like Fëanáro..." the smiths whisper with awe.

Like that legendary smith, the Istyar studied intensively with Aulë and was even considered a prodigy. He has been sent to us as an emissary of the Valar. His mission is to aid the Noldor with our recovery from the Wars of Beleriand. He came to us over two hundred years ago as Annatar, but we in the House of the Mírëtanor call him Istyar Aulendil, a nod to his close ties with the Vala who is our patron.

His background is somewhat mysterious. He was one of the Aulënossë, he says, and was born in Tirion after the Flight of the Noldor. Istyar Tyelperinquar admires him greatly. It is clear to all that he feels a strong kinship with Aulendil as if Fëanáro himself has been reincarnated and sent back to Middle-earth to teach Tyelperinquar, his grandson. Indeed, the Istyar's relationship with his chief protégé has a familial quality.

I grab two pellet buckets and go off to gather charcoal for the two great men, knowing that they will burn through piles of it during the course of a morning's work. I nearly run into Teretion, who still looks bleary from last night.

"Has he said anything? Made any announcements?" I ask him.

Teretion rolls his still-red eyes and sneers. "Your ambition couldn't be more obvious, Sámaril. Calm down. He'll summon us when he's good and ready."

I admit it. I am ambitious and ravenous for more knowledge. Truth be told, I am proud of my intellectual acumen and maybe a little arrogant about it, too. Well, maybe a lot arrogant. That is why I am so focused on working with the Istyar. Other masters in the House of the Mírëtanor possess profound intelligence and considerable skill, but they do not have the cachet of the Istyar. Graduating from his tutelage confers a premium pedigree and commands respect. That is what I want. Respect. Recognition.

Filling the buckets as full as I can, I heft them back to the furnaces where the Istyari labor. I set one down by each man. Istyar Aulendil pauses for a moment. He wipes the sweat that runs past the headband he has tied around his forehead. This is saturated within an hour of his work. He rubs his eyes then looks at me and smiles brightly, exposing his straight white teeth, a beautiful smile.

"Well, Sámaril, you look none the worse for wear this morning. I'm impressed!"

I smile in return. "Thank you, Istyar. I'm resilient, I guess. I had a good time last night, sir, and thank you again for inviting me."

"There's nothing like hard work followed by wine to forge camaraderie. You lads were plenty entertaining, too." He readies to remove the carbon-steel blade from the forge, and I start to walk away. Then I hear him call to me.

"Sámaril. Please come to my office at the mid-afternoon break."

Then he thrusts the blade into the brine, steam billowing. After he removes the blade and sets it aside, he wipes his large long-fingered hands on his breeches and moves on to his next task.

"Yes, sir." It is a simple answer that belies the thrills of anticipation, nervousness and sheer terror that course through me.

~*~

I wait outside the Istyar's office at the time he indicated. I dare not go into his office alone, but I can see the afternoon light streaming through the western window where it falls on his desk with its neatly stacked papers, tightly rolled scrolls, and silver-nibbed pens lined in order of length. Volumes of books are arranged by subject on shelves and placed so their spines line up perfectly.

I don't wait long before he strides down the hallway, smiles and gestures for me to go into his office first. He follows me, tells me to take a seat in one of the two simple but elegant birchwood chairs in front of his desk and shuts the door. He reaches for his dark charcoal-colored scholar's robe that hang on a brass hook. Dripping with sweat, he shrugs his shoulders into the wool robe and immediately starts picking at the fabric, trying to disengage it from his skin where it is sticking.

"Oh, to Námo with it!" He takes off the robes and hangs the garment on the hook again. "You can stand to speak with me without the benefit of my scholar's garb, can't you?"

I nod in the affirmative.

"Thank Manwë for small blessings. It's too bloody humid to be donning wool today."

He opens the heavy multi-paned window in one fluid motion, and then seats himself in the carved oaken chair behind his equally ornate desk. The Sun lights him from behind, casting steel-blue highlights in his hair. He leans back in the chair and links his hands behind his head, exposing the coarse black hair under his arms as he sits shirtless and relaxed at his desk, which is just as much his domain as the smithies. In the close space, any other of the masters would be rank with their bodies' odor by this time of the day and in desperate need of the baths, but the Istyar is not. His essential scent is that of the air after a lightning strike: charged, slightly metallic, and energized to a higher state. Even so, he is fastidiously clean and relishes the steamy heat of the caldarium; he visits the baths often where he washes out the soot and fumes of the forge from his body and thick hair like the rest of us do.

"So, Sámaril. As you know, I have an apprentice's spot opening up, and I think I assume correctly that you might be interested in it."

"Yes, sir. That is correct."

"Well, then. I have some questions for you..." and the grueling interview begins.

"Determine the eutectic point of an iron-mithril alloy." He nods toward the slab of smooth slate framed in oak that hangs on the far wall and hands a piece of chalk to me.

This isn't so hard. I derive the simultaneous equations and arrive at the answer quickly, sketching out the phase diagram. I am rather proud of my acuity, and I expect him to be impressed. When I turn from the slate board, feeling accomplished, my pride is deflated when I see that he maintains a singularly unimpressed expression.

"That's correct. Now do the same for a gold and silver alloy."

I hesitate. "Uh, I can't, sir."

"And why not?"

"Because a gold-silver alloy has no eutectic point."

The barest hint of a smile flickers. "That's right, Sámaril. Now describe the effects of temperature differentials on microaggregation states in iron-carbon steel."

My confidence is buoyed by his nearly imperceptible response to the tricky gold-silver question. He continues to grill me on metallurgy. I answer all his questions perfectly and sit down again, self-assured and less tense.

But then, his questioning takes an unexpected direction.

"Describe the three sub-species of athelas, their current distribution in Eriador, and their rank order of therapeutic potency."

Biology? He's asking me questions about biology? Why does a smith need to know anything about biology? I scratch behind my right ear, a nervous tic when I have some thinking to do, since I have not studied this subject in depth in preparation for this interview.

I reach back into my memory and find those conversations I have had with my mother, who was a healer and expert in medicinal herb lore when she lived in Gondolin, a path that she abandoned when she and Atar moved here, where she threw herself into weaving and then childrearing. So I improvise and answer the question as best I can. He is satisfied with the answer - not impressed - but satisfied. A trickle of sweat drips down my back.

He cocks his left brow at my answer to the means of differentiating Draco ignis borealis from Draco ignis australis.

"That's barely adequate. You're winging this, aren't you, Sámaril?"

He slowly peels a layer of my intellectual ability away to expose my less-than-complete knowledge in biology.

"Oh, no, sir. I have actually studied a...a fair amount of biology." That is more or less true as the statement is couched.

"If that is the case, let's move on to the most complex of sentient life. Tell me what you know of the culturally and biologically derived behaviors of humans."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk, clasps his hands together, and fixes me with a chilly gaze from those mithril eyes. I am a mouse frozen by the snake's stare.

I swallow hard as another layer is stripped away, exposing that I am not as scholarly as I thought. I respond with a question of my own.

"'Humans?' Do you mean the Followers, Istyar?"

He keeps my eyes locked in his, the snake now fixing the mouse within striking distance, as if he skims the surface of my thought processes.

"Yes, but I mean your - our - kindred, too. Do you not understand that the Firstborn and the Followers are the same species? There may be profound differences between our mortal brethren and us, but the underlying mechanism which gives rise to those differences is subtle beyond your understanding. But never mind that. Tell me how the two kindred compare and contrast in behaviors of chronobiology."

A shiver of anxiety races down my spine along with more sweat. How should I answer this? Should I take the same tack as the rest of the biology questions? Here is a subject that I cannot confidently address as I can materials science or improvise as I did with my answers to his questions regarding athelas and fire-drakes. At age forty-eight, I am young. I have yet to really talk to a mortal Man in depth nor have I bothered to read any scholarly work on the subject.

My anxiety heightens to the point where my hands tremble. I finally respond, and the waves of nervousness cease. They are replaced by resignation because I realize he will see right through me and strip my layers to the core if I am not forthcoming.

"I am sorry, sir, but I honestly cannot answer that. I have no real knowledge of Mankind."

Straightening in the chair, I attempt to disguise my mortification. He regards me silently. A soft breeze puffs through the windows, stirs his hair and ruffles a pile of papers on his desk, which he immediately re-orders neatly. He turns his full attention back to me. I discipline myself to remain composed and not squirm under his intense regard.

Finally, he speaks, his eyebrow arched again, but with a slightly softened and thoughtful expression. "At least you have the good sense to admit you have much more to learn. Otherwise, why should I bother to teach any of you? That will be all, Sámaril."

So I am dismissed with this ambiguous comment. I return to my work in the forges, sweeping, running errands for the masters and journeymen, and otherwise performing my duties as the Istyar's assistant, trying to keep myself distracted with my work so that I do not obsess over the interview. It's impossible for me to focus since I replay the conversation with the Istyar in my head and criticize every nuance and detail of my answers, wincing at my responses and doubting myself. It doesn't help that I notice the absence of my fellow assistants, and I know they are ensconced in the Istyar's office, similarly being roasted over the fires of his questioning.

It is late afternoon, not long before we leave to dine for the evening, although many of the apprentices and journeymen will return to work on their projects well into the night. I have cleaned the black soapstone benches in the Istyar's laboratory, and I'm in the process of making a new solution of dilute acid used to treat alloys when someone walks into the spacious room. It is Istyar Aulendil.

"Sámaril, you'll start work tomorrow morning as my apprentice. I have a particular project in mind for you so you may as well get started quickly."

"Yé! Almië!"

The whoop of victory escapes before I can contain it. The Istyar regards me coolly, his eyebrow arched again. Then I feel my face flush. I am embarrassed by my unseemly outburst, but I try to recover.

"Thank you, Istyar! Yes, I will be ready."

He stands before me with his arms crossed, a stern commanding presence, but then corners of his mouth twitch with a suppressed grin, which breaks into a full smile.

"I expect you will be. Finish up here and meet us at the steps. Your fellow apprentices, my journeymen and I are headed for the baths, and I daresay that your mother will be happy if you arrive at home clean for once."

He strides away. Once I hear his steps clattering down and off the stairs that lead to the first level of the House, I hoot again, dancing around the lab, and leap a couple of times for good measure, no doubt assuring the pair of journeymen who pass in the hall that I have lost my mind with giddiness.

---

Chapter End Notes

The primary characters:

Sámaril: Aulendil's apprentice/journeyman; his name translates as "brilliant mind."

The Istyar: Aulendil/Annatar/Sauron. You'll also see another name used once; that's a hint of the AU that reveals itself on occasion throughout the story.

The other Istyar: Tyelperinquar (Q.) = Celebrimbor (S.)

Glossary:

(Q. = Quenya; S = Sindarin)

I have indicated my own bumbling constructions by der. = derived.

Istyar (Q.): scholar = Professor

Serce valaron (der. Q.): blood of the gods. The non-canonical grape that is the source of this red wine of Eregion may very well be the ancestor of sangiovese, the "blood of Jove" which is used to produce Chiantis and Brunellos. I have used the genitive to denote origin since the implications of the possessive are, well, rather icky.

Culuma (Q.) = orange (fruit)

Atar (Q.) - Father
Amil (Q.) - Mother

Mírëtanor (der. Q.): jewel-smiths.

Otornassë Mírëtanoron (der. Q.): ~ Gwaith-i-Mirdain (S.); Brotherhood/Guild of the Jewel-smiths. "Otornassë" as "sworn brotherhood" makes sense to me. Again, based on Tolkien's writings in The War of the Jewels, this construction seems appropriate.

Aulënossë (Q.) Those Noldor who remained in Aman after the rebellion and exodus.

Draco ignis: The Latin equivalent of the formal Quenya taxonomic classification (and you know there must be such among the Noldor) of the fire-drake. Borealis is "northern" and australis is "southern." Also, caldarium, Latin for the hot water baths of Roman bath complexes, is used, and presumably has Quenya and Sindarin equivalents. In the pandemoniverse, Ost-in-Edhil has some qualities reminiscent of an ancient Roman city.

Yé! Almië! (der. Q.): Lo! Good fortune! Otherwise known as "Booyah!"

Eutectic point: See the summary of eutectics and the definition of the eutectic point (sits at the boundary of the liquid and solid phase of a eutectic mixture) here in Wikipedia. A eutectic mixture consists of components in a proportion that yield a minimum melting point and will crystallize simultaneously in the phase change from liquid to solid. Certain alloys are derived from such eutectic mixtures. I am no metallurgist, but I really liked physical chemistry so I hope you can forgive me if I geek out over this. I expect both Sámaril and Aulendil know far more about eutectic mixtures than I do.

On "science and technology:" These are direct translations of nolwë and curwë. See The History of Middle-earth, vol. XII, "The Shibboleth of Fëanor."

Note on the years presented in this story: Dates may not be precise. JRRT's chronology of the Second Age had some fluidity. So does mine.

<b><i>Chapter 3: Elementary Psychokinetic Materials Science</b></i>

Read <b><i>Chapter 3: Elementary Psychokinetic Materials Science</b></i>

"Nails?"

"Yes, nails. Why? Is this task beneath you, Sámaril?" The Istyar's tone is drenched with condescension.

"No, not at all. I just thought..."

"You must start with simple work. Your knowledge is impressive, especially for such a young man, but there's a huge difference between acquiring theory as opposed to applying it."

So nails it is.

Dejected, I melt the common iron ore, cast the banality that is a nail, and proceed with its shaping. I assumed that I would begin work on more technical projects, such as an elementary machine with gears, or perhaps something decorative like an arm cuff or a torc, or even a knife blade, but no. Nails. I, Sámaril, one of the most knowledgeable of the junior apprentices in the House of the Mírëtanor, am crafting nails. I spend a month working on them.

The Istyar examines them not only for strength but also aesthetics. He holds the latest iron nail between his thumb and forefinger, turns it over and over, and hands it to back to me, his frown transmitting unambiguous dissatisfaction with my work.

"You are Noldorin, Sámaril. If you wish to join the Guild of Smiths, you must aim toward both solid function and graceful form. Even the most mundane tools must have a pleasing quality. My cat could do a better job than this."

Disciplining myself to focus on my work in spite of my discouragement, I worry that the other apprentices will surpass me as I linger on such trivial hunks of iron. After weeks of effort, I create a series of well-formed and functional nails that I present to my teacher for his review.

After examining each nail, he hands the last to me.

"These are adequate. You may advance to crafting hoe blades."

"Hoe blades?" After my master pins me with a silver-gimlet glare, I agree heartily. "Yes, yes, of course, hoe blades. I will get started right away, sir."

Another mundane tool. I am convinced I will never make anything truly great, nothing of real meaning that will contribute to our world. Yet that afternoon, I hammer out the iron on an anvil.

The Istyar assures me, in no uncertain terms, that hoes are important.

"Gardens grow better without weeds, and so our gardeners need these. You must draw out the edge a bit more there."

I repeat the same process with the hoe blades as the nails: multiple attempts followed by assessments and rejection by my mentor. From his comments, I conclude that his cat must be a talented smith. Finally, a hoe blade, subjected to his keen scrutiny, is deemed "adequate." I am eager to begin work on something exciting, like intricate machine gears or gold finery. The Istyar informs me I will next forge ploughshares.

"Our food has to come from somewhere, Sámaril. You are civilized. You dine on bread from our wheat, and you do not break your teeth on acorns like the barbaric Silvans. Your ploughshares should be balanced and graceful like a golden torc that circles a Noldorin lord's neck."

I sigh with resignation. Yet another rustic tool. He catches my thoughts.

"Well, Sámaril, if the path to becoming a master smith is too much for you, I am sure I can find someone who is eager to take your place."

Suddenly motivated, I devote myself to crafting any implement, no matter how mundane and hammer out ploughshares of carbon steel. This time, it only takes a few attempts before he deems the ploughshares "adequate."

Toward the end of my first stage as the Istyar's apprentice, I am expectant. Since I have almost mastered the basics that a young smith must learn, I am eager to move on, and I wonder what the Istyar might have in mind for me. During the second stage of training, the apprentice begins work on a specific project. When completed, he demonstrates the capabilities of his artefacts and defends the methodology used in crafting these. If this passes the scrutiny of the masters' committee, the apprentice advances to journeyman and is given another major project to tackle. The journeyman's project is considerably more complex and innovative approaches count for a lot. Then the journeyman must pass the rigorous and dreadful initiation rites to join the Otornassë Mírëtanoron, a ritual that every journeyman fears.

~*~

On a late spring morning, the Istyar beckons to Axocáro -- an apprentice who has been part of the Istyar's group for some time -- and me.

"Time for a field trip, lads!"

It's a fine day with a clear blue sky and a light breeze from the southwest. Axocáro and I are both on the tall side for boys our age, but we have to almost trot to keep up with the Istyar's purposeful strides as we walk down the city's main street. All recognize the Istyar, who waves and greets fellow citizens with his radiant smile. I'm proud to be seen with him as one of his apprentices.

We walk outside the city gates, follow the road for about a kilometer and turn off onto a dirt path that leads to the patchwork of garden plots. A number of women are picking spring vegetables and hoeing weeds out of the earth. Again, the Istyar is greeted with smiles. Most of the women allow their gazes to linger on him, which is not surprising since he is a handsome man whose work in the forges has contributed to a muscular and notably masculine shape. I find this is an unexpected benefit of the work: after a year as an apprentice, my sister says I am no longer so skinny since my muscles have filled out. I am pleasantly surprised to note that some of the appreciative glances are directed toward me.

I push that thought to the side. I have no time for girls just now. My studies take up far too much of my time, my mind and my energy, and I have accepted that I will live a chaste life for some time to come. In spite of that conviction, when a pretty girl working with her mother in a nearby plot smiles at me, I cannot help but return the smile.

The Istyar leads us to an unoccupied plot well removed from the others. Tendrils of peas climb up stakes, and the rhizomes of strawberry plants spread across the dirt. Spinach and lettuce form bright green leafy mounds. This is a less tended plot with weeds that sprout among the cultivars. I catch a fleeting look of revulsion on the Istyar's face when he surveys the disorderliness of the small garden. He sits down cross-legged on some straw by the plot and tells us to do the same.

"Look at this garden carefully, lads. I want you to choose a plant and memorize it: every leaf and every stem to the best of your ability." He gives us a few minutes, then says, "Now close your eyes and visualize your plant. Don't be alarmed at what happens next, because I am going to help guide you in fully examining the specimen that you have chosen."

Closing my eyes, I visualize a strawberry plant clearly. There are two fat berries on it, still partially green. I don't really understand what the Istyar intends, but I open my mind and completely focus on the image of the strawberry plant.

I then hear, or rather perceive, a string of strange multi-syllabic words ringing deep inside the chambers of my mind; the sensation of the foreign language is grating, like a knife scraped slowly across smooth slate. Rattled by the sensation, a knot of fear forms in my gut. I cling to the image of the strawberry plant to keep myself focused and calm.

Suddenly I am sucked through a green tunnel and thrown into a swift verdant river. My limbs are paralyzed, useless as I tumble through the coursing fluid, flipping over and over while my entire being vibrates. I wriggle into a small hole. More constrained, I do not tumble and flip so much. As I move along, I observe that the green color is not static, but flares and sparks from the light on the outer side of the emerald walls. Deep in a chamber, long strings form from globules that open to grasp small blocks and then attach these to the rope-like forms. I come to rest against what looks like some kind of machinery, but it is not metallic like the tools and machines I know. The pulsating machine is abstract yet organic, and it looks like nothing on this earth. While I watch, pieces of the machine unfurl, and floating spheroids are captured by amorphous globules slithering along what looks like two chains unwinding from a twisted configuration.

