Risk Assessment by pandemonium_213

Chapter 1: Ost-in-Edhil, Second Age ca. 1490.

Character list and glossary in End Notes.

Because the narrator is a young woman of Grey-Elven descent, her tendency is to refer to the Noldor as Golodhrim and her own people as Thindrim. See end notes.

Read Chapter 1: Ost-in-Edhil, Second Age ca. 1490.

Midhel could hardly contain herself as she stepped out into the street, its cobblestones still retaining the heat of the day. She almost burst with her desire to announce her good news to those who hurried along the street in the late afternoon, most on their way to their homes, but she knew discretion was in order. The guild master, the Lady Ovoreth, had smiled indulgently, telling her that there was no harm telling her family and friends that she was chosen to become an Ivonwen. However, what she would learn was to be guarded zealously.

Where to go first? She was as eager to tell her news to Teretion as she was to her parents. She wiped her hand across her forehead, the film of sweat tacky with flour dust. A soak in a steaming basin of the caldarium followed by the bracing chill of the frigidarium was in order, but she needed to pick up clean clothing first. The decision was easy then. One or both of her parents might be home by now, so she could make the announcement before going to the baths. She knew she would find Teretion there. In the early evening, the apprentices and the journeymen from the House of the Mirdain descended on the baths in the wake of their mentors.

She walked quickly, swinging her basket full of bread that she brought home every evening, and smiling at everyone she met. The coating of flour on her skin and hair and her plain linen gown, patchy with sweat, told others that she belonged to the Guild of Corn. If she completed her training under the Lady Ovoreth’s guidance successfully, she would be initiated into the society of the Ivonwin and would don the apron and the pendant of that honored sisterhood. Then all would know.

Her joy translated to her gait, and laughing aloud, she began to skip, just as she had when she was a little girl. It was in this state that she met her mother, who was on her way home from the Guild of the Loom.

“Midhel, my love! You are quite happy this evening. Did you bake an especially fine loaf today? Or perhaps you have good news?” Her mother smiled knowingly.

“Mother! I have been selected! Lady Ovoreth told me today that I am to train to become an Ivonwen.”

“Oh, Midhel, how wonderful!” Her mother embraced her right there in the street, heedless of her coating of flour. “I will begin weaving the fabric for your initiation gown.” Her mother pushed a strand of Midhel's silver hair, loosened from its plait, behind her ear. “Your father will be so proud. Should I tell him or do you wish to do so yourself?”

“You may tell him, Mother, once he’s home. I must go to the baths. I am a mess, and I’d like to find Teretion to tell him the news, too.” She twisted the silver ring, the ring her betrothed had made for her, on her index finger. Her mother noticed.

“I am sure Teretion will be proud of you, too. Now go find a clean gown, my dear. Should we expect you home for to dine with us?”

“No. I will most likely join Teretion for the evening meal.”

“Very well, my love. Please give him my regards.”

Midhel appreciated those words from her mother. Teretion’s courtship had initially rankled her parents, both Sindar and loyal to Lord Celeborn. Her father in particular had not favored the notion of a golodh courting his daughter, especially one of the powerful Gwaith-i-Mírdain and one who was apprenticed to Celebrimbor, or Tyelperinquar as the Golodhren smiths called him. Celebrimbor had led the drive to supplant Galadriel and Celeborn as regents of the city by the election of a council of leaders. Even though the majority of citizens had supported the change in leadership, the smiths’ faction had predominated through their maneuverings, aided and abetted by Istyar Aulendil, Celebrimbor’s colleague, advisor and close friend. Fortunately, Teretion had no concern for politics. With his engaging personality, he won her parents over.

She rifled through her armoire, extracted clean undergarments which she placed in her basket, and selected a pale blue dress of loosely woven linen, its texture smooth and cool, expertly sewn and embroidered by her mother. The light fabric would be comfortable for the warm summer evening. She was out the door in no time, calling to her mother that she would see her later.

