The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

Chapter 1: A Keen Edge

The Elendilmir begins in the year 3434 of the Second Age. While hiking in Imladris, Sámaril reflects on meeting with Elendil, Isildur and Isildur's sons and his uncanny experience when handling Narsil.

Read Chapter 1: A Keen Edge

Squinting against the golden autumn sunlight, I could make out the swaths of trampled grass where a city of tents once stood. New growth sprung back, vivid green against fiery foliage. The men who had camped there for nearly three years now faced war in a land devoid of such riotous vegetation.

Amber and crimson leaves showered over me as I hiked along the path rising from the floor of the valley. Burnt honey and musty decay – the scent of autumn – infused the air. In spite of the sun’s warmth, a whispered chill in the breeze off the moors promised the onset of winter’s campaign. I deliberately crunched the leaf-litter on the path, heedless of treading quietly for I had no need to do so. In a rare fit of sprightliness, I kicked the leaves on the path, sending up a rustling fountain of fall’s jeweled death.

The oak and beech woods gave way to pine and fir, their resinous scent sharp in the dry air. I halted at a clearing on a rise and sat on a rock. I pulled an apple from my pocket and bit into the crisp flesh, juice running down my chin. A pair of peregrine falcons spiraled on an updraft in the distance. Their whistles, faint but clear, carried along the cliffs. My surroundings offered peace and contemplation, but my hands and mind twitched restlessly, anxious to resume my work and habits ingrained over the long spiral of years.

Before he departed Imladris with Gil-galad's army, Master Elrond had left strict orders that I was not to set foot in the forges, my workshop, or even my office until the trees were bare and the first snow had fallen. I had worked feverishly for nearly three years during which time my men and I forged anew or refurbished swords, spears and knives. We had crafted and repaired armor, shields and mail. Camp gear, even the most mundane items like tin cups and tent poles, churned from my workshops. No matter how small or great, my tasks became all consuming as I burned with the desire for revenge. If I could not bring down the Enemy by my own hand, my weaponry might aid others in doing so.

I bit off another large chunk of apple, savoring the harmony of tart and sweet. I opened my mind with a languorous mental stretch and locked my gaze on the meadows and the vanishing signs of the departed encampment. The image of their king when he first came to the forge of Imladris clarified in my thoughts.

~*~

The steely cacophony had ceased when he entered the heat-blasted chamber of the forge. Although those of our race entered my domain at any given time, Men were rare visitors, preferring to work with us through my master artisans and journeymen who in turn trained and assisted the Dúnedain smiths in the field, an arrangement that satisfied both Firstborn and Followers. But not just any Man stood in the entry of the forge. He drew our undivided attention. He had leaned down to speak to one of my colleagues who then nodded toward me where I stood by my anvil.

At nearly two meters in height and with hardened musculature from many years of labor, “slight” did not apply to my frame, but the High King of Arnor stood several centimeters taller than me. I had seen him with his troops and on occasion in the House but until now had little reason to interact with him in such close proximity. He may have been mortal, but my eyes beheld a semblance of a Noldorin lord from the tales of foundered Beleriand.

“You are Istyar Sámaril?” he had said, his deep voice commensurate with his stature.

“I am, my lord.” I bowed my head, a gesture of polite but not obsequious deference.

I had offered no more than that. Silence reigned in a chamber that otherwise rang with the peal of hammers against hot metal. The workers in the forge intently watched us – this High King of Men and me, the Istyar, the master of the forge of Imladris.

There was nothing more I had wished to do at that moment than return to my tasks and lose myself in my labors, but Elendil had smiled and put me at ease.

“You are succinct for one of your people," he said. "I am even inclined to call you terse. I would have expected you to have regaled me with your full academic pedigree by now.”

“Terse? You are not the first to describe me as such.” I had not proved him wrong by further elaboration of my history, academic or otherwise.

“Then I will keep this brief. My sword is in need of sharpening.” He drew out the long blade, the steel singing as it emerged from the scabbard. I extended my arms, and he carefully placed the weapon across my open palms. I stared at the legendary blade, taking in its beauty, the light of the furnaces rippling golden-red along its length.

No ordinary sword, Narsil began to work its magic on me. Trickles of vague sapience seeped into my arms and pooled at the gates of my mind. The trickle accelerated, becoming a swell of ancient remembrance that lashed at mental bulwarks I had so carefully constructed. The voices of the sword called to me from across the years uncounted. All I had to do was allow them to flood my mind and tell me their tales. Yet I hesitated.

Narsil had been crafted with conscious thought welded into its inorganic matrix. To step into its currents would entail bringing forth the most profound of my abilities - those that had been honed by my teacher, the dark Maia of Aulë. By these deep arts, I had crafted nine Rings of Power, the outcome of which continued to haunt me. Although I had exploited my abilities on occasion since my exile from Eregion, these had been applied only to mundane tasks. For a weapon of power such as this, engaging the deep arts – even if only in examination - could be perilous, and so I held the sword’s beckoning at bay.

Tension crackled down my spine, and rivulets of sweat dripped from my forehead as the resistance to engage my skills warred with my desire to immerse myself in the weapon and its history. Finally, the temptation proved to be too strong. I opened the gates of my mind and extended thought and will into the blade.

I flew through the metal, awed by the precision of the alloy's interlocked crystalline webs. A phantasmagoria of images and voices churned around me. One amorphous image resolved into expressive brown eyes that scrutinized an ingot of ore. Then the scene shifted to the same eyes ignited with fierce purpose as they watched a white-hot blade erupt with sparks when a hammer struck the calescent metal.

I saw the form that framed those compelling eyes: a Dwarf with prominent cheekbones and heavy dark brows, his resplendent russet beard interwoven with gold beads and gems. He bowed as he handed the new sword to a tall man – an Elf with coal-black hair and sculpted features strongly reminiscent of Istyar Tyelperinquar. The Elf took the sword from the Dwarf and then turned to lock his eyes – quartz-grey eyes inflamed by silver fire – into my thought. His intense stare challenged me: Embrace your skill. Do not fear it. Then he reached out - an incorporeal presence snaking his way toward my mind. His presence was intensely inquisitive but carried an ill-defined threat like a predator sniffing out its prey. I did not want him in my head.

Slamming down the gates of my mind, I abruptly returned to the forge with a jolt. Disoriented, I stared at the blade to ground myself. Although unnerved by the experience, I exulted in the visions that had been revealed by Narsil. How extraordinary to have seen Telchar, the Dwarven master smith! Just as extraordinary was the sight of Curufinwë who reached through the portals of time to speak to me.

“Istyar Sámaril?” Elendil’s deep voice pulled me to solid reality. The sword lay quiescent in my hands.

“Forgive me, my lord,” I had said, recovering my wits. “I was admiring this remarkable blade. I would be honored to put the edge to it. Please come with me. The grinding wheels are in the workshop next door. This will not take long since the blade’s edge is still keen.” I held up my left hand that provided evidence, blood trickling down my palm from a nick in my skin. “But I can make it sharper yet.”

“I am confident that you can, Istyar. Narsil holds its edge well, yet I wish it to slice the air itself.”

I had set the first wheel to spinning. The blade keened as I ground its edge against the coarsest stone. Golden sparks gushed from the blade’s edge and fell to the slate floor. Elendil had watched silently as I sharpened the blade on the successively finer grades, the last embedded with crude diamond dust I had obtained from my trusted Dwarven suppliers. I wiped the metal with a rag and returned the blade to him. He touched his left forefinger lightly on the blade’s edge, drawing blood. He nodded with satisfaction and sheathed Narsil in its scabbard.

“Let’s put the edge to the test,” I said. I then rummaged around in a drawer of a workbench and found what I sought. “My lord, would you please come with me to the courtyard?” I lifted the square of red silk. Elendil nodded, indicating that he guessed my intent.

We stepped out into the soft spring sunlight. The king positioned himself in the open center of the courtyard. He hefted the blade - clearly a well-ingrained habit of testing its balance - and swung the sword, sending shards of gold and silver light sparkling across the courtyard.

I held the red silk aloft, and Elendil stood at the ready. I waited for a puff of the prevailing breeze off the high moor and released the fabric. The blade’s arc was so swift as to be nearly invisible. Two red fragments fluttered to the ground. Elendil sheathed the sword and retrieved the pieces of cloth. As he walked back to me, he examined the even edges of the cut silk. He smiled broadly and clapped his large hand on my shoulder.

“Aulë himself could not have done a better job. I thank you, Istyar Sámaril.”

He took his leave, sheathing the extraordinary artefact. While reflecting on the revelations of Narsil, a niggling recollection of the experience sprang to mind. The tiniest of flaws lay deep within the matrix of the sword – a microscopic section of the alloy where several strands of the crystalline web were broken. Regret and uncertainty nagged at me - perhaps I should have repaired the tiny flaw using the deep arts. But I had feared this. Immersion into the powerful sword had been disconcerting enough. No matter, I told myself. The flaw was insignificant – merely a matter of aesthetics to a smith – so I dismissed it as a trivial concern. The sword’s strength and resilience should serve the High King well.

~*~

Only two days later, four Men had entered the forge, discombobulating the smiths; Naurusnir even managed to smash his finger in a moment of distraction when he gawked at this imposing quartet of the Dúnedain. Again, the Men were directed to me. I set aside my hammer and tongs, placing the long knife in the tempering oven and turned to face them. The tallest of the four then spoke, his manner regal yet courteous:

“Istyar Sámaril, I am Isildur Elendilion, and here are my sons: Elendur, Aratan and Ciryon.” Each man bowed his head in turn as their father introduced them. “Might I prevail upon you to sharpen our blades? My father is most pleased with your work.”

Although Isildur – who I knew was a regent of renown in his own right - topped me in height, he was not as tall as his father, and none of his sons matched the stature of their sire, but they all bore strong resemblance to Elendil and to one another with their subtly aquiline noses, high foreheads and thick dark hair. The youngest man, Ciryon, leaned over to whisper in the ear of Aratan, not accounting for my keen sense of hearing.

“I can accommodate that request,” I had said when Ciryon’s face flushed pink under summer bronze. “Follow me please.” I stopped in my workshop and retrieved four squares of red silk. Ciryon smiled, and his brother chuckled.

Again, I put steel to stone, sending fountains of sparks billowing as I sharpened each sword. As before, I asked them to follow me to the inner courtyard where I sent the red squares flying in the breeze, to be sliced as they flew. Satisfied with his sword’s edge, Isildur sheathed his weapon and stood by me. Together we watched his sons make a game of cutting successively smaller and smaller fragments of silk, laughing as they challenged one another.

“It is good to see them enjoying themselves. Such moments of levity will be few and far between in the days to come,” Isildur said. “Elendur comprehends most fully what we will face, but Aratan and Ciryon were born here and did not witness the final years of Númenor. They cannot know the depth of fear that Sauron can generate in the hearts of men or what lengths he will go to for such a purpose.”

I knew that fear very well. Triggered by Isidur's uneasy words, poisonous thoughts roiled from the deep sediments of my memory: the writhing horror that threatened to suck me into its black maw when I was in Tharbad and the terrifying, anguished confrontation when I met my mentor’s eyes for the last time as I fled from the House of the Míretanor. I shuddered, chilled to the bone in spite of the warm sun in the courtyard.

“Istyar?” Isildur’s voice yanked me away from dark remembrance.

“I’m sorry. I was just recalling something.” I volunteered no more than that, and the High King’s son did not press me.

“Ah. Yes, I understand that your people walk in vivid memory. I confess that I envy you that at times, but sometimes not.”

“It can be a burden,” I replied, wiping the sweat that had dripped down my forehead once the cold fear dispersed by virtue of Isildur’s concern. He then faced me and clasped my forearm with his strong hand, a surprisingly intimate gesture from a Man to an Elf little known to him, but I returned his hand's embrace, moved by the warmth that lay beneath this man’s proud bearing.

“Istyar, I sincerely hope that you will forge better memories in the days to come. Our road ahead is dark, but Gil-galad King and his warriors and my father and the Dúnedain will prevail. I am confident of that. Your skill – and not just the simple task of sharpening blades – will aid us.”

“I do not hold out hope for better memories, sire, but if I cannot bear arms against Sauron, I at least can provide my labors here in Imladris to aid you.”

He held my gaze, silent but searching my eyes as if he were trying to reach into my mind and get at the heart of my reticence. I perceived that he meant well, but I could not allow such confidence. None of the survivors from the Otornassë Mírëtanoron spoke of what had happened in Ost-in-Edhil with outsiders. At last, he broke the silence between us.

“Istyar,” he said quietly, still grasping my forearm, “I think that you and I each know that fear better than many here do.” Apparently, I had been unable to sequester my dark thoughts thoroughly or this Man was remarkably perceptive.

His expression grave, Isildur released my arm and called to his sons. The men quickly set to picking up the fragments of silk as their father took his leave from me.

“I thank you from my heart, Istyar Sámaril. May you find solace in your labors.”

“It was my pleasure, sire. May the sun shine on your road ahead.”

I never spoke with him again.

~*~

Several days after I had set the edges to Isildur and his son’s weapons, Elendil had stood in the door of my office, holding a small wooden casket.

“We will depart your fair valley soon, Istyar, but I have one last favor to ask of you.”

I lay my quill on its bar and rose from my chair.

“Of course. What might that be?”

He had set the chest on my desk, unlocked its clasp and lifted the lid. My breath caught in my throat.

“Go ahead,” he had said. “Please examine it.”

I lifted the mithril fillet, its white diamond blazing like Varda’s greatest stars.

“This was crafted in Aman,” I whispered.

“So it is said. My foremother, Silmariën, received this as a gift from the Eldar of Tol Eressëa upon her marriage to Elatan. It has been an heirloom the Lords of the Andúnië since then.

“I would wish you to clean and polish it.” He then grinned. “Just like any man, my brow sweats and becomes gritty, and so the Circlet of Silmariën dulls from time to time.”

I traced the curve of the gleaming metal with my forefinger and marveled at the bright gem that burned with a blue-white inner fire. Again, he waited, not wishing to be separated from this precious artifact, just as he would not be apart from Narsil.

“Well, it is hardly what I’d call filthy, but I can accomplish this quickly enough. Please come with me, my lord.”

When I had cleaned the metal, glossing its white-silver surface, I found myself memorizing the simple circlet. I had taken in its graceful design and noted the facets of the diamond. Encouraged by my experience with Narsil and recognizing this was a more benign artifact, I allowed my mind to expand into the essence of the alloy and the jewel. Holding such finery that was crafted in Aman itself was a rare opportunity, and I had intended to make the most of it, absorbing the nuances of the unknown smith’s craftsmanship.

As I examined the structure of the alloy, I saw a dark-haired Noldo bending the warm metal and then placing the faceted jewel in its setting. A satisfied expression suffused his fair face as he examined his work. Then fleeting visions of those who had worn the fillet glimmered in my mind: a beautiful woman with ocean-blue eyes, her face imbued with both gravity and joy – Silmariën. Then I saw those who must have been the successive Lords of the Andúnië, all bearing resemblance –- some subtly, others strongly -- to their foremother. The stream of faces blurred, their features increasingly difficult to discern. The vision abruptly ceased when a tenebrous cloud splattered with blood obscured my inner sight.

Disturbed by the grim portent, I stopped rubbing the metal but disciplined myself to keep my mind focused on the circlet. The gruesome fog cleared, and I beheld the noble face of a Man with Elendil’s steel-grey eyes and Silmariën’s thick dark hair, the gem of the fillet I held in my hands blazing on his brow. This vision was remote and tenuous, as if coming from another time and place. Although there was something uplifting – hopeful – about this Man, the intervening darkness rattled me with its foreboding. But I said nothing of it for I was highly skeptical of foresight.

I had given the gleaming circlet to Elendil for his approval, which was swiftly bequeathed.

“Such fine work,” he had said, turning the fillet in his hands. “Even with such simple tasks like sharpening a blade or polishing finery, you excel, but then I would expect no less from the people of Fëanor. Many thanks, Istyar Sámaril!” He then replaced the brilliant circlet in its chest, nestled in black silk. The next time I saw it was upon his brow, its gem diamond-bright as Helluin, as he led his men out of Imladris.

~*~

The faint cry -- a human cry -- snapped me out of my reverie. I leapt to my feet, lifting my ears. I strained to catch the sound again and pinpoint its source. The peregrines now circled in the airs before me –- over the river -– their calls now harsh and agitated. I remained still for a moment, listening beyond the birds’ clatter to the breeze whispering through the pines and rattling the dry oak leaves that stubbornly clung to the drowsy trees, and from below, the distant melody of the river. There! The muffled wail of distress spiraled up the rise, and within an instant, I was half-sliding, half-leaping down the hillside on my way to the river. Briars tore at my trousers and my bare forearms as I careened down the slope, hardly the epitome of elven grace.

I reached the riverbank within minutes. A tiny figure stood precariously on a rock surrounded by the rushing waters of the Bruinen. The boulder formed part of a chain that might afford a playful challenge of crossing for an adult who could leap from stone to stone across the rapids, but the distance between the rocks was a hazardous stretch for a youngster. That and the stones, slick with the rapids’ spray, threatened treacherous footing. I called out to the child:

“Don't move! I’ll get you.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Curufinwë = Curufin: my scenario is based on the fandom assumption that because Telchar made Angrist for Curufin (canonical), Telchar also gave Narsil to one of the Fëanárions, in this case Curufin. Gandalf's Apprentice has an intriguing version of how Narsil came into Númenorean hands (see the prologue of The Sword of Elendil, linked in Story Notes).

Istyar (Q.) - scholarly man; ~ “professor”

Otornassë Mírëtanoron (Q.) = Gwaith-i-Mirdain (Sindarin) I address my non-canonical use of Quenya in the Acknowledgments section of The Apprentice.

Mírëtanor (Q.) = Jewel-smiths

Helluin (Q.) – the star Sirius.

Aulendil - one of Sauron's aliases in the Second Age (also Annatar and Artáno).

 

With regard to measurements, I do not use the terminology of Númenorean system (ranga = ~ one kilometer) but instead "translate" to the modern metric system. This is based on Tolkien’s definition of maquanotië = decimal (base 10) system and the following, taken from the Ardalambion and references therein:

[caista] ("k"), fraction "one tenth" (1/10), also cast, an unusual Quenya form since the language does not normally tolerate two consonants finally (VT48:11). Compound caistanótië ("k") "decimal system" (in counting) (ibid.) However, Tolkien later rejected the root KAYAN "ten" in favour of KWAYA(M), changing the cardinal "ten" from cainen to quain, quëan (VT48:13). Apparently we must therefore read *quaista as the new fraction "one tenth".

Although my use of "meters" and "centimeters" may seem jarring in a modernistic sense, I view these as accurate interpretations of Noldorin measurement based on Tolkien's Quenya corpus. Given that the Noldor were the “scientists and engineers” of the Elves, it stands to reason that they would use the metric system.

For frame of reference, Sámaril's height of "nearly two meters" is about 6'2" to 6'4" whereas Elendil stands closer to 6'9" or thereabouts. I do not buy into Elendil's height at eight feet for a number of reasons, including the biological and practical. Such a height can be chalked up the the exaggeration of legend.

Here's a handy conversion tool for transformation of inches, feet, yards and miles to centimeters, meters and kilometers.

Chapter 2: Treasures Left Behind

Sámaril returns to the House of Elrond with his find, lets his elvish serenity slip and berates a worried parent. This causes him to recall another bad-tempered moment in his past and a subsequent conversation with Glorfindel (Laurefin).

Read Chapter 2: Treasures Left Behind

Paralyzed in place, the child stared at the foaming grey-green water that surged around his perch. Whose child is this? I wondered. None of the Firstborn who resided in Imladris had children this young. His dark-locked head turned, and sky-blue eyes filled with tears met mine. This was a child of Men.

I bounded from rock to rock, my soft shoes affording a sound grip on the slick surfaces. Straddling the gap to the stone in the middle of the river where he stood, I scooped him up in my arms. He buried his face in my shoulder, sobbing, but popped up as I leapt back toward the riverbank. When we reached solid ground, the hint of a smile flickered on his tear-streaked face.

“What’s your name, lad?” I wiped his tears away with the hem of my shirt.

“Val.”

“What on Yavanna’s green earth were you doing out on those rocks? That was very dangerous.”

He twisted in my arms and pointed across the river. Three fox kits gamboled in a copse of birch trees.

“Did you follow them?”

“Yes,” he said, his piping voice clear and sweet. “I saw them across river. I wanted to play with them.”

“They would not be good playmates. They’d nip your fingers, and I daresay that Mistress Duineth would not want them near the barn fowl or the geese.”

As we watched the kits, their mother slid out of the underbrush. She nervously glanced at us with a golden eye and yipped sharply to her young. With the silence of wraiths, the foxes disappeared amidst the copper bracken.

“I expect you’re missed, too.” I hefted the boy on to my shoulders and began the uphill trek to the path. While trudging along, my annoyance kindled to outrage that this child had been allowed to wander away from safety and into a dangerous predicament. He couldn’t be more than three years old or so I guessed according to my reckoning of mortals.

For a moment, I panicked when dampness spread across my upper shoulders until I realized that the boy was wet from river water and not childish incontinence. At his age, he should be capable of such control, I thought, but I wasn’t altogether certain. I knew far more about elven development, having poured over manuscripts in the library of the healers’ guild and asking many questions of experienced parents when fatherhood had been a happy prospect of my future.

Emotion clotted in my throat as the pain of immense loss erupted from a grave long undisturbed. I steeled my will so my eyes did not fill with tears. Picking up my pace, I jogged along the path to distract myself. The boy latched on to my hair, but not roughly, a sign that he had been carried like this before. He squealed with delight, bouncing on my shoulders, as I ran. Rather than assuaging my sorrow, his peals of laughter prodded the grief that I suppressed.

Although some of the Firstborn who resided in Imladris were relatively young, no children had graced the House of Elrond for many years. My former excursions to the neighboring settlements of Men had brought me into contact with their youngsters, but their swift lives, all too often cut short by the injuries and illnesses that befell these fragile little ones, broke my heart. By cloistering myself in the valley and the forge, I no longer was exposed to children: mortal or elven. Thus my heart was still, the devastating loss of my wife and our unborn son buried under layer upon layer of purposeful lethe as the years passed. Now this innocent child threatened to wreck the cairn under which I had interred the memories of hope destroyed.

The boy quieted when we reached the wide flagstone terraces in front of the house. I had expected to encounter frantic activity from adults who, upon realizing this child had gone missing, mustered a search. Instead I saw a lone figure, her face buried in her hands, sitting on the wide steps leading to the second level of the terraces. When we approached, the girl looked up, her freckled skin blotchy from weeping and her red-blond hair mussed from running her hands through it with anxiety. She leapt to her feet and cried out.

“Oh, Val! There you are!”

The little boy squirmed, nearly working his way out of my arms. I put him down on the flagstones. He ran to the girl, who kneeled, her arms extended, and he hugged her. She met my eyes, her expression at first filled with relief and gratitude, but replaced by fear when I spoke more harshly than I had intended.

“He was trapped on a rock in the middle of the river. He might have been carried half-way to the Mitheithel by now if I hadn’t found him.”

“I –- he slipped away so quickly. I didn’t realize...” she stammered.

“Why is it so damned quiet? If anyone knew that the boy had gone missing, this place would be swarming. Or didn’t you want anyone to know?”

Tears tracked down her flushed cheeks, her sobs now audible, and the little boy joined her weeping.

“Oh, for Manwë’s sake!” I swore rather than offering reassurance as I should have, and I only exacerbated their weeping. However, both maid and child ceased their sobs when a clear voice rang out across the terrace.

“What seems to be the trouble? Valandil, my little one! Come to Mama.”

I did not recognize the tall, slim woman who trotted down the steps, her skirts raised, and her long brown hair swinging to and fro in her haste. The little boy ran to her, extending his arms as she lifted him into her embrace with a fluid, practiced motion. He buried his face in her dark hair. She murmured something to him whereupon he stopped sniffling and kissed her smooth cheek.

“Gaereth, you may leave us now. Return to our quarters. We will speak there,” the child's mother said. Dismissed, the copper-haired girl hung her head, a cloud of misery hanging over her as she slunk back to the house.

Then both mother and son looked at me with identical sky-blue eyes fringed with dark lashes. Something at once painful and yearning tugged at my heart. A ghost of recognition flitted before my eyes, and ill-defined emotion surged until I wrested control over it. I crossed my arms and put on what I hoped was a calm mask, but stern words marched forth.

“You would do well, my lady, to question your servant as to your son’s whereabouts today and to keep a closer eye on your child.”

“Who are you to tell me... “ Her challenge –- sharp as a blade’s edge -– stabbed at my conscience, but I had already turned on my heels, leaving the scene and jogging up the path to the forge before I spoke yet harsher words. My heart pounded with anger and frustration, triggered by the grief of a father bereft of his child and castigation of those who would guard their own treasure so lightly.

~*~

I stalked along the corridor, my hammer and tongs clutched in my hand. Naurusnir intercepted me well before I entered the chamber of the forge.

“Istyar, please, Master Elrond left strict orders! Lord Glorfindel said he would skewer me if I let you in the forges before the first snow.”

I rounded on the Sindarin smith, nearly shouting at him. “Likely no one will return to skewer you! So you needn’t worry about saving your own damn skin.”

Naurusnir flinched as I raised the tools, clenched in my fist, with my face mere centimeters from his. I gritted my teeth, trying to bring my anger under control, but horrid goblin imps of words formed in my head and readied themselves to break out of my mouth.

A forge-strong hand on my arm checked me before I lashed out at my colleague.

“Istyar, calm yourself. Come, let’s go outside.”

Steadfast Thornango took my tools and handed them to Naurusnir. He led me out of the building and into the inner courtyard where we sat side by side on a stone bench in the golden sunlight.

“What’s troubling you, Sámaril?”

I pressed my fists against my forehead, breathing in and out deeply in an effort to rein in my tempest of conflict. I could not bring myself to speak of my lost son, so instead I gave voice to a lingering source of anger and humiliation.

“I should have gone with them, Thorno.”

He put his arm over my shoulders. “Ai, Samaril! You and I – we’re not warriors.”

Only a few weeks ago, I had heard similar sentiments.

~*~

“You must remain here, Istyar,” Master Elrond had said with a measured tone as I faced him in the inner sanctum of his study. His tone and formal demeanor indicated that he would brook no dissent. “You will better serve our people in this way. I ask that you name a capable man to lead the army’s smiths.”

Thus ordered, I had designated Côldring to be the leader of the contingent of smiths who would keep armor, blade and arrow in good repair for Gil-galad and Círdan’s militias.

Beneath the thin veneer of professionalism, my resentment of Elrond’s decision gnawed at me. I seethed at the affront of having to choose one whom I considered my inferior. I cut a dark swath among my colleagues. When an assistant spilled a ladle of molten copper and silver, creating an awful mess on the forge’s floor, I exploded. I had flung my hammer at a chimney, dislodging a brick and frightening the hapless assistant, a young Silvan man.

“Sámaril!”

The clear baritone voice had rung across the forge as the reverberations from the hammer against the brick faded, and the murmurs of the other smiths and assistants swelled. I had turned to see Lord Laurefin striding toward me.

“Morgoth’s balls!” I had muttered under my breath. Within what seemed like seconds, he grabbed me by the elbow and none too gently escorted me out into the courtyard. We sat on the same bench where Thorno and I sat now.

“You could have killed someone!” My liege had snapped at me. “What is wrong with you?”

“I am to remain here. I am not to march to war against him.”

“Elrond’s decision is a wise one...”

“Wise?” I practially spat. “I am as strong as many of Gil-galad’s warriors. I have more reason than most to take up arms against the Abhorred. At the very least I could keep their weapons in repair between battles.”

“Sámaril, no one is questioning your fortitude or reasons. You are no warrior, my friend, but that does not make you less of a man. We all have our roles to play. Our people simply cannot afford to lose your knowledge and skills.”

“My knowledge and skills? Those contributed to some of the worst foes that you will face, my lord.”

“You let me worry about those foes. I assure you that I have faced worse.”

Although abashed by his reference to heroic legend that masked a horrifically painful death, I reinforced my point.

“I created these horrors, my lord. I have blood on my hands because of my skills and my knowledge!”

“Your self-inflicted guilt serves no one well,” he said, his tone again prickled with impatience. He took a deep breath, resuming a calm demeanor. “I know you took part in the Making, and that you will tell me the whole of it when you are ready. I also know that the skills you possess are not evil in and of themselves. Take this, for example.”

Laurefin set the helmet he had been carrying on his lap. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, made from a light, surpassingly strong mithril-steel alloy. A graceful dome, sweeping cheek guards and curved visor reflected artistry in addition to its protective function. Bosses of gold embellished it, their shapes in the form of rayed disks, references to the heraldry of my liege’s vanished House in the old city, its ruins now covered by the sea. He ran his hand over the alloy – a warrior’s caress.

“This helmet is as well crafted as the one that came with me so long ago from the smithies of Aman– and that I lost in the fall of Ondolindë. The deep arts embedded in this helmet are the very same that...” His voice caught, stumbling against the same dissonance that was ever present for me. He swallowed audibly and continued, “...the same that Annatar applied but to a different purpose – a good purpose. It was forged for me with the intent of 'protecting my incredible brain.'” His arched brow snagged the corner of his mouth, lifting it in a crooked smile. “A flattering sentiment, but one probably laced with sarcasm considering the source.”

I smiled in turn when he referred to our mutual friend –- the smith who had constructed his helmet in Ost-in-Edhil. My agitation evaporated. Laurefin, one of the few people I genuinely trusted, had a knack for putting me at ease.

“Quite likely,” I said, “but you know the heart of the sentiment was sincere.”

“Yes. I know that.” He stared at the helmet, tracing its curves with his fingers, and became momentarily distant, walking on the path of haunting memory.

His helmet had been crafted using an exotic form of curwë – an art practiced by only a few of us and exploited so effectively by my former mentor, who was the unquestioned master of these skills. The smith who forged Laurefin’s helmet also had harbored considerable talents in the deep arts. A wave of melancholy washed over me when I thought of my long-lost colleague. I pulled myself away from the sad thought by re-focusing on the presence of my friendly and reassuring liege.

“I expect that you’re here not only to prevent me from murdering my staff. Do you wish me to clean this, my lord?”

“Yes, that is exactly why I’m here. No matter how fine the metal, sweat is corrosive. Tarnish has built up, especially on the inside and at the junctures. And Sámaril? How many times do I have to tell you that the honorific is unnecessary?”

“Hundreds, even thousands, I imagine,” I replied. “My father – may his fëa be at peace – would be mortified if I didn’t observe the formality.”

“Ah, yes! Orondo was always a stickler for propriety. He was my father’s best stonemason, you know. When I was a boy back in Tirion, I remember the two of them getting into their drink after the addition to the basilica in Alqualondë had been completed. Even then, after a few bottles of wine and their arms thrown around one another, he called Father ‘my lord.’ Such a traditionalist! But times change, Sámaril. There is much to be said for meritocracy.”

“Why, my lord!” I blurted with false shock. “Such a subversive notion!”

“Indeed! You smiths have corrupted me beyond hope. Don’t tell Gil-galad. He’s quite taken with hierarchy.”

“There’s little danger of that. Your affection for meritocracy is more than a little ironic, my lord. If succession were on equal footing between male and female heirs as it was with the royal family of Númenor, you’d have the greater claim.”

“That’s the last thing I’d want. I would be a thoroughly incompetent regent. The arts of war and the arts of the scholar - those are my strengths. Governance on the other hand? Never! But yes, as far as succession is concerned, it reveals that Noldorin men do not hold our women as equals despite all our protestations to the contrary.”

I took the helmet from him. I turned it over in my hands, finding the blemishes of corrosion. I glimpsed the initials and mark – the signature star – of the smith who had crafted it in the great forges of Ost-in-Edhil. Laurefin was right. It could not have been easy to be a woman in the world of Noldorin men.

“I’ll have this ready for you in two days. I’ll replace the plume, too,” I said as he handed the helmet’s crest box to me, its feathers disheveled and faded. “Mistress Duineth provided us with sacks upon sacks of goose feathers, and they’re all dyed. What color would you like, my lord? Green? Indigo? Or maybe red?”

“Not red, I think,” he said. “Make it indigo. That will complement my glorious tresses!” He ran his hand through his signature golden mane and shook his head dramatically to accompany his self-deprecation.

Unable to suppress my mirth, I burst out laughing. “Indigo it is then! And thank you, my lord.”

“For what, Sámaril?” He rose from the bench.

“For intervening in the forge. For lifting my spirits. Still, I wish I could go with you and the others.”

“I understand,” he said, gripping my shoulder amicably. “But it will be a dark path. You know that better than most. I plan on returning to Imladris, my friend. My helmet will ensure that much at least.”

~*~

Laurefin, leading the Second Spear of Gil-galad’s army, was probably on the eastern side of the Hithaeglir by now. His boon friend, Erestor, led the Fourth Spear. I sometimes forgot that these scholarly men had been trained as warriors, and fierce ones at that. I was a scholar, too, but no warrior as had been repeatedly pointed out to me.

In spite of Laurefin’s reassurances, I had felt unmanned when I watched the Alliance – Men and Elves, proud men all - depart from the valley, the sun gleaming off bright mail I had forged, their banners waving as the moor’s wind caught them. And the Dúnedain – how glorious they were! No different, really, from Gil-galad’s army, and perhaps greater with the promise of the future in their mortal hands and minds – a future that the Noldor had forfeited in Ost-in-Edhil.

When the Men had marched by, Isildur caught my eye and saluted me. I nodded in return, silently wishing him well. Yet the chill of uncertainty gripped my core as I watched this king of Men and his noble sons leading their soldiers to war. The Alliance was formidable, strong and disciplined. I had known from my contacts in Casarrondo that Durin was sending a sizeable contingent; the Dwarven warriors would add considerably to the might of the combined armies. But those few of us who knew of Sauron’s artefact – his masterwork – were uneasy. The Ruling Ring was a wild card – an unknown in the lethal game that was about to be played out.

~*~

I returned to the present, my heart now beating slow and steady, and my face warmed by the golden sunlight. I sighed and straightened, clasping Thorno’s hand in gratitude.

“Thank you, old friend. I’m feeling better now. I’ll go apologize to Nauruscir.”

“Give yourself and Naurusnir a bit of time. Why don’t you speak to him tonight in the Hall of Fire? You haven’t graced us with your presence there for many months. Man cannot live by craft alone.”

“You’d wish a cranky recluse like me as company in the Hall of Fire?”

“I would, and I am not the only one. There are those of us who recall the young man who once crafted wit as well as ploughshares and swords. Remember those parties at the Istyar’s house? I think Istyar Aulendil appreciated your sense of humor most of all. He loved to tell the joke you inscribed on that ring. No matter how many times he repeated it, he could hardly breathe from laughing. Surely you haven’t lost this skill entirely, Sámaril.”

I could scarcely believe that Thorno reminisced so charitably of my former mentor.

“Oh, come now! Stop gaping.” Thorno cocked his brow. “He wasn’t all bad – at least not back then. He had his moments, you’ve got to admit. Who knows? Maybe he tells your joke to his orc-captains. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Manwë’s holy rod! You’re mad, Thorno! How can you make light of him considering what he did to all of us? You’re quite irreverent for such an equanimous fellow.”

“I learned from the best, Sámaril. Sometimes you have to laugh in the midst of darkness. Now what do you say? Will you join us in the Hall of Fire tonight? I’ll seek you out and drag you to the hearth if you don’t appear. Here's an enticement: more women have arrived from King Oropher’s realm. Very comely lasses, too. Let me just say that being a vigorous man who is left behind has its advantages as others march to war.”

“Ai, Thorno! You really are incorrigible. But I promise that I will make an appearance tonight, if only to apologize to poor Naurusnir and lift a glass of wine with him. You may have the Silvan ladies to yourself though.”

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Duineth - Sinda, caretaker of the flocks (geese, ducks, chickens) of Imladris

Gaereth - young Dúnadaneth (mortal woman) who is Valandil's nursemaid.

Naurusnir - Sinda, journeyman smith

Côldring - Noldo, master smith

Thornango “Thorno” - Noldo, master smith; Sámaril's second-in-command

Laurefin = Glorfindel. In the pandemoniverse, Glorfindel (“Laurefin” as per my remarks in the end notes of Ch. 12 in The Apprentice) is the elder son of Findis, Finwë and Indis’ daughter (and eldest child; see History of Mddile-earth, vol. XII, “Shibboleth of Fëanor”), and her husband, Arandil, one of Finwë’s lords and the master architect/builder of Tirion.

Orondo – Sámaril's father, died in the fall of Ost-in-Edhil.

Mitheithel (S.) – Hoarwell River

Curwë/kurwë (Q.)- technical skill and invention (see Peoples of Middle-earth: vol XII, “Shibboleth of Fëanor,” fn. 30); my occasional use of the modern terms - “science” and “technology” - may be jarring to a Tolkien devotee, but keep in mind that these are direct translations of “nolwë” and “curwë."

S. = Sindarin; Q. = Quenya

Language resources:

Ardalambion

Hisweloke Sindarin dictionary

Quenya & Sindarin name generator - courtesy of Claudio.

Parma Eldalamberon vol. 17

Chapter 3: The Matter of Song

Sámaril takes some relaxation in the Hall of Fire and requests a song originally written by Fingon and elaborated upon by Maglor. The song sends him into recollection of a dance in Eregion.

Heads up here for mildly adult concepts and heresy pertaining to the ever popular "Laws and Customs of the Eldar."

Read Chapter 3: The Matter of Song

I had done Thorno one better than simply making an appearance in the Hall of Fire that evening. In a rare fit of sociability, I decided to take my meal in the dining hall instead of the less public kitchen like my usual custom.

Although more often than not of disheveled appearance, I was as prone to aesthetic display as the next fellow when the occasion arose. Thus, after a long soak in the bathhouse, I dressed formally for dinner, donning trousers, tunic and long robe of autumn-hued russet, amber and pine-green. I brushed my hair over and over again until it gleamed, cascading over my shoulders and down my back. Setting a circlet of hammered gold leaves over my brow, I pushed a few wayward strands of hair off my face. From my chest of finery, I selected a gold torque, snapping its clasp in place, and secured cuffs studded with topaz gems around my forearms. A quick glance in the mirror before I left my quarters confirmed that I didn’t look half-bad.

Gildor, the leader designate of Imladris in Elrond’s absence, greeted those who entered the dining hall.

“Istyar! What a surprise! You are not filthy for a change. What have we done to deserve this honor?” His tone dripped with honeyed sarcasm.

“Nothing in the least.” I answered smoothly, not lingering for his rejoinder. Although Master Elrond never remarked on my frequent absences from the dining hall, understanding my dedication to my craft and my frequent need for solitude, Gildor was a stickler for protocol. My often empty seat at the high table rankled him.

This evening, I took my place next to Thorno who already sat and sipped wine from a goblet. He laughed when I adjusted my robe awkwardly after sitting down: "You look like a prince, you old curmudgeon! One might even say resplendent."

“One might even say skittish. If you make too much of a fuss over me, I’ll bolt.”

“Then let me anchor you to the table with this.” He reached for the nearby bottle of wine and filled my goblet with the crimson liquid, which I gratefully sipped.

After the tables filled with awaiting diners, the kitchen staff wheeled two carts into the hall. Four maids glided among the tables, setting the plates laden with food before us.

Unaccustomed to being on display at the high table, I shifted in my chair, uneasy when one of the maids set the steaming plate in front of me. My discomfort evaporated when the aromas hit my nostrils.

I tucked into the meal – venison sausage, chard, squash and bread - with vigor. My enforced leisure had re-activated my appreciation of food and drink. During the intense periods of work over the past several years, I might go for many days without eating. I would then devour food like a wolf when Astaron, the head cook, noted my haggard appearance and slowed me down long enough to place meat, buttered bread and fruit before me. With scrutiny no less keen than that of my late mother, he would then watch diligently until I ate what he deemed adequate.

With single-minded immersion in my labors and thought, I rarely took notice of the flow of guests in the House. However, this evening I had the opportunity to relax and observe. A number of mortal women and youths – presumably their children - sat at the lower tables. These mortals were the people of Elendil. That much I knew even if their specific identities were unknown to me. Most of his subjects lived to the west, but the wives of his captains remained here after their husbands departed to war. I scanned the hall for the little boy – Valandil - whom I had rescued this morning, but saw neither him nor his mother. I spotted Naurusnir at a table with my staff from the forge and others of Elrond’s household. He caught my eye and nodded hesitantly. I raised my goblet to him. I would apologize to him later.

The meal wound down, finishing with an apple tart and sheep’s milk cheese, which I polished off. Maidhel, the maid who removed my plate, smiled with approval when she noted how barren it was. As Astaron's second in the kitchen, she was well aware of my erratic dining habits and even had delivered food to us in the forges during the height of our labors. She likely would pass along the news to Astaron that I had eaten every last crumb of his cuisine.

At the note of the silver bell that chimed high above, Gildor pushed back his chair from the table. Three empty chairs were a melancholy reminder of Elrond, Erestor, and Laurëfin’s absence. In Elrond’s place, Gildor rose and led all who were so inclined to the Hall of Fire. Thorno and I followed him.

The trill of the flute, the harp’s crystalline droplets and the rapid patter of drums wandered disconnected as the musicians tuned their instruments and flexed their fingers. The fire crackled in the massive hearth, lending its random snaps to the meandering notes. Thorno made a beeline for two flaxen-haired Silvan maids who lingered at the other side of the expansive hall. Leaning against a pillar, I watched the others filtering through the wide door. Naurusnir entered with a clutch of the household staff. I waved at him, and he angled away from his cronies.

He approached, trepidation flickering in his eyes. Remorse stung me when I saw his hesitation. Naurusnir, a Sinda, was not a natural for smithing, but he worked hard to elevate his skills and gain my approval. I recalled my intense need as a young man for such approval from both my father and my teacher. I considered that in many ways, I had adopted their attitudes – short on praise, long on criticism - and I felt sympathy for the young smith before me. Placing my hands on his shoulders, I leaned forward to kiss his cheek.

“Please forgive me, Naurusnir. I should not have lost my temper this afternoon. You did not deserve that.”

“It...it is well between us, Istyar.” He flushed but visibly relaxed at my apology. “Life has been stressful for all of us of late and especially for you.”

“That is kind of you, lad, but I plead no such excuse. Now why don’t we enjoy the music? It sounds like they are ready to begin.”

The random notes coalesced into structure and rhythm: a familiar melody glittered throughout the hall when the musicians opened with a traditional hymn to Elbereth. Most joined in the song for the first stanza, and then fell silent, listening to Laerwen’s jeweled soprano that wove in and out of the harp’s glissando and echoed the fluid notes of the flute.

After four pieces, the musicians took a break, standing to stretch their legs and their hands while the singers drank draughts of cool water. I made my way over to them and whispered a request into Lindir’s ear. He turned to the flautist, drummer, the viol player and the lutist, naming the song to them. They nodded in response.

“Yes, we are happy to play that for you, Istyar. You are the only one who ever requests it.”

“Am I now?” Lindir knew good and well that I enjoyed this song, but he did not know the full reason why. “I’m glad you are an aficionado of the melodies of Aman, Lindir, else I should rarely listen to this rare piece.”

They began again, first with a hymn to Yavanna. Then they segued into my request. It was a love song and a favorite of Mélamírë, my long-lost friend from the House of the Míretanor. As I listened to the musicians in the Hall of Fire, I smiled, recalling the languid summer night in the hills of Eregion when a number of us younger folk gathered to dance, sing, drink wine and engage in more private activities under the full moon that bathed the land in silver light.

~*~

Neither Mélamírë nor I had suitors who accompanied us to the night’s moonlit revelry. She and I had long been friends with one another but never lovers. Mélamírë –- an only child -- had adopted me as something akin to a younger brother, a role that I was flattered to fulfill. At the time, I was immersed in the forging of the third Ring of Power with Istyar Aulendil. I had not yet begun to court Nierellë who was then involved with a Sinda vintner, a man with whom her father encouraged her to keep company. Mélamírë claimed to be too busy for lovers, although I suspected that the formidable barrier of her kinsmen likely precluded men from paying court to her, particularly after Mírucáno’s unfortunate experience that had become the stuff of legend among the young men of the Míretanor. Thus detached from the drama of romance and sexual tension, my friend and I observed the obvious flirtation among the dancers. We gleefully speculated who would be slipping off into the darkness with whom and how many greenwood marriages would arise from the evening's festivities.

Mélamírë was in a celebratory -- and feisty -- mood that evening, recently having been designated Istyanis by the Otornassë Míretanor. After a few cups of wine, she had sauntered over to the musicians and made a request. She returned, sitting cross-legged by me, with a sly smile on her face. The melody - a superlative love song - began, and couples wound sensuously around and against one another in subtle reflection of foreplay. Mélamírë chuckled, and I asked she found so amusing.

“Our people. For all our insistence that we Noldor are so enlightened, we are rigid on some matters. We deny reality in so many ways, including the courses of love,” she said, smiling wickedly as she watched the dancers. “Everyone assumes that the song is a romantic paean from a young man to his lady love as fitting and accepted by Noldorin custom. Well, let me tell you something…” and she had proceeded to whisper in my ear.

Mélamírë’s mother had adored this song and along with Istyar Tyelperinquar, who was likewise taken with it, had worked with a few of the musicians in the Guild of the Harp to introduce it to their repertoire. None other than the mighty Cánafinwë had composed the original piece, but the root melody was written by Findekáno, Mélamírë had said, for his lover – Nelyafinwë. Everyone knew that Fingon and Maedhros had enjoyed a legendary friendship, yet I looked at her with amazement upon her quiet revelation. An unspoken question nagged in the outer shell of my thoughts as I tried to make sense of this.

She had laughed again when she perceived my quandary. “Ai, Sámaril! The dynamics of any family are complicated, and all the more so for the House of Finwë.” Her mirth subsided, and she said thoughtfully, “Of late, Mother and Tyelpo have begun to tell me more about them. I wish that I might have known Maitimo and Findekáno.” Then she lowered her voice, leaned against me and whispered, “What the Valar have taught the Eldar about bonding consists of half-truths and outright deception. Remember that.”

I barely had time to digest her startling words when the music switched to a lively dance tune. Mélamírë leapt to her feet, grabbing my hand as I unfolded my legs to follow her. “Let’s dance, my friend,” she said, her eyes reflecting the silver light of the moon. “We ought to make some more requests so we can forestall any tiresome hymns.”

“You are an unrepentant heretic, my lady!” I had laughed while we swirled among the dancers under the summer moon.

~*~

Leaving my nostalgic reverie, I returned to the Hall of Fire. Although I smiled while I listened to the concluding verse from Maglor's adaptation of Fingon’s love song, a tear tracked down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away. Who knew where my old friend was? I wanted to think that she argued with Námo over the true nature of death among Men and the Firstborn or hovered behind Vairë, advising that a particular color in the weave of the world should be a bit brighter here, a bit darker there, and would Vairë like her to forge better hinges for the Loom of Fate? I laughed to myself when I imagined Mélamírë’s predictable response to such thoughts: “Now that is superstitious nonsense, Sámaril, and you know it!”

Lindir filled the hall with the rippling cascades of his harp when he began the next piece and lifted his golden tenor in harmony with Laerwen’s silver soprano. For us – the Firstborn – this soaring music was practically sustenance like bread and water. Mortals warned that Elven music enchanted and trapped the unwary in a perilous glamour, and that time became warped and unnatural. While the latter did not hold sway with us for whom time flowed so differently, we were equally subject to the enchantment.

The music guided me into another plane, a green and blue world beyond the confines of Imbar, where I walked over the hills of Elvenhome, a land that I had never seen, but whose image was engraved as deeply in me as the essence that imparted the color of my hair and eyes. My mind wandered to a crest of a green hill and gazed out over a far azure sea, the subtle scent of lilies floating in the light breeze. In the dell below, maidens in gossamer dress danced in a circle beneath a sun which shone with a faintly alien but beautiful light.

Enraptured by the song’s spell, I heard my name called from a far shore. She called again and again over the crash of the waves. I thought my heart would break. Then the call clarified, now close, soft, low and melodious but more powerful than the sea. I wanted to drown in that voice. Then its tone became sharp and insistent.

“Istyar Sámaril? Istyar Sámaril?”

I started, irritated that I had been yanked away from the melancholy but lovely waking dream.

“What?” I snapped, twisting around to see who had so rudely interrupted my meditation. Sky-blue eyes fringed with dark lashes caught the light of the fire in the hearth, and I withered with humiliation at the churlish response I had just flung at Valandil’s mother.

“Forgive me for interrupting you,” she said coolly. “But I wish to speak to you about this afternoon.”

“Yes, certainly, my lady.” I rose from the bench. Her tone and demeanor told me she was accustomed to others listening carefully to her wishes. “Shall we speak there?” I indicated the entrance to the Hall where it would be somewhat quieter, but still within sight of all and conforming to propriety.

She walked alongside me, her movement graceful but hinting at underlying strength. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, noting that although she stood perhaps twenty centimeters shorter than me, she was nonetheless a tall woman, taller than many, but consistent with what I had seen of the men of her people, most of whom had great stature.

We stopped near the entry and faced one another.

“I wish to thank you for rescuing and returning my son to me today, Istyar. Valandil is especially adept at escaping our watch when he sets his mind to it.”

“It was fortunate happenstance that I hiked along the ridge this morning. The current of the river is powerful there.”

She averted her eyes and looked at her hands, her long fingers entwined. She raised her face again, the candlelight painting her creamy skin gold and casting shadows that emphasized her fine cheekbones and straight nose. Her chin was firmly set as she drew herself up to respond to me.

“I know that I should have been more vigilant, Istyar, but you must understand that Valandil is a clever boy and can slip away from us as easily as one of your people’s youngsters might, or at least that is what I am given to understand. Gaereth is beside herself with guilt.”

“So she should be. Your servant nearly lost your son. If Valandil is so clever, then perhaps you should request that one of my people watch over him.”

“Do not judge her too harshly,” she said. “Gaereth is a naive young woman from a coastal village. Imladris has set her adrift. Your people frighten her, and she still adjusts to living here among you. If I may be so bold, you did not help matters this afternoon when you rebuked her.”

Far from the first time that I had heard that Elves intimidated Men, the superstitious notions of mortals nonetheless exasperated me.

“My people frighten her? I frighten her? Well, good! Perhaps she’ll watch after your child more diligently if she fears us so much!”

I gesticulated to emphasize my consternation. My hand grazed a garland of red leaves and purple asters attached to the paneling near the doorframe, and the decoration fell to the floor. Elerína bent to pick up the garland. She reattached the garland adroitly and turned to me, her chin again set, her fine dark brows furrowed, but she did not speak.

The silver circlet over her brow had been knocked askew when she had retrieved the garland. Just as no cautious governor had stayed my words, with unthinking spontaneity I reached forward and straightened the circlet, my fingers grazing the silk of her dark hair. Her eyes widened, but still she said nothing. She compressed her lips into a thin line, turned from me abruptly and left the hall. Stunned at my idiotic behavior that lurched from who knows where, I watched her walk away and found myself admiring the sway of her hips and her rounded...

“Oh, now that was simply brilliant, Sámaril!” Thorno, holding two full goblets of wine, was at my side. “Very well done. You have set your sights on the impossible.”

A scorched tingling suffused my face. “What in Utumno's blazes do you mean by that?”

“I haven’t seen you that taken with a woman for ages. Do you know who she is?”

Much to my chagrin, I realized I had not asked her name, but then neither had she introduced herself. It was as if she assumed I knew who she was.

“I only know that she is the distracted mother of Valandil, the Dúnadan child I pulled off the rocks today. And I am a widower, Thorno. A married man. Of course I do not linger around women, especially mortal women. She merely wished to thank me for rescuing her son.”

Inwardly, I winced at my self-righteousness since I had succumbed to my hröa’s demands on numerous occasions after my wife's death. Knowing this, Thorno cocked his brow at my protest but said nothing. I took the goblet of wine from his hand and drank long from it.

“From what I observed, you accepted her thanks ever so graciously.” Thorno smiled wryly.

I groaned. “Varda’s stars! I am hopeless when it comes to manners.”

“You also have a blasphemous mouth!” He laughed, savoring his remark since he swore as often as I did. “Sámaril, honestly, you spend far too much time in the forges.”

I ignored his assessment of my work habits and the implied impact on my social skills or lack thereof.

“So do me the kindness of enlightening me, Thorno. Who is she?” I took another gulp of wine, my racing heart steadying.

“Her name is Elerína. She is Isildur’s wife – one of the Queens of Gondor.”

The wine sprayed from my mouth, punctuating with vulgar exclamation my appalling lack of control.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Astaron - Noldo, master of the kitchens in the House of Elrond. (derived from astar - a Quenya gloss meaning "faithful, loyalty.")

Maidhel - Sinda, Astaranon's chief assistant.

Mélamírë - Noldo, master smith of the Otornossë Mírëtanoron/Gwaith-i-Mírdain.

Istyanis (Q.) - my construct for scholarly or learned woman; I imagine the titles of "Istyar" and "Istyaní" among the Noldor to be equivalent to a tenured professor, i.e., a step beyond a master.

Tyelpo = Tyelperinquar - Celebrimbor

Cánafinwë (Macalaurë) - Maglor

Findekáno - Fingon

Nelyafinwë (Maitimo) - Maedhros

----

Based on a number of items in both "Laws and Customs of the Eldar" (History of Middle-earth, vol. X) and Tolkien's letter (#43 - Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, ed. H. Carpenter) to his son, Michael, on the subject of marriage, I interpret Mélamírë's vocation as a master smith to be a very rare one for a Noldorin woman. Mélamírë has her own story which I hope to get around to telling. As for Ælfwine's assessments in "LaCE," all I have to say about that is that he was no Margaret Mead.

 

The song which Sámaril requests has its origins in Chapter 3 - "Promises" of oshun's Maitimo and Findekáno. I extend my thanks to her for allowing me to borrow from her canon.

Chapter 4: A Queen in the Kitchen

Sámaril returns Valandil's refurbished toys to the kitchen of the House of Elrond and encounters Valandil's grandmother.

Character list provided in end notes. Many thanks to oshun, Rhapsody and Moreth for their betafying!

Read Chapter 4: A Queen in the Kitchen

The first snow had come and gone. Back in my element, I latched on to the comforting familiarity of my labors in the forges.

Last month’s mortifying confrontation with Elerína had driven me away from the public spheres of the dining hall and the Hall of Fire. While I awaited snowflakes, I had spent my time hiking by day and night in the valley, riding my horse up to the high moors or fidgeting in the library where I read tomes of lore or poetry in attempts to occupy myself. Yet equations and formulas danced among the turgid stanzas of the Lay of Leithian, and I had chafed to return to my work.

Every day I had watched the sky, disappointed when dry ground greeted me at dawn. At last wet wool clouds released flurries that later would burgeon into heavy snowfall. Thorno already awaited me at the doors of the forge when barely a dusting of snow had settled in the ground. With a dramatic gesture, he handed my tongs and hammer to me, the rest of my staff applauding as I stepped into the entry hall.

A few days after I had made my grand entrance into the smithy, a commotion of another sort swirled about the House. A packet of letters from the men of the Alliance arrived. The courier and his escort had just come through the Cirith Forn before the mountains’ snowfall rendered it impassable. Although the most urgent messages made their way through mysterious pathways from Amon Sûl in the west and thence by messenger to Imladris, such exchanges were limited to critical matters. This packet of letters represented the correspondence of those who by now surely engaged the Enemy’s forces.

Many had gathered in the entry hall of the House to receive the letters, but as was my wont, I did not join the others, preferring to avoid the throng. Much to my surprise, I had received a missive and even more surprising was the manner in which it was delivered.

Upon my return to the forges, I had resumed a pet project: replication of a mysterious steel alloy used in blades of the distant East. We of the West had only heard rumor of this special steel, said of surpassing strength and capable of taking an extremely sharp edge. Without having seen the steel itself, its crafting proved to be elusive, but I relished the challenge in guessing what the distant smiths used in their alloy and applying my hunches to experiments. I sat at my desk, sketching diagrams to determine the rate of cooling required for an experimental smelting procedure when Lhainir, my assistant, rapped on the door jam to get my attention.

“Istyar, you have visitors.” He stepped back and gestured to whomever had made the trek up to the facility to find me.

Young Valandil confidently walked into my office, dragging the reluctant redheaded girl – Gaereth, yes, that was her name – by the hand.

“Please forgive me, my lord, but the prince insisted on coming here. He has something for you.” She hung her head, averting her eyes.

“I am no ‘lord.’ Most call me ‘Istyar.’”

She looked up briefly, but quickly glanced away. “Ist-yar ?”

“It is Quenya – High-elven – and means the same as ‘Istuinir.’ You might know that better.” I noted that she spoke Sindarin reasonably well and with a charming burr.

“Istuinir. Istyar,” she repeated. “A wise man.”

“He is wise!” Valandil’s voice piped. “He is an Elf! All Elves are wise.”

I stayed my contradiction to his childish confidence in my flawed race. In contrast to his nursemaid, the little boy had no fear whatsoever of me. His eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Istyar, you have a letter. Master Gildor said I could bring it to you.” He extended the small parchment, which I took from him. I immediately recognized the firm script on the carefully folded paper and the design of a rayed disk stamped into the wax seal.

“Thank you, Prince Valandil. It was kind of you to bring this all the way to the forge for me.”

“I am Val, Istyar. Are you going to read the letter? It is from Lord Glorfindel! That is what Master Gildor said. Will you read it to us? Mama read Papa’s letter to me.”

I had to smile at his audacious request. He was exceptionally articulate, too, for such a young child of Men. His precocious way with words likely reflected the Elvish inheritance among the descendants of Elros.

Gaereth leaned over and spoke softly to the boy, “The Istyar’s letter is private, Prince Valandil. It is not polite to ask him to read it aloud.”

I broke the seal and scanned the letter, noting the parts that I must censor. “No need to fret, Mistress Gaereth. Your young charge is nothing if not bold so I will oblige him. Lord Glorfindel writes:

Dear Sámaril,

As I write this, we are camped forty kilometers from the Anduin, having passed through Cirith Forn en Andrath without event. We marched on the Men-i-Naugrim and shall cross the river tomorrow where the bridge has been strengthened and expanded by the Dwarves to allow the passage of our militia. King Oropher of the Woodland Realm has committed to eight hundred archers in support of the Alliance, and we anticipate joining them near the Greenwood. Lord Amdir will send reinforcements from Lorien. So our forces continue to grow. I am proud to serve in the retinue of Ereinion Gil-galad and alongside the Kings Elendil and Isildur and the Princes Elendur, Aratar and Ciryon.

Valandil interrupted. “They are my father and brothers!”

I smiled at the boy and continued reading.

Côldring has been busy, less with armaments and more with boots, once the armies crossed the high passes. The Númenóreans, as you know, are of great stature. By virtue of their size and carrying so much gear – even more than the doughtiest Noldo – they wear down their footwear quickly. For whatever reason, the Men hold our people in great esteem with regard to construction of boots and shoes. I’ll grant you that there are fine cobblers among the Firstborn, including Lathronir on your staff, but Côldring is flummoxed by the attention. “I am not a bloody cobbler! Give me steel!” he complains but he repairs all and sundry boots anyway and does it well. I find it most amusing, but I imagine Côldring will set his skill to steel all too soon.

I hope this finds you well. Please let Naurusnir know that I indeed will skewer him if he allows you into the forge before the first snow.

Sincerely,

Laurëfin

I omitted the bulk of the letter in which Laurëfin described a fierce skirmish with a band of orcs on the east side of the mountains. He had noted that three of the Dúnedain and two elven-soldiers of the Third Spear sustained non-lethal but significant injuries. I left unspoken the fact that the letter was written more than a month past, and that the Alliance already met the Enemy’s forces in battle even while I read the letter to the little boy.

“Will Lord Glorfindel really skewer Naur – Naurusnir?” Valandil asked.

“I think not, Val. More likely, he, along with your father and brothers, will skewer the ranks of the Enemy.”

“Well, that is good. My papa and brothers are very brave men,” he stated emphatically.

“That they are, Val.”

“My lord, we should leave the Istyar to his work and go on with our walk,” Gaereth said.

The boy sighed with resignation but brightened to ask his nursemaid, “May we go to the river? I want to see the ice at the falls.”

“Yes, we can do that, my lord.” The girl began to lead Valandil out of my office.

“Wait a moment,” I said. Opening my desk drawer, I lifted out the small box tucked inside. I flipped open its lid, running my fingers through the gemstones.

“Here. This is for you, Val.” I placed a small uncut amethyst in his little hand. He thanked me and turned the rough-cut stone over in his fingers, and then pocketed it.

“And for you, Gaereth.”

She hesitated, so I took her hand, placing a polished green beryl on her palm.

“An elfstone!” she exclaimed. “I cannot take this!”

“Of course you can. I...well, this is long overdue, but I’m sorry for speaking so harshly to you. I can see that you care for young Valandil. That beryl is the least I can do by way of apology.”

“Thank you, my lor--, Istyar! It is beautiful! Is it magic?”

“No, it’s not magic, but it is one of my people’s favorite gemstones.” I pulled my cloak off the hook by the door. “I’ll walk down the path with you. Now shall we go?”

I escorted them down the wide path, switching back and forth three times, but stopped twice so that Val could look out over the valley. The child peered intently at the sky, searching for something. Then he skipped, running his mitten-wrapped hand against the cold limestone of the cliff. When we reached the path leading to the river, I took leave of them.

“Good-bye, Istyar! I will see you later!” The child smiled brightly as he waved, and then holding his nursemaid’s hand, skipped away toward the river.

The ache in my heart was a little less acute when I returned to the forge. Yet I cautioned myself against the flattery of the boy’s attention and the affection for the child that had begun to flicker within me. I suffered from the loss of my son, even if I had never known him: any attachment I might form with this boy would inevitably result in loss again.

 

~*~

 

Three days later, a storm blew through the valley, blanketing the crags, meadows and trees under drifts of soft snow. A deep cold followed, leaving the air crystalline and the sky an impossible shade of blue. Val appeared in my office again, eyes as blue as that winter sky, cheeks pink from the brisk air, his cap pulled over his forehead and a large scarf wrapped a few times around his neck. Gaereth, also bundled against the Northern cold, again was in tow. Val extended a wooden toy to me that he held in mittened hands.

“Istyar? Could you please fix my wagon? Its wheel has broken.”

He handed the small wooden wagon to me. I scrutinized it. Not only was the wheel broken but the toy was also worn and cracked. This was a beloved plaything. The reddish-brown wood was of a type I had never seen before.

“Yes, I can fix this for you, but it will take me a day or so. Will that do?”

He nodded. “Yes, my soldiers can wait for it.”

“Ah! So you need it to carry your soldiers?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, carved figure that he placed in my hand. “Yes. Here is one. But he is getting old. Maybe he is tired of war.”

~*~

In between my experiments in the forge, I repaired the toy’s wheel and axle, filled the crack with a mix of glue and sawdust, and then sanded and lightly oiled the entire assembly. Using small carving knives, I refined the worn solder, bringing his armor, helm and sword into relief again. I traced the details of scrolling on his shield and scabbard, striving to stay true to the original designs, which were distinctly foreign.

I summoned Lhainir to take the toys back to the House, but while he stood in the door, waiting for me, I waved him away.

“Never mind,” I said as I wrapped the toys in an old but clean cloth and then threw my cloak over my shoulders. “I’ll take them down to the House. I think I’ll take my lunch in the kitchen today so I’ll deliver the toys to Master Astaron. He can see that Prince Valandil receives them.”

When I stepped out from warmth of the forge into bitter cold air, the peregrines’ distant whistles echoing off the cliffs greeted me. They flew high in the airs over the snow-laden meadows and woods down the valley. One of the falcons dove with startling speed at a flock of wood pigeons. That was a welcome sight since the birds raided the orchards and berry batches in the spring; a dent in their population wouldn’t hurt.

I trotted down the path, now free of ice and snow. My assistants had cleared the way using a pair of shovels of my crafting, the tools cutting through snow and ice with ease. “Magic elven-shovels!” the Dúnedain of Middle-earth had exclaimed as they wielded these shovels to clear their campsites during the last three winters.

The shovels were not magic: elven or mortal muscle was still required to move snow, but I had applied the deep arts to their making. The metal of the blades amplified the smallest amount of friction, converting the drag of invisible jagged edges of ice crystals into heat, thereby forming a warmed surface that sliced through snow. Construction of such shovels - using clever innovations by Istyar Aulendil - had been among my first projects as his apprentice. I shoved aside the dissonance that reflexively arose in my thought: the terrible incongruity of my brilliant mentor who had given so much to the people of Eregion and then betrayed us all so ruthlessly.