The bizarre words whirl in my head as I watch the organic machine. Although I cannot translate them, I comprehend their intent. The words encourage me to Move that one, now try splicing this out. Yes, good, good! Then I am rushed into another tube, through another hole and into another chamber with an organic machine.

I have no conception of how long I do this. Time has no meaning in this alien place, but at last, I am pulled out of the sparkling greenness. The light is now pink from the blood in my closed eyelids. The rapid cadence of my heartbeat and the warmth of the sun on my back reassure me that I have returned to a reality that I comprehend.

"You may open your eyes now," the Istyar says.

I do so. Lightheaded, I am on the verge of fainting. In spite of the heat, I shake as if I had plunged into ice water. My breath comes shallow and fast, but I recover from whatever it was that happened to me. I inhale deeply a few times, pushing my lungs' air out with deliberation. With each measured breath, my heart rate slows and my head clears. Then I notice Axocáro.

He is absolutely white. He crawls away on all fours and vomits. The Istyar rolls his eyes and mutters, "Hopeless. Just hopeless." Then he turns to me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

"Sámaril? Are you well?"

"A little shaky, sir, but better than Axocáro. What just happened?"

"Look at your plant. What do you notice about it?"

I scan the garden plot for my strawberry plant. When I see it, I feel faint and disoriented again. There is another berry on it: a large fruit, but totally green unlike the other half-ripened pair I noted before. Did I miss it previously? That must be it.

"No, you saw correctly the first time, Sámaril. I carried you with me into the organism, and you watched me construct the berry from inside the plant's cells. You even assisted."

I am stunned. My thoughts race as I try to comprehend just how this was accomplished. I look at my mentor. His expression is unreadable, his mithril eyes opaque. This is not something to which I am accustomed to since he is more often than not a man of open mood. Axocáro is still retching with dry heaves.

"What about Axocáro? What happened to his plant?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. He had too much fear, too much resistance. He could not accompany me. You, on the other hand, performed far better than I expected for a first timer. Your knowledge of biology is going to come in handy, lad. Good job."

He unfolds his legs and stands, tall against the sun, which is near its zenith. He offers me his hand and pulls me to my feet. I am still woozy, but I find that I can walk well enough. And he said "good job" to me. That is high praise indeed because the Istyar rarely offers such accolades, particularly to novices like myself.

The Istyar turns to see that Axocáro is standing but is bent in spasms. He calls to the hapless apprentice:

"Yavanna's great dugs, Axocáro! Pull yourself together and let's go."

My fellow student tries to straighten without success. The Istyar returns to him, puts his hand on his back and quietly speaks to him. Axocáro unfolds himself and wobbles along with the Istyar. I feel badly for him so let him lean on me as we walk.

The Istyar shakes his head; his hair catches the sun, and reflects shining steel. "You're truly hopeless, Axocáro." Within the week, this young man transfers to another master's group.

Encouraged by that first successful lesson, the Istyar takes me back to the garden plot again and again, where he guides me and helps me to absorb deep knowledge of the plants, cultivars and weeds alike. I hear the strange language deep in my brain. It is always unpleasant but necessary for the tasks at hand so I endure it. After a couple of weeks of this, he gives me an assignment in the forge.

"I want you to make another hoe."

Once again, I must discipline my body from revealing my dejection. I stand straight, and maintain what I think must be confident eye contact with my teacher. Inwardly, I am crestfallen. I seemed to be doing so well, but this is a regression in my path forward. What am I doing wrong?

"You are not in error. In fact, you are making significant progress, Sámaril." He has perceived my thoughts. "When you craft the blade, I want you to focus on the essence of the weeds and the vegetables and fruit that you have studied. Cast your thought into the blade. Protect the cultivars from the weeds."

My disappointment transforms to enthusiasm with the Istyar's encouraging words. I throw myself into the assignment. It is just a hoe blade, but maybe it will be a special blade if I do as he asks. I devote more time and effort to this blade than I did to the others.

While I pound out the alloy, drawing the hot metal into a graceful shape, I compare the properties of the vegetables and fruits with the weeds. I think of the spheroids and the long chains twisting around one another, the bright green sparks in the leaves, the sparks that the voice in my head names photosynthesis. The Istyar translates the odd term into a concept that he explains with the strange language, its harsh, glittering syllables reaching deep within my brain to make me understand: light is captured as nutrient.

I attach the completed blade to a beechwood handle that I made in the wood wright's shop. The hoe is a simple rustic implement but carries the graceful lines of Noldorin craftsmanship. Whether my experiment with alloying my thoughts into the blade will amount to much is anyone's guess. More importantly, will it meet my master's high expectations?

The Istyar takes the hoe, strokes the smooth wood handle, and balances the entire tool on the palm of his right hand. Next, he scrutinizes the blade, frowning as he runs his index finger along the edges and across the surface.

I fidget while he continues his exacting assessment. What will he say? The last thing I want is to be sent back to pounding out ordinary ploughshares or worse, nails.

He hands the hoe back to me. With a shrug and a slight lift of his brow, he makes his pronouncement.

"I suppose it's adequate, Sámaril."

I audibly exhale with relief.

When I return to the workshop, carrying my prized hoe, I mull over the Istyar's assessment of my work. Adequate. That's all? Granted, that's praise from the Istyar, who has notoriously high standards and rarely offers outright praise to his apprentices and journeymen. Yet, it is not enough for me. I compare my work to the others, and I know I deserve more. I heard "good job" from him once before. I want to hear it from him again. And yet again.

We take my new hoe out to the plots the next morning. The girl who smiled at me a few weeks ago hacks away with her hoe at a stubborn dandelion in her family's garden plot.

"Give it to her." I look at the Istyar's eyes, which are again opaque, but as if a curtain has been pulled aside, they warm with the gruff affection and wisdom with which we are all familiar. He nods, and I go to her.

Her dark brown hair is pulled back into a long braid, but strands have come loose and are sticking to her face and neck. She stops and regards me with her periwinkle-blue eyes.

"Here. Try this." I am not charming. I am just a student who wishes to become a master craftsman. I am not a poet. I extend my newly-crafted hoe to her.

She sets her implement aside and takes the hoe from my hand, hefts it slightly to get a feel for its balance, and raises it to chop at the dandelion's deep central root. With a single flick of the hoe, the entire root system is unearthed and exposed to the bright sun. She chops at another weed, rending it from the soil just like the dandelion. Within minutes, all the weeds in her family's small plot are gone, and there is perfection. There is order.

She turns to me, wonder in her eyes, and then she looks past me at the Istyar who stands a ways behind me. Her eyes, floral blue eyes, widen further, and she bows her head, not to me, but toward him.

"I am most grateful, Master Annatar. A magic hoe! My mother will be thrilled."

"Do not thank me, young lady. Thank Sámaril, my apprentice, for he made it."

She turns her admiration toward me. "You made this?"

My face burns as blood rushes into my cheeks. I fervently hope that the sun's bronzing on my face covers any pink color.

"Yes. I made it."

She laughs, the silver trill of a fast-flowing stream. Then she stands on tiptoe and kisses my cheek. Her lips are impossibly soft. It is not a dry peck; she boldly allows her lips to tug at my skin for a brief sensual moment. She presses her cheek against mine and then steps back and smiles at me. I fall into those periwinkle blossoms. The sensation of recognition, that I will one day know much more of those lips and eyes, courses through my body. My face is now scorching, and I am relieved to be wearing a long loose shirt over my breeches.

"Thank you, master..."

"Please. I am no 'master.' I am just an apprentice...Sámaril Orondion."

"The master stonemason's son. Yes, my father knows yours. Thank you again! I am Nierellë. My father is one of the master vintners."

"Perfect!" the Istyar, who has obviously overheard the conversation, declares. "Now you have access to the best wine in Eriador, my boy! My apologies, young lady, but my apprentice has much more work ahead of him so I must take him back to the House of the Mirëtanor." He nods to her with courtesy. She smiles and flushes as the Istyar casts a crumb of his considerable charm and charisma toward her, but she also graces me with a look that beckons me to seek her company again.

"Sámaril, that was a successful result for your experiment. I want you to write this up in your notebook as soon as we get back to the House. I'd say that was a successful encounter with the young lady as well."

I feel my face grow hot again since the master has noticed my interest in the young woman. I worry just how obvious my interest was.

"Oh, for Manwë's sake, Sámaril! There's no need to be embarrassed. I'll be blunt. You will lead the life of an ascetic for some time to come as my apprentice and my journeyman, but what you feel is part of the natural order of the world, and thus should be honored. It is one of the most beautiful refrains of the Song."

My breath catches when I hear him say "my journeyman." Has he already decided on my course of studies? Maybe all those "adequates" actually meant something! He must think I am worthy of further study with him. It also means that as I progress, my academic knowledge and increasingly difficult projects must meet his expectations. Yet that slip, "journeyman," does not imply I can take anything for granted with my mentor. I have seen many leave his rigorous tutelage for less demanding masters.

I try to match his stride as we walk back to the city. I think about the weeds flying from the dirt and how Nierellë barely needed to put effort into chopping them out of the soil. That hoe was more than just a sharp blade. It was as if the steel disassembled the very structure of the weeds themselves. It was uncanny. It was...

"Istyar? What specifically did I do to the blade to give it that keenness? The materials are not different than any of my other hoes. Did you help me give it magic?"

"Magic?" He laughs outright, apparently thinking my query is quite the joke. He recovers, and says, "No, it's not magic. Remind me to tell you about a great loremaster's third law sometime."

The Istyar has once again said something far beyond my ken. I am learning not to overanalyze his baffling terminology and the non-sequiturs that he occasionally blurts out in strange languages. He continues, "Do you think the materials are exactly the same? Did you truly replicate your previous samples?"

"Not exactly. I concentrated my thoughts, my lessons from you in the gardens, into the steel while I hammered and drew it out."

"Then you have answered your own question. The materials are not identical."

~*~

So my education continues. The Istyar takes me to the wheat fields, all stubble after the harvest, and we meditate on the composition of the soil, noting its sub-structure and microcrystalline forms as well as the rocks lying beneath the surface. Then I craft a ploughshare which slices through the tough soil like a hot knife through butter.

We ride northwest to a stream that rushes into the Gwathló. He takes me tumbling and swirling inside the pink capillaries of salmon that are migrating upstream to spawn. I return to the House of the Mírëtanor where I craft a slim spear point, and attach it to an ash wood shaft. We return to the stream where the salmon practically throw themselves onto the spear. We rush back to the city, where the Istyar grills the fish over fragrant fruitwoods at his home, feeding his perpetually hungry apprentices and journeymen. We all guzzle liters of the serce valaron as usual.

The Istyar raises his glass, gives me a backhanded compliment or two, but makes clear the point that it was my skill in crafting the spear that garnered our dinner. The other apprentices show twinges of envy that I receive this recognition from the Istyar; the journeymen, who have learned similar techniques from our mentor, show me new respect. And the Istyar? His response to my accomplishments is a considered "Not bad, Sámaril. Not bad at all."

---

Chapter End Notes

Re: Sámaril's perception of "a string of strange multi-syllabic words ringing deep inside the chambers of my mind; the sensation of the foreign language is grating, like a knife scraped slowly across smooth slate."

From The History of Middle-earth, vol XI, "Quendi and Eldar, p. 398, Rúmil's account of the language of the Valar notes that "their words are mostly long and rapid, like the glitter of swords, like the rush of leaves in a great wind or the fall of stones in the mountains." However, Pengolodh was less entranced with Valarin: "Plainly the effect of Valarin upon Elvish ears was not pleasing."

Presumably what Sámaril "hears" in his mind is Valarin or some permutation thereof.

<b><i>Chapter 4: Fieldwork in Tharbad</b></i>

Glossary in End Notes.

Read <b><i>Chapter 4: Fieldwork in Tharbad</b></i>

"Lads, it's time for some fieldwork!"

The Istyar rubs his hands together with exaggerated glee when he addresses us, his two journeymen and me, now his most senior apprentice. He enjoys these excursions to perform research in the field. For the apprentices and journeymen who accompany him, these sojourns are exhilarating because of the opportunity to interact with the Istyar without the distraction and competition of the other masters and journeymen. Yet the trips often prove to be awkward in such close company with one who is at once so respected and feared as many mentors are. I convince myself that fearfulness is silly since the Istyar is known to have a kinder, gentler side and even welcomes us into his home with his family. There's no good reason to be uncomfortable around him. Still, he is The Istyar.

"You all are woefully ignorant of our mortal brethren, and I am remiss in not giving you more thorough instruction in the ways of Men. We'll ride to Tharbad tomorrow morning and stay there for a week. Meet me at the gates at sunrise."

Predictably, my mother fusses over my visit to the Númenórean port. It has a reputation of being a rough-and-tumble city, which in spite of the garrison of soldiers stationed there, has its fair share of thieves, pickpockets and worse. Such crimes are unheard of in our city where neighborhood complaints are more often the norm, like a crowing rooster that wakes the neighbors at odd hours, or a pair of less than aesthetically pleasing urns flanking a front door. I assure her that I will be careful. I'm astonished when my father speaks up to support me. He reminds my mother that I will be traveling with the Istyar, who is capable of casting a truly formidable presence.

Alastion, Vórimo and I arrive at nearly the moment the Sun tops the mountains in the East. The Istyar awaits us. He holds the reins of a jet-black stallion, one of a succession of such dark beasts he has ridden over the years. He culls the most vicious animal from a herd, and he takes pride in his ability to coax it into gentle and obedient demeanor. He invariably names these horses "Morirocco," which collapses to chirrups of "Mori." I have borrowed an obtuse bay gelding from family friends. Horsemanship is not my strength, so the animal's desultory temperament is welcome.

~*~

As evening draws near, we set up camp in the hollow of a hill overlooking the Glanduin. After removing the tack from the horses, currying and tethering them so they may graze, we catch and roast fish caught in the river and pass around the bottles of serce valaron. We get a bit into our drink. The Istyar, somewhat inebriated himself, lets his guard down and tells us strange things about the stars while we all lie back on our bedrolls.

"See that, lads?" He points toward the Sirë Elenion as he holds an almost empty bottle of wine. "Inside that beautiful river of stars is something utterly black, utterly horrible, and stranger than you can imagine. Light falls into it and cannot escape. No one knows where the light goes, not even the Valar. Time and space bend around it. That is where they threw Melkor. I think I would sincerely repent before I let that happen to me." He shudders, and his eyes change, their bright mithril fire darkening to the unreadable, the opaque. He retreats into himself and is as silent as a graven image in stone.

"Are you well, Istyar?" Concerned, I forget my place and place my hand on his shoulder.

He shakes his head, and the light returns to his eyes. He pats my hand. "Yes, boy. I'm fine. Just thinking." He shoves himself up on his elbows then stands. "Back in a minute. Nature calls. All that wine, you know."

We see his white smile flash in the dark as he strides away to the woods without a stumble or a weave. The three of us look at one another and collectively shrug.

~*~

Two days after that peculiar night, we cross the massive bridge, the dark waters of the Gwathló swelling through its stone arches beneath us. Tharbad is a major inland port of the Númenóreans. Four seaworthy ships are docked at the quays. Many Men work at the docks hauling lumber onto the ships.

A babel of languages and the miasma of the river bottoms, smoke, human odor, and food rise from the bustling market that is crammed between the docks and the walls of the city. We ride slowly to the city gates, picking our way amongst the throngs of Men in the market, and are welcomed inside, the guards recognizing the Istyar. "Hail, Lord Annatar!" they say. It is a heady experience to see our mentor treated like this. Once again, I am proud to be seen with him.

We ride up the stone-paved street, lined with whitewashed daub and wattle residences and shops, its orderliness a stark contrast to the shanties and filth that lie outside the city walls. The Istyar leads us to a well-kept guesthouse. The young groom's face lights up when our master gives him a small tourmaline as a token for taking care of our horses. The boy assures us that our horses will be well looked after. The Istyar's stallion is restless, showing signs of aggression, but after his master speaks soothing words to him, the horse settles and allows the groom to lead him away with our more mundane mounts.

Before we enter the guest house, the Istyar stops and proceeds to lecture us that we are not to drink the water in the city: only wine or ale.

"You are Eldar, so contaminated water won't kill you, but it has the potential to make you sick, and we certainly don't need that on this visit. And don't forget, these people are the same species as we are: there are Elves, there are Men, but we are all human. Set aside any Elvish sense of entitlement and open your minds to the Men of the city. This is how you will learn."

We enter with these admonishments. The interior of the inn is simple yet gracious with its chestnut woodwork, and the subtle scent of burning applewood lingers in the air. The inn is quiet now, but the muffled sounds of pots and pans clanking and voices in the kitchen are harbingers of a livelier atmosphere.

The innkeeper, a stout Man with grizzled russet hair and a neatly trimmed beard, stands behind a marble-topped chestnut-wood counter. He greets the Istyar in thickly accented Sindarin, "Welcome back, Lord Annatar! I am honored that you grace my humble establishment."

Oddly, the Istyar does not demur at the honorific these Men bestow on him in spite of his criticism of Elvish privilege. He has never claimed the title "Lord" among us. The Istyar smiles winsomely and answers in the Mannish vernacular, a language that has been drummed into my head by the loremasters of Ost-in-Edhil.

"Staying at your inn always agrees with me, Zadanu. It's a damn sight better than the accommodations at the Prince's residence."

My teacher's mouth curls into a sneer. His reaction is curious. Why would he wish to stay at this common inn rather than at the residence of nobility? I check myself as my own sense of entitlement wells up.

"That and you serve fine ale," the Istyar adds. Maybe that's why he likes this place, but I do not think this is the whole of the story. My master's obvious disgust at the mention of the Prince reveals that he harbors contempt for the Lord of Tharbad.

A porter scurries to take our packs, but the Istyar waves him away. "They can carry their own luggage. I told them to pack light, but you may show us to the rooms. Follow him, boys."

We do as we are instructed and follow the young man up the stairs and along the corridor. Alastion and Vórimo promptly claim a room for themselves.

Alastion shrugs and ruefully says, "Sorry about that, Sámaril. I'm afraid you're stuck as the Istyar's roommate."

"Oh, thank you so much." Slouching in resignation, I am nonetheless apprehensive with the prospect of sharing a room with my mentor.

It's awkward for the apprentices and journeymen to be in such close quarters with any of the masters, let alone the Istyar. We put these men -- gods of knowledge -- on pedestals. They surely do not possess bodily functions or do anything else so earthbound. But if one has to share a room with a master during fieldwork, you discover that your intellectual hero is a man like anyone else.

And you can never relax. It's bad enough that you may say something idiotic, but what if you do something base like unconsciously scratch your sardi or break wind at a whim, or worse, awaken with an erection holding your sheets up like a tent? Now here I am, having to share a room with the Istyar for the first time. Ai! How could my colleagues do this to me?

Before I can wing a sarcastic jab at Alastion, the Istyar bounds up the stairs.

"So you're stuck with me, are you? Don't worry. I don't bite, or at least I don't these days, and you needn't worry that I'll do anything untoward since...well, not that there's anything wrong with that, but it simply isn't my preference. I can't guarantee that I won't snore though." He opens the door, and with a sweeping gesture, bids me to enter the room first.

Two copper tubs filled with steaming hot water beckon from the lavatory down the hall. Keen to soak away the grit of travel from body and hair, I grab a towel but take no more than a step into the hall before I hesitate.

"Istyar Aulendil, I'm sorry. If you wish..."

The Istyar sighs and rolls his eyes as he stretches out on the bed, furiously scribbling in a notebook, filling the pages with his peerlessly graceful Tengwar script, exquisite in spite of the speed at which he writes.

"Varda's tits, lad! Relax a little. Go wash yourself first. You need bathing. Desperately."