She hurried along the street to the city’s bathhouse, its columns of white marble rising to support the pediment roof over the large portico of the building. Statues of falmarindi, also carved from pale marble, flanked the solid oak doors decorated with reliefs of waterfowl, fish and waterlilies. A number of artisans from the guilds, along with their apprentices and journeymen, entered the large building, eager to wash off the sweat from their labors. She recognized members of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain among them but did not see Teretion.

She entered the central hall of the bathhouse, its air heavy with fragrant steam that lifted the scent from the cedar benches and walkways that lined the hall. She carefully hung her fresh gown on one of the brass hooks above a bench, sat down and pulled off her sandals. She yanked off her flour-dusted dress, wrapped her sweat-soaked undergarments in it and stuffed the whole lot into her basket. She grabbed a towel from a nearby stack and scanned the center of hall where the carved marble bathing pools were located.

There he was at the far side of the central hall, soaking in a basin with two other men. She recognized them as his friend, Sámaril, also a journeyman of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and Sailacar, one of Master Naicasir’s senior apprentices. As Midhel walked along the cedar-planked floor, Sámaril waved to two women, walking well ahead of her, who turned to the basin to join him and the other two men.

Midhel hesitated. All five in the basin were Golodhrim. Although she loved Teretion, and they got on well in nearly all matters, she, as a Thinnel, was uncomfortable around such a high concentration of these intensely inquisitive and argumentative people. They relished nothing more than challenging one another’s ideas and valued scientific and technological knowledge above all else. Although the Golodhrim appreciated the poetry, music and lore of the Thindrim, the latter believed that the Golodhrim regarded these as secondary pursuits, aesthetic embellishments to their science, but not essential.

Teretion saw her and waved, smiling brightly. She had no choice now but to soak in Golodhren infused water. Besides, she wanted to tell her beloved the good news, so much that it didn’t much matter with whom she shared the basin. She understood that the Golodhrim held the Ivonwin in high regard, too, so maybe it wouldn’t be awkward to join them.

She placed her towel on a stone bench near the pool and walked down the carved steps into the hot water. She gasped as the near-scalding heat enveloped her legs. Teretion scooted over on the submerged bench, and she sat by him. He leaned over to kiss her lightly. She smiled, knowing that later those kisses would intensify later, as promised by his hand, now resting on her thigh under the water.

Teretion and his friends had been chatting in Quenya as she approached, but her betrothed seamlessly switched to Thindren out of courtesy to her. He introduced her to the others.

“Midhel, you know Sámaril and Sailacar. But I am not sure if you have been introduced to Asëavendë. The woman seated across from her smiled and nodded, her dark brown hair dipping into the hot water. “Asëavendë is a master healer in the Guild of the Heart.”

Then a head emerged from the water next to Asëavendë. The woman swept back her dark hair and wiped the water from her face.

“And this is Mélamírë, a master of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.”

Midhel knew of Mélamírë and had seen her but never had been so close to her, let alone introduced. Mélamírë was the only woman smith admitted to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. She was not much older than Teretion and Midhel, but Mélamírë’s depth and breadth of knowledge were known to be formidable, having been trained by both Istyari of the House of the Mirdain. Midhel’s nervousness swept up her spine in spite of the soothing hot water and the comforting touch of Teretion. She did not wish to appear lacking before this woman, said to be brilliant. But Mélamírë smiled warmly at Midhel, putting her at ease.

“I’m pleased that Teretion has finally introduced us. He speaks so much about you. I don’t know why he has hidden you from us!” Mélamírë looked at Teretion, arching her left brow at her colleague.

“Ai! It is because you lofty intellectuals will put her off!” Teretion exclaimed, earning an elbow from Sámaril and a roll of Mélamírë’s eyes.

“Don’t listen to him, Midhel. We’re not all that lofty. In fact, we are usually rather banal.” Mélamírë said, sinking down into the water to her chin.

“Right she is,” Sámaril piped up. “At the moment, my brain is so congealed from today’s work, that all I want to do is soak away all the knowledge pounded into my head today. Maybe drink it away later.”

“Hard day with Istyar Aulendil, eh?” Teretion asked.