A bustle of activity greeted me when I entered the side door that opened into the huge kitchen of Elrond’s residence. Master Astaron and his assistants prepared food and drink for those who would dine in the hall at mid-day. Maidhel whirled out of the adjacent hearth room and saw me.

“Istyar! Have you come to join us for lunch? I can set a plate for you in the dining hall.”

“Not in the hall, I think. Here in the kitchen will do. I’m hardly presentable.” I wore my usual work clothes, scorched and pitted from the fires and smudged liberally with soot. “I have this for the young prince - Valandil. I thought it might be delivered to him.”

Maidhel smiled and nodded toward the arched doorway that led to the dining hall. “You may give it to him yourself, Istyar.”

The little boy had just entered the kitchen, pulling on the hand of a very tall woman clad in a simple charcoal-grey gown, her silver-streaked black hair meticulously restrained in a long plait. From my reckoning, she was at least as tall as the Lady Galadriel, whom I had seen on a few occasions in Ost-in-Edhil before the war.

“Istyar!” Valandil greeted me cheerfully, eyeing the bundle in my hand. “Do you have my wagon?”

The woman looked down at the effusive child and smiled, the skin around her eyes and mouth creasing deeply, as if countless smiles had etched themselves into her face. Yet there were also faint lines that belied slumbering furrows of worry and sorrow. She released the boy’s hand, and he scampered to me. I unwrapped the wagon and the toy soldier and placed them in his waiting hands. Valandil immediately set the wagon on the floor, placed the soldier in it, and scooted them about on the tiles.

“What do you say, Val?” She prompted the child, her husky alto voice firm but gentle.

“Oh!” Val jumped up from his play. “Thank you, Istyar!” Then he threw his little arms around my legs and hugged me. I stroked his dark hair, the warnings against friendship with this mortal child weakening as the instinctual affections of human to human shouted them down. He pulled back, not releasing me, but looking up, his face alight with childish eagerness.

“Istyar, will you take your lunch with my grandmama and me?”

Stunned, I realized who this tall regal woman was. It took me a few moments to regroup and answer properly.

“Thank you, that is kind of you to invite me, Prince Valandil, but I usually dine here in the kitchen. I don’t wish to intrude, my lady.” I met the storm-grey eyes of the High Queen of the Dúnedain, standing before me in the noisy kitchen of Imladris.

“You are welcome to join us, Istyar,” the queen said.

I could hardly refuse her gracious gesture. “It would be my pleasure then to dine with you, my lady queen…” She extended her hand, which I took in mine, reactivating my little used knowledge of courtly behavior. I brushed my lips against her large but decidedly feminine hand.

“I am Isilmë.” She smiled, and I thought I saw the hint of a flush beneath skin that was washed with a warm tawny color from many years of the sun’s light.

“We usually take our lunch here in the kitchen instead of the dining hall,” she said. “Valandil can be rambunctious, so he is less constrained here. Dining in our suites is too confining for my tastes, and there are times when I would be away from my ladies-in-waiting. So I seek the hustle and bustle of Master Elrond’s kitchen.”

Thus I found myself in the extraordinary circumstance of dining with Queen Isilmë and Prince Valandil in a noisy kitchen. Maidhel set a heaping plate before me. I had only taken tea before dawn, having slept briefly on the cot in my office, and had not eaten the evening before so the abundance of food was welcome.

I focused on the meal, unsure as to how I should behave around this queen of Men. Ost-in-Edhil had no regent when I lived there but was governed by an elected council. Lord Glorfindel was the closest to a sovereign for me. Even so, that was comradely by virtue of the history between his father and mine and by our shared friends in Eregion lost. My previous experiences with Númenórean nobility in Tharbad had been less than pleasant.

The Queen must have perceived my discomfiture and my curiosity, too. I had assumed that royalty would eschew such a common setting, but she was perfectly at ease.

“I am glad to meet you, Istyar,” Queen Isilmë said as she tucked a cloth napkin into Val’s collar. “My lord Elendil spoke well of your work.”

“Thank you, my lady. It was nothing really.”

“Nothing? I should say not! Narsil is precious to him and to our people. If its keen edge gives him even more confidence, then you have done much, Istyar.”

“That is kind of you to say.”

“I know you are capable of greater works, but your placing the edge on Narsil and cleaning the Circlet of Silmariën meant a lot to him. After all, you are one of the last great smiths of the High Elves here in mortal lands, are you not?” The Queen smiled, her skin creasing around her eyes and mouth again.

My face warmed at the compliment. “I don’t know about ‘great.’ I am merely one of the more experienced smiths remaining, I suppose.” I engulfed a piece of honey-sweetened beet and noticed that Val then imitated me, sticking a piece of the red vegetable into his wide-open mouth.

“You are too modest, I think, but you must have your reasons for that.”

This woman disarmed me with her directness. I could easily imagine that husky voice raised in command. Yet she did not project the distant hauteur of royalty, or at least how I perceived such from Ereinion Gil-galad and his court or from the highborn Númenóreans who had been stationed in Tharbad. In spite of my misgivings and rusty social skills, I began to relax in her presence. But it was her grandson’s sweet and open manner that steadily chiseled at the wall I had erected around my heart.

“Istyar? Will you come to the winter festival?” he asked in between mouthfuls of bread.

He referred to the celebration that took place on the winter solstice. The Tawarwaith and Sindar of the household relished this festival, and even my people with their propensity for formalism loosened up during this celebration. With the preparations for war over the past few years, its celebration had been perfunctory. Apparently this winter, something more elaborate was planned.

“Yes, I suppose I will attend.”

“Good!” Then he turned to his grandmother. “Grandmama, may I play with my wagon now? I have eaten all my food, even the beets.”

“Yes, you may. Just stay out of the way of Mistress Maidhel and the others in the kitchen, my little one.”

The child took the wagon and the soldier to a space beside the table and pushed the toy around, chattering orders and exclamations of victory.

“Master Gildor thought the festival would be good for morale,” the Queen said as she watched her grandson. “It is hard to be left behind, knowing that the Alliance must surely be set to battle by now but not hearing news of their fate. No word has yet passed from Amon Sûl, and this troubles me.”

“Yes, it is hard. Perhaps the winter festival will provide a distraction for those of us sequestered here.”

“Val can scarcely wait for the coming holiday. He is so young, my grandson. He was born here just four years ago when my husband, my sons and your king formed the Alliance.”

“Val was born here? I didn’t know that, but I have been so engaged in my tasks that I haven’t taken much notice of anyone other than the armies and the staff of my smithy. I knew there were women and youths of your people residing here, but I never delved into your identities. Please forgive me, my lady, for my preoccupation. It wasn’t meant as a slight. I assumed that you and your family remained in Annúminas.”

I thought it puzzling that Isilmë did not act as sovereign in her husband’s stead. Perhaps she chose not to do so, but possibly the High King, as one of the Faithful, adhered to long-held Eldarin customs that tended to keep women officially removed from governance with very few exceptions. Yet I well knew that women of the Noldor often gave strong counsel behind the scenes and woe to the man who did not heed them! Perhaps this was the case with Queen Isilmë – that she wielded influence in spite of being sequestered in Imladris.

 

“There is nothing to forgive. The women of the Dúnedain are often overlooked,” she said with a touch of bitterness. “I saw the helms and hauberks, the swords and axes when they marched away, so I know that you and your smiths along with those of my people labored hard. As for remaining at Annúminas, both my lord Elendil and Master Elrond were firm that we all remove to Imladris for safety among your people. Master Elrond feels a strong sense of kinship with my husband and our family. He is very protective of us, and he is so kind, too. We are grateful to him and to your people.”

I had heard that before from Lord Glorfindel, who had remarked on the close friendship that had developed between the High King and the Lord of Imladris. Such intimacy between Elves and Men was unusual, but then Master Elrond not only carried the blood of the Firstborn, but also that of the Edain and the strange inheritance of Faerie, which imparted a curious adaptability to new situations and people. As a consequence, he was much more at ease with Men and we, the residents of Imladris, were expected to follow suit.

My feelings toward mortals roiled in conflict. By virtue of study with my mentor, I understood the minds of Men better than others of my people did. In many ways, the Firstborn and the Followers were much the same, but in others, we diverged profoundly. Among the more notable differences were Men’s sense of time and the urgency and impatience thus conferred to them. These characteristics led them to make rash decisions yet made them far more adaptable to change than my people.

Then there was the guilt I suffered from what I had done to Men: nine of them inflicted terror and suffering on many of their own kind as my devices put them under the Enemy’s control. Even my good intentions toward a young mortal woman had soured when the gift I made for her had twisted her life. This unrelenting guilt reinforced the barriers I had erected between mortals and myself.

Many of my kin regarded mortals as the lesser race. Not I. I was all too aware of my race’s failings. From observing the minds and motives of Men in the deepest ways, I knew that they were my brothers and sisters, however short their lives might be compared to mine and however differently they might perceive time’s currents. It was what I had done to them that caused me to believe that it was I who did not deserve their company.

I picked at the remnants of my food, lost in those grave ruminations, when a small hand patted my forearm.

“Don’t be sad, Istyar,” Val said, his bright eyes holding me as he stood beside my chair. “We will go to the winter festival, and you will be happy then.” He then resumed his play.

Blinking, I managed to hold back the threat of tears. When I looked up at the Queen, I fell into dark eyes filled with warmth and sympathy as she cautiously opened the gates of her mind to me. But beneath her concern, I glimpsed a twisting fear that had rooted itself deep within her, entangled in her mind like a parasitic vine that chokes a strong tree.

“We must take our leave now,” she said firmly, snapping the tendrils of thought that had begun to thread delicately between us. She rose from her chair and smoothed her gown. I stood along with her. “Thank you for joining us today, Istyar.” Then she lowered her voice, just above a whisper. “My grandson is a sensitive, perceptive child. He sees something in you in want of healing. I only ask that you do not hurt him.”

Those words, though spoken softly, were firm in their implication. She turned to the boy. “Come, Val. Let’s be sure that lunch gets delivered to your mother and then see how her work at the loom is proceeding.”

I watched Isilmë as she spoke to Maidhel with Valandil orbiting around their skirts. This queen of Men could not be described with a better word than magnificent. Her forthright – even blunt – manner appealed to me. Yet when we had silently touched one another, she had seen my guilt and regret, and I had perceived her fear. Perhaps they were derived from the same source.

---

Chapter End Notes

Elerína - Isildur's wife, exiled co-queen of Gondor.

Lhainir - Sinda, Sámaril's assistant

Côldring - Noldo, master smith.

Lathronir - Sinda, master tanner and cobbler.

Naurusnir - Sinda, journeyman smith

Astaron - Noldo, master of the kitchens in the House of Elrond.

Maidhel - Sinda, Astaron's senior assistant.

Aulendil - one of Sauron's aliases during the Second Age.

Isilmë - Elendil's wife; the queen of Arnor.

Istuinir – my Sindarin construct: istui- learned + dir - man. (see Claudio's references on Sindarin name construction).

Cirith Forn en Andrath: The High Pass; from Tolkien, J.R.R. “Disaster of the Gladden Fields.” Unfinished Tales. Houghton Mifflin Company: Boston, 1980. p 278 fn4

Men-i-Naugrim: The Dwarf Road = The Old Forest Road; from Tolkien, J.R.R. “Disaster of the Gladden Fields.” Unfinished Tales. Houghton Mifflin Company: Boston, 1980. fn14, 281.

Tawarwaith: Silvan Elves

I imagine the Faithful Númenóreans, who tend to use Quenya names and titles, would thus call Sámaril “Istyar,” and that out of respect or perhaps Sámaril’s preference, the Sindar also use the Quenya title.

In spite of the canonical prevalence of Sindarin, it’s notable that among the Noldor, not all names are completely “Sindarized.” For example, “Erestor” at a cursory glance appears to be concocted from eressë variously meaning “solitude” or “alone” and toron = brother. Sámaril’s name has no palatable equivalent in Sindarin, or at least in the lexicon that is available. So in the pandemoniverse, he is called “Sámaril” by Noldor, Sindar and Silvans alike.

On the winter festival: Based on Appendix D of The Lord of the Rings, such a celebration among the Eldar is non-canonical. However, since the Eldar are so closely linked with nature and clearly recognize seasonal cycles, it doesn’t seem far-fetched that they would have a festival surrounding the winter solstice, an event that had a far-reaching influence among many cultures.

Not that I am enslaved to canon (obviously), but curiosity drove me to the Calendars in The Peoples of Middle-earth (PM)* which offers a curious jumble of accounts as to the beginning of the new year. Based on what I have gleaned, Yule is a Mannish custom, marking the beginning of the new year as opposed to the Eldarin new year (for the coranar or solar year) that begins in the spring. However, an interesting bit appears in PM in which a “historian” discusses the quantiën (century) of the Eldar. Apparently this – in Tolkien’s development of the legendarium – preceded the yén of 144 solar years. It is noted that “the quantiéni are arranged to begin as nearly as possible with the first sunset after the Winter Solstice.” The historian also notes that he believes that “the Elves observe the Sun and stars closely” in the context of making occasional corrections in their calendar. Among these corrections were two days added to the end and the beginning of the quantiën: “Quantarië Day of Completion, Oldyear’s Day, and Vinyarië Newyear’s Day; they were times of festival.” This historian’s information contradicts that of those who suggest that the Elves did not hold any midwinter celebrations.

*Tolkien, J.R.R. The History of Middle-earth, vol XII, edited by C.R. Tolkien. HarperCollinsPublishers: London, 2002. 127.

Chapter 5: Falcon and Tercel

Sámaril is introduced to the Queen's peregrines and sets his hands and mind to something other than alloys and equations.

Thanks to Moreth, Rhapsody and oshun for their comments! Likewise, many thanks to Gandalf's Apprentice for letting me borrow her birds (see link to The Sword of Elendil in the Story Notes).

Read Chapter 5: Falcon and Tercel

The falcon plummeted from the crystal-blue sky, so swift that even I could make out no details of the bird, just a blur of blue-grey and white streaking through the winter-crisp air. Queen Isilmë, her arm outstretched, stood near the edge of the drop-off, the snow-blanketed valley rolling away before her feet. At the last minute, the peregrine unfolded its wings, spreading them to break its fall. The bird lofted up slightly, its talons extended, and settled on the long leather glove that covered the queen’s arm.

“Here’s my lady!” Isilmë offered a gobbet of raw meat to the falcon, which snagged it with her hooked beak, wolfed it down, and eyed the pouch hanging from Isilmë’s belt. The queen dipped her fingers into the small oiled-leather sack and rewarded her falcon with another bloody treat. She then slowly walked back to where Valandil, Gaereth, Lady Vórwen – the queen’s senior attendant - and I watched.

“This is Fâniel,” she said, keeping her eye on the peregrine. “I hope to take her to the moors next spring and hunt duck and grouse. The moors look to be good hunting ground.”

“They are, my lady queen,” I said. “The hunters of Imladris gather most of our game birds from the moors.”

“Have you ever taken a falcon to hunt?”

“No. Our hunters do not use hawks or falcons but spaniels.”

“Now that could be a marvelous combination: an elven-trained spaniel and my Fâniel. I hope that you might tear yourself away from the forge long enough to join me in the hunt, Istyar. Falconry is marvelous sport!”

“You might be able to persuade me, my lady, once winter’s past us.”

The tercel spiraled above, calling in frustration while his larger, more powerful mate was coddled and fed.

“Alagos has become wild again,” the queen said, squinting up at the circling bird. “He has always had a head of his own, that one, but Fâniel likes people.”

The falcon looked to the queen and then at me, curiosity glinting in her gold-ringed obsidian eyes. She shifted on the queen’s arm, digging her talons into the leather glove, when she heard her name. Isilmë stroked Fâniel’s pale breast, the buff feathers patterned with distinctive black barred markings. The bird accepted her touch and even seemed to enjoy it.

“I believe that Maico and Rámë’s blood runs truer in Fâniel than it does in Alagos. But even if he’s wild, he is loyal, I will say that for him. They followed us from Annúminas.”

Fâniel piqued my curiosity. I had seen many raptors, including the kestrels and eagles that soared over Eregion and here over Imladris, but never so close.

“Who are Maico and Rámë?”

“Rámë and her mate, Maico, were the ancestors of my peregrines. They appeared in the skies over Rómenna not long after Elendil and I wed. We did not know whence they came, but they made their nest in the cliffs above the sea and circled our villa. They became our protectors, watching over our home for the spies – his spies.” A shadow passed over her face, and Fâniel let loose a clatter of alarm calls, flapping her wings in agitation. Alagos clacked in response, his harsh cries rebounding off the cliffs.

“Shhh! There, there, my lady! No darkness dwells here.” She soothed the bird, which settled back on her arm.

“Rámë and Maico were so intelligent, Istyar. I hope you do not think I am foolish for saying this, but I believe the Elder King sent them to us – that they were his servants who took the form of peregrines. They hunted with us and watched over us for many years – far longer than the lifespan of the typical falcon. They raised several broods of chicks that spread into the peregrine population of the island. They were with us for one hundred and forty years, and then they left as mysteriously as they had arrived. Two of their descendants – a mated pair - fled from the ruin with us.”

Slowly, I reached out and with my left forefinger and stroked the falcon’s soft breast feathers. The falcon bent over and nibbled my finger.

“I don’t think that is a foolish notion at all, my lady queen. I’ll venture to say that falcons who live for nearly a yén are unusual,” I said, admiring the beautiful bird. “Look at her. She seems as though she is ready to speak.”

The queen regarded the falcon with affection. “I have always thought so, too.”

The queen then raised her arm quickly – the signal for Fâniel to depart. The falcon leapt to flight, joining her mate in the sky overhead. The pair soared away down the valley.

“Thank you for indulging me,” the queen said, pulling off the leather glove. “Shall we attend to the business at hand?”

I led the three women and child into the forge and thence to my workshop where winter sunlight streamed through the line of windows that faced the South.

Had anyone told me that I would touch a raptor for the first time in my nearly fourteen yéni of life or that a queen of Men and her grandson would form an attachment to me - a sometimes irascible Noldo driven by thirst for knowledge but marred by grief and guilt - I would have snorted derisively in disbelief. But of late, these mortals had become part of the rhythm of my life.

~*~

After my first lunch with him, Val with Gaereth in tow once again had appeared in my office. This time, Naurusnir had to retrieve me from the forge where I tried yet again to replicate the fabled steel of the East.

My latest formulation had been at the verge of changing phase. I focused on the subtleties of the color of the coals and the alloy itself to ascertain the rate of cooling. At that critical juncture, Nauruscnir found me. Although he said nothing, just stood silently and waited as I took my measurements, his presence nonetheless distracted me.

“What do you want?” I had snapped, tearing my eyes from the glowing alloy, its edges beginning to darken.

“Forgive me, Istyar. Your young friend - the prince - is here again with his nursemaid. They await you in your office.”

“Just wait until I…” but when I looked at the crucible, I saw that the alloy had frozen into its solid state while my eyes were averted. I had lost my opportunity to observe the pattern of the phase change and correlate it with the cooling rate. Further examination revealed that the crystallization pattern was uneven. Another failed experiment.

“Ai! Can’t that child leave me in peace?”

Naurusnir had eyed me reproachfully, but I ignored him as I removed the crucible from central furnace and dampened the flues. I grabbed my shirt, thrown across a nearby workbench, and wriggled it over my head while striding out of the forge and to my office.

Neither this child nor his grandmother was my regent nor was I their subject to be commanded at a whim. Yet here I was, dropping what I was doing to meet the child. Why could I not say “no” to him?

Gaereth rose to greet me as I entered my office. She flinched, likely because my vexation must have expressed itself in my face. But Val was unquenched. A small muslin bag lay in his lap.

“Istyar? I have brought the rest of my soldiers.” He held up the bag, lumpy from the clutch of toys jammed within it. “Will you please make them strong again?”

“Ai, Val! I’m busy with my own work! You interrupted me in the middle of a crucial experiment.”

Immediately, I regretted my words. Val’s bright little face darkened with disappointment, and he hung his head. A slight sniffle informed me that tears were on their way.

I dropped to my knees beside Val and lifted his chin with my soot-stained fingers, leaving dusky smudges on his baby-soft skin.

“Val, I’m sorry. You just caught me at a critical moment. I can always repeat the experiment.”

He met my gaze, but his eyes swam with tears.

“Why don’t I ask Master Calaquar to repair your soldiers? He is more skilled than I am with wood. He could accomplish this much more quickly, and you’d have your soldiers back in no time.”

Val hung his head again.

“You really want me to repair these, don’t you?”

He raised his eyes and nodded slightly.

His voice barely audible, he whispered, lowering his eyes again, “I want you to make them strong, Istyar.”

“But why me, Val?”

“Because I like you.”

He leaned forward from the edge of the chair and wrapped his little arms around me, pressing his cheek against mine. The joy of affection, the anguish of love lost, and the warning against attachment all surged to break through the numbness that armored my heart. Just like the push-pull of my irritation when I left my work in mid-stream but yearning all the same to see the child, so my emotions jerked back and forth. I enveloped him in my arms and attempted to ground my conflict.

“Very well,” I said as I pulled away, wiping a tear from Val’s cheek with the sleeve of my shirt. “I’ll make them strong again and bring them back to you like I did before.”

Small arms wrapped around me once again, and I thought my heart would break.

Although a departure from my usual endeavors, the simple act of refurbishing the figures had soothed me. In the midst of failure after failure with my latest experiments in the forge, carving the figures allowed for a quiet sense of accomplishment, however minor. The exotic wood took to the knife well, allowing me to embellish it with elaborate designs. Its spicy-sweet fragrance carried me to mysterious far shores with golden beaches and lush verdant forests that rose up into misty hills against a soft, sultry sky.

Within three days, interspersed with my primary tasks, I had rejuvenated the toys and joined Isilmë and Val again for a mid-day meal. Val had taken tremendous delight in the figures that now appeared new. He barely touched his food, so Isilmë had relented and let him play on the floor.

Isilmë had then told me of the history of the soldiers and the wagon.

“Lord Amandil – my father-by-marriage – gave these to Elendil when he was a young boy. They were made in a land that lies around the circles of the world - far from the Downfallen. Lord Amandil said that lush green forests covered the land and mists shrouded the far hills,” she said, her description of the distant country dovetailing with the images that had come to me. “Gods and demons had warred in that land, so in memory of those epic battles, the children of their kings and princes played with these toys. They have passed on to Isildur and Anárion and then to my grandsons. Elendur thought them worthy enough to be secreted on his father’s ship. He seized them from our quarters in Rómenna only days before the first tremor shook the city. Unfortunately, not all the pieces were recovered. There were more wagons, siege machines, and even a cavalry. Valandil has been happy enough with these.”

~*~

Queen Isilmë had led her small entourage to the forge on that winter afternoon not only to show off her peregrines, but also to have some of her jewelry repaired and cleaned, a task which I had offered to her during one of our mid-day conversations. Val leaned against my workbench and quietly watched me while I repaired the clasp of his grandmother’s gold necklace and polished its onyx and pearl pendant. Isilmë, Vórwen and Gaereth had settled in a sunny corner and occupied themselves with needlework brought forth from their satchels – embroidery for Isilmë and Vórwen and knitting for Gaereth. As I put the finishing touches on the last pearl, admiring its subtle iridescence, Val shifted and spoke up.

“Istyar? Would you help me make a Yule gift for Mama?”

“I suppose I can, Val. But what is Yule?”

“You do not know what Yule is?” Val’s eyes widened with incredulity.

“Yule falls near the time of your people’s winter festival,” Isilmë said. “The Middle Men of Arnor celebrate it, and the Dúnedain have adopted their customs. Valandil has heard tales of the holiday from Gaereth here, so he is eager to experience it, especially the gifting.” Isilmë smiled at her grandson. “Gaereth, tell the Istyar of your people’s Yuletide celebration.”

“Yes, my queen.” Gaereth set her knitting on her lap and began to regale me with the traditions surrounding the winter solstice in her village: the gathering of the greens – pine, holly, ivy and mistletoe – to bedeck hall and hearth, feasting and dancing, and lighting of many candles in homes and bonfires in the woods and along the shore to drive back the darkness of the longest night. Gaereth’s eyes sparkled as she described the customs and the special foods that she enjoyed, in particular a savory fish and mussel stew and sweet pastries filled with nutmeats.

“So 'Yule' is simply another name for the winter fesival," I said. "My people share many of those customs as you will see. We tend to gift one another at other times, on our begetting days – like your birthdays, I believe, or more often as tokens of friendship. But this Yule gifting sounds like a laudable custom. What would you like to make for your mother, Val?”

“Something made of wood!”

I gave this some thought. Val was far too young to reliably handle a carving knife, but he could at least sand and smooth a wood surface. Something simple then.

“Why don’t you craft a shuttle for her weaving?” I caught Isilmë’s eye, and the queen nodded in approval.

I had only seen Elerína a few times since that awkward encounter in the Hall of Fire and even then, only at a distance. She did not accompany Isilmë and Valandil to the lunches I now took regularly in the kitchen with them. Neither had she come to the forge with her son. I came to the conclusion she didn’t wish to spend time in my company. However, Isilmë had said that Elerína was engrossed in weaving, spending many hours of the day with Lairiel, the master weaver of Imladris and like me, a refugee from Eregion. I was strangely relieved to know that Elerína’s craft preoccupied her.

“Yes! I want to make that, Istyar. She weaves for Papa and my brothers. She wants to greet them with new banners when they return.”

“A most worthy task!” I clasped the necklace and lay it down on the soft fabric in its small chest. “Let’s find Master Calaquar and select the wood we will use.”

As I expected, Calaquar was in his workshop where he fitted the joints of a small table together. He set aside his task to help Val select a block of cherry wood from which the woodwright sawed a piece of suitable size. The child carried the wood back to my workshop. After he carefully set the block on my bench, he yawned mightily, and his grandmother took note. She gathered her embroidery and unceremoniously stuffed it into her satchel.

“Val, come now. We’ve taken up a great deal of the Istyar’s time with trivial tasks, and you, young man, are in need of a nap.”

“But I want to work with Istyar Sámaril on Mama’s gift!”

“Come back tomorrow,” I said. “It’s best if you’re well-rested for your work.”

Val went to Gaereth who took him by the hand. Isilmë turned to the girl. “Go ahead, Gaereth. I will be along shortly. I’d like to have a word with the Istyar. Vórwen, you may wait for me by the door.”

After the child and the nursemaid left my workshop and Lady Vórwen had positioned herself discreetly, the queen addressed me.

“Istyar, I know this must be most peculiar for you – to have a clutch of mortal women and a child seeking your company. Yet you should know I am grateful that you humor an old woman and provide something that is missing in a little boy’s life.”

“You are not old, my lady,” I said. “I have seen almost two thousand turns of the seasons, and I am far from the eldest of my people here in mortal lands.”

Isilmë averted her eyes. I sensed the shudder that coursed through her body and mind, but she responded with candor.

“Yes, and therein lies the gulf between us, Istyar. How strange it is for us to be in the Fair Folk’s presence. We are so alike yet so far apart.”

“The Eldar feel much the same way. You cannot know how hard it is watch our mortal brethren grow and wither so swiftly like a season’s leaves.”

“Or for us to know our immortal kin continue on paths without us, becoming ever wiser with age but retaining the strength and beauty of adults in their prime.”

“Our fates are sundered, my lady queen. Or so we are taught.”

“In this sundering, your folk hold yourselves at arm’s length from us. Yet you are different, Istyar. You are less remote somehow. More understanding. I must say that although you are wise and intelligent like any of your high kindred, you do not weave your speech so subtly. Sometimes you speak as plainly as a fisherman!”

I laughed aloud at that. “Yes, I’ve been told that I am direct. I will allow that I am intelligent but wise? That is debatable.”

The queen raised her brows. “I would say that you do not succumb to false modesty either.”

“I have also been told that I am a pompous ass. You must understand that the Firstborn are hardly a uniform people, my lady queen. We differ as much as apples and oranges…as much as Men do.”

“I know you are right, but when a mortal sees those who are only steps away from the gods, it is difficult to discern one Elf from another. You must understand, Istyar, that my people - the folk of the Andúnië - revered the Eldar even if few of us met even one of your people. Only our men – the mariners like my husband, my sons and my father-by-marriage - met any substantial number of Elves. The women of the Faithful remained in Númenor. Our traditions of hearth and hall exalted your people and mythologized them. We were even persecuted for honoring the Firstborn and speaking your languages. And now here we are living among myth.”

“I am hardly a myth, and I do not deserve to be exalted. I am no nobleman, my lady queen. I am but a stonemason’s son.”

She eyed me shrewdly, her storm-colored eyes sharp. “Yes, but that stonemason led the crews who built the Hidden City from King Turgon’s designs. Oh, don’t look so shocked. I’ve spent a good deal of time in Master Elrond’s library.

“Do not think that the House of Elendil disregards the scholars and the skilled craftsmen. We may be called kings and queens here in Middle-earth, but we were not so in Númenor. My father and his father before him were noblemen of the Andúnië; they held many boats of a large fishing fleet. Yet at heart, they were fishermen like many of our folk, and so these queenly hands...” and she held out her large long-fingered hands, their bones prominent and blue veins branching beneath her tawny skin, “…have gutted fish and shucked many an oyster. The line of Elros gave rise to the ruling class, Istyar, but also to practical people. I would guess that your father must have been of a similar nature.”

“Your guess would be correct.” The mention of my father made me sad and wistful, but her reference to his vocation and pragmatism triggered a recollection far preferable to the ghastly image of his death that was burned into my long memories.

“He was practical and rather dour for the most part. He had seen so much hardship in his life: he crossed the Helcaraxë in Fingolfin’s train, and then he helped build Gondolin only to see it fall. He and my mother thought they had found peace at last in Eregion but that was not to be.”

“Your father and mother are no longer with you?”

“No. They died in Ost-in-Edhil.” I clamped down on the rising swell of grief, struggling to maintain the elvish serenity expected of me.

“I am so sorry for your loss.” She took my hand in hers. “Then you understand our fear of losing our loved ones. I will never overcome my worry for my husband and sons in spite of being the wife and mother of warrior-kings. Lindissë – Anárion’s wife – sees her husband and son march to war, leaving her once again. Elerína and her sons' wives and daughters have endured so much, but once again Isildur and my grandsons face terrible uncertainty. Valandil misses his father and his brothers, although he is too young to know what is at stake.

“We cling to the hope that they will all return to us, but their future is dark and perilous. The Eldar of Imladris and my peregrines watch over us – the families of the Dúnedain - but who will watch over our husbands and sons? I know you cannot – nor should you be – a replacement for these men. But we who have been left behind are drawn to you - a man among the Eldar. For whatever reason, you are more forgiving of our race than many of your kin. So perhaps now you have some understanding as to why mere mortals like my grandson and myself seek your company.”

“You are anything but ‘mere,’ my lady queen. I do understand, and there is nothing to forgive. I am honored.”

I raised her hand to my lips, this time with no self-conscious courtliness but with genuine respect and affection. She graced me with a half-smile, and silently left my workshop, leaving me to ponder this latest turn in my life’s long swells.

---

Chapter End Notes

Vórwen - Isilmë's senior lady-in-waiting.

Fâniel and Alagos - the peregrine falcons that Isilmë brought to Imladris.

Rámë and Maico - the ancestors of Fâniel and Alagos; possibly Maiar incarnated as peregrines.

Naurusnir - Sinda, journeyman smith.

Isilmë - Elendil's wife; queen of Arnor.

Elerína - Isildur's wife; exiled co-queen of Gondor.

Calaquar - master woodwright of Imladris.

Gaereth - Dúnadaneth, Valandil's nursemaid.

Lairiel - Noldo, master weaver of Imladris.

Lindissë - Anárion's wife, co-queen of Gondor.

Tercel (also spelled tiercel): refers to male peregrines and gyrfalcons; derived from the Latin tertius, third. It was once believed that every third egg in a falcon's clutch hatched a male chick. Also, the male of these species is often about 1/3 smaller than the larger, more powerful female.

----

I believe the appendix on the Calendars of the LotR notes that the Elves of Imladris did not celebrate Yule. However, in the Calendars in the History of Middle-earth (Peoples of Middle-earth, I think) makes note of the winter solstice being used in the reckoning of time by the Eldar, at least for the "long year" (100 years intially, 144 years in later writings); the solar year's beginning was in the spring. Also, there's a hint that the Eldar of Beleriand were preoccupied by something surrounding the winter solstice given that Morgoth launched the Dagor Bragollach then, similar to the attack on Gondolin (summer solstice). It's hard to imagine that the Eldar would not be keenly aware of these astronomical events and that they'd use them as a good excuse to celebrate - and hence pass these traditions to Men, too. As Rhapsody pointed out, Mettarë - the last day of the year according to the Dúnedain - fell on the winter solstice. Hence, I'm assuming the winter solstice had significance to both Men and Elves.

Chapter 6: Beasts of Yavanna, Children of Ilúvatar

Sámaril and Thorno encounter flirtatious Laegrim ladies in the bathhouse, and Sámaril recalls the Athrabeth Huxley ah Wilberforce Mélamírë ah Manendur.

To be on the safe side, I'm rating this Adult for mild sexuality and implied bisexuality. I probably should slap a big H on it for Heresy, too. Many thanks to Rhapsody, Moreth and oshun for their lively feedback.

Read Chapter 6: Beasts of Yavanna, Children of Ilúvatar

The missile flew through the air, smacking the scroll on the shelf. Gratified by the crackling report, I re-aimed and launched another that hit a sconce on the wall. Immensely entertained and not a little self-satisfied, I loaded the machine of my making again.

Thus Thorno found me, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my workshop, laughing aloud while I played with the Yule gift I had crafted for Valandil.

“So you’ve finally gone mad, eh, Sámaril?”

I lobbed three missiles in rapid succession at him. He caught the small pinecones deftly.

“That boy is a good influence on you,” he said, juggling the pinecones in a whirling oval between callused hands. “Are you ready to go?”

“’Go?’” I twisted around to look out the windows and saw that the sun was at its zenith. “Oh, yes! Let me wrap this up first.” I rummaged around in a drawer and extracted the red silk fabric that I so often used to test a sword’s edge. I wrapped the cloth around the toy and placed the whole in a box I had begged from Calaquar the woodwright. I threw my cloak over my shoulders, tucked the box under my arm and left with Thorno.

The sun traveled low in the sky, casting elongated shadows against the snow. From my vantage point on the path, I saw the residents of Elrond’s domain meandering through the woods toward the house, the peals of their song ringing like silver bells through the crystalline landscape. They carried boughs of evergreen and baskets filled with holly, ivy and mistletoe for this evening’s celebration.

No news had arrived from the Alliance. Scouts reported that the latest winter storm had buried the road to Amon Sûl in snow and blocked the High Pass over the eastern mountains. No messengers had yet arrived from the South. The lack of information took its toll on the queen. Although Isilmë’s tone was increasingly jovial as she doted on her grandson, whose excitement escalated as the celebration approached, her worry-lines became pronounced. Yet even with the uncertainty of the distant war, the festive atmosphere in Imladris had taken on momentum as those of us who remained behind grasped for distraction while we waited.

The queen also fussed over me during our noontime repasts in the kitchen that had now become part of my daily cycle. I had taken no sleep in those days before the festival since I was so engrossed in my metallurgic project and Valandil’s gift. She keenly observed the subtleties of elven weariness that any other mortal would not have noted. She admonished me – advising that I “worked too hard and did not play as a merry elf should.” She had said this wryly since she knew I was not overly inclined toward frivolity, but I knew that her concern was genuine. In those moments, she touched my heart in a manner that reminded me of my mother who likewise had fussed over me when I spent week upon week laboring with little rest in the House of the Mírëtanor.

I stopped at my quarters where I set the box aside with the intent of giving it to Valandil the next day. Hopping on one foot and then the other, I pulled off my boots and then stripped my work clothes from my too-long unwashed body, donning my thick wool chamber robe and sheepskin slippers. I met Thorno in the corridor. Together we walked down the wide stairs on our way to the bathhouse.

The sweet sharp scent of evergreens halted us as we passed by the tall doors - now flung wide open - of the Hall of Fire. We watched the women – elven and mortal both – hanging pine garlands around the perimeter of the room. Valandil, along with two adolescent girls, sat in the middle of the expanse, occupied with his soldiers and wagon. I saw his mother, her often somber face now alight with laughter as she and Lairiel placed holly, ivy and mistletoe around the sconces attached to the load-bearing oak pillars of the hall.

How beautiful she is! The thought escaped unbidden from the recesses of my mind, and warmth rushed to my face. I slammed down iron discipline on what had the potential to turn into a thoroughly inappropriate thought about another man’s wife – a king’s wife. I shuddered but maintained a vise's grip on my hröa’s instincts.

“Let’s be on our way,” I said. “The sun will set all too soon. I don’t want to be rushed in the baths.”

“Yes, you’re in need of a good long soak.” Thorno wrinkled his nose and gingerly lifted a strand of my soot-dulled hair between thumb and forefinger.

“You’re none too pristine yourself.” I slapped him on his hard shoulder, and we were on our way. We walked outside into the breezeway that connected the main house to the baths, the winter chill biting through our wool robes as we scurried to the enveloping steam of the bathhouse.

Shortly after we immersed ourselves in the white marble basin of near-scalding water, three petite Silvan maids entered the chamber. The women had arrived recently in Imladris and answered to the head butler of the House. In spite of King Oropher’s thinly veiled contempt of the Noldor and everything we stood for, he nonetheless eagerly sent his folk to serve here, motivated by the healthy tithe of gold, silver and gems from my smithies that made its way to the Woodland Realm in payment for his people’s labor.

The sylphs slid out of their robes to reveal small high breasts, slim hips, and supple limbs. Thorno waved at them to come join us.

“Tulkas’ stiff club, Thorno! You’re hopeless,” I hissed as the lithesome women approached us. I mustered what I hoped was a gracious smile when they stepped into the large basin. Two sat on either side of Thorno and one near me.

Thorno introduced them with their names of wood and glade. They bowed their heads with shy courtesy when Thorno presented them, but after that, their assessments were far from demure. They overtly sized up my chest and shoulders, and more subtly what lay beneath the distorted surface of the water. I crossed my legs, hiding what their probing eyes sought.

Thorno and the women conversed idly. I responded with perfunctory remarks to a few of their vacuous queries in an attempt to keep these pushy females at bay but with only moderate success. The woman next to me –- Midhloth -- sidled closer, her straight moon-silver hair dipping into the hot water when she tilted her head, smiling first at Thorno and then at me. She was an exquisite little thing with a finely turned nose and large limpid leaf-green eyes flecked with honeyed amber – colors found in the eyes of many Tawarwaith. I admired her looks just as I would a gemstone or a finely turned knife blade, no more than that. Yet she boldly rubbed her tiny foot along the back of my calf while she trilled at a tepid quip from Thorno, who now had thrown a muscled arm around each maid on either side of him. I edged away from her. She took the hint, shooting an icy glare at me from the corners of her sloe-eyes.

“Come,” she said to her companions. “Master Galenîr expects us to prepare for tonight’s feast and dance. We had best leave these lechenn to more lofty conversation. Besides, I am feeling a bit of a chill.”

I resisted rolling my eyes at her none-too-subtle insult. Her companions extracted themselves from Thorno, whose eyes had taken on an unfocused cast, and stepped out of the basin, following Midhloth, their white bodies slick with water and as beautifully curved as the statues of the falmarindi that graced the entry to the baths. While they walked to the women’s lavatory to finish their ablutions, I urged Thorno along, too.

“We need to leave soon. I’ll wash your hair if you wish,” I said, rising from the submerged stone bench.

“I’ll be ready in a moment.” Thorno squirmed, his face flushed and not just from the heat of the water. "I don't suppose you would..."

Then I did roll my eyes in response to his delay. “No, I won't. Certainly not here. Recite a prayer to Nienna the Weeper. That will no doubt deflate you.”

Thorno laughed, albeit self-consciously, at my taunt. I ambled toward the men’s lavatory, grabbing a towel from a precisely balanced stack along the way. A puff of chill air raked over my wet skin and raised gooseflesh as the laegil departed the bathhouse. Midhloth turned and stroked me from head to foot with her eyes. Much to my chagrin, my most intimate attributes tightened in retreat when exposed to the cold draft. She grinned wickedly before she slipped out the door.

Thorno joined me after he emerged from the basin, having successfully applied his discipline to reach a flaccid state. He had witnessed Midhloth's appraisal of the entirety of my body.

“Oh, don’t fret, Sámaril. Your hammer is adequate.” My fist met his upper arm, but with only mild strength behind it, just enough to convey my affront at his particular choice of words. He groaned dramatically, rubbing his arm, but laughed at me and crowed, “This promises to be a most festive evening for us. Those Laegrim, well, they are lively lasses. A bit longer in the basin with those skilled little hands of theirs, and I would have...”

“I’m sorry, Thorno,” I interrupted. “I find the Silvans unnerving. They’re so –- wanton -– men and women both.”

I expected a jab from my friend, a Noldo who was far more open about matters of love than many of his peers even if they indulged in the same more discreetly. Much to my surprise, Thorno checked his gleeful lustiness upon hearing my discomfort.

“I would not debase them with a word like 'wanton,'” he said as he sat down on a bench before me. “You know, I think our woodland kin are far closer to what we Noldor should be in our natural state before the Valar influenced us. We may have these vaunted minds and all, but we are beasts, too. Living in disharmony with our basic nature is detrimental to our being.”

“Humph.” I grunted, massaging soap and almond oil into Thorno’s scalp. “I have heard that philosophy before –- from your old mentor.”

“I can't deny that she had a powerful influence on me.” A sad chord surfaced in his genial voice. Thorno had never ceased mourning the loss of his teacher.

“And on me as well,” I sighed, clasping his shoulder to console him.

I considered Thorno’s words about the nature of the Firstborn. Our very souls and lives were interlinked firmly with the natural world. Yet we –- the Noldor -- denied ourselves certain aspects of our nature. Vivid memory snared me, and I flew back to the winter streets of Ost-in-Edhil where Thorno’s master had imparted her strange thoughts on beasts, Elves and their interconnection.

~*~

Mélamírë and I had joined my betrothed, Nierellë, for a mid-day draught at the Guild of the Vine. A welcome break from our labors in the forge and the workshops, we had relaxed in the company of the cheerful vintners and brewers, savoring dark ale, cheeses and bread - even sampling a small glass of miruvor. At last we tore ourselves away and began our walk back to the House of the Mírëtanor, clutching our cloaks around us against the gusts of frigid wind that roared down from the mountains and burst through narrow side streets and alleyways.

We stumbled upon a minor uproar in one of the city squares. A cluster of Noldorin men with a smattering of Sindarin fellows interspersed among them obscured the object of interest. Women, clucking with exasperation, stood at the periphery. Children swarmed around the mass of adults, edging through legs to get a look at whatever so captivated their elders. Mélamírë and I wove our way through the throng and saw the theater that drew the audience: two dogs –- one a pet of a citizen and the other a hunting hound from the Guild of the Horse –- obliviously coupled in front of a quiescent fountain.

The men’s reactions varied. A few offered good-natured encouragement to the vigorously thrusting hound. Most faces reflected prurient curiosity. Others vocalized outright embarrassment. Small faces of children peeped out from behind legs: some allowed to watch, some hustled away to their mothers, and others with their eyes shielded by a father, an uncle or a brother’s hand.

One of the men yelled to another to fetch a bucket from the nearby well so that cold water could be dumped upon the copulating dogs in the hope of disengaging them. The man hauled the copper-plated bucket, water sloshing from it to freeze on the cobblestones, but my friend stepped in front of him before he reached the dogs.

“No! Leave the poor creatures be!” Mélamírë commanded, her voice ringing around the square.

“Please, Istyanis Náryen,” said an onlooker, his face pinched with disapproval as he addressed my friend formally. I recognized him as Manendur, a senior aide to Istyar Pengolodh from the House of Lore. “A woman should not witness such indelicacy.”

Silence fell over the crowd, even among the children. All waited for the answer from the Istyanis – the sole woman who had achieved senior rank in the powerful Otornassë Mírëtanoron and known to challenge those who questioned a woman’s place in the forges -– an occurrence that happened all too often to her when she stepped away from the familiarity of the smithies.

“I assure you that my feminine sensibilities are not offended, Master Manendur. I merely ask that the dogs should be allowed to complete what nature intended. To throw frigid water on these beasts in such cold weather would be cruel, don’t you agree? I doubt that you would wish to have freezing water thrown upon you when you make love to your wife.”

The audience laughed, men and women alike, the Sindar louder than the rest. They relished seeing this loremaster taken down a peg or two especially by a Noldorin woman. Manendur flushed pink and blustered.

“Of course not! But neither are we such base beasts that we couple so publicly.”

“Perhaps we are not base, but we are beasts, Master. Have empathy for our fellow creatures!” Mélamírë swept her arm toward the humping canines. “Our behaviors have just developed differently than the hounds so that we prefer privacy. I daresay we still enjoy the activity as much as these dogs.”

That elicited another collective chuckle from the onlookers, the women now interspersed among the men and enjoying the sight of one of their own taking on the haughty male loremaster. Manendur’s face flushed from pink to red. I struggled to maintain decorum but not successfully since a grin pushed up my cheeks. A debate on the nature of Elvenkind with two dogs coupling as a backdrop was absurd beyond belief. The audience was torn between watching the dogs and two Noldorin masters exchanging barbs.

“Istyanis, with all due respect, we are the creations of Ilúvatar. We are not the same as the lamani – the beasts of field and forest. They belong to Yavanna. Thus the Valar have taught the Eldar how we should comport ourselves properly as Eru’s First Children. Witnessing such beastly lust is not appropriate for us. It inspires fire in the heart and loins.”

Mélamírë shrugged and then turned to see that the dogs had parted.

“That is your belief, Master,” she said, again eyeing him with her arms crossed. “That does not mean it is the truth.”

“It is the truth. How could it be otherwise?” Manendur retorted.

A hush fell over the crowd once more. They shifted their full attention to another spectacle, but an intellectual one rather than sexual. We Noldor loved argument as much as song.

“Your truth comes from tales filtered through the minds and beliefs of others,” Mélamírë replied, placing her hands on her hips and letting her cloak waft around her. “What of observation and evidence? Do we not also have warm red blood like the lamani? Do we not also desire to mate? Do we not also give birth and suckle our young? Why would we be so similar if we did not arise from the same theme – an ancient melody of the Great Song that is common to the lamani and the Children of Ilúvatar? And what of Turkafinwë? He communicated with birds and beasts. That, too, suggests a strong connection.”

Manendur shifted on his feet, exhibiting a measure of discomfort at the mention of the infamous son of Fëanáro who was nonetheless honored in memory and lore as a renowned huntsman.

“Turkafinwë’s understanding of the languages of bird and beast means little to your contention, Istyanis, for were they not taught to him by the Great Hunter? “

“But there must have been something within Turkafinwë that allowed him to absorb such teaching, an inherent ability that reached into the sentience that is common to us and the celvar.” Mélamírë responded.

Thus continued the debate, the two masters tossing their rejoinders back and forth, pursuing tangents and then racing back to the thoroughfare of their argument again. The eyes of their audience turned from one to the other, the murmurs of disagreement and hums of approval mingled with the gusts of wind that whipped around the square.

Manendur prodded my friend’s arguments with precise quotes from the Ainulindalë. Mélamírë countered with her observations of the natural world, including those from her idiosyncratic projects: the divergence of pale and dusky moths in the high vale of the Glanduin and the strange assortment of pea vines that she nurtured and catalogued.

“Peas and moths!” Manendur gesticulated with frustration after my friend hit him again and again with empirical observations and interpretations that he groped to deflect. “What have they to do with us, the Firstborn? Are we green? Do we flutter from flower to flame?” He emphasized the alliteration and waved his hands in mockery. The audience laughed.

Mélamírë’s eyes narrowed, and the delicate muscles around her mouth tightened, but she answered with her alto voice clear and collected.

“Who here among us does not harbor physical characteristics from their kin? My friend Sámaril has hair like his mother. My eyes are my father’s. Look at Calanir and Merenion.” She nodded toward a Sinda tailor and his young son. “Merenion is the very image of his sire.” The little boy grinned, pressing his face against his father’s leg when my friend flashed a bright smile at him. “How do you suppose we achieve these characteristics and pass them on to our descendants?”

Manendur crossed his arms across his chest. “Everyone knows that in begetting, the strengths of the parents’ feär craft a child.”

“Really? I thought that sex crafted children.”

Laughter again rippled through the throng around the fountain. The loremaster sputtered, his face flushing pink again, but could not reply before Mélamírë continued.

“Master Manendur, I am convinced that what I observe in moths and in my peas relates to the inheritance of such characteristics, and sex is crucial for that. Sex is one of the many characteristics that we have in common with animals and even plants!”

“The only connection between plants and the celvar are the Ents. That is because Yavanna sang Ents into the world, just as your Patron raised the Casari from stone.”

“Dwarves were made from stone? Now that is laughable! I’ll make sure to run your posit by Kali the next time I see him,” said Mélamírë. “But yes, you have me there, Master. I’ll grant you, Ents and Dwarves are created beings, yet more experiments on the part of the Valar. But the Ents and Dwarves multiply after the manner of the Firstborn and the Followers -- and the celvar. The Valar used what works. Creatures, including us, are driven to seek sex. Procreation is merely a side effect. We should enjoy sex and never be ashamed of it.”

"I will allow that –- " and the loremaster blushed furiously again, "-- the act of love is pleasurable, but it is for the begetting of children. That is why Ilúvatar bequeathed such joy to the Firstborn. As for the Ents and the Dwarves being experiments? Hardly.” Condescension bathed Manendur’s every word. “We all have separate themes in the Great Song, and the Firstborn’s theme is not common to Men, Ents, Dwarves or the lamani. Because we have far better control over generation, our comportment must be elevated above theirs. The Valar have taught us that we must avoid lewd behavior such as that of the Followers or the dogs. You have proved nothing to me, Istyanis. You have merely woven an uneven fabric of guess and speculation.”

“Proofs are for mathematics, Master. I can only offer evidence, but even so I think that will not satisfy you. Your mind is closed to ideas that might counter what the Valar have espoused to the Noldor about our sexuality or about their sexuality – or alleged lack thereof!”

Consternation rumbled through the crowd at that point. My friend had stepped onto dangerous ground when she implied that the Valar might engage in earthy behaviors.

“Now you are just being blasphemous!” Manendur’s face took on the cast of gloating when he heard what he believed was the crowd’s support for his position. “All the Firstborn would do well to adhere to the Valar’s teachings on love and marriage for those teachings are the truth. You, Istyanis, are in grave error by saying that we are beasts.”

Lightning crackled in Mélamírë’s eyes. She responded evenly but a knife’s edge cut through her disciplined tone.

“Irrationally held truths may be more harmful than reasoned errors.”

Only the wind brushing against stone walls and streets could be heard while those gathered around the fountain considered Mélamírë’s words. Manendur stood still, his mouth working as he collected his response, but my friend had spoken the last word of their debate for that day. She raised her face to the sun in the pallid winter sky.

“I must take my leave and return to my tasks. Until another time then, and let me assure you, there will be another time. Good day to you, Master Manendur. Please convey my regards to Istyar Pengolodh.” She swept her gaze over the cluster of citizens. “And would someone kindly remind Mistress Broneth that she really must keep her bitch confined when the dog is in heat? Ost-in-Edhil does not need a surfeit of puppies.”

She bowed her head to the loremaster and the onlookers and then turned on her heels, parting the throng and making her way to the street with me in her wake. Although much taller than she, I nonetheless had to quicken my pace to keep up with her. Instead of heading directly to the smithies, she veered toward the narrow stairs that led to the ramparts of the city. I trotted up the steps behind her until she stopped and leaned against the wall, facing into the cold wind that barreled down from Celebdil, her dark hair streaming behind her.

“Manendur is colder than Námo’s bone!” she exclaimed, her measured demeanor from the debate now blown away. “Noldorin self-righteousness and priggery embarrass me far more than dogs coupling!”

“Don’t let him upset you so much.” I put my arm around her shoulders.

“I had to end my battle back there, Sámaril. I hadn’t the inclination to take on Pengolodh’s sycophant any longer today.”

“Probably just as well. We both have a great deal of work ahead of us.” I turned to look down at her, the wind snatching strands of my hair that had escaped my leather-bound plait. “I must ask you something.”

“What is that?” She squinted toward the distant snowfields of the mountain, her mithril-bright eyes protected from the wind by long black lashes.

“Do you really believe that the Firstborn are beasts? Even if you do not like Manendur’s delivery, he makes valid points.”

“If you believe everything the Valar have taught the Eldar, then yes, he does. I, for one, question their teaching. The word of Eru has ever been passed through the sieves of the Valar and then through loremasters’ interpretations and thence to us. So what are we to believe?”

She turned to meet my eyes again. A shiver raked down my neck - not from the cold but from the intensity of her regard. She released me and returned her sight to the mountains, her voice becoming remote when she delved into recollection.

“When I was a little girl, only ten years old, I traveled to Tharbad for the first time with Mother and Father. That was when the Duke Eäratan was the Lord of Tharbad. He was a kind and noble man, very different from the perverted wretch who commands the garrison now. The Duke had three daughters close to my age. They showed me a marvelous picture book, a copy of one that had been made by the naturalist who accompanied Tar-Aldarion on his voyages. In it were drawings and paintings of apes from the green forests of Far Harad.” She turned to meet my eyes again, her face full of grave wonder. “Sámaril, the apes' hands and eyes, even the way their faces were assembled –- they were so much like ours! Even as a child, it struck me that these animals must be related to us somehow.

“I prattled on and on about that book and those apes, so Mother and Father managed to find a rare copy of it for me from a trader in Vinyalondë. Father exchanged a ruby for it. I poured over the book –- fascinated by all the animals but especially the apes. I dreamed of traveling to Far Harad to see them, and I still harbor that dream. Their troops are similar to our families, but males and females do not remain paired like we do. And they fight. They meet invasion of territory by violence – even killing one another. Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Amazing? Promiscuity and violent fighting? Ai, Mélamírë! Those creatures are related to orcs, not us!” I laughed with disbelief but was cut short by her somber expression. Undaunted, I continued. “The apes’ resemblance to us could be the result of Yavanna’s singing their theme into a form that is like ours. Maybe it was a whim or a joke on her part.”

“I do not think these creatures’ existence is mere jest or whim. We all –- even the orcs -– must come from a common link. Does that idea disturb you so much?”

“Yes, it does. Eru created us to be the race closest to the Valar with mortal Men following us. Neither the Firstborn nor the Followers are beasts although sometimes Men seem bestial. And we all know that the orcs are mockeries of the Children of Ilúvatar; they are perversions bred by Morgoth.”

She glowered at my remarks and chastised me as I knew she would.

“You should not insult the Followers so! Men differ from us –- profoundly -- but they nonetheless are close kindred. As for the orcs, yes, Morgoth exploited them, but their origins remain a mystery –- the stuff of our people’s myths. I think we do not yet know the truth, and that truth may turn out to be stranger than we can imagine.

“I wonder - are we so close to the Valar? There are those who whisper that the gods manipulated the Firstborn from our true origins –- that the Valar’s vanity made us what we are, and even worse, they imprisoned the Noldor in a gilded cage until our people escaped.”

She twirled a strand of hair around her forefinger as she spoke, a nervous gesture that belied her confident tone. Her strange and troubling allusion to the Valar’s manipulation of the ancient fathers and mothers of the Firstborn hinted at arcane knowledge that her father had entrusted to her, his beloved confidante. But the Fëanorian heterodoxy came to her as easily as breath, and she repeated it freely. She was among those –- and there were many, my parents and hers included –- who looked askance at the Valar and rejected their summons after the War of Wrath. Thus we had strived to create facsimiles of Tirion and Valinor in Eregion.

Yet for all her outspoken skepticism, I knew that she harbored a fear that she might be punished for her apostasy. She breathed deeply, exhaling her anxiety into the wind and continued.

“You must understand that by identifying us with animals, I am not saying that we should be licentious, but neither should we be so hampered by the Valar’s teachings that we cannot question them or where they warp our natural inclinations. I do not know any of the Tavari, but from what I hear, they are better attuned to nature especially in the ways of love. It is rumored that their widows and widowers even remarry or take on similar arrangements. They are a practical, if sometimes primitive, people uncorrupted by the Valar, and I think they reflect what is truly our nature.”

“Remarriage? Uncorrupted by the Valar? Take care when you say things like that!” I squeezed her shoulder in reflexive concern. Mélamírë was more than capable of defending her ideas, but I could not help but feel protective toward my friend. “It is one thing to discuss such controversies with me, but there are others who will not take kindly to such talk.” I had looked up to the sun, which had traveled further in its arc across the sky. “You know I am willing to discuss this further with you, preferably over wine, but we have dallied far longer than we should have. Istyar Aulendil will be fuming if I am late for this afternoon’s work.”

She had smiled then. “Very well. I have blathered about my ideas more than enough today so I will hold my tongue – but only for now. You’re right. We really ought to move along. It would not do at all to have the Istyar fume!”

~*~

“Close your eyes. That is, unless you want hot water and soap in them.” Thorno’s voice pulled me back to the lavatory. I turned to see him holding a large pitcher of hot water, poised to rinse soap and oil from my hair.

“What? Oh, yes, please go ahead. I’m ready.” Hot water cascaded over my head again and again.

“Where were you?” Thorno asked after I wiped my face with the towel.

“Ost-in-Edhil. When Mélamírë took on Master Manendur in the Square of the Four Winds.”

“Ah, yes!” Thorno chuckled while he squeezed the excess water from the length of my hair. “My father let me watch every bit of that, the dogs and all, but the theater of the Istyanis and Manendur was even better. Even as a little boy, I knew then that I wanted to become her apprentice.”

“You heretics were drawn together.”

Thorno snickered and gripped my shoulders. “You would know, Sámaril. You would know! Now let's go. I can feel the sun setting.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Thornangor/Thorno - Noldo, master smith; Sámaril's second-in-charge of the forge.

Lairiel - Noldo, master weaver of the House of Rivendell.

Midhloth - Silvan, housemaid.

Galenîr - Sinda, head butler of the House of Elrond.

Mélamírë (Istyanis Náryen) - Noldo, master smith of the Mírëtanor/Mírdain, Ost-in-Edhil. "Náryen" is her father-name.

Manendur - Noldo, loremaster, senior aide to Istyar Pengolodh. The latter fellow, according to Tolkien's writings, may have lived in Ost-in-Edhil/Eregion during the Second Age.

Turkafinwë – Celegorm

Tawarwaith – silvan elves

falmarindi – (s. falmar, falmarin) sea-spirits, sea-nymphs

lechenn - (s. lachenn) Sindarin name for the Noldor

Laegrim – people of the green-elves

laegil – (s. laegel) green-elves

celvar (kelvar) – all animals, creatures that move (mammals, birds, reptiles, amphibians)

lamani – four-legged beasts, but not reptiles or birds; implies mammals.

Casari - Dwarves

Tavari – an early “Qenya” name for “fays of the woods” from The Book of Lost Tales, 1. The Noldor of pandemoniverse Ost-in-Edhil still use the word to refer to the Wood-elves although in my ‘verse, that use of Tavari is not quite accurate on the Noldor’s part.

"...fabric of guess and speculation." A nod to a comment made by Samuel Wilberforce.

“Irrationally held truths…reasoned errors.” Mélamírë quotes Thomas Huxley a.k.a. "Darwin's bulldog." Or perhaps it is Huxley who quotes Mélamírë? ;^)

Chapter 7: The Holly and the Ivy

Sámaril celebrates the winter solstice with Queen Isilmë, and things get a bit heated with Midhloth.

Many thanks to Moreth, oshun and Rhapsody for betafication and to Jael for her compliments.

Read Chapter 7: The Holly and the Ivy

Thorno ran his fingers through my still damp hair. Lingering reflections on the primal nature of my people and my debate with Mélamírë evaporated, whisked away by pleasant sensation. He brushed my hair vigorously, dividing it into strands, which he wove into a thick plait entwined with silver cord that I had given to him after we returned from the baths. He hummed while he worked. If only I could have purred like a cat. All too quickly, he lifted the plait and fastened the loose ends with a clasp.

“There! Your rope of bronze is ready to snare the unwary.” Released, the braid thudded against my spine. “Now go get dressed or we’ll be late for the ceremony. The sun waits for no one.”

“Thank you,” I said, smoothing back my hair with both hands. I took my brush from him. “I’ll meet you in the entry hall.”

I left Thorno in his rooms and returned to my quarters where I put aside my chamber robe and donned my clothing: fitted trousers and a thin shirt with short sleeves – suitable for lively dancing – with formal robe over all. I ran my hand over the fine weave of the dark wine-red wool fabric and traced the gold and silver embroidery at the collar and the sleeves. Lairiel’s seamstresses had done a fine job with this garment.

Rummaging around in the chest that held the results of my goldsmithing, I selected hammered arm cuffs and a garnet-jeweled torque. Satisfied that I would not offend any delicate aesthetic sensibilities, I shut the door of my quarters and made my way through the corridors to the balcony above the entry hall.

As I descended the stairs, a draft of cold air struck my face. The great doors of the house stood wide open; many of the residents exited the hall, but others milled about near the foot of the stairs. I spotted Thorno, draped in midnight blue and silver with his black hair sweeping over his shoulders. Together we walked out into the fading light of the year’s shortest day and fell into a stately procession with the other Firstborn of Imladris who made their way to a meadow about a kilometer removed from the house.

“It’s good to be honoring the solstice again. It has been too long,” said Thorno as we walked side by side on the path, the snow packed where Noldorin feet had trod. The Silvans danced over the snow banks, their movement mimicking the firecrest finches that darted through the pines. “What do you suppose Côldring and the others are doing right now?”

“Huddling around a fire, I expect. I doubt that they will sing to the sun,” I said. “There’s little cause to celebrate the return of the light, given what spring will bring to them.”

“Such grim sentiment! Have some hope, Sámaril. The sun will rise and set no matter what the outcome of war. We humans are but puny things compared to the vastness of Eä. Look, they’re almost ready to light the fire. Will you come out later tonight?”

“Perhaps. I’ll see if I am in the mood for more revelry after the dances indoors.”

“Well, I know I’ll be in the mood.” He eyed the two Laegrim maids, who had sat by him in the baths, now gliding over the deep snow ahead of us.

We gathered in the center of the snow-blanketed meadow, surrounded by groves of beech, oaks and river birch. There logs and kindling had been stacked in a high pile. Two Sindarin men, standing on either side of the wood, held roaring torches. One by one, women of the household - all singing a hymn to Yavanna - brought forward the nine woods to place on the pile. Once the last bundle of twigs was set upon the tor of wood, we faced the southwest toward the lowering sun.

When the sun’s fiery disk touched the edge of the cliffs, Lindir struck his small silver harp. As one, the Firstborn of Imladris lifted our voices, seamlessly blending natural harmonies and interweaving melody to create a tapestry of song as the sun sank toward the cliffs already shadowed with twilight.

We sang down the sun with an ancient melody – one that humbled me when I thought of my ancestors who first sang it. The song did not originate in Valinor but from the most ancient times of my people’s history – when the fathers and mothers of Elves wore skins, wielded flint tools and lived in terror of the darkness that shrouded the world. They craved the sunlight, so often obscured by the black fumes from Utumno that reached across the world. When the sun died in the winter, they sang and lit bonfires to drive back the night and their fears.

The sun fell behind the black cliffs as our song faded. The scattered clouds in the dome of the sky turned flame-red, amber and violet – a requiem to the dying light. Stars glinted in the deep blue sky to the east, first a few, and then thousands blazed in the firmament. Then we sang a hymn to Elbereth. The torchbearers lit the wood, and the fire caught, its tongues flickering through the lattice of kindling and logs.

Although a few lingered to watch the growing bonfire, most returned to the house, myself included, for the feast in the hall. As the night drew on, many would return to the fire. All were in good spirits, even the Noldor, but the Silvans of the household were especially merry, singing and dancing along the path. Two Silvan maids skipped by me to join their companions ahead on the trail. I recognized them as assistants to the fuller. One glanced back at me then whispered to her friend – loud enough for me to catch fragments of her words: “Midhloth… lachenn vigor…a mighty spear.” Then they giggled, tripping along the path. Midhloth had apparently gossiped about my physical attributes.