Once we're all in clean simple clothing, and our hair is plaited or otherwise restrained (the Istyar just pulls the sides of his hair back and secures the strands with a gold clasp, so that is what I do, too), we prepare to go downstairs to the common room to eat and drink, but again the Istyar lectures us.

"Open your minds to these people. Be prepared, for I will be with you."

I will be with you. That is his code for the molecular journeys during which he drags us along with him into the structures of earth or water or an organism. Alastion, Vórimo nor I have ever entered the mind and body of an intelligent being. A tremor of apprehension skitters with sharp little claws up my spine.

"Getting cold feet, Sámaril?" The Istyar slaps me on the back, vigorously enough that I must catch my breath.

"No, sir." I swallow hard, and we go downstairs, the noise from the common room directing us to its location.

Patrons and guests mill about the entry as the innkeeper accommodates their needs. A number of Men are scattered around the tables in the common room, all eating and drinking. Flatware clanks against plates. Laugher and appreciative smacks and grunts punctuate conversations as the Men tuck into their food. The aroma of fresh bread and spicy-sweet ham triggers my stomach into a fit of growling.

Two women bustle around the room, bringing plates of food and tankards of ale to their customers. One is older, judging by her skin's condition and the silver strands that interlace her chestnut-brown hair. The other is young, barely out of girlhood. I am unsure as to how mortals age, but she looks like she's around my little sister's age, at least in body and face. She bears strong resemblance to the older woman and the proprietor, so I conclude she must be their daughter.

Although the girl sees us sit, fear overcasts her expression, and she averts her face. I am taken aback. Who would fear me? The older woman, however, has no such hesitation. She meets the Istyar's eyes forthrightly across the room. He nods with a smile. Without a word, she grasps four tankards in her large hands, fills them from a cask, and sets them down on the table, one in front of each of us.

"So what's on tonight, Nîlozimra?"

He overlays this simple question with a slight brogue. I marvel at the Istyar's ease with the people of this city - the common people. He shows a curious adaptability to his environment and those surrounding him, something I have not observed much among my people, but then I remind myself that I am not as worldly as he.

"Ham, squash, and long beans," she replies. "Fresh bread. Quite simple compared to your Elvish vittles in Ost-in-Edhil, I expect. But I do have some of that goat cheese you like so well tucked away in the cellar." Nîlozimra evidently knows his preferences from past visits.

"Excellent! Simple food is fine by us and the goat cheese? My stomach is in thrall to you, my lady." Again, he flashes his radiant smile, and she returns to the kitchen on her way to retrieve the cheese that captivates my master. I get the impression that like us, the mortal woman trusts and even has affection for the Istyar. Her daughter, on the other hand, waits on the other Men but studiously avoids us.

"Istyar? May I ask you something?" I hesitate because I think this is an odd question, and I do not wish the Istyar to think that I am dim. He nods silently as he takes his first gulp of ale.

"The lady Nîlozimra is friendly enough, but what is wrong with her daughter? I assume that's her daughter. She seems frightened of us."

The Istyar finishes his long drink and wipes the foam off his upper lip with a cloth napkin.

"Yes, that is her daughter. You intimidate her, and yes, even frighten her. Many -- not all -- but many mortals fear the Firstborn."

Alastion, Vórimo and I look at one another, uneasy. I am baffled as to how anyone could fear us. Well, except the Istyar. It's easy to see how one could fear him. If he becomes angry, there's a force restrained within him that I would never want directed at me. Recently, he has been prone to dark moods in which he is withdrawn and quick to anger. His eyes become shielded, his fair face closed to us. Then he snaps out of these angry depressive states and returns to his usual gregariousness. This erratic behavior causes me to worry about our molecular excursion tonight. Something is changing in the Istyar. It is subtle. It is gradual, but there are nuances indicating that something is amiss. I try to reassure myself that probably I am overanalyzing his behavior.

Yes, probably you are overanalyzing this and overstepping your bounds, too. A cold voice speaks in my head. Unnerved, I quickly look up from my tankard to see the Istyar taking another long pull from his ale, his eyes fixed on mine.

After we have eaten the simple but satisfying fare, we relax at the table with near-empty tankards. The common room fills up with more people who arrive to dine and imbibe the amber ale and otherwise enjoy the company of others in the evening. In that, these Men differ little from us.

With little warning, the syllables rattle swords in my head. I am swept away into a rushing stream of red fluid with dark crimson disks bobbing and bouncing off spongiform walls. I surmise that the Istyar has pulled me into the blood of someone in the common room, but he does not linger there. We course through pulsating chambers, which must be the heart. We then fly to an intricately woven net that we squeeze ourselves through, and I enter the brain of a Man. This is far more complex than a fish or a strawberry plant. I see motivations, hopes and fears firing though brilliant flashes, and cascades of abstract forms linking like locks and keys with one another, then firing off again and again to yield new thought or retrieval of memory.

I hang on for dear life as we careen through thoughts and emotions of those in the room, leaping from person to person. The amorphous flashes of each Man's brain resolve into clarity. This farmer worries about his crops and wishes he could find some way to improve the fertility of his land. Another doesn't seem motivated to work, but wishes to be wealthy all the same. A local merchant drinks to deaden his emotional anguish over his wife's betrayal with another man. The latter revelation makes my stomach clench because here is a contrasting behavior to my kind, and a sorrowful one, but I make note of it.

Young thoughts whimper: I am not good enough. I haven't the wit to speak with them. I wish I were not so plain. They are too high and frightening. Their tankards are probably empty now, but I will not go to them. I recognize the girl, who reminds me of my sister in a vague way.

Veering from my quiet role as a passenger with the Istyar, I silently speak to her in my mind: Don't be afraid. You are good enough. You are not so unlike us.

Then I am slammed so hard against the interior of my own skull that I nearly rock back in my chair. A conflagration with a black abyss at its center blazes in front of my eyes. My vision clears to see the girl across the room stumble. Then she freezes in place for a moment and turns to look at us, her face white with terror. She flees from the room.

"Why in Utumno's blazes did you do that, Sámaril?" The Istyar's eyes shoot a thousand silver arrows at me. For a brief moment, I perceive a black writhing horror in his glare. Bile rises in my throat, and a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. Alastion and Vórimo likewise are stunned and have a cast of sickness on their faces. In an instant, the blackness is gone, replaced by something cold and analytical.

"When I am with you in a human mind, the understanding is that you are absolutely silent. It is one thing to yammer within a fish. It is quite another to do so in a human. I am disappointed in your foolishness, Sámaril. That will be all for tonight."

The Istyar catches Nîlozimra's attention. She refills our tankards, but I am not much in the mood for more drink. The prospect of sharing a room tonight with my disgusted and now frightening mentor is daunting, but fortunately, I do not hear the dreaded words: "You're hopeless."

~*~

No more such incidents mar the rest of our stay, and my gaffe seems to have been forgotten. The Istyar is in good spirits as he guides us all over Tharbad. No writhing horrors or chasms surrounded by fire appear during our excursions. We cling to him when he whirls through the minds of Men in the marketplace, the city proper, the garrison, and the docks. The latter are truly hair-raising. It is along the quays that I overhear what must be some of the most sordid thoughts of humankind.

The Istyar leaves us to our own devices on our last evening there. He has been invited to a fete hosted by the Lord of Tharbad, who is a prince of Númenor, a third son of a sister or brother of the king. The Prince is a lord of the royal house but not in the succession.

I sit at the small desk in the room scribbling my observations of the day in my notebook, while the Istyar, having bathed, dresses for the evening. Earlier in the week, he pulled a creased mass of black and crimson silk from his pack, and with one shake the fabric was fresh and unwrinkled. He now shrugs the robe over his shoulders, fastens the eyelets, and pulls his dark hair out from under the fabric to flow down his back. Next, he adorns himself with finery that he has crafted for himself in the House of the Mírëtanor.

Around his waist, he fastens a belt of many overlapping gold disks studded with rubies. He clasps a gold torc around his neck, fastens elaborately embossed and ruby-studded gold cuffs on his wrists, and sets a gold circlet over his brow. The fillet holds a medallion in the shape of an abstract eye embellished with rubies and yellow topaz. This he positions exactly at the center of his forehead.

"It's the ajna chakra. A symbol of wisdom," he says offhandedly of the eye medallion when I compliment him on it. He is transformed from the dedicated smith in smudged, scorched breeches and heavy boots into a regal personage, like one of the old Noldorin lords now vanished from this world.

He is as restive as his stallion as he prepares to go to the prince's soiree.

"Don't wait up for me, lad, but you three must stay here at the inn. Go to the common room if you require entertainment, but don't wander about the city. You are not experienced enough for it." He smoothes his hair, and tucks loosened strands behind his ears as he looks in the small mirror.

"There. Handsome is as handsome does, right, boy?" He smirks with his odd combination of arrogance and self-deprecation, and I smile back at my teacher. "Wish me luck. The prince's entertainments and appetites represent the worst kind of disorder, but it is - how shall I put this? It is useful for me to learn more about him."

When he speaks of this prince, he has a look of revulsion similar to what I have seen on his face when he sees an especially ill-kempt garden plot. His tone becomes dark and somber, yet calculating, too. It is as if he is of two minds when he gives thought to this high Númenórean prince who, for whatever reason, rules in a frontier town.

~*~

Alastion, Vórimo and I go to the common room for our dinner and stay for the ale and the safe entertainment. We have empty tankards, and with neither Nîlozimra nor her daughter about, I volunteer to refill them. As I stand at the cask, tap opened and on its way to filling the second tankard, Nîlozimra's daughter bustles out of the kitchen and not looking where she is going, runs into me. I spill some of the ale, but maintain my grasp on the tankard.

She freezes in place and doesn't appear to know whether to flee back to the kitchen or stay. Finally, she turns to escape, but I stop her by placing my hand on her shoulder.

"It's all right. Really. You have no reason to be so nervous around us. Here, I'll help you clean this up if you'll give me a rag." My Elvish lilt accents the brittle Mannish words, but it's obvious that she comprehends what I say.

She shakes her head and stammers, "N-n-no, my lord, that is for me to do."

"Oh, Tulkas' tight arse, please don't call me 'my lord.' I am Sámaril."

A expression of shock crosses her face at my blasphemy, a weakness of mine, but the Istyar swears frequently with quite colorful phrases in many languages, so naturally, we do as well. Then she snickers at my transgression, and I smile back at her.

"I know. My mother says I should have my mouth washed out with soap. My apologies if I have offended you."

"I take no offense, sir, and I won't tell your mother either."

"Thanks. Now let's find that rag."

I wipe up the spilled ale, which is minor, and take the rag back to the kitchen with her tagging along behind me.

"See, I am not so vicious."

"You are not, but your lord frightens me. My mother and father admire and respect him, but something dark lurks in him. I thought you might be like that, too, but you're not."

I reflect on her assessment. The Istyar can be a stern taskmaster, and his intense regard causes even the most confident among the masters to shrivel. With cold, precise calculation, he pulls one's intellectual defenses away like the layers of an onion, but he surprises us on occasion with sentimentality.

"The Istyar frightens you that much? He can be intimidating, true, but at heart he is a good learned man, and he even has loved ones."

"I expect you would know better than I, and after all, I am just a girl, so what would I know?"

"Please don't say that. You remind me of my sister. You and she appear to be around the same age, and I think well of her. Very well, in fact, even though she annoys me at times."

She smiles and visibly relaxes. "Thank you, sir. Your sister is lucky to have a brother. My older brother died from pestilence some years ago when I was a baby."

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "I didn't know him really. I'd best get back to work, or my mother will come scolding."

Her casual dismissal of her brother's death surprises me. Should that happen to my sister or my parents, I would be devastated. Yet she allowed that she did not know him. I recover my senses.

"Very well then. I'll leave you to your duties. Forgive me, I should have asked sooner, but what is your name?"

"Zirânphel."

"Good night, Zirânphel. We depart tomorrow, but perhaps if we stay here again, I will see you then."

~*~

The journeymen and I finish off our ale, chat a while longer and return to our rooms for the night. I drop off to sleep quickly but awaken deep in the night when the Istyar returns noisily.

"Eru in Eä, that was absolutely wretched!"

He fumbles around, and I assume he has had a good deal to drink if he is so affected. I hear the clinks and clanks of his gold embellishments as he tosses then onto the small desk, and then he throws himself onto the bed. Within minutes, he's snoring, a massive, deep sound that shakes the very foundations of the earth. Perhaps I exaggerate, and it's not that loud, but it's impossible to block out. He slept serenely the previous evenings, so I assume that his excessive drinking has a role in this. It doesn't much matter what the cause because I lie awake most of the night, pillow mashed around my ears. I finally resort to the less-than-satisfying waking dreams state.

In the morning, he sits up and groans, and rubs his forehead with both hands, grimacing. His skin, bronzed by the summer sun, has a sickly patina.

"Ai! Manwë's holy rod, what a headache..."

He springs up from the bed, clad only in his brief undergarment, since he has thrown his robe on the floor during the night, and flies out of the room on the way to the lavatory down the hall. I do not want to hear what he is doing, so I quickly shut the door and lie back in bed.

He returns, fresh and reinvigorated, with a healthy color returned ito his face. He plops down on the bed, legs akimbo, and scratches his scalp with vigor.

"That's better. Nothing like cold water on the face for a hangover. So, did I snore?"

I look at him blearily and nod.

"My apologies, Sámaril. I would have been sent summarily to the parlor to sleep had I done that at home. There was no escape for you." Now he scratches his shoulders and yawns. "I fear I succumbed to the Prince's liquor. I have to say, those Númenóreans really know how to distill the grape. The Prince had the brandy imported from the island itself."

He rises from the bed and sifts through clothing hanging in the room's simple armoire. While he yanks on breeches, pulls a light shirt over his head and rams his feet into his boots, he carries on a monologue with me as his captive audience.

"I think we ought to bring your little girlfriend's father to Tharbad to consult with some of the Prince's artisans, once they come over from the island. The serce valaron might yield a fine liquor when distilled."

My little girlfriend? Nierellë? I have barely seen her since that day in the gardens when she wielded the "magic" hoe that I made. He notices my squirming discomfiture at his remark.

"Don't be coy, Sámaril. I know you dream of her." He chuckles in avuncular fashion, but with a touch of risqué derision, as he brushes his hair.

My face burns at his words. A vivid dream about Nierellë a couple of nights ago came unbidden, but intense enough to wake me when I released onto the linens. Fortunately, I was turned away from the Istyar when my body embarrassed me. Based on his rhythmic breathing, I assumed that he was asleep. However, even if asleep, evidently he was aware of my erotic dream.

"Oh, settle down, Sámaril! You are hope...well, no, you are not that, but honestly, I am a man, too. I understand."

My humiliation is complete.

He sweeps his hair back and secures it with a band of leather at the nape of his neck, gathers his belongings, folds his clothing precisely, and begins to pack.

"We'll leave in an hour, Sámaril. Get yourself together."

I lie there gaping at him. "An hour? What..."

"Yes, an hour, Sámaril. Don't you people have any sense of time?"

---

Chapter End Notes

Glossary:

Sirë Elenion (der. Q.) - "River of Stars" a.k.a. The Milky Way.

I took a stab at Adûnaic from "Lowdham's Report on the Adûnaic Language" in The HoMe, vol. IX, Sauron Defeated for the names of common folk of Tharbad. Although the vernacular of the people of Minhiriath is likely somewhat different (maybe influenced by the Haladin languages) than that of pure Numenorean Adûnaic, I offer these as a Mannish differentiation from the Elvish names.

Zadanu (der. Adûnaic): from zadan, "house;" -u is a masculine ending.
Nîlozimra (der. Adûnaic): from nîlo, "moon," and "zimra," jewel
Zirânphel(der. Adûnaic): from zirân, "beloved," and phel, "daughter."

Sardi (Q.): stones, as in "stones."

Ajna chakra (Sanskrit): The Third Eye or Shiva's Eye; "represents advanced mental consciousness that favors the direct perception over the invisible worlds, and the direct perception of the subtle aspects of manifestation."

<b><i>Chapter 5: Illuminati</i></b>

Glossary in End Notes.

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The journey back to the city is uneventful. As always, we uncork a couple of bottles of wine for our overnight camp, but the Istyar doesn't disturb us with bizarre comments about the stars. Instead we sing. The journeymen and I have passable voices, but the Istyar's baritone is spectacular. Should mortals happen to overhear us, they might be entranced by our lofty melodies. As transcendent as the music might be, they would need to comprehend the language to appreciate that the Istyar leads us in vulgar ditties replete with clever double entendres. He has learned these songs in a time and place beyond our comprehension. It is all we can do to keep from snorting at the humor and destroying the harmony. The Istyar finally breaks into laughter, which sets us to guffawing.

The next day, he hammers me with questions as we ride, not only testing me on what I learned in Tharbad, but also on other subjects which I have been studying. Like all apprentices, I take a series of cumulative examinations. The Istyar has decided to make use of our time to grill me. The journeymen smirk, since they have been subjected to the same unpredictable testing from our master. He prefers to hit us with these exams unexpectedly when we do not have the benefit of studying. "I find out what you really know," he says.

By the time we reach the city, my brain has congealed from my master's intense questioning. After we stable the horses, we soak in the baths, where I recover my senses somewhat, including awareness of how hungry I am. My stomach leads me home where my mother greets me with a tight embrace, relieved that I have returned without becoming the victim of some heinous crime in Tharbad.

~*~

A few days later, as I pass by his office on my way to the laboratory, the Istyar calls to me from his desk.

"Sámaril, a word please."

His voice reverberates in the hall, compelling me to turn into his office where I take a seat. He glances at me but returns to his work. His graceful script flows across the page of his notebook while he writes and speaks simultaneously.

"It's time to select a project for completion of your apprenticeship. Alastion's research is proceeding nicely. I anticipate that he will be ready to defend soon and barring any idiocy on your part..." he says, raising his keen eyes again, framed with the sardonic arch of a brow, "...I anticipate that you'll move into that slot. So this is what I'm thinking.

"The blue lamps that light our streets and homes are in need of improvement. The light is dim, and I'm not keen on its spectrum. I'd like to see creation of second-generation lighting. This would be a challenging but not unreachable project for you and would make good use of your combined knowledge of materials and biology."

Sitting forward on the edge of the chair, I eagerly agree with his proposal. If I manage to construct these lamps, I can make a significant contribution to our city. Even better, my name might be associated with them.

"New lamps? Yes, sir, that's an intriguing idea. I'll begin researching materials today in the library."

"There's no need to go to the library immediately," the Istyar says, setting his pen aside. "You require raw materials so we will ride to the Nin-i-Eliph tomorrow. Bring your bed roll and plenty of insect repellent." He returns to his writing, and I am dismissed with the prospect of more fieldwork with my master.

We leave just before dawn the next day. He rides "Mori" as usual, and I am on my borrowed bay gelding. The Istyar pushes the pace of the horses. His stallion is swift, and I wonder if my horse can keep up, especially with me, a mediocre rider at best, guiding him, but the bay manages. We stop in the late afternoon to set up camp in a grove of holly trees within a couple of kilometers of the marshes.

The aromatic insect repellent, an olfactory duet of rosemary and peppermint oils, slides easily onto my skin. The fierce midges that dwell in the marshes and make their way into the bordering land relish human blood of any variety. The Istyar waves me off when I offer him the bottle of oil.

"I don't need it."

As if volunteering for a demonstration, a midge settles on his forearm, then sparks into a burnt crisp, producing a charred odor followed by the scent of rarified air.

"Just a little trick I learned from my master."