“Great Manwë’s rod, yes. Look at him,” Sámaril groaned and cocked his head toward the two Istyari of the House of the Mirdain, who were soaking in a nearby basin. “Even now he and Istyar Tyelperinquar devise new ways of tormenting me.”

Midhel looked over at the two men, speaking animatedly with one another. Istyar Aulendil leaned out of the basin and sketched something out on the stone with his wet finger. Istyar Tyelperinquar examined whatever it was that his colleague wrote, and then proceeded to write something on the marble in response.

Teretion sighed as he watched the two men. “I expect they are deriving equations.”

“I have no doubt that is what they are doing,” said Mélamírë. “You shouldn’t let them cow you so much.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re their bright shining star. ” Sámaril said, a simultaneously mocking and envious tone coloring his words.

“Be assured that they find many ways to torment me similarly. Shining stars are held to very high — perhaps impossibly high — standards. It would seem that a woman must work that much harder to prove herself in what is a man's trade.”

“That may be,” Sámaril let himself sink further down into the water. “But this new initiative of theirs is terribly draining.”

“At least you were chosen to work on it.” Mélamírë replied coolly. Midhel detected the underlying bitterness in her voice.

“Count your lucky stars that you weren’t selected for the initiative,” said Teretion. “Would you want to be inside the head of a Dwarf — a male Dwarf?”

“Or those wretches who work on the docks of Tharbad?” added Sámaril. “Besides, you were awarded the Lady Galadriel’s commission. I saw you working on those ghastly equations for temporal oscillations the other day. Don’t tell me you are not enjoying that.”

“I do enjoy it,” admitted Mélamírë. “But I think we are treading into territory that requires significant discretion of speech.” She glanced nervously at the Istyari who were still deeply engaged in conversation and scribbling on the marble. “And we are too focused on our own work. That must be tedious for Midhel. We shouldn’t be discourteous.”

Mélamírë then turned her attention fully to Midhel, who blanched a little under the scrutiny of the keen intelligence that burned in the Golodren woman’s eyes.

“Teretion tells me that you are an apprentice to the Lady Ovoreth in the Guild of Corn. I hear the olive loaves are of your devising. Is that so?”

Midhel nodded silently. These Golodhrim created great works: bright lamps, magnifying crystals, finely crafted tools and weapons, elaborate machines with many gears, and beautiful jewelry and other embellishments. Why would a mere baker impress them?

“I love those olive loaves!” Mélamírë exclaimed. “Really, they are absolutely delicious. They are a rare treat, especially given how far those olives must travel to reach us. What else have you concocted?”

Midhel was flattered by Mélamírë’s effusive interest and needed no more prompting to describe her latest endeavor. “I’m working on a new recipe using a spice brought to Tharbad from Númenor. The traders say that the Eldar gave the spice to the Men of the West. The spice comes from the bark of a tree. It's aromatic with a wonderful warm essence. I’m mixing it with honey to flavor the flour and butter. I haven't yet perfected the texture of the dough so it may be some time before you sample these new rolls.”

“Now that will be something to look forward to!” Asëavendë exclaimed, and Mélamírë smiled broadly in agreement.

“But I have more important news than my attempts to make sweet rolls,” Midhel paused briefly for effect. They all listened expectantly.

“I have been selected to become an Ivonwen.”

They all exclaimed their congratulations, almost in unison. Teretion leaned over and embraced her. “That is excellent, my love! I know you have desired this for such a long time. I am very happy for you!” He set aside Golodhren reserve and kissed her fully.

Sámaril laughed. “Your beloved already tries to taste the secret magic of lembas. Say, Mélamírë, isn’t it about time for you to step up and become the bassoneth?” He mocked the master smith again, who splashed hot water at him in response.

Midhel was surprised at the ease the journeymen had with this master. Midhel was aware that Teretion and Sámaril often socialized with the master smith. That, and Mélamírë's relative youth might account for the young men's informal demeanor with her, a behavior that was uncommon in the Guild of Corn where the masters demanded formality and protocol.