Blood rushed to my face. I hoped that the dim light would obscure my embarrassment. As a widower among my people, I was expected to be continent of mind and body as were all Noldor who had lost wives and husbands. It was a well-known secret that many who espoused this philosophy of continence - doctrine handed down to us from the Blessed Lands - did not adhere to it in practice. Although the beloved image of my wife remained embedded in my heart, my body’s and perhaps my feä’s needs had not been interred peacefully upon her death. My discipline slipped all too often, and I succumbed to my drives, mostly by my own hand but on occasion with a partner. Guilt pursued me when I sought release with another, yet my male vanity was flattered by the women’s fragment of a compliment: a mighty spear.

I willed my discomfiture away. The sounds of merriment flowed from the open doors of the house. When I approached the entry to the dining hall, a small figure barreled toward me. I lifted Valandil in my arms.

“You are quite the little lord this evening,” I said as I admired his damasked forest green tunic, black leggings and soft leather slippers.

“My shirt is itchy,” he said, making a show of scratching his neck with vigor. He buried his face in my neck. “You smell like outdoors. Grandmama says you will sit with us at the high table.”

His confidence of place amused me. As the Master of the Forge, my accustomed seat was at the high table, but my infrequent attendance likely made my presence this evening seem unusual to my young friend.

“I would be honored, Prince Valandil.”

“Istyar, it is a pleasure to see you here this evening,” Isilmë said. The queens of the Dunédain stood before me; their flock of ladies-in-waiting and their children made their way into the dining hall. “I take it that my grandson has already told you that you will be seated with us?” Isilmë’s eyes twinkled, a sign that she shared my affectionate amusement with the little boy’s forthright assumptions.

“Valandil, come here – you must not trouble Istyar Sámaril. You are a big boy. You can walk to the table.” Elerína reached for her son, but he clung to me.

“I’ll carry him for now. I do not mind.”

“Very well,” she said, her face a cool mask. While holding Valandil, I followed the queens and wondered if this was how a tercel felt in the wake of a falcon’s regal flight.

A plate filled to its rim with winter delicacies – loin of venison, grouse, smoked trout, carrots, apples and raisins - appeared before me, and my goblet never seemed to empty of wine. I took my ease, as I had not for some years. Queen Isilmë made lively conversation with all around her. Val chattered, absorbing attention from his mother and me. After my third or fourth goblet of wine, the net of my imagination captured a wistful fantasy: here I sat at the high table with my family – Nierellë, my mother and my dark-haired son. This vision passed quickly – a wraith of wishful thinking that my rational mind blew away like a puff of candle smoke. I chastised myself for such a self-indulgent thought that would only bring pain on a night when I should be merry.

The silver bell pealed high above in the house’s tower, calling us to the Hall of Fire. We rose to follow Gildor, but Elerína led Valandil to the stairs. Gaereth appeared at Elerína’s side.

“I want to stay and dance! I am not tired.” Valandil protested and then yawned, giving himself away. I knelt before him.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Val. I have something for you, which I’ll give to you then. But for now, you must sleep.”

He grumbled but threw his arms around my neck. I kissed his cheek and released him to his mother and his nursemaid. Elerína regarded me coolly - appearing displeased - but she said nothing and taking her son by his hand, led him up the stairs. I could only wonder what I had done to annoy her.

The fire’s roar in the massive hearth greeted all who entered the Hall of Fire. A versatile space, it hosted not only contemplative affairs of poetry and lofty song, but also festivals. Golden and silver lights twinkled throughout the large chamber, and the scent of pine filled the air. Chairs, benches and tables had been pushed to the periphery of the hall, leaving a wide-open expanse in its center. Even before the first beat of drum and trill of flute, the men and women of the House of Elrond congregated in the open space, lining up opposite one another, ready for the dance to begin. With little preamble, Lindir’s musicians launched into the first song, the percussion taking measure of the stately dance, its mathematical precision reflecting Noldorin composition.

Searching the hall, I found Queen Isilmë standing among the cluster of her ladies, who watched this next phase of the elvish winter revels. Emboldened by our mid-day meals together – in addition to all the wine I had consumed at the feast – I bowed deeply before her.

“If it pleases the High Queen of the Dúnedain, I would be honored if she would accept a dance with me.”

She laughed out loud at my wine-drenched theatrics, but she extended her hand to mine and curtsied.

“This would indeed please the Queen.”

I guided her toward the dance floor. She leaned toward me before we joined the others.

“Istyar, you are quite the merry elf this evening. I would say that you are into your cups. I thought your people were immune to strong drink.”

“Hardly immune. We may be able to imbibe more than your people before feeling ill effects, but we Noldor are not as staid as you might have been led to believe. We have this word, you see – yulmë.”

“I am not familiar with that term.”

“I expect it is not in your tomes of high lore. It means ‘drinking…carousal.’ As this night progresses, you will see much yulmë.”

And so I danced with the High Queen in the Hall of Fire. Even if I had my somber moods when I embraced solitude, festivals in the House of Elrond drew me out because I always loved to dance and Queen Isilmë made an excellent partner. Exceedingly graceful for such a statuesque woman, she glided through the precise movements, demonstrating familiarity with complex patterns and a clever ability to pick up those steps that were foreign to her. She held her own among the Firstborn.

From my conversations with the High Queen over the past two months, I had come to know her keen intelligence and dry wit, but she had revealed only hints of the wisdom and sorrow that I knew must dwell deep in her heart. When I danced with her that night, I admired her beauty that gleamed through the marks of age like crystalline mica shines from the eternal granite of the mountains. Her storm-grey eyes reflected the lights of the hall, the spark of a young woman’s eyes. Handsome now, she must have been a beauty in the flower of her youth. I could see why Elendil the King had fallen in love with this remarkable woman.

I did not relinquish her for dance after dance. She laughed as merrily as a maid. However, the tempo picked up, the beat of the drums becoming insistent as the style segued to more robust Sindarin reels. The queen stopped dancing and held out her hand to me, her signal to depart.

“Thank you for your company, Istyar, but a stronger partner would suit you better for these lively steps.” Her cheeks glowed rose, and breathiness roughened her alto voice.

“You dance like a young woman, my lady queen. I enjoyed that immensely.”

“How would you know? You have danced with young mortal women?”

“Yes, many years ago.”

The memory of Zirânphel – the daughter of the innkeeper in Tharbad – coalesced in my thought. I could see her amber eyes and tawny hair as I danced with her in her father’s common room: Zirânphel to whom I gave a ring, to whom I professed brotherly affection but had suppressed another kind of love which I had been unable to bring myself to acknowledge. I had given her a ring meant to boost her confidence but that led her to the life of a courtesan. The rings – the terrible consequences of my craft and the pain they had inflicted on so many, not least of all those who wore them – invaded my thought. Worse yet, I had cast the first Ring of Power on the night of the winter solstice. The image of Istyar Aulendil – no, Sauron – standing there with me in the dim forge that night – began to congeal in my mind, and my muscles tensed.

“Please, Istyar,” Isilmë placed her hand on my arm. “Let us not look back in regret tonight.”

I met eyes full of concern, and I fell into them, allowing her to soothe me. A wordless embrace wrapped my mind - the embrace of a mother who had comforted warrior-kings. My body relaxed as troublesome memories retreated to their dark chambers.

“Forgive me, my lady queen. I do have my regrets – many, in fact - but you’re right. Tonight is not the time to dwell on them.”

“Perhaps you will tell me about her some day,” she said. “If you compare my dancing to hers, then you flatter me, but I am much older than I look – quite old for a mortal. I weary so I must take my leave for the evening.”

I escorted her back to her ladies, still clustered together, watching the elven dancers. It occurred to me that perhaps I should escort one of them to the dance or at least ask Isilmë if I could do so. The accepted protocol escaped my recollection. Before I could reach a decision, a delicate hand clasped mine.

I looked down to see Midhloth’s green-leaves eyes, which reflected her bright smile. She trilled with the birdsong laughter of her kind and pulled me away from the mortal women. Instead of guiding me to the dancers as I expected, she led me to a side table where she lifted a silver ewer and poured spice-infused brandy into two goblets.

“You lechenn take your drink strong,” she said, wincing as she sipped the cordial. “But it is delicious, I will say that.”

“Yes, Master Gwindir’s still has seen much use these past several months.”

I gulped the drink down in a few swallows. I filled my goblet again, also emptying it in short order. And then another. Every winter on the night of the solstice, whether I was alone or with others, I drank heavily. On this one night, I wanted to obliterate the memory of the rings.

The decorum expected of me - so often teetering at a precipice – threatened to tumble down. I had indulged myself with food and now drink and maybe later – if I could ward guilt away – with a woman. I shrugged off my robe, now damp with sweat and threw it on top of similarly discarded clothing piled on a chair.

Midhloth set her empty goblet on the table and took my hand. “Look! The dance of the holly and the ivy begins! Shall we?”

Like the sun-song, this ancient circle dance had its roots embedded in the Firstborn’s earliest history. The Silvans had preserved it in its most primeval form, and indeed the Noldorin and Sindarin musicians stepped aside as Green-elves with tabors and wooden pipes took their place. I had danced this many times at winter festivals past before I married and later with my wife, but most often had avoided it here in the House of Elrond. The dance cast a spell of abandon, for it was a fertility rite, hearkening to a time when the Firstborn’s immortality meant little – a time when so many of us had fallen prey to the monsters of the darkness, and there was great need to populate our tribes.

I knew what this dance could lead to – what it was meant to lead to – but I set all considerations of continence aside. The wine, brandy and the festivities infected me and eroded the circumspection of a widower. I followed her to the center of the hall where the men and women milled around, taking greenery from baskets carried by maids. I picked out a wreath of ivy, setting it over Midhloth’s silver hair and then placed a crown of holly upon my head, its sharp tines pricking my skin.

The women – ivy crowns upon their fair heads - formed the inner circle while the men – holly upon their brows - positioned themselves on the outside, facing their partners. The beats of the tabors and ripples of the pipes set our feet in motion.

The women twined along their circle, hand-over-hand, singing the verses that praised the ivy as the hardiest growth of winter. The men sang next, boasting that the holly king ruled the winter woods, and punctuated our orbit around the women with leaps and turns in display of our vigor.

The beat quickened and the circles spun faster. The scent of pine, wood smoke and human sweat filled the air. Midhloth stood before me again, panting with her cheeks flushed. The tabors pounded with my heartbeat, the pipes now shrill, and the spirit of the dance bewitched me. Midhloth’s hips – sensuous and insistent – caressed my body as she slid past me. Flush with brandy and stirred to passion, I did not hesitate when I placed my hands on her narrow waist and lifted her, light as a beech leaf, her hands on my shoulders. Her scent –woodland moss and feral musk – was more intoxicating than the brandy.

Yet for all the dance’s capacity to arouse, a fraction of my mind remained detached and not wholly focused on the petite woman who made it clear she would give me all this night. I scanned the hall’s perimeter. As my gaze swept past the hearth, I saw Elerína. She must have returned to the Hall of Fire after settling Val into bed. Several other mortal women clustered around her, a knot of protection as they – uneasy outsiders - witnessed our increasingly reckless carousal, a celebration that excluded these women. Only meters separated them from the elven dancers, but it may as well have been a chasm of immeasurable distance.

That distance was bridged when Elerína’s blue eyes, shining with the fire’s light, met mine. She held my gaze for seconds or for an eternity, I knew not which. Her expression opaque, she broke our contact and discarded me. I tried to will her to look at me again, but she did not, continuing to watch the others, her lips pressed together, but the shadows of yearning softened her expression of disapproval.

Midhloth tugged at my arm, interrupting my brandy-laden mooning over a woman beyond realistic contemplation.

“Come!” said Midhloth. “We go to the fire!”

The musicians led heated Laegrim, Sindar and Noldor out of the hall, our feet compelled to follow pipe and drum. Before I passed through the doors, I turned to search for Elerína, but she was gone.

We danced along the footpath to the meadow where the bonfire leapt high, sending gold sparks to the cold stars in the dome of the heavens. We formed a circle again, men and women alternating, arms twined around waists. I did not feel the winter chill as we sang and swirled around the fire, faster and faster, the tabor pounding and the pipes frantic. The circle broke, and couples danced together. Then the circle formed again, tightening around the bonfire as couples abandoned it and ran hand-in-hand into the night to bring the dance to its erotic conclusion.

I lifted Midhloth again and again, reveling in my strength and her daintiness. But on one lift, my foot slipped on the packed snow and I fell. She landed on top of me, laughing with abandon. Then she kissed me - her lips soft and seeking - the tip of her tongue sliding across my lower lip. I hesitated when widower’s guilt gnawed at me, but brandy and the dance had eroded moral barriers and my hröa’s needs were strong. With sensual deliberation and then with hungry abandon, I returned her kiss.

She broke off, the light in her eyes that of a wild thing, and we rose as one, seeking the shadows, which we found in a pine grove well beyond the light of the fire. Under the winter stars, we flung ourselves on to the soft snow, our blood fired and warding off chill. Unfastening her bodice, I sought her breasts. My teeth grazed acorn-hard nipples before my lips found her eager mouth again. She reached into my trousers, stroking me and sending waves of pleasure coursing through my body. I tilted my hips in rhythmic response, meeting her caresses.

She ran her tongue along the edge of my ear as her hand rolled along the length of my iron. She whispered, her breath burning me, “See, lachenn, I can give you what those mortal kine cannot.”

Heat became chill, a phase change of the most abrupt kind when the harsh brine of her judgment quenched my passion. Jagged anger crystallized in response to her unkind words. I pushed her away and sat up, now cold and wet from the snow.

“You have no idea what I need, wood-elf.”

I stood, fastened my trousers, and stalked into the night, the bonfire’s glow lighting the path back to the house. Midhloth’s primitive words – curses from her dark forest home – followed me even if she did not.

---

Chapter End Notes

Lairiel - Noldo, master weaver of Imladris.

Isilmë - Elendil's wife; queen of Arnor.

Elerína - Isildur's wife; exiled co-queen of Gondor.

Gaereth - Dúnadaneth, Valandil's nursemaid

Zirânphel - innkeeper's daughter of Tharbad from The Apprentice.

Midhloth - Silvan, housemaid in the House of Elrond.

----

In the pandemoniverse, the cosmogony proposed by Tolkien in his later writings on the sun and the moon (1) applies. Here JRRT proposes that the earth is coeval with the sun and the moon, and that the latter two heavenly bodies are formed from star-stuff, not the Fruits of the Trees which Tolkien describes as "Mannish myth."

Knowing that the awakening of the Children of Ilúvatar is imminent, Morgoth covers the skies of much of Middle-earth with the "clouds of unseeing." Day is only a dim twilight. The Powers of the West try to disrupt the cloud cover. Manwë sends winds to blow back the clouds. It is during one of these blustery attempts when the western sky is cleared that the Elves awaken in Cuiviénen. They see the stars fading away toward the west, and ever after, associate the west with light and beauty. In this revised version, Tolkien has Men awakening during the Great March of the Elves, thus pushing back the history of mortal Men further than that published in The Silmarillion. This earlier timing of Men's awakening may have allowed Tolkien to posit that orcs were derived from Men rather than Elves (see also Myths Transformed.)

(1)See "Myths Transformed" in the History of Middle-earth vol. X, Morgoth's Ring, HarperCollins, London, 2002, 370-390.

Chapter 8: A Jewel in Winter

Sámaril and Elerína reach an understanding on a cold winter's afternoon.

Thanks to Rhapsody and the skinks* at The Lizard Council for betafication. List of characters provided in end notes.

*Moreth, oshun, and Jael :^)

Read Chapter 8: A Jewel in Winter

Morning sunlight slammed against my face, followed by skull-splitting pain and the taste of putrescence. Groaning, I turned away from the unforgiving light. I groaned again when the memories of the night past unfurled. Pulling the coverlet over my head, I hoped to block the light and return to the oblivion of sleep.

Then I remembered that I told Val that I would give him his gift this morning. Gooseflesh erupted on my skin when I threw back the coverlet, the heat of my body sacrificed to the cold room. The crumpled wad of silk, stiff with the dried remnants of my seed, flew to the floor. Even if Midhloth’s words had driven me away last night, my body had demanded release so I had resorted to my usual tactic. I shoved the cloth behind the wash basin in the small lavatory. Lifting the lid of the chamber pot, I sighed with another kind of relief.

Frigid water on my hands and face revived me enough so that I had the wherewithal to untangle and brush my hair, securing its length with a gold clasp at the nape of my neck, and then I yanked on leggings and pulled a loose tunic over my head. Grabbing Val’s gift and a small sack of pinecones, I charted a purposeful track to the kitchen in search of the black tea that I so craved.

Maidhel had poured steaming tea into a ceramic mug before I even sat down at one of the long tables in the kitchen. After placing the mug in my supplicant’s hand, she scooted forward in a chair across from me.

“Did you enjoy the celebration last night, Istyar? I have not seen you dance like that for quite some time!”

“Ah, well, I enjoyed myself a little too much. My head’s splitting.” I gulped down the black tea, a pleasant addiction I had acquired in Ost-in-Edhil. She refilled the mug.

“Hmmm, yes. From all the twittering that flew about earlier this morning, I hear that you created some consternation among the Laegrim maids.”

“Ai! What a flock of gossips!” I rubbed my temples, aiding the stimulant in the tea as it beat the headache into retreat.

“Everyone gossips in Imladris. Well, save for Master Elrond. Don’t fret, Istyar. Your manliness is not in question.”

My face warmed, but she grinned and her eyes twinkled, telling me not to take her too seriously. Nonetheless, I changed the subject, preferring to let the memory of Midhloth’s curses slide away into sediment.

“Have you seen the queens this morning?”

“No, but Limnen took their breakfast to their quarters not long ago. I expect they are up and about with their ladies.”

“In that case, I suppose I’ll wait until they emerge to give this to Prince Valandil.”

“Why wait, Istyar? Take it to their quarters. I can have Limnen return and inquire if you might visit Queen Isilmë.”

“I don’t wish to intrude. It’s not my place to...”

“Istyar, really!” Maidhel refilled the mug. “Why do you hesitate? It’s more than obvious that you have Queen Isilmë’s favor. And you are the Master of the Forge of Imladris. That is not a minor thing among Elves or Men. You are one of Master Elrond’s cherished treasures, you know. That is why you sit in this kitchen sipping tea instead of shivering from cold and damp around an army encampment’s fire.”

I grunted, stung a little by the reminder that I had been deliberately sequestered here. I continued to question whether this was for my protection - to preserve my skills as Laurëfin insisted or if Elrond and Ereinion Gil-galad wished to keep anyone ever associated with Sauron well removed from his pernicious and far-reaching influence.

“Yes, I’m a real treasure,” I said and then gulped down the hot tea, savoring its astringency. “You do not think it would be too forward to visit the queens’ quarters?”

“From what I have seen of the high queen and her manner around us, she would not bat an eye. You know your young friend would love to see you. And why else would you have brought his gift with you if you hadn’t planned to seek them out?”

“True enough. I half-expected them to be here, but then my mind is foggy this morning. I know Val wishes to see me. I’m less certain about his mother though.”

“Queen Elerína? Have you done something to displease her?”

“I have spoken to her with less courtesy than I should.” I swirled the tea around, focusing my attention on the small whirlpool in the mug rather than my previous ill-considered words and the disconcerting undercurrent of why her good opinion should matter so much to me.

“She has always been gracious to me, and she impresses me as a woman capable of forgiving others.” Maidhel said, pushing a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “She and the lady Lairiel have become great friends. I think that speaks to the queen’s character since I hold our mistress of the loom in high regard.”

Maidhel’s confirmation of the younger queen’s friendship with our master weaver was oddly comforting. Lairiel's husband and two sons had marched away with Elrond, so it was likely that Elerína and the Noldorin weaver found empathy with one another. Although Lairiel had not been among my inner circle of friends in Ost-in-Edhil, we had worked together on an unusual project and later enjoyed an easy social acquaintance. Lairiel and her husband Cuivendil, whom she then referred to as “a happy dalliance,” had even attended a few of the parties that Mélamírë hosted. I smiled at the memory of our youth and with the warmth of affection I felt for Lairiel and Cuivendil, who had become my cherished friends in Imladris.

“Very well. You may send Limnen. I’ll wait here.” I pushed the empty mug away. “I believe I am ready for my own breakfast. I don’t suppose you have any bacon left over? The smell has been driving my stomach wild.”

Maidhel laughed and within minutes, I tore into the rashers and devoured the fruit compote that she had set before me.

~*~

Knuckles poised, I took a deep breath and rapped on the carved oaken door. Muffled footsteps approached and Lady Vórwen greeted me, beckoning me into the warm, sunny parlor.

“Please come in, Istyar!” She directed me to an upholstered chair to the side of the black granite hearth. “The queen will be out shortly.”

The parlor was the nexus of a series of bedchambers, small sitting rooms and lavatories – all interconnected but also arranged for privacy and discretion, reflecting the paradox of Noldorin propriety and recognition of how people really behaved. Soon Isilmë entered the parlor, still in her dressing gown and her hair loose. I rose and kissed her hand in greeting. She sat down on a stool and Vorwen proceeded to brush the queen’s long black and silver-streaked hair.

“My apologies for intruding, my lady queen. Limnen said you were up and about.”

“Please, Istyar. You are not intruding. I was more weary than usual this morning and lazed around in bed. I believe you wore me down more than I had anticipated with your elvish dancing. I trust the reminder of the evening was merry?”

“Yes, most of it was,” I said and re-directed the subject. “I have brought a Yule gift for Valandil. May I leave it here?”

“I should think you would like to see him open it. Irimë, please summon Queen Elerína and the prince.”

The lady-in-waiting left through one of the doors opening into the central room. Within moments, Valandil burst into the sunlight and wrapped himself around my legs. I could not resist picking him up. His mother effected a far more reserved entry. I took Elerína’s hand, my lips grazing her soft skin with a fleeting and dry-as-dust kiss.

“Did you bring a present for me, Istyar?”

“Yes! Here, let me put you down before you fling yourself out of my arms, lad.”

“Valandil, isn’t there something else you wanted to do before you open the Istyar’s gift?” Isilmë said.

“Oh, yes!” He scurried to a chest against the far wall, lifted its lid and extracted a bundle of red silk, which I had helped him tie with a ribbon and embellish with a sprig of holly.

He stood before his mother and extended the gift to her where she sat in a chair opposite to mine. “Happy Yule, Mama!”

Elerína removed the holly, tucking it into the waves of her dark hair, untied the ribbon and unwrapped the bundle.

“Oh, Val! How lovely!”

She turned the ovoid shuttle over in her hands and ran her hands over the smooth red-brown wood. Although I had carved the essential shape, Valandil – showing an impressive aptitude for one so young - had sanded it to a slick surface that would glide through the warp of his mother’s weaving. She held the shuttle up for Isilmë and the other ladies to see. Kneeling, she embraced her son.

“Thank you, Val. This is a wonderful gift. It will come in handy with my weaving.”

“The Istyar and I made it for you! He carved it, and I sanded it.”

She smiled at me – not a remote half-smile, but warm and open like the sun in the parlor. “Then I thank Istyar Sámaril, too.”

“He has a talent for the work, my lady queen,” I said. “He needed little assistance with the sanding. All those smooth curves are his doing, not mine.”

“Now may I open my present?” Val scanned the room, searching for his gift and saw the box, which I had decorated with the images of stylized swords and shields.

“Yes, now’s the time at last,” I said as I handed him his gift.

Wrapping his arms around the box, he trundled to the center of the red and gold patterned wool rug spread in the center of the room. The ladies clustered around him. He wedged the lid off and lifted the toy out of the box, setting it down on the rug, and examined it with curiosity. I picked up the bag of pinecones and planted myself cross-legged beside him.

“It’s an onager,” I said. “A siege machine for your soldiers. Here, let me show how it works.”

Val watched intently when I pulled the lever back, demonstrating how to hook the spring. I placed a pinecone in the sling and then pushed the lever, sending the pinecone flying into the fireplace. The little missile landed with a crunch in the logs and sent sparks flying up the chimney.

Val squealed with delight. He repeated my procedure and flung another cone into the flames. Isilmë applauded her grandson’s antics with the ladies following suit. Except for Elerína. Her chin was set, an expression that had become all too familiar to me.

“A machine of war. Just what my son does not need.” She rose from her chair, her arms stiff at her sides.

I gaped at her, befuddled as I groped for a response to her bitter remark. She averted her eyes and strode to the door whence she and her son had entered.

“Elerína! Please!” Isilmë called to her, but Elerína had already shut the door to her quarters in her haste to leave.

Valandil looked up from his play when the door firmly shut. Then he shrugged, fitted another pinecone in the bucket and lobbed it into the fire. Reining in my hurt feelings, I was on my feet, ready to tear myself away once and for all from this family of mortals, regal or no.

“I am sorry, Istyar,” Isilmë rose quickly and stood beside me, taking my hands before I put them to the door. “The war and its uncertainly have caused Queen Elerína much distress. I know that does not excuse her behavior, but I shall speak to her.”

“There is no need for that, Queen Isilmë. If you’ll excuse me, I must take my leave. I hope Val will continue to enjoy his gift.”

Rather than retreating to the forge as I might have done after such distress, I returned to my quarters where I flung myself on my bed. The effects of too much brandy and the nagging guilt of last night’s erotic encounter – guilt derived from the memory of my wife together with my shoddy treatment of Midhloth -- had already taken their toll. The rejection of Val’s gift by Elerína further wearied me in both mind and body so I sought the forgetfulness of sleep.

~*~

Gentle rapping at my door woke me. Extracting myself from the warmth of my bed, I half-expected to see Thornangor so I did not trouble to put on my tunic. In mid-yawn, I opened the door wide, but instead of Thorno, there stood Elerína and her ladies-in-waiting.

“Istyar, I have come to apologize to you for my behavior this morning,” she said. “I hope you can forgive my ill manners. Your gift for Val was most generous.”

“I - of course, I forgive you. I should have asked you about the appropriateness of the gift. I’m sorry I did not.”

“No, it is not right for me to hover over every detail of Val’s life even if he is so young. Your gift is entirely appropriate.” She glanced into my quarters. “I would like to speak with you at length so that I might explain my behavior. Yavien, Irimë and I are going to take our walk now. Would you please join us?”

Then I noted that the women wore fur-lined mantles over their gowns and gloves on their hands, prepared to go outside.

“Yes, I can do that. Excuse me a moment.” While they waited in the corridor, I pulled on tunic, stockings and boots, draped my cloak over my arm and then joined the three women.

Once I stepped out of the house and onto the terraces, the winter-crisp air whisked away the fogginess of my afternoon’s nap. High wisps of cloud scudded overhead with the wind, but the valley floor was still. Sunlight cascaded down the frozen waterfalls, crystallized against the cliff faces, and diamond-sparks sprayed glittering from ice and snow.

“It’s like living within a great jewel,” Elerína said as we strolled along the path above the river, which led to the stone bridge that spanned the Bruinen. “But it chills me to the bones. Sometimes I think I will never be warm again.” She gathered her mantle around her slim form, the silver fox fur that lined the hood mingling with her dark hair.

Elerína and I walked ahead, the other women well behind in accordance with the long custom of those who attend their lords and ladies, remained within propriety’s eyesight but out of earshot. The rush of the river’s water beneath the cantilevered ledges of ice further obscured our private conversation from her attendants.

“I am obliged to explain my rude behavior earlier,” Elerína said, turning to me when we stopped at the height of the bridge. “There’s nothing I wish more for Valandil than a life of peace. When I see him entranced by toys that reflect warfare –- his soldiers and now the onager –- I fear that I will lose him, that he will grow up to leave me like his father and his brothers. And I see him turning more and more to you. He seeks the comfort and love of a father, and I fear he will never truly know his own sire.”

“I do not seek to replace his father, my lady queen, but neither can I deny your son the affection he seeks from me. Valandil brings comfort to me, too.”

“Yes, I know this, and I am grateful to you for your kindness. It’s simply difficult for me to witness,” she said. She twisted her hands together. “Valandil is my last child. He may be all that I have left of Isildur.” Her voice faltered. “I would see him seek a life of peace, the life of a scholar –- like you.”

“Like me? My lady queen, Master Elrond forbade me from joining King Gil-galad’s army. It shames me that I remain here when I could lend my skills and strength to the Alliance. For if the Enemy is not stopped, none of us will have the luxury of a peaceful life.”

“This shames you? Is it the lot of all men –- Firstborn and Followers both –- that they must go to war? That dying in battle is the only way to prove their worth? Little good that does for their widows and fatherless children.”

“Little good would come from a land overrun by the Enemy or even to live in a false peace, surrounded by his dominion. Your husband and sons not only march to war on behalf of your people and mine, but also for you and Valandil personally.”

She sighed and turned away, looking down the valley along the course of the river and toward the icefalls that reflected countless white and gold shards of the winter sun.

“That is what Isildur has told me many times – the first when he set out to take the fruit of Nimloth. He nearly died in his quest. I would have been left a young widow with an infant. Then, after all we suffered in Númenor, he chose to build his stronghold on the very doorstep of the Deceiver’s realm. We barely escaped with our lives when Sauron took Minas Ithil. And now Isildur has left me again and taken my sons with him to face war...again. On my behalf.”

Bitterness infected her words, and her voice quavered. She lowered her head to hide her expression, but I saw the tear that tracked down her cheek. It took all the discipline I could muster to prevent myself from putting my arm around her in comfort. But she was a queen, and such familiarity was forbidden.

I rifled through my thoughts for comforting words, but dark nuances obscured every reassuring outcome that came to mind. I buried these as soon as they surfaced. The last thing this woman needed to hear was elven subtlety, so I offered what I thought best to say, banal as it might be.

“You must hold on to hope, my lady. The Alliance will prevail, and your husband and sons will return to you.”

“You have such confidence. Do you have any idea what they will face? I do. I know it all too well.”

“So do I.”

“How is this?” She turned from her faraway contemplation of the Bruinen’s icy vale and looked at me directly, torment and question in her blue eyes. “You did not live under fear with the Deceiver’s spies watching you at all times. You did not have your relatives taken away in the night, simply disappearing, not knowing if the vile smoke rolling from that hideous temple might be their flesh and bones burning. You did not see your homeland engulfed by the sea. You did not fly into exile, only to be thrust into a fortress of stone so close to the Enemy’s land – told to make your home there.”

“No, my lady queen,” I said. I focused on the ice-locked vale now, and my hands gripped the cold unyielding stone of the bridge. “You are right. I have not experienced those things, but this is what I know of the Enemy: I saw my home destroyed –- a city leveled to ruins, fields and farms burned, a great civilization obliterated. You say you struggle with loss. I have also experienced this at the Enemy’s hands. My friends were killed or taken captive to who knows what horrible fate, maybe worse than death. I saw my father’s severed head displayed as a trophy, paraded through the city streets by Sauron’s loathsome army. My sister. My mother. Both killed.” I swallowed hard, all the force of my will keeping my voice smooth and firm. “My wife and our unborn son –- dead. They were all slain by the orcs who ambushed them when they fled the ruin of our home.” I met her eyes again.

“So yes, my lady queen, I have an idea of the fear you faced in Númenor and Minas Ithil.”

“You are from Eregion? But that was so long ago…” she almost whispered, shaking her head before she looked at me, her expression softened. “I am so sorry, Istyar. I beg your forgiveness for my presumption. I did not know.” She took my hands in hers. “You are bleeding.”

I had gripped the freezing stone of the bridge so hard that I cut my fingers. She extracted a white kerchief from somewhere beneath her mantle and dabbed at my lacerated skin. Onto my right forefinger one of her teardrops fell, an ephemeral jewel that mingled with the salt of my blood.

She looked up at me again, her sky-blue eyes brimming with tears.

“I think we have much to say to one another, Istyar.”

“Yes, I believe we do.”

So we stood on the bridge and began to carefully unwind our histories to one another, or at least I told her parts of mine, and I suspected she withheld some of her own. I did not tell her who my master had been or that I was the smith who had crafted the rings of the Nazgûl. I only said that I knew Annatar, unable to bring myself to reveal the terrible pain his betrayal had caused me because I had admired and trusted him - or the depth of my guilt for what I had done.

In turn, she told me of Sauron’s machinations in Númenor. These were familiar to me: his tactic of offering his vast knowledge to ensnare those hungry for it; his counsel –- full of wisdom but ever self-serving; his charisma and brilliance, winning others over, even those who thought themselves resistant to such flattery. But there were things he had done in Númenor that were different and much darker than what I had known –- indicative of a depth of cynicism and bitterness he had not revealed in Ost-in-Edhil.

“My lady queen! It grows dark!” Yavien’s voice - tremulous in the cold - carried up to the bridge.

Startled, Elerína turned to her ladies-in-waiting, who truly had been waiting. The two women huddled together on the path between the bridge and the house. The sun had set and the torches along the terraces in the distance flickered.

“Irimë, Yavien! Forgive me! Yes, let us return to the house.” She turned back to me.

“Time seems to have slipped away, Istyar, as it so often does in this uncanny place.” She looked at my hands, which she still held. “Good. You have stopped bleeding.” She released my hands – now warm. I held fast to the ghost of her touch, engraving the sensation in my memory.

“My lady queen…”

“Elerína. Please call me Elerína. I am not a queen of the Firstborn.”

“I – well, I cannot call you that. I am a stonemason’s son, my lady – a commoner. It doesn’t matter that I am of the Eldar. Respect is respect.”

She laughed. “You are not always one to show respect.” I cringed when she reminded me of my previous blunt words to her, but she just smiled kindly at me.

“My father was a nobleman of the Faithful – descended from Vardamir Nólimon, but my mother was a commoner. The Faithful believed it healthy to marry outside of the nobility,” she said as we walked back to the terraces, the stars jewel-bright in the eastern sky. “My father’s father was also a commoner, a landowner and husbandman. He raised sheep on the downs of Emerië. Those sheep had marvelous fleece that made for fine smooth wool which never scratched tender skin. That was where I first learned to spin and weave.” She sighed after recounting what I guessed was a cherished memory. “I understand if you feel you must observe propriety in front of others, but please do not eschew my name.”

“Very well, Lady – Elerína.” She smiled with approval. “In turn, I must insist that you call me Sámaril.”

“Sámaril. A brilliant mind. That is fitting.”

“I’m not always brilliant, but more often than not I am. Perhaps not with queens though.”

She laughed again. “And with no abundance of modesty either! Well, you are a character – Sámaril. Yes, I think we have much to say to one another. I am glad to have found another friend among your people.”

When I had left the house with Elerína on that late afternoon in winter, I had hoped for a truce between us. What I received upon our return to the House of Elrond was more.

The next day, when I joined Queen Isilmë and Valandil, Elerína entered the kitchen with Lairiel, both women disheveled with threads and woolly fuzz sticking to their aprons. Elerína sat opposite me, smiling as she pulled her chair to the table.

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

I passed a basket of warm bread to her, and my heart beat a little faster.

“Not at all.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Maidhel – Sinda, senior assistant to Astaron, the master of the kitchens in the House of Elrond.

Limnen – Sinda, kitchen assistant.

Lairiel – Noldo, master weaver of Imladris

Cuivendil – Noldo, master glass artisan of Imladris; Lairiel’s husband.

Vórwen – Isilmë’s senior lady-in-waiting.

Irimë – Elendur’s wife and lady-in-waiting to the queens.

Yavien – Aratan’s wife and lady-in-waiting to Elerína.

Note: Tolkien does not say whether Isildur's three older sons were married or not, but given that Elendil and sons' wives were not named, the omission does not imply one or more of Isildur's sons had not married. In my 'verse, I assume that Elendur and Aratan had wives and daughters.

Chapter 9: The Horse Sacrifice

Sámaril must deal with a terrible accident on the moor, and news arrives from Amon Sûl.

Warning to the squeamish for a gruesome scene.

Many thanks to the various reptiles of The Lizard Council for their excellent feedback. Samaril is honored that Thranduil, Galion, Magorion and their men granted their approval for a nod to their bravery at the Morannon (please see Jael's fabulous Nightfall). Thanks to Rhapsody for feedback pertaining to the hounds of Middle-earth. Our discussion was a lot of fun, and greatly inspired by her muse, Celegorm.

Read Chapter 9: The Horse Sacrifice

Feathers exploded high over the moor, and the duck dropped like a stone. Galfaron whistled, sharp as a hawk. His brown and white bird dog sped away through tufts of grass and bracken to intercept the teal that tumbled through the air toward the heath, followed by the streak of grey and white: Fâniel the peregrine. We urged our horses forward along the trail, keeping an eye on the dog and falcon.

“A third duck! That’s marvelous! Your Fâniel is a strong hunter, my lady queen,” Galfaron said.

Isilmë beamed with pride. “Indeed she is, Master Galfaron. She’s equally capable of grouse-hunting. I don’t suppose you might consider...”

“Oh, yes! I most certainly will consider hunting grouse with your bird!” Galfaron effused, so taken with the falcon that he interrupted the queen, but she took no offense.

“Your enthusiasm is duly noted!” The queen laughed in appreciation at our chief hunter’s eager response. “We shall go grouse-hunting together then.” She squinted to look at the dog bounding ahead. “Will he approach Fâniel with care?”

“Yes. He knows exactly what to do.”

We approached the spot where the falcon had landed with her prey. Galfaron, the queen and I dismounted and picked our way through the shrubs and moor grass while the ladies Vórwen and Irimë remained astride their horses on the trail. A tuft of iridescent green feathers fluttered in the wind and caught in a bilberry bush. I picked the feathers from the grey twigs and stuffed them into my belt pouch.

The dog trembled but remained rooted in place, his feathered tail held stiff, and watched the falcon while she ripped the feathers from the dead drake. Isilmë reached into the oiled leather sack strapped to her belt and extracted raw meat dipped in honey, a grisly concoction that Astaron provided for her without the blink of an eye. She chirruped to the falcon. Fâniel raised her head, obsidian eyes alight when she spotted the offering. She forsook the drake in favor of the sweetened meat, lighting on Isilmë’s extended left hand. The falcon wolfed the treat down while the dog retrieved the drake and brought it back to Galfaron. The bells on the falcon’s ankles jingled when she adjusted her balance on Isilmë’s arm. The queen gave her another honeyed, bloody treat, cooing sweetly to the bird, while she untied the bewits. Fâniel preened and bobbed her head, keen eyes now half-lidded.

Galfaron slid a thick leather glove over his hand and coaxed the falcon to step over to him, allowing Isilmë to swing up onto the curved saddle. She leaned over, and the hunter of Imladris transferred the hunter of the skies back to her regal human friend.

The falcon would rest now at the conclusion of a spring outing long planned. Isilmë had chafed within the confines of the House of Elrond and had declared after the first thaw of coirë that she intended to go duck hunting on the moors. Galfaron –- something of a traditionalist -- had been reluctant at first, believing that hunting was the province of men, but with my persuasion, he had agreed to take Isilmë and her ladies hunting.

In the distance, flocks of teal flew along their sky-road that brought them over the high moors. Although the moor still slept under winter’s dun colors, the ducks’ migration was the first sign of spring. The brisk wind carried the most subtle of green scents, its essence stirring both Galfaron and me to laugh a little louder and even to sing, much to the delight of the queen and her ladies.

“We have tales of the elfin hunt! I never thought I’d be part of one,” said the Lady Vórwen, her cheeks pink from the wind.

“This is but a faint echo of the great hunts of the past,” said Galfaron, his voice taking on a remote quality as his thoughts walked on the paths of distant memory. “My lord Turkafinwë -- Celegorm -- led us in pursuit of the boars and stags of Beleriand. The peal of his silver horn, his great hounds baying! Oh, how glorious that was!”

The queen and her ladies shifted in their saddles and glanced at one another when the elven-hunter recalled events remote in the time of mortals but a vivid part of his past. Galfaron then returned to the present, his eyes sharp and focused once more, and the women visibly relaxed when he flashed his winsome smile at them. “I’ll make sure that you ladies join us in the autumn when we hunt the red stag. Then we will have hounds, horses and horns –- a true wild hunt!”

“We would be delighted to take part in such a hunt! But until then, I would ride a bit further,” Isilmë said, looking out over the high moor. “It is so good to be out here in the open at last. Come, ladies!”

The queen urged her sleek dapple-grey gelding along the trail that made its way toward the Ford of the Bruinen, some twenty miles distant. The sun, fitfully bursting through the flying clouds, glinted off the silver streaks in Isilmë’s hair, now loosened from its restraining plait and flowing behind her.

Since their arrival in Imladris, the queen and her women had dedicated themselves to supporting their men as they readied themselves for war and had taken no time for their own pleasure. With the preparations for war no longer burdening them, the women’s embrace of their freedom could not have been more apparent or so joyful to behold.

“There go Haleth and her warriors,” said Galfaron chuckled while he watched the riders recede across the moorland. “I expect you ought to follow the ladies. I will take care of the teals.”

“Thank you, yes, I’d best catch up with them. They’re safe enough, but still, if Master Elrond were here, he would have our hides if one of us didn’t escort them.”

“The master is present even in his absence,” said Galfaron, gazing toward the mountains, as if to see through the solidity of the massifs and on to the battlefields of the south and east. “I can only hope that all fares well for them.”

“I share your hopes. Perhaps we will receive news soon through Amon Sûl.”

“One would hope so. Queen Isilmë must be anxious to hear of her lord and her sons.”

“That she is. Today’s hunt was a welcome distraction for her and her ladies. She has been eager to get out on the moors for quite some time. They put their cares behind them for a little while at least. I thank you for that.”

“It is my pleasure, Istyar. She and her ladies seem to have enjoyed themselves. They are fine riders, too. I look forward to hunting with them again.” He swung up on to his mount and whistled to his dog.

“Say, Galfaron! Please ask your wife to preserve the feathers and save some for me.”

“I will, but I think Duineth would have done so anyway. I’ll make sure that she sets them aside for you. Do you have something specific in mind for them?” Galfaron asked, no doubt wondering why a smith wanted feathers from a wild duck.

“I do, but who knows when and if I will ever get around to the project.”

“Feathers for a jaunty hat perhaps?” He laughed merrily, knowing that was the least likely fate for the duck feathers in my hands. He chirruped to his horse and was off to return to the valley, his bird dog tearing alongside through the heather.

I mounted my horse and urged him along the packed earthen trail, much less soggy that the lands around it which had soaked up the snowmelt from the recent thaw. Isilmë and her ladies rode well ahead, but Tuilin, a swift horse and well bonded to my wishes, closed the distance steadily.

The queen had led her ladies and their mounts up a low rise to a granite tor near an upland bog. Turning Tuilin off the trail, I joined them.

She surveyed the moor that rolled away toward the south and west, its low hills clad in heather, gorse, moor grass, bilberry and bracken. Dark brown bogs lay like blankets over the other vegetation, and granite outcroppings punctuated the swells of the landscape. The queen inhaled the fresh air deep into her lungs.

“This rolling land calls to mind the sea,” she said. “Don’t you agree, Istyar?”

“Perhaps, my lady queen. I have only seen and heard the ocean in my dreams.”

She looked at me incredulously. “In all your long years on this earth you have never gazed on the waves of the ocean?”

“Not yet.”

“When we flew before those monstrous waves and the great winds, I thought I would never wish to see the ocean again. But now that I am confined away from its shores, ever I crave the song of the surf and the scent of the spray.”

She was silent for a while, looking out over the heath. I, too, swept my eyes over the land that in a few weeks time would blossom and would be filled with life as birds sang and nested. At the edge of my vision, movement flickered. The specks at the edge of land and sky resolved into three figures on horses. Reflexively, I set my hand to the hilt of my long knife.

“Riders approach. I suggest we make our way back to the trail.”

“Stay a moment, Sámaril.” The queen shaded her eyes, squinting at the riders as they moved along the trail. “They are Dúnedain. Messengers from Amon Sûl.”

We did not wait long before the three riders approached us. Instead of the silver-trimmed sable livery of Elendil’s soldiers, they wore deep green tunics, tanned buckskin trousers and grey cloaks, blending in with the colors of heath and forest. From her perch on Isilmë’s hand, the falcon chattered, as if greeting them.

“Hail, my queen!” said the foremost rider, a dark-haired Man whose tall stature was evident even while sitting on his steed.

“Hail, Lord Vórondil, queen’s man. Do you bear news?”

“Yes,” he said, his expression grave. He held aloft a leather tube. “I carry dispatch scrolls for you and for Gildor Inglorion.”

“What news of my lord Elendil?”

He hesitated, his blue eyes regarding me with circumspection.

“You may speak, Vórondil. This is Istyar Sámaril, the Master of the Forge of Imladris. He has the trust of Masters Elrond and Gildor, and he is my friend.”

Vórondil then cried out, his voice ringing above the wind’s lonesome song.

“Long live the king!”

Isilmë’s squared shoulders slumped with relief. Lady Irimë urged her horse forward alongside Isilmë.

“And what news of my husband?”

“Prince Elendur fares well, too, my lady, but I think it best if we take counsel in Imladris. Though some tidings are good, not all are.”

“Then let us be off.” Isilmë lifted her arm, releasing Fâniel who flew to the sky above. She wheeled her horse around to follow the trail.

Isilmë urged Hîthrem to a gallop. The gelding leapt forward and pounded on the trail, the queen's mantle and hair flying behind her. We surged to follow. In her haste, she guided her horse cross-country to cut short a meandering loop of the trail. Hîthrem –- given his head and relishing his freedom –- leapt over heather and stone through the moorland. The queen rode expertly, at one with her horse as he cleared obstacles. My initial misgivings of her choice of route dissipated. I prepared to follow her.

It happened in an instant. At one moment, the grey horse was in flight and the next, he crumpled, flinging Isilmë into the air. The falcon spun above the calamity, crying out in frantic alarm. Leaving our steeds on the trail, Vórondil and I crashed through scrub and bracken, sprinting to the queen’s side, followed shortly by the other men and her ladies.

“Stop fussing! I am not hurt!” Isilmë waved us off and attempted to push herself up.

“Please, my queen. Do not rise just yet. Can you move your legs?” Vórondil ignored his liege’s protests, kneeling by her with his arm across her shoulders, preventing her from standing.

“Yes, of course, I can!” She kicked her booted feet with vigor. “I am merely scratched, bruised maybe, but no worse.” With Vórwen and Vórondil’s assistance, she rose to her feet, brushing at the mud and debris that clung to her trousers and riding jacket. Then she saw her horse, and her face fell. “But I fear Hîthrem has suffered far more than I.”

The horse stood rigid amidst the heather, his eyes wide and glazed. He favored his right foreleg. Then I saw the terrible injury: jagged bone jutted from torn skin between knee and fetlock. Looking back, I spotted the hole in what otherwise appeared to be solid soil but softened from below by a hidden spring –- the cause of this freakish and terrible accident.

My heart sank. I met Vórondil’s eyes, silent understanding passing between us. Isilmë looked at our faces and knew our thought.

“You cannot consider that! Surely the skills of your stable master can be applied to him? Can’t you make a splint and guide him back to the valley?”

“This is an injury beyond the skill of Elves or Men to heal, my lady queen,” I said.

One of the other Dúnedain, a burly, broad-shouldered man with a trim grizzled beard, stepped forward, loosening the war-ax from his belt.

“No. There is another way,” I said. “I will take care of this. My lady queen, I suggest that you return to the valley. You may ride my horse. I will walk back to the house.”

“I would remain with him, Istyar, until the end,” said Isilmë. “Hîthrem came with me from Annúminas and has served me well.”

“I would not recommend staying here.”

“I will remain,” she said, the timbre of her voice affirming there was to be no argument. “Caladan and Sador, take the ladies Vórwen and Irimë ahead. Lord Vórondil and I will follow.”

The other women’s faces were drawn and blanched. Between the impending news –- good and ill –- from the Alliance and now the horse’s grievous injury, they were not eager to witness what was to come so they mounted their horses with no protest. The two Dúnedain led them away from the scene, following the trail through the heath back to the valley.

I stripped off my tunic, draped it over a shrub and tightened my belt around my hips.  Isilmë approached the horse, but the animal snorted and rolled his eyes with fear.

Walking forward -- step by cautious step –- I chanted to the beast, not quite singing but my voice suffused with low melody. The horse calmed, and his eyes became clear again. I reached out to stroke his neck while he nickered, still in pain but no longer fearful.

“You may say good-bye to him now.”

Isilmë stepped forward almost as softly as I had. Tears streamed over the scratches on her cheeks; she pressed her face against her horse’s head, stroking his muzzle, and then kissed him, murmuring the words of final farewell in my mother tongue.

“Please make it swift,” she said, and she returned to Vórondil who stood silent as stone.

The horse remained quiet while my fingers searched for the jugular grooves on either side of his neck. While I slid my keen-edged knife out of its scabbard, I sang of Nahar -- the steed of Oromë -- and the horses of his herd thundering across the green plains of Valinor. Hîthrem breathed evenly, and his expressive brown eyes became soft with a faraway look as if he already hearkened to Nahar’s trumpeting.

With all my strength behind one swift, inerrant motion, I arced my knife through the underside of the animal’s neck, severing esophagus, trachea and the great vessels that ran to his brain. I leapt away from jets of blood as the animal collapsed to the ground. The horse shuddered once and then lay still against the heath. The wind wept, and the falcon cried in the airs above us.

My forearms and bare chest were bathed with blood from the severed arteries’ fountains. Stepping away from the carcass, I turned back to the queen and Vórondil. Isilmë gasped.

“Forgive me, my lady queen, but I did warn you...”

However, I saw that it was not mere squeamishness that distressed her. Although her eyes looked at me, she was in another place and time, focused on something -– maybe someone –- else. The black vines of the unnamed fear gripped her, and she barely breathed, rigid as her injured steed had been.

My queen! Are you well?” Vórondil laid his hand on her shoulder, a protective gesture of surprising familiarity, and one that I vaguely envied.

She shook her head, the wisps of her hair floating around her in the wind. The dark fear loosened its hold from her visage but she averted her eyes from mine, turning instead to Vórondil.

“Yes, I am well, just dazed for a moment.” She patted the man’s hand in reassurance.

“Please go on, Lord Vórondil,” I said. “Tuilin will bear the queen back to Imladris.”

The queen, now composed with her mouth set firm, mounted my horse, but before she turned to follow Vórondil, she looked back at me, her eyes haunted. The queen and the queen’s man, as she had called the Dúnadan, rode the horses along the trail and disappeared over the low rise to the north.

Once I no longer saw the queen and her escort, I wiped my hands on a patch of moss and returned to the horse’s carcass. With one flick of my blade, I cut a hank of long black hair from the animal’s limp tail. After rolling the strands into a coil and stuffing it into my belt pouch, I hiked through the heath until I reached a stream, its swollen waters coursing through the bracken. I pulled off my boots and stripped away the rest of my clothing, tossing them to drier ground. Naked, I stepped into the stream and lowered myself into water marginally warmer than ice. The churning white foam turned pink from the blood washed from my skin, blood that was carried away by the swift freshet. I closed my eyes and submerged my head beneath the icy flow -- my hair unbound and writhing in the current -- where I willed the cold water to purify me, the death-giver.

~*~

By the time I walked down the path into the valley in the twilight, the howls of the wolves that hunted on the high moor joined with the dirge of the wind soughing through the heather and around the tors. The horse’s carcass would provide them with a grim feast. Similarly grim was the shrouded silence that greeted me when I entered the front door of the House of Elrond.

The time of the evening meal was past, but I heard no song from the Hall of Fire. Instead, muffled weeping filtered to my ears from many parts of the House. I froze in the entryway, afraid of hearing the news. A numb vise, far colder than the icy stream that had washed away the blood, closed around my heart.

“Sámaril! Here you are at last! I have been awaiting your return. I heard what happened on the moor.”

Elerína had emerged from the corridor that led to the kitchens and came to my side. “I am sorry you had to put Hîthrem down. I know that it was difficult for Isilmë, but it must have been hard for you, too.”

“Inflicting death is never easy, even if it is necessary,” I said. “How fares Queen Isilmë? She was distraught when she left with Lord Vórondil.”

“She grieves as do we all, but her backbone is iron. There have been tremendous losses for the Alliance. Thankfully, my lord husband and my sons have been spared, but there were many others who met their death.” Her voice wavered from a moment, and then I saw the pity in her eyes and further, that she had been weeping. Grievous news would reach me that night, I knew. I steeled myself in preparation for what would come, but the numbing cold lessened thanks to Elerína’s presence and the knowledge that she had been awaiting my return.

“You look pale, Sámaril. Perhaps you are chilled. Come to the warmth of the kitchens with me and let Maidhel fetch you some hot broth.”

Not wishing to gainsay her solicitousness by stating that I had endured colder weather and was capable of withstanding worse, I obediently followed Elerína. She pushed aside the swinging double doors beneath the archway to the kitchen. The soft glow of candlelight and the dim radiance from the hearths illuminated the large room. The homely fragrance of baking bread provided the welcoming olfactory equivalent of the warm light, causing my mouth to water. Only Maidhel and two of her assistants were present, kneading dough in uncharacteristic silence. Maidhel raised her face when we entered. Tracks of tears ran through the flour on her smooth cheeks; the atmosphere of the kitchen became somber rather than cosseting. She wiped her hands on her apron and went into the hearth room, emerging with a slice of still-hot bread and a bowl of steaming broth, which she set on the long oaken table.

Elerína sat across from me. I picked up the bowl and drank the hot broth to its last drop and wolfed down the bread.

“My thanks for your concern, my lady queen,” I said.

She smiled, but said nothing, perceiving that I welcomed her presence but was not inclined to speak at length. A quiet strength flowed from Elerína, and I drank it in, knowing that I would no doubt need to draw on it later.

Taking comfort in the warmth of the kitchen, I remembered what I had jammed into my belt pouch. I extracted the coil of horsehair and several small carved agate beads that had been rattling around in the pouch along with other odds and ends I had haphazardly deposited in its depths. Twisting around to straddle the bench upon which I sat, I began to braid the long black hairs.

“What are you doing?” Elerína leaned over the table to glimpse my hands and their swift work.

“I’m making a token for Queen Isilmë. A remembrance of Hîthrem.”

I twined the coarse hairs while Elerína watched. I slid the last bead over the plait and wove the ends together.

“I am glad to hear that your lord and your sons have suffered no harm.” I said after I placed the bracelet in my belt pouch and turned to face my friend. “But the sound of grief fills this house. Many others must have fallen, and I fear among them are those I know.”

Elerína focused on her hands, locking her fingers together. She then raised those blue eyes, red-rimmed, and opened her mouth to speak but at that moment, Gildor appeared in the kitchen, his face grave and worn. With a silent gesture, he commanded me to come with him. I excused myself from Elerína and rose to follow.

After several twists and turns through the circuitous corridors, we entered an empty parlor, the fire in its hearth flickering low. He sat upon one of the leather settees and beckoned me to join him.

It was there that I learned of the outcome of the battle that had raged during the waning of the year: Sauron’s forces had at last been routed at the Dagorlad and forced to retreat to the stronghold of Barad-dûr. A standoff had been achieved, and one that did not have a foreseen conclusion. Although the commanders of the Alliance took heart that dark armies were driven to seek the protection of his fortress, the victory over Sauron’s militia came with a heavy price.

The Tawarwaith’s forces had been devastated. King Oropher, a courageous but fiercely independent man, had led his army in an ill-timed charge, contrary to the command of Ereinion and Elendil. He paid for his impetuous bravery with his life and those of two-thirds of his soldiers. His son, Thranduil, had assumed the kingship, and had pulled together a select cadre to execute a brilliant -- and dangerous -- maneuver: they had disguised themselves as orc-soldiers, positioning themselves near the Morannon and picking off the slaves that worked the great mechanisms of the gates. The Morannon could not be closed, thanks to Thranduil and his men’s strategy, which had allowed Gil-galad, Elendil and the Dwarven militias to take the field, but the loss of so many had been terrible.

“Our Silvan kin -- to a man and woman –- here in the House of Elrond have suffered loss of loved ones. I am afraid the Noldor were not spared either.” His serene voice cracked. “Cuivendil and his sons are dead.”

My heart sank into icy water. My friend - Lairiel’s husband - and his sons – all gone.

“That is not all, Sámaril. A band of orcs attacked the smithy wagons. Côldring was killed defending the armory. I am sorry.” He took my hand in his. We sat in silence for a while, surrounded by grief and the snapping of the fire in the dim room. At length, he released my hand and placed his on my shoulder.

“I must take my leave, Istyar. Will you be. . .”

“Yes, you may go. I need to absorb all this. Thank you for telling me – for your consideration.”

He nodded and left me in the parlor. For a while, I stared into the fire. I rose from the settee and stirred the embers, placing another log in the hearth. Then I went to the maple-wood cabinet against the wall, opened its doors and extracted a crystal glass, blown into the graceful shape of a harebell blossom. I ran my fingers over the glass, tears welling in my eyes. Wiping them away with my sleeve, I then filled the glass with brandy from the cut-glass decanter. Returning to the settee, I sipped the liquor in silence, swallowing my sorrow. I would seek Lairiel tomorrow and offer what I could to console her, but that night, I descended into dark contemplation.

That could have been me. I had been so eager to join Ereinion’s forces. Would I have survived or would I have been slain, my hröa’s life cut short and my fëa sent to who knows where? Had Côldring’s spirit answered the call to Mandos? I knew what I had been taught – what I was supposed to believe: the Judge summoned our fëar upon our bodies’ death, but it was our choice to heed or refuse it. Those who accepted the summons then lingered in the Halls of the Judged, in reflection, it was said.

I often wondered if the fëar of my wife, sister and parents dwelled in that netherworld and if I should dare hope that they might be whole again, there to greet me if I should be allowed to follow the Straight Road, a path which held little certainty for me. What of my son, barely formed when his life was cut short with his mother’s death? Would my child – innocent of any transgression – be allowed to form bodily life within his mother again?

I considered that I had more faith in Hîthrem running with the herd of Nahar than I did in the fate of my own people’s spirits. Burdened by so many troubling but unanswered questions and uncertainties, I focused on the fire in the brandy and the one leaping and crackling in the hearth, and sought the reality –- however painful and sad -– of my immediate surroundings.

“Istyar? May I join you?”

Queen Isilmë’s voice snapped me out of my troubled reverie. She stood at the door of the parlor – alone.

“Of course, but if you should wish to find the ladies Vórwen and Yavien, I will wait. . .”

“Propriety be damned, Sámaril!” she said, her voice exasperated but weary. “I wish to speak with you alone. Be assured no one will question this.”

She then sat in the carved chair near the fireplace, arranging the brocaded cushions to her comfort and smoothing her deep blue gown over long legs. She accepted the glass of brandy that I offered to her. She sipped it, wincing slightly at its strength, and sighed.

“Gildor told me that you lost one of your colleagues. I am sorry.”

“Côldring was a skilled craftsman and a most affable co-worker. He will be sorely missed.”

“I also understand that you lost a good friend – Cuivendil.”

“Yes. We had known one another in Ost-in-Edhil. We became close in Imladris. He is –- was -– the master glass artisan of Imladris. You hold one of his works in your hand.” I wiped my hands over my face, a gesture of weariness, but also to rub the welling of tears from my eyes.

“Please accept my condolences, Sámaril. But do you not have the surety that you will meet them again? It is said that the spirits of your people do not leave the circles of the world –- that you are bound to it until the very end -– and because of this, you may return to your rejuvenated bodies even after their death.”

“That is what we are taught, my lady queen, and what we are expected to believe. But to my mind and to many others here in Middle-earth, that is far from a surety.”

“You have the proof that at least one of your kind has been re-embodied and returned among the living.”

“Lord Glorfindel? Yes, but he is –- well, he is exceptional. He is also not at all forthcoming about his experience or that of others in the Blessed Lands.”

As I had discovered many years ago, even the hint of the subject brought a guarded look to Laurëfin’s otherwise keen eyes and open countenance. His terse, oblique answers that included words like “horrific” and “bizarre” quelled my inquisitiveness so I, like others, respected his privacy on this matter.

I shuddered at this wholly alien concept and gulped down more brandy. The teachings from the Blessed Land said it was possible for any fëa of the departed Firstborn in Mandos –- save one -- to choose re-embodiment, but that certain conditions must be met. Depending on which loremaster opined, these conditions were an ever-shifting target.

Isilmë swirled the amber liquor in the glass, contemplating its vortex. “Many of your people believe this, your friend Lairiel included. Elerína says that she mourns like any widow. Yet she told Elerína that she takes hope that her husband and sons will be alive in the Blessed Lands some day, and that when she sails the grey ship to Elvenhome, she will be reunited with them.”

“May it be that Lairiel’s hope is realized.”

“Do you not hold out such hope to be reunited with your loved ones?”

“Sometimes I do, but my grip on such faith is slippery. I’m uncertain that I will even be allowed to take the Straight Road to the Lonely Isle, let alone having faith that my wife and family will await me at the quays.”

“Why would you not be able to follow the road of your people and seek the fate that is closed to my kin? You were born here in Middle-earth, were you not? You are innocent of rebellion against the gods and of the kinslaying.”

“I am no innocent.” I opened my hands and turned them over, examining them in the firelight, expecting at any moment to be betrayed by bloodstains that could never be washed away by a moorland freshet. “By my choices and actions, by my ambition and pride, I brought suffering to Men and Elves. I believe the loss of my family was one of my punishments.”

“Or their deaths may have been unfortunate happenstance – being in the wrong place at the wrong time, rather than punishment or the weaving of the threads of fate.”

“Perhaps, but it does not change the fact that they are lost to me.”

“But perhaps not forever.”

“I am not sure what ‘forever’ means,” I said, turning away from the fire to meet the queen’s eyes. “Do you not hold out hope, my lady queen, for the dead? That you, too, will be reunited with your loved ones? I have read the Athrabeth Andreth ah Finrod many times. It is said that your people’s fëar are not bound to this world. That it is the gift of Ilúvatar for you to be freed of it. I – along with many of my people – envy you that gift.”

The queen smiled gently. “I am as uncertain as you are, Sámaril. Sometimes I think that both our kindred are bound to this earth. We simply take different paths to the same end. I can only turn to faith that our spirits leave the circles of the world. But if they do not, then I think I should live a good life here: to love my family and friends and to take care of those in need. That is what I strive to do.”

For a time we sat together in silence, the only sounds the crackling logs in the hearth and the wind moaning around the eaves of the house.

“I wish to thank you for what you did this afternoon – on the moor. Hîthrem did not suffer?”

“He did not. I’m certain of that.”

“That is not the first time I have seen a horse slain like that.”

“The knife brings swift and humane death when wielded properly. That is how the husbandmen of Eregion felled sheep and kine. I would expect others use this method.”

“When I first saw a horse killed in such a manner, it was at an altar in Armenelos, and it was the Deceiver who wielded the knife, just like you did. On the moor today, when you turned toward me – after you had cut Hîthrem’s throat – I saw him.”

Again the apparition of fear writhed behind her eyes as she looked at me. I averted my face, focusing on the brandy in my glass. Opening my hands again I saw wraiths of blood sliding through my fingers. I had not slit another man’s throat or spilled his entrails with keen-edged steel like the desperate and enflamed Noldor had at Alqualondë, but indirectly, I may as well have struck a fatal blow. Kinslayer, I named myself with accusation. I imagined all the fear wrought and the lives ruined due to my eager collaboration with Sauron. Surely Tyelperinquar had felt much the same way, but his punishment had been his death. I had survived, but why?

I stared into the fire again. No longer comforting, the flames became sinister, ready to leap out of their confines and devour me. Had Isilmë seen the darkness he had implanted? The shredded remnants of memory –- that of the monstrosity that had nearly consumed me that night in Tharbad -- remained embedded in my mind like splinters of an arrow left under a scar.

---

Chapter End Notes

Galfaron - Noldo, chief hunter of Imladris.
Astaron (was Apsaner) - Noldo; master of the kitchen.
Duineth (was Gwauneth) – Sinda, mistress of the flocks (domestic geese, ducks, chickens).
Lairiel (was Lanyawen) – Noldo; master weaver of Imladris.
Cuivendil – Noldo; master glassblower, Lairiel’s husband.
Côldring – Noldo, master smith.

Vórondil – Dúnadan; chief of the Queen’s Men.
Vórwen (was Vórawen) - Isilmë’s sr. lady-in-waiting.
Irimë – lady-in-waiting; wife of Elendur, Isildur’s eldest son.

coirë - the season of "stirring" (early spring) in the Elven solar year.

In hawking, the use of sweetened meat is used to lure the falcon or hawk from the game bird.

Galfaron's hunting dog is very much akin to the Dutch partridge dog. A tip o' the ha to Rhapsody for her suggestion.

Like "The Holly and the Ivy, I have injected hints of Northern European mythology in the story, e.g., the "elfin hunt" and "wild hunt." The title of this chapter gives a nod to the proto-Indo-European (PIE) practice of the horse sacrifice although the meaning and motivations here to Sámaril and the queen are different than they were to the queens and kings of the PIE cultures.