We settle in at the campsite since we will not begin our work until dusk. The Istyar is relaxed, enough so that he shares an amusing domestic anecdote, which offers a rare and intimate glimpse into a part of his life largely unknown to his students. He also spins some stories from Aman, which are always fascinating and sometimes funny, particularly those about his fellow students and himself from the days of his own apprenticeship with Aulë.

"Now take Curumo for example. That little weasel was full of himself. He was so stiff and humorless that he made himself an easy target for us. The braggart yammered on and on about his precision at drawing out a particular alloy. So one day, we oiled the handle of his hammer. When he raised it for one of his wonderfully precise strikes, the hammer went flying out of his hand, and struck our master as he walked into the forge. Curumo had to sweep soot for weeks afterwards..."

While he speaks, he scans the woods and meadows around us. He ceases his tale in mid-sentence.

"Here they are, Sámaril! Get the specimen jars and let's go!"

He stands abruptly and grabbing my hand, he yanks me to my feet, nearly dislocating my shoulder in his enthusiasm. We jog to a nearby meadow where fireflies rise from the grass, winking with cold fire.

"Have a seat." He settles himself on a flat boulder, and I sit beside him. "Are you ready?" I nod, and off we go into the flashing insects.

The shimmering, grating language instructs me as we drill down for a closer look. Discrete motes of light, flashing like molecular meteors, fall around me. Photon, triplet state, and slow decay: my master translates these into concepts that I more or less comprehend. Satisfied that I have absorbed the intricacies of the cold light, he carries me back to my own mind.

After taking a few deep breaths, my heart rate slows as I look out over the meadow at the winking stars that drift up from the tall grass. More often than not, these molecular adventures drain me, but this time, rather than being exhausted, I am exhilarated.

"Of course you're worked up!” the Istyar says, his eyes dancing with silver fire. “Bioluminescence is fascinating stuff, boy. There's nothing like the thrill of discovery. Nothing. Even after all this time, I live for that 'Ah, ha!' moment when I make a new discovery. Now take your jars and go collect a few of those bugs."

We linger at the campsite the next morning. Our fieldwork will take place tonight in the marshes, so we have some time for leisure. We pack provisions for a midday meal and ride north toward the villages and farmlands in the western territories of Eregion, where green wheat ripples in the breeze and fields of Númenórean sunflowers nod, their inflorescences following the sun's path. Dirt roads bordered by holly hedges cross the rolling landscape, connecting villages and the villas of farmers. In the East, the rock-strewn slopes climb toward the foothills of the mountains. This is where the herds of sheep and goats graze, tended by shepherds and guarded by huge white dogs, the fánahuor.

"Beautiful country, isn't it?" the Istyar says with a wistful tone, a sad note in his usually confident voice, while he takes in the landscape.

Late in the afternoon, we ride back to the campsite where we tether and groom the horses; they will not accompany us into the treacherous fens. We take inventory of our gear, including water and chunks of dried fruit, since we will eat on foot as we hike to the evening's destination.

We follow an uncertain path that leads us into the depths of the marshes. As the sun nears the horizon, a pair of swans flies overhead, silhouetted against the fiery sky.

"They're magnificent birds, aren't they? Our people have taken them to heart as a symbol of grace and love," says my master as his gaze follows the swans across the arc of the sky. "But for all their beauty and fidelity, they are vicious creatures, especially the black swan."

In spite of the slick layer of insect repellent covering my exposed skin, the midges take their chances and bite me. The scent of charged air intensifies as the insects attempt to dine on my master. The sun has set, and it is slow going as we make our way through the marsh in the dark. A riot of shrill chirps, grating creaks, and percussive clicking surrounds us as the nocturnal insects shriek their discordant song. I misstep and sink up to my knees in muck, raising the sulfurous stink of rotted vegetation. My master sighs and pulls me out of the swamp, the viscous mud making a sucking sound as he extracts me.

The pools of water among the reeds glint with silver light as the waxing moon rises high in the sky. The Istyar stops ahead and peers toward one of those pools.

"There, Sámaril! Do you see it?" He points toward a patch of water. Beneath the silvered surface, the water phosphoresces with smoky tendrils of pale blue light.

"Is it swamp gas?" I ask.

"No, not that. Microorganisms make this light. Most of these are found in the ocean, but what you see is a rare freshwater variety. Come, I'll show you."

We edge over to the pool of water where the blue light shimmers. We find ground with stable footing, but the Istyar puts his hand on my shoulder so that I don't sway or fall when he pulls me with his mind into the water. Again, I cling to him and observe the motes of light trail and blink within the microorganisms. The light is different than that of the fireflies in that it is longer lasting but not as bright.

Back in my own skull, I breathe deeply as I re-orient myself. He tells me to collect samples from the pool with a few small jars we have brought along with us. As we wend our way out of the swamps in the dark, I rely on his remarkably keen sight to keep me from falling into the muck again.

"Sámaril, I'd like you to give some thought as to how you might combine the sources of light from the fireflies with that of the microorganisms. Think of the differences in how their light decays and their respective spectra. I will help you, of course, with the detailed manipulations of the biological samples. You will work on the crystal matrix on your own.

"Now, did I tell you about the time we convinced Curumo that Nessa desired golden dance slippers, and that he ought to include lead in the alloy?" He returns to his tales of the pranks he and his fellow students pulled on the hapless Curumo, whomever he is, chuckling at the memories of his own cleverness.

~*~

Thus begins my project for my advancement from apprentice to journeyman. With the Istyar's assistance, I splice out pieces of the fireflies' essence and combine them with that of the microorganism from the swamp's pool, making a few key adjustments, then I grow the recombined mix in brewer's vats of broth. To capture the microorganisms, I filter the stinking fluid, dry the residue, and grind it to a powder. The powder is dull in the daylight, but glows with a steady yellow light in the dark.

I spend many months in the workshop constructing crystals with varying lattices and make multiple - and unsuccessful - attempts to infuse them with the powder. Frustrated by my failures, I become discouraged, but as the Istyar says, that is the nature of research: it is exacting and tedious work, but it is made worthwhile by that "Ah, ha!" moment. My mother frets, because I spend most of my nights in the laboratory, a necessity so that I can see how my phosphorescent powder spreads. I resort more and more to the waking dreams state in lieu of genuine sleep, which is at best a stop-gap measure for rest and not conducive to good health, but typical for the senior apprentices as we diligently pursue our work.

While I labor at my bench in the lab over the months, I catch bits of conversation among some of the Istyari's journeymen, and even between the two Istyari themselves, both of whom are excited about a pending new initiative. My mentor believes Tyelperinquar's talents, already considerable, have flourished to the point where he should take the fore in this major project that will call upon only the best in the House of the Mírëtanor. The nature of the project is so complex that apprentices and even many of the journeymen will not be allowed to participate.

This motivates me further to pursue my experiments in spite of repeated failures. I am eager to contribute to this new high-profile project, whatever it is. So far, its nature has been shrouded in secrecy.

The Istyari are like boys in their excitement over this endeavor. Tyelperinquar spends more and more of his time working with Istyar Aulendil in the forges as they smelt the fine ores that Tyelperinquar has imported from the Dwarves of Casarrondo. They sit in one another's offices engaged in long animated discussions. We see them striding down the street together, deep in conversation, on their way to the Istyar's row house, where Tyelperinquar has always spent a great deal of his free time. There I expect they wrangle over their ideas, accompanied by crystal glasses filled with serce valaron, late into the night. They truly cut a picture as brothers of the mind and heart.

Finally, my experiments pay off, and I make the necessary connections which lead me to the "Ah, ha!" moment. I construct the crystal lattice that holds the glowing powder in perfect and even suspension.

If it is an "Ah, ha!" moment when I arrive at the solution to the problem, it is a victory cry when I take my crystal, the size of my fist, into a dark closet in the House of the Mírëtanor. The small space is bathed in a warm yellow light, more akin to daylight than our blue lamps. Detail becomes vivid, and I can even distinguish colors of the salts and minerals in the jars lining the shelves. I ensure that my procedures, results, and conclusions are well notated. Then I repeat the experiment, construct another crystal, and I achieve the same result. I next go to the forges and craft gold frames with hoops so that my new lamps may be carried or hung from hooks, and I fit the crystals within these.

All the while, I do this without saying a word to the Istyar. My immersion in the creative process has been obvious to all, but my master has not questioned me regarding my progress. However, the morning after my success, he notices the change in my demeanor: an excitement has bubbled to the surface of my mien. When we encounter one another in the hallway as he strides to the forges and I am on my way to the workshop, he simply asks, "Ah, ha?" I nod vigorously and answer, "Yes." He claps me on the back, causing me to stumble, and walks on.

Shortly after the hallway encounter, I make my way to the forges where he hammers away at a soft ore to remove impurities. I wait until he pauses, then I approach and tell him that I wish to show him my project tonight.

He flashes his radiant smile. "Excellent! I have an engagement this evening, but I can make some time for you. I'll meet you in the courtyard in front of the House of the Mírëtanor at, oh, say an hour after sundown?"

That evening, I sit on one of the granite benches in the courtyard, my lamps covered with dense black cloth. I shiver a little as the winter wind and cold stone conspire to leach out my body's warmth. Shortly, I see the figure of the Istyar under the dim light of the blue streetlamps, his dark robes and fur-lined cloak billowing around him like storm clouds as he strides toward me. He sits on the cold stone bench and eyes the dark lumps of cloth with the glow of my lamps peeping out through the tightly woven fabric.

"So. Show me what wonders you have wrought."

I pull back the black cloth from my lamps, and a ring of yellow light illuminates the courtyard. His face lights up as much as my lamps, and even before he says anything, I feel my heart leap because it is so obvious that I have impressed my master. Still, his words are more than gratifying.

"These are superb, Sámaril! Really, you surpassed my expectations." He lifts each lamp and studies it carefully. "Excellent. The homogeneity of the matrix is beautiful, simply beautiful, lad. Do you have any idea what the half-life is yet?"

"Not yet. I finished the crystals a month ago, and they have not dimmed at all."

"Well, that will take some time for us to measure. You have recorded your work thoroughly?"

"Of course, I have, sir. I have most of it written up for submission to the committee."

"Splendid! You should contact the other members of your committee tomorrow, and we will arrange the date for your examination." He looks up at the stars then back at me. "My apologies, Sámaril. I'd like to hear more about the lamps, but I must leave now. Dinner will be on the table soon, and Tyelperinquar and a few of the other masters and their wives are our guests tonight. I will be in hot water if I am not back in time. Please be sure to stop by my office tomorrow and bring those wonders."

Before he stands to leave, he puts his arm around my shoulders, and the fresh scent of rarified air washes over me. His sentimental gesture surprises me, but at the same time, I relish this demonstrative, almost paternal recognition from my respected teacher.

"I'm proud of you, lad. This is quite an accomplishment." Then he is away like the wings of the night, leaving me to bask in the glow of his praise.

---

Chapter End Notes

Glossary:
Nin-i-Eliph (S.): Swanfleet marshes at the confluence of the Glanduin and Mitheithel rivers.
Curumo (Q): Saruman
Sámarilo calmar (der. Q): lamps of Sámaril
Casarrondo (Q.): Khazad-dûm; Moria.
Fánahuor (der. Q.): "white dogs," probably much like the Maremma dogs of Italy or Great Pyrenees of the Basque that guard the herds.

<b><i>Chapter 6: All Rings Great and Small</i></b>

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My examination is trying, but I manage to complete it to the masters' satisfaction. The Istyar sits back, quiet for the most part, and allows Istyar Tyelperinquar and the other three masters to bombard me with questions. I do not stumble on even one of the academic subjects. The members of my committee to a man express their appreciation of my craftsmanship. To demonstrate the lamps' illumination, I lead them into a large dark storage room. The bright yellow glow of the lamps brings exclamations of wonder.

As we walk out of the storage room, one of the masters, who had followed Fëanáro to Middle-earth, praises my work: "Your lamps are much brighter than those of Tirion. Sámaril. They are most innovative and rival those that I knew."

The Istyar then says dryly, "Take that, Fëanáro." This quip sets him and Tyelperinquar off into a round of self-congratulatory laughter.

~*~

The celebration in honor of my advancement to journeyman takes place inside the Istyar's home. We are hustled into the expansive parlor where a fire roars in the hearth, and graceful tapestries with curiously abstract designs, studded with polished rocks and beads cleverly woven into the fabric, cover the walls. As always, the serce valaron flows, and as always, we break out into mildly vulgar songs with the two Istyari leading us. Tyelperinquar and the other masters take their leave. Finally, the apprentices and journeymen are encouraged none too subtly to depart. Before I am out the door, the Istyar grips my shoulder with his forge-strong hand and congratulates me again.

"Truly outstanding work, my boy. Be sure to speak with me tomorrow. I have a suggestion for your journeyman's work." At the soft but firm call of Sírityelpë from the interior of the house, the Istyar practically pushes us out the door. "Duty calls, lads. Out you go."

Teretion has also recently passed his exams to become a journeyman with his mentor, Tyelperinquar. He is in rare form this evening, treating my celebration as an encore of his own. We amble home, arms thrown around one another for balance and affection.

"So, what do you think, Teretion? What will be next for us?" My words slur together, my tongue heavy as sludge.

"Rings!" Teretion cries to the wind, stopping and spreading his arms. "Rings, rings, and yet more rings!" He spins like a child's top, and stumbles. I catch him, and we laugh raucously.

~*~

Another bleary post-celebration morning greets me. My father, so pleased that I have passed with flying colors, says nothing of my late night carousing. Instead he stands and embraces me before I leave for the House, while my mother looks on, misty-eyed.

"I am so proud of you, Sámaril," he says, patting me on the back and then holds me at arms' length. A wide smile slices through his tears as he looks at me with fatherly pride.

Tears well up in my own eyes. I am not sure which moves me more: the approval from my usually stoic father or the rare praise my teacher doled out last night.

The Istyar is not in his office, but instead I find him in his workshop across the hall. Hunched over a table, he peers through a magnifying crystal set in a table stand, where he engraves a simple ring using a beautifully constructed knife. I stop at the door and wait, knowing that he is aware of me, but the last thing I wish to do is distract him from this exacting task.

He straightens, places the ring on a small glass plate, turns and smiles, beckoning me to come to the table by his side.

"How are you this morning, boy? Still as resilient as ever, I take it?"

"Yes, sir. I am fortunate that way. Thanks again for the celebration. I think you could tell we all enjoyed ourselves."

"Indeed. You lads are masters of subtlety when it comes to your appreciation of my food and wine. I thought you'd never leave." He chuckles. "Right then. As I said last night, we need to discuss your next steps. I would like to move you along to the masters' rites in a timely way. Tyelperinquar and I will require the best and the brightest to push forward the new project in the House of the Mírëtanor."

The indirect accolade thrills me, and I can't help but smile broadly. The Istyar has said in his roundabout way that he considers me among the "best and the brightest."

"First, you need to follow up with Master Erëtáno on your lamps. He wishes to scale up their construction, so you will need to work with him to transfer the technology. We can certainly use your lamps for late night work here in the House. The people in the city have heard of your invention, and requests are being made to the House for acquisition of 'Sámaril's lamps.' Such recognition reflects well on us," I hear the pride in the Istyar’s voice. I assume this is partly on my behalf, but also because my innovation contributes to the efforts to transform Ost-in-Edhil into the Tirion of Middle-earth, Tyelperinquar and Aulendil’s common goal.

"Once you have completed your work with Erëtáno, and I do not anticipate that will take long, or at least I hope it does not..." he eyes me meaningfully, "...you'll join the select smiths who, along with Tyelperinquar and myself, will craft a new kind of ring."

He then lifts the ring from the plate and holds it between his thumb and forefinger. The ring, made of a silver-mithril alloy, is plain yet exquisite in its simplicity. He rolls it around, light reflecting brilliantly from it. Then he places it in the palm of his right hand, concentrates for a moment, and the letters of his graceful script flare as the fire of stars blazes from the depths of the metal. So beautiful for such a simple thing, I think.

"Yes, it is beautiful as all the rings we craft shall be. Here is what I want you to do for the first stage of your work. I will instruct you on the casting and engraving of your first ring, and you shall practice the techniques by casting more on your own. Use the techniques I taught to you for crafting the hoe, the ploughshare and the fishing spear. Cast your thoughts into the rings: words of wisdom for example - " He looks at me skeptically. "Well, perhaps not that, but you may cast humor, good will, just simple thoughts really, into the metal as it solidifies.

"Once you have completed these to my satisfaction, I want you to make rings for your family. When you cast and engrave these, you will also cast and engrave your love and affection for them - and any other good wishes - into the rings. That is the first stage - to create these simple rings, just as the one I hold here. But you are not to tell your family of the rings’ purposes or the nature of the arts you use to craft them. You must present them merely as gifts."

His expression is warm, even wistful, while he regards the ring in his palm, the star-fired letters now faded. As he strokes the silver-mithril ring with his left forefinger, I am shocked to see that tears well up in his eyes.

"Ai, never mind me. I am a sentimental fool at times." He laughs at himself. "Now go away, Sámaril, so I can complete this. Let's meet in a few days to discuss your progress with Master Erëtáno and your lamps."

~*~

The transfer of my methods to Master Erëtáno proceeds smoothly. The master is a brilliant man, and quickly sets procedures in place to scale up production of my lamps. He has a large number of apprentices and journeymen, and junior-level masters reporting to him. These men work as a team to replicate and expand my craft. Within a few weeks, the golden lamps, Sámarilo calmar, begin to replace the dim blue lights along our streets, and Ost-in-Edhil glows bright in the late winter darkness. People stop me in the streets and praise me for my invention. Such recognition adds swagger to my demeanor. And the rings, such an important project, will give me even more reason to take pride in my talent.

As promised, the Istyar takes me through the steps of casting my first ring, a simple gold and copper alloy. The engraving is more difficult. I decide to make the ring for myself, and I think of something that amuses me, and so I write a funny verse on the ring. My script isn't remotely as graceful as the Istyar's, and he notices.

"It's not that I expect you to write as well as I can for that would be impossible." The Istyar is never shy about assessing his own abilities. "But this is just ghastly, Sámaril. Now that you can cast your rings independently, try a few more, and for Manwë's sake, please practice your calligraphy on parchment every day for at least an hour. An hour! Do you understand?"

I nod sheepishly, and so I follow his instructions over the next couple of months, producing a number of rings, some plain, and some set with gemstones, some cast with my offbeat sense of humor directed toward the metal, and others with profound thoughts added. I practice my calligraphy for an hour a day. My hand steadies and over time, my script improves notably as I painstakingly engrave the rings. The Istyar checks on my progress and examines every ring, turning it over and over in his callused smith's hand. When he reads my attempts at humor in the verses, he rolls his silver eyes or smirks with a corner of his mouth cocked in a half-smile and left eyebrow arched.

The Istyar asks to see my latest ring. He scrutinizes it critically, and my letters flare as he holds the ring to his eye. As he reads the verse, his stern expression contorts and he bursts into laughter.

"By Aldaron's ass, that one is damned funny, Sámaril!" He has laughed so hard that tears track over his cheekbones, but he recovers his dignity. "The script is adequate. Now cast the rings for your family and give careful thought to those characteristics that you cast into the rings. Remember, the methods we use to craft these rings is to be confined to the Otornassë Mírëtanoron."

When I cast the rings for my family, I think of my love for them and send these thoughts to the molten gold alloy - to link into the microstructure of the solidifying metal - but I add a little something extra to each ring. For my father, I wish him comfort from all the pain he has experienced and the capacity to enjoy life a little more. For my mother, I wish calmness and peace, an anodyne to her nervousness and anxiety.