“I don’t think the Lady Ovoreth would want the profane hands of the dispossessed, even if removed by generations, distributing her sacred bread. I’ll stick to alloys, thank you.” Mélamírë replied, accompanying her self-deprecation with a smile and holding up her hands to display palms that were a mosaic of calluses, healed blisters and smooth skin. Mélamírë turned her attention to Midhel again, leaning forward in her interest. “You will become an Ivonwen? That’s fascinating! I hear the making of lembas is quite involved. I’d be keen on hearing more about it.”

Midhel hesitated. “I'm sorry, Mélamírë, but I will not be able to discuss the details of the process with anyone else. Ivon herself gave the grain to our people with the express instructions that none but the Ivonwin were to handle the grain, and prepare the bread. It is a sacred task. The grain has dark power, if handled improperly.”

Mélamírë cocked her brow again, not with bemusement, but with skepticism.

“Well, yes, the grain is powerful in that it is nutritionally dense, probably more so than any other grain we grow in Middle-earth, but dark power? No, it is not dark power that the grain possesses. It contains a toxic substance. I expect that is why such care must be taken when harvesting it.”

“'A toxic substance'? You mean, a poison?” Midhel was taken aback. “Ivon would not knowingly poison us! That cannot be right.”

Sailacar, a quiet man, then spoke up. “Mélamírë is correct, Midhel. We speculated that this might be the case — that there was a toxin in the plant. I have been studying the properties of Ivon's corn. Believe me, it took a lot of persuasion by Master Nacsirimo to get your mentor to part with some and to allow me to handle it, but we Golodhrim are persistent in our quest for knowledge! I think the fact that my master is married to Lady Ovoreth’s sister didn’t hurt.

“I have made extracts from the corn's parts: grain, stem and root,” he continued. "They are toxic to insects and mold. This would explain why the baskets woven from the stalks are never harmed.”

“The toxin may also explain why mortals cannot eat much of the bread,” Asëavendë added. “The poison accumulates in their bodies since they cannot clear it away as efficiently as our people can. They start to hallucinate — see that which is not real —and they crave the Undying Lands.”

Midhel was speechless. She had been in awe of the mystery and holiness of lembas since she was a little girl. Her goal in life was to become an Ivonwen. Now these Gelydh, so rational and precise, stripped away the mystery of lembas. Finally, she spoke up with blunt conviction.

“I do not believe you. The Belain, Ivon especially, would not wish to expose us to poison in our food.”

Mélamírë regarded Midhel’s outburst with detachment. “You may believe whatever you wish, but the evidence is there as Sailacar said. What Asëavendë says makes sense, too, even if it is indirect evidence. There are many poisonous plants. Some kill mortals but only make us ill. Others are so toxic that they kill both kindred. So something must be different in how our bodies handle certain poisons, including that of lembas.”

How could she argue against evidence and such cold logic? She had been so proud to be selected for this honored trade, yet these Gelydh had systemically removed the sacred with their cold explanations. So there was no mystery to the dark power of lembas and to the holy duties of the Ivonwin. They were merely trained to avoid poisoning themselves and their people. She hung her head, and tears of frustration welled up in her eyes. Teretion noticed immediately, and put his arm around her.

“Midhel, what is wrong? Did we say something to upset you?”

“Yes, we did or rather I did!” Mélamírë said. “Midhel, please don’t be offended. What you have been chosen to do is an honor. Your skills will provide a valuable provision to those who must travel far under harsh conditions, no matter what the secret of lembas is. I apologize if I overstepped my bounds in my questioning. Teretion can tell you that I am inquisitive, and that I tend to challenge the ideas of others. That doesn’t mean I do not respect another’s beliefs.”

Midhel met Mélamírë’s eyes then, the fire in them now soft and warm, no longer intense with questions and retorts.

“Thank you, Mélamírë. Becoming an Ivonwen has been a dream of mine for so long. I have always loved ritual so part of the appeal is the mystery of the harvest and the making of the bread. I find that to be a beautiful concept. I have faith in Ivon’s love for the Firstborn, too. That is why I find it hard to believe that a poison lurks in our most sacred food.”