Chapter 10: Return of the Queen

Much to his discomfort, Sámaril is reminded that he shares some traits with his former mentor, and Isilmë recounts the sacrifices to Melkor and their impact on her. Isilmë also points out that Sámaril does not disguise his feelings as well as he thinks he does.

As always, thanks to the skinks, geckos and other reptiles at the Lizard Council for feedback.

Read Chapter 10: Return of the Queen

The amber swirl of brandy broke my dark reverie. Startled by Isilmë’s presence at my side, I moved to stand, but she placed her hand on my shoulder, settling me back against the settee while she finished replenishing the snifter.

“I apologize if that revelation disturbed you, Istyar, but better to speak frankly than let these things fester.” She rose to replace the decanter on the cabinet and returned to sit beside me.

“I am sorry that I triggered such terrible memories,” I said. “May I ask this: did you see something in me that frightened you?”

She stared into the fire, now crackling with comforting familiarity instead of ominous threat, the faint sweet scent of burning applewood kissing the air. Then she shifted to face me, searching my eyes with frank regard.

“In you? It is impossible for a mortal to know the depths of the Firstborn, but if you ask do I perceive evil in you, no, not in the least. But something troubles you.” She sipped the brandy. “Tell me, Istyar...how well did you know him?”

“How well did I know who?”

“You know of whom I speak. The Deceiver.”

I focused on the tracks of liquor that snaked down the sides of the glass, hoping to delay my response to her, but her expectancy was palpable.

“No one knew Annatar truly. We saw what he chose to reveal. Thus we were deceived and betrayed.”

“You resort to the guile of the Firstborn, Istyar, you who are usually more direct. How well did you know him?”

I swallowed my hesitation and met those storm-grey eyes.

“He was my teacher. I spent many years under his tutelage and as his colleague.”

“Your teacher.” Her flat statement hung in the air between us. “Perhaps that explains it. Until this afternoon, I wondered why some of your mannerisms were so familiar. Forgive me, Istyar, but when I saw you covered in blood, I recognized the source of that familiarity.”

As loath as I was to admit it, I knew she struck at the truth. A mentor’s influence can be powerful. I saw it in my own apprentices who used certain of my gestures and words. When I had studied with Istyar Aulendil, I not only had adopted his then exacting approach to craftsmanship, but I had also copied his preferences in food and wine, his turns of phrase and even his hair style. I had culled away the most obvious of these over the years, but subtleties still lingered. Of the residents of Imladris, few had known Annatar, so his imprints on those of us who had worked closely with him went largely unnoticed. Until now. The Númenóreans were all too familiar with Sauron.

“Tell me then: what memory came back to you on the moor today?”

“Has Elerína spoken to you of the sacrifices? The offerings to Melkor?”

“Very little. She says the memory is too painful for her to bear, and I will not press her to dredge up what hurts her so.”

“Then I will tell you so that I might explain my reaction.” She leaned back against the settee, gazing into the fire, as she delved into recollection.

“The sacrifices began well before the foundations of that evil temple were laid, even before Sauron came to the island. The princes of the South and East who had intermarried with Númenórean nobility -- and the slaves they brought with them -- introduced these bloody rituals to Númenor, and those who had become obsessed with death adopted them. Sauron played upon the beliefs and superstitions that had already taken root. He was a master of subtlety and persuasion, preaching a doctrine that promised immortality. But the god who promised escape from death required greater offerings of flesh and blood.

“Most often, Sauron’s priests performed the sacrifices. But on the three high days, which had once seen the Three Prayers and the processions to Meneltarma, Sauron performed the sacrifice himself in the Court of Heaven's Fire.

“The offerings at the high altar had been small creatures – doves and chickens. No one objected. For are these not animals which we consume? Next, he sacrificed sheep and goats. Then kine.

“Once the King adopted the worship of Melkor openly, we – the Faithful – were not exempt from attending the high rituals in Armenelos. The worship of Melkor was anathema to us, but if we did not make appearances, we risked retribution. When he still had the King’s favor, my lord Amandil intervened and so we often avoided the bloody rituals, but not always.

“The day before Erukyermë, at a time when Lord Amandil, my husband and my sons were at sea, the women of the House of Elendil were summoned by the King to attend the ceremony of sacrifice. The King’s soldiers appeared before dawn to escort us, and we could not refuse.

“I remember that day all too well: a white stallion was led to the altar of offerings. The beast was exquisite – a descendant of the horses of Valinor that the Eldar had gifted to my people during our earliest years on the island. A horse fit for a king.

“Sauron sang with a beautiful voice that sank into stone and stirred the spirit -- a voice that implored us to believe he was wise and fair. The people quieted, assured that the sacrifice was appropriate. Sauron shed his white robes and approached the horse, chanting to it in a language that we did not understand. The beast calmed, bewitched by the Deceiver’s words. Then the knife flashed and the horse dropped over onto the altar. Sauron -- blood staining his bare arms and chest -- then collected the stallion’s life-flow in a golden goblet, raised it and sang the words of ritual. He drank from the goblet and passed it to his acolytes. The horse’s body was carried to the Fire of Purification and burned.”

Isilmë paused and took a long drink, gasping a little at the fire of the liquor and continued.

“It was shocking. Horses were beloved in the land. Willfully slaying one was unheard of, but Sauron’s words soothed many to acquiescence. But not us, not the women of the Elendili: Lindissë trembled next to me, but Elerína was a statue of marble –- cold and straight. Yet I knew her fear even if she did not reveal it. Elerína and I have been schooled in the same ancient traditions so we understood the symbolism of the horse sacrifice –- the sacrifice of the King. But the rest saw the stallion’s death as a gift to the one who held the promise of everlasting life.

“When my lord husband returned from his voyage to Lindon, I told him what had happened. He never again left us in Rómenna without his protection.”

The lines in her face deepened into furrows. She placed her snifter on the side table and exhaled with a shudder, resuming her recount of the horror that had infected Númenor.

“But the sacrifice of the horse was only the harbinger of what was to come. When the last stone was laid in the temple and the last plate fitted in the silver dome, the White Tree – Nimloth -- was burned. Not long after that, a man was sacrificed, his throat slit with Sauron’s sharp blade and his body thrown to the flames. More men were sacrificed, all criminals and slaves so the objections among those loyal to the King were few.

“As these blasphemous offerings continued, we of the Faithful felt a terrible portent upon us – one that was borne out when those of our number were taken away, accused of crimes against the state. Lord Vorondil, whom you met today, suffered from the persecution of the Faithful. His father was accused of treason and taken prisoner. He...” Then her voice, which had remained so steadfast throughout her tale, wavered. “...my brother was burned alive in the temple.”

Her regal self-control crumbled. This woman, who had seemed so strong, covered her face with her hands and wept.

Casting aside propriety in the face of a fellow human’s misery, I put my arm around the queen and pulled her to me, letting her cry against my shoulder. She poured out her grief while I held her. I wondered how much of her mourning was for her dead kinsman and how much for those who had fallen on the Dagorlad.

At length, her weeping subsided. She pulled away from me but placed her hand against my cheek.

“Thank you, Istyar. Please forgive my womanly weakness.”

“Women are not the only ones who weep for the dead.”

She removed her hand and reached into the folds of her gown to extract a kerchief. She wiped her eyes and with no self-consciousness, vigorously blew her nose into the delicate fabric. She raised red-rimmed eyes to mine.

“Yes, I know that you have suffered, too. Like us, you did not escape from Sauron unscathed, but unlike us, you knew him intimately.” She hesitated. “I think you fear that he has somehow tainted you. Perhaps I fear that, too.”

With an awkward jerk, I rose from the settee and stepped to the hearth. This was not a question I could answer without considerable effort and caution. To allow myself some time to think, I stirred the embers with a black iron poker and watched a fountain of sparks fly up the chimney, reminiscent of the exhaust from the forges in Ost-in-Edhil.

Tainted.

How often had I wondered if Sauron’s imprint upon me was more than just a turn of phrase, a gesture with my hands or how I might approach a problem of craft? I had traits that set me apart from others of my people: traits that I had also perceived in my teacher. My talents in the deep arts, my keen ability to discern others’ thoughts, and my mutable -- sometimes impetuous -- nature echoed the same that were expressed, although more powerfully, in Istyar Aulendil. Yet I was not altogether convinced that these were residues of Aulendil but instead characteristics inherent to my temperament. What gnawed at me was that Sauron had somehow perceived these traits in me and had been drawn to them.

I replaced the tool on the rack by the hearth and turned around to face the queen.

“Yes, sometimes I fear that the most profound of my talents might be twisted by him, but that fear is balanced by the useful knowledge and skills that he taught to me. You must understand that not all he touched or created was evil. Far from it. That is precisely how he seduced us. He appeared to be one with the Noldor of Ost-in-Edhil and yet more. We were so eager to learn from him. I was eager to learn from him. Unfortunately, he learned from us, too.”

“Yes, he seduced the King and the court with his knowledge,” Isilmë said, running her finger along the curve of the snifter. “At least you can claim deception due to Annatar’s disguise. Pharazôn in his hubris brought the viper to Númenor, knowing full well who he was.”

“There lies the difference,” I said. “When I knew him, I had no reason to doubt who he said he was. None of us did. He had not fallen so far when he lived among us. Those remnants of good intention made our trust so much easier to give to him, and made his betrayal of us that much worse.” I sat down again by her.

“It is the burden of my people to become mired in regret and sadness,” I said. “Our vivid memories can be a joy but they are also a curse: the Firstborn cannot release the past for good or ill. Thus I struggle with my teacher’s betrayal every day. But I will say this: you and your grandson have given me joy in the present and hope for the future. Your affection pulls me away from wallowing in the pain of the past. I am grateful for Valandil's friendship. I am also grateful for your favor.” I took her hand and kissed it.

Her smile shadowed with sadness, she squeezed my hand.

“Then I regret what I must tell you, Sámaril. I intend to return to Annúminas.”

“Return to Annúminas?” I had only known this mortal woman for single heartbeat of time, but she had become a cherished part of my daily life. Now she was leaving?

“Yes. Lord Vorondil has brought troubling news from the capital, and with the uncertainty of the siege, I believe it is best for me to return.”

“You said that King Elendil and Master Elrond wished to harbor you here for your safety.”

“Ah, well, that concern was less for me and more for Valandil’s safety. He and his mother will not be going to Annúminas. Only I will return.”

“Why are they concerned for Valandil’s safety?"

“The court of Annúminas is as susceptible to intrigue as any, Sámaril. There are men who are loyal to my lord Elendil in their hearts, but others in name only. Some say that the Deceiver’s lies infected the Faithful, but I believe he had nothing to do with this: ambition and craving for power are part of human nature.”

“Arda Marred,” I sighed.

“Perhaps. That is what your people would claim at any rate. Regardless of the source of deceit and ambition, there are others who would contest the succession should my husband and his heirs not return from the war. When Elerína quickened, it was decided that the child must be born here and remain until Elendil and Isildur and the princes return or until Valandil reaches his majority – depending on the outcome of the war.”

“Do you imply that there are those in the court of Annúminas who would harm Valandil?”

She nodded. “Yes, and I entrust to you my confidence in telling you this.”

“You have that. Always, my lady queen. But why do you return? How will the court take to a woman’s counsel in the matters of government? This is not a tradition among your people nor among mine for that matter.”

“Already there are rumors that others vie for the regency with eyes cast toward the throne itself. Not all of the Dunédain marched to war. Some remained behind to keep the kingdom in order. Lord Valdacar, the steward, rules in my husband’s absence, but Lord Vórondil tells me that the steward’s health fails from a wasting disease. He will likely die before autumn. Those who are loyal to me – the Queen’s men -- have said there are whispers that another –- Lord Anardil -- readies himself to step into that void. My lord husband speaks well of this man, but for many reasons, I do not trust him. Frail woman though I be, I must return and remind the court who truly rules Arnor.”

The woman who had wept on my shoulder now sat tall, her back straight and her eyes proud. A silver light like that of the moon shone from her and filled the small room, diminishing the firelight with its cold radiance. Then I knew. It was not Elendil alone who ruled the kingdom. Before me sat the source of his power, even if she had not been anointed to the throne. I bowed my head to Isilmë.

“Long live the queen. When will you depart?”

“At the Moon of the Flower.”

“So soon? It seems barely the blink of an eye that I made your acquaintance. If I may be so bold, I will miss you greatly.”

She took my hand in hers. “I will miss you, too, Samaril. I hope you will consider traveling to Annúminas. It is a beautiful city. Do not be surprised if I need your presence there, if only to go hunting or to have my finery polished and repaired by a great Elven-smith.”

I smiled. “I will not be surprised then.”

She looked deep into my eyes, and her expression became solemn. “Take care with my little grandson’s heart, Sámaril. And Elerína’s, too. She is dear to me – like a daughter. So be cautious with her affections.”

Her underlying meaning was obvious. I managed to maintain enough control to keep blood from rushing to my face.

“I value the favor that you and the Lady Elerína grant to me. I would not jeopardize it.”

“I know you are an honorable man, but there have been times that your elvish mask has slipped. Your eyes and expression give you away.

“Elerína is a passionate woman, and although I love my son, he has not been the best husband to her. The life of a mariner’s wife more often than not leaves one’s bed cold. Even though Isildur no longer takes to the sea, he has left her alone yet again. In other times and circumstances, a noble woman in such a position might have taken a lover, and others would turn a blind eye to such a relationship. But Elerína is a queen and mother to the heir. She cannot afford to risk such a tryst, even if she might desire it.” Isilmë maintained her lock on my eyes. “And negligent husband or no, I would not see my son cuckolded.”

“Even though I am a widower, I am still wedded.” I struggled to keep my voice elven-smooth. “It is different for the Firstborn. Marriage for us does not end with death. I assure you that my friendship with the Lady Elerína is chaste and will remain so.”

“Yes, I am familiar with the doctrine of the Eldar and its lofty expectations. It infected Númenor, too. I also have observed that for all their protestations to the contrary, many of your people do not adhere to it.” She eyed me knowingly. At last, my face burned. “Just take care, my friend.”

We sat together in silence for a time. The fire popped and crackled a cheerful, banal tune that masked her chilling tale of the bloodthirsty sacrifices and her unearthing of the feelings I erroneously believed I had suppressed.

A knock on the doorjamb snapped our heads around in unison. Lord Vórondil and Gaereth stood in the doorway. The girl twisted her hands together, her head bowed. The queen nodded, granting her permission to speak.

“My lady queen, Prince Valandil had an awful nightmare. He cannot be soothed.” Then Gaereth turned to me, her brown eyes wide with fear. “He called for you, Istyar. Queen Elerína sent me to ask if you would come...”

With a single glance, Isilmë dismissed me. Relieved to be excused from the uncomfortable silence, I leapt to my feet to join Gaereth. I turned to see Isilmë already engaged in low conversation with Vórondil, but she caught my eye, smiled and then returned her full attention to him.

Gaereth and I walked down a long hall, up a narrow flight of stairs, and after taking several turns, arrived at Elerína and Valandil’s suite. Gaereth opened the door and guided me through the parlor toward the narrow corridor leading to the bedchambers. Isilmë’s perception of my deeply buried desire caused me to hesitate at the threshold of such an intimate setting, but the panicked wails traveling down the hallway extinguished my caution. I followed Gaereth until she stopped before an open door.

I peered into the room, illuminated by a single candle on a small table. The shadowed folds of the curtains draped around the large bed undulated in the flickering pool of light. Elerína, robed in a dressing gown and her hair unbound, sat beside her son who thrashed against the pillows. She rose and came to the door, taking my arm and guiding me to the bed where her son lay.

“Thank you for coming, Sámaril,” she said, anxiety undercutting the melody of her voice. “I am sorry to impose. I know the news of Lairiel’s husband and sons must weigh heavy upon you.”

“It is no imposition. Just tell me what happened.”

“Val went to sleep peacefully early this evening, but later, his screaming awakened me. He has wept and wailed since then and I cannot console him. It’s as if he is trapped in a dark dream. He called out for his father several times and then twice for you.”

“Have you summoned the healer?”

“Yes, but she is delayed with others who suffer from today’s tidings. I thought since he called your name then perhaps...”

“I will try to soothe him.”

Elerína moved to stand beside Gaereth while I sat down by Valandil, his little body jerking with sobs. Calling his name, I stroked his forehead, and at the same time, sought entrance at the gates of his tormented mind.

I plunged into cold murky water. Ribbons of blood writhed around me. Searing pain racked my chest and throat. Choking on something –- water or my own blood, I knew not which -- I struggled against the claws of death, moving my arm as if through stone, to touch the band of metal around my head.

Wrenching myself from Valandil’s powerful dream, I probed for the child’s spirit in the midst of this nightmare. A faint golden mote cowered beneath dark waters. Calling his name, I reached for him and felt the grasp of his fëa, tenuous at first and then stronger. I enveloped him and carried him away from the scene of death.

Candlelight reflected in Valandil’s eyes, now focused and fully awake even if drenched with tears. He embraced me, still crying but without the panic that tore through his earlier wails. He buried his face against my chest.

“Atya, Atya!” he murmured again and again. His weeping subsided, and I laid him back down against the pillows. His eyes closed, but bands of tension still tightened his face. I smoothed back his dark hair, now damp with the sweat of his fear, and began to sing. His face softened; his breathing fell into the rhythm of deep sleep. After I finished the song, I rose from the bed and went to Elerína who stood in the periphery of the candlelight.

“He was trapped in a nightmare,” I said. “He is at peace now. When the healer comes, she can ensure all is well, but I think his crisis has passed.”

Elerína went to the bed, assuring herself that her little son was well, and then escorted me out of the room and to the entry of their quarters. We faced one another in the open door.

“Thank you, Sámaril. But before you leave, please tell me – what was the beautiful lullaby that you sang to my son? I have never heard it before. Stars in a violet sky and a wine-dark sea...such strange but evocative words.”

“It’s just a very ancient and obscure song of my people. I’m not surprised that you haven’t heard it.”

My casual dismissal masked the startling realization that without thinking, I had sung the very same song that Istyar Aulendil had used to calm me after the monstrosity that lurked within him nearly consumed me. I bade Elerína good night and walked away through the corridors, reflecting that the dark and the light could not be so easily parsed from one another, just as my desire for an unattainable woman could not be so easily excised from my heart.

~*~

The breeze carried the fragrance of the orchards to the wide terrace where Thornangor and I stood side by side, and along with her escort, awaited Queen Isilmë. The doors of the House of Elrond opened, and she emerged. Dressed in riding gear for her journey west, her cloak wafted behind her, and her boots clicked with determination against the stone pavers. She bade farewell to the many who waited to see her off and stopped before me. I lifted her hand to my lips.

“May the sun light your road ahead and the stars shine upon you, my lady queen.”

Isilmë smiled in return. “Thank you, Sámaril. I am certain we will see one another again.”

“I hope so.” With the fleeting nature of mortal lives, uncertainty nagged at me, but my hope was sincere.

“Before you depart, I have mementos which I would like to give you.” I turned to Thornangor who handed me a sword encased in a black leather scabbard with a belt that matched it. I held these out to the queen who took them from my hands.

“These were crafted in the forges of Ost-in-Edhil,” I said. “The smith who made these was Master Thornangor’s mentor and my friend: Istyanis Naryen.”

“A woman smith?” Isilmë raised her fine brows. “How remarkable!”

Steel sang when she slid the sword from its scabbard. The narrow blade curved subtly, the result of careful tempering. The sword was lighter than the weapons carried by men, and specifically crafted for a woman. Isilmë ran her fingers over the bright metal and found the smith’s mark near the hilt of the sword. Her eyes widened, and I knew she recognized the symbol.

“You say that this smith was a woman, but how can this be? The mark is of the House of...” She glanced at Thornangor’s frown and cut her words short, but her lips curved into a half-moon of a smile. “I see that like the women of the Dúnedain, the women of the Noldor are often unsung. If I read the smith’s mark aright, this is a most extraordinary gift, Istyar. I cannot take such an heirloom from your people.”

Thornangor spoke up then. “It is not a heirloom, Queen Isilmë, although it is a fine blade. My master went through many phases of experimentation in the forges, and this sword is a result of one of these. She took pride in her craftsmanship, but freely shared the results of her work with others.”

“I will second what Thornangor says. I believe that the Istyanis would wish you to have this. She well knew the challenges presented to a woman who must negotiate a man’s world.”

Isilmë’s half-moon smile opened wide and became the brilliance of the sun. She strapped the belt over her hips, fastening the golden buckle, shaped like the profiled head of a falcon with an onyx stone as its eye. She placed her hand on the hilt of the sword. “I will wear this with pride in memory of your Istyanis.”

“I have one more gift,” I said, reaching into my belt pouch. “Here. I made this from the hair of Hîthrem’s tail. A good remembrance of him, I hope.”

Isilmë took the woven bracelet from my hand and slipped it over her wrist. She placed her hands on my shoulders, kissed my cheek, and then held my eyes in her own.

“Yes, it is a good remembrance. Even within dark memories, those of hope and love also abide. Farewell, Sámaril.”

She then moved on to embrace the women and girls of Isildur’s household but she reserved her most obvious affection for her little grandson and his mother. The two queens spoke unheard words to one another, creating a circle of intimacy among the many that stood around them.

Isilmë mounted her horse, a muscular black gelding given to her by Imladris’ stable master. The elven riders led the queen and her escort away toward the arched bridge. Isilmë turned to wave, the agate beads of the horsehair bracelet catching the sunlight. The breeze gusted, showering the petals of apple blossoms over the High Queen of the Dúnedain. My heart was saddened to see this woman depart, her time in Imladris as fleeting as the breeze that lofted the blossoms, but I held on to the promise that I would see her again.

 

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Annatar, Aulendil - Sauron

Lairiel (Noldo) – master weaver of Imladris

Vórondil (Dúnadan) – chief of the Queen’s Men; nephew of Isilmë

Gaereth - Valandil’s nursemaid.

Thornangor "Thorno" (Noldo) – master smith (Sámaril’s right-hand man)

Mélamírë/Istyanis Naryen (Noldo) – master smith of the Otornassë Míretanor (Gwaith-i-Mírdain); Sámaril’s friend and Thorno’s mentor.

***
The Three Prayers refers to the supplications offered to Eru Iluvátar by the King who ascended to the summit of Meneltarma for these rituals: Erukyermë in early spring, Erulaitalë in midsummer, and thanksgiving to the One at the Eruhantalë in late autumn. (see Unfinished Tales, “A description of the island of Numenor.”)

Moon of the Flower - The full moon of what we know as the month of May.

Atya (Q.) - papa

Chapter 11: The Eye of a Little God

Sámaril receives a summons to Amon Sûl. The palantíri are not functioning, and it is hoped that he can repair them. But before he begins his journey, he delves into his memory to recall the technology applied to the crafting of the Mirror of Galadriel -- a technology that may also be featured in the palantíri.

Thanks to the skinks and such at The Lizard Council, in particular to Claudio for feedback on Quenya constructions.

Read Chapter 11: The Eye of a Little God

He perched on the rock, peering into the pool sequestered from the swift current of the Bruinen that churned behind him. Then, swift as a heron, he thrust the spear into the water and yanked out a squirming trout. He yelled in triumph.

“Istyar! I got another one!” He held the fish aloft for me to see.

“Very good, Val. You know what to do,” I said.

With one smooth motion, my young friend slid the fish off the steel spearhead and smacked its head against the rock, killing the writhing trout instantly. Spear in one hand and fish in the other, Val leapt from stone to stone and landed on the riverbank. He sat on a damp log, pulled his knife from its scabbard and eviscerated the fish, flinging its entrails into the brush for the stoats and foxes to scavenge.

After stuffing the gutted trout into the sack along with the rest of the morning’s catch, he stood and prepared to return to the river, but I stopped him.

“We have a dozen fish. I think that is enough for today.” I lifted my eyes and saw the outriders of the approaching storm scudding across the sky. “We need to get these back to Master Astaron. And it will rain soon.”

Val returned to the riverbank, disappointment coloring his expression. He would fish all day, given the opportunity. Nevertheless, he helped gather our gear with no complaint. We clambered up the slope over the detritus of previous floods to the path that wound through the woods.

”When can we go fishing again, Istyar?”

“Soon. Perhaps after you complete the next assignment for your figures.” Our fishing expeditions had become incentives for Val’s studies in mathematics, a subject that did not come easily to him.

He sighed. “Those are so hard! Why do I need to know fractions? I want to be a master of herb lore and understand the ways of beasts. I don’t want to be a smith!” He caressed the new green leaves of beech saplings that bordered the path, a gesture that emphasized his burgeoning interest in plants and animals.

“Ah, but you still need to understand fractions! You’ll need them to divide a medicinal herb into equal weights for safe dosage or to calculate the ratios of say, does to stags among the deer. But here’s another example of why you should know your fractions. You recall the apple tarts that Mistress Maidhel bakes?”

“Oh, yes! I wish I could eat one now.”

“So if a whole tart is placed before you, and there are five of us who wish to eat it, how would you divide it? Understanding fractions will help you do that.”

Val grinned up at me. “No, fractions will not help at all. I would eat the whole tart before it reached the table.”

“Ai! You’re a greedy troll, aren’t you?” I laughed and ruffled his shock of thick dark hair.

As we walked along, I glanced through the filigree of leaves at the rushing current below. I saw the rocks where almost six years ago, I had found a frightened child. Now, the child was an all arms-and-legs boy, tall for his age, who could leap across the very same boulders with the grace of an elven-dancer.

The young prince occupied a throne in my heart. I, too, had to dance gracefully to ensure that I did not take the place of his father, but that I was always there for him. Along with Gildor and Lindir, who instructed Valandil in lore and the harp respectively, I was responsible for Valandil’s education, specifically in the sciences and mathematics. Unlike Gildor and Lindir, I also had been called upon these past six years for comfort when a knee was scraped, to weave a bedtime story, to take hikes in the valley, to go fishing, and to soothe away the dark dreams that bore down upon him. Once, after I had told Valandil one of the many stories my father had told to me as a child, the little boy had wrapped his arms around me and whispered, “I love you, Atya.”

“I am not your papa, little one,” I had said. “I know he is far away, but he loves you.”

“I know that, Istyar. But I do not remember what he looks like.”

~*~

By the time the house came into view, thunder rolled through the valley and the tops of the trees whipped in the wind. Val and I picked up our pace to a trot when a bolt of lightning shot across the sky. As my eyes dropped from the sky to the cliff on the other side of the valley, I saw figures on the path that twisted down from the moor. Two riders, escorted by one of the elven-scouts who kept watch over the valley, made their way toward the arched bridge that spanned the river. Val followed my line of sight.

“Who are they, Istyar?”

“I do not know, but we will soon find out.”

When we arrived at the terraces in front of the house, the first raindrops splattered on the stone pavers, and the riders had dismounted. Thunder crashed while one of the grooms jogged ahead of the skittish horses, leading them to the protection of the stables. Val and I found shelter beneath the arches of the wide front porch and waited for the men, both of us curious. The two tall figures –- now recognizable as Dúnedain -- strode across the stones and up the steps.

“Greetings,” the first man said. “ I am Lónando, Queen’s man. This is Bregolas, my squire.”

“Welcome to Imladris, lord. I am Istyar Sámaril, Master of the Forge, and this is Prince Valandil Isildurion.”

“My prince. Please forgive me.” Both men bowed to Valandil who, if non-plussed at the formality, remembered protocol and nodded to them.

“This is a fortunate meeting,” said Lónando. “I bear a message for Istyar Sámaril of Imladris.” He reached into the leather satchel at his side and pulled out a black dispatch cylinder, handing it to me. “Queen Isilmë summons you to Amon Sûl.”

~*~

The rain came down in earnest and poured through the rest of the day. After I read the letter –- not from Isilmë herself but from the loremaster of Amon Sûl with her endorsement -- I had wolfed down a frugal lunch of bread and cheese, foregoing Valandil’s fresh fish so that I could confer with Thornangor sooner than later. My colleague and I sat together in a quiet parlor, rain streaming against the windows and thunder growling over the moors as another wave of storms bore down upon Imladris.

“So what exactly are these things –- the palantíri?” asked Thornangor, who settled himself in a cushioned chair, stretching out his legs before him, relaxed, but his eyes keen.

“They are communication devices. ‘Seeing stones’ they call them although I suspect these are composed of a vitreous material and not actual rock. The kings of the Dúnedain brought them from Númenor, but it is said that they were crafted in Aman. There are seven: the master stone resides in Osgiliath, but the next largest is housed in Amon Sûl.”

“Why do they request your assistance? And why do you request mine?”

“An interference of some sort has obscured the sight in the stones. The masters of the palantír in Osgiliath had noted the decay of signal some time ago, but of late it has worsened. Apparently, there is a connection among all the stones since the decay has affected each one. The loremaster of Amon Sûl can longer see images or receive any kind of communication. The last coherent message to come through originated from Gil-galad via Elrond. He told the loremaster to request my assistance and that I might be able to repair them.”

“Repair them all? From just one stone? You hardly know what they are!”

“True enough, but I have my suspicions and that is why I wish you to come with me to Amon Sûl. I think the stones operate on a principle similar to the curwë that the Istyanis applied to the Mirror. You assisted her with the crafting so perhaps together we can put our knowledge to good use.”

“You may be on to something there, Istyar.” Thorno ran his hand through his black hair, his eyes alight. “Ai, the Mirror! Remember that, Sámaril?”

“Of course. Every detail.”

~*~

On that brilliant autumn day in Ost-in-Edhil, we had gathered in the central gallery of the House of the Míretanor. There we had watched the White Lady of Lindórinand glide across the smooth terrazzo floor toward our colleague, who stood straight by the carved wooden tripod that held the shallow metal basin.

Mélamírë rubbed the mithril ring on her left forefinger with her thumb, the gesture giving her anxiety away. In the days leading up to the presentation, the Istyanis had become increasingly nervous. She not only fretted over the success of the artefact, but also meeting Galadriel whom she only knew through correspondence and whose legendary reputation intimidated her.

The Istyanis bowed her head to Galadriel, whose imposing stature topped my friend’s by several inches. Galadriel asked a question, her voice deep and mellifluous with the uncanny tones of Aman. Mélamírë answered with a slightly higher register inflected by a resonance that harmonized with the natural world. A song sung by these two women together would be remarkable, I thought, but unlikely to ever occur.

Mélamírë bent over and picked up the silver ewer that sat on the floor by the tripod. She poured clear water into the basin and stepped back. The Lady Galadriel tucked the strands of her electrum hair behind her ears and leaned over the basin, gazing into the water.

The bright sunlight shining through the clerestory windows dimmed. The Mirror emitted faint blue light, illuminating the Lady’s face. The light intensified steadily but then flared with a blaze that bathed the hall azure. I heard Thornangor’s sharp intake of breath and saw Mélamírë’s hands clench. The light stabilized to a steady glow, and my friend's fists unknotted while Thorno exhaled his relief. Then the light began to oscillate, bathing Galadriel’s face and the darkened chamber with blue waves. The effect was like standing on the bottom of a clear pool of water. An eerie feeling crept over me as I perceived Time's currents rippling from the basin.

The Lady Galadriel remained motionless, transfixed by the visions she saw in the Mirror. Not a sound disturbed the hall. Then the blue light faded and the sun brightened the gallery again. Galadriel straightened, and the two women spoke, obscuring their speech from others through their arts. Then the Lady addressed Mélamírë with a clear and distinct voice that rang through the gallery.

“I knew I was right in requesting that you craft this. I thank you, Istyanis Náryen, for this superb instrument.” Then the Lady turned to audience who witnessed the presentation. “Such a wonderful device is a testament to the arts of the Otornassë Míretanoron.”

We all applauded.  The relief among the smiths was palpable.  Mélamírë’s successful crafting of the Mirror offered redemption of our skills. When Mélamírë constructed the device, she applied the deep arts in a different manner than that applied to the Rings so the artefact was neutral –- turned neither to evil nor to good –- and thus uncorrupted by Sauron.

The Lady and her consort, the Lord Celeborn, greeted Istyar Tyelperinquar and Nasi, Narvi's great-grandson, the leader of the Dwarven contingent from Casarrondo, and then joined the delegation sent by Gil-galad. The collection of elven dignitaries drifted to the side tables spread with food and wine provided by the Guilds of Corn and Vine.

Mélamírë, lifting the layered skirts of her embroidered gown, made her way to Tyelperinquar and Nasi. She caught her foot on the hem of the dress and shook the fabric to disengage it from her slipper, her lips moving silently in what I knew was a curse. She most often wore a spare chemise and scorch-pocked, soot-stained trousers while in the forges. Clearly, she was uncomfortable in the heavy dress, but its curve-hugging bodice reminded me that the Istyanis was in fact a beautiful woman. Not that I nor any of the other smiths would have dared tell her this since such compliments were certain to be shattered by a sarcastic rejoinder.

She did not consider herself attractive. Hers was not the willowy twilight-cool grace so prized in Noldorin women, but her striking eyes, her generous –- even sensual -- mouth and the smooth musculature developed from her work contributed to a different kind of beauty, less poetic perhaps than that extolled by our bards, but beauty all the same. Her strength, her veiled power and her brilliant mind were appealing but formidable elements of her character. However, the regard that the men of Lindon had given her during the presentation suggested that at least some of them had tastes that did not comply with the Noldorin ideal. A surge of distrust rushed through me when I saw the outsiders look at my friend in this manner.

Istyar Tyelperinquar thanked her with plain words, but I could discern the depth of emotion beneath them. Ninety-five years before, Tyelperinquar had completed his masterworks: the Three Rings: exquisite, sensitive devices that he had crafted after Aulendil left Ost-in-Edhil but nevertheless tied to the One. His creations both enthralled and haunted him. The other Rings, including those that Teretion and I had crafted, were locked in the deep vaults of the treasury. We harbored no enchantment whatsoever toward them.

Istyar Tyelperinquar’s restraint fell away, and he embraced her. They spoke no words but Mélamírë’s eyes glittered with the hint of tears. Istyar Tyelperinquar at last released her so that she could move on to Nasi. She bowed deeply before the Dwarven-smith.

“I am ever at your service, Nasi. Please tell your sister that I am indebted to her. Without her help, I would not have been able to craft the Mirror.”

I tensed, waiting for Nasi's response. The Dwarves never spoke openly of their women. Even when Teretion and I had taken the smiths of Nasi’s delegation to a tavern to drink ale, which they deemed “passable” even if they drank copiously of it, they did not once mention mothers, sisters, daughters, wives or sweethearts. But Mélamírë had no compunction when speaking of her friend, Nasi’s sister, and disregarded protocol. Nevertheless, she did not name the Dwarven-woman who had led her through the mines to seek the rare elements that the elven-smith had added to the alloy.

Nasi smiled and bowed in return. “I am at your service as is my family, Istyanis. My sister asks when you will next return to Khazad-dûm.”

“Before next winter,” Mélamírë said. “Please tell her that. I look forward to seeing her.” Then my friend turned to the three other Dwarven-smiths, looking none the worse for wear after our ale-soaked outing the night before, and gestured with her hands. All three smiled broadly beneath their beards, plaited and interwoven with gems and gold beads.

Mélamírë passed through a gauntlet of congratulations before she joined us – Teretion, Thornangor, her other apprentice Macilion and myself. With no preamble, she took the full goblet of wine that I had been holding in reserve for her. Tipping it back, she drank the whole thing down, gasping when she finished. She then blurted out her assessment of the presentation:

“Ai! When the light flared, I nearly shat myself!”

We laughed at her vulgar –- but characteristic –- outburst. Thorno, his young face pale, smiled wanly. At the time we did not know it, but he understood the significance of the light’s fluctuation.

~*~

About a year before the presentation of the mirror, Teretion and I had been in the forges, smelting ingots we had obtained from the Dwarves. The combination of the sultry air of summer and the forges’ fires created nearly unbearable heat. Teretion and I had stripped off our clothing, leaving only our smiths' aprons and loinclothes covering our naked bodies. Sweat streamed down my back, soaking the strip of thin cloth that sagged around my hips.

Mélamírë had found us there and asked us to come to her office to discuss her project. When we reached for our shirts and breeches hanging in the entryway of the forges, she scoffed:

“Do you think I will swoon at the sight of your bare bodies? I have seen more of you in the baths. Comfort takes precedence over decorum.”

We followed her down the corridor, stopping only to quench our thirst at a wall fountain where cold water spouted into a basin, and walked into the organized chaos that was her office. Piles of papers balanced precariously on her desk and pens littered its surface like twigs on a forest floor. Scrolls leaned against one another in corners. Books and manuscripts were jumbled in random stacks on the shelves. The contrast between the current state of her office and its condition when the previous occupant had presided there could not have been more glaring. But the disarray belied her orderly mind. A puff of the westerly evening breeze through the open window scattered a few papers to the floor. She waved her hand in dismissal at the mess and beckoned us to the slate board framed in oak that hung on the far wall.

I tried to make sense of the complex scrolls and swirls of numbers and symbols that swam across the smooth dark surface, but to little effect. At what I knew to be great cost to his pride, Teretion spoke up.

“I am sorry, Istyanis, but if you would be so kind as to explain...”

Her smile wide and sincere, she replied, “I would be delighted, Teretion. Delighted! Sámaril, be a good lad and please pull up a couple of chairs for you and our esteemed colleague.”

That “good lad” comment had rankled at me, but she meant well and said it carelessly, hearkening to the same mannerisms and phrases I, too, had absorbed from Istyar Aulendil. Nonetheless, she was my senior in age by less than one hundred years, so "lad" struck me as condescending, but she outranked me in position and -- I had to admit –- in talent.

Her excitement was too infectious to remain annoyed with her. I had not seen her so animated since that terrible day when the words of the Black Speech had reverberated in our minds, a day of the worst kind of betrayal that had sent her reeling into a pit of despair. Devotion to her work and the love of kin and friends had pulled her out of that precarious state, but she often wore an expression of grim determination instead of a smile. Thus her enthusiastic chatter was a joy to hear so I let the sting of her patronizing comment slide away.

So we sat and listened to her explain the mathematics behind her latest attempt at crafting the mirror –- a device meant to look across space and time. She came to the last line of equations.

“Here I arrived at the solution. This, my friends...” and she tapped the slate board with the piece of chalk for emphasis. “...this is curwë of surpassing sweetness.”

Like the interlocking pieces of a puzzle, the transforms that described the arcane phenomenon of temporal oscillation fit together perfectly. As one, Teretion and I gaped at the elegance of the solution.

“Aulë’s brass balls!” swore Teretion. “That is...”

“...beautiful.” I finished his sentence. “Simply beautiful.”

“So,” she said. “When can you try it out?”

~*~

Several days later, Mélamírë, with Thornangor in tow as usual, had stopped us in the corridor.

“I have begged leave of your beloved wives to borrow you two for a while. The experiments will take at least a month or more of solid work – day and night.”

Teretion smiled. “Did Midhel extract a promise for a new bracelet from you?”

Mélamírë laughed. “Indeed she did! I did not even trouble myself to bargain with such a shrewd woman else she withhold those olive loaves from me. And Sámaril, please tell Nierellë that she will have the finest garden trowel in all Ost-in-Edhil for her accommodation."

"I will do that, Istyanis."

“Excellent! Well, we have much to plan. You will meet me in my workshop after the evening repast?”

Although the tone sounded like a request, we grinned, knowing it was a command. But behind Mélamírë, Thornangor, his face pale as the moon, silently shook his head, his eyes wide with warning. When I furrowed my brows in confusion, Mélamírë twisted around to look at Thornangor, finding his expression still and bland. She scrutinized her apprentice for a long moment and then turned her attention back to Teretion and me. We set up the particulars for our first meeting, and then Mélamírë and her skittish apprentice took their leave to go to the forges "for some relaxation," she had said. Thornangor, looking anything but relaxed, shot us a backwards glance of apprehension as he -- a gangling ugly duckling of an adolescent –- followed his master down the corridor.

“What do you suppose that was all about?” Teretion had asked.

“I don’t know," I said. "But I intend to find out.”

Later that day, I found Thorno hauling buckets of coal to and fro in the forges and summoned him to the office that Teretion and I shared. Relieved to set his burdens aside, he came with me. I closed the door behind us and motioned for him to sit. He did not accept the offer but stood instead, waiting for us to address him.

“This afternoon when we spoke with the Istyanis about the project, you seemed...ah, concerned. Do you wish to tell us about this, Thornangor?” Teretion linked his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair.

“Please do not tell the Istyanis that I spoke with you on this matter, masters. I...ah, she told me not to say anything to you, but I think I must.” His eyes darted, and he shifted from foot to foot.

“Then spill it, lad,” I said.

Then he told us what had happened when Mélamírë looked into this latest version of the Mirror, the version crafted by curwë of surpassing sweetness.

“She gazed into it for a long time. Her workshop was dark, except for that weird blue light from the basin. She was aware of nothing else, barely breathing. The water in that thing started steaming. Then it happened. It was like the Sun herself fell into the basin. I closed my eyes in an instant against the terrible light, but I was blinded for a few minutes. Then my vision cleared and I saw her. The Istyanis had been knocked back on her –- well, on her arse. The light had blinded her, too, but she didn’t regain her sight as quickly as I had because she had been so close to it.

“I stayed by her until she could see again. I helped her to her feet. She was shaking, masters. Shaking! I have never seen the Istyanis like that!”

“Did she say what she saw in the Mirror before the burst of light?” Teretion leaned forward, sitting at the edge of his chair.

“She said that she could not interpret the vision. That was all.”

“What did she do then?” I asked, incredulous.

“She told me to bring a flask of miruvor to her because she wanted fortification before she tried to use the Mirror again. And that’s what she did: filled a cup with liquor, drank it down and then went right back to the basin and set it to work.” Thornangor twisted his hands together, his brows knitted with worry. “Master Teretion, Master Sámaril, I am telling you. That thing is perilous!”

Teretion and I looked at one another. I turned back to Thornangor. “Thank you very much for your concern, lad. Master Teretion and I will discuss this matter further. You may leave.”

Thornangor bolted for the door, slamming it in his haste, and dislodged our scholar’s robes from their hooks. The garments dropped to the floor in a heap.

“Well, what do you think, Sámaril?”

I chewed on my inner cheek for one contemplative moment.

“How can we not try it?”

~*~

After I emerged from the deep journey into my memories of Ost-in-Edhil, Thorno had stated that I stank of fish. I compliantly followed my friend to the bathhouse while my inward focus rifled through a checklist of preparations to which I would attend before we left for Amon Sûl. Thorno chatted amiably while we sluiced tepid water over our scrubbed bodies, satisfied with my occasional smiles and monosyllabic responses, and hummed while I massaged his scalp and shoulders.

During the evening repast, I picked at my meal, a hollow gesture at attending to the food. Only once did I pull myself away from my ruminations when Midhloth discreetly touched my shoulders with sensuous undulation as she passed behind me at the high table. I smiled a promise to her.

Midhloth and I had made our peace some years ago when I had found her weeping in the Hall of Fire; she had received the news that her cousin -- the son of a fellow named Galion, King Thranduil’s right hand man -- had been slain on the Dagorlad. I had comforted her then, begging her forgiveness for my appalling behavior and one thing led to another. So we occasionally sought one another’s bed. Although pleasurable, these couplings amounted to nothing more than comfort and release for either of us. For the most part, such detachment allowed me to keep widower’s guilt quelled to a nagging whisper instead of a righteous roar. My friendship with Elerína also had blossomed. Even if my feelings for her were not devoid of the conflict of unattainable desire, then at least I was less distracted thanks to my romps with Midhloth.

I set aside the welcome prospect of sharing Midhloth’s keen enthusiasm later that night –- no doubt her idea of an appropriate send-off for my journey -- and returned to my thoughts of the malfunctioning palantíri. The immersion into my memories of Ost-in-Edhil had brought Mélamírë’s equations into high relief, ready to be applied should they be needed. But I required more to reinforce the numbers. I had to perform the exercises that would open my mind to the Threads of the Weaver that traveled through the present, past and future. The pathways revealed by Elven-song would provide the foundations for that. So, when Gildor rose after the evening repast and led my folk not to the Hall of Fire but outside into the rain-washed summer night, I followed.

---

Chapter End Notes

Title is derived from Sylvia Plath’s Mirror.

Lindórinand Laurelindórenan: older name of Lothlórien. Note added in proof - at this time, it is unlikely that Galadriel had planted the mallorn she had received from Gil-galad who had in turn received these from Tar-Aldarion. So, I have reverted to the older name that predates planting of the mallorns.

Otornassë Míretanoron: Quenya equivalent (roughly) of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain; translates as "brotherhood of the jewel-smiths."

Nasi of the House of Narvi: At the time the presentation of the Mirror takes place (1685 SA), Narvi is most likely dead.

The gestures that Mélamírë uses with the other Dwarven-smiths is iglishmêk, a gesture-code of the Dwarves and apparently shared with some of the Noldor of Ost-in-Edhil.

Curwë – from footnote 30 of The Shibboleth of Fëanor, HoMe, vol XII, Peoples of Middle-earth, Tolkien wrote pertaining to the stem of the words referring to ‘wisdom’ Nolo:

“‘Wisdom’ – but not in the sense ‘sagacity, sound judgment (founded on experience and sufficient knowledge)’; ‘Knowledge’ would be nearer, or ‘Philosophy’ in its older applications which included Science. Nolmë was thus distinct from Kurwë ‘technical skill and invention’, although not necessarily practiced by distinct persons.”

Thus, nolwë and curwë can be translated as science and technology, respectively.

Chapter 12: The Threads of Vairë

Sámaril escorts Elerína to a woodland glade where they listen to Lindir's music. He remembers his visions of the very distant past and of the future when he participated in the first studies of Galadriel's Mirror. While immersing himself in Lindir's music, Sámaril then enters a meditative state in which he sees the Threads of Vairë. These trigger two visions: one wondrous and the other dark and frightening.

Thanks to the Lizard Council for the picking of juicy nits!

Read Chapter 12: The Threads of Vairë

I stepped out onto the wide porch of the house and inhaled rain-washed air, its myriad green scents as heady as any wine. The storms had long passed, spending their fury against the walls of the Hithaeglir where faint lightning flickered in the distant thunderheads. The moon rose above the towers of cloud, bathing the valley with light and transforming water droplets clinging to leaves and flowers into quicksilver. The notes of Lindir’s harp rippled from up the valley in a hidden glade. That was my destination.

A procession of gold and white lights twinkled through the trees. Most of those who had dined in the hall that evening carried lanterns and made their way through the dripping woods toward the glade. A few lingered on the terrace, among them Elerína and Yavien, her daughter-by-marriage. Elerína called out when she saw me walking walked down the steps.

“Sámaril! Good evening!”

“Good evening, my ladies. I’m on my way to listen to the songs. Would you care to join me? If you two don’t mind getting a bit damp, that is.”

“We do not mind,” Elerína answered quickly. “It is a fine night.”

Even after living in the House of Elrond for ten years, the women of the Dúnedain – with the exception of Isilmë -- often hesitated before joining the Firstborn in social settings, always waiting for an invitation, it seemed. I was happy to oblige them, but their deference continued to remind me of the gulf between our kindred.

I spotted Naurusnir and asked him to escort Yavien while I offered my arm to Elerína.

“Where is Valandil?” I asked.

“Playing Capture the King inside with his cousins,” she said, linking her arm with mine, a familiar and comforting gesture. “You know, he made quite the production of those fish today. He regaled me not only with his method of catching them but also their anatomy and breeding habits. Then he rattled off how they should be divided so that we would all get an equal share for our luncheon.”

“Ah, ha! So those lessons in fractions are taking!”

Elerína laughed. “Yes! Between the two of us, I think we are drumming arithmetic into his head.”

Elerína had a keen mind for numbers which I had discovered from her extraordinary precision at the loom, which Lairiel had complimented: “As good as any in the Guild.” Elerína’s talents had come to Gildor’s attention so he often called upon her to aid with the inventories and bookkeeping of Imladris. She found ways to work arithmetic into day-to-day life with her young son, and I wondered if this was perhaps the superior approach for Valandil compared to my more abstract lessons.

“A good thing, too,” I said. “He’ll be prepared for Lord Glorfindel’s onslaughts.”

Subtle tension flexed in her hand when she heard my offhanded reference to my liege lord’s exceptional talent in mathematics.

“So you still hope for your lord’s return?”

“Yes. I have faith that he will come back to Imladris, just as your husband and sons will come back to you and Valandil.”

“Thank you, Sámaril, for your confidence. I hope you are right.”

The path narrowed and sodden leaves dripped all around us, their tune reflecting the liquid melody of Lindir’s harp, which became more distinct as we wended our way along the path.

“Elerína, you know that I have been summoned by the queen to Amon Sûl.”

“Yes. She also sent a letter to me and wrote that there are difficulties with the palantíri.”

“What do you know of these devices? I understand that these are heirlooms of the House of Elendil and that one was housed in Minas Ithil. Have you seen them? Or used them?”

“I have seen them, yes, but never applied my thought to them. They are spheres of a glass-like substance, some large like the master stone and others smaller. Isildur, of course, has used them. He says that gazing into the stone and bending one’s will to it accomplishes communication with another. Well, I expect you know that. Speech can be transmitted, too, though not by speaking aloud but by words formed in the mind.”

What she told me was consistent with what I had read in the lore I dug up in Elrond’s library. “Did your lord husband note anything about the sight reaching to another time?”

“Yes, he did although he never expanded on what he saw because the visions were vague and confusing. Sometimes the loremasters see more clearly what they understand to be past events, but this is not something they can control. It just happens. I am sorry that I cannot give you more details, but my exposure to these devices was limited.”

“No need for apologies, my lady. That is informative.”

She squeezed my arm. ““Sámaril, you are humoring me. I know that you would like to have far more information. When will you leave?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Ah, that is soon! But there is need for haste,” she said, brushing leaves along the path with her free hand. Droplets scattered like silver jewels. “I have a favor to ask of you: would you carry my gift for the queen to Amon Sûl? I understand that she intends to meet you there.”

“Yes, I’d be happy to deliver your gift to her.”

“My thanks. I must put the finishing touches it, but if you could come to the looms around mid-day tomorrow, I will have it ready.”

“Then I will be there when the noontide bell chimes,” I said, my curiosity piqued. “Now mind your step, my lady. The path becomes steeper here.”

She gripped my arm tighter. “How peculiar,” she said. “The path is dry yet all is dripping around us. Elvish magic, I suppose.”

“Magic?” As always, this term perplexed me. “No, this is how it’s accomplished...”

“Please, Sámaril!” She interrupted me before I could launch into a detailed explanation of why the path remained dry. She laughed and patted my arm. “Let me believe it is magic.”

That was not the only time she used the word. We reached the glade to find Lindir and his musicians seated in its center. The other folk of the household gathered around them. I saw Thornangor and Lairiel standing together at the far side of the ring of trees. When harp cascaded, flute trilled and voices danced through the woods and up to the stars in harmony, Elerína whispered, “This is magic, too.”

Had she been able to reach into the depths of my thought that night, she might have named what she saw there to be magic. Certainly, it was very strange and beyond the experience of most mortals. Before I immersed myself in the meditation brought on by elvish music, I turned my thoughts once more to the Mirror and the visions I had seen in it.

~*~

“You must open your mind, Sámaril,” the Istyanis had said. “Just like the time when we went out into the hills and viewed the Threads of the Weaver in the heavens. Do you recall that?”

“I’d rather forget.”

That expedition had been an experiment in preparation for the Mirror. We had ridden out into the hills of Eregion on a moonless night, the dome of the sky filled with countless stars. Mélamírë had lain back on a blanket with Teretion and me on either side of her, our hands linked with hers, and we had opened our thoughts to the mysteries of Vairë the Weaver. The Threads had convulsed among the stars, vibrating with the harmonies that had given birth to the Songs of the Ainur. Their music swelled into something magnificent and terrible and then resolved into a maddening cacophony of faces and events – an infinity of possibilities and probabilities. Mélamírë, our guide in the exercise, could no longer hold on to the overwhelming vision, and she had released our hands abruptly. Flung out of the vision, we all suffered from the worst vertigo imaginable, and each of us had crawled off the blanket to vomit amidst the grass and brush. With that experience in mind, I eyed the Mirror with no little trepidation.

“I know,” she had said. “Viewing the Threads unaided is disconcerting to say the least, but the Mirror amplifies the inner sight that all humans possess. So your experience shouldn’t be quite as bad.”

Young Thornangor, who stood off to the side, rolled his eyes. He had already told us to come with empty stomachs, having observed his master’s emetic reaction to the artefact during her earliest experiments with it.

I had bent over the Mirror, its water still, and saw my reflection, nothing more. The workshop was utterly silent. Then the water turned midnight-blue and stars appeared in the basin’s incomprehensible depths. The Threads of the Weaver coalesced, humming with a resonance that expanded into a chorale of alien voices. Although dizziness set in immediately, my stomach remained calm. Then the visions began.

Night after night, I had looked into the Mirror and pieced these visions together to create a story – a story that related to me. Some of the visions I knew to be parts of my parents’ past: the crossing of the Helcaraxë, their lives in Nevrast and Gondolin. But the strangest visions were those of the very distant past and possibly the future.

The Mirror had followed the Threads that reached far back into the remote mists of time. Human figures struggled across sun-baked plains dotted with scrubby trees and scarred by dry watercourses and lakebeds. The people were too distant to see if they were Men or Elves.

The tiny nomads marched to cool, mist-shrouded lands, the sky overcast with sooty clouds. They came to the shores of an inland sea. There they split into two groups. The larger body turned to the north while a smaller party -- less than two hundred people -- followed the other shore. Inexplicably, this latter group lay down on a grassy hillside and went to sleep.

The Mirror became opaque, obscuring the vision, but cleared to reveal the sleepers on the hillside, but much closer so that I could see distinctly the men and women lying in repose. I recognized them as three tribes of elves. The sky appeared in the Mirror: a great wind blew the dark wrack of clouds away, and thousands of stars sparkled in the clear night of the West. That was when the sleepers awoke and turned their faces to the stars.

Clad in skins of animals and sheltering under crude tents of hide, the three tribes had made their home upon the shores of the sea. But the rain, snow and ice descended on the land, and hardship descended on the tribes. Terrible beasts of fantastical form preyed upon the elves and many were slain or disappeared in the wilderness.

Then the Hunter came out of the West, an inhumanly tall figure mounted on a huge white horse that glimmered like the Moon. At the Hunter’s summons, three men and three women emerged from the dark pine forest. Clad not in skins but thick fabrics, these six beings in the form of the Firstborn carried metal tools and weaponry. They taught the tribes how to craft better weapons to defend themselves, stronger shelters for protection, and superior ways to capture fire and light. In turn, they learned the language of the tribes. These men and women of the forest prepared the elves for their great journey to the West and came to love the Firstborn.

One of the forest-people, a woman with dark eyes and hair that shone like bronze – wedded a chieftain of the Tatyar who had remained behind when his lord, along with leaders of the other two tribes, departed with the Hunter. She gave birth to a son. Her husband perished when he was trampled by a huge beast covered with thick shaggy hair, its long ivory tusks on either side of its serpentine snout wicked and ready to deal out death to the elven hunters that surrounded it. The forest-woman mourned her loss, and when her son was full grown, she walked back into the pines whence she came. However, her son’s descendant -- her great-great-granddaughter -- stepped on to the island that would take the tribes to Aman. I knew her to be my mother’s mother who had perished on the grinding ice.

The other vision engraved in my memory was that of the ocean – grey-green with a sword of sunlight blazing across its waves. A beach of sand, punctuated with dark rocks, spread before me. In the distance, I saw the ruins of stone quays but closer was a group of children. Only one child was bold enough to approach me; the rest hung back. A little girl with brown hair that shone like bronze turned her face toward me, but before I could discern her features, the image evaporated, leaving nothing but my reflection in the still water of the Mirror. I saw this vision three times before Mélamírë declared the experiments complete and that the Mirror was as “ready as it is ever going to be” for the White Lady.

~*~

I slipped away from my memories of the Mirror’s visions, drawn back to the glade by the beauty of the music and the warmth of Elerína who stood by my side, her arm still linked in mine. Elerína had said that the past and possibly the future could be observed through the palantíri. If this was so, then the Threads of the Weaver must somehow be involved and whoever had crafted the seeing stones must have used curwë that facilitated their use. I needed to open my mind to the Threads to help me understand this, but could I do it safely on my own – without the assistance of the Mirror or Mélamírë as my human conduit? Viewing the terrible grandeur of the naked Threads coursing through Eä had been frightening, but I had to take the chance.

The music drenched my consciousness like the rains had soaked the meadows of the valley. My mind opened to the mysterious pathways that the elven mind treads in this state, what my mortal friends might call “magic.” I lifted my face to the dome of heaven with millions of stars glimmering in its far reaches, but I saw nothing for a long while. I was ready to give up and simply enjoy the music when the faint vibrations of the Threads appeared at the edge of my vision and hearing. They filled the dome of heaven, obscuring the sky and drowning out Lindir’s music with their weird but beautiful harmonies. Then I fell into their net and no longer saw the Threads, but instead a fair green land that opened before me.

In the distance, a city crowned on a high hill, its gleaming white towers and domes rising to an intensely blue sky. A brilliant silver light shone from the highest tower. Like a bird, I flew to that city, its walls bathed with daylight but the shadows strange. I realized the light of day did not come from the sun. Spiraling above the city, I saw a great square and a large tree, its leaves dark green and its bark pale, almost white. Many small figures bustled about on streets that sparkled with the glint of white gems.

Tirion. This must to be Tirion of old.

I flew away from the city and into the countryside where cultivated fields waved with grain, interspersed with woods and meadows filled with flowers, until I saw a rambling house with outbuildings around it. I recognized the largest of these buildings as a forge with its multiple chimneys. I swooped toward this forge, my mind racing. Could this forge and house belong to him, to…

A horrific force struck me, slamming hard against my mind's flight. I plummeted down, grasping to stop my fall, but finding nothing. I landed on hard ground. A shadow of despair covered me and sucked all light away. Paralyzed and blinded, I willed myself to move. I crawled forward, but abject sickness gripped every part of my mind and body. Black fear and death lay under that shadow. But out of the darkness, I heard a voice –- desperate, defiant -- a woman’s voice. No! I could not leave her to die alone! Shaking, I inched along on my hands and knees, wretchedly ill, but determined not to fail her. I heard her voice again…

“Sámaril? Sámaril! Come back! Please, someone help him!”

My vision cleared to see Elerína bending over me. I lay flat on the ground. I tried to rise, but my head was ready to split in two, and I fell back. Strong arms lifted me and brought me to my feet. Thornangor and Gildor were on either side of me, their arms looped around my waist and back.

“Come on, old man,” said Thorno. “Let’s get you back to the house.”

“Please, Thorno, I can walk on my own…” but my knees betrayed me, buckling under my weight as my head spun.

“You sought the Threads, didn’t you?” he whispered, breathy exasperation underpinning his worried tone. “You and the Istyanis. Such risks…”

My head pulsated with pain, and a fog of sickness obscured my vision. I heard the healer behind me reassuring Elerína. Soft fine hands stroked my forehead. Midhloth’s hands.

Vaguely aware of my surroundings, I was taken back to the house. Thornangor and Gildor guided me up the steps to the porch.

“Will he be all right? Please let me know what I can do to help.” Elerína’s voice swirled in my muddled thoughts like a clear stream through murky water.

“The Istyar will be fine, my lady.” Midhloth’s voice. “We will take care of him and send word later.”

My vision cleared enough to see Elerína’s blue eyes filled with worry. Her face fell when she heard the words that excluded her. She nodded to Midhloth and stepped away into the shadows.

When we reached my quarters, the healer gave me a bitter draught to drink. I attempted to remove my clothing, but others took over my awkward efforts. I lay back in my bed, aware of a warm presence beside me. The pain in my head receded, and I fell into the dreamless sleep induced by the poppies of Irmo.

~*~

When I awoke, it was mid-morning, judging by the sun’s light that streaked through the open windows. The fragrance of the gardens wafted into my bedchamber, the scent of roses and woodbine soothing and invigorating at once. No pain or even grogginess lingered.

I began to take inventory of last night’s events until stirring next to me and a warm hand on my bare shoulder shunted aside those thoughts. I turned and took Midhloth into my arms, kissing her with sensual delicacy at first and then with insistence when I felt my strength return. Hard desire kindled. My fingers, lips and tongue demonstrated their craftsmanship on her body until she trembled and grasped my hair, pulling me away from my attention to her most sensitive touchstone.

When I tried to position myself over her, she held me close, her delicate arms stronger than they appeared, and rolled over, pressing my back against the bed.

“Let me do the work, Istyar.”

She straddled my hips and sighed when I entered her. She rocked slowly, and I met her rhythm. We held to a plateau of nearly unbearable tension until she gasped. Her soft moans of pleasure brought me to release, and I succumbed to exquisite sensation.

I savored the afterglow of affectionate sex, but a draught of sadness and a little guilt left me not quite satisfied. Although pleasurable, my couplings with Midhloth were never as intense or as deeply connected in mind and body as they had been with Nierelle, my wife. A delicate whisper in my thoughts often questioned me: if I had found myself in the netherworld of Mandos before my wife, what would my expectations have been of her, a living passionate woman? Would I have held her to celibacy? I found no easy answer, so I stroked Midhloth’s hair and asked her what had happened last night.

“You were standing next to Lady Elerína, enraptured by the music, it seemed. Then you dropped like a stone. Your eyes were so far away. We feared that you were lost to us, but the Dúnadaneth called you back. We were all so worried, Istyar! You are so strong...” she said, caressing my upper arm, “...and it was frightening to see you like that. What was it that you saw? Master Thornangor said he thought it was a perilous vision, but he offered no more than that.”

“Ai! I’d rather not darken this beautiful morning by telling you, my little leaf,” I said, squeezing her. “Suffice it to say that what I saw was both wondrous and terrible.”

“Very well. Keep your golodhren mysteries to yourself then.” She tapped my nose with the utmost gentleness and kissed me playfully before extracting herself from my arms. “I really must go to the kitchen soon. Even though Mistress Maidhel knows that I will be late this morning, I still must see to my duties.”

At her intimation that Maidhel knew I had shared my bed with Midhloth, warmth crept into my face. My little Silvan companion noticed, and her birdsong laughter matched the trills of the wood warbler outside my window.

“You silly lachenn! Why must you fret over what is natural, a gift to us from the One? After all, what is so different with taking your pleasure with me instead of Master Thornangor?”

“Ah, well, that, that is not the same...this is different!” I stammered, but she continued to laugh and pushed me back against the pillows and soft linen. She wriggled into her undergarments and slid her gown over her head, pulling her hair out from under the fabric to fall down her back like a silvery waterfall. She leaned over to kiss me.

“I will assure the healer that you are fully recovered.” She grinned wickedly. “Now rest, Istyar. You have a long journey ahead and who knows what you will find in Amon Sûl?”

---

Chapter End Notes

Vairë the Weaver: Námo's spouse. Weaves the tapestry of fate. The identity of what Sámaril is able to envision may have "scientifictitious" origins and related to some of the more arcane contemporary concepts of theoretical physics, e.g., string theory, branes, etc.

The awakening by Cuiviénen and the migration of the elves to the West: the usual referral to JRRT's essay on the origins of the sun and moon in The History of Middle-earth, vol. X, "Myths Transformed" applies. Mine is a different take on the underpinning of the mythology.

Re: The front porch of the House o' Elrond. Even though I enjoyed P. Jackson's Art Nouveau version of Rivendell, I'm much more partial to something like the Oxford don's version with the arches over a large front porch -- almost a veranda. The fanciful bridge, as described by JRRT in the books (esp. The Hobbit), is not so appealing for a number of reasons. In the pandemoniverse, it's more robust.

Chapter 13: Through a Glass Darkly

Sámaril and Thornangor, along with Lónando, the Dúnadan knight, and his squire, travel along the Great East Road to the tower of Amon Sûl. Although the master of the palantír has misgivings concerning Sámaril's involvement, with Queen Isilmë's endorsement, Sámaril applies the deep arts in an attempt to repair the palantíri...and receives guidance from their maker.

Thanks to Skinks Extraordinaire -- Gandalf's Apprentice, Jael, Moreth and oshun -- of The Lizard Council for critical feedback and comments.

Read Chapter 13: Through a Glass Darkly

I slapped the back of my neck, gratified by the flattened nub of insect against my sweat-slick skin. Only a speck of blood remained on the palm of my hand. Tuilin, now slowed to a walk after a long day at a canter, switched his tail, and his hide quivered, shaking off the bugs. I silently cursed myself for not having brought the repellant oil.