But what should I wish for my little sister? She is happy, untouched by the cares of the world. Ah! She is always complaining about her hair. She envies me with my luxuriant dark bronze locks, which I must keep trimmed so my hair doesn't grow past my waist. She says my hair is wasted on a man. Her own hair, a non-descript dark brown, tends to be lank, and she struggles to grow it out. She frets about this, and fears no man will find her appealing. I think her worry is ill-founded, because even if she is my little wren of a sister, she is pretty. Yet, if thicker, longer hair will boost her confidence, then I will cast that wish for her into her ring.

The Istyar examines the completed rings. He smiles gently when he reads the simple sentiments engraved in the metal. He claps me on the shoulder, somewhat painfully. "You are a good son and brother, Sámaril."

I give the rings to my family that evening. The rings' simple beauty and the elegant set of the gemstones impress my family. Touched by the verses that convey my love for them, my mother and father embrace me in gratitude for their gift-rings. My sister, on the other hand, is perplexed, because the verse I have chosen for her is rather obscure and uses abstract symbolism in place of direct words concerning her hair.

Smiling, I hold her hand and slip the ring onto her finger. "Just wear it for a while. Call it an 'experiment.'"

While crafting various and sundry rings, I send serious or whimsical thoughts shimmering to molten metal with each casting. As the weeks pass, I notice that my father laughs more and looks upon my mother with a renewed love. Similarly, my mother is more tranquil, and she, too, regards my father with warmth, sometimes blushing when she gazes at him. Based on the sounds I hear at night from their bedroom, I conclude their love has indeed been revitalized and rather vigorously at that. It's embarrassing yet at the same time sweet.

My sister's hair thickens, its color now a rich walnut-brown interwoven with fine strands of red-gold highlights, an unusual feature for a Noldorin woman, and it has grown at least three inches in the past six weeks. She is ecstatic and profusely thanks me for her ring, hugging me so hard that I stumble.

"Sámaril, the ring is wonderful! I know you will not - and maybe cannot - tell me much about it, but you are a wonderful brother! I love you!"

 

<b><i>Chapter 7: Principles of Pathology</b></i>

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"Sámaril! What do you say? How about another field trip to Tharbad?" The Istyar's booming baritone nearly makes me jump out of my skin since I was so focused on engraving a ring that I didn't hear him enter the workshop. I gouge the ring with my engraving knife, and fortunately, I avoid gouging my flesh.

"Ai! My apologies, boy. I didn't mean to startle you. Well, you'll have plenty more rings to engrave so no matter."

"Yes, sir. When will we leave?"

"The usual. Meet me at dawn at the gates. Bring some formal clothes this time."

~*~

The Istyar, a couple of the other journeymen and I have taken many successive trips to Tharbad since my first as a senior apprentice. During these visits, my master instructs us in "anthropology and psychology" as he calls the exercises, translating the concepts for us, as we study the various Men in the city. This time, only the Istyar waits impatiently for me, holding Mori by the reins. I am foggy since on a whim, I cast a ring last night and engraved it in the early hours this morning before I stopped at home to pack. I had rummaged around in my armoire to pull out three acceptable sets of robes, which I assumed still fitted me, and also tossed in some gold accoutrements that I had crafted for myself. I ran to the stables to collect my bay horse, which I finally had purchased from our friends. I have kept my master waiting for a good half-hour, and he is steaming.

"Honestly, Sámaril. Have you no concept of time?" he growls as he swings up onto his horse, stamping and snorting in reflection of his master's mood.

Oh, this is excellent, I think to myself. A one-on-one excursion with the Istyar, and I have already vexed him.

The Istyar, of course, overhears my surface thoughts and begins to laugh uproariously at my expense.

"Sámaril, you have no idea how very amusing it is to torment you. Relax, boy. This will be a most informative trip."

It has been some time since I have been in close quarters with the Istyar, and his anger at my tardiness, even if it dissipates quickly, concerns me in no small way. I make every attempt to be relaxed and at ease with him. Lately, the frequency of his black moods has increased. He withdraws, refusing to speak anyone, or he lashes out at others in towering anger. Fortunately, I have not been the recipient of the latter. These depressive states are most often replaced by his normal, pleasant collegial behavior, but sometimes his pendulum swings to an intense, manic energy, and he feverishly works in the forges or the workshops for days at a time, not eating or sleeping. There is rumor of trouble at home, too, with cataclysmic arguments that can be heard outside on the street after which the Istyar rides off into the night to discharge his anger and allow the heat of strife to temper and cool.

Fortunately, today there are no signs of this darkness of mind. He chatters away with me as his audience, discussing the latest formulation that Master Nacsirimo concocted in the lab, and which spontaneously combusted while sitting out on the bench, singing the ends of the master's hair and permeating two labs with a horrendous stench. He praises my friend, Teretion, who has produced an impressive number of rings of superlative quality under Tyelperinquar's guidance. He gives me a pointed look that tells me I had better keep up or preferably surpass Teretion. He chuckles as he tells me an anecdote about Tiberth, his fat orange tabby cat, a bilious animal that he has spoiled within an inch of its obese life, and that will let no one but the Istyar pet him.

We set up camp for the evening once we cross the ford of the Glanduin. The serce valaron is uncorked, and we pass the bottle back and forth, eschewing the civility of cups. The fire crackles as the dry wood burns, and smoke rises to the overcast sky. The Istyar then tells me the purpose of our trip. It will be different and more disturbing than our previous visits. He regards me with grave concern as he speaks.

"We will not be staying at the inn, but instead, at the residence of the Prince. There are things you should be forewarned about, Sámaril, because it is darkness beyond your experience, so it's best you know before I take you with me.

"Have you not wondered why such a prince of the royal house of Númenor is the leader of a fort here in the hinterlands?"

"Yes, I have sometimes thought about that, sir. I have heard that Númenor is a wondrous place - almost like Valinor. I can understand a temporary assignment in Tharbad, but this prince seems to be settled here."

"That is correct. He has been exiled to Tharbad, Sámaril. The royal house wants to wash its hands of him. The Prince's...appetites...caused a great deal of trouble in Númenor, so the royal house had to deal with the consequences."

"'Appetites?' I'm sorry, Istyar, but what do you mean specifically?"

The Istyar is silent for some minutes and takes a swig of wine before he continues. "The Prince's behavior is most disordered. He is a rapist and a pederast. He assaulted a number of young women and girls in Númenor, most of them of the common folk, which true to fashion of the royalty were overlooked, but then he raped a nobleman's daughter. This was not so easily dismissed.

"But that was not all. He developed a taste for young boys. Children began disappearing. Prominent families were paid off so that their sons could be brought to out-of-the-way manor homes. Finally, the situation became untenable, and the King hustled the Prince out of Númenor. Now Tharbad has him. There have been no rumors of rape of women and girls, although I would not put that past him, but Tharbad offers him many opportunities with the young boys of the street and the countryside and those who arrive at the port."

Horrified, I offer no response. Such abuse is completely beyond my understanding.

"Yes, I knew this would be difficult for you, Sámaril. It is one thing for men and women to enjoy sexual congress with one another or within their own genders if they are consenting adults, and so it is among Men and Elves alike. Even in the animal kingdom, homosexuality is present, and it may well serve an evolutionary purpose. It may not be a majority behavior, but it is still part of natural order. On the other hand, rape and pederasty are frank deviations among humans and represent most disordered behaviors."

"An evolutionary purpose? I still don't understand..."

"Ai, Sámaril! Why is it so hard for you to grasp the concept of selection and adaptive processes? The Eldar have been thoroughly brainwashed with creation myths from the Valar. Now don't distract me..."

Sometimes the Istyar is remarkably vitriolic toward the Valar, seeing as how he is their emissary, but then, he is full of contradictions. Because of his brilliance, his eccentricities and bizarre ideas are tolerated.

The Istyar continues his assessment. "If the Prince's preferences were as benign as consensual sex with other men, he would still be in Númenor. His behaviors are truly among the most reprehensible of humankind - very remote from a well-ordered life. He must be controlled."

The Istyar pauses, and then he says coldly, analytically, "The irony is that his perversions will be the mechanism by which he will be brought under control." He then laughs to himself with a chilling tone that I have never heard from him before, and fear scuttles up and down my spine.

The inexplicable fear evaporates when he turns to me, his eyes warm with his characteristic avuncular affection, and he hands me the bottle, "Have another drink, lad, and don't worry, I will be with you. Just follow my lead."

<b><i>Chapter 8: Studies in Confidence</b></i>

Read <b><i>Chapter 8: Studies in Confidence</b></i>

We enter the gates of Tharbad in the late afternoon. The Istyar looks at the sky and makes a suggestion.

"What do you say to dropping by the inn for a pint or two before we go to the Prince's residence? I daresay we could both use a drink before we face that experience."

"That's fine with me, sir," I reply, silently relieved that the prospect of ale will delay our arrival at the Lord of Tharbad's headquarters. The Istyar's description of the Prince's perversions has rattled me. I'm increasingly nervous as I contemplate the Istyar's plans: deep probing of this Man's disturbed mind with me in tow. I had hoped that we would stop at the inn during this visit to Tharbad, so sooner is better than later, even if it just puts off the inevitable.

My sense of dread lifts when we arrive at the comforting familiarity of the inn. The groom happily takes our horses. Even Mori snorts amiably at the boy. The Istyar tells him to leave the tack on since we will only be here shortly, but that the horses would appreciate water and some hay. The groom, gloating over the small yellow citrine that the Istyar gives him, leads the horses away, chirruping their names as if they are his old friends.

Zadanu pops up from behind the front desk. Evidently, he has been sitting idly during a lull in his usually busy day. He greets us amiably.

"What a pleasure to see you again, Lord Annatar, Master Sámaril! I have a fine room available in a quiet corner upstairs."

"Thank you, Zadanu. I regret to say that we will not staying here this evening as we have obligations with the Prince. We're just stopping by for your fine ale."

"No need to apologize, Lord Annatar," Zadanu smiles, trying to hide the disappointment that we will not rent a room. "We are grateful for any of your business."

With that bit of obsequiousness out of the way, we remove to the common room where about a dozen Men are seated, taking long drinks of ale. From the strands of conversation I overhear, I deduce that the Men - apparently all merchants - are discharging their frustrations and triumphs from the day's business. Nîlozimra nods with a smile at us as we seat ourselves in the middle of the large room. She doesn't even ask, just draws two tankards of ale from the cask.

"My lords, it is good to see you. Shall I get you some bread and cheese? You're here a bit early for the evening meal."

"No, thank you, Nîlozimra. Sámaril and I are just here for the ale. My business is with the Prince during this trip. Another time though."

"Certainly, my Lord Annatar. You are always welcome here." Then she's off to another table.

The kitchen door opens, and Zirânphel enters the common room, carrying a tray laden with plates. She is a young woman now, growing up faster than my little sister. She sees me, smiles but hustles off to a table to discharge her burden. We have become friends over the past several years as my fellows and I make frequent excursions to Tharbad and stay at the inn. She no longer fears us -- the apprentices and journeymen -- although she remains circumspect with the Istyar. Yet she still lacks confidence, and all too often derides herself.

After we finish the ale and settle up with Nîlozimra, I tell the Istyar I will be along in a minute. He looks at me quizzically and tells me he will wait but not to take too long.

I enter the kitchen and find Zirânphel. I ask if she might speak with me outside. We step out into narrow alleyway and the soft evening air.

"Is something wrong, Sámaril? I am sorry that I didn't bring you the ale earlier, but..."

"No, nothing's wrong at all. I have a gift for you." I reach into my pocket and pull out a simple silver ring with a blue topaz set in it, the ring that I made for her just before the Istyar and I departed from Ost-in-Edhil.

"Here, I made this especially for you, Zirânphel." I take her right hand and slip the ring on her fourth finger, the cantëa.

Her hazel eyes widen as she looks at the ring then back at me.

"What a beautiful ring, Sámaril! But I can't possibly accept this."

"Why not? I made one for my sister, and so I made one for you. She is most grateful for hers. You should see her hair now!"

"Her hair? What about her hair?"

"After I gave her the ring, her hair became lustrous, just as she always desired."

"Is this a magic ring then?"

"If you wish to call it so, yes, it is. This ring will let you know that you are worthy, Zirânphel, my sister among Men." I lift her hand and kiss it, as I have seen the Istyar do graciously to women of both kindred. "I'd better go, or the Istyar will have my skin."

"Thank you, Sámaril. Please tell your sister 'thank you' as well since she inspired you to think of me."

She beams and admires the ring, holding out her hand to let the topaz catch the light streaming out of the window. She reaches out to me, and I hug her. She gives me an affectionate peck on the cheek.

"I may have lost a brother," she says, gently smiling, "but I have gained a friend."

At the arched entryway of the inn’s stable, I find the Istyar holding the reins of the horses and crooning to both of them. My bay nibbles on a chunk of apple that my master has offered as a treat.

"Ah, there you are! That didn't take long," he says, sounding pleased that I have not inconvenienced him with tardiness.

"I just wanted to speak to Zirânphel. Thanks for waiting, sir."

"You spoke with Zirânphel? I thought you young men had all sorts of taboos against consorting with mere mortal women."

"No, sir, it's nothing like that. I don't know. Ever since I met her when she was a girl, I've felt affection for her, not unlike my own sister." This is not entirely true, but I cannot safely acknowledge anything more. I reinforce my feelings by continuing, "It's clear her feelings for me are the same. I don't think all mortal women are bowled over by Elvish fairness, sir."

He laughs at that. "I think you're right there. It's that overweening Elvish sense of entitlement that makes many of our menfolk think mortal women should throw themselves at their feet, yet Elven men will not deign to have much to do with these women." He snorts in derision. "Great Yavanna, and you're the same damn species. I don't know if I will ever fully understand your cultural oddities. Well, Sámaril, you at least have some humility, although perhaps not concerning your intellect." He smirks since he knows that I swagger among my peers. "Zirânphel seems a decent sort even if she is so insecure about herself."

"I hope that the ring I gave to her will help with that."

In an instant, his iron-hard hand grips the collar of my tunic, and he pulls me up so that my eyes are only centimeters from his, now enflamed with silver fury.

"You gave a ring to her?" he hisses. His breath is as hot as steam on my face and does not carry the wet grainy scent of ale, but instead the scalding fumes of molten-fired cataracts. A pulsating headache begins to close viselike around my skull.

"Y-yes, I made a ring for her," I stammer. "A benign one, as you said, Istyar. All I did was cast thoughts of confidence into it."

"That was idiotic, Sámaril!" he snaps, pulling harder at my collar, which now tightens against my throat. "The project is to be discussed only among the Otornassë Mírëtanoron - no one else!"

The vise around my skull clenches tighter yet. Grimacing, I squeeze my eyes shut and stifle a moan. Then he releases me and pushes me away. I stumble and gasp, my hand against my throat where the skin has been rubbed raw by the force of his grip. Every instinct tells me to flee, but then the Istyar sighs in resignation. My rapid heartbeat slows, and the excruciating headache disappears as abruptly as the change in my master's demeanor.

"Well, there's not much to be done about it now," he says. His disappointment in me is abundantly clear in his tone, if not his exact words. "It would be crass to take it back from her.

"Sámaril, lad, you must realize that the effects of the rings are different for the Firstborn than for the Followers. I know that I often emphasize the similarities between Elves and Men, but our psychology diverges in profound ways. A ring that has a benign effect on an Elf will have a much more powerful - even detrimental - one on a Man. This is why Istyar Tyelperinquar and I specified that the practice rings are to go to our people only. Let's hope that this ring causes no problems for Nîlozimra's daughter. I'd hate to offend Nîlozimra and Zadanu and forego that ale."

<b><i>Chapter 9: Heart of Darkness</i></b>

Read <b><i>Chapter 9: Heart of Darkness</i></b>

We arrive at the Prince's residence at sunset. Elaborately carved columns and other architectural embellishments grace the imposing building, constructed predominantly of wood. Uniformed grooms lead the horses away with Mori requiring reassurance from the Istyar. A liveried footman escorts us to our rooms, separate but adjoining with a door between the two. I'm puzzled as to why we need an interior entrance between the rooms, but the Istyar just rolls his eyes at me. "You are so naïve, Sámaril." The servant informs us that we will be summoned to the evening's repast in a couple of hours.

The lavatory, which is shared between the two rooms, is luxurious, and I don't have to fret whether I should bathe first or defer to the Istyar since two copper tubs filled with steaming water await us. After bathing, I plait the sides of my damp hair and pull them out of the way, otherwise allowing my locks hang loose like my mentor's. My dark green robe, which complements the color of my hair, according to my mother, is a bit short since I have grown since I acquired the garment. The gold belt, chains, and jeweled circlet that I crafted hopefully will detract from the less than ideal length. The inner door opens, and my master, draped in a wine-red robe and dripping with his elegant gold finery, enters my room. As before, he wears the circlet with the eye of wisdom centered over his forehead.

"We must discuss our study of the Prince tonight. I think it's best if we wait to begin the examination until we are well into the evening meal, and he is relaxed. Be aware that you must be alert and observant, and you'll need to be prepared for what you'll see."

The Istyar pauses, shuts his eyes tightly as if he has been struck with sudden pain, and rubs his temples.

"Istyar? Are you well?"

"I think so. I simply have this blasted headache. I wonder if Nîlozimra's cask was cleaned properly? Well, I'll live. Are you ready, Sámaril, to see some of the worst of Mankind?"

"I suppose so, sir." With my heart pounding, I follow him to the dining hall as the chime of a bell summons us to the evening's repast.

~*~

We enter the dining hall, an expansive space lined with chestnut paneled walls decorated with colorful tapestries. The Prince sits in a carved chair with a high back at the middle of the long table where his retinue of courtiers are already drinking and laughing merrily. Even seated, it's evident that the Prince is a tall man, and the hints of the Eldarin bloodline can be seen in his features. He does not rise when we approach him but languorously addresses the Istyar.

"Welcome, Lord Annatar. I see you've finally brought one of your pretty lads with you this time. I trust you find the accommodations to your liking?" The Prince's pronunciation of Sindarin and Quenya words both is flawless.

"Yes, the accommodations are adequate," the Istyar answers after bowing, his demeanor gracious and regal in spite of the Prince's discourtesy of not rising to greet us. "Allow me to present Sámaril, one of the most talented journeymen of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain."

The Istyar's description of me -- one of the most talented journeymen -- causes my heart to leap, but I recover enough to remember my manners. Because this Man is a prince from the royal house of the Númenóreans, I assume a deferential gesture is in order so I bow my head.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Sámaril," the Prince says. "I am sure you are every bit as talented as your master says." The words themselves are not salacious in the least, but his unctuous tone is.

The prince's innuendo is peculiar. Does he think the Istyar and I are lovers? The absurdity of the notion almost makes me laugh out loud, but I discipline myself to do so internally. I set my face in what I hope is a mask of Elvish inscrutability. The Istyar catches my eye with a shrewd sideways glance and winks almost imperceptibly. I know he's thinking the same as he skims the outer shell of my thoughts. I hear his voice in my head: Just play along. The Prince makes all manner of assumptions.

The Istyar is seated immediately to the Prince's left, and I am on the other side of the Istyar with a high-ranking courtier to my left. Servants bring platter after platter of delicious cuisine: roasted boar, braised venison, and something the Númenoreans call noodles - a dough of eggs and Eregion's hard wheat flour which is then shaped into flat strips and boiled. The red wine is excellent: dry, tart yet floral. It has been imported from the island, and it is served in a delicate crystal glass as fine as any in Ost-in-Edhil.

The Prince drinks copiously from a gold chalice ringed with jewels. The cupbearer, who serves the wine to him, is a beautiful youth. When the boy brings the third cup, the Prince stops him, and slowly strokes the boy's cheek then brings his hand down to rest against the boy's chest. The Prince dismisses the boy, but orders him to stop after he turns. The drunken Prince then boldly caresses the lad's buttocks.