“You have hit on the complexity that is life,” said Mélamírë. “There’s no one thing —plant, animal or person — that is entirely good or entirely evil. Ivon knew that the benefit of the grain far outweighed the risks taken to harvest and consume it. You believe the mysteries of lembas are connected to the Belain. The mystery to me is why did lembas develop such a toxin? How does it help the plant? I wonder if this plant even came from Arda!”

“That is a strange thought! Do you always question our people’s teachings like this?” Midhel asked. “Why is it hard for you to believe that lembas has a dark power? That it retains the remnants of Morgoth’s evil? That is Arda Marred. It permeates the whole world.”

“That is another subject for debate, and probably one that should rest for the time being,” said Mélamírë. Midhel could feel Teretion’s tension leave his body when his colleague pronounced that they would not discuss Arda Marred.

“As for questioning what we are taught? Well, you will marry a Golodh and one with more or less adequate brainpower. He somehow manages to question his teachings.” Mélamírë smirked at Teretion as he kicked at her under the water for her sardonic remark. “Midhel, you must understand that our questioning of how the world works does not diminish its wonder. I believe such examination exalts it all the more as we discover new and marvelous things. Please know that I respect your faith in Ivon, even if I am more circumspect than you regarding her motives and those of her kindred.”

Mélamírë reached out and took Midhel’s hand. “Enough of this. Come! Let Asëavendë and I wash and comb your hair to show you we are not such rationalist beasts. Teretion, you do not mind, do you?” Teretion smiled and waved them off as the three women made their way out of the basin, the hot water sluicing off their bodies.

Mélamírë stopped at the top of the steps and turned back to the three men. “Why don’t we picnic on the hills along the river tonight? I should be able to take a few bottles of wine from my family’s cellar. I expect my father will be preoccupied for a while yet this evening.”

“Your father’s wine? Well, that’s an offer we cannot refuse!” Teretion said with enthusiasm.

“You will join us, of course, Midhel?” Mélamírë said, her tone hovering between a request and a command, but her smile was inviting. What she had heard about Mélamírë proved to be correct: her presence was formidable, and it was obvious that she had inherited the intellectual predilections of her Golodhren kin. But Midhel had not expected her to be so accepting and even friendly. She and the smith might not ever agree on some issues, but Mélamírë nonetheless was reaching out to her.

“I’d be delighted!” Midhel replied. “I’ll stop at my house first. I brought olive loaves home with me today, and I expect my family will not have eaten them all.”

“Wonderful!” Mélamírë exclaimed. “In exchange for that delicious bread, I promise not to bring up any more uncomfortable comments about lembas - for this evening at least. But I cannot promise I will not say anything radical about the stars.”

With that, the three women — the Golodhren smith, the healer and the Thindhren baker who was to become Ivonwen — walked hand in hand to a bench where they washed one another’s hair.

---

Chapter End Notes

 

Midhel – the novice Yavannildë/Ivonwen

Teretion – journeyman-smith of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain
Sámaril – journeyman-smith of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain
Sailacar – apprentice-chemist (Master Naicasir’s apprentice)
Asëavendë – master healer of the Guild of the Heart
Mélamírë – master smith of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain

Istyar Tyelperinquar - Celebrimbor

Istyar Aulendil - Sauron

Golodh (Sindarin), s. Noldo, Gelydh (Sindarin), p. Noldor; Golodhrim (Sindarin) class plural, Noldolië; Golodhren (Sindarin), adj., Noldorin

Thinnel, s. Sinda, Thinnil, p. Sindar; Thindrim, class plural, Sindar; Thindhren, adj., Sindarin

 

Ivonwen (s.); Ivonwin (p.) (Sindarin): maiden of Yavanna.

Ivon - Yavanna

Belain - Valar

caldarium & frigidarium - the hot and cold baths, respectively, of a Roman bathhouse; presumably the bathhouse of Ost-in-Edhil was roughly similar and had equivalent terms in Sindarin and Quenya. In this case, the use of caldarium approximates the Roman alveus or balneum in which the bather is immersed in hot water.

falmarindi (Q.) - water nymphs

The spice to which Midhel refers, if you haven't guessed, is cinnamon.

bassoneth (Sindarin) - breadgiver