“So elves, too, are feasts for flies! Who would have thought! It must be your sweet immortal blood.” Lónando, the Dúnadan knight, rode beside me, less troubled by the biting flies than I was.

“Yes, who would have thought that my blood is red and my shit stinks, too.”

The man flinched at my crude rebuke. “Forgive me, Istyar…”

“Ai, Lónando! I am the one who should apologize! I’m sorry. I’m just irritable from the heat and the blasted flies. Contrary to legend, elves are not always serene. Some are downright testy.”

“Testy?” The man smiled but cocked an eyebrow. “I have studied your people’s histories, Istyar. ‘Testy’ is an understatement.”

I guffawed at his irreverent remark. Thorno turned in his saddle to see what amused me so, but then I swore as another fly found its mark while I was distracted.

“Have no worries,” said the Dúnadan. “The road will soon ascend, and the insects will not be as fierce.”

I knew this to be so for I had traveled on the Great East Road many years ago when it was little more than a dirt path. Enough had changed since I last left the confines of Imladris such that the country carried a sensation of the unfamiliar, a newness that covered the old bones of the earth. Patches of dead trees, the result of the year without a summer after the cataclysm of Númenor, had been replaced by lush green growth. The Númenóreans had improved the road and built outposts along the way; stone huts blended into the rocks of the hills. We had taken shelter in one of these during our first night out from Imladris. These structures and the bridge crossing the Mitheithel River, now behind us, combined function with artistry, reminding me of the stone works of Ost-in-Edhil and ultimately, of my father’s skill and sense of aesthetics.

The sun dipped toward the West when we stopped to set up camp in a grove of pines. Thorno volunteered his services to procure the evening meal, leaving me with Lónando and his squire to care for the horses, gather firewood and find water.

Leading our mounts, my feet followed my memory of this place where I had once camped on my way to the Ered Luin. I found the woodland pond with rocky outcroppings around its clear amber waters; a spring welled up from the rocks and splashed into the pond. After the horses drank their fill, I tethered them in a nearby clearing and left them to Lónando to groom. I hauled leather buckets filled with the spring’s pristine water back to the camp, and then foraged for blackberries, thyme and wild garlic.

I returned to find the fire burning, and Thorno shoving two hares, already skinned and gutted, on to oak spits. Thorno took the garlic and thyme from me, and rubbed the herbs over the carcasses before tucking them into the cavities of the hares. After turning over the duties of cooking to Bregolas, whom he instructed in the fine points of just how browned the meat should be and how many times the spit should be turned, Thorno ambled over to where I sat on a log with Lónando.

“What do you say to a quick swim before we eat? It will be a while before those hares are roasted.”

"I would say 'yes'! Lónando, would you care to join us? Bregolas has the cooking duties well in hand."

“I, uh, well, yes, if you don’t mind,” he said after a long pause. He looked over at his squire, munching on a piece of waybread and turning the spits. “It’s safe enough, I suppose. We’re well removed from troll country, if there are any about. Most were destroyed in the Battle of the Dagorlad.”

“We’ll be safe,” Thorno stated flatly. “Besides, the pond is close by, within shouting distance, in fact.”

We made our way through the oak and pine to the pond where we pulled off boots and stripped away clothing. I plunged into the water, warm near the surface but cold in its depths. I swam to the center and floated on my back, gazing at the sky above, its blue deepening as evening approached. After soaking in the serenity of the woods and the gentle water, I swam back to shore where I sat beside Lónando on a large flat rock.

Thorno had climbed onto a nearby outcropping that jutted out over the water. He stretched like a cat, flexing supple muscles, and then walked to the edge of the rock. He gathered himself then sprang into the air, his body tracing a swift and graceful arc. He cut the water with the slightest of splashes. Lónando sucked in his breath.

“He is so beautiful.”

“Thornangor?” I turned to look at the man, whose face flushed bright red.

“I am sorry. I have spoken improperly.”

“You said nothing improper. You spoke what is on your mind. It’s just that Thornangor has long been known to me so...”

“Please forgive me, Istyar! I didn’t realize that he is…he is your…”

“My what?” Then I understood. “Oh, no, he is not my lover. Not precisely.”

“I have really stepped in it, haven’t I?" Lónando rubbed his face with both hands. "Your ways are so confusing. I do not think you are aware of the effects your people have on mortals.”

“What effects?”

“You really have no idea, do you? Istyar, you and Master Thornangor are...you are both beautiful men: powerful and manly in body and your faces are so...so...Ah! I have said too much! I should not have come with you.” He snatched his clothing from the pile on the rock and sprang to his feet.

“No! Please stay!” I called to him, but he took no heed and crashed through the woods.

Thorno rose from the pond, his wet skin shining like copper from the low sunlight grazing the tops of the trees. I smiled, appraising my old friend anew. He was a beautiful creature: long-limbed with pale blue eyes under dark brows and a dimple in his chin. To say he was not my lover was not quite accurate. Even though we each gravitated toward women, we occasionally found comfort and release with one another, neither of us inclined –- or perhaps brave enough -- to attempt penetration but satisfied with other means of pleasure.

Thorno noticed my reverie. “You look like you’re going to eat me alive, old man.” He sat down beside me and squeezed the water out of his hair. “What happened with the Dúnadan?”

I told him of Lónando’s embarrassed admiration. Thorno chuckled. “Ai! The beguiling elves! I suppose I can see why. After all, look at this!” He placed his splayed hand on his chest. “And you’re not so bad for a hulking brute.” I punched him lightly in the arm, and he squawked with mock pain.

Bulkier than Thorno, I was a match for many of the Númenóreans: tall with rounded, defined musculature, in part from my years of labor but mostly inherited from my father who had been a large man capable of lifting heavy blocks of stone. I smiled to myself, remembering what my mother had said of my father, that he had “the girth of Tulkas,” a comment that always made my otherwise dour father blush and smile. When I became a man, I understood the double meaning of my mother’s compliment.

“Let’s return,” said Thorno, standing and brushing errant pine needles from his ivory-hued buttocks. “I can smell those bunnies from here and they are almost done. I don’t want that boy to burn my hard won hares.”

The hares, as it turned out, were roasted to perfection. The herbs softened the gamey flavor of the meat; the blackberries provided a sweet counterpoint. After we finished eating and cleaning, we stretched out around the fire where Thorno and I sang while the waning moon rose above the treetops.

“What is that beautiful song, my lords?” asked Bregolas. “I do not know the language of the High Elves so well.”

Lónando grinned, the firelight casting sharp shadows on his strong-boned face. “Our elven-smiths sing of a man whose mighty hammer has wilted and who must seek the attentions of three goddesses to fix it.”

“You are indeed a master of lore, Sir Lónando!” I exclaimed, and we all laughed. Thorno and I launched into another song, but this one in Sindarin so that Bregolas could understand. The young man’s blush could be seen even in the firelight, but soon he joined in. Our evening continued with the chasm between Man and Elf bridged by ribald camaraderie.

Later, while I kept watch beyond the periphery of the dying firelight, I heard a rustling behind me at the campsite. I turned to see the lump that was Bregolas, fast asleep, but the empty bedrolls of Lónando and Thornangor. Exasperated by Thornangor’s unrelenting libido, I nevertheless smiled to myself when I heard a low moan in the shadows beneath the pines. I returned to vigilance, guarding my friend and the man who now enjoyed elvish beguilement.

We pushed the pace of the horses over the next few days. The foothills of the Hithaeglir diminished behind us, and we traveled across open grasslands studded with thickets of scrub oak and alder. On the sixth day out from Imladris, we saw in the West a ridge undulating toward the north, but standing at its southern edge was an isolated hill. Still distant, the tower of Amon Sûl reared up like a black nail against the horizon. An involuntary shiver raced up and down my spine.

The next day’s ride brought us to the foot of the great hill. Lónando produced a small horn, which he blew with a clear tone as we approached, and a similar horn answered from the tower. The Dúnadan and his squire guided Thornangor and me along a path that skirted the base of the hill around to its northwestern slope. The tower hill was joined to the ridge by an earthen embankment. Stone and wood buildings clustered against the ridge at the embankment's northern end.

“We will stable the horses there,” said Lónando, pointing toward one of the structures where a few men and horses congregated.

Letting Tuilin follow Lónando’s horse, I took in the tower that soared above the land. Blocks of limestone were expertly fitted together. The tower tapered inward slightly as it rose and then flared out again near its top where buttresses jutted from the upper walls. An arcade ringed the uppermost level of the tower with a domed roof topping the structure. Elendil’s standard –- white tree, seven stars with a winged crown above on a sable field –- flapped above all in the westerly breeze.

“The queen has not arrived yet,” said Lónando. “The blue flag does not fly.”

He referred to a simple blue standard with a floral device in its center. It reminded me of the gift for Isilmë that I carried on Elerina’s behalf. I reached around and touched the leather cylinder behind me that held it.

We arrived at the cluster of buildings, all facing a long paved court. Grooms took the horses to the stables, leaving us to refresh ourselves. Lónando led us to a building that hugged the hillside and through an arched door into an interior courtyard. From there we followed him down a corridor to a small set of rooms: two bedchambers and a small parlor between them. Wide planks of polished wood covered the floors with brightly patterned wool rugs laid across these.

“The lavatory is down the corridor. We do not boast the bathhouses of Annúminas or Imladris, but there are basins with hot water. Towels, too, of course. The dining hall is through the corridor across the courtyard,” he said and then glanced right and left in the hall as if he were ascertaining the presence of others. He smiled warmly at Thorno. “I look forward to seeing you there.”

Thorno returned the Dúnadan’s smile in equal measure. Lónando left and we set to unpacking.

“Thornangor, I don’t mean to intrude...” I said while extracting folded clothing from my pack.

“But you will anyway.”

“Beast! Yes, I will. Take care with this dalliance. Some of the Númenóreans are lenient when it comes to matters of physical pleasure, but many are not. Elerína advised me that the morals of the Middle Men have become prevalent even among the highborn Dúnedain. They do not look kindly upon relations between two men. And this is not like our people, who cluck with disapproval but then wink and turn away. Men have begun to dole out punishment for such behavior.”

“You are clucking with disapproval yourself, but you needn’t worry. Lónando is not a silly boy in love and knows discretion.”

“Very well. As long as he understands the nature of this.”

“He does.”

“You’d do well to keep your hammer in your breeches, my dear friend.”

“And you would do well, my dear friend, to stop pining after another man’s wife.”

My hands clenched into fists immediately. But Thorno’s sharp retort hit home. I was in no position to judge him

“Forgive me, Thorno,” I said. “I suppose we each have our foibles.”

“Indeed we do. I am sorry, too. Let’s take advantage of that hot water. I expect that will wash away our irritability.”

After bathing and donning a loose cool chiton, I walked out on to the court to watch the sunset before I dined with the soldiers of the outpost. The cry of a raptor echoed off the ridge. I squinted against the sun and saw the silhouette of a peregrine wheeling in the sky. The silver peal of a horn called in the distance and was answered from the tower. A procession of riders wended their way along the base of the hill. The queen had arrived.

Soon the horses of the royal party clopped across the pavers of the court yard. The queen dismounted, giving the reins of her horse to a groom. She spoke with a few of the Dúnedain who had come from the tower to greet her, and then she saw me.

“Istyar! How good to see you!” Her long-legged strides were punctuated by the sure thump of high boots against the stones of the court yard. I bowed slightly and reached out to take her hand only to be pulled into her embrace. I drank in her affection and her scent -- the faint fragrance of roses and the stronger odor of fresh air. She pulled back to arms’ length and looked at me.

“I have missed you, my friend.”

“I am honored, Queen Isilmë. I have missed you, too.”

“I want you to tell me all the news from Imladris. How is my grandson? And my Elerína?”

“Both are well, my lady queen. Valandil is this tall now,” I held my hand to my breastbone. “And Ele...that is to say, Lady Elerína sends her fondest regards.”

The cries of the peregrine interrupted me. I looked up to the tower and saw the falcon land on a buttress.

“Unless I am mistaken that is Fâniel!”

“Yes, it is she. Alagos died two years ago, but Fâniel is still with me. How fare the peregrines at Imladris?”

“They thrive, my lady queen. They are Galfaron’s pride, and Val dotes on them, too. Your grandson has an affinity for birds. He calls to songbirds, and they answer, following him through the trees. I have even seen Valandil persuade a warbler to light on his finger!”

The queen smiled. “The blood of Melian runs in his veins.”

“That must be it,” I said. “Also, Elerína has sent a gift for you.”

“A gift, you say? I look forward to that. But now, I must refresh myself after today’s ride. You and Master Thornangor must dine with me in the king’s quarters tonight. You shall meet the loremaster then.”

I watched Isilmë stride onto the earthen bridge, the Istyanis’ sword at her side and the Dúnedain following in her wake. In spite of more silver hairs lacing the dark and increased depth in her face’s contours, the queen’s majestic confidence had not diminished one bit.

While I prepared for the evening dinner audience with the queen, shrugging a flowing silken robe over my chiton and attending to my hair, I thought of what Elerína had told me before I departed Imladris.

“The loremaster Arindur is formidable,” she had said. “He will challenge you, and you will not gain respect simply because you are Firstborn. When you choose to do so, you can be rather imposing, my friend.” She had smiled then. “You must make an impression and not only with your intellect. The Dúnedain scholars are very formal men. You must show him...”

“...Noldorin ostentation.” I had finished her sentence, for she had heard me use the expression frequently enough. I was rewarded with her throaty laugh. I did not add that Master Arindur would be no match for Tyelperinquar or Aulendil by way of being formidable. Even though I had chafed at the idea initially, thinking it to add an extra burden to travel, I was glad that I had followed Elerína’s advice and had packed formal clothing. I set a golden circlet that replicated beech leaves over my brow and joined Thornangor, similarly attired and looking rather regal in his dark blue silks.

That evening’s meal was late and not altogether pleasant. Only Thornangor, the loremaster and myself were seated at the table with Isilmë at its head.

Although most Men I had encountered rarely probed the depth of my knowledge, assuming that I possessed the extensive lore they attributed to all elves (which was a mistaken assumption), the loremaster had no such reluctance. Arindur, a compact, reed-thin man, his sparse silver hair cropped close to his head, asked many questions. I was barely able to attend to my meal. Isilmë remained silent, allowing the discourse to unfold.

He sat between Thornangor and me, and throughout the meal, he expounded on the palantíri, making it abundantly clear that he considered his knowledge of the devices with which he had more familiarity to be superior to mine. I maintained elvish serenity while I listened carefully to his every word and answered his questions with due consideration, but the prideful and impetuous part of me threatened to boil over. This man could not possibly understand the deep arts as I did or comprehend how I could apply these to any material. Then the loremaster hit upon a delicate subject.

“Our queen says that you and Master Thornangor are of Eregion, that you had lived in Ost-in-Edhil. That was where you learned your craft?”

“Yes.” I gave only a simple -- and guarded -- answer. That was not enough for Arindur.

“Did you study as an apprentice under the great Celebrimbor then?”

“With Celebrimbor, yes, but not under his direct tutelage.”

“Then who, may I ask, were your mentors?”

Thornangor answered first. “The Istyanis Náryen was my teacher.”

“A woman? I have never heard of her.” And that was that. Mélamírë was dismissed from the loremaster’s thought. Thorno frowned, and Isilmë’s mouth tightened. “And you, Istyar Sámaril. If you were not taught by the Fëanorian, then by whom? It is said you are gifted.”

Silence fell in the chamber.

“My teacher was Istyar Aulendil. You know him as Annatar.”

“Annatar!” The loremaster spat out Sauron’s alias. He whipped his head around to face the queen. “And you think it is fitting for this elf to even see the palantír? These are subtle devices! If he harbors any manner of link to the Deceiver...”

Isilmë, who had been hitherto silent, interjected firmly before I could open my mouth. “I have the utmost confidence in Istyar Sámaril. So do the Elven-king and Master Elrond. Need I add that my lord husband does as well?”

Isilmë fixed the loremaster with a steely gaze, but he was not cowed.

“With all due respect, my queen, I am most uneasy about this. We do not know how the Deceiver infected the smiths of Eregion." He turned and pinned me with his dark eyes. "The Firstborn are less than forthcoming about why Sauron overran their country and destroyed their civilization.”

Isilmë responded, cool as the crescent moon framed in the narrow window behind her. “I will remind you, Master Arindur, who makes the decisions here. I will also remind you that there were arts of the Deceiver – practical arts – that were not evil, and some of which you benefited from. That ready supply of fine paper you enjoyed in Númenor came from his instructions to our artisans. I assure you that Istyar Sámaril’s arts are not turned to evil.”

“Very well,” Master Arindur replied, his words clipped. He rose from his chair and faced me. “Come then at dawn to the top of the tower.” He bowed to the queen. “If you will excuse me, my queen, I will take my leave.”

I turned to watch him stalk out of the room and considered that in fact I had applied the deep arts to a dark purpose even if unwittingly. But neither the queen nor the loremaster knew this, and I did not intend to tell them.

The next morning found me walking along the earthen bridge with Thornangor trailing. The sun had not yet risen, but the mists of the East brightened with the coming day. Beneath the wool fabric of my scholar’s robes, my skin was already sticky with sweat from the humidity and from apprehension. Each step took me closer to applying the deep arts to a mysterious device. My fearful uncertainty derived from what might be revealed and possibly unleashed.

We entered the tower and began the long climb up the stone stairs that spiraled around the interior wall of the tower, passing by narrow arched windows. We reached the topmost level and walked through a short corridor that opened out into a large open chamber. The rosy light of dawn streamed through the arches of the arcade that protected the encircling balcony of the tower. The stonework was decorated with the reliefs of a repeated floral motif that I recognized as the device of Idril Celebrindal, the ancestress of the Númenórean nobility, and the same device that graced the blue flag of the queen. This floral circle also decorated the ceramic tiles that edged the expanse of black tiles on the floor. Above, the domed ceiling was painted deep blue with silver stars lodged into the stone. A low black marble table sat in the middle of the space. Set in its center was a smooth round sphere, so large that I would not have been able to wrap my arms around it: the palantír of Amon Sûl.

“Good morning, Istyar Samaril, Master Thornangor.” Arindur, along with another sable-robed man, awaited us near the stone table. He eyed the scholar’s robes that Thornangor and I wore. Our charcoal-grey garments were distinguished by the symbol of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain embroidered over the left breast: the Fëanorian star with a smith’s hammer horizontal above it. The threads of Thorno’s masters emblem were of silver but mine were gold, as befitting the rank of Istyar.

“Will you require anything before you begin? We have refreshments here.” Arindur gestured to a pitcher and plates with bread, fruit and cheese on them.

“I require nothing.” I had left my jittery stomach empty as a precaution. “I will, however, request silence, and I will need to lay my hands on the stone.”

“That is permitted.”

Maintaining outward composure while my nerves jangled beneath the surface, I stepped forward to the black table and examined the seeing stone. An uneven crackling, like snow driven by a fierce wind, raged in its interior. I ran my fingers over a surface so smooth that it felt almost greasy: the material was something more than mere glass. Intense curiosity began to push away trepidation.

First, I attempted the standard means to initiate communication as Arindur had described, a straightforward exercise with its roots in osanwë-kenta. Nothing. The crackling snow remained. This should have been easy, based on the information that Arindur had imparted last night, and my talent for sending forth my thought. Thus affirming that the artefact malfunctioned, I then inhaled and exhaled deeply a few times, triggering the mental state through which I applied the deep arts. Then I placed my trembling hands against the stone and let my mind reach into the materials.

The initial fear I always experienced when engaging the deep arts was replaced by fascination. The crystalline structure was unlike anything I had ever encountered: a multiplicity of elements that alone would have been opaque and ordinary, but linked together yielded complex but regular patterns that became transparent. My mind raced through the stone’s intricate nets; I found its polarity. Nothing was amiss there. The stone was set in perfect alignment with the earth’s pull. I reached deeper into the materials.

I searched through the crystal structure for the elements that allowed the communication among the stones and found them: seven sub-sets of harmonic oscillations had been woven into the crystal network. I had an “Ah, ha!” moment then and marveled at the elegance of the design. Yet I picked up the signs of discord, several notes out of tune. I burrowed deeper into the materials pushing here and there to see if I could bring the oscillations back into frame, but to no avail. The matrix was utterly impervious to my thought. So I went on to the next step, the one that I dreaded yet found so exciting, too. I would call upon the Threads and send my thought back in time, seeking the maker of these devices to see if I could discern his logic behind their construction or even communicate with the artisan who had crafted these.

I closed my eyes and visualized the dome of heaven, thinking of the pulsing threads and their bizarre yet exultant song. With the single palantír acting as a portal, the Threads formed almost immediately. The chorus of Eä enveloped me, and my eyes flew open.

Again, I was flying toward the far green country, the white city glimmering in the distance. Again, I spiraled over Tirion, viewing the tower, the tree and the square, and the diamond-dust of the streets glinting in the wholly alien but beautiful light of Laurelin. I dove over fields of grain and flowered meadows toward the rambling house that hugged the hillside, but this time, I was not knocked out of the sky, but swooped down and through a chimney of the forge. I found myself looking out and around at a smith’s impossibly, wondrously cluttered workshop.

Then across my field of vision from wherever I had landed, a tall man passed by, rubbing his hand back over raven-dark hair tied at the nape of his neck and bound to keep the plait from interfering with his work: a familiar style for an elven-smith. Although I could not hear him, I saw his lips move, muttering to himself, most likely. He walked over to a bench and began opening drawers, searching for something but then he froze in place. He slowly turned and looked right at me, his eyes frightening with their intense fire. My mind quailed. I had found the maker of the palantíri.

He bent over, his face seemingly inches from me. His expression was nothing short of astonished. First he spoke to himself, his face alight with joy, and I could see him mouth the word “Amazing!”

His words formed in my mind:

“Who are you? Where are you?”

I struggled to reply. The shapes of other spheres loomed at the edge of my vision. I surmised that the single palantír had acted as the conduit for the Threads, and that he must be somehow perceiving my image in it. At last, the words coalesced and I answered him.

“I am Sámaril Orondion, my lord. I am from...” but his forceful thought interrupted me.

“Orondo’s son? How can that be? Orondo is only a boy! Not even close to manhood yet. No, really, who are you?”

“I speak the truth. I am Orondo’s son. My father was Lord Arandil’s master stonemason.”

“Master stonemason?” he said, still incredulous. “Ridiculous! Orondo only started as Arandil’s assistant a few...” Then he cut himself short, and I could almost hear the click and snap of the puzzle pieces coming together in his mind. Very deliberately, he questioned me: “I asked from where you are speaking. Are you...” he paused, “...are you in the Outer Lands?”

“Yes, my lord...”

“You may call me Fëanáro.” He rubbed his chin with forge-battered fingers. “So we have established you are communicating from the Outer Lands.  However, only I possess the curwë to craft these devices, and the only ones of their kind are right here in my workshop. There can be none among the Moriquendi who have such skill. Therefore, the stone through which you speak must be the work of my hands. Perhaps the more pertinent question is from when are you speaking?”

“The year 3440 of the Second Age.”

“The Second Age? What manner of reckoning is that?” He squinted, looking past me. “And why is the light behind you so strange?”

“I’m not certain how to explain this, my lord.” I could not bring myself to name him casually like a colleague. “The light is from the sun, and the current reckoning of the ages, well, that began when the exiles...”

“Stop! Tell me no more of these events!” I recoiled at his vehemence and the fire in his eyes, but he was not angry. “My apologies, Sámaril. Your presence here –- and now –- confirms my hypothesis about my devices. Based on the curwë I used, I knew that in theory the stones should be able to span time as well as space. You must understand that events of your past are those of my future. Aulë has warned me of the peril of time paradoxes so you must take care in what you tell me. But I think it may be safe for me to ask you this: why are you trying to reach me? Consider well your answer!”

I stuck only to the facts and explained that the palantíri had become inaccessible to any sort of communication. I began to elaborate on the harmonics that seemed off kilter. Again, he interrupted.

“How would you know about such harmonics? I am the only one who has delved into this field!”

With some effort, I formed a mental image of the slate board in Mélamírë’s office, filled with equations.

Fëanáro’s eyes widened. “Who derived those equations? Was it I? No, do not tell me! Was it...Curvo? Yes, it must be Curvo! No, say nothing.” He waved his hands in negation. “Ai! This is becoming impossible. My curiosity will get the better of me and then who knows how badly entangled the Threads will be if you tell me more?” Then he nodded, his mouth set with determination. “I say we simply get to work. I have seen this phenomenon once before in the stones, and it can be fixed. First, you must adjust the first harmonic with the third space group of the crystal structure thusly...you do understand the concept of space groups?”

“Yes,” I replied. I did not elaborate that his Curvo’s son had instructed us in the mathematical models that described various crystal forms.

“Excellent! Then you should be able to follow my instructions.”

And so he explained step-by-step what I must do. His words engraved themselves in my mind like etching on gold, partly because this was information I needed but also because this was Fëanáro who explained the repair of the palantíri.

“Once you have finished aligning the one stone, the lattices of the others will resolve spontaneously. Just be systematic about adjusting the harmonics with the correct space groups.” Then he smiled – a brilliant, beautiful smile. “I do not think I need to tell you to be systematic, Sámaril. You demonstrate the marks of a keen mind. I will take secret pleasure in knowing that young Orondo will father such an intelligent son, and one who speaks our language properly, too!”

“I am grateful, Lord Fëanáro. I cannot express my thanks enough, and sir, it has been a pleasure speaking with you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m gratified to see my theory confirmed, and also to know that my devices have survived into the future wherever and whenever that is.” He paused again. “I wonder...can you tell me if...No! Damn it, you’d best depart or my curiosity will wreck havoc on the world. Farewell then.”

“Farewell, my lord.” He faded away and I was sucked back into the crystalline world of the palantír, feeling sad. Such brilliance. I knew that his curiosity and creative drive would indeed wreck havoc on the world, but I could hardly tell him that.

I did as Fëanáro instructed, systematically aligning harmonics with the different space groups of the crystal. Then I removed my hands from the sphere and gazed into the crystal, searching for a clear vision.

The driven snow had disappeared, replaced by churning pearlescent mist. As I stared into the globe, a red spark guttered at its center, swelling into molten fire, and then I looked out over a landscape. A frightful landscape.

Black pitted rocks jutted across a wide plain.  Murky clouds hung low over the land, but in the distance, I descried a cone-shaped mountain with smoke wafting from its summit – the source of the murk. Closer to my line of sight was a huge tower, its stonework dark and brutal, that soared above the plain. Boulders and flaming missiles hurtled from that dark tower, catapulted by machines ingeniously integrated into its structure. I followed the swift trajectory of a stone. It landed among a troop of small figures, their mail and armaments dull in the sullen atmosphere.

My sight was drawn to a high balcony of the dark tower where a figure stood. I stared at the tall man clad in black mail with a sable cloak draped over his shoulders. His hairless head was smooth as grey marble, the mottled skin stretched over his skull recalling splotched stone. Then he turned, looking toward me, but not at me, a puzzled look on the familiar yet hideously distorted face, as if he knew someone watched him, but did not know from where.

I could barely breathe. The rudiments of his features were still recognizable, but it was as if the bones of his face had been broken and reset haphazardly. Beneath his brow ridge, now devoid of dark eyebrows, his eyes were just as I had known them: bright as mithril and ringed with black lashes. They burned with his intrinsic fire, but no longer the fires of creativity and curiosity. Instead, the fires of consumption and destruction seethed there. I was sickened by the horrible constrast of those beautiful eyes, now ablaze with the lust for power and control, against the distorted features of that destroyed face.

Then he snapped his head around to look at the plain and the tiny figures far below. A ragged smile broke his rigid face, his expression now terrible and gloating. Then he disappeared within the swirling mists of the palantír.

I staggered, catching myself on the edge of the table. I was aware of footsteps rushing toward me. I was nearly ready to release myself from the palantír when a face appeared in the stone’s depths: a man’s face, salt and pepper-bearded with sad-hound eyes.

“Who are you?” His words formed in my mind.

“Istyar Sámaril of Imladris.”

Relief passed over the old man’s visage. “Then you have repaired the palantíri. We thank you, and it could not have come at a more crucial time. I must speak with Master Arindur at once.”

I broke contact with the stone and sought the loremaster. He stood several feet away.

“The seeing stones should all function now; you must test the others later, but there is one who would wish to speak to you already.”

Arindur stepped forward eagerly while Thornangor took my arm and guided me to a stone bench. There I sat, my entire body shaking; I put my head between my knees to avoid fainting. Thorno kept his hand on my back for assurance. I then saw the hem of Arindur’s heavy black robes brushing the tiled floor before me. I raised my head, still dizzy.

“My thanks, Istyar Sámaril,” said Arindur. “But I fear the first news we have received is grim.” The loremaster’s face was white. “Lord Anárion has been slain.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Space groups are actual mathematical models used to describe crystal structures. I heard about them all the time when I worked with protein crystallographers.

"Harmonic oscillations" is a rough translation from Quenya -- or more likely Valarin -- terminology. In the parlance of our primary world, quantum coupled harmonic oscillations are components of phonons, which are quantized vibrational modes in a rigid crystal lattice and are important in the study of solid state physics. And surely there is beaucoup solid state (and exotic) physics going on with the palantíri!

Chapter 14: Over Grass and Over Stone

Thornangor takes Sámaril hiking in the Weather Hills to help ease his friend's discomfort after the vision in the palantír; while exploring the slopes of Amon Sûl, Sámaril encounters the inexplicable when he steps into a small dell. When returning to Imladris, the two smiths are attacked by a hill-troll.

Read Chapter 14: Over Grass and Over Stone

The queen had aged overnight.

The day after I had repaired the seeing stones, and the terrible news had been revealed, Isilmë and I stood together on the balcony of Amon Sûl. Dark clouds gathering in the West devoured the sun; lightning flashed in the upper reaches of a distant thunderhead. Lines and crevices in the queen's face deepened as the light faded. The wind caught a loose strand of her silver and black hair and twisted it about.

“The eagles of Manwë are upon us,” she said, her voice distant and her gaze focused beyond the approaching storm.

I remained silent, not wishing to intrude on memory. Then she turned to me, her eyes swollen from weeping.

“Forgive me, Istyar. I know it is just a thunderstorm, but I can no longer look at dark clouds in the West without thinking of the Downfallen. Now more than ever...” Her voice faltered as she blinked back tears.

“He and his brother could not have been more different. Isildur was born in moonlight, but Anárion came to me on a day bright with the sun. Anárion’s decisiveness to Isildur’s deliberation. Anárion’s swift justice to Isildur’s measured fairness. Isildur, dark-haired and sea-eyed, and Anárion with that golden hair from the line of Hador. Yes, so different but they loved one another deeply.” She lowered her proud head, her voice barely above a whisper in the wind that sighed upon Amon Sûl. “Gondor has lost her king, but Isildur has lost his brother, and I have lost my son.”

The next day found Thorno and me hiking along the ridge that ran northwards from Amon Sûl. Early that morning, he had looked out the window of our quarters to see that the pall of humidity had been blown away by the previous evening’s storm, leaving the air crisp and clear.

“Come, old man. Enough brooding. You need some fresh air and exercise after that ordeal.”

We followed a trail that hugged the slopes, rising up and down along the side of the ridge. Bare rock rose from the top of the ridges, exposed to the elements by long years of erosion. Larks sang and insects hummed while the sun rose in the sky. The fresh fragrance of rain-washed summer lifted me from dark introspection. Thorno turned off the trail and clambered up the rocks to the top of the ridge. I joined him, and together we surveyed the land around us.

To the South, the hills diminished into a rolling plain broken by clumps of woods. Mists still hung over the lowlands to the West and in the East, the snow-capped peaks of the Hithaeglir cut the horizon behind the nearer foothills, blue-grey from this distance.

The upper reaches of the tower of Amon Sûl were level with us from this height. A flutter of movement at the top of the domed roof caught my eye; the queen’s blue flag inched its way down. In its place, another standard was raised. Silver and white flashed in the light of the morning sun as a new standard unfurled below the king’s banner.

Before I departed Imladris, I had sought Elerína in the chamber that housed Lairiel’s looms and spinning wheels. There my friend had revealed the gift for her mother-by-marriage.

Elerína guided me to a large ashwood frame across which a standard was stretched. Using threads and fabric of silver, grey, dark blue and white, she had appliquéd a ship with a billowing sail to the center of the sable field. Set in the sail was the insignia of a crescent moon cradling the Star of Eärendil. The eight phases of the moon encircled the ship. The beauty of her craft was stunning and I said as much to her.

“Thank you, Istyar. I am honored,” she had said. “I know such praise does not come easily from you.”

“My reputation precedes me, but praise is due, my lady. The execution is superb, and the design, beautiful. It’s unique...just like the woman who will receive this.”

“Yes, just like her. That is why I created it. The queen is a remarkable woman although I don’t think I need to tell you that. The traditional device of the queen’s flag – the heraldry of Idril Celebrindal – is striking, but I wanted to create a standard especially for Isilmë.”

“This fits her. Can you tell me more about the design?”

“I would be happy to.” Elerína leaned over her work and pointed to the ship. “The figures on the sail are the symbols of her house: the star of our forefather and the crescent moon. Isilmë belonged to a family of fishermen. Her father and his fathers before him sailed fleets to harvest the sea. Isilmë was very much involved with her family’s vocation.” She ran her hand round the circle of the moon’s phases. “Isilmë, like me, is devoted to the moon, and so I incorporated Isil’s faces here.”

“Devoted to the moon? What do you mean by that?” I had asked and received an enigmatic half-smile.

“I only mean that the moon is important to my mother-by-marriage and me.”

“Sometimes you are as inscrutable as an elf,” I had said as I helped her detach the flag from the frame.

Thornangor shifted beside me on the crest of the ridge, also watching the new flag catch the wind. “That is an impressive work of craft,” he said and then chuckled. “I wonder what those old fellows of the court will say when the queen returns with that flag flying.”

“I daresay their balls will try to climb back into their bodies.”

Thorno snorted. “Ai! I’m glad to see your sense of humor has returned. I’ve been worried about you, Istyar. Seeing and speaking with Fëanáro through the Threads – well, I can tell you I would have shat myself had that happened to me!” I smiled at his favorite vulgarity that he had acquired from his mentor, but then Thorno’s affable voice shifted to a serious tone. “There’s something else you’re not telling me.”

“You’re right, but I didn’t wish to say anything until I knew we would not be overheard.”

“Then out with it, Sámaril. I know whatever you saw in that thing has been eating at you.”

“It was who I saw.” I took a deep breath. “Sauron. I saw Sauron. And I think he may have been aware of me.”

“Did he speak to you? Touch your mind?”

“No, I do not think so. When I tested the stone, that was the first thing I saw -- the jagged plain and the burning mountain and then him, standing on a balcony of the Barad-dûr. He turned toward me. He may have been trying to discover who looked upon him, but he was distracted by the siege.”

“That would explain why you were so shaky. You truly had me worried there. I didn’t think you’d stop trembling.”

“The whole experience was unnerving, Thorno. The Threads always threaten to suck the life out of me.”

“There were times that I envied you, Master Teretion and the Istyanis your ability to see those things and their passage through time. But the price seems heavy. I am content to be an ordinary smith!”

I put my hand on his shoulder, hard with muscle from his labors.

“Thorno, please. You are anything but ordinary. That you learned so much from the Istyanis and added your own stamp of creativity to your craft is more than evident. You are fortunate, too. She protected you from using your arts to dark ends.”

“She was protected herself. Master Teretion told me what happened when she discovered she was not to work on the...well, you know. He said she was so angry and hurt – that her anger could be heard from behind that door. But the Istyari were adamant.”

Shame pierced me at the recollection. Teretion and I had been so young and full of ourselves. Entrusted to the secretive project, we nonetheless dropped enough hints that Mélamírë astutely guessed what had transpired. Once she deduced that she had been shut out of crafting the Rings, she had confronted the Istyari behind closed doors where a reasoned discussion rapidly deteriorated into a shouting match. The argument ended when Istyar Aulendil slammed his fist on Tyelperinquar’s desk as his final say in the matter, the reverberations carrying into the corridor, followed by the Istyanis storming from the office and slamming its door in answer to his verdict.

I flinched, recalling how I had hurt Mélamírë through my ill-disguised intellectual strutting. It may well have been true that she had been protected because of concern for her well-being, but more likely, Aulendil had not wished to risk certain discovery of his manipulations had she worked closely with him on the project. Instead, he had fostered other connections, including those with two naïve and prideful young men. It was a connection that I feared had led me to him on that balcony of Barad-dûr.

“Yes,” I said, turning away from Thorno and gazing to the southeast where the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil lay and beyond that, Mordor. “She was protected...for a time. Count yourself fortunate, my friend.”

“You do not know if Sauron truly knew it was you. After all, he didn’t make contact with you.”

“That is true, but I fear what Master Arindur said may have hit close to the mark. The bond between mentor and student is not easily severed. Sauron may not have known it was I, but I have no doubt that if he was not aware of the nature of the palantíri before, he most certainly is now. And you know him. He will be ravenous to get his hands on such devices.”

“There is nothing you can do about that,” Thorno said. “Whether it was by you or another, he would have discovered these things.”

“There was something else, Thorno.”

“What’s that?”

“Fëanáro. In certain ways, he reminded me of Aulendil.”

“Should this surprise you? They were both taught and cherished by Aulë at one time. There are bound to be similarties.” Thorno clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Enough of this solemn talk. What is done is done. Let’s be off.”

We made our way back to the path. The day was glorious: clear dry air, cloudless blue sky and the calls of birds singing their praise to summer, all in sharp contrast to the gloom of mourning within the tower.

Thorno returned to our quarters while I continued my hike to the slopes of Amon Sûl itself. I followed no path but meandered across the grass, stopping now and then to admire the tower soaring above me. Thirsty, I recalled that Lónando had mentioned a spring that welled up from the western side of the hill. Taking a few deep breaths, I picked up the scent of water and wet stone. After walking on a bit more, I found the location of the spring in a hollow scooped into the westward slope.

A silver ladle hung from a chain by the spring, which bubbled out from a fountainhead and onto stones laid around it. I took long drinks of cool water, assuaging my thirst, and splashed some water over the back of my neck and forehead to cool off. Stretching, I looked down into the hollow and at its low end, saw a small dell lined with luxuriant green grass and flowers. I set off downhill and came to the edge of the little dell. Blue cornflowers – the flowers of Idril -- covered its banks. I thought to pick some and weave them into a wreath for Isilmë. I stepped over the lip of the dell into bone-chilling fear.

Like that night in the glade, terror blinded me. I struggled to free my mind from the inexplicable horror that came out of nowhere. I sought the warmth of summer, bringing myself back to reality and driving the chill fear away. When my sight returned, I found myself on my hands and knees in the springy grass, the larks still singing and the sun shining bright. The blue cornflowers waved in the breeze, peaceful and benign. Perplexed, I rose, brushing off dirt and grass, and searched for what had caused this, but to no avail. I could find no dark presence.

The sensation had not been as powerful as that when I had swooned in the glade, but it was the same. Most curious, I seemed to be seeing it from another’s eyes. Have the residues of the Threads caused this? I wondered. Shoving the experience into the drawers of memory for later contemplation, I attended to my goal and sliced the stems of cornflowers with my knife, sending my arts through the blade and into the plants’ tissues so they would remain fresh and unwilted.

Thornangor and I departed the day after Isilmë and her entourage had left to return to Annúminas. My farewell to her had been sorrowful. Her bright eyes were dimmed, and the hair at her temples was now completely white. I placed the crown of cornflowers over her brow and ignoring protocol, I embraced the queen –- my friend -- in front of the Dúnedain. She had buried her face in my shoulder for a moment, but pulled back, and smiled wanly.

“Do not forget, Istyar. I may yet summon you to Annúminas to repair my finery. Take care of my grandson and his mother.”

“I will not forget, my lady queen, and I will.”

I had climbed to the top of the tower then and watched her ride away. She sat tall and straight on her horse despite her grief, the crown of flowers blue as the summer sky. The peregrine flew high above her, calling out its farewell to Amon Sûl. Isilmë’s new standard of the silver ship and eight moons, borne by the knight riding ahead of her, waved in the morning breeze. Once again, I found myself worrying that this might be the last time that I saw my aging mortal friend alive.

Thorno and I set up camp near the woodland pond again. It had been a pleasant spot and the small meadow nearby had provided good forage for the horses. We decided to spend a couple of days there to let our mounts rest. The Dúnedain had sent swift riders ahead to bring the sad news to Imladris so there was no need for us to make haste.

With the horses settled for the evening, Thorno and I set out hunting. Night did not preclude us from stalking deer as it had when we traveled with the Dúnedain whose vision, although adequate, was not remotely as keen as ours in the dark. Hunting under the stars was pure pleasure for us, stirring something ancient and feral in our blood.

Thorno had driven an arrow through a yearling deer’s eye socket, and felled it instantly. After murmuring a prayer thanks to Oromë for the kill and to honor the animal for giving its life, he hoisted the doe over his shoulders. We made our way back to the camp, singing an ancient hymn to the Great Hunter. Owls hooted and a nightingale called off in the pines, mingling with our song.

We neared our camp when the hoots, trilling and chirping ceased abruptly. Thorno and I stopped singing in mid-verse and froze, listening. The soft night hung utterly silent. Not even the leaves stirred. Then the scream of a horse pierced the night air. Thornangor dropped the deer, and we sprinted to the camp.

The unmistakable stench of troll smacked my nostrils. I heard Tuilin’s fearful cry receding in the distance, but nothing from Thorno’s horse. Making signs to one another, we crept forward in silence, concealed in the black shadows of pine and oak that ringed the small meadow.

There in the starlight the hulking form of a troll bent over Thorno’s mare. It carried a huge club in its grotesquely long arms and brought it down again and again on the skull of the horse, the dead animal’s body convulsing with each blow.

Thorno had a bow and arrows, the more effective weapon against trolls from a distance. Yet if the troll exposed its neck, I might throw my knife into the soft tissues under its jaw and bring it down. We separated so that we could attack the creature from two angles. My blood ran cold as I watched the monster.

It had been many years since I had confronted a troll. Not long after the refugees of Ost-in-Edhil had fled to Imladris, Laurefin and Galfaron had led us into the northern reaches of the Trollshaws to hunt these creatures. "Instructive exercises" Laurefin had called these forays. Vivid memories of the strategies employed to take these beasts down now flooded my thoughts. My heart beat faster, my muscles tensed, ready for action; my senses became hyper-alert, but my mind turned toward cool, calm calculation, processing every nuance of the beast and the scene.

Thorno let an arrow fly, his bow singing in the night air, but the troll moved, and the arrow missed the mark of the great veins in the neck and lodged above its collarbone. The troll howled, its eyes flaring red. It charged at Thorno.

The bulk of these creatures belied their speed and agility. Thorno leapt away from the troll as it swung its club at him. I surged forward and sliced the creature’s thigh with my sword, piercing the hairy hide and exposing muscle and a glimmer of the femur. I ducked to avoid the massive arm that swiped at me. Another of Thorno’s arrows thudded into the troll’s side. The troll charged toward him, its long arms reaching to snare my companion. Thorno leapt to avoid its grasp, but when he landed, his foot slipped, causing a moment’s hesitation. The troll’s club caught him in his mid-section and flung him into the grass. Thorno lay stunned while the troll bore down upon him, club raised to strike the fatal blow.

Jagged, glittering words erupted from my mouth. The troll froze in place like a stone statue. Putting all my strength behind my sword, I sliced the creature’s neck open, nearly decapitating it and jumped back to avoid the beast’s fall and the cataract of blood that gushed from it.

The troll crashed to the ground, its life bled out within moments. It twitched a few times and then lay still. Satisfied that it was dead, I went to Thorno’s side. He had already struggled to his feet, clutching his left side.

“No! Here, lie down.”

“Stop it, Istyar! I am…Ai!” He gripped his side again. “I think my rib is cracked.”

“And that is why I want you to lie down! You caught that club hard.”

“It looked worse that it was.” Nonetheless, Thorno acquiesced, wincing when I probed around his injury, but I found nothing out of place; the break was no more than a thin fracture. He remained relaxed while I prodded his abdomen, relieved when I found no signs of internal bleeding. I helped him to his feet.

“Laurefin would have my hide for such clumsiness,” he said. “Those words you spoke though...they were nearly as painful to hear as the pain in my side. Were they...”

“Yes,” I interrupted him. “They were.”

“That was quite a trick. Would have been more useful if you had used them earlier.”

“I’m sorry, Thorno. They just came to me when I saw that thing coming after you. I have buried so much of that tongue...”

“Please! You know me. I’m making light of this,” Thorno said, gasping a little. “I am grateful that you remembered them.”

I had reflexively spoken the Valarin words of command, which I had heard once before. Those words had saved my life when I was in the mountains collecting specimens and minerals with Istyar Aulendil. I had been so engrossed when examining the remnants of an ancient animal embedded in a stone that I had nearly stepped off a precipice. Aulendil had called out those very words, grating but powerful, to freeze my muscles. He had been at my side in an instant, releasing the paralysis to guide me away from the cliff’s edge. He had chastised me as only he could for my lack of attention, and in the next instant, asked me how the remains of a sea creature might have come to be on a mountain range. His words must have been engrained deep in my memory and thus burst forth in my utmost need to save my friend.

“I’m surprised this troll wandered so far from the northern fells,” I said, changing the subject. I walked over to the creature where it lay in the trampled grass. “I want to examine it now, before the sun rises.”

The stench nearly overpowered me, but I scrutinized the beast at close range. Sightless round eyes glistened beneath massive brow ridges. Its mouth gaped, revealing huge molars and long ivory canines. Blood, black in the starlight, trickled from its flat nose and across its protruding lower face. With some effort, I rolled the creature from its side over onto its back. For the most part, its hide was bare and scaly, but patches of coarse dark hair covered its shoulders and back. A crude leather skirt was wrapped around its loins, and ribs arched beneath taut skin; this thing had been starving. Then I saw its swollen black teats. A nursing female.

Thorno stood alongside me. “It has a young one,” he said.

“Yes. Likely hidden nearby, too. But you need to rest before we seek it out.”

I called to Tuilin, who had fled the scene, seeking safety but trained to remain in my vicinity. I heard his answering whicker in the distance and the pounding of hooves as he returned. Thorno and I slowly walked back to the campsite where I piled more logs on the fire, which roared into a bright blaze. Thorno lay down on his bedroll, grunting from pain. I helped him remove his shirt and set to shredding my silken robe into strips to bind his rib cage.

“No, it’s best if I can be alert if need be,” he said, declining my offer to prepare a tincture of willow bark and humella for him. I sat cross-legged near the roaring fire, Thorno’s head in my lap. To ease his pain, I stroked his forehead and crooned a simple song to lull him into half-sleep while we awaited the dawn.

The day came swiftly, already sultry and humid before the sun rose above the trees. Thorno flinched when he rose and gulped tepid water from his tin camp cup

“The pain’s still there, but it’s not as bad,” he said, gingerly patting his left side. “I’m good to go.”

We returned to the meadow where I piled dry grass, twigs and logs over the carcass of Thorno’s mare, and set the pyre to flame. Then we examined the troll again.

Upon exposure to the sun’s light, the body of the troll had petrified to a mottled rock-like substance, a phenomenon peculiar to these creatures bred long ago by Morgoth. Thorno poked at the rigid form with his foot.

“I wonder what causes this?” he said. “The Istyanis believed that the Great Enemy bred the trolls from ancient creatures related to Men, but the petrifaction is so unusual. Why would living flesh become lithic when exposed to sunlight?”

“An unintended result of the breeding process maybe. It’s a mystery to me, too,” I said. I kept my other thoughts to myself – that Sauron likely viewed the sunlight-induced petrifaction as wildly inefficient and no doubt was working to eliminate it from the race of trolls.

We backtracked the trail of the troll by broken twigs and the lingering foul odor it left in its path. Lónando had noted the absence of trolls due to the war in the south; Sauron had called upon as many minions and slaves as possible, thus depleting the northlands of such dark creatures. However, the presence of the starving female suggested that a few had remained behind.

The trail led to an overhang of rock tucked away in the hills a few miles from our campsite. The odor became stronger as we approached the shallow cave. I unsheathed my sword and went ahead. There in the shadows cowered a troll-spawn about the size of a small wolf. The young male was covered with downy brown hair; he bared his canines and screamed. Then he yammered -- unintelligible, uncouth nonsense but intercalated with what sounded like words: “Ma! Ma!”

“Oh, Varda!” swore Thorno. “It’s calling for its mother.”

“She will not come.” I re-sheathed my sword and pulled out my long knife, its edge keen.

“Sámaril!” Thorno put his hand on my arm before I advanced into the cave where the creature pressed itself against the rock wall. “He’s just a baby! Look at his face.”

Limpid brown eyes beneath heavy brow ridges blinked in the dim light. The spawn's protruding lower face was far more delicate than that of its parent. For all its strangeness, the face called to mind the image of a human infant. I remembered the pictures of the apes in Mélamírë’s cherished book. I squelched the welling instinct of sentiment.

“What would you have me do, Thorno? Leave it to starve? This will be a mercy.”

I entered the shadows, crooning to the young troll. Its eyes darted, but then it visibly relaxed and its breathing slowed. It allowed me to approach and even reached out with a long hairy arm, its palm open in supplication. In an instant, I had grabbed the hair on its head, yanked it back and had opened its throat with my knife. The body crumpled to the nest of leaves and pine needles, now darkening with blood.

Leaving the carnage behind, I returned to dappled sunlight. The red blood on my knife turned black and crumbled off the blade. Thorno’s face tightened with judgment.

“Sometimes you are very hard, Istyar.” He turned away, his right hand pressing against his side, and trudged down the slope among the firs, not looking back.

---

Chapter End Notes

humella (also given as fumella): poppy. JRRT wrote about the poppies of Irmo; I think one can safely assume these are poppies containing opium.

Chapter 15: A Midsummer Night's Converse

The smiths arrive in Imladris on Midsummer Eve. While Thornangor celebrates, Sámaril, tired from his journey, spends the evening in quiet conversation with Elerína. She tells him of her frightening but puzzling encounter with Sauron in Armenelos.

Heads up for a bit of mythological cross-over with The Ramayana.

Read Chapter 15: A Midsummer Night's Converse

After I dispatched the troll spawn, Thornangor and I resumed our journey to Imladris. Thorno grumbled but agreed to ride Tuilin while I walked. We had made our way to the Dúnedain’s hill fort overlooking the bridge. There we informed the Men of the trolls and bid them to stay wary should any others make their way south. We remained there for two more days to allow Thorno’s rib to knit.

Along with others of the Dúnedain, I had kept the night watch. One morning, when the eastern horizon brightened, a silken voice sang the hymn of dawn. Thorno ambled up the steps to the top of the wall, still singing and stretching his arms and shoulders to greet the new day. My mortal companion on the watch straightened up from leaning on the outer wall and rubbed his sleepy eyes.

“Greetings, my lords!” Thorno said, his eyes bright and voice clear. “Any sign of trolls or did you just hear owls last night?”

“Only owls,” I said. “I take it you’re feeling better.”

“No pain whatsoever. We should press on so we do not outstay the good Dúnedain’s hospitality.”

“You are welcome to stay as long as you wish, Master Thornangor,” said the Dúnadan guard. “When was it that you were injured by the troll?”

“Three days ago.”

“And you’re in no longer in pain? From a broken rib?”

Thorno nodded and set off along the perimeter wall, resuming his song and looking out over the landscape. The Dúnadan watched Thorno walk away. The man shook his head, a shock of shaggy brown hair falling onto his forehead, and muttered, “Only three days ago...would that we were so blessed.” He pushed his unruly hair back from his brow and trudged down the steps when one of his better-rested fellows arrived to take over the day watch.

The Dúnedain provided Thornangor with a rough-coated but strong horse so we made good time to Imladris, arriving on Midsummer’s Eve, or more accurately, that afternoon. Song greeted us as soon as we arrived in the valley: women in the gardens and orchards lifted their voices in praise of Yavanna while they collected vegetables and fruits for the evening’s feast.

The guards of the valley must have passed along the news of our imminent return, since a few wandered into the court before the house to meet us. We dismounted, the stable hands leading the horses away. Midhloth, her leaf-green eyes shining, held two wreaths of flowers. Thorno and I each bowed so that she could place these over our brows.

Then I looked up to see Elerína walking toward us with Lairiel by her side. Clad in a misty grey gown, her arms bare and adorned with simple gold bracelets, Elerína's was a somber presence amidst the more festive elven-women. Her hair was pulled back tight and plaited, her blue eyes grave. A smile lifted the sorrow from her face and that nearly sent me to my knees. I repeated the words in my mind over and over -- She is my dear friend. I will not jeopardize our friendship -- until I could breathe again.

Following the tradition of homecoming, she carried a goblet filled with sweetened wine. I took it from her and sipped the summer-wine, tasting the grassy flavor of woodruff.

“Welcome home, my lord.” She put her finger to her lips when I started to protest the unnecessary honorific. “Indulge me, Istyar. You deserve that much. I have heard some of what you accomplished at Amon Sûl. We are indebted to you. I would speak to you about it later.” She glanced at Midhloth and the other women who milled around Thorno who, I noted with interest, focused his attention on Lairiel, who stood Noldorin tall above the woodland sylphs.

“Of course, my lady,” I said, returning the goblet to her hands, trying to take care not to let my fingers linger upon hers, but memorizing the fleeting touch that could not be avoided. “Where is the prince?”

“Valandil is with Galfaron and the dogs and falcons. Are you surprised?”

“Oh, very! I expect he’s ready for some fishing, too. That is, if he has stayed on top of his arithmetic.”

“He has. Not a day passed when he did not show me his assignments and ask when you would return.”

“I’ll take him to the river tomorrow. I really must excuse myself, my lady. I’m sure I’m in desperate need of bathing. Will you and your ladies join me for wine on the eastern porch after the feast tonight? We can talk then.”

She nodded and then went to Thornangor to offer him the summer-wine.

Even during that time of war, death and uncertainty, Imladris’ Midsummer’s Eve celebration was lively. After the feast, replete with fruits, vegetables, grilled venison and smoked trout with side dishes of song and verse, I made my way to the kitchen to fetch carafes of white wine and glasses. There I encountered Midhloth who caught my hand.

“Will you join me tonight?” she asked. I knew that she meant more than just the dance around the solstice bonfire.

“I must decline for this evening. The Lady Elerína has asked that I speak with her about Amon Sûl. And I am tired from my journey. Another time.” I kissed her lightly on her smooth cheek.

Midhloth frowned, but her displeasure evaporated when Thornangor came through the door.

“Well, I am not tired, Mistress Midhloth! I’ll dance with you,” he said. With a dramatic sweep of my arm, I bowed to Thornangor.

“It is my loss. Enjoy yourselves.”

Astaron, in a hurry to join the festivities in the woods, nonetheless found two carafes for me, filling them with wine chilled by blocks of last winter’s ice extracted from beneath the icehouse’s mounds of sawdust. Limnen carried the wine and glasses on a tray while I hefted two copper buckets of crushed ice.

On the side porch that overlooked the valley, I found Elerína along with her ladies, Irimë and Vórwen, who had remained in Imladris after Isilmë had returned to Annúminas. Limnen, after pouring the wine, left to join the many who made their way to the bonfire. Irimë and Vórwen sat off to the side by a lantern in evening’s fading light, playing yunque témar, while Elerína and I pulled up chairs to a table at the other end of the porch closer to the gardens where the scent of lilies drifted in the night air. The sounds of pipes, drums and singing interspersed with laughter could be heard from deep in the valley where most of the household gathered.

“Please forgive me for taking you from the festivities, Istyar.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. Frankly, I’m tired. I do not mind a quiet evening of conversation.”

“Word has it that you killed a troll. That was not an expected outcome of your journey.”

“No. Not a welcome one, that is for certain. It has been many years since I had to do that. Fortunately, I remembered what Lord Glorfindel taught us. Also –- fortunately -- it was only a starving female, not a full-grown male.”

“You shouldn’t dismiss your deed. The Dúnedain hunt them with a minimum of five men. It was only you and Master Thornangor. Only you, actually, from what he told me earlier today.”

“He exaggerates as usual. Killing is not an accomplishment worthy of pride. I did it to save my friend.”

“I know that, Sámaril. Still, it was no small feat.” She took a long drink of the wine and then listened to the revelry.

“They are so merry,” she said. “I wish I could be.”

It struck me that my people’s gaiety might be an affront to her and the Dúnedain of Imladris in the face of Lord Anárion’s death. There was no pall of mourning in Imladris even if some of its residents had known loss.

“I offer you my condolences,” I said. I, too, listened to the sounds of the solstice celebration. “The Elves look upon these things differently. They do not mean to seem callous. In our hearts, we honor our mortal brethren’s sacrifices on behalf of the Firstborn, especially those of my people. The Noldor and the Men of the West have ancient ties.”

“Thank you,” she said, after sipping the wine again. “I’m aware of those differences and understand that the affairs of Men are usually of little concern to your people.”

I bridled at her remark. “They concern Gil-galad the King and Elrond. They concern me. I am here with you, aren’t I? Not off singing that ‘tra-la-la-lally’ nonsense.”

Elerína's laugh dispelled my defensiveness. “I cannot imagine you singing that! Please, I take no offense at their celebration. Life goes on, does it not? Even for those of us not in the fray.” She reached across the table and patted my hand. “I am glad you are here. Now please tell me of Isilmë. Her letter to me was so measured and full of courage, but I know her too well for her to fool me. The news of Anárion’s death must have struck her hard.”

I told Elerína of Isilmë, her sorrowful words to me at the heights of the tower as we had watched the approaching storm, and her departure. Elerina’s eyes misted with tears in the lamplight.

“Yes, she is right. My brother-by-marriage was so different from my husband, but they loved each other so much. Would that I could say the same about his wife. Lindissë’s and my differences do not complement the other but clash.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“When one marries into such a family as Lord Amandil’s, one cannot choose the other members. That holds true for any family, I suppose, whether king or crofter."

“Whether elven or mortal, too," I said. "My father-by-marriage never really warmed to me. He did at least stop calling me a ‘pompous ass’ within earshot after I wed Nierellë.”

A thin smile flitted across Elerina’s face. “Just as Lindissë never warmed to me,” she said. “I came from the country, from the mid-lands of Numenor where I grew up on the estate of my grandparents. Lindissë was born to an aristocratic family of Armenelos.” She paused, rubbing her forefinger around the rim of the glass, making the crystal sing for a moment. “She has always considered me quite the rustic and disapproved of my friendships with commoners.”

“The city mouse and the country mouse then.” I said, recalling a child’s tale that Valandil had loved when he was younger.

“Something like that,” she said. “But unlike those mice, we have never come to a reconciliation. More than just our different approaches to protocol and appearances disturb my sister-by-marriage. She has been blessed with four wonderful children, just as I have. She has three lovely daughters and Meneldil, her son, is her youngest. But that is not suitable for her ambition. I have given birth to the heirs of the High King. She envies me my sons.”

“They are all fine men, my lady.”

“I have no disagreement with that, but she should be proud of her children, too. Meneldil now inherits the regency of Gondor. What more does she want?” Elerína paused, again listening to the distant song and laughter. She glanced over at Irimë. “I adore my sons’ wives and my granddaughters, but if only Lindissë knew how I envy her.” She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “I wish I had a daughter of my own.”

“There is still hope for that. Perhaps when the war ends, you will be blessed with another child – a girl.”

Elerína let out a derisive snort, loud enough that her ladies looked up at us from the far side of the porch. Vórwen touched Irimë’s pale hand, reminding the younger woman of their discretionary roles. They turned their attention back to their game.

“Aside from the fact that I am approaching the end of my childbearing years, I would need to have Isildur in my presence long enough to get me with child.”

Warmth threatened to blossom in my face, but I stifled that indelicate response to the allusion of Isildur with her and that he often left her bed cold. I re-filled her glass and mine full of chilled wine, returning the carafe to the bucket of ice.

“Elerína, you are a lovely woman and still young. Lord Isildur will not be able to resist your persuasion.”

“You are sweet-tongued this evening, Istyar! It must be the wine. Thank you for your compliments, but I think you sometimes forget the nature of mortality. I am not young. I am a grandmother!”

I nearly blurted out a vehement protest that my compliments did not come from the wine, but thought better of it. She was right. I had disregarded the curious aging process of the Númenórean nobility with their admixture of elven and fay blood. Elerína looked to be in a woman in her prime – neither girlish nor aged – other than a few strands of silver hair lacing the dark at her temples, a feature that I found exotic.

I raised my glass to her. “Then here’s to all beautiful women: the young, the old and the ancient.”

She grinned. “Ancient? You are a wicked elf, sir, but this old mortal woman will accept your toast.”

After our salutatory drink, we sat in silence for a while. Song and laughter floated down the valley accompanied by Irimë and Vórawen’s murmured conversation and soft clicking of their game pieces, the churring of a nightjar, and the hoot of an owl in the deep woods.

“I was so worried about you that night in the glade when you swooned and fell to the ground," she said. "Master Thornangor said me that you were also shaken by your experience with the palantír.”

“And what exactly did he tell you?” Thorno’s well-intentioned solicitousness behind my back irritated me

“Very little. Don’t be angry with your friend. He is concerned about you. He confided this because he thought I might be able to offer support even if only from listening. There were times when gazing into the palantír sapped every bit of strength from Isildur. It always aided him to talk to me about it.”

I considered what to tell her. Revelation of my conversation with Fëanáro seemed unwise and too immersed in the deep arts to make much sense to her in any case. So I told her of my vision of Sauron. That had disturbed me deeply. Perhaps talking to her about it would ameliorate the vivid memory.

She listened intently when I confessed my worry of my connection to him.

“Of course there is a connection, Samaril.” She finished the wine and held out her glass to be filled again and after taking a sip, continued.

“Our teachers engrave themselves in our memories. I will never forget Mistress Zadanî’s corrections when she passed judgment on my spinning and weaving. It’s as if she still stands behind me at the loom, ready to find fault. And Master Lôminal, my tutor: he was a gentle man, but if I fell short in my studies -- a mispronounced word here, a miscalculation there -- he managed to make me feel guilty, as if I had personally disappointed him. You would think I’d remember more of their praise, for they did give that to me, too. I cannot imagine that being Annatar’s student is an experience one can easily forget.”

“You make good points, and I agree with you,” I said. “But Annatar’s instruction went well beyond what you experienced with your teachers. They did not enter your mind and entwine themselves within.”

“I think I may have an understanding of that. Not like yours, but some understanding.”

“How so?” I asked.

“He once spoke to me...touched me,” she said, her voice subdued. “His presence is unforgettable, Istyar. You should know that better than I.”

“Well, that happened to me many times, but you say he spoke to you. Please tell me -- if you’re willing, that is.”

“Isilmë told you of the horse sacrifice?” she asked. I nodded in response. “This happened on the same day.” And she proceeded to capture my complete attention with her tale.

“We had been escorted by the King’s soldiers to Armenelos for the day of Erukyermë. Sauron led the procession along the street to the altar. His acolytes waved flowered branches and swung censers burning with perfumed wood; musicians followed and singers lifted their voice in hymns to Melkor who would deliver us all from death.

“Sauron’s very presence commanded attention. He was tall yet not as much as King Elendil. But his bearing was so regal that his stature seemed greater than any Man of Númenor.

“His appearance was striking. You have told me that he had crafted his form to resemble a man of your people and that was the same we knew: a strong and graceful body, dark lustrous hair and the handsome face of the Eldar. But those eyes...so beautiful but with such terrible burning in them.” She shuddered.

“I stood by Isilmë, willing myself neither to tremble nor to be taken in by his beauty. But then, when he approached where we stood on the side of the street, he stopped, and the whole procession came to a halt. He came over to stand right in front of me, looking down as if he stood on a mountain, and I were a mouse. His gaze fell to the brooch I wore.

“ ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked of me.

“I told him that it was a gift from Lord Amandil upon my marriage to Isildur and that he had brought it from a far land. He then asked me which land that was. I told him that Lord Amandil had brought it from Sakal an-Khâr.

“ ‘How did he come by it there?’ he then asked.

“I told him that I did not know. I shut the gates of my mind, hard and fast against him when I felt his tentacles probing my thought.

“He then addressed Isilmë. ‘Surely you, my lady,’ he said, ‘must know whence and from whom Lord Amandil obtained this.’

“Isilmë told him that she knew only that it came from a native of that land. It was a gift in turn to Lord Amandil. The man did not even give Lord Amandil his name. Just the brooch and other goods and then he returned to the forest.