Queasiness unsettles my full stomach as I observe this and other decadence. I will be inside that Man's head soon, and I dread what I will see. The Istyar, on the other hand, is in fine form. His headache seems to have disappeared as he trots out his sardonic wit and banters with the Prince. The courtier on my left has engaged me in conversation and asks me various things about Ost-in-Edhil, so I am distracted when I overhear my name. The next thing I know, the Istyar's hand is on my right thigh, stroking me, while he laughs and tells the Prince that I am "a good sport," or was it "good sport?" I tense but my master's familiar voice, speaking in my mind, reassured me: Relax, lad. It's only for effect. Be ready though.

Within seconds, the saber-shrills of my master's strange language course through my mind. I find myself in a human brain with its cascades of glistening particles flowing and then fitting into miniscule pits like keys in locks, which in turn trigger another cataract of sparks. The thoughts resolve into coherence.

I see the Prince's unbridled ambition that has been checked by his exile to Tharbad, something that he feels is an injustice of the worst kind. He hungers for more power and more control. He is completely self-centered, cunning and cruel. Although I remove myself from his dark ambitions - observing them analytically - what comes next is far more difficult just as the Istyar has warned me.

The faces of young women and girls contort with pain and terror while others are blank masks of abject resignation as their bodies and psyches are assaulted. The pale faces of young boys grimace with fright: terrible damage is inflicted upon them as the Prince compels them to suck on his tumescence and then buggers them. The Prince's heightened arousal derives from his victims' agony and fear. His lust for power is coupled to his bodily lust, and thus I am sickened by this man's motivations. The Istyar holds and guides me; his strange words reach into the depths of my brain, advising me to pay attention to every last detail, no matter how horrendous it is, and commit it to my memory.

We linger in the Prince's mind much longer than is usual for these studies. I perceive that my master wishes to gather as much information as we can. In the meantime, the outer shell of my mind remains functional, making small talk with the courtier on my left. The best I can manage are monosyllabic responses because my mental entanglement with the Istyar and the perverse mind of the Prince. My distraction is further compounded by the Istyar's distress, a highly unusual state, or at least one that I have not hitherto experienced on one of these excursions.

Then a strange and terrible thing happens. As we course through the Prince's mind, a singularity of absolute blackness appears. I am not sure of its origin, from the Prince's debased mind, I think. The tenebrous mote expands rapidly as the tentacles from a chthonic monstrosity ooze from a cage. The tentacles twist around the Prince's most perverted desires and caress them, triggering much worse possibilities. The stygian horror tempts him with grotesque aberrations, their depravity bleeding across the images.

The horror, its tentacles churning, whispers to him, Is this what you desire, or is it this?

The Prince, instead of being frightened by the writhing darkness, embraces it, offers himself to it.

Yes, that is what I desire and more.

Terror threatens to overwhelm me, and I lose my grip on the Istyar when his presence becomes tenuous. I sit paralyzed next to the Prince's toady while my outer shell of action and thought has shut down. The black vortex threatens to swallow me whole. All hope has vanished, and I find myself faced with the potential of my own death as my spirit begins to separate from my body. I cling to my master's essence only by a mental fingernail, ready to spin into the gaping maw, drawn into it like light never to escape. My fëa may become trapped in this Man's mind, but I don't care. Let the heart of darkness take me. I cannot hold on any longer.

Just as the last flicker of my life's light sputters, ready to be snuffed out, I sense a cold, detached presence. Fast and forceful, the syllables ring and glitter again, but they are not directed at me. I have no comprehension of what is said, but the tentacles of blackness quickly retreat, hissing as they disappear into a vault. As the cool presence pushes back the darkness, faint silver light returns. I feel the aura of my mentor again, but weakened. In an instant, our connection is severed, and I return to the material world.

The Istyar sits beside me, still chatting idly with the Prince and smiling, but he is pale. His hands grip the sides of his chair so tightly that his knuckles are white. Overcome with nausea, I leap up and run out of the hall. I find a door and lurch outside where I proceed to expel the entire contents of my stomach. I cannot stop retching, my eyes tearing from the pain as my stomach tries to turn itself inside out. Spasms rack my body. I am deeply cold as if the abject fear I experienced has not retreated but has become entangled in the core of my being.

I am not sure how long I am bent over, heaving out my guts, trying to dislodge the malignancy embedded in my mind. A familiar arm, strong and reassuring, drapes across my back.

"Sámaril. You're safe. You will be all right. Listen to me."

My mentor proceeds to soothe me as if I were a little boy, a baby. Warmth returns to my body, the fear retreats, and my stomach's spasms finally cease. I stumble, leaning against him as he guides me back to my room. After sliding out of my robes, which I drop carelessly to the floor, I fall into the bed. The Istyar covers me with blankets, assuring that I remain warm. He tells me he will be back shortly, and that he will bring back something for me to drink since I must get fluids back into my system.

He returns with a hot aromatic tea with a sharp yet sweet, biting flavor. "Ginger tea. They brought it from Númenor. It's an anti-emetic, that is, it settles the stomach. Drink it slowly or you'll bring it all back up."

I slowly sip the tea as he sits on the bed beside me. I say nothing of what happened. I do not want to dredge up the experience, but the Istyar brings it to the fore.

"I am sorry you had to experience that, Sámaril. As I warned you, the Prince has most disordered thought processes."

Finishing my tea, I lie back in the bed, exhausted and still sick. The Istyar strokes my forehead, pushing my hair off my forehead in a practiced, paternal manner. He sings softly, his beautiful voice weaving together images of a violet sky ablaze with strange stars that shine over a wine-dark sea. I fall into a dreamless sleep.

~*~

I awake late the next day, and although still weak from the bout of vomiting, I am better. While I relieve myself in the lavatory shared between the two rooms, I note the precisely folded but damp towels, indicating that the Istyar is already up and bathed. Lacking the energy to wash and dress, I return to bed and lounge, reading for a while.

The door of other room opens and smacks shut, and shortly thereafter, the Istyar bursts into my room through the interior door, not bothering to knock, but that's nothing unexpected. The fresh scent of charged air fills the room. He's in good spirits and dressed for riding. I find myself hoping that he is prepared to depart this stolid city with its rotted core of decadence.

"How are you this afternoon, lad? The color's back in your face, so I assume you've recovered."

"Much better, sir. I'm still feeling a little drained, but I expect if I have something to eat, I'll be fine."

"Then get yourself something to eat and drink and be quick about it. The servants are still in the kitchen and can find food for you. Then dress for riding. We will accompany the Prince and his entourage on a hunt at dusk. This will afford us another opportunity to examine him as well as his courtiers."

My heart sinks. The last thing I want to do is spend more time with this abominable specimen of Númenórean royalty. Aghast at the prospect, I speak up.

"Sir, I do not think I can do this. My experience with the Prince last night was terrible, and I fear a repeat of it if I go with you into his mind again."

The Istyar responds coolly, "Sámaril, this is not an option. We must gather as much data on this Man as possible. You also need to round out your overall understanding of Men by examination of his courtiers.

"You do understand that this is required for your advancement to master smith, do you not? I have been studying him for some years now, but it is you who will forge a ring for him. If we are to work together on this, you must fully comprehend the Prince's nature. If it's any consolation, the Prince will not be into his drink as he was last night, which may mitigate some of the worst of what you observed. Now get out of bed and prepare yourself."

Later, as the sun creeps to the horizon, I meet my mentor and the rest of the party at the stables. We ride out of the city into the denuded landscape of Mirhiriath where the Númenóreans have laid waste to the old growth forests. It is a depressing sight, even for a Noldo who is less enamored of the woodlands than the Sindar and Silvans. Even if we cut the trees from the groves of Eregion for woodworking and to fuel the furnaces in the House of the Mírëtanor, it is in a controlled manner. Our foresters plant saplings to renew the woods. Not so here. In addition to the wanton destruction of a resource, the Númenóreans have earned the enmity of the indigenous tribes of Men who lived in these forests.

We hunt for boar, which live amongst the scrub that now grows where the trees once stood. I ride with the lesser courtiers toward the back of the hunting party while the Istyar is at the fore with the Prince. Distance means little when my master yanks me into the entourage's thoughts, and we leap from Man to Man. Through my observations, I perceive what is of paramount importance among these Men of nobility as opposed to the common people. The need for power suffuses the courtiers' motives. They hunger for wealth and command of others, much like the Prince.

My master pulled me again into Prince's brain, and I cleave to Aulendil as we careen through the Man's active thoughts. Fortunately, the Istyar's assessment was correct: the lack of alcohol keeps the worst from being so obvious although I can still detect ghastly images churning below the surface.

The desire for power is ever at the forefront of the Prince's mind with mundane flickers of thought at the periphery: this shirt itches; I should examine the ledgers tomorrow. The most prominent theme I see today is the thrill of the hunt, an arousal that builds in the Prince, eventually driving away his mind's trivial concerns. The hounds corner a boar. When the Prince spears the beast, his bloodlust is so intense that it makes him erect. Even if I find the response repulsive, the writhing black tentacles of the Prince's mind are absent, so I can bear this. My master releases me at last. I am so exhausted that I am lucky not to fall off my horse.

Upon returning, I fling myself onto the bed, fully clothed and boots still on, and sleep for a while, then awake and bathe and dress for the evening. The air of decadence at the late meal is just as evident as it was the previous night with a number of young boys acting as servants to the Prince and his entourage. The boys are thrilled to be a part of this lofty company. They have yet to suffer at the hands of the Prince and a few of his sycophants who actively engage in the same perversions as their lord. The Istyar already informed me that we would not be taking any deep mental dives this evening, so I am spared that at least.

We ride out of the city at dawn the next morning. My master is more than ready to depart.

"By Námo's cold bone, we can't get away from this wretched city fast enough!"

But the Istyar stops his horse and looks back at the docks, the market, and the wood and earthen walls of the fortification with its towers at its corners. His mithril gaze is sharp and calculating.

"The Prince will get what he desires and deserves."

He laughs, neither with sardonic humor nor with avuncular indulgence, but with a chill that sets my teeth on edge and raises the hairs on the back of my neck. He then flicks the reins on Mori's headstall after we have passed over the bridge, and the stallion springs forward. My bay needs little encouragement to follow. We gallop away from Tharbad and fly toward the Ford of the Glanduin.

<b><i>Chapter 10: Initiation Rites</b></i>

See end notes for commentary on canon and the Rings of Power.

Read <b><i>Chapter 10: Initiation Rites</b></i>

On the night of the winter solstice, when the night is the longest of the year, when most of the denizens of the House of the Mirëtanor are in their homes, feasting and drinking before the roaring fires in the hearths and amidst garlands of holly and pine that bedeck their homes, I make ready to pour the molten electrum alloy into the lost-wax cast. The darkness weighs on me. The forge is silent, expectant, as if it holds its breath in anticipation of a strange portent ready to be born. The ladle filled with molten metal shakes when I tremble, but my master's strong hand on my shoulder steadies me.

"This will be the first Ring of Power for Men, Sámaril. Cast it with all your knowledge, all the data you have gathered on the Prince. We will craft this ring to aid him, to help control his deviance and bring him aright. I will assist you so that the materials and your data are fully interlinked." He squeezes my shoulder as confirmation and says softly, "Pour it now."

A searing sensation courses through my brain to my arm that holds the ladle and into the liquid electrum. As the molten metal drips from the ladle into the cast, I focus my mind on the structure of the material. The scent of rarified air rises and envelops me. I dredge up my observations, every last detail, of the Prince's psyche. I sense a detached analytical presence, a presence that alongside me precisely manipulates the solidifying metal. My thoughts entwine with those of the detached presence -- the steel-cold calculations of my master -- so that our collective knowledge of the Prince is firmly interwoven with the ring's fundamental structure.

Placing the cast in the centrifuge, I crank it with all my strength to drive the metal into the mold and rid it of bubbles. Once the cast is cool, I break it and pick off the debris from the warm ring then spray it with a solution of metallic salts to give the metal an iridescent hue.

The Istyar takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. "Good work, Sámaril. Take the ring and lock it up in that drawer in my workshop. You know which one, right?"

I nod.

"You may work on setting the opal tomorrow. Your choice of stone is perfect: an amorphous crystal coupled with the iridescent surface of the ring. So appropriate for Man -- ever changeable and vacillating between the light and the dark."

~*~

The work on this ring tires me like none of the others, but it is the most beautiful I have crafted yet. I turn it in the light of my lamp at night in the workshop and in the light of the wane winter sun. The light reflecting from the ring swirls like wisps of pale luminescent smoke in the wind.

A few days later, the Istyar calls me to his office. The sky through the window behind him is overcast, and light snow is falling.

"Well, let's see it, Sámaril."

Leaning forward, I place the ring on his desk. He picks it up between right forefinger and thumb and holds it up in the diffuse light from the window to examine it, rolling it over and over. Then he turns away from the window and closes his right hand around the ring. He lowers his head and shuts his eyes in concentration, his forehead tense. Pearlescent light escapes from between his fingers and then fades. He relaxes and opens his eyes. He smiles, but the opaque curtain is drawn across his visage.

"There. I have hardened the matrix of the ring. It is now complete. Contact your committee and schedule your defense. It's time for your rite of passage into the Otornassë Mírëtanoron."

He hands the ring back to me. It feels different. In spite of its ethereal appearance, it is heavier.

~*~

A few days hence, I am initiated into the Otornassë. The grueling ordeal proceeds with hours of questioning from all five masters, including the Istyari, who probe me in search of every last iota of the knowledge they have expected me to acquire during my years of study. They flay me, stripping off layer after layer of my intellect. The masters systematically ream my brain of its knowledge, reducing my mind to a quivering heap of useless gelatinous grey matter.

Then it is time for them to examine my final project. I bring forth a small cask that I have made out of beechwood inlaid with gold and thin slices of white marble from the Eregion quarry. The masters' grey and blue Noldorin eyes, shrewd and discerning, follow my movements as I place the box in the center of the table where they sit. I slowly lift the lid, revealing the nacreous ring, which I hand first to Master Erëtáno for examination. His eyes widen as he regards it. He places it over his finger, brows raised, and sits in reflection for a while before removing the ring. He passes it to the next master on my committee. Each man, with the exception of Istyar Aulendil, repeats the process, each withdrawing into his mind as he contemplates the essence of the ring.

"Most impressive, Sámaril," says Istyar Tyelperinquar as he slides the ring off his finger. "This ring has the capacity to guide and thus elevate our mortal kindred almost to our level of achievement and understanding. The Noldor can further advance if Men support our civilization. Aesthetically, it is fine work."

This is the consensus of the remaining members of the committee. They each sign my thick treatise, dense with my observations, results, interpretations and conclusions, provided to them prior to the defense. The Istyar is the final master to sign with his distinctively beautiful handwriting. He finishes with a flourish, stands, and extends his hand to me, a resplendent smile on his handsome face.

"Congratulations, Sámaril. You are now a master of the Otornassë Mírëtanoron. Well done, lad!"

Spent from the intellectual torment of the defense, I stumble out of the chamber where my exam has taken place. My fellow junior masters, the journeymen, and the apprentices - all awaiting my arrival in the corridor - reinvigorate me with their raucous and hearty accolades.

Teretion, who recently passed his defense, smirks as he drapes his arm over my shoulders. "Thank your lucky stars that you are Istyar Aulendil's student and focus on the psychology of Men. The Istyari have me crafting a ring for a Dwarf." He shudders. "What a bunch of little aliens."

We cram into the Istyar's parlor that evening, where the serce valaron flows and the vulgar songs of the Aman smithies soar. We toast Aulë. We toast Mahtan. We toast Fëanáro. Then they all toast me -- Sámaril -- along with those legendary smiths. The Istyar -- my beloved, respected and feared mentor -- laughs indulgently. I drink to the point of passing out, falling onto the settee in his parlor, the fire dying down with occasional snaps and sparks from the charred and crumbled oak logs. After the rest depart, their songs receding on the streets illumined by the yellow light of my lamps, the Istyar places a bottle of water by me and covers me with a blanket. I can barely hear the words of his soft baritone voice as the tides of wine-soaked sleep pull me into their depths. His nighttime benediction is not warm and avuncular, but cold, detached and devoid of emotion.

"You are hopeless, Sámaril. You just don't know how hopeless yet."

---

Chapter End Notes

Notes added in proof:

Canon and the Rings of Power (1)

In the FAQ of the Rings, the question "Were the Seven and Nine Rings originally intended for Dwarves and Men?" is addressed by Stan Brown's semi-authoritative (2) answer:

"Almost certainly not. The intended purpose of the Rings was preserving Middle-earth from change. This is an Elvish motive, not likely to appeal to Dwarves and especially not to Men. (Bolded emphasis - Stan Brown)

In the Ring-rhyme, only the sixth and seventh lines (“One Ring to rule them all ...”) were spoken by Sauron. They were most likely part of the spell that created the One Ring, since he also inscribed the verses in the Ring. Gandalf quotes those lines (in the Black Speech and then in Westron) at the Council of Elrond, adding: “Out of the Black Years come the words that the Smiths of Eregion heard, and knew that they had been betrayed” [LotR II 2 (271-272)].

The other six lines were “lore”, written by some unknown person after Sauron had seized the Seven and the Nine Rings and given them out to his intended victims. When those lines cite numbers of Rings “for” Elves, Dwarves, and Men, that is hindsight and not an expression of original intent. Tolkien makes this clear at one point where he mentions Sauron handing out the seized Rings and then adds “Hence the ‘ancient rhyme’ that appears as the leit-motif of The Lord of the Rings” [L #131 (153)]."

However, Tolkien wrote the following in "The History of Galadriel and Celeborn," Unfinished Tales, 1980, Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston; p 238.

"Celebrimbor, desperate, himself withstood Sauron on the steps of the great door of the Mírdain; but he was grappled and taken captive, and the House was ransacked. There Sauron took the Nine Rings and the other lesser works of the Mirdain, but the Seven and the Three he could not find. Then Celebrimbor was put to torment, and Sauron learned from him where the Seven were bestowed. This Celebrimbor revealed, because neither the Seven nor the Nine did he value as he valued the Three; the Seven and the Nine were made with Sauron's aid, whereas the Three were made by Celebrimbor alone, with a different power and purpose." (Bolded emphasis mine)

This passage implies the Seven and the Nine Rings were distinct, and that the Three were further differentiated from the Seven and the Nine.

In The Apprentice, I have chosen the "tailor-made" route although the Seven and the Nine were very likely linked into the Elvish desire for preservation of their works and maintenance of their high caste in Middle-earth (note Tyelperinquar's condescending remark concerning Men).

(1) Yes, I appreciate the extreme irony of canon nitpickery on my part, especially given the flagrant heresies of the pandemoniverse.

(2) I use "semi-authoritative" in the sense that this is an interpretation of Tolkien's writings which taken as a whole are quite fluid and at times contradictory as the author created his secondary world. That said, Mr. Brown's FAQ of the Rings is a well-researched and interesting resource.

<b><i>Chapter 11: The View from the Barad-dûr</b></i>

Comments in End Notes.

Read <b><i>Chapter 11: The View from the Barad-dûr</b></i>

Mordor, ~1580, Second Age.

I believe the genus is Melanocetus, but the species name escapes me. The fish dwells in the abyss of the ocean in waters too deep for sunlight to penetrate. Humans on this world rarely encounter it although an occasional specimen is caught in nets. Its grotesque appearance with its oversized jaws ringed with needle-sharp teeth horrifies the superstitious fishermen who discover it. They call it the black devilfish and regard it as an ill omen rather than the marvelous specimen of adaptation that it is.