“Sauron studied my brooch with such intensity.  Then, only for a moment, the fire in his eyes diminished, and I saw sorrow in them. He reached out and touched the brooch and then my cheek with such tenderness, his stare focused elsewhere. His touch was electrifying. But then pride returned to his countenance; he set his jaw and went on his way. It was then I started shaking.

“Two months later, I wished to wear the brooch for a feast, but I could not find it. Perhaps I misplaced it, I thought, but I had always put it in an accustomed spot in my jewelry chest. Then I felt a rush of fear, and I knew it had been stolen. There was no evidence of anyone breaking in. It was as if a ghost had come in and out of our very home.”

I digested her story. Sauron did not take such keen interest in trivial things. I had no doubt that he had sent someone under his sway to steal the jewel.

“That is a remarkable tale, my lady. But why would he be so interested in a brooch? Was there anything in particular special about it? Other than the fact it came from a distant land?”

“It was special to me. Lord Amandil was a great man, and I was honored that he would give me such a gift. The brooch was that of a peacock, birds from the East. Some lived in the King’s gardens.”

“Peafowl, yes, I have heard of them,” I said. “Please go on.”

“The peacock brooch was fashioned of gold with tiny precious gems set in its tail: rubies, emeralds, sapphires and diamonds. Its workmanship surpassed even the skill of the jewel-smiths of Númenor. In fact, I had not seen anything equivalent until I saw the relics of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain here in Imladris and in Gil-galad’s kingdom.

“Lord Amandil had sailed to the shores of that far country three times before, but on this voyage, Elendil accompanied him. The men of Umbar call the land Sakal an-Khâr but its own people name it Bharat. Lord Amandil was fascinated by Bharat and had found a few men of the East who could serve as interpreters of the languages there.

“These men told him of a hidden kingdom full of wonders and riches. They said that two devatas ruled that kingdom – a king and queen they named Rama and Sita. Men and a race they called the yakshas – the spirits of the forest -- dwelled together there under the protection of the devas. But, they warned, death guarded the hidden kingdom.

“It sounds much like the old tales of Doriath,” I said.

“Yes, like that," she said. "Except that there might be more mingling of Men with those named yakshas as you will see. Amandil and Elendil guessed that the devatas – Lord Rama and his queen, Sita -- were fays like Ossë and Uinen, but like Melian and Annatar, they had taken human form.

“The temptation to seek the fabled kingdom became too strong to resist. Lord Amandil was always keen on adventure. He sought the riches of Bharat but also wished gain knowledge and to forge an alliance with this powerful king and his queen.

“On the night before they intended to set off into the jungles in search of Rama’s kingdom, a man came to them. A prince of Men he seemed – richly dressed and noble -- but he was alone. Lord Amandil said he was brown-skinned and black-haired like many of the men of Bharat, but although he was mortal, he was beardless and had the glint of starlight in his eyes: this man had elven ancestry. More amazing was that he spoke to them in the tongue of the High Elves – halting and accented – but he made himself understood.

“He came as a representative of Lord Rama, he told them. He warned them not to seek the kingdom, that they would meet their deaths if they did. However, he said, his lord and lady were not without goodwill to those who opposed Ravana and his servant. At the least, they would bring gifts to Amandil and Elendil. He left them, but returned the next day with others who brought spices, seeds, brilliant silks, rugs, teakwood carvings, medicines, and jewelry. The noble man of Bharat placed the peacock brooch in Amandil’s hand.

“The most skilled artisan of Rama’s kingdom crafted the brooch, he told Amandil. The artist asked that the jewel should be given to a woman of Lord Amandil’s house as a token of friendship. Rama’s messenger told our lord that the peacock was beloved of Saraswati, Bharat’s goddess of knowledge and the arts, whom they believed protected and guided their great artisan.

“Lord Amandil recognized that the craftsmanship was that of the Eldar, and he then knew that the yakshas of whom the Eastern men spoke must be Elves. However, the artist had not put his mark on the brooch. Lord Amandil asked the man of Bharat the name of the jewel-smith and how he had known about the lords of Andúnië.

“The princely man of Bharat said he was forbidden to name the artisan nor impart any other information about him. After the boats were loaded and the gifts and Rama and Sita taken to the ship anchored offshore, the man of Bharat and his servants slipped away into the forest.

“When I married Isildur, Lord Amandil gave this to me. He knew how much I liked to figure with numbers and to read. He said that brooch of the peacock, sacred to the goddess of Bharat, would be a fitting gift for me.

“Why did my brooch catch Sauron’s eye? Of that I have no idea. But I believe he wanted it, and he sent someone to steal it. I never found it.”

Just as the spicy scent of Valandil's sandalwood toys had transported me to a far mystical land, so had Elerína’s enchanting but strange tale. Many rumors, now the stuff of myth, surrounded the fates of those elves who had wandered East and South from Cuiviénen. Were these yakshas one of the Lost Tribes?

Sauron’s interest in Elerina’s jewel, the gift from an exotic land, also intrigued me. A tenuous thread of recollection stirred in my mind, which might attach significance to the brooch. But what was it? I shelved the thought for later examination.

I poured the rest of the wine into our glasses. Our conversation drifted lazily to inconsequential things, resting from sad events and away from the disturbing. At length, Elerína yawned.

“I must excuse myself, Istyar, or I will fall asleep here. Ladies?” Vórwen and Irimë looked up at her call, their faces also tired and a little bleary from the wine. “You may go now. I will be along soon.” They packed up the game and folded it into a little wooden chest.

Elerína rose and walked over to the edge of the porch where she breathed in the fragrance of the lilies that rose from the flower beds below. Then she smiled, looking out into the darkness over the gardens. I followed her gaze to see a couple embracing in the shadows. The figures of a man and woman broke off their kiss, reluctantly it seemed, and then stood apart. The woman left the man who then picked a flower and turned back to the woods. My eyes, keener than Elerína's, watched Lairiel return to the house, and Thornangor disappear into the trees.

“I shouldn’t spy on lovers!” Elerína turned away from the gardens to face me. “But that was so romantic. I wish that my husband were here on a night such as this. And I wish that you could hold your beloved wife in your arms, Istyar. That was not what fate had in store for us, was it?”

“Whether by fate or happenstance, that is not the case," I said. "I wish the same, my lady. I know you miss your husband, and the part of my heart that my wife keeps aches."

Tears welled in her eyes. Then she moved close to me and standing on tiptoe, she kissed me, her lips soft on mine. For fear of losing myself, I kept my hands at my side although I wanted nothing more at that moment than to embrace her. Then a little unsteady from all the wine, she walked toward the open door where she stood for a moment, the light within the house shining through her filmy gown and silhouetting her long legs and the curves of her hips swelling below her waist.

“Good night, Sámaril,” she said, leaving me alone on the porch.

That butterfly’s kiss was sufficient to ignite a hard fire that no amount of elvish self-discipline or supplication to Nienna was going to deflate. For a moment, I considered joining the increasingly wild celebrants at the bonfire, but knew my motivation in seeking out Midhloth was not worthy of her. So I went to my room, shut and locked the door and disrobed. Opening the upper drawer of my cabinet, I found the folded square of red silk that I used for “polishing my sword,” a euphemism that Thorno and I favored. I threw myself naked on my bed and with fierce strokes brought myself to release.

I tossed and turned on the bed for a while, sleep being elusive as my mind sifted through the evening’s conversation, now less distracted by the outcome of that parting kiss. At last, I gave up on the pretense of trying to sleep, rose and washed my hands and face then yanked on a pair of trousers. I sat in the chair by the open window, listening to the faint traces of singing and music still wafting down the valley and the occasional chirp of a bird that awakened as the pre-dawn light seeped into the summer night sky.

Elerína’s tale had stirred a train of thought that nagged at me. I dismissed a possibility again and again, believing it to be wholly unreasonable, wholly unthinkable and no more than misguided wishful thinking.

At last, curiosity drove me to get up and open the chest where I kept my most treasured items. The sharp, clean scent of cedar filled the air when I propped open its lid. I extracted a very old book, preserved using the deep arts applied by its former owner, who had wanted the book to last through the years and not disintegrate to dust. Written on the overleaf was Mélamírë's full name, the childish letters the harbinger of the flowing and elegant script that would later grace documents and artefacts. I turned the yellowed pages with care, past faded paintings of elephants, lions and tigers, past the apes in the lush forest that had fascinated her so, and opened the page to the image of a proud, glorious bird, his tail spread behind him like a fan of jewels.

---

Chapter End Notes

yunque témar: "twelve lines" -- maybe something like backgammon, a very old game?

Lairiel - Noldo, master weaver of Imladris.

Sanskrit:

Bharat - India; "Sakal an-Khâr" comes from a map of some Middle-earth role playing game (map drawn by Sampsa Ilmari Rydman); Sakal an-Khâr is roughly equivalent in location to India of our primary world.)
devatas - guardian spirits, equivalent to the Maiar in the Pandë!verse
yaksha - forest spirit; in my 'verse, the name in Bharat for one of the Eldar.
Ravana - the demon king in the Ramayana -- maybe a manifestation of Morgoth in this crossover?

 

Chapter 16: Letters from Gorgoroth

Sámaril assists Valandil in a matter of craftsmanship and comes to a logical conclusion concerning the peacock brooch. Couriers arrive from Osgiliath, bearing news from the Alliance, and Sámaril learns of the hardships of the siege from Glorfindel's letters.

Thanks to Drummerwench for picking the nits and to Jael for allowing me to borrow Thranduil again.

Read Chapter 16: Letters from Gorgoroth

A curse followed the sharp snap and clatter of wood.

“Morgoth’s balls! It splintered again!”

I jerked my eyes up from my tasks at hand.

“Val! Watch your language! Your mother will have my hide if she hears words like that coming from your mouth.”

My young friend hunched over the workbench, his hands clenched in frustration, and with rough chunks of wood scattered on the floor around him. Nella, who had been curled up nearby, leapt up and circled the stool where her master sat, whining her concern. Val cast a sidelong glance at me, and I berated myself silently. One of the consequences of his time spent in the forges and workshops was hearing salty words. Val was decent enough not to point out my hypocrisy.

“I’m sorry, Istyar,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’ll never finish this on time!”

“You will,” I said. “But you must be patient. Let’s go see Master Calaquar and get more wood from him.”

Valandil rubbed his eyes with thumb and fingers and slid off the stool, giving Nella a pat on her fuzzy grey head for reassurance. With the gangling wolfhound pup in tow, we sought Master Calaquar. The woodwright labored in his workshop, fragrant with the warm scent of cut wood. He bent over what would become the arched back of a chair, carving a vine twining around a branch. He straightened and wiped his brow when we approached.

“Another block, young prince?”

Valandil hung his head. “Yes, Master. Another, please.”

“Come then. Let’s make another selection.” The woodwright led the boy to a storage room while I waited, petting the young wolfhound to keep her from following her master.

Had Valandil consented to work with Calaquar, his project might have proceeded with less difficulty, but I knew the futility in suggesting this, and so did my colleague. Valandil, whose affinity for woodcraft had blossomed at an early age, admired Imladris’ master woodwright, whose arts graced all parts of the House of Elrond, from simple wooden bowls in the kitchen to the carved beams that spanned the ceilings of the halls. However, Valandil’s attachment to me was deep. He might listen to Master Calaquar’s advice, but invariably wished to work in my company, scattering sawdust and wood shavings in my workshop. Once, when I had bemoaned this, Calaquar had looked up from planing a board, drawing me into the ancient depths of his eyes, which still shone faintly with the light of Aman, but faded from the toll of long years and much sorrow.

“Count yourself blessed, Istyar. You may have lost your son, but that boy adores you. Cherish him while you may.”

Chagrinned, I had disregarded Calaquar and his wife’s tragedy: they had lost their son, their daughter-by-marriage and their grandchildren in the fall of Ost-in-Edhil. I never complained about Valandil’s preference for me as his teacher in woodworking again, but I made sure he swept the bench and the floor.

Valandil emerged from the storeroom, another block of wood in hand. The boy had chosen a difficult material for his project: curly maple, a hard wood that splintered easily. Calaquar groomed and cajoled the trees that yielded this prized wood, sacrificing one from the remote grove now and again, and even then only after much supplication to Yavanna and the tree itself. Before we left, Calaquar put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked him square in the face.

“You must pay attention to the Istyar’s instructions. This is not a common wood, you know.” Although Calaquar had always been generous with his materials, impatience crept into his oaken-steady voice.

Valandil lowered his eyes and nodded. “Yes, Master Calaquar. Thank you for the wood.”

I knew that if Val was not successful this time – his third attempt -- he would not receive another piece of maple and would have to resort to more common oak or beech. We returned to my workshop where he placed the wood on the bench amidst splinters and sawdust. He settled himself on the stool, and Nella found her spot on the floor nearby where she curled up but kept a close eye on her master. I stood next to my young friend, placing my hand on his shoulder to ease his obvious tension.

“Look carefully at the grain of the wood, Val. The craftsmen of my people study their materials thoroughly before they set to work. By observing every detail, Master Calaquar knows how the grain lies in the wood and coaxes it to split smoothly.”

I ran my fingers of my left hand over the maple. “See how the grain curves here?” Val nodded. “Focus on that. Just breathe deeply, look for the clues on the outside of the block and try to imagine what it looks like inside. Open your mind to the wood. Like a dream.”

Val inhaled deeply and exhaled several times, breathing away the tension in his shoulders. He placed his hands on either side of the maple block, and I covered them with mine, seeking to steady his nerves. Val became still, eyes closed and now barely breathing. With practiced reflex, I sent my thought into the material, swirling and twisting past the fibers of the wood that became columns of fantastical shapes in mimicry of trees. My mind danced through the matrix of the wood, finding no knots that might hinder my young friend. I removed my hands from his.

Val twisted around to face me, determination set in his chin, an expression so like his mother. “I think I am ready to try to split the wood again.”

“Very well. I’ll leave you to it. I expect that you will be better able to speak to the wood if I am not standing by your shoulder.”

I returned to my stool, but before I sat, I heard the gentle tapping of his hammer on the sharp chisel, and soon a crack followed by a triumphant cry.

“It worked, Istyar! It worked!”

“Very good, Val! See, knowing your materials gave you success.”

“I’m going to try again.” Val placed his hands over the wood and closed his eyes, deep in thought. He then set his chisel to the wood and proceeded to separate another piece, smooth and with crisp angles, from the block.

Pleased with his progress, I returned to my own craft. An aviary of jewels flew across my workbench. Elerína’s story of the peacock brooch had settled in my mind, not to be dislodged until a brood of ideas hatched and transformed into these small objects of beauty.

After my midsummer night conversation with Elerína, I had not replaced Mélamírë’s precious book immediately in my storage chest. Instead I pored over drawings, paintings and text while I contemplated the wildly improbable hope that my friend’s strange tale of the peacock brooch had engendered.

The irrational premise that the Istyanis might have been the secretive smith of Bharat continued to haunt me. Sauron’s keen interest in the brooch was the key. Had he recognized Mélamírë’s handiwork? Was that why the jewel had captivated him, so much so that he ordered it stolen, perhaps had even stolen it himself?

However, I knew that this hopeful possibility was more than improbable. It was impossible. If anything, we – her surviving friends and colleagues – had wished a swift death for her and even now prayed that she haunted the Halls of Mandos rather than suffering a shadow life as a tormented thrall. I said nothing of Elerína’s tale to Thornangor, who did not need to have false hope enflamed.

For several days last summer, I had contemplated the painting of that proud bird, his iridescent tail feathers fanned behind him. Small fingerprints still smudged the paper, poignant remnants of Mélamírë’s childhood. She must have loved this painting. However, I accepted the most logical conclusion: Elerína’s brooch represented no more than an artefact crafted by a foreign elven-smith, a skillful artisan of the fabled Lost Tribes. Sauron’s interest in it was likely triggered by a memory that he could release no more readily than I could. Nothing more than a memory. Better to believe that Mélamírë was dead.

In my attempt to transform a sad memory into a happier one, I decided to craft jewels in the shapes of the exotic birds illustrated in the book, jewels that were to be Yule gifts for my friends and their family. Mélamírë had made jewelry inspired by the world around her for the women in her life, whether casual acquaintances, wives of colleagues, her closest friends or her beloved mother. Such gifting was a natural act among my people. Thus I had grafted a familiar elvish tradition upon the Mannish Yule holiday.

The birds from the tropics of the far eastern and southern lands were far more colorful than the birds of the North –- brilliant green, red and blue -- so I resurrected an enameling technique I had not used for many years. I spent my time goldsmithing in the forge and my workshop and working with Master Bruinîr, Cuivendil’s senior associate.

The reminders of Cuivendil were everywhere. Just like me, he had many projects in various stages of progress: glass goblets, vases, and stained glass like the shards of the rainbow. These Bruinîr had left in place in hopes of completing them, he told me, but I suspected they served as a memorial to his dead colleague and mentor. How much worse was it for Lairiel, his widow? I had expected her to forsake Middle-earth after the deaths of her husband and sons, but she did not. Although she had mourned her loss deeply, she had gracefully returned to life again.

That past autumn, I, along with many others of Imladris, had assisted with the apple harvest. The women who performed this task appreciated every spare hand for gathering fruit to be dried or crushed into pulp for cider. I had found Lairiel alone near the edge of the orchard, picking through apples that had fallen to the ground. She smiled in greeting, and I bent to winnow through apples too rotten for use, and those that were salvageable for the presses.

The heady, half-fermented scent of autumn rose from the fallen fruits. Lairiel struck up a sweet song in praise of Yavanna, and the plunk of apples tossed into the baskets took on a rhythmic beat. Her voice, rich and a little husky, trailed away after the last verse.

“Lairiel, you amaze me,” I said, flinging three more apples into the basket.

“Why is that?”

“Your happiness. You lost so much in this war. Most would have sought the Straight Road. And yet you remain and you sing. You laugh. You still have joy.”

She straightened and pushed a wayward strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“I have not ceased mourning the loss of my husband and sons,” she said, her deep blue eyes kind but her voice firm. “If the Judge wills it, I will meet them again on the farthest shore. But here life goes on, and I wish to stay.”

At that moment, Thorno joined us, and the unguarded smile that Lairiel gave him bespoke more than friendship. Something had changed between them, and it made me deeply uncomfortable. I lifted a basket brimming with apples and excused myself. Thorno took over my task and joined Lairiel in an answering song: he sang the part of Aulë and she, that of Yavanna, their voices twining around one another like a climbing rose that embraces a silvered lattice.

I had found Elerína in the brewery where she tossed apples into a cider press. I joined her, but other than a perfunctory greeting, said nothing, and dumped apples from my basket and the others surrounding her into the press.

“Why are you so glum, Istyar?” she asked, wiping her forehead with her hand and smearing pulp across her fair skin. Bits of apple clung to her hair and clothing and a dried leaf stuck to her hair, a disheveled effect I found charming, but which did not dispel my petulance.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something. Your dark mood is practically begging me to ask you of it.”

“It’s Lairiel. It just struck me today. She is so happy.”

“Only today you noticed this? She has found joy in living again, and you know why. Would you begrudge her the right to seek happiness?”

“No, of course she has the right. It’s just that...”

“She is a widow, just as you are a widower. You could have succumbed to grief, but you have not. You must have found at least some joy in living here. If not, then why do you linger in mortal lands?”

I had no answer to that, or at least none that I wished to give her.

“The manner of Lairiel’s happiness troubles me.”

“Please, Sámaril! Spare me such judgment. It is beneath you of all people. Your dear friends have found love with one another. Be happy for them. Now I really must return to my work. The brew master has more tasks than hands at the moment. Perhaps you can make yourself useful in that way instead of trying to cast your cloud over me.” She turned away and bent down to grab a handful of apples, which she tossed into the press.

Annoyed by her lack of sympathy and her dismissal, I left the brewery and returned to the orchard to assist for the remainder of the day, but I did not go back to the brewery. Later that evening in the forge, I had hammered away my frustrations on a blade. I had admitted that I was fishing for answers and sympathy from Elerína. I knew she and Lairiel were close. I could not bring myself to ask Thorno directly, even if I had noticed the change in him,

While my thoughts meandered back in the autumn orchards, I etched one of the jewels -- a brilliant green parrot -- for Lady Vórwen. Thornangor appeared in the workshop, stopping first to make of point of admiring Valandil’s handiwork, and then he came over to my bench.

“They look like they could fly at any moment, old man,” he said. He picked up a bright jewel of a bird that the naturalist had named a beecatcher. “You’ve done a nice job replicating these from the Istyanis’ book. The ladies will love them.”

“I hope so,” I said. “These little fellows have been a pleasure to craft. So what are you about?”

“This.” He lay the blade of a knife down on the bench. Subtle swirls interlaced its grey steel. “I think I’m getting closer with the proportions of carbon and iron, but it’s still not quite right. Might I take a look at the Istyanis’ book again tonight?”

“By all means. Come to my quarters whenever you wish.”

Among the drawings in Mélamírë’s book were sketches of Men of the South and East, some of whom brandished swords with swirling patterns set into the metal. The naturalist had written that the blades crafted from this steel could take an edge so sharp that they could split hairs. We could scarcely believe that mortals could craft such blades, but the tantalizing words and pictures said otherwise. Those drawings and rumors served as our sole guide in our experiments to replicate the mysterious alloy.

I brushed my fingers over the surface of the blade, still warm from the forge. Thornangor had taken a keen interest in my attempts to replicate the legendary steel of the East and had asked if he could collaborate. I happily accepted and in effect had turned over the project to him. A superb experimentalist, Thornangor had a sharp eye for detail and an uncanny ability to connect seemingly disparate pieces of evidence to create something new.

“I’ll stop by right after the evening repast then,” he said, taking the blade, and returning to Valandil, who now sanded the maple. In a kind manner, Thorno offered compliments mixed with advice. Val ceased his work, listening intently to Thorno, who pointed out where the hinges for the little chest Val constructed might be placed.

A commotion in the corridor then caught our attention. Thorno started to walk to the door to investigate, but stopped mid-way when Naurusnir burst into my workshop.

“Couriers!” he cried. “Couriers have arrived from Osgiliath! They bear many letters.”

The three of us set our work aside and joined the rest of the smiths and craftsmen who hurried down the path to the house, eager for news, for it had been a span of some time since letters had arrived. Many of the household already milled around the front steps near the two elves and two Dúnedain who unloaded their packhorses. The beasts were laden with their supplies and oiled leather satchels favored by messengers. In short order, the satchels were arrayed around Gildor on the front porch, where he called out the names of the household after first giving Elerína and her ladies the letters from their men.

“Istyar!” Gildor held up a battered leather pouch. “For you from Lord Glorfindel.”

Stepping away from the throng in front of the house, I opened the flap of the pouch and found its interior brimming with folded parchment. I first extracted a posthumous letter from Côldring, which I tucked back into the pouch for solitary reading later. Also enclosed were several letters for Thornangor from Macilion, his longtime friend who had also apprenticed with Mélamírë. Macilion was now the master smith of Galadriel and Celeborn’s realm and served as the chief smith for Gil-galad’s army. Thornangor took these and retreated back to the forge. The rest, written on parchment of varied quality, whole or in scraps, but all folded with mathematical precision and placed in chronological order, were addressed to me from my lord.

Retreating to a stone bench tucked away in a woodland garden some distance from the house, I unfolded the most recently written letter, dated just two months ago:

Dear Sámaril,

I hope you do not find these many letters overwhelming. Our supply of paper, made from fibers pounded from reeds of the southern lands, is generous. A large cache was liberated from Minas Ithil when Isildur retook the city, and it was distributed to us. I have taken advantage of the windfall. I have been writing to create a journal of sorts if for no other purpose than to occupy my mind and to keep my penmanship precise.

Something is building. I do not know how much longer the siege will last. Not much longer, I am thinking. The air crackles with dire and desperate portent. Therefore, when it was announced a few days ago that couriers would arrive at our camp to carry letters to Osgiliath and on to Annúminas, I thought it prudent to send these to your safekeeping. May you remain safe, the Valar willing.

Yours truly,
Laurefin

Up to this point, I had received just the one letter in which he had described Côldring’s complaint about taking on the task of a cobbler. But here was a torrent of words. It had taken me the entire afternoon to read his many letters, and that was at a burning pace.

One of Laurefin’s earlier letters had been written after the Battle of the Dagorlad:

These past few weeks have been hard ones. By now, you have heard of the battle, and that many of our Silvan brethren perished. That can be called nothing but a rout. Many wives, maidens and children now weep in Eryn Galen. Some have second-guessed Oropher’s decision to lead that ill-fated charge, and this has been the cause of rancor. However, I would expect that you have also heard of Thranduil’s extraordinary feat: disguising himself and his men as orcs, climbing the heights around the Morannon and picking off the key orcs and trolls manning the gates. Had it not been for Thranduil’s strategy and the bravery of his men, we would not have gained the Morannon.

He is shrewd as any Noldo but surpasses us with his ease of adapting to the world. Mark my words: that man is a survivor. Thranduil, I deem, will be a force to be reckoned with for years, perhaps even many an age, to come.

The new King of the Greenwood has a strong will but practices a cocky sort of diplomacy. In this, Erestor, who exercised the worst judgment imaginable, put Thranduil to the task by referring to the dead king as ‘Oropher Turn-tail.’ I must commend Thranduil for not impaling Erestor with his sword on the spot. I was present when Erestor later made contrition and with exceptional humility, particularly for Erestor, explained himself. He received a well-deserved comeuppance from Thranduil. Erestor may be my friend and he indeed offers wisdom to Elrond, but that sharp tongue of his consistently gets him into trouble.

I know by now you have received the news of deaths of Côldring, Cuivendil and his sons. All fought courageously. Côldring perished but his defense of the armory kept it from being captured. May his fëa find peace. Cuivendil, Hallarin and Ránefino were in the front line of the Second Spear and slain before the Morannon. Fortunately, we were able to inter their bodies in a cairn so that the scavengers will not defile them. I have enclosed sketches of them during better times, before the great battle. Please give those of Cuivendil and his sons to Lairiel on my behalf and extend my condolences. May the Judge see fit to reunite them.

I extracted the drawings, rolled and protected in a small wooden tube. Laurefin’s talent had caught them in the mundane tasks of a military camp: here was Côldring sharpening a blade, Cuivendil repairing a bow, Hallarin building a fire, and Ránefino hauling water. He had captured each characteristic expression and their personalities well. My eyes filled with tears, remembering our vanished youth and innocence in Ost-in-Edhil the fallen: Côldring’s first attempts at forging nails under my tutelage and the joy that consumed Cuivendil and Lairiel when their sons were born. I carefully rolled up the sketches, replacing them in the tube and returned to reading.

Many bodies were scattered across the Dagorlad. It was as grisly as anything I witnessed in Beleriand. The sheer number of the bodies and the stench overwhelmed us so we gave up trying to inter the fallen. But over the course of only a week, waters seeped across the plain and covered the decay. Clear water with a brown hue it is, like the bogs of the North where the deep moss and the dragon plants that devour flies grow. The bodies no longer decomposed and in fact reversed their decrepitude. It was a strange event and the cause of much fireside debate: did the waters derive from an evil enchantment of the Enemy or were they a blessing from elsewhere, from Ulmo even, to preserve the dead? I daresay you’d search for a rational explanation.

Laurefin’s longest series of letters had been written during siege. Some were philosophical musings with veiled and complex commentary on the Valar and their servants, others recounted events of his previous life in Gondolin, from the mundane to the grand, and he even wrote of his youth in Tirion in which he described my father and his own with affection. But he also wrote of the long siege and the life of a soldier:

I cannot begin to cite the many hardships of the siege in this terrible land. Waiting is interminable, but then Sauron sends out sorties from the tower to harass us. We are bombarded with volleys of fire, stones or filth from the Barad-dûr. Flinging dung and rotten offal has become a strategy in an attempt to spread disease among the Men.

I had some near misses from the Enemy’s assaults, but I have escaped grievous injury, partly due to training, partly due to dumb reflex and partly due to the strength and resilience of my hauberk and helmet. Thanks to the latter, my ‘remarkable brains’ remain intact. That isn’t to say I have avoided my fair share of cuts and gashes. I have one evil scar, the result of a poisoned scimitar, which will take some time to disappear.

Along with other captains of the Alliance, I am responsible for training the new troops sent in to replace those who have been here for a time. Most of the new troops are young men from Gondor, all eager to make a name for themselves through the heroics of the battlefield. The realities of the siege hit them hard.

The lungs of our mortal brethren cannot cope much longer than several months or so with the foul airs that hang over Gorgoroth so Men must be rotated out to recover. The captains of the Dúnedain and the Firstborn endure as we must. ‘Providing continuity,’ as Elrond puts it. The sound of coughing is ever present even among our people; I have developed a persistent hack that will take months of breathing the clean airs of the North to remedy.

Other than the training, there is little to occupy the mind. I follow the dream paths in rest, walking the green hills of Valinor or alongside the sea on its far shores. Yet the mind must be active; too much time spent on the dream paths softens the brain. So I have taken to scrawling equations with ash on the black rock of Gorgoroth and of course, I write.

Our rations are soldier’s fare: dried meat and dried fruits supplemented with lembas. Serviceable but monotonous. The Dunedain’s food stuffs are identical save for their waybread but it is of a kind to lembas. Supplies are brought from Osgiliath to the camps on Gorgoroth with risk. The supply trains have been attacked, and men have been slain.

Water, as you might expect, is problematic. However, Sauron’s allies and thralls need water, just as we do, so there are deep wells, but only a few. The water stinks, and it is now so contaminated as to be non-potable. Fortunately, the Dúnedain know how to purify water, rendering it safe for them to drink. Macilion has exchanged information with them and together, the Dúnedain and our field smiths have concocted efficient purification systems, a mix of sand, silver filings and charcoal. The Men were surprised that we required clean water, thinking that the Firstborn would be immune to foulness. They have learned that we also can be poisoned and that contaminated water, although lethal for mortals, causes us to grip our guts in agony for a day or so even if it does not kill us.

Although the purification systems are impressive, they do not remove the stink of brimstone. That is everywhere, and we all reek of it, thanks in part to soaking in the hot springs, our only source of water for bathing.

How I long for a real bath! Our mortal kin were taken aback at first when they discovered that Firstborn bodies become rank with sweat and our hair, including my own vaunted locks, becomes filthy and stringy in the absence of washing. Just as it was during the battles of Beleriand, the ancient kinship of the Firstborn and mortal men becomes more evident when we fight against foes together and live side-by-side.

We discover this at the latrine trenches. I thought one Man, a young fellow from near Pelargir, was going fall over into the trench when I positioned myself alongside the others and pulled out my vië to piss. I remarked ‘Yes, all this and I shit, too. But I shit flowers, you understand.’ His face turned bright red and his comrades got a hearty laugh out of his embarrassment, but then he laughed, too. An education of sorts, I suppose. Men have so many misconceptions about us, but to be fair, we have equal misunderstanding of them.

His last letter described Anárion’s death. Smudges of ash and dried blood stained the paper.

Anárion died today. I was not more than twenty feet away when it happened. The volley of stones came flying fast, and Anárion did not move quickly enough. The first stone grazed him but the second that trailed on its heels caught his head full on, smashing in his skull. Fortunately, his neck snapped, too, so he likely felt nothing or so we hope. His body was borne out of this wretched land and taken to Osgiliath where he will be interred with all the elaborate funereal ceremonies the Númenóreans practice.

Beloved son and brother Lord Anárion was, but neither Elendil nor Isildur succumbed to the distraction of grief. If anything, his death has fired their hearts and the rest of the Dúnedain. Our assaults on the supply routes to Barad-dûr have intensified, and none are allowed to retreat to the dark fortress from the sorties.

We believe that the orcs resort to cannibalism now. Among the offal flung from the heights of the tower are orc bones scored with the marks of their fellows’ teeth. These signs tell us Sauron’s Men, now trapped in the Barad-dûr, are in grave danger. I remember what you and the Istyanis told me of Sauron’s need to see to the physical well-being of those who pay homage to him. The dire straits of his loyalists within the tower, I think, fuels Sauron’s desperation. A cornered beast is a very dangerous one.

I saw him on the day when Anárion died. Sauron stood high up on a balcony of the tower, watching the volley. His face is a mockery of what it had been, but his eyes are still the same, Sámaril. As beautiful as they were when he was your teacher but now filled with calculated malice. I do not know if he saw me or not, but I am certain he is aware that I am here. More than once I have felt his mental probing when the iron will that bears down on all then focuses on us one by one.

I cannot fathom how he could have allowed himself to fall so far and how he could have cast so much aside. It is a frightening prospect to contemplate because if it could happen to him, it could happen to any one of us, from the greatest king to the most humble foot soldier. Although many are not afflicted with pride and ambition as immense as Sauron’s, pride that dragged him back to his master’s ways and down into darkness, who among us is without weakness? Who cannot be tempted? I will not claim to be above it.

Such solemn thoughts! I do not wish to leave you in ashes, so I will close by wishing you well. I would offer a prayer to Varda, but I think it is Aulë who watches over you – and who now watches over me for that matter. But by all the Valar’s grace, I hope to be back in Imladris soon so that you and I can ride to the moors and gaze at the stars through my telescope. You are among the few I know who are truly interested in such things. Until then, my friend.

Yours truly,
Laurefin

The sun had dropped behind the cliffs and veiled the valley in shadow when I folded the last letter and with care, replaced it among the rest. I shivered a little, not from the crisp autumn air, but from revulsion at the thought of my former mentor and his heinous actions. The grief and anger of betrayal formed a knot in my throat. I shifted my focus to the sky to crush the pain and saw the first stars of the evening, reinforcing my hope that my lord would return soon, his remarkable brains intact, and driving away the memories of Aulendil.

Preserving Laurëfin’s letters and binding them into a manuscript became another project on my docket as autumn rushed to a close and the winds off the moor carried the chill of winter into the valley. The solstice revelries were soon upon us. Holly, pine and mistletoe once again graced the Hall of Fire. Elerína and her ladies watched the dances in the Hall, but Elerína declined to join us in the reels. So I stood with them, watching the elven-dancers and tapping my foot to the beat of the tabor. However, my mortal friend smiled and winked when Midhloth took my hand and pulled me away to the dance of the holly and the ivy. Midhloth and I then followed the others to the heat of the bonfire, but we did not flee to the woods at its culmination; instead we sank into the warmth of my bed where we remained entangled until dawn.

The next day I took an entirely different kind of pleasure at the sight of the Dúnedain ladies exclaiming over my gifts for them. Elerína had held up the emerald and sapphire sunbird I had crafted for her.

“Thank you, Istyar! You are a marvel,” she said, her smile better than any gift she could have given to me, but then she plucked a small bundle out from the open chest in the ladies’ parlor. “Now I have something for you.”

She handed a muslin-wrapped bundle, decorated with sprigs of holly, to me. I unwrapped it to find a knitted wool scarf of the natural brown and buff colors of Imladris’ flock. I wrapped it around my neck. Although humble garb, its fine craftsmanship was regal.

“For your hikes in the valley, Istyar. For all your claims to the contrary, I know that you get cold.” Those sky-blue eyes twinkled wickedly, and my face warmed in response when I wondered if Midhloth had gossiped about my complaints of lying in the snow.

“A lucky guess, my lady” I countered. “But I shall wear it this afternoon when we take our walk.”

Then Val, with the exaggerated ceremony of a near-youth, bowed deeply and presented his gift to his mother. She unwrapped its silk covering and lavished praise on her son as she ran her fingers over the maple chest with its simple but graceful lines and the intricate pattern of curls in the polished wood.

“It is lovely, Valandil! Thank you!” She opened it to examine the cloth-lined interior. “My sunbird shall nest there when I am not wearing him. I am fortunate to know such fine craftsmen.”

Later that afternoon, Elerína and I, accompanied by Valandil and his cousins, had taken what had become another Yule tradition: a walk to the bridge that spanned the river. The overcast sky spit flurries of snow, but that did not dim Valandil and his cousins’ enthusiasm for hurling snowballs at one another. Elerína laughed at their antics.

“I am glad to see you in such good spirits,” I said. “It’s certainly a contrast from the first time you and I stood together on this bridge.”

“It is,” she replied. “And I still have the same worries and fears that I did then. But I try to focus on what gives me joy in the present: my son, my granddaughters, my friends and even my chores. And the letters from my husband! I cannot tell you how much those warmed my heart. I read them again and again.” She lifted her face to me. “I love Isildur so much, and I want him to return to me.”

“He will return to you,” I said. “You must have confidence in that. Lord Isildur’s love for you will endure, Elerína, even when you are apart and no matter what happens.”

The wind then picked up, twirling the ends of my scarf about; I tucked in the loose ends, the wool’s embrace warm against my skin. Tears welled up in my eyes, but it was only the sting of the cold wind that made them do so.

---

Chapter End Notes

Calaquar - Noldo, master woodwright.

Vórwen - Dúnadaneth, lady-in-waiting to Elerína.

Cuivendil - Noldo, master glassblower.

Lairiel - Noldo, master weaver, Cuivendil's wife.

Bruinîr - Sinda, Cuivendil's associate.

Macilion - Noldo, Mélamírë's former apprentice, now the master smith of Galadriel and Celeborn's realm.

 

 

Chapter 17: The Heralds

Valandil rescues an injured peregrine chick and demonstrates an unexpected talent. An eagle arrives in Imladris with tidings from the siege: victory comes at a heavy price. Later, the herald of Gil-galad returns to his home.

Thanks to the Lizard Council (Claudio, Jael, Moreth & oshun) for critical feedback.

A character list is given in the End Notes; see also the appendix.

Read Chapter 17: The Heralds

Spring whispered in the valley, struggling against the roar of late winter winds to find its voice. Sailing on those winds, the peregrines dove and spiraled around one another in their spectacular courtship flight. Soon after, the falcon and the tercel took turns sitting on their eggs in the scrape nest on a ledge above the forge. The eggs hatched, and chicks’ hungry wails, which became as welcome as the song of a garden warbler, echoed off the cliffs. The tercel soared over the valley, seeking food for his mate to feed their young ones. Valandil, often accompanied by Galfaron, trudged up the path to the forge to look up toward the nest and keep track of the two young birds’ progress.

On a blustery afternoon about three weeks after the chicks had hatched, Val’s cry of alarm pierced the rattle of my office's wind-battered windows. I had been sketching out a design for an improved water bellows since our old one was increasingly in a state of disrepair when I heard his call from outside. For a brief moment, I remembered the little boy trapped on the rocks in the middle of the river, and I was out the door in short order.

Val stood below the nest-ledge, his dark hair whipped wild in the wind. In his hands he held a downy falcon chick, its right wing hanging at an odd angle. The mother falcon screamed from the high ledge, and the tercel clattered in warning overhead, but they did not attack.

“She fell out of the nest. I think she is hurt,” said Val. The chick, surprisingly large, did not struggle or cry, but panted through her gaping beak, her tension and pain evident.

Galfaron bounded up the path, alerted by the commotion of the adult birds. He examined the fledgling’s injured wing, and tucked it back against the chick’s body.

“Her wing is broken. I’m sorry, but I cannot set such delicate bones. They are filled with air. But we can care for her, even if she never flies again.” The hunter met my eyes, conveying his unspoken opinion that the future did not bode well for this chick. “Bring her to the stables. I will make a nest for her.”

Tears streamed down Valandil’s face. The chick squawked, a thin plaintive sound borne away in the wind. Then a strange thing happened.

My young friend closed his eyes tight and squeezed out more tears. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, his face relaxed and peaceful, but his lips moving in silence. Neither Galfaron nor I interrupted him. I assumed that he prayed to Yavanna or perhaps Manwë, the guardian of the wings. He remained in this trance long enough that I became concerned and laid my hand on his shoulder.

Val’s eyes flew open at my touch. The chick struggled a little in his hands so he loosened his grasp on her. The bird then lifted her wings and flapped them weakly. Both were straight and true as they should be.

Galfaron said nothing, but his face bore an astonished expression, reflecting my own surprise. My hand tightened on Val’s shoulder; he winced, so I relaxed my grip.

“What did you just do, lad?” I said, keeping my voice serene even if alarm clenched my guts.

“I looked into her bones, Istyar, like the time you told me to imagine what the maple wood looked like inside.” He turned to the hunter. “They are like you said, Master Galfaron. Her bones are filled with air and are like nets. I pretended that I knitted them together, just like Mother knitted your scarf, Istyar.” He stroked the chick, now calm and nestled against him in his arms.

Galfaron reached for the bird’s wing and extended it. The chick swiveled her head toward him, fixing her dark eyes on the hunter. He commented with even measure.

“Yes, the wing is healed. But she still will not be ready to fly for some time yet. We cannot return her to the nest.” He craned his neck to view the birds that still eyed us from the cliff above. “Val, come along with me. We’ll make her comfortable in the stables. You must be her mother and father now. Do you think you can kill a wood pigeon with your sling? She will need fresh meat, you know.”

Val nodded eagerly and followed the hunter down the path. Galfaron looked back over his shoulder at me, raising his brows in question. I was left to wonder just what had been triggered on that day in my workshop when Valandil had imagined the interior of the wood.

~*~

The following month found Valandil, Galfaron and me standing at the cliff’s edge by the forge. Val wound his sling and let fly its contents, not a stone, but a small chunk of duck meat with a few feathers and skin still attached. A grey and white streak dropped from the sky, striking the grisly target. The young falcon caught the meat in her talons and brought it back to the ledge before us where she looked up at Valandil with almost childlike pride.

“Well done, Pilin! Well done!” exclaimed Valandil.

The bird tore at the duck flesh, scattering feathers. In the blue sky above, Pilin’s mother and father clattered while they trained the young falcon’s nest mate to hunt. Pilin glanced up at them for a moment. Then with nothing less than human expression in her black eyes, she gazed at Valandil with love. She turned her attention to her catch, ripping more gobbets from the duck until sated, and then flapped up to perch on Valandil’s gloved hand. She muttered with contentment and nibbled at the glove in a gesture of affection.

“She thanks me for the meat, but she wants to go to the moors to hunt. That’s what she says, Master Galfaron!”

“Yes, young Turko! I heard her, too.” Galfaron reached out to the bird that hooked his finger delicately with her beak. “And we shall do so, but Lady Pilin is not quite ready for such great hunting yet.”

The falcon and the prince had become nearly inseparable, so much so that Val had taken to sleeping in the stables until Galfaron assured him that Nella, the wolfhound who grew by inches daily, guarded the young bird. Valandil grudgingly gave up sneaking out of his room to take his rest among the horses, the dogs and the falcon, his mother complaining that he smelled like a sweaty horse. Yet the connection between the falcon and boy was an amazing one.

“You are like my master,” Galfaron said, reaching out to stroke Pilin’s barred breast feathers with his finger. “Like Celegorm. The birds and beasts speak to you, too.” The young mortal grinned at the ancient hunter who had followed Fëanáro’s son from Aman.

While we fussed over the young falcon, Nella had lain quiet nearby, but something in the wind interrupted her slumber. She raised her head and whined, then leapt to her feet and trotted to the edge of the cliff. She sniffed, straining to catch a scent, holding her tail stiff behind her at first, but then sweeping it back and forth with an accelerating wag. Her full-throated barks resounded off the cliffs and across the valley – not bays of warning, but trumpets of greeting. The adult peregrines’ cries pierced Nella’s deep barks; the birds wheeled above us and shot across the sky toward a distant speck emerging from the far mountains.

The speck swiftly resolved into the silhouette of an eagle -- a huge one. More and more birds rose from the valley and flew toward the approaching raptor, forming a winged vanguard. Galfaron shaded his eyes against the spring sun. He spoke, his voice barely above a whisper:

“A Herald has come.”

By the time the great eagle began his spiraling descent over the valley, most of Elrond’s household congregated in the pasture near the stables where the skeleton of a dead oak tree stood alone. The eagle landed on a thick bare branch from which he surveyed the elves and mortals who gathered below. Gildor, with Galfaron at his side to act as interpreter if needed, stepped forward.

Valandil stood by me, his falcon silent but shifting back and forth on his hand while she eyed the huge raptor. Nearby, Elerína waited with Irimë and Yavien at her side. Conversations jumbled together to create a swell of voices. The eagle screamed, silencing all. Then he spoke, his words human but their articulation alien and grating; the incongruity sent shivers down my spine.

“Children of the All-Father, hear me! The siege has ended! The Abhorred has been defeated.”

The eagle’s piercing call to order cut short our rising cries of jubilation.

“Alas! Victory was gained with sorrow. Gil-galad Ereinion and Elendil the King have perished at the Abhorred’s hands. May the Guardian of Wings speed their spirits’ flight from this troubled world.”

Sorrow’s cold waves crashed down upon our brief exultation. Both kings were dead. Cries of shock swept through the ranks of the Firstborn, but settled into the reactions I had seen too often among my kind: the grim stoniness of masculine grief and the mournful lilt of women's weeping.

Astaron called out amidst the escalating grief: “Master Elrond! Does Master Elrond yet live?” Those around him echoed his question, all looking to the Herald perched on the bare branch.

The agitated eagle only screamed in response.

Elerína slumped into Irimë’s embrace, the women of Elerina’s house forming a cluster of grief around her. Galfaron took Pilin so that Valandil could go to his mother and comfort her and seek comfort himself. I met Elerina’s tear-filled eyes before she left the greensward to return to the house. I could only mouth that I was sorry.

Thorno led Lairiel away, her head against his shoulder and tears streaming down her face. The crowd of grieving Firstborn dispersed, leaving Galfaron to extract what details he could from the eagle. Before I left, the bird fixed his golden eyes on me. I returned his inquisitive regard. Strange but nonetheless human-like sentience probed my mind, seeking deeper contact. I politely pushed the eagle away, wondering why the ancient spirit that had incarnated in this creature expressed such interest in me.

~*~

Spring’s song blossomed into summer’s chorale, but that year’s season of green leaves, warm breezes and abundance remained somber as grey winter. Messengers from Amon Sûl and officials from Annúminas came often to the valley, and sequestered themselves with Gildor and Elrond’s minor advisors, and then with Elerína and Lady Vórwen. Elerína became distant, immersed in her concerns over the burdens that would fall to her as the new king’s consort, but most of all, her worries for Isilmë consumed her.

I had given one of those messengers a letter to Isilmë. Fretting over each word, I struggled to write the short note, but offered what solace I could. The Moon of Flowers had waxed and waned when her missive came to me:

I thank you for your condolences and for all that you have done for my family. I will walk the dark path soon, my friend. I dearly wish to see you and say farewell before I leave.

Her words confirmed what I had feared: the death of her beloved husband was more than she could bear. I had sought Elerína after reading Isilmë’s response, finding my friend in a corner of the library where she wrote entries in the monthly ledgers. With her eyes and a half-moon smile, she beckoned me to join her in the circle of gold light from the lamp by her side. I pulled the chair up to the oak table, resting my elbows on its polished surface.

“Why are you inside calculating figures?” I pushed one of the beads on her calculator along its thin metal rod, delaying what I truly wished to ask. “You should be out listening to one of Lindir’s songs or at the very least sitting on the porch so that you can hear the nightingales.”

“Lindir now sings nothing but laments,” she said. “And the nightingales have learned his sad songs, too. I would just as soon take comfort in numbers.”

“You sound like Lord Glorfindel. That is what he does as well.”

“A man after my own heart then.” She set aside her quill. “We have not spoken for a while, Sámaril. How are you?”

“Well enough. I received a letter from Queen Isilmë. She has asked that I come to Annúminas.”

“Yes. She wishes to say farewell to you. To all those dear to her.”

“How can you bear this?”

“Death is as natural to us as long life is to your people. It is a gift that Isilmë can willingly let go of her life.”

“Yes, I know all this. I just don’t understand it.”

“Men have their own form of immortality, and Elves have theirs. We will never understand the other.”

This would lead us into an uncomfortable conversation, like others before in which Elerína and I reached no resolution, echoes of a much older conversation between an elven-man and a mortal woman. So I changed the subject.

“Will Valandil go to Annúminas, too? Isilmë has expressed concern for his safety.”

“With Master Elrond and the other Firstborn, including you, as escort, I doubt that any intrigue will touch him.”

“So we await Elrond’s return,” I said, fiddling with the beads on the rods while I gathered my courage to ask my next question. “Will you remain in Annúminas or return to Imladris?”

“I have made no decision yet.” She turned and stared out the window at the night beyond the light of the lamp before looking at me again. “Valandil has been restless for the past few days. Do you think you could...”

“I’ll take him fishing tomorrow. The woodland pond.”

“Thank you, Sámaril. He loves to fish. Such a Númenórean!” She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Excuse me. I’m weary, but I really must finish the ledgers.”

“So I cannot tempt you to abandon your work and listen to the nightingales with me? I will ask Lady Vórwen to accompany us.”

“Thank you all the same but no. Unlike you, my friend, I do not have all the time in the world.”

~*~

The plunk of baited hook sent ripples across the pond that mirrored the summer sky above and the ring of trees that surrounded it. Valandil settled back while I lay in the grass, my fishing pole wedged into the earth and braced by a pair of rocks. I half-slept in the golden summer light, listening to the birds warbling in the woods and the insects humming in the bracken. Nella sprawled on the grass nearby and in the distance, I heard Pilin’s whistle. The dog and the falcon were never far from their human friend or from one another.

“Istyar? Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“When will we go to Annúminas?”

“I don’t know. Sometime after Master Elrond arrives, I expect.”

“Mother is sad about Grandmother. She will leave us soon.”

“The queen has lived a long life,” I lied. To me, Isilmë’s life was ephemeral as the butterflies that flitted among the yellow flags at the pond’s edge. “She wishes to join your grandfather.”

“I know, but I will miss her. I wish she could see Pilin.”

“You will see her soon, Val. I have no doubt that Pilin and Nella will follow you to Annúminas.”

“You will come with us, too?”

“Yes, I will come with you.”

“Grandmother loves you.”

“I love her, too. She is a most extraordinary woman.” I closed my eyes against the sorrow that my mortal friend would soon give up her life, and that I had let the years slip by and had not come to Annúminas to visit her in better times.

“Istyar?”

“Yes?”

“I like to fish like this. It’s so quiet here. But sometimes I wish I could fish with a pole in the river.”

“These poles are too fragile. Their lines would break.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose I’ll keep using my spear when we fish in the river.” Valandil scratched his head, quiet for a moment, and then switched subjects abruptly. “What will happen to the Elves, Istyar? Will you have a new king? My father is the High King now.”

“I don’t know. I have not been given counsel on these matters, either for my own people or yours. Rather, I have been seeing to the forge and enjoying your company.”

Valandil’s companionship proved a welcome distraction. Even though the fall of Sauron should have been a cause for celebration, uncertainty roiled among us all. Would Elrond, Gil-galad’s herald and beloved friend, now take the kingship? Given how few of us remained, it was likely a moot point. A regent for the remnants of my people did not concern me as much as a matter unspoken: the fate of the One Ring. Nothing had been said, but then the subject of the Rings of Power was knowledge that was not shared among all and sundry.

Turning my thoughts from such troubling concerns, I soaked up the lazy summer warmth and listened to the songs of birds and insects. I let my mind wander toward the borderlands of dreams, not knowing where their paths would lead. Soon I walked in a waking dream and stepped out into an early autumn evening in Ost-in-Edhil.

~*~

Needing respite from the noisy and increasingly inebriated celebration that was Ferenwë’s betrothal feast, I had ventured into his parents’ lush garden to take in the fresh night air. However, I was not the only one outside for there in a corner of the garden stood Istyar Aulendil holding Cúroneth, Teretion and Midhel’s little daughter.

I froze, not wishing to interrupt the fascinating tableau of my mentor during an unguarded moment. The Istyar and the tiny child, who was barely more than an infant, together looked at a spider that had strung her web between two rose bushes, their late season blossoms sending their fragrance out into the night.

“See here, Cúroneth?” said Aulendil, extending his forefinger toward the orb weaver that hung motionless in the center of her gossamer net. “This little she-lob will not harm us. In fact, she and her web are marvelous things.”

The spider disconnected her legs from the web, one by one, and climbed on to Aulendil’s finger. He moved the spider so that the child in his arms could see it more clearly.

“Look at her legs. Here are the tiny hooks she uses to clasp her web.” He whispered something to the little creature, which then lifted her round abdomen. “And here. These are her spinnerets. She uses two types of silk to make her web. Would you like to hold her?”

“Yes, Istyar!”

“Hold out your hand and call to her. She will come.”

“Here, little lhingril! Come!”

The spider stepped delicately from Aulendil’s finger to Cúroneth’s open palm. The little girl examined the spider for a while and then the creature crawled back to Aulendil’s hand. My master extended his finger so the spider could return to her web.

Cúroneth yawned and rested her little head against Aulendil’s shoulder, her fair silver-moon curls against his dark hair. He sang, his baritone voice rich but soft in lullaby:

The spider, dropping down from twig,
Unfolds a plan of her devising,
A thin premeditated rig
To use in rising.

And all that journey down through space,
In cool descent and loyal hearted,
She spins a ladder to the place
From where she started.

Thus I, gone forth as spiders do
In spider's web a truth discerning,
Attach one silken thread to you
For my returning.

Cúroneth had fallen asleep in his arms. Although I remained quiet, Aulendil’s attention turned to me, or rather behind me, when Midhel came out into the garden, looking for her child.

“I believe this belongs to you.” He carefully transferred the sleepy child to her mother’s open arms and turned his attention to me. “Sámaril! What are you doing out here?”

“Just getting some fresh air. That was a lovely song, Istyar.”

“One that little girls like apparently. Come! Let’s go back inside. I need more wine, and you really ought to be paying more attention to your lady love.” He grabbed the empty glass on the nearby table and threw his arm over my shoulders, leading me back into the light and laughter of the party. “Look! That Sindarin fellow is wooing her right out from under your nose. You are hopeless when it comes to courtship, lad.”

~*~

Sharp pain jolted me awake. I sat up and tried to shake away the jagged shards that stabbed my left hand and the agonizing memory of Aulendil’s display of affection in contrast to the fate of the child he had held in his arms.

Attach one silken thread to you for my returning. He had returned to her as he had returned to all of us: bearing fury in one hand and death in the other. When I had fled from the crumbling city, I had seen Cúroneth’s disemboweled body among the slain, cast aside by the orcs that had assaulted her and the others trying to escape. I rubbed my throbbing hand with its uninjured mate.

“What’s wrong, Istyar?” Valandil asked. He set aside his fishing pole and came to sit by my side. The sweet urgency of his concern drove the anguished memory away.

“Nothing to worry about. A cramp in my hand, I think.”

Just as I leaned back on the grass, the pain in my hand receding to a dull ache, the peal of a silver bell rang through the valley. The breeze stirred the leaves of the birches, birdsong became a chorus, and Pilin chattered high above in response to the bell’s summoning.

“Reel in your bait, Valandil,” I said, brushing a few clinging leaves from my clothing after I stood. “We had best return to the house.”

~*~

The six riders – all elves judging by their movement -- had dismounted by the time Valandil and I crossed the bridge over the foaming river; grooms led their horses to the stables.

The master of Imladris stood out among the others, his presence commanding attention. Broad-shouldered, lean and tall with thick dark hair, Elrond resembled a man of my people, but his grace reflected the lightness of the Sindar and his demeanor and open expression, the immediacy of Men. Elrond made himself all things to all people: wise counselor, powerful warrior, keen scholar, and a man as kind as summer. Before my eyes, he shifted from the scion of elven-kings to the kindred of Men when Elerína approached him, bowing her head in deference.

Elrond’s streak of Mannish demonstrativeness came to the fore, casting aside elvish detachment as he opened his arms to embrace her. Discarding formalism, they held one another for a long moment. Then they stood apart but kept their hands clasped. Even from where I stood, I could clearly see the tears streaking down Elerina’s cheeks and Elrond’s expression of condolence for the wife of his kinsman – a woman who was herself distant kin to the master. Then Elrond swept his keen eyes over the gathering on the terrace and spotted Valandil and me at its edge. His subtle nod summoned us to him, but his gaze fixed on Valandil.

“Go on, Val,” I said, taking his fishing pole.

The boy’s steps slowed as he approached the man who was the brother of his ancestor. Valandil stood before Elrond, his head bowed. Elrond reached forward and cupped Valandil’s chin, lifting the boy’s face.

“You have grown so much since I left.”

That was all he needed to say for Valandil’s stiff posture to melt. Elrond enfolded the boy in his arms. It was then I was struck by the resemblance between Elrond and young Valandil – the shape of their eyebrows and the turn of their jaws, even the propensity for their fair skin to flush with exertion or emotion. Elrond and Val even had the same smile as demonstrated when the master of Imladris grinned at his young kinsman’s estimate of a fish's length -- somewhat exaggerated -- that he had caught during one of our expeditions.

“I am glad to know that the Istyar has not only been a good teacher to you, but also a fine companion. A boy should know how to fish,” said Elrond. The master then raised his grey eyes, now piercing, to me, his expression grave.

“Istyar Sámaril, you and I must speak and soon. I have much to attend to today and must rest tomorrow, but will two days hence be acceptable?”

“Yes, my lord."

“Very well. Come to my study in the morning the day after tomorrow.”

He draped his arm over Valandil’s shoulders and led the boy away, walking together toward the open doors of his home where his household gathered. A pang of envy shot through my heart when my young mortal friend turned to look up at the lordly elven-man with awe and admiration, creating a circle of noble kinship that excluded me.

---

Chapter End Notes

 

Galfaron (Noldo) - chief hunter of Imladris
Astaron (Noldo) master of the kitchen
Lairiel (Noldo) – master weaver

Thornangor "Thorno" (Noldo) – master smith
Vórwen (Dúnedain) – Elerína’s sr. lady-in-waiting

Teretion – master smith of Ost-in-Edhil (Tyelperinquar’s former apprentice); forged seven Rings of Power (see The Apprentice & Risk Assessment)

Midhel - Teretion's wife (see Risk Assessment)

Sauron/Aulëndil's verse is E.B. White's The Spider's Web.

 

Chapter 18: Breath of Summer's Being

Elrond recalls the fall of Gil-galad, Elendil and Sauron as well as how the literal fall of Barad-dûr will be accomplished. Sámaril learns the fate of the One Ring and counsels Elrond on the nature of the Rings of Power: that even the Three Rings of the Elves are not altogether benign.

Thanks to The Lizard Council, notably Oshun, Jael and Moreth, for critical feedback.

Read Chapter 18: Breath of Summer's Being

The scent of freshly brewed tea greeted me when I entered Elrond’s study, a large room set off the side of the library. Bookshelves and cabinets lined three golden oak-paneled walls. In the spaces not occupied by shelves, tapestries hung and small marble statues of Varda, Yavanna and Nienna stood mute on pedestals in alcoves. A telescope, its brass casing engraved with swirling patterns of stars and stylized mathematical symbols, balanced on a tripod near the bank of west-facing windows. Green-hued light, reflected from the trees illuminated by the morning sun outside, suffused the room.

“Come in, Istyar.” Elrond beckoned to me from where he sat behind his broad chestnut desk. He rose and walked around to the polished cherry-wood sideboard where he poured the steaming liquid from a sapphire-glazed teapot into two matching ceramic cups. “I brought this tea back with me. Glorfindel found it tucked away in one of the storerooms of the Barad-dûr. It’s unusual. From the very far East, we believe. Maybe even as far as the Lands of the Dawn. I hope you like it.”

I took the blue cup from him and sipped the hot tea, its fragrance smoky with an undercurrent of fermentation. “Yes, it’s unusual but very good. Thank you.”

“Please, sit down.”

I settled into a cushioned chair in front of his desk.

“Lord Glorfindel sends his regards,” said Elrond, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his desk and folding one hand over the other. “I assume you received his letters?”

“I did. I have been working to preserve and bind them. They are quite a collection of his thoughts.”

“Yes, I was surprised that he turned to writing what has amounted to a journal. I would have thought Erestor might have done this. Instead, my scribe has found entertainment of another sort: slaying the spawn of Ungoliant that infest the Ephel Dúath.”

“Spawn of Ungoliant? I take it these creatures are spiders?”

“Yes, and large ones, too. Some are the size of a wolfhound. Wretched things!” The bow of Elrond’s upper lip curled in disgust. “We suspect that the last of Ungoliant’s daughters has survived and established a lair in the high western pass near Minas Ithil. She churns out offspring from there, but even Erestor has been unwilling to seek the matriarch out.”

“The spiders...do they make webs?”

“What kind of question is that, Istyar?” Elrond snorted at my earnest but oblivious question. “Of course, they make webs! The vales of the Ephel Dúath are thick with their snares.”

“Do you think that Master Erestor might bring some of the spider webs back to Imladris?” Elrond’s eyes widened at my query. “I have a project in mind,” I added hastily.

“A project with spider webs?” Elrond shook his head but smiled. “You are an odd one, Sámaril, but then you are a smith so why should I think otherwise? I expect Erestor will accommodate your request. A courier will be returning to Mordor in two weeks time so you might send a letter to him then.”

“I will do that.”

Elrond leaned back in his chair, rubbing his left shoulder with his right hand, perhaps massaging away the stiffness of his long journey. His face was still ruddy from wind and sun.

“It will be some months, maybe as late as next spring, before Master Erestor and the rest – what there is left of us – return to the valley," he said. "There is much to be done in the aftermath of the siege, not the least of which is the destruction of the Dark Tower. I would have liked to stay to watch its downfall, but the need for me here is far greater.”

“Destruction of the Dark Tower? How will this be accomplished? I am given to understand it is a large structure.” If my vision in the palantir had been accurate, it was more than large – it was massive.

“I should have known that this would appeal to you! Táraner, the chief field engineer of the Dúnedain, had the idea. He consulted with Macilion, who agreed the plan could work, but neither Táraner nor any of the others under his guidance had on hand the precise formula for what they required – and the formula had to be exact.

“Macilion remembered Istyanis Naryen’s formula for fireworks, of all things, and thought it could be adapted. The soldiers of the Dúnedain and Firstborn escorted Táraner and Macilion throughout the Ered Lithui, following the hordes of bats that fled from the sun at dawn, until they located their cave. The men hauled piles and piles of bat dung from the cave. Our intrepid engineers crystallized saltpeter from the foul mess. Then they mixed it with brimstone and charcoal…well, I expect you know what they concocted.”

“Black powder! I’m impressed that Macilion remembered that.”

“Macilion remembered every detail from his teacher’s work and was clever enough to adapt her formula and the containers for the powder to a larger scale. We were lucky that they didn’t blast us all to pieces with their tests. It was bad enough that the Enemy used such explosives during the beginning of the siege. Fortunately, that did not last long. I would guess that Sauron depleted his stores of such evil weaponry.”

“And other than his own hands,” I said, “he might not have had anyone in his service clever enough to make black powder. It is a tricky process.”

“That might be so, to our fortune.” Elrond took a long drink of the tea and rose to refill my cup and then his own. He returned to his chair behind his desk and continued.

“Táraner has been marking the load-bearing structures of the tower. Glorfindel is now working out the equations for the sequence and timing of the detonations. Macilion and Táraner say the strength of the explosive is limited against stone, but if the charges are large enough and placed precisely…”

I could not help interrupting Elrond. “So they plan to destroy the Dark Tower by blasting it down?”

“That is correct.”

“Ingenious.”

“Quite. The explosives are only a start though. Machines are already being moved from Osgiliath toward the Morannon to complete the razing, but the Númenórean engineers know their stonework. I also think many underestimate Glorfindel’s intellect. At their peril, I would add.”

“Or their embarrassment.”

Elrond smiled. “Yes, I have been the victim of that myself. I am glad to see him so engaged though. This war – and the siege – has been as hard on him as the rest of us.” Elrond’s pleasant expression clouded. “What we found inside the tower was terrible: many of the Men were starving and wracked with illness. The orcs had begun to prey upon them.”

“So Lord Glorfindel speculated in his letters.”

“His deductions were confirmed. I will spare you the worst of the details. The conditions within the Barad-dûr were unspeakable after seven years of siege. Many of the Men that survived sued for pardon, but the Black Númenóreans took their own lives rather than submit to Isildur. I am certain the dire straits of the Men drove Sauron out of the tower to confront us.”

Elrond rubbed his eyes with travel-battered fingers and looked out at the morning sunlight on fluttering green leaves. A breeze puffed in through the open windows, toying with a smoky strand of Elrond’s dark hair.

“Forgive me for bringing such darkness to you on a day of light,” he said. “The memory is a difficult one, but I must tell you what happened.” His focus shifted and his eyes looked into the distance, toward a darker place than the comfort of his study.

“The murk in the sky that day was worse than ever while the fiery mountain belched fumes to choke us and obscure our sight. A sortie erupted from the tower, the largest since the beginning of the siege. We were driven back along the road to Orodruin. The dark legions of orcs and Men had more order and purpose than before, as if a strong will gripped and unified them. Our forces were pressed hard against the mountain. We knew then that we had come to the turning point. Sauron had come forth.