Melanocetus is a predator. The animal relies on a lure, a spine that protrudes from the bone above its eyes, and tipped with bioluminescent bacteria, symbiotes to the fish. The bacteria are not unlike those I used as a light source in the blue lamps and similar to those that were the source of the DNA spliced into Samaril's recombinants. The bioluminescent lure glows in the blackness. The curious prey cannot resist it. Attracted to the light, the prey approaches, and the fish swallows it whole.

So the Noldor were attracted to my light for over two yéni. I will not swallow them whole just yet. That will take time. The Ring's crafting is painstaking work, proving to be a difficult task since I must transfer so much of my own capabilities into it. I continue to experiment, unsuccessfully so far, with various alloys suitable for the Ring, all of which can be formulated only with the temperatures available through geothermal energy. Orodruin is thus my ideal crucible. As I always told my students, research is tedious work, but made worthwhile by the "Ah, ha!" moment. I know that the solution will come to me soon.

I did not fully appreciate how much the Elves contributed to the manipulations of the materials, but it was significant, and truth be told, I miss their intellectual stimulation. As it is, dullards surround me in Mordor, even if they are obedient dullards. I wish I could have taken someone of skill and intelligence with me as an assistant. I groomed one for such a task, but in the end, the risk to my plans was too great. There is still time for that, and once I have crafted the One and have the Seven and the Nine in hand, the Eldar will have little choice but to join in alliance with me.

I would never have predicted how thoroughly I was able to integrate myself into their society. Certainly, a large part of that was due to taking on the form that I did, but the mental state I crafted was equally effective. If Melanocetus is the zoological analogy for the manner in which I lured the Noldor to my designs, then the triumvirate godhead of Sakal an-Khâr - Vishnu, Brahma and Shiva - is the paradigm for my mind. I, Mairon the Wise, am as Vishnu the Preserver, who is the governor of all my thoughts and the thoughts and actions of others. My avatars are Aulendil the Bright and Gorthaur the Cruel.

My mind has not been whole since I became Melkor's. The cognitive dissonance of cleaving to him after my time with Aulë was shattering, but I so wanted what Melkor had to offer me. I coped by effecting this dissociation, which has served me well for eons.

Gorthaur was born soon after I joined Melkor, but it may be that this dark monster of my personality had been there since my beginnings. He dominated for ages while I held his reins, often releasing them when it suited my purposes. Aulendil, the foundation of my origins, just as I am, remained a whisper until I let him out of his prison after the War of Wrath so that my deference to Eonwë was sincere.

Aulendil was more than ready to face judgment before Manwë and the rest of the Valar, so eager he was to return to Aulë, even as a prisoner. I - he - was starved for emotional connections. Such lack of ties to others, the lack of companionship, affection and love, is as unnatural for my species as it is for the humans -- mortal and Firstborn alike -- of this world.  But sometimes one must live an unnatural life for the sake of ordering the world to one's liking.

What Eonwë proposed was anathema to Gorthaur, who protested most vociferously, writhing with disgust at the prospect of obeisance to the Valar. Ultimately, it was I who did not wish to subject myself to humiliation before Manwë and the rest of those manipulative monsters. The Eldar and Men elevate the Valar as divine ethereal beings. The fools are further from the truth than they can possibly imagine, even those Eldar who dwell in Valinor among my kin.

The last several years in Ost-in-Edhil was particularly difficult as my mind sought to regain its former equilibrium. My colleagues and those closest to me assumed I was descending into madness, and in a sense, they were correct since the process wrecked havoc with my Noldorin neurotransmitter balance. Although my mind has been compartmentalized for millennia, this more profound separation took its toll. As Gorthaur began to re-emerge, and Aulendil receded, I struggled to maintain outward signs of normality and even more so, to hide the source of my turmoil from those closest to me. Fortunately, Sámaril, Teretion and Tyelperinquar worked steadily so the Rings were completed in a timely manner, and I was able to leave before Tyelperinquar perceived what was happening to me. In any case, I am not sure he would have recognized the diminution of Aulendil until it was too late, since he was blinded by trust and loyalty not only to me, but also by obsessive devotion to his own craft.

With my oversight, Aulendil served a very useful purpose in Eregion: charismatic, persuasive, likeable, and adaptable. Only a handful in the West suspected something, and even then, they could not articulate their apprehension to anyone else's satisfaction. The combination of the Noldorin body and Aulendil's bright spirit won the Eldar over, more effectively than I could have ever hoped.

Aulendil was the perfect lure, shining and glowing in the depths. I became Tyelperinquar's brother of the heart as well as his colleague and mentor. The whole of the Otornassë Mírëtanoron admired me, respected me, and my journeymen and apprentices worshipped me, vying to study under me. Since there was a risk that Tyelperinquar would have perceived what I was doing when I assisted with the Nine and the Seven, my guidance of Sámaril and Teretion as they cast the Rings served my purposes beautifully. So trusting. So loyal. So ambitious. Even when Gorthaur revealed himself, they were ever in denial that it was me, their beloved mentor, who was the source of the darkness.

Sámaril was one of my best pupils. His inherent talent for manipulating materials came to the fore under my tutelage. His intellectual acumen was formidable, more than he realized, and nearly equivalent to that of Tyelperinquar. His eagerness to please me worked in my favor, but it was his overarching ambition and intense desire for recognition that played into my agenda so well and made him easy to manipulate. My kinder aspect developed a great deal of affection and respect for Sámaril. I respected the young man and appreciated his enthusiasm and creativity. But if it serves my purpose to dispose of him, then I will do so. Gorthaur will see to that.

For now, Aulendil grieves over his life left behind in Eregion. He weakens like a dying man, but this is how it should be, because ultimately, I must control all. He must be diminished enough for me to shut him away again. However, the time in Eregion imbued him with surprising strength, so I do not know if I will ever be able to fully suppress him. Still, I am certain he will never be strong enough to interfere unduly with my plans.

I console that part of myself still capable of camaraderie, love, and regret, assuring him that I will return to Eregion, victorious once I have forged the One, when they will be under my sway. I will take the Seven and the Nine if they do not relinquish them to me. He takes solace in the prospect of return, regardless of its circumstances. No matter what the price, he wishes to regain his comfortable and creative life in Ost-in-Edhil, so much so that he has deluded himself that all will be as before, that he will be forgiven by those he hurt so terribly. Yet at the same time, he desires to see the One Ring created for its own sake. The task appeals to his insatiable curiosity, and he views this as a great challenge of his creativity. He is - I am - in thrall to the pursuit of knowledge, just as the Noldor are.

Gorthaur, on the other hand, is a problematic component of my mind, yet he is also extremely useful. He acquired a ravenous appetite for torture and cruelty in the ages past. Suppression of such anger and hate required a great deal of effort while I was in Eregion, for his personality is strong. The balance between Aulendil and myself is easy to achieve, since logic and wisdom have always appealed to Aulendil. Gorthaur represents a malignant pathology. The integration of the wise and the cruel has ever been uneasy, but I need his strength and his ability to generate fear and despair.

Gorthaur and Aulendil were - and remain - forever at odds, particularly since Aulendil relished the beautifully engineered Noldorin form. Gorthaur detested Aulendil's emotions and sentimentality, his embrace of his masculinity and its effects on his decisions and actions, especially when his behaviors dredged up memories I had thought long dissipated: memories of my past, distant in time and dimension, before I arrived in Arda with the others.

Gorthaur's strength far outweighs Aulendil's, but I rarely had to intervene in Eregion until the end as I re-equilibrated. I had locked Gorthaur in my mind's vaults, and Aulendil's spirit was much more compatible with the Noldorin body than was Gorthaur's, and thus better integrated into the whole. I learned enough from Aulendil that I believe I can make use of his behaviors again by mimicry. I will have no need to bring him forth again as I did to gain the Noldor's trust.

~*~

Distant shouts and the clanks of machines and armor echo from far out on the plain, distracting me from my ruminations. I set aside my work on the desk, a gold circle of light cast upon it by one of Sámaril's lamps. From the balcony, far above the plain, I survey my land under the pall of night. The height of the tower is spectacular, and I am pleased with it, this wonder of the world. The final turrets should be completed in a few years. The impenetrable surface of the black stone composite is smooth against my hands, a prime example of my well-honed abilities to reach into the substructure of the rock and form microarrays of perfect order and superlative strength.

The orc platoons and the squadrons of Easterlings march below me in the darkness. Gorthaur, of course, favors the orcs, base creatures who will obey his every craven desire, and bring him victims for torment. The orcs are also useful, as soldiers with marginal free will. Unfortunately, they also lack intelligence. Their ranks grow as they breed more of their young, ready for training. My return to Mordor has accelerated their generation although not by my direct oversight; supervision of the breeding program is a truly loathsome task that I delegate. During my absence from Mordor, the orc societies were in shambles, and my thralls around the Sea of Núrnen were greatly weakened. It has taken time to rebuild, and I do not yet have sufficient troops to launch my campaign against the Elves and Men of Eriador.

My military strength is also bolstered by alliances with Men of the East. These Men intrigue me. Many have keen minds coupled with rank ambition, an optimal combination for my purposes. Because of the insular West's bigotry, the Easterlings have not been integrated into the western societies, such as they are. Alliances between East and West are practically non-existent. The Númenóreans return to the shores of Middle-earth as conquerors, further alienating the Men of the East. This has worked to my advantage, and I have persuaded many of the Easterlings to come to my side. Because of their anger, their outrage at unjust treatment, it was easy to accomplish.

The orcs and Men on the field below are visible by starlight. The orcs suffer under the stars. Gorthaur detests their light. He would blot out all the stars in the sky with a pall of fumes from Orodruin, but that is just part of his irrationality that serves me so effectively. Gorthaur generates fear, and fear is my greatest weapon since it distorts the perceptions and decisions of Men and Elves alike. The powerful psychological effects of mass hysteria cannot be underestimated.

The stars do not disturb me, not in the least. I raise my eyes to the majestic Sirë Elenion, flowing across the dome of the sky. My sight is that of the Eldar, so I can see stars of dim magnitude, even binary systems, and thus the Sirë Elenion blazes with the plasma-fires of a billion suns. My origins lie somewhere in that direction, toward the center of the galaxy, but those details of my past are barely discernable, faint wisps of stardust at the borders of my memory.

I know what lurks in the heart of the river of stars. Aulendil fears it. If he were able, he would go crying to Manwë in supplication before allowing himself to become one with its immense beauty, its perfect darkness, a darkness so complete that sub-atomic structure is torn asunder in the riptides of gravity. It lies there spinning, taking in strange matter and flinging out huge quantities of radiation, warping time and space. No one knows what happens to the matter or light sucked into the singularity, but I know Melkor resides there: Melkor, the heart of darkness, worthy of worship and of sacrifices made on his behalf. Such worship and sacrifice are among many things that I will bring about when I cast the One.

I gaze at the center of the galaxy, toward the heart of darkness, and with my mind's eye, the ajna chakra, I am aware of many paths before me, the strings of many dimensions, many universes, running alongside each other in parallel, but sometimes touching, creating new futures or annihilating one another as they meet. The strings all lead to the creation of the One Ring. There are many possibilities after that, but they are masked from my scrutiny, obscuring interpretation. But I am confident. I will create my masterwork, and no one of this benighted world shall sunder it from me.

---

Chapter End Notes

Melanocetus - Latin is again used as a translation for the fish's genus in the taxonomy (presumably in Valarin) used by the Maiar and Valar, but the identity of the fish is the same as our contemporary world, i.e., contiguous with Middle-earth.

yén, pl. yéni: 144 solar years.

Sakal an-Khâr: the Middle-earth equivalent of ancient India. This is taken from the MERP gamers world, where it is designated as a mix of Etruscan and Carthaginois cultures. Huh? With a name like Sakal an-Khâr, which is firmly based in Marathi and the Moghuls? That makes no sense to me so make it Indian cultures, darn it!

Although this diverges from the Atlas of Middle-earth by Karen Wynn Fonstad and JRRT's canonical sketches, I like the following map of Ambar from the Lindëfirion: Maps and Charts site by Sampsa Ilmari Rydman for MERP use:

http://www.taivaansusi.net/roolipelit/lindefirion/maps.html

The original may be found under the list for Endor, and is designated thusly:

Middle-earth according to Parmandil Merhast of Minas Ithil, 1434 T.A.

If you squint, you can make out Sakal-an-Khar as it gets ready to ram into the Land of a Thousand Cities.

<b><i>Chapter 12: Derivations of Hope</b></i>

As of 04/29/2008, modifications have been made to this chapter so that it aligns, although perhaps not seamlessly, with The Elendilmir, the sequel to The Apprentice.

Glossary and comments in End Notes.

Read <b><i>Chapter 12: Derivations of Hope</b></i>

One should rather die than be betrayed. There is no deceit in death. It delivers precisely what it has promised. Betrayal, though ... betrayal is the willful slaughter of hope.

--Steven Deitz, American playwright and dramatist, b. 1958 -

Imladris, circa 1300 Third Age.

The heavy oak doors thud as I shut them behind me, their vibrations dampened by the thickness of their dense wood. Pausing before I take the path down to the house below, I take in the view from the height of the forge, perched on an outcropping high above the vale, a view that will transition my focus on molten metals and interlinked steel to the mundane aspects of my life like food and bathing.

The setting sun ignites the western sky with Eärendil and Alcarinquë shining in the arc high above the horizon. The pale limestone cliffs are shadowed in a thousand twilight shades of grey. The scent of pine rises through the summer evening air -- a welcome contrast to the acrid, burning odor of the forge. Rustling leaves in the oak, beech and birch trees, together with the rushing water of the Bruinen, mingle in a summer song. The valley is a haven of peace even though the sundered remnants of Elendil’s northern kingdom are under attack from a new threat.

The silver bell in the tower chimed some time ago. Once again, I have missed the evening meal. I am not especially hungry, just dog-tired from many days of unrelenting work on hauberks, helmets, swords and all manner of weaponry. Switching back and forth three times across the cliff face, I plod down the path to reach the terraces of the House of Elrond and quietly enter through a side door. I pass through the kitchen, hoping to avoid others who might be lingering in the dining hall. Some of the staff are still in the kitchen, washing dishes and storing those leftovers which may be preserved. They try to persuade me to sit and have a full meal, but I only accept a piece of bread, an ascetic's meal, no more than I deserve, which I wolf down as I walk away.

My plan is to go to my room before I head to the baths to wash off the crust of forge soot and dried sweat clinging to my skin, but I remember that I want to research the ductile strength of a steel alloy among the volumes in the library. From the music filtering through the house, I deduce that the residents and guests are in the Hall of Fire. I hope to find my information and take notes with no disturbance. I am in no mood for company, but then, I rarely am. I am said to be reserved, even taciturn, but that has not always been the case.

When I enter the library, irritation prickles me when I see that someone else is already there, seated at a table illuminated by an oil lamp. I recognize the figure, whose height is evident even as he hunches over a table, writing on parchment. The distinctive mane of gold hair that flows down his back confirms his identity. I turn to leave because I am not inclined to converse with this man, this lord among my people, who resides in the same household that I do. Although he has always treated me kindly, I find him intimidating at times.

"Good evening, Sámaril." He has heard me and looks up from his work. "We missed you at dinner."

"Likewise, good evening, Lord Glorfindel. I'm afraid I was preoccupied in the forges, and time slipped away from me. I was just stopping by to find a volume before I go to the bathhouse." I hesitate at the door, ready to resume my evening's solitude, but now unsure that I wish to do so.

"Please. Come and sit." With alacrity, he switches his speech from Sindarin to Quenya. "There's no need for 'Lord Glorfindel.' I know you miss speaking our mother tongue, and I do, too. So please call me 'Laurefin.' We can even use the old fricative if you’d like. We are long past the schism of a shibboleth."

He smiles warmly which goes a long way toward putting me at ease. Now I feel ridiculous for being intimidated by him. In spite of his nobility as a lord of the House of Finwë and his reputation as a formidable warrior, he has an easy and approachable manner, even a sense of humor. I pull up a chair directly across from him at the library's large central table.

"Thank you, Laurefin, and yes, I do miss speaking it. It appears our tongue has retreated back to ceremonial use and lore once again."

"Maybe here in Middle-earth, but not elsewhere. This is good timing because I have wished to speak to you about a particular matter for some time now, but you're hard to pin down. You spend much of your time in the forge."

"That I do. Mail and swords don't grow in the garden. You and your men require quite a lot of steel."

"True enough. Your work is greatly appreciated. It's high quality and has spared my men from serious injury on numerous occasions."

"But not all injury, I see." An inflamed cut mars Laurefin’s left cheek.

"That? Well, yes, that knife blade slipped in the space of my helmet, but then, I don't want to have my face completely covered either. Part of the hazards of the job, I suppose. Anyway, I need your help, Sámaril."

Assuming that he requires assistance with a technical question, I glance at his work. The paper in front of him is filled with complex equations.

"I'd like to think I'm fairly accomplished at math, but that is well beyond my level," I say, eyeing the unfamiliar symbols and transforms.

"Oh, it's not the derivatives. I'm just doing this for relaxation. Pure math helps clear my head and allows me to focus my mind." He examines my face, and I realize my thought must have surfaced as expression. "Why do are you surprised? You've long known of my penchant for mathematics.   As difficult as it might be to believe, I am not just another muscle-headed warrior."

I laugh aloud at that. "I never thought you were. If it's not mathematics, how then may I assist you?"

He leans forward on his elbows, hands clasped in front of him, and locks my gaze with his sea-gray eyes. “This development to the north of Rhudaur – you are aware of the Dúnedain’s reports and their skirmishes with the orcs in the north?"

“Yes, I am all too familiar with their casualties.”

The face of one of those casualties -- the young Dúnadan of Cardolan who had asked that I sharpen his knife -- continues to haunt both my dreams and my waking moments. His knife now rests within a small chest in my quarters. His comrades returned to Imladris without him and had given me the blade, its design and craftsmanship distinctive, as a memento for me according to the dying man’s wishes.

Laurefin knits his brows together and rubs his forehead as if his head aches. Then he returns his gaze to me, his face now calm with studied serenity.

“The leader of Angmar is known as the Witch King. The Dúnedain scouts say that even the orcs speak this name with fear. The Men of the West do not know who – or what – this evil being is, but I have good reason to believe that he is the chief of the Úlairi. You have knowledge of the Ringwraiths and deep knowledge of their lord. I want you to tell me everything you know about him.”

A cold pain clenches my gut, and the knife of guilt slices at my heart. My legs tense, prepared to take me striding out of the library and away from an impending discussion of a reviled subject. In all the years that he and I have dwelled in Imladris, he has never asked me directly about the Ringwraiths. He hasn't asked me to tell him the whole of my history in Ost-in-Edhil. But his is not a question. It is a command.

“You do not know what you demand of me.”

"I believe I do," he says firmly but kindly "How long have we known one another? Twenty-one yéni? Yet you have never told me about your experience in full."

Pressing my fists against my temples, I lower my face so that he will not see the grief that threatens to overwhelm me. When I look up, my vision is blurred from the tears welling up in my eyes.

"Do you know how much I lost in the fall of Eregion?"

He meets my gaze directly. "All of us lost someone in Eregion, Sámaril. I live with uncertainty every day because of it.

“I would not ask you to tell me about the Witch King if I didn’t have need of your insight. The situation in the North deteriorated when Elendil’s kingdom succumbed to civil war. The continued internecine conflict has weakened each kingdom, and it is clear that the chief of the Úlairi intends to exploit this. The more we know, the better we will be able to resist him and assist the Dunedain. You hold key information, Sámaril, and you can help immensely by revealing it.”