“Clad in black helm and hauberk, vambraces and greaves he was. Every inch of flesh was covered save for his eyes. He wielded a sword of fire and a mace of iron, his strength now revealed. All fell back before him, but Gil-galad and Elendil did not flinch. They attacked him and called upon the Valar in their need.

“The fight was so desperate and so personal. Isildur, Círdan and I guarded Elendil and Gil-galad’s flanks, but no one dared approach the three combatants. An uneasy truce set in among the battling armies, even the orcs, while all around watched the spectacle there on the lower slopes of Orodruin.

“Sauron’s strength was not so great that Gil-galad and Elendil were unable to wound him. Aeglos tore through the black mail and Narsil followed, slicing deep into the Enemy’s side, severing organs and an artery. Yet Gil-galad and Elendil paid the price for their blows. Sauron wrestled them to the ground even while he was dying. Gil-galad…” Elrond paused and swallowed his grief. “Gil-galad was burned to death. I tried to warn him, but it was too late.  The Enemy had thrown off his gauntlets and laid his bare hands on my king, my beloved friend.  Gil-galad’s skin blistered under Sauron’s grip. His screams of agony will haunt me forever.

“After the Enemy killed Gil-galad, he broke Elendil’s neck with his bare hands. Narsil snapped beneath the King when he fell.”

“Narsil broke?” Icy remorse swept through me.

“Yes, Narsil broke, but it still could bite.

“When Sauron fell, his soldiers lost their will and fled, and our men pursued them. With only Círdan and I as witnesses, Isildur leapt forward and took the hilt of his father’s broken sword, ready to kill Sauron, who had fallen, mortally injured. The Abhorred’s life flowed red over the black rocks of Orodruin. Isildur stood over Sauron, and then the sun broke through the murk above. The One Ring shone golden in the column of light, its beauty irresistible. With Elendil’s broken blade, Isildur cut the Ring from the Deceiver’s hand. What little remained of Sauron’s bodily life died then.”

My left hand throbbed. So that was what happened to the Ring. I also knew that Sauron was not truly dead. A light knock on the door punctuated the silence that fell in the master of Imladris’ study.

“Come,” Elrond called, and Maedhel opened the door, balancing a tray with plates of fruit, breads and cheeses on her right hand.

“My lord,” she said. “Breakfast as you requested.”

“Thank you, Maedhel.”

She placed the tray on the sideboard and left us, shutting the door behind her. Elrond swept his arm toward the sideboard.

“After you, Istyar.”

I picked three strawberries and a small piece of cheese from the plates, but nothing more, my stomach tied in knots. Elrond, on the other hand, had no hesitancy in piling a number of berries, bread and a large chunk of cheese on a plate, digging into them with vigor.

He looked up at me, his mouth full of bread, sparks in his twilight-blue eyes. He swallowed the bread and smiled, wiping the corners of his mouth.

“Forgive my enthusiasm. I cannot tell you how much I have missed fresh fruit and soft bread these past several years.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” I said, reminded yet again that I had been forbidden from going to war as a man should and that I had lived a soft life while my friends had suffered and even died.

While I picked over the ripe berries, which tasted no better than straw to my numbed senses, I mulled over the One Ring and the breaking of Narsil.

Why had I not repaired that flaw left from Telchar’s less-than-optimal tempering? It had been within my grasp and certainly within my ability. Yet something had stopped me. Sharp-toothed imps of guilt gnawed at my conscience when I considered my reluctance to tap into the deep arts to weld the tiny rent in the metal. Had I contributed to yet another man’s downfall?

Then there was the One Ring. I had allowed Sauron to rifle through so much of my thought and to link himself with my talents. I had trusted him. We all had. He studied us more deeply than we could have imagined, extracted our knowledge, violating it, and had created a receptacle for his power. Bad enough when the Ring was on his hand, but what of another?

“Isildur has it then,” I said.

“Yes. He claimed it as weregild for his father’s death. Círdan and I tried to persuade him to take it to the Sammath Naur and cast it into the fire, but he would not be swayed. The One remains with us in Isildur’s hands.”

I shuddered. “So close to being unmade.”

“Yes, so close. And that is why I need your counsel. Do you have the skill to unmake it? Among any of us living, you know the most of Sauron’s craft.”

“A dubious distinction,” I said. I pushed myself out of the chair and walked to the nearest window, looking out into the vivid green of early summer so far from the jagged plain of Gorgoroth. “It is with this knowledge that I can tell you with certainty that it cannot be unmade. The fires of my forge are not hot enough. Even if I constructed a pressurized furnace like those we had in Ost-in-Edhil, the heat would not be sufficient. The opportunity was lost when Lord Isildur spurned your counsel.”

Elrond rose from his chair, walking around the desk and joining me by the window. “I feared this was the case. So this thing remains with us, but in another’s hands. Would that Isildur had destroyed it! Yet I cannot condemn him. I could no more destroy this than he could the One.” Elrond lifted his left hand, revealing Vilya, its stone casting a brief flash of blue light. Gil-galad had given the ring to him shortly after the fall of Eregion, but Elrond had been cautious with its use while the One was on the Enemy’s hand.

“You intend to wield it openly now?”

“I am considering it, yes. That will depend very much on Isildur’s disposition with the One. I would think that since the master ring is no longer in Sauron’s hands, wielding Vilya becomes safe.”

“You put much faith in Isildur.”

“He is an Elf-friend. I can only hope that he will realize the nature of the burden he carries and can be persuaded to return to Mordor to destroy the thing. And even if there are...” Elrond paused, pursing his lips and knitting his arched brows while he picked his words with care, “...difficulties with Isildur and the One, he will never have the strength of will that Sauron did. I believe it is safe to use the Three.”

“May I speak frankly, Master Elrond?”

“Please do.”

“Then I speak as a Ringmaker. None of these rings are benign. Even the Three.”

“Why do you say this? You know as well as anyone that Celebrimbor crafted these with benevolence in his heart and to high purpose.”

“Yes, Celebrimbor’s good intentions are interwoven in the Three but you must realize that they are crafted with the exactly the same deep arts that went into the One. So they are tied to it. Furthermore, I believe what they are meant to accomplish is unnatural to Middle-earth.”

“Unnatural? How could that be? Celebrimbor brought forth the Three to preserve beauty and memory and to kindle hope. What is unnatural about that?”

“Yes, they are meant to preserve beauty and memory, to replicate an environment that echoes Aman here in Middle-earth. But all the Rings of Power create stasis within a world that is meant to decay.”

“Decay comes from the marring of Arda,” Elrond said with conviction.

“I respectfully disagree, sir. Decay is a natural law of the world. Trying to slow the wear of time is not. Decay allows renewal, growth, and change. I agree that the Three confer great benefits, but I fear that our people will not progress if we rely on these devices and keep our eyes turned to the past that we have lost.”

“Yet the past informs us,” countered Elrond. “Our people will lose their culture and dwindle to a feral folk of dales and groves if we do not look back to what our forefathers brought with them from Aman – if we do not preserve our ways.”

“I share your concern, Master Elrond, but I believe there are other ways to achieve this that are more fitting for these mortal lands. You have not said it, but the hubris of my colleagues – of myself – to believe that we could create a version of Aman here in Middle-earth led to our downfall. That was a hard lesson so I simply cannot separate the Three from the others. I saw their effects magnified.

“As we crafted ring after ring and wielded them, the enchantment they laid upon Eregion became more pronounced. Those of us who traveled most frequently between Eregion and mortal lands first noticed their effects. From my journeys to and from Tharbad before and after the Rings of Power were crafted, I became more and more aware of the contrast. Others noticed this, too. You know that in those years before the war, Lady Culinen often visited the lands of Men that bordered Eregion?”

“Yes, I am aware of Culinen’s charity, may her fëa be at peace,” said Elrond, looking out the windows toward the West. “Her goodwill toward Men was much like her father’s although his was not so well-considered as he discovered with Ulfang. She improved the lives of those people. Mothers and babies survived thanks to her healing skills. Their people avoided contagion.”

“Then you may also must know that the Istyanis often accompanied Culinen when she visited the camps and settlements of the Minhiriathrim,” I said, receiving a nod of assent from Elrond. “While Culinen instructed the healers and midwives, Naryen taught smith-craft to their men. Náryen and her mother crossed the boundaries often. I journeyed with them on occasion in those years after Annatar left and while Celebrimbor forged the Three.

“The difference between the elven-realm and mortal lands became so stark that moving from one to another became like hitting a wall to us. At the time, I believed this was a natural consequence of what we were trying to accomplish, but it troubled Naryen because this did not harmonize with the cycles of the earth, something to which she was so well attuned. She expressed grave doubts to Celebrimbor, but that did not dissuade him from completing the Three...”

“But surely you must agree that such preservation of beauty and memory is worthy!” Elrond interjected. “Even from a pragmatic standpoint, the structures of Imladris can be held in better repair as well as the implements of your forge. You can free your time from the mundane and turn to more creative endeavors once I put the powers in Vilya to work.”

Elrond then proceeded to extol the many virtues of Vilya, Nenya and Narya. I knew then that Vilya had as much of a hold on his mind as the One did on Isildur, but I strived to defend my misgivings.

The sun shone through the west-facing windows by the time our unresolved debate fizzled to silence. Elrond laid his hand on my shoulder amiably.

“I have kept you long enough, Istyar. Thank you for your counsel. I also wish to thank you for all you have done for Valandil. As his kinsman, I will be taking over his teachings and his care until his father returns.”

“Of course. That is only fitting.” An uncharitable pang of jealousy snapped within me.

“I intend to depart for Annúminas in three weeks time. I understand that the queen has expressed her desire to see you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you experienced a mortal’s death before?” He looked me square in the eye.

“I have. Many times.” I thought of the dying I had comforted during the fire-pox that had roared through the settlements clustered around Tharbad, when I held the hands and wiped the brows of those consumed by a disease that had only caused me a day of aches and chills. “But have I experienced it with a mortal who is a dear friend? No.”

Elrond returned his gaze to the summer light outside the windows. “I think you have an idea how bitter this will be. Prepare yourself. It is not our world, mortality. I look at them — at Elendil, Isilmë, Isildur and his sons, Elerína —  and I see him: I see the echoes of my brother, his bloodline scattered and diluted, but ever present. I am always reminded that he is lost to me forever.”

“I am sorry, my lord.”

He set his chin, but the faintest glimmer of tears in the corner of his eyes betrayed his emotion.

“Never mind that." He turned to me, his expression collected and calm. "You will see to the ordering of the forge in your absence?”

“Master Thornangor is quite capable.”

I turned to leave and rubbed my still throbbing hand.

“What is wrong?” Elrond placed his hand on my arm, staying me, and examined my pained hand.

“I’m not sure. I may have injured my hand in the forge. I do not remember. It started three months ago.”

Elrond massaged my palm and fingers. “Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron’s left hand — his left forefinger — three months ago.”

My heart sank. “Elendil and Gil-galad may have slain Sauron’s body, but he lives on. My connection to him remains. He will not let me go.”

“Let me ease your pain.” Elrond’s eyes met mine, seeking permission to enter the gates of my mind.

Elrond had tended my wounds many times before: burns and cuts that I had acquired in the forge, setting broken fingers and once had pulled a broken tooth that had resulted when an errant lever smacked me in the face. None of these treatments required anything more than straightforward medicine. But now he wished to alleviate a deeper injury that would take more than massaging my hand. What he sought was something I had not experienced with him before. What would he see in me if I allowed him into my thoughts? Yet I trusted this compassionate man, and the pain in my hand tormented me.

With a deep breath, I closed my eyes and opened my thoughts to him. The ease with which he slipped into my mind and the matter of my body startled me. The interweaving of his presence with mine was little different than Aulendil’s had been, but instead of the bright silver fire of my mentor, Elrond was the billowing summer wind. He swept away the clouds of pain in my hand and my thought. The ache dissipated and I was left only with warmth when Elrond extracted himself from my mind.

As kind as summer. That was what was so often said about Elrond, and it was with that kindness that he advised me before he released my hand.

“I think it is you who must let your teacher go.”

Chapter 19: On Twilight Shores

Shortly after arriving in Annúminas, Sámaril explores the city of the shores of Lake Evendim. He sees that although the lives of the Middle Men of Arnor may be improved by the presence of the Númenórean exiles, they still face the consequences of mortality, just as they did many years ago in the settlements around Tharbad. It is with these consequences of mortality that Sámaril struggles as he prepares for his farewell to Isilmë.

~*~

First, thanks to The Lizard Council (Drummerwench, Oshun, Jael and Moreth in particular) for comments and feedback.

I use common Anglo-Saxon (or Celtic in some cases) names for the Middle Men with the assumption that these are translations from Westron. With regard to languages, I adhere to the Seamus Heaney approach to translation and do not hesitate to use certain words (and names) familiar to the contemporary mind, e.g., "tenement," as translations from the "original text" in my tertiary world of JRRT's secondary world.

A glossary and a short list of characters may be found in the end notes of this chapter; the longer list of characters is given in the Appendix.

Read Chapter 19: On Twilight Shores

A single bell chimed high in the Tower of Sunset, its peal muffled by the mists that rose from the mirror-smooth lake. A cock crowed, overeager to greet the dawn, but other than his exuberant call, the city lay hushed in waiting. Waiting for its new king to arrive. Waiting for its men to return. Waiting for its queen to die.

While I watched the light of dawn slowly push the night away, I thought of Ost-in-Edhil where the mornings had been filled with the voices of those on their way to work at the guild houses, the clatter of the marketplace where yeomen rolled their wagons in from the western fields, the piping of children’s voices as they ran out to play or on their way to the House of Lore, and women singing paeans to the dawn, their voices blending with the songbirds in the city gardens. At other times, Annúminas must have resembled the Ost-in-Edhil of my memories, but on this morning, it was subdued.

Nonetheless, life went on in this city by the lake of twilight. The sounds of awakening — doors opening and shutting, the clop of hooves against cobblestone, voices from the docks at the lakeside — drifted up through the fog, inspiring me to explore. I left my view from the narrow window of my small guest apartment, adjacent to Elrond’s grander suite. The linen chiton slid over my naked skin, sending a thrill through my body when I considered that Elerína had likely woven its smooth fabric. After fastening a belt around my waist, and strapping on my sandals, I slipped out of my quarters and walked as silently as I was able through the dim corridors of the palace and down its many stone stairs.

The night watchmen who awaited the changing of the guard acknowledged me with bleary nods when I passed out of the palace gates. I sympathized with their weariness. I had not taken any deep sleep since we left Imladris. Our party had traveled west along the road to Amon Sûl and then on to Bree, the village of the crossroads, and through the verdant farmlands that lay south of the royal city. Throughout our journey, whether we camped under the stars or stayed under a roof, I had always remained alert, dozing at most when we rested. An instinctive protectiveness toward Valandil never allowed me to sleep fully. I was not alone in this: Elrond increasingly yawned toward the end of our journey when we arrived in the city late last night.

Although I had hoped to sleep well in a bed with soft linens and a mattress, dreams had disturbed my rest, waking me several times in the depths of the night, but I managed to fall asleep, only to dream again and toss restlessly.

A good walk and exploration of the city might prove to be a tonic against my weariness. I was genuinely curious, too. Although I had adapted to the long rhythms of life in Imladris, even thriving there in spite of the loss of my loved ones and friends, my heart yearned for the life of a city.

As I walked along the streets, I noted the motifs of the sea that were everywhere in this city well removed from its waves. Corbels were carved to resemble breaking surf, stylized fish formed the rainspouts of gutters, and friezes bore the repeated motifs of seashells. Mosaic murals depicted the shores of She-That-Fell, as the exiles called their lost homeland. The people of Annúminas still yearned for the ocean.

The bitter green odor of water weeds combined with the tar-pitch of boat craft to guide me toward the lakeside where stone quays extended well out into the water. A few boats, tied to iron rings embedded in the docks, knocked against the stone, but most were out on the water far from shore. There fishermen cast their lines and nets, seeking the day’s harvest of fish from the cold deep waters of Lake Evendim.

I turned around to look at the city. The Tower of Sunset, flushed with the rosy light of dawn, soared above the other towers and domes. Its columns, arches and buttressing recalled the tower of Amon Sûl. Like that structure, the upper level of the Sunset Tower had a domed roof and was encircled by a colonnade.

The tower’s design reflected the other structures of the city I had so far observed: the Noldorin influence was visible with the penchant for arches, vaulting and columns, but the Númenórean aesthetic was more robust. Its muscular lines testified to solidity, in contrast to Ost-in-Edhil where my father, along with the other masons and architects, had created delicacies of stonework that arched and floated through the air, defying the pull of the earth, but thanks to precise calculations, just as sound as the structures of Annúminas.

Taking a circuitous route back into the city, I wandered through the streets of the residential quarters. Walls shielded the compounds of the wealthy, but glimpses through their gates revealed stone houses with loggias running along their length and topped with red tiled roofs. I wandered through a neighborhood of taller buildings of stone, daub and wattle, standing close together with stairs that ran along the outside walls to doors that marched along the wall. I recalled what Elerína had told me of the ways of life in Annúminas during our journey. These were flats where merchants, tradesmen and skilled laborers dwelt with a single family living on each floor of a three to five story building. Often a shop could be found at the street level of these structures. Small courts and squares with gardens and fountains dotted these neighborhoods.

The sun rose, burning off the mists. More people walked along the paved street, going the same direction. Almost all were women who appeared to be the servants from the wealthier houses. They carried baskets of various sizes and shapes, suggesting errands to a marketplace. So I walked along with them. They cast inquisitive glances my way, to which I smiled and offered a morning greeting. They nodded shyly in response, bowing their heads with a “M’lord” before hurrying on their way.

The street opened up on a large square surrounded by buildings of various heights with tall windows and arched doors bracketed by decorative columns. Market stalls lined two sides of the square with a fountain in its center, the water falling over a white marble sculpture of falmarindi cavorting with dolphins. Colorful banners were strung above the stalls, advertising their wares. Wagons sat still at the periphery of the marketplace; ponies and donkeys, taken out of their harnesses but still tethered to the wagons, stood dozing or eating from feedbags, lazily switching their tails.

Women, some with children in tow, clustered in front of the stalls, their voices rising and falling like a flock of blackbirds, but it was here that I saw more men in a city largely devoid of Dúnedain males in their prime. Some men were short, broad, and had tawny complexions, much like the those related to the Haladin who lived in the lands south of Eregion. Others were tall and bore the signs of kinship to the Númenórean exiles: traces of the ancient Bëorians and Marachians still lingered in their faces, descendants of the Atani who had not crossed the Ered Luin. Yet the Númenóreans named their distant kin the “Middle Men” — the lesser folk — not reaching the stature of the exiles from the drowned lands, but fit to be absorbed into the Kingdom of Arnor.

The last shreds of my weariness vanished when curiosity took over. I wandered along these booths where the sturdy crofters sold fruits, meats, vegetables, clothing and craftwork. Although my presence caused a minor stir, these folk had seen the Firstborn before so they were not at a loss when trying to persuade me to buy their goods. Eager faces, some hopeful, some sly, peered at me when I picked up an awl, examined a necklace or armband, or ran my fingers over rough cloth. Out of courtesy, I bought a few items, bargaining half-heartedly since this was expected, and paying significantly more for a hammer and a bag of nails than they were worth.

The inferior craftsmanship displayed in cheap jewelry, coarse fabrics, and rough-edged tools grated at my aesthetic sensibilities, but I reminded myself that these were the goods that the common folk could afford, both to make and to purchase. I knew that the race of Men was capable of much more, but those who had remained in the twilight of Middle-earth had been beaten back time and time again, whether by war or plague or ignorance. What would it take to push them forward so that they did not slip back into a more primitive state?

My growling stomach got the better of my deep thoughts when the alluring scent of ripe fruit drew me to a booth, manned by a stout broad-shouldered fellow with round pink cheeks, shaggy sun-bleached hair and a dark beard. To my astonishment, there among berries and vegetables was a large basket of ripe peaches. I picked one up and inhaled its distinctive sweet fragrance.

“You will find no better peaches in the market, my lord,” said the seller. “Would you like a sampling?” He pulled out a small knife and cut a slice of fruit. Its flavor and texture transported me to the rare occasions I had tasted this fruit in Tharbad when I was a young man.

“Extraordinary!” I exclaimed. “I haven’t eaten a peach in...” I looked into friendly brown mortal eyes and knew I didn’t wish to remind him of the chasm of years between us, “...in quite a long time. These fruit are hard to come by.”

He gave me the rest of the peach. I bit into it with unabashed greed.

“They grow well enough in the dells of the King’s farmlands south of here,” he said. “A fair country, it is, and I am proud to call it my home.”

“Yes, the King’s farmlands. We passed along their eastern border during our journey here, and I had traveled through them before the High King came to these shores, on my way to the Ered Luin. The Blue Mountains, that is,” I said, remembering the words in the vernacular of the Middle Men.

His round cheeks lifted with a broad smile. “That is where my orchards grow. If you rode along the border road, then you were no more than two leagues from my croft.”

“You are a fortunate man. That is beautiful country,” I said, in between bites of peach.

The crofter’s brown eyes twinkled with pleasure at my generous assessment of his homeland.

“There is a tale told among my folk,” he said. “Long ago, the White Lady of your people passed through our lands on her way to the shores of this very lake and blessed the lands where my people now live. Our farms are fertile because of her grace. Now whether that be a fanciful tale or not, my peaches — and apples and pears and cherries — all flourish. Our lady, Queen Isilmë herself, may the One bless her, brought the scions of peaches from Westernesse and gave them to us. They say before that, the Sea-Kings brought them back to Westernesse from the Land of the Dawn.”

“Whatever their origin, they are fine peaches,” I said, after wiping juice from my chin. “This has done more to lift my spirits than a flagon of wine would. I’ll take a dozen.” I reached into the leather wallet on my belt and rummaged around for currency, extracting a few coins. Since I did not have a basket, the man found a scrap of muslin to serve as a sling for the fruit. He added two more peaches to the little pile.

“A little something extra, my lord. These are so ripe that they won’t last much longer. And it’s rare that we see the Fair Folk in our city these days, not since the great march. My son’s off with them in the dark land, you see, with your people and the Men of the West. Many of our lads were eager to go. My Rowan is one of the foot soldiers in Lord Alcarin’s legion. We’ve heard nothing these past ten years. I don’t suppose you’d know of Lord Alcarin’s legion? How they have fared?”

I sifted through my memory for details from Laurefin’s letters or third-hand news that had circulated through Imladris.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know,” I said, watching the man’s open face fall. “But I will ask Master Elrond. Do you have your booth set up here every day?”

“For the next four days then I must return to my land.”

“Then I will return with word for you, Master...”

“Greensheaf. Robin Greensheaf.”

I reached out to clasp his right hand in mine. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Greensheaf. I am Sámaril of Imladris.”

“Likewise, my lord. I’m grateful for, well, for whatever you might find out. Not knowing is so hard on me and my wife.”

“I hope that I may bring you good news. You must hold on to that hope, too.”

“I pray to the One that you are right.” He sighed and looked around the market place. “Before the war, you’d have found twice the folk at this market. Our land has emptied of so many young men, leaving only the young and the old or those like me who must remain and provide, keep things running as it were. Sometimes, I wish I could have marched with them, so glorious, like in the old tales.”

“I understand. Like you, I remained behind, too, although I would have wished it otherwise. I must be on my way, Master Greensheaf. Be assured I will return.”

I bundled the fruit into the muslin cloth and began my walk back to the palace. I ate yet another peach as I ambled along, tossing the pit into the gutter. The street I chose for my journey was narrow and dark from the shadows cast by the tenements that lined it. I heard the voices of children and turning a corner, saw five youngsters playing a game in the street. They rushed about, kicking a battered leather ball amongst themselves. I smiled as I approached them. A little tow-headed boy turned around, his blue eyes bright with merriment. I froze in my tracks.

Angry red scars marred his creamy skin, the unmistakable remnants of fire-pox. Two of the other children bore these marks. With startling speed, last night’s troubling dreams of memory rushed into the forefront of my mind.

~*~

I had been alone in the office I shared with Teretion, where I was working out the calculations for a renovated gear system of the old centrifuge that we used to drive out air from molten alloys poured into casts. The messenger from the Guild of the Heart had knocked on the door.

“Master Sámaril? Lady Culinen wishes to speak with you. She expects you in her office at mid-day.”

“Please tell her I will be there promptly.”

The man nodded once, darting away to deliver his next message. As characteristic of the guild master, Culinen did not add a “if you have time available” or “when it is convenient.” Just that she expected me, and I knew that disregarding her expectation would be perilous.

At mid-day sharp, I stood in the door of the guild master’s office where Culinen squatted down on her heels, rummaging through cabinets and extracting bottles of herbs and powders. I announced myself.

She riveted me, as she always did, with her brilliant blue eyes and arresting features, and, as always, I was made uncomfortable by the fact that the mother of one of my closest friends was so distractingly attractive.

Once, when we attended the First Feast of Yestarë in the Hall of the Míretanor, Mélamírë had caught me admiring her mother whose fitted gown of emerald fabric accentuated her curves. With the interest typical of a young man with strong drives, I stared without thinking. Mélamírë had elbowed me in the ribs, knocking my goblet askew and spilling some wine.

“Ai! My mother? You do like to take risks, my friend!”

“It is nothing. I was simply admiring her new gold hair clasp...”

“Ah, yes. The one my father made for her. You’d best not look at her like that when he’s around!”

Then I sputtered, incoherent as I searched the hall nervously, but Mélamírë just laughed at my distress with devilry in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Sámaril,” she said, patting my arm with reassurance, her expression softening. “I’m just teasing you. You’re hardly the first to look at her like that.” She watched her mother talk to a wide-eyed young woman, an apprentice of the Guild of Corn. The master healer had a knack for making each person she spoke to feel like the most important person in the hall at that moment.

“Tyelperinquar says her eyes are just like the old king’s – like Finwë’s. Not that I would know,” said Mélamírë, taking a sip of wine from her goblet. “I’m also told that she was born with a full head of hair, dark like it is now. On her first day of life, the light of the setting sun fell upon her little head, and her dark hair shone like copper. It reminded my grandfather of the light of the sunset on the deep waters of Lake Helevorn, on whose shores they dwelled. So he named his daughter 'Culinen'.”

The sunlight from the windows of Culinen’s office caught in her curly brown hair, reflecting that distinctive copper fire, when she stood and walked toward me. She wiped her hands on her apron, which still bore faint bloodstains from her work.

“It is good to see you, Sámaril.” She took my hands and leaned forward, turning her face to receive a kiss. “You’ve not been a guest in our house for ages now. I hope that means your courtship of Nierellë is proceeding well?”

“Yes, that is indeed what it means,” I said, after kissing her cheek. “I spend whatever time I can with her when I am not in the forges.”

She released my hands, her expression turning grave. “I summoned you here to take your time away from your beloved, I fear. I have need of your help.”

“What do you require, my lady?” I assumed she might want steel instruments for her craft or new seals for the containers that held her rare medicines.

“I would like you to accompany me to Minhiriath. A contagion of fire-pox has broken out in the settlements of Men and is spreading fast. Tharbad has sent word that they need our assistance. Two of my healers will go, and Istyanis Naryen will ride with me, of course, but I need more hands yet. You have more comfort with Men than many others of our folk. I would have you come with us.”

I hesitated. Although it was true that I was familiar with Men, often mingling with them during those years when I had forged the Rings of Power, I had never witnessed a mortal’s death. I had seen the maimed and the mad, but nothing like this portended.

“I have so much work to do. I don’t think the Istyar will release me from my tasks...”

“That is not an issue. You will be released from your duties.” Her tone assured me this had already been discussed.

“I am...I do not know, my lady.” Shamefully, I searched for excuses, and in the process, stumbled upon a truth. “Men become desperate — and dangerous — in such dire situations.”

“Sámaril, these people are desperate. That is precisely why we must help them. Why else would we be on this Middle-earth with the gifts that have been endowed to us if not to assist our mortal brothers and sisters?” She had fixed me with those eyes again, and in that moment, I understood why so many had followed Finwë.

“Very well. I will go with you to do whatever I can.”

“You have my gratitude. Prepare to leave tonight after sunset. Take only what you absolutely need.”

So I had assisted the great healer of Ost-in-Edhil while she struggled to contain the infection. Tharbad had shut its gates, trying to keep the disease out, but one of their most skilled healers, a man trained in Numenor, defied the quarantine and worked with Culinen. After three weeks, his robust constitution failed. He succumbed to the disease, and we burned his body in a pyre with the other dead.

The people of the villages and rustic settlements in Minhiriath fell to the fire-pox like dry grass before a wild fire. Day after day, night after night, I sat by bedsides which often were no more than a rude pallet on the ground, holding hands, stroking a burning forehead with cloth soaked in cool water, and watched as the disease that had caused me only a day of aches and fever consumed mortal men, women and children. Death had come as a blessing to them, these Middle Men, releasing them from the savagery of the contagion, while we, the Firstborn, did what we could to try to save them or make their passing from the circles of the world easier.

~*~

Fire-pox epidemics had continued to break out now and then in Eriador, but after Sauron’s armies had overrun the land, the contagions became worse. War and plagues devastated the populations of these lands, the specters of disease forever stalking mortal Men. Yet some survived these infections, like these children playing in the street of Annúminas had, likely aided by the medicine brought from Númenor, but they were forever marked by their ordeal. I gathered my wits and noticed the children had stopped playing and stared at me.

“You are an Elf!”

“Yes,” I said. “I am Sámaril, one of Elrond’s folk.”

The tow-headed child stepped forward. “I am Ned.” He looked at the peaches with frank hunger and averted his eyes quickly. Although these children did not appear starved, they had a ragged look about them.

“Would you like a peach, Ned? Any of you?”

Grubby hands reached out eagerly. I gave away all the peaches save for one, which I kept for myself. They immediately began to eat the succulent fruit, juices dripping down their chins. They burbled their thanks in between bites of peach.

I remembered my other purchase from the market.

“Do any of you lads know of someone who could use a hammer and nails?”

One of the boys piped up, “Yes, my da could. He helps Master Bellor the carpenter.”

“Then take these to him.” I pulled the hammer and sack of nails from my belt and extended them in offering to the boy, now wide-eyed.

“An elvish hammer?”

I nearly answered ‘no’ but their wide eyes stopped me.

“I did not craft this hammer, but I will put a little elvish magic in it for your father.”

I passed my hand over the simple tool and spoke a few words of a verse taken from an incantation to Aulë, a translation into my mother tongue from the Dwarven language.

“There,” I said, giving the hammer to the boy. “May this drive nails straight and true.”

I bade them farewell and continued on my way back to the palace, eating my last peach and considering that as fair as Arnor was, there were those among its citizens who still struggled and suffered the ills of mortal Men.

~*~

Not long after I returned to my quarters in the palace, a servant knocked gently on my door. She and another elderly woman brought in a small basin and buckets of hot water as I had requested. They left towels, soap and a vial of sweet almond oil.

With cloth and hot water, I washed myself, the act of cleansing my body taking on a ritualistic quality while I prepared myself for my meeting with the queen. I poured the almond oil onto my palm, rubbed my hands together and smoothed it over my hair, and plaited it tightly. I dressed in the formal clothing I had brought with me, girding myself with belt and courage for what was to come.

The rapping of knuckles fell on the door of my quarters, firmer this time. I opened to door to see Lónando, the Dúnadan knight.

“Queen’s man,” I bowed and then stepped forward to meet him, clasping his right hand with my own in Mannish greeting. “It is good to see you, Lónando, even if the circumstances are sad.”

“Well met, Istyar. I, too, wish our meeting could have been in happier times. You are well? And Master Thornangor?” His fair skin turned pink, belying his memories of his short tryst with Thorno. He smiled with a shyness that was incongruous but somehow charming in such a resolute man.

“Thorno is well,” I said, leaving absent that my friend and colleague had fallen deeply in love with another. “I left the forge in his capable hands.”

He averted his eyes and flushed deeper, perhaps recalling Thorno’s dexterity, but he recovered.

“I am to escort you to the queen.”

“Yes, I am ready,” I said. “How is she?”

Lónando’s face drooped. “She has lost her husband, Istyar. Grief consumes her.”

“Then take me to her.”

Side-by-side we walked along corridors and up flights of stairs. What had started as a cold knot in my guts spread into the consuming numbness of dread as we drew closer to our destination. No matter how I tried to reduce it to abstraction, to the inherent nature of our different fates, and remind myself that death was a natural consequence of the cycles of nature, the mortality of Men still affected me deeply. How would I face my friend’s death, a death that was voluntary at that?  The sickly sweet odor of mortal decay engulfed me, and a brief vision of the towers and domes of Annúminas crumbling to ruin passed before my eyes.

After several twists and turns along bright corridors graced with tapestries and murals, we stopped before double doors of polished wood. Lónando pulled a smooth silver-hued rope and a gentle chime sounded behind the door, which opened shortly thereafter. Lady Vórwen greeted us, her voice husky with sorrow.

“Sir Lónando. Istyar Sámaril. Please, this way.”

She led us through the queen’s apartments toward a door that opened out on to a sunny balcony that overlooked the sparkling waters of the lake.

There on a cushioned chair, surrounded by pots of flowering plants and herbs, sat my friend. Her hair had turned almost all silver now with only a few streaks of black, the furrows by the sides of her mouth had deepened and many new wrinkles crinkled around her eyes, but worst of all, the light of those storm-grey eyes was extinguished. I swallowed my shock at how the smoldering fire of age had burned up her body. In the custom of her people, she rose to her feet, slow but steady, to greet me, her posture no longer straight and tall but stooped.

“Sámaril, my friend, you have come.”

She extended her hands in greeting. The stench of decay nearly overwhelmed me. How could Men not notice it? But this was my friend who stood before me, a woman whom I respected and loved. I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat and took Isilmë’s hands in mine for just a moment before my love and grief banished all revulsion. I fell into her embrace, like a small boy in his mother’s arms, and felt the first of many tears course down my cheeks.

---

Chapter End Notes

"Fire-pox" could be small pox or the disease might be measles. At any rate, it's a nasty contagious viral disease. Also, in my view as a life scientist, because Elves are human and have the same receptors, enzymes, metabolic pathways -- in short nearly identical physiology -- as Men, they can still suffer some degree of illness from infectious agents, but their extremely effective (but tightly controlled) immune systems and their more fully integrated control of their minds over their bodies allows them to recover quickly from what would kill a Man.

Glossary:

Falmarindi (Quenya): water nymphs.
Míretanor (Q.) Jewel-smiths
Yestarë (Q.) First day of the Elvish solar year.
Minhiriath (Sindarin) is the region of Eriador that is bordered by the Greyflood and Brandywine Rivers and the seacoast.

Characters:

Culinen – Mélamírë’s mother; healer and guild master of Ost-in-Edhil.
Mélamírë (Istyanis Náryen) – master smith of the Otornassë Mírëtanoron/Gwaith-i-Mírdain; Sámaril’s friend and Thorno’s mentor.

Isilmë – high queen of the Dúnedain, Elendil’s wife.
Elerína – co-queen (in exile) of Gondor, Isildur’s wife.
Vórwen – Lady-in-waiting to Elerína and Isilmë.
Lónando – Dúnadan; Queen’s knight.

Chapter 20: Death of a Númenórean

Sámaril bids farewell to Isilmë and later meets the keeper of the palantír of Annúminas, a man who once worked under Annatar's guidance in Númenor.

~~~~~

Many thanks to Drummerwench, oshun, Jael and Moreth (The Lizard Council) for critique and comments.

A few characters are listed in end notes (see also Appendix). Also in the end notes is an excerpt from The Lost Road, Vol V. of The History of Middle-earth which provides context for the conversation between Sámaril and the old engineer smith.

Read Chapter 20: Death of a Númenórean

After dismissing Lady Vorwen and Sir Lónando, Isilmë then waved me off when I tried to pour glasses of wine for us. The infirmity of age had not stripped her of her independence. She reached for the glass carafe that sat on a small low table before her, and steadily poured white wine into two crystal glasses. Her hands did not shake, but her movements were slow and deliberate, as if she exerted intense control over her body. I took the glass from her, and she raised hers, the sunlight sparkling gold-green in the liquid.

“To friendship,” she said.

“To friendship.” I returned her salute and sipped the cool wine, its fragrance redolent of grass and spices and its flavor crisp and dry.

A sword of sunlight glittered on the lake’s blue water; black specks of boats bobbed in the distance. A flock of gulls wheeled over the lake, but while I watched, a streak of grey and white shattered their formation. Almost as fast as thought, Fániel the peregrine dove to the balcony, landing on the iron bar of the perch set into the stone of the balustrade. The falcon preened herself briefly then eyed me, bobbing her head.

“Your old friend has come to say hello to you,” said Isilmë. I stood and went over to the bird, whose obsidian eyes were as bright as they were when I first stroked her breast feathers and let her nibble on my finger eight years ago.

“Fániel visits me every day when she is not wrecking havoc among the gulls.”

“Just as her granddaughter wrecks havoc among the wood pigeons in Imladris,” I said.

Isilmë smiled, her skin crinkling into a thousand cracks, disconcerting in one whose blood still bore the echoes of the Firstborn and the Maiar.

“That would be Pilin. I am so glad that Valandil brought his falcon and his hound so that I might meet them! He is such a fine boy. His love for you shines, Istyar, and you have done so much for him. His father owes you a debt of gratitude. I have told Isildur as much.”

“My affection for Valandil comes as easily as breath.”

“I am glad to hear that. I am also glad that you are here. I realized this might be hard for you. I was not certain if you would come.”

“I would not have done otherwise, my lady. I am honored that you wished to see me. I am also sorry that I did not come to Annúminas sooner. The passage of time often escapes me.”

“There is no need for apology,” she said. “I savored every moment that I lived with you and the Fair Folk in Imladris. It was quite an experience, like living in a dream yet so intensely real. I am grateful that we forged such a friendship so quickly. I would never have expected that from one of the Firstborn. Sometimes, it feels like you and I share a kinship.”

“I have felt the same way, my lady. Whatever it is that connects us, I will always cherish the friendship that blossomed from it.”

She reached from her chair, taking my right hand in her left, and looked deep into my eyes. “It is with love for you that I say this: I hope you find peace and can resolve that which troubles you from within. I will soon leave my earthly cares behind. You, I fear, cannot escape yours so easily.”

“I cannot,” I said, squeezing her hand gently. “But the memories of good people who have been part of my life, whether through the long years or just a short time, ease my troubles.”

We sat quietly for a time, our hands clasped, watching the lake. The peregrine fluffed out her feathers, her eyes half-lidded. Then Isilmë spoke again.

“I said farewell to Isildur through the palantir. He understands that I have not the strength to rule until his return. He has named Lord Vorondil as steward until he returns to take up the scepter of the High King.”

“Lord Vorondil seems a capable man,” I said. “What of Lord Anardil?” I had not forgotten what Isilmë had told me about this ambitious nobleman and her fear that he might harm Valandil.

“Ah, Lord Anardil," she said, her smile sly. "Isildur, in his wisdom, listened to his old mother’s advice, even when his sire did not. He has named Anardil the duke of the province of Rhudaur. A number of Lord Anardil’s loyal retainers have been honored with similar appointments in our northern territory.”

I nearly spit wine from my mouth.

“Rhudaur? There’s nothing but rocky fells and pine forest there. And trolls.”

“Quite a few orc-nests, too,” she said dryly. “I am sure Lord Anardil will do a fine job of bringing it all under control.”

“And well-removed from Annúminas. A brilliant maneuver, my lady.”

She bowed her head graciously. “Thank you, Istyar. I never thought you were one to appreciate politics.”

“Perhaps not its finer points, but I cannot help but recognize fine craftsmanship when I see it.” I raised my glass again to her and took a long drink. “When will Isildur return?”

“Not for another year at least. He will remain in Gondor to instruct Meneldil, which I believe is wise. But his return is not as soon as his wife would like, I fear.” She sighed. “Elerína is not Erendis, thank the One, but my son’s long absences have caused difficulties on occasion. That is their challenge to meet.” She sipped her wine and changed the subject.

“I thought you might like to know that I have bequeathed my sword to Surien, Elendur and Irimë’s eldest, and have requested that the sword should be passed along to the eldest daughter of our house.”

“A most suitable choice,” I said, smiling as I remembered Surien, a vigorous and outspoken young woman who had left Imladris a few years ago to join her grandmother here in Annúminas, but not until she had enticed a couple of the Silvan men to ride with her out on the moors, and -- I was convinced -- to ride her in secluded groves of the valley.

“Isn’t it though?” Isilmë laughed. “Surien is such a firebrand, a true warrior of Haleth!”

“The Istyanis would have been pleased to know that her sword has been passed on to such a woman.” And how appropriate, I thought to myself, given the connection of Mélamírë’s grandsire to the founder of the House of Haleth.

“Surien would be such a fine queen, if this were the rule of our people. I am merely a steward when it comes down to it.”

“As I have said before, my lady, there is nothing ‘mere’ about you.”

“Thank you, Sámaril.” She squeezed my hand and then met my eyes, with just a hint of the old light in hers. “Three hundred and twelve years I have seen on this earth, but I am ready to leave it. First the downfall of my people and our homeland, and then Anárion’s death. Now my beloved has gone on without me. Even when we were apart – when Elendil took to the sea or off to war -- I always felt his presence with me. That is gone now. He has flown beyond the circles of the world."

"I'm sorry, Isilmë." I squeezed her hand gently again, trying to convey my sympathy for her through simple touch.

"I must follow him." She paused, her voice catching with uncertainty, but she raised her chin, and continued, now with conviction. "I intend to give up my life the day after tomorrow. I wish you to be there when I leave to join my Elendil.”

I did not hesitate with my answer to her invitation to be present at such an intimate moment, my revulsion vanquished now that I saw Isilmë’s acceptance of death and her yearning to join her beloved beyond the confines of the world.

“You humble me with your grace, my lady queen. I will be there.”

~*~

The sun sank into the west when we gathered in Isilmë’s chambers. A wide columned bed of dark wood dominated the room. The queen lay against white pillows on that bed with a lace coverlet over her. I stood back by Lord Vorondil and Elrond while Valandil and the women of the House of Elendil gathered around her. But it was Elerína who sat on the bed beside her mother-by-marriage, holding her hand. Soft words of farewell had been spoken amidst subdued weeping. Elrond’s face was immobile, but I saw the tears in his eyes that matched those welling up in mine.

The light streaming through the open doors to the adjoining balcony turned golden-red. The queen closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Her brows knitted in concentration when she triggered the gift to the high-blooded Númenóreans, setting in motion the cascade of events in her body that would cease her life. Her breathing slowed, becoming shallow and strained as death took her, step by step. The sun sank low in the western sky until its copper light fell across her face, illuminating it with extraordinary beauty. Her eyes fluttered open, and she exclaimed, her voice rasping with her last breath but full of joy:

“My love!”

Then she was gone.

Weeping became audible among the women. Elerína passed her hand over the dead woman’s face and closed her eyes. I walked away with my grief outside to the balcony where Fániel perched on the iron bar. She bobbed her head, her black eyes glinting. With the sharp snap of wings, she took flight. I watched the black silhouette of the falcon fly straight and true into the red light of the sunset, never to be seen again.

~*~

The death of a Númenórean, I discovered, entailed great ceremony. Among Elendil’s people were embalmers of surpassing skill, practitioners of an art alien to my folk who buried our dead beneath cairns or under layers of soil, exposed so that the earth would consume them rapidly. Isilmë’s body was subjected to mysterious procedures to forestall decay and laid out on a bier in the Hall of the King where the folk of Arnor filed in to pay their last respects to their queen. Summer flowers and other small offerings piled higher and higher around the bier as the morning progressed.

Many words were spoken in the King’s Hall that morning, eulogizing the queen. I listened rapt as speaker after speaker recounted her courage during the last days of Númenor and her resourcefulness when the ships were driven upon these shores. At the last, Elerína, clad in the dove-grey robes of mourning, walked to the podium where she recited the words of an ancient poet of Númenor:

I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms,
hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless.

No more sailing from harbor to harbor with this my weather-beaten boat.
The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves.

And now I am eager to die into the deathless.

Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss
where swells up the music of toneless strings
I shall take this harp of my life.

I shall tune it to the notes of forever,
and when it has sobbed out its last utterance,
lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent.

Then Elerína walked to the bier where she lifted a long strand of Isilmë’s hair and cut it with a silver knife. She then leaned over and kissed her the white brow of her mother-by-marriage and joined her family. Six tall men – the queen’s knights -- stepped forward and lifted her body on the pallet. Elerína, escorted by Elrond, and her family followed the knights. I joined the others who trailed behind as the queen’s body was carried along a stone-paved path lined with cultivated pines to the Hallows. We entered the solemn but beautiful domed building of white and black marble where Isilmë’s body was interred in a crypt and left in the silence of the dead.

Many gathered in the dining hall of the palace afterward, eating and drinking while a harpist and a flautist provided understated music as a backdrop. From a quiet corner of the hall, I watched the members of the court and the nobility from the surrounding lands pay their respects to Elerína and Valandil. It was odd for me, an elf, to see these mortals engaged in something that seemed like celebration after a death. I stood apart, watching the others, some at the edge of tears, some with guarded expressions, but many smiling as they recalled Isilmë.

Elrond stood by Elerína and Valandil, taking his position as guardian of the line of Elendil to heart. The Fall of Númenor and now Elendil’s death had shaken the dynasty of his brother. Elrond knew all too well how quickly families and their lineage could disintegrate among the Firstborn. It was no different for Men.

A tall man with a neatly trimmed beard and grey-peppered hair moved along the line, his robes black as night and trimmed in silver. Every one of his gestures was graceful yet calculated. Elerína accepted a kiss on her hand from him, but her expression remained bland. When the man bowed his head to Valandil, Elrond placed his hand protectively on the boy’s shoulder.

He must be Lord Anardil, I thought, judging from Elrond’s cool gaze and tight-lipped expression when he spoke to the nobleman. Proud Anardil, soon to be our neighbor in the rugged land to our north, flinched slightly under Elrond’s scrutiny, appropriate that he should, given that along with the master of Imladris’  kindness came a fierce courage born from hardship and a mind that grasped far more complex political machinations than Anardil’s ambition.

Valandil looked overwhelmed by it all, but he caught my eye and smiled wanly. I winked back at him, recalling our short conversation when we had filed into the hall after the interment. He had come up beside me and taken my hand in his, looking up at me with those sky-blue eyes.

“Do you think we could go fishing later, Istyar? Grandmama said there are many fish in the lake.”

“Yes, let’s do that.” I had squeezed his hand in return. “We can fish and think of your grandmama. I think she would like that.”

Standing in stiff formal robes in the receiving line, Valandil shifted from foot-to-foot restlessly. I knew he would rather be out on the lake fishing than accepting condolences from people he did not know or who, in spite of fair words, did not truly wish him well. Elrond leaned over and whispered something to the boy who looked up at his distant kinsman and smiled with an expression of relief. I found myself once again envying Elrond’s familial connection to the young prince.

A shuffling noise drew my attention away from the others in the hall. A man shrouded in midnight-blue robes, his hood drawn up over his head, limped toward me. I wondered if this man was so shrouded because he was immersed in mourning. A deep warm voice spoke from the shadows of the hood.

“Pardon me, my lord, but if I may ask, are you Istyar Sámaril?”

“I am.”

“Ah! I thought so! Well met then.” He kept his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his robes. “I daresay you do not remember me, but I saw you briefly when you repaired the palantíri.”

“I must apologize,” I said, “because I can’t say that I recall your presence. I was drained by that experience.”

“Whatever you did, we are grateful.” He shifted his head a bit so that I could see the glint of bright eyes beneath his hood, but his face remained dim in the shadow.

“The queen suggested that I seek you out and introduce myself.” He then extended gnarled scarred hands from beneath the voluminous sleeves and drew back his hood. It took strength for me not to recoil from what I saw.

Although the left side of his face had the normal skin of mortal age and the chiseled bone structure characteristic of the Númenórean nobility, the right side was a contorted mass of scar tissue. Miraculously, his right eye was intact.

“I am Finion, master of the palantir of Annúminas.”

“Well met, Master Finion.” I struggled to keep my eyes locked with his.

“It’s all right, Istyar. I know I am a grisly sight. But I believe the queen wanted me to tell you how I came to be this way. It might be better if we stepped outside.” He gestured to the terrace that looked out over the lake. I offered to get a glass of wine for him, but he refused.

“Thank you, but no, I do not drink these days. Burns my stomach something fierce.”

He shuffled beside me while we made our way to the terrace overlooking the lake. We sat side-by-side on a white marble bench. Only a few boats bobbed far away on its waters. The breeze carried the faint resinous scent of the dark pine forest that covered the hills surrounding the shores of the lake.

“Not quite the sea,” said Finion, gazing out over the lake. “I miss it, but many here do not. The flight from Rómenna was terrifying. We were lucky to have survived.”

“By the grace of the Valar, they say.”

He snorted. “More likely we survived in spite of them, thanks to our sturdy ships and brave sailors!”

“I suppose one shouldn’t cross the gods,” I said while I looked over the lake toward the blue sky, dotted with flocculent clouds, wondering how many times I had crossed the Valar’s will.

“Indeed not, if that’s what the Valar are.”

“You sound like you have your doubts.”

“I do,” said the old exile, “but I am not wise enough to speculate on what their true nature is. There was another I knew, one who dared to speak against the gods, challenging them. Much of what he said was pure manipulation, but sometimes, I think, there were glimmers of truth peeking out from behind his veil of lies.”

I stared at him, forgetting his disfigurement entirely. “You speak of the Deceiver.”

“Yes. Annatar. The queen said...” He broke our locked gaze momentarily, looking out over the lake, but met my eyes again with a strangely welcome directness. “She said you had familiarity with him.”

“I did.”

“Ah. A less voluble answer than I’d expect from one whose race takes such pride in their word craft. Well, then I will open up to you. Before I turned to the gentler arts of the palantíri, I worked under his guidance in the shipyards of Rómenna. I was the chief smith of engines.”

“Engines?” I focused my entire attention on the man, but he did not blanch. “What manner of engines? I would have you tell me more, if you please.”

“If I please?” He brightened like a thirsty man drinking cool water after days of heat. “I am more than eager, Istyar. I haven’t spoken to anyone about this since…well, since we were washed up on these shores.”

He then began to describe a form of curwë with which I had familiarity from the valves I had created for the pressurized furnaces in Ost-in-Edhil. But here, valves were used to control pressures that were harnessed to drive great engines.

“Yes, yes, a piston in a cylinder!” he exclaimed in response to my eager questions. “That in turn is attached to a crankshaft and that to a flywheel…”

He held forth with me as his doting audience while he explained the details of the engines, sketching out forms and movements in the air to illustrate the mechanisms.

“Amazing. How did you use these engines?”

He hesitated. “They powered steel-hulled war ships. These were the pride of Ar-Pharazôn’s fleet.”

“I see. Your arts were turned toward war and domination.” I was swiftly coming to realize how much this old craftsman and I might have in common. “Still, those engines...their design and mechanism must have been elegant with their own kind of beauty.”

He looked at me with shock. “I have never heard anyone other than a few of my colleagues of Númenor say such, let alone an elf. Elendil loathed them, but then they represented what he despised: Ar-Pharazôn’s unbridled pride, inflamed by the Deceiver. Isilmë though...she always saw things a little differently. She was my cousin, you understand. She made sure I was on her ship before the eruption. Otherwise I would be crumbs for the fish at the bottom of the ocean.

“Once when I visited her in Rómenna, we stood on the cliffs and watched one of Sauron’s ships pass by.

“‘Elendil hates them,’ she told me. ‘He loves our wooden sailing ships. I must say that your steam ships are not lovely. But they could be. What if they were crafted for trade or even for pleasure instead of war? With a graceful design?’

“That was often how she looked at things, turning what might be ugly to beauty in a different light. Yet she could never do that for Annatar even after what happened to me. She always tried to understand my conflict, but once she met you, I think she believed she had found one who could understand me.”

“Tell me what happened, Finion.”

“The day the boiler exploded, Annatar was in the workshop. He was the only one who kept his wits about him and was swift enough to pull me away from the cloud of steam before it engulfed me. The pain from the burns was agonizing, but somehow, he reached into my mind, calming me. He took the pain away. He saved the sight of my right eye. More than that, he saved my life, Istyar. It may be that he did this only because I was one of his more skillful workers, but still...”

“Why did you serve him?” I interrupted him. “You knew what he was.”

“I worked with Annatar for the same reason you did -- for what I might learn from him. His knowledge was immense. Irresistible. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, I understand all too well.”

“Then perhaps you understand my remorse. I was so driven to learn that I took up my lot with the one who inflicted such evil in our land and here in Middle-earth. However, I was not entirely discouraged in taking this path by my kinfolk. I remained one of the Faithful, keeping that secret, and was thus able to pass information to Lord Amandil.

“I was instrumental in creating the ships that let Ar-Pharazôn assault Valinor and bring ruin upon our people. And yet...” Finion’s voice caught. “And yet Annatar could have let me die an agonizing death. But he did not. He even came to visit me while I recovered, making sure I wanted for nothing. How is it that one who worked such great evil among my people was still capable of kindness? I hate him for what he did to my people, to my land, but I am also grateful to him for saving my life. I feel terribly guilty for that.”

I placed my hand on his shoulder, still hard with the remnants of strength from his days of smith work. “Finion, I hate him, too, with all my heart and all my being. He destroyed my family and my home. But I also remember the useful things I learned from him. As you say, his gestures of kindness were likely self-serving, but I can’t be certain all of them were. So, yes, I understand you.”

He clasped his scarred hand over mine, his keen eyes in his old face now rheumy with tears. “Thank you. I never thought I would have this conversation with anyone else.”

“I suggest we continue our conversation, Loremaster, although on other subjects if we are to join the others for the funeral feast. I would be honored if you would join me.”

“The honor is mine.”

Finion and I spent the rest of that day and into the evening immersed in conversation. We sat apart, barely eating and drinking while we spoke. As the afternoon lengthened, we were the only two in the hall, save for a few servants who cleaned the tables and swept the floor.

“You have not told me of your work under Annatar’s guidance, the work that troubles you so, just like the steam engines trouble me.”

“I cannot tell you. At least your invention has the capacity to be turned to good, like Isilmë said. Mine never will.”

Evening turned into night. Finion suggested that we ascend the tower so we could look out over the lake at the stars and rising moon.

He took the winding stairs at a slow pace while I followed, alert in case he might stumble, but in spite of his limp, his steps were sure in the dim light. We reached a closed door at the uppermost floor. Finairon, panting, reached into a side pocket of his robes, extracted a silver key and unlocked the door.

We walked through the chamber that housed the palantír, which lay dark and quiescent on its stone platform, and out to the balcony encircling the highest level of the tower. The moon rose full in the east, bathing the lake with silver. From far below, I heard singing. Glimmers of lamplight wound through the street far below and made their way onto the docks. A group of six women walked with measured steps together, their voices half-chanting, half-singing in a language I did not know, although I could make out words that sounded like Adûnaic and the most primitive elven-tongue.

“Who are they? And what are they doing?”

“They are the devotees to Rana, the Moon,” replied Finion. “The worship of Rana is one of Men’s most ancient beliefs, one that we held long before we met your people or even before the Dark One found us. Men have pushed aside Rana, but the women still keep her close. Now they mourn the passing of one of their own: Isilmë."

Their leader, clad in white robes that reflected the moonlight, turned when they reached the docks where a silver-sheened boat was tied. I recognized Elerína. The women slowly climbed into the boat, four of them taking the oars, one woman standing at the stern holding the rudder, and Elerína standing at the bow. The boat slipped away from the quay, the women rowing in silence toward one of the islands in the middle of the lake.

“There is a grove sanctified to Rana on that island,” said Finion. “In the most ancient times, they would have borne the queen’s body to the grove and burned it on a pyre. But in these civilized days, they will take a lock of her hair and sacrifice it to the sacred flame, sending her essence back to Rana.”

“Devoted to the moon,” I said to myself, recalling Elerína’s words and the standard of Isilmë with the phases of the moon. More pieces of the puzzle came together. Yet what I saw that night added more layers of mystery on the mortal woman who stood at the bow of the boat receding from the docks, a woman whom I did not wish to find so enticing. The pale boat slid across the silver water like a great swan toward the dark island. A song in an ancient language drifted to the Moon, a song of supplication and mourning.

The next day, Finion sought me out in my quarters. I invited him in where he sat down with a huff on a settee in the little parlor, taking the cup of tea that I poured for him. He handed a brass-studded leather cylinder to me.

“Go on. Open it and have a look.”

I extracted a tightly rolled scroll and opened it to see the detailed schematics of a steam engine. It was not beautiful like a jewel or a precisely curved blade, but it was breathtaking all the same.

“That’s the only drawing of such a device in these lands,” he said. “As far as I know.”

“This is extraordinary, but I cannot take your only plans for the engine. Even if I wanted to, I haven’t the resources to build such a device.” I did not add that I knew Elrond would not be inclined to countenance such a project.

“No, I want you to have this, whatever you choose to do with it. I am not much longer for this world, Istyar. The crab eats at my guts. I will be dead before Mettarë. Take it and remember me.”

~*~

I had one more errand before I left the city by the lake. I found Elrond on the balcony of his suite taking his breakfast on a bright morning two days before we were to depart. When I had asked Elrond of Lord Alcarin’s legion, he shook his head, new grief clouding his clear slate-blue eyes.

“They all fell before the Morannon. To a man.”

I took my leave and left the palace, walking to the marketplace to tell a shaggy-haired farmer that his son would not return to the green fields of his homeland.

---

Chapter End Notes

~~~~~
Characters:

Surien - eldest daughter of Elendur (Isildur's eldest son) and Irimë.
Lord Anardil - nobleman of Elendil's court with regal ambitions. He was mentioned previously in Chapter 10.
Finion - keeper of the palantír of Annúminas; former chief smith of the engine works in Rómenna.

To put Isilmë's remark that Elerína is no Erendis in context, see "Aldarion and Erendis: The Mariner's Wife" in Unfinished Tales.

The poem that Elerína recites is “Ocean of Forms” by Rabindranath Tagore.

With regard to the steam engines, this excerpt from The Lost Road (vol. V of The History of Middle-earth) inspired the discussion between Sámaril & Finion. Here, "Herendil" (the earlier predecessor of Isildur) speaks to his father, Elendil:

And behold what hath happened since, step by step. At first (Sauron) revealed only secrets of craft, and taught the making of many things powerful and wonderful; and they seemed good. Our ships go now without the wind, and many are made of metal that sheareth hidden rocks, and they sink not in calm or storm; but they are no longer fair to look upon. Our towers grow ever stronger and climb ever higher, but beauty they leave behind upon earth. We who have no foes are embattled with impregnable fortresses - and mostly on the West. Our arms are multiplied as if for an agelong war, and men are ceasing to give love or care to the making of other things for use or delight. But our shields are impenetrable, our swords cannot be withstood, our darts are like thunder and pass over leagues unerring. Where are our enemies? We have begun to slay one another. For Numenor now seems narrow, that was so large. Men covet, therefore, the lands that other families have long possessed. They fret as men in chains.

Wherefore Sauron hath preached deliverance; he has bidden our king to stretch forth his hand to Empire. Yesterday it was over the East. Tomorrow it will be over the West.

To me, that passage rings with modernisms: the ships, the towers (skyscrapers? I think Louis Sullivan might beg to differ that beauty was left behind when high towers were built) and darts like thunder (sounds like ballistics of some sort to me). So Sauron apparently incited the birth of the military-industrial complex.

Chapter 21: Songs of Returning

The first year of the Third Age finds Sámaril saying farewell to Midhloth and welcoming the returning Firstborn to Imladris. Erestor brings back more materials for Sámaril's planned -- and secret -- project. Later, Glorfindel shows Sámaril what he discovered in Sauron's inner chambers of the Barad-dûr.

Thanks to The Lizard Council, specifically Drummerwench, Jael, Claudio, Moreth and oshun, for critique and comments.

Read Chapter 21: Songs of Returning

The first year of the new age came quietly to the valley, unfurling on new green leaves and sighing on the winds over the moor. We sang the hymns of loa at the turning of the year, some looking ahead to the new age, but many looking back with resignation, knowing that fewer of our people now lifted their voices under the stars. It was a year of returning for many: some back to their homelands under the great trees of Eryn Galen, others at last forsaking Middle-earth, and still others returning to Imladris.

In late spring, after the high pass opened, five riders came to Imladris. Compact Silvan men guided their small graceful horses that trotted down the path with steps as sure as those of mountain goats. Galfaron’s dogs barked while Nella, along with the other wolfhounds, loped out into the court before the House of Elrond to greet these strangers.

Thorno stood by me while I watched the arrivals from our vantage point by the forge. Members of the household came out to greet the Silvans. Midhloth flew down the steps and into the arms of one of the men, his nut-brown hair whipped wild by the spring breeze. Then they kissed, long and deep. A whirlwind of emotions stirred within me -- disappointment, envy, but also relief -- while I witnessed my sometime lover in the arms of another.

Thorno’s strong arm, comforting and solid, reached around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, old man.”

The next day, Midhloth knocked on the doorjamb of my office.

“Please, sit down,” I said, standing and pulling a chair up for her. She smoothed her skirt and apron around her legs and settled on the wooden seat. “What brings you here? You usually don’t have much interest in my golodhren crafts.”

She smiled but twisted her hands in her lap.

“I have...” She paused, her eyes lowered at first, but then she looked at me directly. “Istyar, I have come to tell you that I will be leaving Imladris. I intend to return to Eryn Galen. I have already asked Master Elrond, and he has given me leave.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose you have missed your home.” A flat and uninspired response, but I could not articulate my mixed feelings over her announcement.

“That I have, but there is more to it than that.” She fidgeted in the chair. “I have news...joyful news. My beloved has asked me to marry him.”

“Marry? I – well, congratulations, Midhloth.”

“Thank you, Istyar. I am relieved to hear you say that after what…” Her lips lifted in a sly half-moon. “...after what you and I have shared.”

I memorized her delicate features while I thought of a response. I would miss that devious smile, those forest-sprite eyes and her lively enthusiasm in my bed, but in my heart, I did not love her, and she knew that.

“Midhloth, I cherish your company, but I am happy for you. You deserve more than the occasional attention of a churlish lachenn.”

“You are not so churlish, Sámaril, although you like to think that you are.”

“When will you leave?”

“Tomorrow evening when the first stars shine.”

“So soon?”

“Yes, Elunir wishes to return home as soon as we can while the weather is fair.”

“I see.” Then my jumble of thoughts coalesced into a single clear idea. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“I...” She blushed. “I am sorry but I cannot...well, I am betrothed now.”

“No, no, it is nothing like that! I’d find Silvan flint at my throat if I took such liberties with you!” I laughed, but uncomfortably. “Tell me...who are the greatest woodsmen among your kindred?”

“It is difficult to name the greatest, Istyar. Most of our people speak to the trees, but my great-uncle Galion is among those who know the most of Eryn Galen’s forest.”

“Would Master Galion know where the Ashes of the Stars grow?”

“Yes, Galion knows.”

“I have need of that wood. Would you carry a letter with such a request to him on my behalf?”

“Yes, I can do that, Istyar, but he will not part with that wood so readily to a golodh. The Ashes of the Stars are beloved by my people. To use the trees’ wood requires offerings to the dryads who tend the groves.”

I pulled open a drawer of my desk and reached deep inside to extract a small chest. Casting my will into the wood, I unsealed it, and lifted out a leather pouch. I poured out its contents: gold coins and trinkets jangled onto my desktop.

“Perhaps some golodhren gold would persuade him? He can make a generous offering to the dryads for taking their beloved wood.”

“That might catch his attention and the dryads’ as well.” Her eyes danced with merriment.

“As it might catch yours.” A delicate golden necklace with a green-enameled pendant lay in my palm. I rose from my chair and handed it to her. The thin chain slid through her tapered fingers as she admired the pendant, which I had shaped in the likeness of a birch leaf.

“For your trouble of taking my request to your kinsman,” I said. “And this is for your husband-to-be. He is a lucky man.” I placed a heavier leaf-shaped brooch, which matched her pendant, in her outstretched hand. “Thank you for keeping me warm when my spirit threatened to freeze. I will always hold your affection dear. I am sorry that I could offer you no more than I did, little leaf.”

She smiled and turned away from me, lifting the silky fall of her hair so that I could clasp the chain around her neck. She turned around to face me again.