"I understand. It's just that it is so difficult for me to speak of it. It's not just the loss of my loved ones, but what I did: my role in this horrible mess that still haunts us." The clot of a sob rises in my throat. I have not wept over what happened for many years, but I am near it now.

"Laurefin, I made the Nine Rings of Men. The one that the Witch King bears? I can tell you exactly what it looks like. It is a pale gold ring, iridescent, and set with an opal. That was the first Ring of Power that I crafted."

Then the memories, long suppressed, rush forward, achingly bright in their terrible clarity. All the pain. All the guilt. All the self-loathing.

~*~

After I graduated to junior master, the first Ring of Power, the first of the Nine, my journeyman's project, was locked away in the treasury of the House of the Mírëtanor. The Istyar informed me that he was so pleased with my work that he wanted me, of all the masters, to cast eight more Rings, all of which were to contain gold in some form. Although the remaining eight rings would not be finely tailored like the first one was for the Prince of Tharbad, my keen knowledge of the minds of Men was essential for crafting these, he said, for the good and the elevation of Mankind and by association, for the preservation of Elven civilization in Middle-earth.

Immensely flattered and buoyed by his confidence and respect, I dedicated myself to the task. As with the first Ring, he was with me at every casting, his strong, warm hand gripping my shoulder, assisting me as a colleague now, not just as my mentor. In parallel, Istyar Tyelperinquar assisted Teretion in crafting Rings for the Dwarves with Istyar Aulendil providing oversight as they performed their work. He reviewed all the Rings, carefully scrutinizing each one as he had with the first, light flaring through his closed fingers. "Locking the matrix," he called it.

These projects took years to complete. During this time, Aulendil became increasingly depressed and volatile. I was subjected to angry outbursts, followed by contrition and apology. I would find him in his office, trying to drink a medicinal tea, its vile odor competing with his intrinsic ionized scent. "For my moods," he said. "But it's not doing a damn thing. It just tastes as horrible as it smells. But I refuse to take the inwisti-singwë. It will blunt my creativity."

One morning, Istyar Tyelperinquar appeared at the House of the Mirëtanor to tell us that Istyar Aulendil had left Eregion. His departure was abrupt, and other than his notebooks and one of my lamps, he took nothing with him. We were all dismayed and confused, the House of the Mirëtanor rumbling with consternation. Tyelperinquar was distraught when he addressed us.

"Out of respect for his privacy, I cannot tell you why Istyar Aulendil left nor where he went."

We read between the lines. We knew that the occasional vocal arguments emanating from the Istyar's row house had increased precipitously as the result of Aulendil's black moods and simmering anger. These things sometimes happen, and we thought that a separation might provide healing in some manner. The next sentence from Tyelperinquar confirmed this.

"Aulendil said he needed time away from Ost-in-Edhil and that he will return to us."

That consoled us to some degree. We hoped that Aulendil would return one day, and that all would be as before. In the meantime, Tyelperinquar led us as ably as ever, even as he had to step in and deal with the personal wreckage that Aulendil left behind in that comfortable row house.

Years passed, and still Aulendil did not return, but Tyelperinquar was not idle. He undertook the next great work of the Rings of Power. Tyelperinquar, consistent with the creativity so powerful in the Fëanorian lineage, had the ability to reach into materials and shape their molecular structure in concordance with his thought. He called upon Teretion and me to assist him in minor ways, but by his skill alone, he crafted the Three Rings of the Elves, applying the exotic arts that he learned from Aulendil.

I was in my office that day, that bright clear day, when the shock wave hit the House of the Mírëtanor, a psychic temblor from which iron-willed power emanated. Then I was aware as we all were. Aware with crystalline clarity. I heard the verse in my head, the words spoken with his baritone voice — commanding and sepulchral —and I had no need to translate the debased language.

We were betrayed. I was betrayed.

How do you reconcile such profound betrayal by someone you admired and respected? Someone with whom you worked, laughed, drank, and sang, who was one with your people? Someone you trusted with your heart and your life? Someone you may have even loved?

The damage wrought by his departure years earlier did not remotely compare to this devastation. Within weeks, the dark messengers began to arrive at the gates, which were shut to all. They brought word that Sauron demanded the Rings of Power to be handed over to him. All of them.

I set aside all my scientific pursuits, all my projects meant to peacefully elevate Ost-in-Edhil to the Tirion of Middle-earth, and led a contingent of smiths as we produced swords, shields, armor, and mail. The rattling of sabers from Mordor grew louder, and as 1695 of the Second Age approached, Eregion braced for war.

King Ereinion sent his advisors, among them Elrond. Shortly after the arrival of King's herald and his soldiers, the man now seated across from me here in Imladris appeared in the city, leading those soldiers that the King could spare. My parents were astounded.

"That is none other than Lord Laurefin — Glorfindel — of Gondolin. He killed the demon as we fled through the pass, and he died doing so. We saw him fall from the cliffs. He is the reason that your mother and I escaped," my father said. "It is said that he was reincarnated in Aman and alone of our people in exile has returned to Middle-earth to fight the Dark Lord. If he is here, then the situation must be dire."

In spite of his somber assessment, my father refused to leave the city as the armies of Mordor approached Dunland to the south. He rationalized that the masons were needed to reinforce the walls of the city. So my mother stayed, and my sister as well though I begged them to flee. I beseeched Nierellë, now my wife and pregnant with our son, to take refuge in Lindon. They refused, stubbornly confident like so many of the proud Noldor that Sauron could be held at bay by our power.

The timing of his invasion confirmed his intimate knowledge of the land, the land he described as "beautiful," his home for three hundred years. He waited until the wheat fields were tawny, ripened and dry, and the sere hills browned by the hot sun. The invasion began with fire, spreading across the fields and blasting the dry woods. The fires were lit by ordinary means, but Sauron facilitated other conflagrations by using the deep arts. Smoke choked us in the city while Sauron's army advanced to Ost-in-Edhil.

When his army finally besieged the city, the gates did not hold, not against the power of the One Ring, not against someone who knew so well the defenses of the city and the structural components of those gates, and then guided the rams to destroy them. The House of the Mirëtanor was chaotic as we tried to salvage what we could before we fled the city. Many smiths were in the facility and others of us, including me, milled in the courtyard trying to get into the building. The clash of shields, the tramp of boots, and the bestial howls of his soldiers triggered panic among us, and we shouted and pushed one another.

Istyar Tyelperinquar guarded the doors of the House, no longer the scholarly craftsman, but the grim Fëanorian warrior from the First Age, clad in silvered-steel mail, spear in hand and sword at the ready by his side. Armed men from the Guard of the city and King Ereinion's soldiers flanked him.

Determined to enter the House to retrieve the artefacts of my craft, the treasury of my knowledge gained all those years as a master smith, I pushed my way to the front of the seething throng of craftsmen.

"You cannot go back. You must leave!" A warrior's hand gripped my shoulder, turning me away from the setps to the House. That was my first direct encounter with Laurefin. He shoved me back toward the courtyard. He turned to Tyelperinquar who in turn called to him, "Get them out of here."

Screams carried up through the city to the courtyard. Preservation set in among us, and en masse, we ran toward the arch with Laurefin and a number of the guard protecting our retreat as we fled away from the House. Smoke from the fires in the city and countryside burned our lungs. The charnel odor of scorched flesh rose through the city. When I entered the street, I turned to see the advancing orcs, who howled and yelped like beasts, carrying ghastly standards with severed heads rammed onto their apexes.

One of those heads, held aloft to the sky filled with smoke and circling carrion birds, was that of my father. The agony of shock disassembled my will and paralyzed my muscles. The image burned itself indelibly into my memory. I only tore my gaze from the horrific sight when the orcs began shrieking with terror and depraved exultation.

He rode through their ranks on a black horse, obedient to its master under even in the most terrifying of circumstances. The orcs parted before him in fear. My mentor. My colleague. Sauron. He was clad in embossed obsidian-black armor and held his helmet in the crook of his left arm. His handsome visage now sinister, was surrounded by his dark hair, a midnight tempest lashed by the winds generated from the fires throughout the city. The Ring blazed with its own fire on his left hand.

"How could you do this to me?" I whispered.

His cold mithril eyes, ringed with bruised shadows, locked on mine. I froze in place, the mouse transfixed by the snake. The chthonic horror, unleashed and fully revealed now, writhed in my mind, overwhelming me with fear, fear that was immense, all consuming, and threatened to pull me irrevocably into its spinning undertow. He hissed in my thoughts.

You are a fool, Sámaril, a hopeless gullible fool like the rest of the Mirëtanor.

Then a microscopic trace of silver pierced the blackness. A faint familiar voice, exasperated and anguished, spoke to me from a great distance before it was slammed down into nothingness.

Get the hell out of here, lad.

Laurefin burst through the archway, shouting at us to flee. My paralysis was immediately released, but still I could not tear my eyes away. The lord of vanished Gondolin faced Sauron. Silence fell briefly as the Dark Lord hesitated before him, the warrior who had killed a Maia. Then something caught their attention from within the courtyard. Sauron shouted and urged his horse to leap through the arch with Laurefin sprinting behind him. The orcs were momentarily confused and divided into contingents: one that followed their lord into the courtyard and the other that pursued us, the remnant of the Mirëtanor. One of the King's soldiers pushed me forward. Self-preservation finally propelled my legs and I ran. Miraculously, we were able to escape the city through the secret way, the architects of Ost-in-Edhil having taken their lessons from Gondolin.

I thought Laurefin was lost to us as he turned back to the House of the Mirëtanor, but a day after we took shelter in Imladris, he appeared with a group of bloodied citizens and soldiers. He immediately sought out Elrond. We did not hear their conversation, but we saw the stalwart warrior break down and weep, and Elrond led him away, consoling him.

I, too, wept when I heard what had happened before the House of the Mirëtanor. From accounts of those few who witnessed the horror and survived, I pieced together my mentor's ultimate act of betrayal against the man who had been his friend and colleague for over three hundred years: the confrontation between the two men; the torment of Tyelperinquar as Sauron vainly tried to coerce him into revealing the locations of the Three; and the Enemy's final violation of the body of the man whom he had called his brother of the heart. The vivid picture that formed in my mind was as ghastly and shocking as the image of my father's head on the apex of a spear. I struggled to comprehend the depths of Sauron's cruelty and how that could have co-existed with the brilliant man who had taught me so much.

But the worst was yet to come. One of the King's soldiers quietly took me aside and told me of the small band of refugees ambushed and slain as they fled the city across the countryside, the band that included my mother, my sister, and my wife. I fell to the ground in a paroxysm of horror and grief and wept until I could weep no more.

Grief consumed me, grief for my parents, my wife and the son I would never know. I was racked with guilt because I had left them, telling them I would return, but that I needed to retrieve my craft, that I would be back for them. I never returned, and they perished. The image of my father's head, its horrible expression engraved from violent death, continues to haunt me in my nightmares, sleeping and waking. Rightly or wrongly, I blame my selfishness — my obsession with my work — for their deaths. I hated myself for being seduced so effectively by Sauron and that I so willingly participated in crafting what he desired.

Ost-in-Edhil and Eregion were ruined, and the remaining Elven populace was scattered. The already sparse populations of Men were decimated and survived by seeking refuge in remote areas of the northern hills, abandoning their crofts and villages to hide under the most primitive of conditions.

I made what I could of my life in Imladris. I avoided most interactions with others and was pegged as the reclusive, brilliant craftsman. I found a purpose so that I could go on with my life, such as it was, and not waste away by the slow suicide of the bereaved Eldar, and gradually my spirits lifted. Tyelperinquar designed a forge for Imladris. He drew up the plans in the months before the invasion, foreseeing that Ost-in-Edhil might fall and knowing of Elrond’s intention to remove to the valley in the North. I led the efforts to build the forge, just as Nornwë and Alastion oversaw the construction of the great house. It was a constructive purpose that kept me off the dark path, but it did not bring redemption.

And Zirânphel. I cannot forgive myself for what happened to her. Aulendil and I returned to Tharbad once during the years that I crafted the remaining eight Rings of Men to refine my knowledge of Men. Zirânphel no longer lived with her aging parents, and they refused to speak of her. I finally found her in an affluent part of the city.

She was beautiful, and the air of seduction hung about her like the heavy fragrance of the amethyst-hued lilies that decorated her chambers. All thoughts of brotherly affection fled when the pang of temptation swept through my mind and body even though I bore a silver ring of betrothal to Nierellë. Zirânphel was powerful, wielding influence over some of the most important men of the city. She had gained wealth from shrewd investments of her earnings. But it was how she garnered those earnings that saddened me. She was a courtesan.

She had smiled, but sadness darkened her beauty. She turned her ring around her finger, the simple silver ring with its blue topaz. "I know you do not approve, Sámaril. But what is there for an independent woman of the common folk to do in this society? Our roles are very constrained."

I wished to believe she was wrong about her assumption, but my ring, infused and locked with confidence, had taken an unexpected turn for her. I never saw her again, and I removed myself to Imladris. Her fate is unknown to me, but it adds more fuel to the crucible of guilt that burns me.

The years passed. For a time, I found love and joy with the Númenórean exiles who were the ancestors of the Dúnedain, who now struggling to maintain their diminished kingdoms. But those mortals beloved to me passed from my life, too, while I bore the Firstborn’s burden of the long years and lived on to see the descendants of Elendil tear apart the Kingdom of Arnor.

We heard rumors of agents of fear, wraiths that wielded terror among the living. Their presence rose and subsided and rose again. But I knew who they were. I knew their chieftain. My unborn son died with his mother in the destruction of Eregion, but I am the father to them, the Nazgûl. Now their lord has infiltrated the North to establish a stronghold in Angmar, and this nobleman from the House of Finwë who has returned from Aman the Blessed, this warrior who loves the stars and equations, wants to me to tell him about the heart of darkness.

"I am sorry, Laurefin. This is so hard for me. But I will tell you."

He listens with immeasurable patience, taking account of every detail when I tell him of what happened at Tharbad and what I learned of the Prince. Laurefin maintains a neutral expression, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitch in revulsion at my revelations. Then, inexplicably, I launch into an account of my training with the Istyar. He listens just as avidly to this, and even smiles, as do I, at some of the stories of my former mentor. Then, I am silent.

We sit together, not a word spoken for some time with the soft yellow glow of the lamp encircling us. Finally, Laurefin speaks.

"That was helpful, Sámaril, and in more ways than you can know. It's not only what you told me about the Witch King, but also about him - your Istyar. That helps me understand how it was for you and the others in the Otornassë Mírëtanoron. Your experience with the Prince in Tharbad and your encounter with the darkness that lurked in your mentor must have been terrible."

"It was, but that was nothing compared to his ultimate betrayal. How could he have done this to us? And why did we trust him?"

"All humans are complex, Sámaril. I would think that you learned this from your teacher, who, when you knew him, was quite human in many respects. I expect that is why he was able to fit into our people's way of life that much more effectively, and that was why you trusted him. He was one with the Noldor. As difficult as it is for me to say it, Aulendil must have had the remnants of something good and worthy in him which made his betrayal that much worse."

"He did. Few would believe that though."

Laurefin's expression is sad and distant. "I believe you. Now I must ask you something else directly."

"What is that?"

"When will you go to the Havens?"

I cannot answer because I cannot imagine that I will ever be accepted in the West. I was born here in Middle-earth, and I have never seen the light of Aman. I am cursed with my love of knowledge and craft, cursed as all the Noldor are. In that, I firmly believe the Istyar was right: the Valar despise us.

"You believe you will not be accepted? You are wrong," Laurefin states this bluntly. "The Valar are reconsidering much of their past actions against the Noldor, but I have only vague hints of their plans. I only know I am somehow caught up in their web. But I do know this. The Oath of Fëanáro and the rebellion do not taint you, and you did not intend to effect evil by crafting the Rings for Men. You bear guilt that is not yours. You must leave for the West, Sámaril. You will never heal in Middle-earth."

“I don’t know, my lord. Betrayal willfully slays all hope.”

He reaches across the table and takes both of my hands, callused smith’s hands in his callused warrior’s hands, and tells me, “There is always hope, Sámaril.”

As he speaks, a silver mote of light expands and flashes brilliantly in my mind, and I see the face of my mentor, not the horrible entity nor the cold amoral presence, but Aulendil.

He is right, lad. You are not hopeless. You never have been. You are a good man, a talented man. It is not your guilt to bear. It is mine. Go to the West and heal from all the pain that I caused you. Go and sing the old smiths’ songs. But first you must seek the answers to your questions before you travel the Straight Road.

The silver light is snuffed out, quickly and completely, as if it does not wish to be discovered. Have I imagined this? Most likely it is a hallucination born of many days with no real sleep. Or it may be wishful thinking on my part, as if my tormented mind craves a benediction from my former master. If I learned anything at all from the Istyar, it is to be ever skeptical.

Aulendil once used the phrase "cognitive dissonance" when we studied the psychology of Men back in Tharbad. He described it as a state of conflicting thoughts and the ability to convince oneself that falsehood is truth. Such discordance of thought has remained with me since the day the House of the Mírëtanor shook with the vibrations of betrayal. The silver baritone voice, diminished like that of a dying man, resurrects the dissonance. My mind informs me that this must be an illusion, a wraith of my neural concoction, because remorse from such an entity cannot be real.

Laurefin’s expression tells me otherwise, because he is startled. He is perceptive, so perhaps he heard the voice, too, or he is taken aback by my abiding need for my mentor’s approval. Whatever the source of the vision, for the first time in years, I am at peace, and I know that I will begin my journey in the morning, seeking the answer to the mystery of the young Dúnadan and his blade before I turn to the Havens. I look up at Laurefin.

“You are right. I am not hopeless.”

---

Chapter End Notes

inwisti-singwë (der. Q.): "mind-mood salt." Lithium carbonate; in antiquity, doctors/healers were aware of lithium's anti-manic and anti-depressant properties, and had patients with psychiatric illness drink from and bathe in lithium rich hot springs. Patients with certain psychiatric illnesses dissociate their minds, which result in pathological behaviors. In my milieu, Sauron's re-integration of his personality's components (but not precisely "split personalities" -- his mind is still whole) caused some degree of neuropsychiatric havoc, hence the onset of an apparent mood disorder. A well-intentioned healer was trying to treat him. 

Laurëfindo: Presumably the direct translation of "Glorfindel," to a more Amanized form, although Laurëfindë or Laurëfindel might be more precise. No matter - "Laurëfindo" is more akin to something like "Giancarlo" and since I tend to "Italisize" Quenya, there you go: "Laurëfindo! Buon giorno, paisano!"

Following my predilection for rampant revisionism, I've changed the golden-tressed dude's Quenya name to the somewhat simpler "Laurefin." This is based on JRRT's notes in Parma Eldalamberon Vol XVII, p. 119 in which the element Fin- in Noldorin names is discussed, e.g., "Cf. Laurefin(de), Laurefindele, Sindarized as Glorfindel.

I'm obviously going with the final notes in The HoMe, vol. XII, "The Peoples of Middle Earth" as to the two Glorfindel phenomenon since it's an intriguing device. "Reincarnated" means the same as "re-embodied" in my book. I am convinced that Námo clones the afflicted indvidual and grafts the appropriate stored memories into him or her, memories and personality that might just be stored on quantum computers which Aulë invented...oops, getting ahead of myself here!

As for the reference to Laurefin as a member of the House of Finwë, in my still under-the-radar ficcish milieu, he is the son of Findis, Finwë and Indis' eldest daughter, and one of Finwë's lords, Arandil, a master builder a.k.a. arcitect/civil engineer.

Now do I get my official "Fangurrrrl" bumper sticker since I have incorporated the blond dude in the story? I confess I've liked him for, oh, about thirty-some years. Just shoot me now.