“Thank you, Istyar. You gave me enough. I enjoyed keeping you from freezing, but I think the warmth you truly desire remains out of your grasp. You must make peace with that somehow, my friend.”

Midhloth rose on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. Before she crossed the door’s threshold, she gave me the parting gift of her sprite’s smile and singing a woodland song, she danced joyfully out of my life.

~*~

Spring swelled into summer, its warm breezes light and the rainfall gentle while thunder rolled over the moors. Strawberries, blackberries and plums ripened in lush abundance. The roses and lilies in the gardens did not wilt. Grapes ripened to perfection on the vine as the sun marched toward the equinox. Leaves blazed yellow and crimson but clung to the trees long into the autumn. The river ran fast, but the currents of time had changed subtly. Vilya was at work.

Valandil was hard at work, too. Elrond took his role as mentor and kinsman to heart, instructing the boy daily in the long histories of the Dúnedain and of Númenor. After he finished his lessons with Elrond, Val would rush into my office, workshop or even into the forge itself to seek me out, barreling into me with the brusque strength of what he believed to be a manly embrace, but revealing his abiding need for my affection.

“Memorizing those long lists of names is so hard!” He complained while I walked with him to the woodwright’s shop where Val was working on a project. “It’s a surprise,” he had said, something that he could not share with me. Calaquar had winked at me when Val had made this announcement, both of us pleased that Valandil had come to trust the master woodwright’s instruction and company.

“I like the way you and Master Calaquar and Master Galfaron teach me,” he nattered. “I think I learn better when I put something in my hands or see examples. All those kings and princes and wars! I know I must learn them, but I can’t say that I like it much or that I am very good at it.”

“Well, you are a king’s son now,” I said, putting my arm over his boy’s bony shoulders, marveling at how much taller he was than last year at this time. “You are expected to know your lineage.”

“I am a king’s fourth son,” he said. “Let Elendur learn all those names. He will be the king one day, not me. That is not what I want to do. I want to know the lore of nature. Now that, I can do!”

It was with exuberance that Valandil rode with Galfaron on a crisp bright day in Narquelië, released from his day’s lessons and relishing the freedom of the hunt. Lady Vorwen, an avid huntress, rode her dark gelding near Galfaron, but Elerína and I observed from another vantage point, content to watch them pursue grouse.

We sat side-by-side on a stone outcropping, warmed by the sun. Our horses stood nearby, nipping at a few late season shoots. We watched Pilin dive toward the heather while Galfaron’s bird dogs watched the falcon intently, waiting for the signal from Galfaron. The falcon slammed into the fleeing grouse. Galfaron’s whistle sliced the air, and the dogs went charging toward the downed game bird and the raptor. Pilin waited calmly for the dogs, grasping the dead grouse in her talons.

I turned toward Elerína, who looked down at the hunters with a half-smile on her face.

“Shall we join them?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I’m enjoying it here. Such a beautiful view. Sometimes the moor reminds me of the sea.”

“Isilmë said that once.”

Elerina’s grin blossomed into an open smile which she turned toward me.

“Did she? That sounds like my dear Isilmë.”

“I am glad to hear you say that.”

“Why is that, Istyar?”

“You are not as sad when you speak of her lately.”

“You’re right. My memories of my mother-by-marriage have become brighter of late. It has been over a year since her death. I will always miss her, but time mellows the sharpest pains of loss.”

“You are lucky that way. The memories of my losses still cut like a knife.”

She looked at me with such pity then that I felt ashamed for speaking of such an emotional subject.

“Is it like that for you when you think of her, of your wife?”

“Nierellë,” I said, naming her, and trying to drive out of my mind that the color of her eyes was almost identical to Elerina’s. “Yes. The pain stabs me.”

“She may yet await you in the West. Why don’t you seek the Straight Road of your people?”

“As I have told you before, I do not think they will not welcome me in the Blessed Lands.”

“Do you bear the curse of the Oath?”

“No, but yes, in a way. Perhaps I bear that curse from association. Or something else is at work.”

“From him then. From the Deceiver.”

“Yes. From him.”

I could say no more, but Elerína did not press me. Instead she reached across the rock and put her hand over mine. I didn’t look but from her warm touch, I could picture her slender fingers and fine-boned hand over my larger one, nearly a third again bigger than hers. I turned my hand over and returned her gesture, squeezing her hand quickly, then releasing it and placing my hand with propriety on my own knee. We sat in companionable silence, the sound of the dogs and the voices of Galfaron, Vorwen and Valandil carrying up the hill.

I glanced at my friend’s profile: the smooth line of her forehead, a high-bridged nose, long dark lashes shielding her blue eyes and curved rosy lips, her upper lip a little fuller than the lower. Loose strands of her brown hair whipped around in the wind. My heartbeat quickened until I willed it to a cool steady cadence again. She is my friend, I repeated to myself, stilling my body’s desire. I wondered how much longer I could endure this and found myself hoping that Isildur would return soon and take his wife away to Annúminas, but at the same time, I dreaded her inevitable departure.

The clear call of a horn interrupted my ruminations. I sprang to my feet, looking off to the edge of the hill where the earthen road snaked through gorse, grass and heather to meet the sky. Dark silhouettes of riders emerged from over the hill. Shading my eyes from the afternoon sunlight, I saw the glitter of spears and midnight blue and green standards waving in the wind with silver and gold shining from the heraldry embroidered on their fabric. Voices raised in song could be heard in the distance.

“Who is it?”

I reached down to grasp Elerina’s hand and help her to her feet.

“The lords of Imladris have returned.” I said.

That was hyperbole, of course, but then, my people were prone to such poetic exaggeration. Only Laurefin could lay claim to a title, although he deemed it superfluous, but there was no doubt Erestor was a lordly man.

I watched Laurefin and Erestor approach, leading the contingent of the Firstborn who returned to Imladris. They rode side-by-side, day and night, sun and shadow. More riders and foot soldiers emerged from over the rise, forming a long line. They all sang an elven-warrior’s song of return, a song far older than I, and one that did not extol victory but sang of loss and parting. Erestor’s clear tenor carried the heartbreaking melody. Every time I heard him sing, I wondered if his voice echoed that of Maglor, whom he had served for so long.

In spite of the sorrow in verse and melody, smiles flashed among the men, including the leaders, as they approached Galfaron, Vorwen and Valandil. Pilin chattered while she spiraled above. A sharp whistle pierced the air. The falcon dove toward the company, spreading her wings to alight on the leather vambrace covering Erestor’s outstretched arm.

I held the reins of Elerina’s mare while she lifted herself onto the saddle. She hesitated, staring at Erestor and Laurefin while I waited for her to ride ahead.

“Go on. I will follow.”

“I know. It’s just that they are...they are so regal, Sámaril. They have always intimidated me.” The apprehension in her face startled me.

“My friend, you are the High Queen of the Dúnedain, not a callow maiden. Erestor and Glorfindel are affable, courteous men, not fey creatures who will carry you off under the faerie hill.”

A glint of mischief quickly replaced the nervousness in her eyes. “Perhaps I wouldn’t mind that.”

“You are a wicked woman, my lady!”

She burst out with a short laugh at that and urged her horse forward down to the path.

From a distance, the company was an impressive site, all gleaming mithril and steel hauberks, glinting spears, bright shields, and colorful banners flapping in the wind. However, as they approached, dirty over-tunics, grimy skin and dull, lank hair revealed the toil of the long journey. Laurefin, given a choice, invariably selected a white horse as a steed. The quick-stepping legs of this one were caked with mud. Nonetheless, Elerína, Vorwen and Valandil were wide-eyed and silent when Laurefin hailed us.

The company stopped when Erestor and Laurefin did. Erestor remained on his horse, Pilin content on his forearm, while Laurefin dismounted. He took off his helmet, its indigo feathers faded and worn, but its metal shone just as brightly as it had when it had first been forged and polished. His fabled hair, usually the color of golden ripe wheat, was now sun-bleached and ragged. He tucked his helmet under his arm and walked to where Elerína sat upon her horse.

“My lady.” He bowed his head. “King Isildur sends his fondest regards to his dear queen.” Elerína blushed like a rose. “We bear letters for you and your family from him.” Then he turned to Valandil. “Quite a number are for you, young prince.” A broad smile, which matched his mother’s, broke the awed expression on Val’s face.

“Letters from Father! And from my brothers, too?”

“Yes, from your brothers, too.” Laurefin’s formality also vanished when he smiled in return at Val. Then he turned to me.

“I don’t believe this. Sámaril out hunting.” He turned back toward the vanguard who waited, the horses stamping, anxious to be on their way. “What do you make of this, Erestor?”

“Ice has formed in Udûn as we speak.”

“How ever did you manage to get him out here, Galfaron?” asked Laurefin.

“Prince Valandil is an enthusiast. I expect that influenced the Istyar.” The hunter winked at me.

“Is this your falcon?” Erestor asked.

“Yes, my lord,” said Valandil, his eyes like saucers. “Her name is Pilin.”

“Pilin. She is a fine lady.” He brought the falcon near his face, whispering to her. She lifted her wings, shot into the air and circled above us. Erestor then smiled at Galfaron. “I’d say Prince Valandil has been a good influence on you, too. You haven’t been hawking since, well…since the days when you hunted with Celegorm.”

“Young Turko here has brought back the good memories,” said Galfaron, grinning at Valandil. “It no longer pains me to see the falcons take flight.”

Glorfindel then strode forward, reached up and clasped my forearm, a gesture that I returned, relieved that my lord and friend had returned safely.

“It is good to see you, Istyar. I have much to tell you,” he said. “And a project for you, too. Say, speaking of projects, I believe Erestor has something for you,”

Erestor twisted around in his saddle and opened the flap of one of the saddlebags that hung over the haunches of his horse. He searched around, pulling out a muslin bag, which he tossed to me.

“Damn near got poisoned by one of those abominations when I harvested this stuff for you. What on Yavanna’s green earth you want it for, I can’t imagine.”

I opened the mouth of the bag and reached it to feel sticky filament on the skein contained within. Spider silk. My cheeks tightened with a grin.

“Many thanks, Master Erestor. I am indebted to you.”

“Yes, you are. By all accounts, I should be a hollow elf-husk wrapped in webbing and sucked dry by a wretched lob.”

“Pay him no mind,” said Laurefin. “He loved slaying those things. He’s just angling for a gold torque in return for that stuff, no doubt.”

“No doubt!” Erestor laughed. “There’s something else to be delivered to you.” He turned and jerked his head, the tattered black feathers of his silver helmet ruffling in the wind. From the rear of the company came one of Erestor’s men leading a sumpter horse. Lashed to the animal was a bundle of long slender wands of grey wood embedded with glinting motes of light.

“Ash of the Stars! I only wrote that letter three months back. How did...”

“Golodhren gold talks,” observed Erestor, the other men around him chuckling. “Apparently that incited Thranduil’s servant to make haste. Perhaps he thinks there will be trade in it for him.”

“Or it may be that our timing happened to work out well for Thranduil’s men to have met us near the bridge over the Anduin,” said Laurefin. “Spider-silk and wood from the Ashes of the Stars. What are you planning, Sámaril?”

“I’d rather not say. It’s a secret project.”

Laurefin arched a chestnut-brown eyebrow at that. “I can’t tell you how tightly my guts clench when I hear a smith say ‘secret project.’”

He returned to his dirty white horse and swung up into the saddle. “Let’s be on our way. Queen Elerína, if you would, please ride with Erestor and me.”

Elerína blushed again like a young girl, but took her position with the leaders of the company. I looked back at the men who followed and guessed that less than half of those from Imladris who had left for the war now returned.

Valandil rode beside me. He was quiet and solemn.

“What do you think of them?” I asked. “Lord Glorfindel and Master Erestor?”

“They are like the elven kings from my stories,” said Valandil.

“Elven kings with dirty hair,” I said which made Valandil chuckle for a moment. His grave expression quickly returned.

“Is it true what they say about Lord Glorfindel? That he returned from the dead?”

“Yes, it is true, but that is not something to be discussed lightly.”

“Oh. I won’t say anything then. Will he teach me arithmetic now?

“Ah! You remembered that. Yes, I expect he will. He is very good with numbers.”

“I am not so good with them.”

“Don’t worry. Lord Glorfindel can explain very complicated ideas in ways that others can understand. Do you know that he performed the calculations that helped the engineers destroy the Dark Tower?”

“He did? I guess knowing numbers is good for something!”

Soon we heard the peal of the tower bell echoing off the cliffs, welcoming our weary warriors home. Then the company broke out into song, not one of sorrow, but a lively and frivolous one. Erestor’s tenor rose above all:

Oh, the river is running, the harps are now strumming!
To the Fire-hall we go! Let the cups overflow!
Tra-la-la-lally, we return to the valley!

When we arrived in the courtyard before the House of Elrond, many of the household milled in the courtyard. Even yeomen and the women of the crofts were coming in from the pastures further down the valley, all anxious to greet loved ones who returned. Cries of joy or embraces of quiet weeping mingled with the barks of the dogs and whinnies of horses. The knights began to remove their gear from their horses; footmen and stable hands unloaded the pack animals.

One of the men lifted a large burlap sack and draped it over his shoulder. The writing on it was in a foreign tongue, which I did not recognize, but with the stamp of a stylized red eye was unmistakable.

“Those go to the kitchens,” Glorfindel called, indicating the sack the man carried as well as three more still tied to the packhorses. “Tell Astaron I will deal with those later.”

“What’s in those?” I asked, watching the man haul the sack off toward the house.

“Beans. Beans that the Southrons call kaffea," Laurefin replied. "They are roasted brown and then ground into a coarse meal. That is brewed like tea. The result is incredible. This is where you come in. Will you make a grinder for me?”

“Yes, although Astaron already has a grinder.”

“That won’t do. He uses it to grind spices. Their flavors will contaminate the kaffea.”

I watched the men hauling the bags of beans to the kitchen, scrutinizing the brand of the red eye.

“Dare I ask where you found these?”

“In the Barad-dûr. I believe they were Sauron’s private commodities. I found them in a storeroom close to his chambers.”

“You mean you went all the way in there?”

“Well, yes. Who else would have?”

I shook my head. “You’re right. Who else would have...”

Laurefin inhaled the clear air deeply but broke out into a hacking cough. “Excuse me, Istyar,” he said when he recovered. “I still have the remnants of Mordor lung. Nothing that a good breath of steam will not ease. I am desperate for a long soak in the baths, and my hair is filthy. Come to my quarters tonight for brandy. We’ll catch up then.”

“I will see you then, my lord.”

Long after the evening feast had concluded, after the toasts of homecoming had been made many times, and while song and verse still filled the Hall of Fire, I made my way to Laurefin’s quarters. At my rap on the door, I heard Laurefin call out.

“Who is it?”

“Sámaril, my lord.”

“Please come in, Istyar!”

I opened the door to see Laurefin, wrapped in a dark green dressing gown, barelegged and barefooted, sitting on a stool in the middle of his parlor. Behind him was a lithe Sinda, clipping away at Laurefin’s hair with scissors. Piles of the golden stuff littered the floor around them.

I couldn’t help but stare. Startlingly short hair barely grazed Laurefin’s shoulders instead of falling down his back as his usual wont.

“My hair was driving me mad. Brégamar here is the best barber in the army so I asked him to cut off all the damaged stuff. It will grow back quickly enough. Go on, help yourself to brandy.” I followed Laurefin’s eyes to the sideboard where a cut crystal carafe was half-full of amber liquor with two bell-shaped snifters bracketing it. I poured a generous measure in each glass, the mellow but complex aroma informing me that this was from one of the older casks.

The barber was now brushing out Laurefin’s hair, which shone in the lamplight but was quite wavy, even curling at the ends, now that its length was no longer weighing it down. Laurefin closed his eyes and leaned into the brush. I was reminded of a lion pictured in Mélamírë’s book. The barber ran the brush through Laurefin’s hair one last time.

Laurefin rose from the stool. I handed the glass to him. He took a sip and coughed a few times.

“Excuse me.” He cleared his throat. “Ah, thank you, Brégamar, that will do.”

Using a small broom, the barber had swept up the hair on to a tray, carefully depositing the clumps in a silver pail. He finished and bowed to Laurefin, taking his leave, but not before he gave Laurefin a sly, half-lidded look from the corner of his dark eyes, his angled cheekbones flushed pink, and his wide sensual mouth quirked by a grin. Laurefin inclined his head to the barber, a neutral polite gesture, but his green-flecked grey eyes had a languid, sated look about them. I surmised that had I arrived earlier, I might have interrupted something other than a hair cut. I quelled my disapproval as quickly as it arose.

The barber was nearly ready to slip out the door, but I called out to him: “Wait! Please leave that pail.”

The barber eyed me curiously and then glanced at Laurefin who nodded slightly. He deposited the pail of hair by the door and left. Laurefin gestured for me to sit on the leather settee near the large chair in which he settled, stretching his out his long legs and putting his bare feet up on a footstool.

“Whatever do you want my hair for?” asked Laurefin,

“The secret project.”

Laurefin snorted. “You are something else, Sámaril. It is so good to see you.”

“And you, too, my lord.”

“Need I remind you again to dispense with the ‘my lord’ business? No one else is around to cluck over propriety and our respective standings.”

“Very well, my lord.”

Laurefin frowned slightly and then laughed. “Yes, I know, I know. I will have to tell you a thousand times to not say ‘my lord.’ I take it you received all my letters?”

“I did. Quite an impressive number of words.”

“Yes, well, between waiting for Sauron to send out his sorties or bombard us, life on Gorgoroth was tedious. I didn’t account for everything. I spared you the worst details of the battle of the Dagorlad.”

“I thank you for that. Were you there for the final battle? Gil-galad and Elendil fighting with Sauron?”

“I was, but I would rather not discuss it this evening.” He took another drink of brandy, smacking his lips.

“Excellent. From the thirty-two hundred vintage, I believe. I have dreamed of this nectar for years now. Did Elrond tell you of the Barad-dûr? How we brought it down?”

“Yes! So you witnessed it?”

“Not only did I witness it, I was among those who lit the fuses. It was nothing short of spectacular. We were nervous to be sure while we waited. But the timing and position of the detonations were just right. The whole thing crumbled straight down to its foundations. The noise was deafening, but it was a beautiful sight, if you can believe that.”

I laughed. “Oh, I can believe it!”

“Macilion was overjoyed that it worked but as nervous as a cat while we waited. You can imagine what he said once the explosions began.”

“I nearly shat myself.”

“Exactly.”

“And the foundations? Were those destroyed, too?”

“Untouchable. The explosives did nothing to them. Smooth as black glass and as impregnable as adamant.”

“I see.”

“You have an idea of why the foundations of the tower withstood the detonations, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“The Ring?”

“Yes.”

“So the foundations of the Barad-dûr stand while the Ring remains.”

“I’m afraid so, given what he must have put into the One.”

Laurefin took another sip of brandy and stared into the fire cheerfully snapping and sputtering in the hearth.

“How long will it be, I wonder, before he reappears?”

“I cannot guess, but you know he will...unless the Ring is unmade.”

“Unless the Ring is unmade. Not likely to happen now, is it?”

“Not likely.”

“Bloody thing should have been tossed into the sea.”

“That doesn’t unmake it.”

He didn’t answer but rose from his chair, taking my glass and his, refilling them both with generous servings of brandy. He handed my glass to me.

“Before we brought down the tower, we scoured it from top to bottom in search of prisoners and the dead. A gruesome task.”

“From what you wrote and Elrond said, it must have been horrible.”

“It was. Few could withstand the place, but much of that came from the foul conditions within. Once Sauron was gone, though, the worst of the horror vanished. He had wrapped a dark glamour around the tower, creating phantoms that struck deep fear into the hearts and minds of all. I was the only one who was able to enter his private chambers. The remnant of his spells guarded it, but they were nothing more than illusion. So I went in and found things there.”

“What sorts of things?”

“First of all, this...” He rose from his chair and walked to his desk where opened a drawer , bringing back something that at first looked like a ruler. When he handed it to me, I saw that was made of three strips of yellow enameled wood, the outer strips stationary but the inner one mobile. Each piece was engraved with numbers and hatch marks like a ruler, but many more of them in precise arrangement. A name – Mairon – was embossed on the surface of one of the stationary strips. I moved the inner piece in and out.

“What is this?”

“A calculating device. Here, let me show you how it works: line up this mark here on the number three, just so, then look along here to the four and there you have it: twelve. That’s very simple figuring. One can perform much more complicated calculations like roots, trigonometric functions and logarithms. It’s much faster than longhand. I haven’t seen one since I left Aman.”

“And you found this on his desk?”

“More precisely in it. His desk was a massive thing embellished with brass and with many drawers. The wood was black of a kind unfamiliar to me, but the Southrons called it ebony. That rule was tucked away in an alcove, along with everything else in its place. All very orderly, of course."

“Of course.”

“I found some other things. One is on my desk, there under the black cloth. Go take a look. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

I rose from the chair and walked to the desk. Faint light peeped through the fabric. A familiar light. I shivered. Taking a deep breath, I lifted the cloth.

It was one of my lamps. Its light had diminished since I had made it during my apprenticeship in Ost-in-Edhil but it still shone with the same hue. I touched the crystal and it immediately brightened, filling the parlor with a warm golden glow.

Speechless, I turned toward Laurefin.

“Yes, he kept it all this time. Now look on the desk beside it.”

I lifted the solid clear crystal, perfectly flat on one side, but domed on the other. Encased within it was a ring, not a ring of gold or silver, but a perfect circle of dark hair, woven into a thin plait. The last time I had seen this paperweight was when it sat on his desk in Ost-in-Edhil

“He kept that, too,” Laurefin said softly. I put the paperweight back down on the desk. I stared at the light of the lamp for a time before I raised my eyes to Laurefin.

“I must ask this. Did you find any evidence of the Istyanis there in the tower?”

“None, Sámaril. None whatsoever.”

I sighed, heartsick. “I am so sorry, Laurefin.”

“Why are you sorry? I see that as reason for hope. Hope that she escaped.”

“Escaped by death.”

“Ai, but you’re a cynical one! Escaped. Alive. I do not believe she is dead, and neither should you. You underestimate her.”

“You underestimate Sauron.”

“I think not. You seem to forget who I am.”

“You seem to forget who I am.”

Tension crackled between us: my despair born from utter betrayal against his unshakeable faith. I knew I would be the first to give way. I rose, draining my glass, and replaced it on the sideboard.

“I think we are both weary. I should let you get your rest, my lord.”

“Sámaril, I’m sorry that I was short with you. I would plead weariness, but you know this is a difficult subject for me.”

“I understand,” I said. “It is for me, too, for all her friends.”

“Yes, for all her friends.” He walked with me to the door of his chambers. “Now don’t just take my hair. You must take the lamp, too. I brought it back for you.”

He handed me the lamp. I bade him good night and wended my way through the corridors back to my chambers, the white-gold light of the lamp illuminating the dark halls and shining from the golden elf-locks piled in the silver pail.

---

Chapter End Notes

Narquelië (Quenya) = Narbeleth (Sindarin) ~ October

Laurefin (Q) = Glorfindel. I imagine that Sámaril uses "Laurefin" when speaking in Quenya (or in his own thought since Quenya is his mother tongue) and "Glorfindel" when speaking Sindarin.

Chapter 22: Trout Fishing in Eregion

When Sámaril prepares to craft a Yule gift for Valandil, the details of an essential component's design elude him. In order to clearly visualize the design, he must delve into bittersweet memory of his former mentor, Istyar Aulendil.

Thanks to the Lizard Council, specifically Aearwen, Drummerwench, IgnobleBard, Jael, Moreth and Oshun for invaluable critique and comments. Also a tip of the hat to Lintalomë who, in comments on Lethe's LiveJournal, jolted the dark muse's memory of Tinfang Warble (History of Middle-earth I, Book of Lost Tales 1).

Read Chapter 22: Trout Fishing in Eregion

The pen smacked against the wall of my office and clattered in a dim corner. Raking my hands through my hair, I gritted my teeth, willing the image to clarify, but it taunted me from the hazy borderlands of deep memory. Night after night I had met this frustration, and I was sick of it.

I shoved myself away from my desk. Snatching my lamp retrieved from the Barad-dûr, I stalked through the dark hallway to my workshop. I hung the lamp on a hook and gathered my materials from hidden places in cabinets and storerooms. On the smooth black surface of my workbench, I arranged several wands of ash, the skein of spider silk, the pail filled with Laurefin’s hair, and a box of teal feathers I had retrieved from Mistress Duineth. I stared at the parts and tried to visualize the whole, hoping to find inspiration, but the missing piece skittered away each time I reached for it.

With only one month before Yule, I had my work cut out for me. If I wanted to complete my gift for Valandil before the longest night, I had to begin forging the key components soon. I knew what I must do to snare the elusive concept, but walking into the memory would be no less painful than deliberately reaching into a flame. My heart raced while I girded myself to leap into the waking dream. I had no other choice. I summoned the design again. The image sharpened for an instant but then darted away. This time I took a deep breath and pursued it, plunging into the well of memory.

~*~

The rap of metal against the soapstone counter made me jump.

“My apologies, lad! I didn’t mean to startle you.” Istyar Aulendil had appeared out of nowhere in the workshop. He stood next to me at my right where I sat working on a project for one of the master smiths of the Otornassë. Aulendil's hand rested on a steel spool of unfamiliar design. “Set aside what you’re working on for the moment. What is that anyway?”

I looked up to meet the Istyar’s eyes. There was no displeasure in them, but instead the glitter that warned of brimming enthusiasm.

“A new drill for Master Eretáno,” I had replied.

“That can wait. I have another project for you.”

He pushed the metal spool toward me and then placed a skein of a pale silvery filament and an oaken box containing clusters of feathers on the workbench. I reached into the box of feathers, and something sharp jabbed my probing finger. I hissed, pulling back my finger, a bead of blood oozing from the skin, and saw what had injured me: a barbed fishhook.

I picked up the steel spool turning it around in my hands, and then looked at Aulendil.

“I want you to duplicate these,” he said. “That’s a reel. Those are flies.”

I still looked at him dumbly.

“I swear, Sámaril! You’re hopeless!” he snapped. Then he smoothed his tone. “I’m sorry, lad. I was wondering if you’d like to go fishing with me.”

It was a flattering request -- an honor that such a revered craftsman of the Otornassë would wish to keep company with me, barely past journeyman’s status. Moreover, my previous expeditions with him when I tested my fishing spears had been pleasant. I had come to enjoy the challenge of spearing salmon, the wild streams, the taste of fish smoked over campfires, and most of all, the Istyar’s company. At no other time did I see him relax as much as when we went fishing together, and it was then that his insight, albeit strange at times, was most compelling, and in retrospect, probably the most honest.

“Yes, I would like that. I will need to sharpen my spear…”

“Are you purposefully being obtuse?” He tapped the reel with his forefinger. “Not spear-fishing. Fly-casting. No one else will go with me,” he added wistfully. “Celeborn and I are too estranged to even speak to one another these days. Tyelperinquar isn’t the least bit interested and...”

“Ai! He’s trying to get you to go fishing with him, isn’t he?” declared the feminine voice, its familiar timbre snapping with good-natured mockery.

Mélamírë entered the workshop that she, Teretion and I shared, her face smudged with soot and glistening with sweat from the heat of the forges she had just left. Tendrils of black hair stuck to her neck. She came over to stand on my left opposite Aulendil.

“And just what is wrong with fishing?” he countered.

“Nothing if one is efficient about it and simply spears the fish. This...” she took the reel from my hands and set it back down on the bench. “This is a spectacular waste of time.”

“I recall a time when you enjoyed it.” He picked up one of the feathered hooks between thumb and forefinger. “In fact, this is one of the first flies you made for me.”

Mélamírë crossed her arms, her brows tensed in a slight frown. “My interests have changed,” she said tersely.

“You and your will-o-the-wisp interests.” He eyed the Istyanis’ workbench on the other side of the room. A chaotic jumble of steel, copper, brass, wood, and multicolored glass jars and vials cluttered its surface, all projects in various stages of completion and deconstruction.

“I hope you’re concentrating on Artanis’ commission,” he said. “If you’re having difficulty, you know I am always willing to help you.”

“The Lady Artanis specified that she wished for me and me alone to work on her commission.”

“I know, I know.” He waved his hand with a dismissive gesture. “I just wish you’d focus. You’d make faster progress.”

“This from the man who is willing to while away his time standing in a frigid stream and devise elaborate ways to catch a fish when he could just as easily and more swiftly wield a spear.”

“Just like interests change, tastes also differ. I happen to enjoy the activity as you well know.”

While they bickered over fishing and the Istyanis’ erratic work habits, I began to sympathize with a nail caught in a vise. I reached out to touch the filament on the skein, finding it to be sticky rather than silky as it appeared.

“What is this?”

“Spider silk,” Aulendil said. I jerked my hand back. “Oh, Varda’s stars, lad! It's not poisonous. It is merely material.”

“Where did you find it, Istyar?” Mélamírë picked up the ball and partially unwound a strand of silk.

“From a trader out of Far Harad. I picked it up in Tharbad a few weeks ago. I’ve studied spider silk before. Surpassingly strong stuff.”

“It must have come from a surpassingly large spider.” Mélamírë shuddered and put the skein back on the bench.

“Perhaps. The creature itself is of less interest to me than the filament. Once it’s spun, it will make perfect fishing line. Who’s that young weaver friend of yours, Náryen? The one who crafts those chemises? You’d think Vairë herself wove the fabric the way you women praise them.”

“The value of comfortable undergarments cannot be overstated,” said Mélamírë, smiling and running her finger along the ivory fabric of one of the chemises that peeked out from beneath the collar of her shirt. “Her name is Lairiel. She’s a journeyman for Mistress Vílwen. Sámaril knows her.”

“Well, then, lad. There you have it,” said the Istyar. “Take the spider silk to Mistress Lairiel and ask her to weave a four-stranded line from this. I’ll send along the procedure she must to use to remove the stickiness of the fiber. While that’s being done, you will work on the reel and the rod.”

“All this to catch a little fish.” Mélamírë shook her head and left the workshop.

“Never mind her. Fly casting is the province of men,” he huffed, but smiled indulgently as he watched the Istyanis leave. He turned his attention back to me.

“Have this completed in two weeks.”

The next month found Istyar Aulendil and me riding on the road along the Sirannon and then turning aside to follow one of its tributaries that rushed down from the highlands. We climbed into the foothills of the Hithaeglir and riding through woods of firs and birch, following the stream that ran alongside us. When the sun slid down in the west, Aulendil checked his horse and gazed down at boiling rapids where the stream tumbled over red rocks.

He then pointed to a glade visible among the trees. “We will set up camp there.”

After unloading our gear and releasing the horses, the Istyar and I surveyed the wide stretch of the stream that opened below the rapids, its pools luminescent in the late afternoon light. There, below the surface of clear copper-colored water, brown trout darted and waved in the current.

The Istyar inhaled the pine-scented air deeply. “Perfect. Just perfect. What do you think?”

“It is a beautiful place.”

“And thick with fish, too. Be assured, they will not be easy to catch. One must be a fox to lure trout, prepared for anything.” He squinted at the water. “They’re feeding now. Let’s catch some fish before the sun sets.”

I returned to the campsite to retrieve my gear. Sitting on a log on the rocky bank, I pulled on the hip-high boots that Aulendil had the cobbler make for me. Lined with wool fleece to provide warmth, the outer leather was impregnated with oil and the soles coated with a gummy substance made of the sap of a tree from the far south, yet another import obtained by the Istyar from the mysterious trader of Far Harad. Aulendil had then used his arts to seal all the seams, rendering the boots waterproof. He had already put his boots pulled up to his hips and was attaching suspenders to them.

“Now don’t fall into the water. If those boots fill, you’ll never get up,” he said, adjusting the suspenders over his broad shoulders. “Ready, lad?”

“Almost, sir.” I fiddled about with the hooks that attached the suspenders to the tops of the boots, managing to attach them soundly.

We waded out into the stream, some distance apart. The substance on the soles of the boots provided traction on the slick rocks but I was nonetheless careful with my step. The chill of the mountain stream seeped through the leather, so I was glad to have the boots. Better than standing in frigid water even if I could have endured it if pressed.

Although I had practiced casting under Aulendil’s guidance before we left the city, I still managed to catch my hook in brush, eliciting bursts of “Hopeless, just hopeless” from upstream. At last, I found my timing and cast the fly in an arcing trajectory out into the current.

Aulendil was right: one had to be a fox to catch a trout. I tried several different lures – delicate mimics of caddis flies, stoneflies and mayflies, all with razor-sharp hooks concealed within the feathers -- before I enticed a crafty fish to strike. The fish exploded from the stream, sending silver pearls of water flying.

“Set the hook!” called Aulendil. “Not too hard now. Yes, yes, that’s it! Reel him in!”

The trout flashed golden in the waning sunlight while I spun the reel, faster then more slowly, working the fish to the shallows where I stood, the current gently pushing against my legs. I caught the writhing fish in my bare hand, removed it from the hook and then killed it swiftly to end its struggle.

That was the first of four brown trout I caught that evening, rivaling Aulendil’s three although one of his was the largest of the seven.

“So how do you like fly-fishing?” he asked, his eyes alight and a grin on his face when we made our way over the rocks to the earthen bank, each of us with trout in our creels.

“I like it. I like it very much, but however did you think of all this, Istyar?”

He pursed his lips, knitting his dark brows. “I honestly don’t know. Sometimes these ideas just come to me.”

We gutted the trout and set two fires, one to grill the fish for our meal, and the other -- slow and smoldering -- to smoke the fish that we did not eat. We stuffed ourselves senseless on the delicate flesh of the grilled trout and lay back against our bedrolls under the stars, the rush of the stream singing in the background and an owl hooting off in the whispering pines. We passed a flask of brandy back and forth, slowly becoming inebriated. As always when Aulendil drank too much, the conversation took a peculiar turn.

“Sámaril, I have wanted to ask you something for some time now.” He took a swig from the silver flask, handing it back to me, and rolled over on his side, propping himself up with his elbow and looking at me intently with starlight caught in his eyes.

“What’s that?”

“What do you know about your family?”

“Well, Mother and Father came from Tirion, part of Findis’ House but my father followed Nolofinwë in the Rebellion. My grandmother died in the crossing in the Helcaraxë...”

“Yes, yes, I know all that. I mean farther back. From before the time of the Great March.”

“Before the time of the Great March? By Cuiviénen you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Very little. Just old family legends.”

“Such as?”

“It’s silly, really. You know how things become distorted through tales.”

“I am well aware of such distortions. Tell me anyway.”

“There’s a story that my mother and father call ‘as old as time and just as fuzzy’ -- that an ancestor of our family was one of the Fays. Which is ridiculous. The only Fay who married one of the Children was Queen Melian...”

Aulendil snorted so powerfully that brandy went up his nose. He sat up abruptly, pounded his chest and coughed. His sputters transformed to laughter. He caught his breath and wiped his eyes.

“Oh, that’s a good one! Do you really believe that twaddle, Sámaril? That Melian is the only Fay who has mingled with those of this Middle-earth?”

“That is what is written.”

“Did it ever occur to you that the descendants of Lúthien aim to preserve their status by perpetuating that tale? There’s plenty of evidence to suggest otherwise.”

“How so?”

“Oh, please, Sámaril! First and foremost, that Tinfang fellow.”

“Tinfang? Who?”

“See! Suppressed histories!” he exclaimed with glee. “That’s one more thing that Istyar Pengolodh does not deign to teach correctly to his students. Tinfang’s father was a Noldo, but his mother was a Fay of Yavanna. It is said that the beauty of his music on the pipes could make the stars weep. Poetic nonsense, but I have no doubt of Tinfang’s ancestry. The children of Lúthien just don’t want you to know it.

“There’s more: eagles that carry on intelligent conversations with Elves and Men; sentient spiders; Men that change into bears and back again; huge talking hounds!” He rubbed the crescent-shaped scars on either side of his neck, scars he claimed were the result of an accident in Aulë’s forges. “Don’t all those things strike you as being rather odd?”

“Well, now that you mention it...”

“I’ve lived among them. The Maiar. Believe me when I say that they are compelled to become corporeal. They are drawn to incarnates, whether these are the Children of Ilúvatar or bird or beast. The Fays have come to Middle-earth and left their mark among its inhabitants, human and non-human alike.”

“Human and non-human...” I said.

“Yes. Think about it. That is why I ask. I recognize the imprint of the Fays, and I thought I perceived that in you.”

“It’s just a tale. Father says that so few of the Unbegotten now walk among us that memory has become myth. Likely as not, my foremother was one of the Firstborn.”

“Likely as not. That’s the healthy skepticism I have taught you so well. Maybe it is just a hoary family legend. Doesn’t matter. Pass me that brandy, lad.”

He did not speak of this again. Years passed before the full ramifications of what he had said were revealed.

Aulendil and I spent the next few days fishing while the mountain breeze sighed in the pines, harmonizing with the whir of the cast lines. I had never seen him so much at peace as those days we spent fishing at the stream. While the sun sank in the West on the evening we were to depart, we packed the smoked fish and prepared for our journey back to Ost-in-Edhil.

Before he mounted his horse, he turned back to look at the forest and the rushing stream. The breeze lifted a strand of his black hair loosened from its plait. He spoke, his voice melancholy.

“It’s strange how the simple things in life go on while we become more difficult.”

~*~

I blinked, and I was back at my workbench, my hands gripping the edges of the counter. I breathed deeply a few times, reorienting myself. I returned to my office, retrieved the discarded pen from the floor and sat down in my chair at my desk. I smoothed the parchment with both hands then poised the pen to draw but stopped. Splotches of moisture inexplicably stained the paper. Puzzled, I dabbed at these with a rag, and then realized they had come from my tears. I took another deep breath, driving away the pain of loss and betrayal, and began to sketch the schematics for a reel.

All fell into place after that. I took the spider silk to Lairiel, telling her what I intended to do with line spun from it. When I asked if she was willing to make the line, she nodded silently.

“Do you remember...” I asked, hesitant, for these also were harsh memories for her.

“I remember,” she said. She took the skein from me, turning it over in her hands. She unwound a strand from the coil, rubbing it between her clever fingers. “How could he have been capable of such betrayal? I wanted to believe...” Her voice trailed away. She looked up at me, tears in her eyes. “For Valandil I will do this, but it will be a sad task for my heart.”

Calaquar crafted rods from the Ash of Stars, praising the fine grey wood for its strength and flexibility. In the meantime, I forged the reels, the guides and the hooks. From the iridescent feathers of the teal drake that Isilmë’s falcon had brought down, I made flies of many sorts, tying them with Laurefin’s hair, which was nearly as strong as the spider-silk.

All this was done in the night with the pale light of the waxing moon mingling with the warm golden glow of my lamp. Night after night I worked on my gift for Valandil. In his turn, he was secretive in the daytime, working in Calaquar’s workshop, saying only, “It’s a surprise” when I asked him of his tasks and flinging a cloth over his project when I walked into the workshop one afternoon. Calaquar shooed me out into the corridor.

“Best that you stay clear of my workshop while the young prince is engaged with his project,” he said. “He has a way with the wood, you know. He’s already as talented as some of my apprentices were.”

So Valandil worked on his craft while I worked on mine at night. Only three days before Yule, I completed the rods and reels. Under the vault of stars, I tested them on the bridge over the Bruinen. The reels hummed when I cast out the line, glimmering silver in the moonlight. I adjusted the balance on each pole: one for Valandil and one for me. Satisfied with my work, I reeled in the lines. I yawned, not a little weary from days of waking dreams instead of true sleep, but before I left the bridge, I looked out over the river churning dark beneath the moonlit shelves of ice. I envisioned trout waving in copper water, the summer breeze carrying the scent of pines, and thought of my teacher, who had outfoxed us and then set the hook viciously, but who had also cast so much away.

---

Chapter End Notes

Aulendil's lament about the simple things in life going on while we become so difficult (appropriate, I thought, for a backsliding former servant of Morgoth) belongs to Richard Brautigan, author of Trout Fishing in America.

Lairiel – master weaver of Imladris, formerly of Ost-in-Edhil
Calaquar – master woodwright of Imladris, formerly of Ost-in-Edhil
Mélamírë (Istyanis Náryen) – master smith of the Otornassë Míretanoron/Gwaith-i-Mírdain;
Laurefin = Glorfindel

Nolofinwë - Fingolfin

Artanis - Galadriel's father-name

Chapter 23: A Nice Man's Wish

Sámaril celebrates the feast of the winter solstice with a memorable dance and receives his gift from Valandil.

Thanks to the variegated skinks of The Lizard Council for nitpicking, comments and all 'round good skinkiness.

Read Chapter 23: A Nice Man's Wish

The rumble of conversation in the dining hall hushed when Elrond rose and raised his arms, beckoning all to stand. We followed his gesture as he turned to face the West and lifted his goblet. He chanted the verses in memory of those whose fëar had sped to the Halls of Judgment or who had flown beyond the Circles of the World.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables at home;
They have no lot in our labor of the daytime;
They sleep beyond in Elvenhome.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when all is dust,
Moving in marches upon immortal plain,
As the stars that shine in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Then Elrond saluted the stalwarts in the hall who had endured the siege and returned to the valley. He toasted those who had waited for them. Once Elrond drank deep of his wine, he tipped the empty goblet, letting the last blood-red drops fall.

“Let the Feast of the Longest Night begin!” he cried, and a chorus of voices lifted in the hall again.

We had filled the dining hall after singing down the sun and lighting the solstice bonfire that would burn through the night. The scent of winter-fresh air had clung to us, blending with the sharp sweet fragrance of pine garlands draped around the hall. When the kitchen doors swung open, the savory aromas of the feast swept into the hall.

A piper led the procession from the kitchen, playing a merry tune on a wooden flute. For a moment, I thought of Tinfang Warble, rather irreverently, when Aulendil’s verdict of “poetic nonsense” came to mind. Behind the piper, several of the kitchen staff carried the fruit of Galfaron’s hunt – a roasted boar -- on a hammered brass platter, surrounded by baked apples and rosemary. The boar was presented to the head table where Elrond presided and where I sat between Valandil and Gildor.

Others streamed out from the kitchen, bearing dishes and bowls of winter vegetables, white beans with venison sausage, dark and light breads, and tureens of soups and sauces. Astaron sliced the roast pig with the wickedly sharp carving knife I had forged for him, laying the succulent meat on smaller platters distributed to the tables in the hall. Our goblets never emptied of robust red wine. Later, plum puddings were brought forth, flickering with blue flame. All lingered at the tables, picking over last bits of food and letting the meal settle. Then the first ripples of Lindir’s harp called us to the Hall of Fire.

Elrond, escorting Elerína, led us to the hall, festooned with garlands of pine and holly. The fire roared in the massive hearth while torches flickered in sconces among the pillars that supported the high roof. As requested by the master of the house, Lindir and his musicians first played a long lay of Beleriand followed by a hymn to Varda. Valandil leaned against me and yawned.

“When will the dancing begin?” he asked quietly. At twelve years of age, Valandil had insisted that he was old enough to join the singing and dancing after the feast instead of being herded off to his quarters under the now vigilant eyes of Gaereth, his nursemaid. Elerína had balked at first, but Elrond had come to Valandil’s defense.

“It is your decision, Lady Elerína,” Elrond had said, “But I was far younger than your son when Maglor and Maedhros took my brother and me to the solstice fires. It would do you good to practice your dance steps, Val, although you must take your leave later in the evening.” Although Elrond did not say it, he must have felt the dance of the holly and the ivy was not appropriate for a boy nearing the cusp of manhood.

“The dancing will begin soon,” I said, putting my arm around Val’s shoulders and supporting him. “But we must digest our food. You don’t want become ill while dancing, do you?”

Straightening his slumped back, Val shook his head. “No, but I don’t want to fall asleep on my feet either!”

The last notes of the hymn faded to be replaced by the summoning drumbeats of the first dance. Couples lined up on the dance floor while Valandil watched, fidgeting by my side.

“What do I do now?”

“You ask a lady to dance,” I said.

“But how?”

“You walk up to her, bow a little – like this…” I leaned slightly from my waist. “And you say, ‘May I have the pleasure of your company for this dance?’ “

“Oh.” His bright blue eyes darting, he scanned the hall. Then he grinned, leaving my side to present himself to one of his cousins, a lanky girl who stood shifting from foot to foot among the other women of Elerina’s house. He bowed dramatically, sweeping his arm behind him. His cousin, standing a head above Valandil, rolled her eyes but followed him to join the others ready for the first dance of the night.

Then it was my turn to ask a lady to dance. In recent years, Midhloth had claimed my hand, but in her absence, a few of the other maids of the household cast inviting glances my way. Then I looked over at Elerína and her ladies.

During their long stay in Imladris, the women of the Dúnedain had become comfortable enough among my folk to accept the hands of Firstborn when asked to dance, but Elerína had always declined politely and watched from the side, enjoying the celebration, but ever apart. On this night, Isildur’s queen stood tall, clad in a damasked wine-red robe, her dark hair plaited through with gold threads. Her blue eyes caught the light of the fire, and her smile was radiant.

It can’t hurt to ask, I told myself. She will just refuse me as she has before.

I gulped down the rest of the wine and set the goblet aside on a tray borne by a servant. Summoning up my courage, I went over to stand before her. Taking my own advice to Valandil, I bowed, lowering my eyes.

“I would be honored if you would join me in this dance, my lady.”

“And it would be my honor to accept.”

I could do nothing but stare at this lovely creature who extended her hand to me. Elerína then laughed. “You look like a deer who freezes before the hounds, Istyar.”

“You have taken me by surprise,” I said, flustered. She slipped off her robe, revealing a dark green gown beneath, cinched around her waist by a gold belt, her slender arms bare save for a thick golden bracelet around her left wrist. She handed the garment to one of her ladies. Likewise, I shrugged off my robes and laid them over a chair.

“Next Mettarë will find me with my beloved in Annúminas as the queen,” she said, taking my arm. “I think it is only fitting that I dance with my friend in the faerie ring before I leave.”

“Then let us make this a memorable evening!”

The first dance was one of many I shared with her that night. Although she had chosen to watch the dances from afar in the past, her steps were confident. One foot forward, the other behind and then crossing again, she followed the metrics of the dance perfectly, placing the palm of her hand flat against mine as we followed the stately gait. She transitioned into the next dance without missing a beat.

Now that she had shown her willingness to join us, Laurefin, Erestor and Elrond all offered their hands to her. I then watched her dance with the lords of Imladris, her face flushed with joyful exertion. While she danced with the other men, she glanced back over her shoulder, her sky-blue eyes asking me to come back to her, and so I did.

When the music shifted from the measured pace of Noldorin tradition to the livelier reels of the Sindar, I had expected her to join her ladies, but she remained with me. Taking her hand, I wove us through the pattern of the circle dances with the other couples.

“You surprise me again,” I said when we rested while the musicians took a break. “I have never seen you dance, but you know the reels as well as any of us.”

She took a drink of water, then set the glass aside to accept a glass of wine in its stead. “The reels are nearly identical to the country dances of Emerië, the region of Númenor where I was raised, and your courtly pavanes are much the same as those of Men.” She sipped her wine, looking up at me from beneath her fringe of dark eyelashes. “I am a good observer, too.”

The pipes and viols called us back to the dance floor where we stepped through a more complex ring dance. Her movements matched my own perfectly which puzzled me until I perceived the faintest trace of her presence wavering at the gates of my mind, anticipating my movements. Startled but pleased by her intimate gesture, I reached out with my thought to touch hers. Her eyes widened a little, but she did not recoil. The tentative caress between our minds became a firm grip. We danced as two parts to a whole, anticipating the other’s move a split second before it occurred.

The beat of the drums quickened, becoming insistent and primal. I grasped her smooth forearms with my hands, just like she clasped mine. Then we parted to return to one another again, orbiting around each other, our arms extended across one another’s waist and a hand resting above the other’s hip. Firm muscle flexed beneath her feminine softness. Warmth radiated from her hand against my hip, spreading to the pit of my belly. Our eyes remained locked, our thoughts linked but guarded.

I put my hands on her waist and lifted her. She was not heavy in my arms that lifted iron and steel, but she possessed substance and strength different than that of the sylph who so often had been my past partner. The music became wilder. I spun her around, and she threw her head back, exposing her white throat.

When I held out my arms to lift her again, her foot snagged the hem of her gown, sending her stumbling into my arms. The scent of roses and feminine musk overwhelmed my senses. She looked up at me, her face glowing and her lips parted as she tried to catch her breath. For a brief moment, I struggled to keep myself from kissing her, slamming the thought into dust as quickly as it arose but not before a subtle beat of desire that was not my own pulsed in my mind before it, too, was snuffed out. She laid her hand over my pounding heart.

“Istyar,” she said. “Forgive my clumsiness. I...I believe I need to rest and have a drink of water.”

“Yes,” I said. “I think that would be wise.”

While I escorted her away from the dancers, I silently chanted the all too familiar litany: She is my friend. I will not jeopardize our friendship. The look in her eyes when I had caught her and the strands of her thought that had brushed against my mind made me wonder if she repeated similar words to herself.

Lifting a ceramic pitcher that had been placed on a sideboard, I poured cold water into goblets. Elerína gulped the water down, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She scanned the dancers, watching Erestor and Laurefin with their partners, several of a succession throughout the night.

“Your lords are popular. Those maids look like they will devour them. Not a few of the men, too.” She grinned and raised her eyebrows.

“Their presence has been missed in all manner of ways. I imagine those ladies – and a few of the men – are hoping that the lords will make up for their absence by choosing one of them to dance around the bonfire,” I said. “Did you enjoy dancing with Erestor and Glorfindel?”

“Yes,” she said, after taking another long drink of water. “But I prefer dancing with you. Oh!” She raised her hand to her mouth. “I am sorry, Sámaril. I didn’t mean to be so bold.”

“No need to apologize, my lady. I am glad that you danced with me tonight. I…” I hesitated, trying to keep my words measured while my thoughts churned wildly. “I will miss you greatly when you leave, but I’m also happy for you, that your beloved will soon return. He is a very lucky man.”

She graced me with a heart-stopping smile. “Thank you, Sámaril. Please forgive me, but I am going to be bold again. There is a saying among my people: No matter how happily a woman may be married, it always pleases her to discover that there is a nice man who wishes that she were not.”

My face burned. “Is it that obvious?”

“Not always,” she said. “But your elvish mask slips sometimes.”

“I beg your forgiveness, my lady. I don’t mean to cause you embarrassment and certainly no dishonor.”

“Embarrassment? No, Sámaril, didn’t you hear me? I am flattered. You are my friend and a man of honor. I know that you respect me. That doesn’t mean my blood is made of ice. Do not worry so.” She looked back at the dancers, now spinning around in three circles. “But that worries me.”

I followed her eyes to see Valandil dancing, no longer with his cousin, but with one of the lithe Silvan women. As they danced, the elf-woman’s hips brushed against the mortal boy. Val’s face was flushed, and his eyes had a wild look about them.

“Would you...?” she implored.

“Do you want me to retrieve him?”

“Yes.”

When I approached the ring of dancers, I caught Valandil’s eye, summoning him with a flick of my hand. He said something to the Silvan woman, who looked a bit put out. I scrutinized him as he walked toward me. Although still a gangling boy, he grew taller by the month, with the subtle signs of approaching manhood shadowing his face and body. The children of the Númenóreans matured a little later than their counterparts of the Middle Men, but clearly Valandil was on the path to maturity. I noted that it was time to have another talk with him about the ways of men and women.

I led him back to his mother, a timely return because the wreaths of holly and ivy were being distributed to the dancers while wooden pipes trilled the first notes of the feral song that would lead to lusty abandon. Lady Vórwen, also flushed from dancing, drifted over with the other Dúnedain women.

“Goodnight, Valandil,” I said, the boy squirming a little in my rough hug, but then he returned a strong embrace.

“I have your Yule present ready for you, Istyar. Will you have breakfast with me tomorrow?”

“Of course. Just as I always have.” I then bade goodnight to Elerína and her ladies.

“Aren’t you joining the others?” Elerína asked, lingering while the others walked away toward the wide stairs that led to the upper levels of the house.

“No,” I said, raising her hand to my lips. “I have already danced with the loveliest woman here. I have no need of another.”

Elerína blushed again. “You are bold, too, Istyar. I will see you in the morning.”

In spite of my words, I did have a need and a strong one. I retreated in haste to my quarters where I shed my clothes, tossing them to the floor, and rummaged through a dresser drawer to find the red square of silk. I flung myself on my bed where I buried my face in my pillow, imagining my lips pressed against a white throat while I stroked myself to shuddering but empty climax.

The next morning, I knocked on the door of Elerina’s quarters and was ushered in by Lady Vorwen. The winter sun streamed through the windows; a fire snapped cheerfully in the hearth. Elerína, wrapped in an indigo dressing gown, sat in a cushioned chair by the fire, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.

“Good morning, Istyar,” she said. “You rested well last night?”

“I did.” At least I had after I relieved the tension built up over the past evening.

Valandil, sleepy-eyed and still in his dressing gown, ambled into the parlor from the hall that led to the bedchambers.

“Are you ready for your gift, Val?” I asked. Val’s drowsiness vanished, replaced by a bright smile.

“Yes!”

Lady Vórwen, my co-conspirator who had hidden the rod and reel in her chamber earlier, then left the parlor. When she returned, I rose and met her, taking the fishing pole and small box from her hands.

“Happy Yule, Val.” I held the rod and reel out to him.

“A fishing pole!” he exclaimed, taking it from my hands. He examined every inch of it, from its tip to the reel with coiled line, spun from spider-silk by Lairiel. He then opened the small wooden box containing the flies I had tied.

“Not just any fishing pole. This is for fly-casting. I made one for myself, too. We can fish in the river with these, just like you wished.”

“Oh, thank you!” He handed the pole to his mother and set the box down before embracing me. “Now I have your gift.”

He went over to the cedar chest in the corner of the parlor and propped open its lid. He lifted a parcel wrapped in green cloth with a holly sprig attached to it.

“Happy Yule!”

I took the gift from him and unwrapped it. I held a simple box of cherry wood in my hands. I turned it over, examining its interlinked joints, but could find no lid.

“It is a puzzle box, Istyar. Master Calaquar helped me make it.”

“Ah! So I must figure out the puzzle.” I tried to shift segments of the box but they did not move.

“There is a code inside,” said Valandil. “You must reach into the wood to find it. That is the puzzle. It is easy though. I think you will figure it out fast, Istyar. You can try if you want.”

I took that to mean that Valandil wanted me to try now so I closed my eyes and let my mind walk in the fibrous forest within the wood, its red-brown tree-shapes without leaves contorting around me. Then I saw a letter embedded in one of the twisted columns. I moved along and found another. Time lost meaning while I wandered, searching for more letters. Someone called to me.

“Sámaril?” Elerina’s voice pulled me back into the parlor. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I replied, a little dizzy from my quick emergence from the deep thought that let me peer into the world of the very small.

“You have been in that trance for a while now. I was worried…”

“Istyar Sámaril is all right, Mother,” said Val. “He was just walking on the paths of the deep arts. That is what happens when you do that. Did you figure it out, Istyar?”

I met my young friend’s eager eyes, identical to his mother’s. “I did.” I closed my eyes again, sending the puzzle’s solution –- a simple heartfelt sentiment -- into the wood.

Several joints shifted and clicked. The lid of the box popped open. Inside was a polished green beryl.

“For good luck,” said Val.

“Thank you, Val,” I said. Wrapping my arm around his shoulders, I squeezed him against me and returned the words he had hidden in the wood: “I love you, too.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Poem adapted from Laurence Binyon’s For the Fallen.

Elerína's sentiment concerning happily married women and nice men is a quote by H.L. Mencken

Chapter 24: The Shards of Narsil

Tension mounts in Imladris when Isildur and his elite Guard do not arrive in the autumn of the second year of the Third Age. Valandil has his worst nightmare yet at this time, causing Elrond and Sámaril to wonder if this is an echo of the drowning of Númenor. This leads them to discuss Valandil's sensitivities. Elerína's anxiety for her husband increases. The following spring, three soldiers of the King's Guard stagger into the valley.

Many thanks to picking of the nits by The Lizard Council. (Jael, Aearwen, Drummerwench, elfscribe, Moreth).

The reader's familiarity with "The Disaster of the Gladden Fields," Unfinished Tales, J.R.R. Tolkien is assumed.

Read Chapter 24: The Shards of Narsil

Reluctant to leave the warmth of my bed, I mashed my pillow around my head, willing the persistent knocks on my door to go away, but they only became more urgent. Then a woman’s voice called: “Istyar? Istyar?” Groaning, I surrendered to the summons, the cold air of my bedchamber hitting my naked skin when I tossed back the down coverlet, its captured warmth evaporating. I shoved my arms through my wool dressing gown, slid sheepskin slippers over my feet and went to my door, opening it to find Gaereth. Frightened green eyes in a pale face beseeched me.

“Please, Istyar,” she said, wringing her hands. “Please forgive me for disturbing you, but it’s Valandil. The fit is worse than it has ever been.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Gaereth,” I said, shutting the door. I strode through candlelit corridor with Gaereth trotting alongside me.

“When did it start?” I asked.

“Not so long ago. He cried out so loudly that he woke us all. My lady summoned Lord Elrond, but even he...even he cannot reach him,” she stammered, a sob catching in her throat.

“Don’t worry, Gaereth,” I said, striving to sound confident, assuring myself this was no different than any of his previous nightmares. “I will find him.”

After turning left and right down corridors and up a flight of stairs, we arrived at the main door of the Dúnedain women’s chambers. Lady Vórwen opened the door, her usually pleasant face haggard.

“My lady and the master are with him. Come with me, Istyar.” I followed her down the dark narrow corridor through the complex of bed chambers and washing rooms.

Valandil’s dark dream took him two or three times a year, and I had always been called on to comfort him. Over the years, I had helped him learn to find the quiet part of his mind that would let him emerge from the black waters that engulfed him, but when I saw him on that night, I was terrified.

Valandil’s thin body arched in rigid spasm, his jaws clamped down on a strip of cloth, and his hands curled into tight fists. Elerína, pale and trembling, sat on one side of the bed. Elrond, who sat on opposite, turned to me, his expression calm but drawn.

“I cannot reach him,” he said with an uncertainty that unsettled me. “He will not allow me into the dark place where he is trapped. He cries for Isildur only.”

Elrond rose and I took his place beside Valandil, working his hand open to clasp it in mine. Without hesitation, I plunged into the familiar dark waters of Valandil’s nightmare, but this time, unexpected pain overwhelmed me: a vise gripped my chest and a knot of fire in my throat choked me. Tendrils of blood snaked across my field of vision. My arms and legs were paralyzed in the murk. Muffled shouts and harsh voices reached my ears as if from a far distance while my sight in the murky waters failed. My heartbeat faltered – once and then twice.

Dying. I am dying.

Searing pain ripped through my lungs when frigid water flooded them. Then I floated in an uneasy peace with a strange sensation of relief, as if I had been rid of a dreadful burden. I sent the last vestiges of deep regret to whomever might hear me.

A mote of light pierced the dark water in which I floated, its spark expanding to a brilliant white beam. From this light, a chorus of voices beckoned to me. I moved toward the light, reaching out to touch it. Then from far away, I heard faint calls, not the harsh panicked shouts of earlier, but soft weeping: Atya! Atya! But then a whimper: Sámaril.

The beam of light blinked out. Life coursed through my limbs again. I shot upwards, breaking through the dark water’s surface. My lungs filled with cool air, and my mind’s eye could see again. I swam against a stiff current until I reached the boy, huddled alone in the corner of a large chamber, its upper reaches lost in darkness, but with wide stairs leading upward through an arched door toward dim light. I hauled myself out of the cold waters and called to him.

Valandil. Come.

He remained motionless. I called again. Slowly, he raised his head and then stretched out his trembling arm toward me. I gripped his hand, pulling him into my embrace, soothing him while he wept and assuring him of the love that surrounded him. I lifted him in my arms, carrying him through the door and up the wide black stairs to silver gates that swung open silently, golden light pouring over us.

His blue eyes snapped open. He gasped as if emerging from deep water but the rigor in his wiry body melted. We were back in his bedchamber. He clung to me, his slender body shaking but no longer locked in spasms.

“Istyar...I was afraid you would not find me.”

“I will always find you, Val.” I smoothed his sweat-drenched hair, holding him close to me until his heartbeat steadied. I laid him back against his pillows but stroked his hand and forearm, singing softly to him. His eyes closed, the fringe of black lashes now resting against pale skin.

I released his hand, rising from the bed. Elrond then examined the boy. He turned to Elerína before he left Val’s bedchamber. “I will prepare a draught for him should he reawaken...”

“There is no need,” said Elerína. “Once Sámaril has brought him back, he sleeps peacefully. Thank you, Lord Elrond.”

Before I left the room, she took my hand, staying me. “Sámaril, I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for Valandil. I have never...” She paused, swallowing hard. “I have never been so...” She clasped my hand tighter but could not stop the sob that broke forth. Casting propriety aside, I took her into my arms where she shook with weeping from the fright she had suffered from her son’s fit. 

“He should have returned by now. He said...Isildur said...” Elerína gulped air, determined to speak. “He promised me he would be here by the end of Narquelië! Where is he?” Although her sorrow poured forth in her tears, there was anger in her voice. She struck my chest with her fist, confirming the resentment I thought I had heard. I clasped her fist before she could strike me again.

“Elerína...”

She collapsed against me. I repeated her name and pressed my cheek against her hair, its silkiness taunting me as I comforted her – a king’s wife – while she grieved for his absence.

“The high pass is deep in snow by now,” I said, almost whispering while I held her. “If they did not reach the foothills before the snows fell, then they are probably bivouacked in the Vales of the Anduin, perhaps even in the great hunting lodges of the Men who are Isildur and Thranduil’s allies, enjoying the fires in the hearths, draughts of mead and roast boar. They will come in the spring.”

“Do you think so? Do you think they truly made their way North instead of remaining in Gondor?”

Puzzled that she might think Isildur, his sons and their elite guard of knights and soldiers had lingered in Gondor when the last missives had explicitly stated these Men of Arnor would be setting out in the month of Yavannië as the Númenórean exiles called it. I affirmed my belief.

“Yes. I think so.”

She pulled away from me abruptly. I dropped my arms to my sides.

“Forgive me for that display,” she said, wiping her eyes. “But between Valandil’s fit and Isildur not being here with still no word from him. It is just too much for me.”

“It is understandable, my lady. I think your son needs you.” I looked over at the bed where Valandil lay, asleep but stirring restlessly. “I will bid you good-night now.”

She smiled wanly. “Good-night then, Istyar. He needs you, too. Make no mistake about that.” Then she returned to the bed where she lay down beside her son, curling her arm over his head and resting her hand on his thin arm. Valandil stilled, dropping into peaceful slumber.

Elrond waited for me in the parlor with Lady Vórwen. We left their quarters and walked together down the dim corridors, lit by flickering candles in sconces that set the tapestries hanging on the walls into false motion. The faint honeyed scent of beeswax hung in the still air.

“Is Lady Elerína well? You took your time returning to the parlor.” A slight arch of his brows informed me that Elrond had noticed I had lingered longer than necessary with my friend.

“Yes. She’s anxious for her husband. Angry with him, too.”

Elrond pursed his lips. “I, too, am concerned about the delay. They should have arrived by now, given Isildur’s last communication. The high pass surely is blocked with snow. I do not think we should expect them until spring.”

I murmured agreement.

“What do you make of Valandil’s nightmare?” Elrond asked, changing the subject.

“An echo of the drowning of Númenor, perhaps?” I said. “Elerína says dreams of drowning in dark water are frequent among the exiles, even in their descendants who never lived there.”

“That may be it. When did these dreams begin?”

“Shortly after Isildur left," I said, recalling the first time Valandil had fallen into the dark nightmare.

“It was so vivid. I felt as if I were drowning myself.” Elrond coughed, a soft sound, but one that made me wonder if he recalled his lungs burning while immersed in the dark water.

“Yes, cold water, blood and pain," I said. "Those are the common themes, but it was much worse tonight.”

“He strikes me as...how should I put this? He is an unusual child,” said Elrond.

“He is perceptive. Isilmë told me once that he reminded her very much of Tar-Palantír,” I said.

“He has a way with birds and beasts, too,” said Elrond. "I have seen Val summon warblers and wrens to his hand in the gardens. His falcon and wolfhound obviously adore him."

“Yes, he has a strong affinity for birds and beasts," I said. "Galfaron calls Val his ‘young Turko.’”

“I’ve heard our great huntsman call him that,” Elrond said. "Perhaps the blood of Melian runs strong in him after these many generations.”

“Like the sports among the Istyanis’ peas.” I said absently, my thoughts trailing back to my friend and her studies.

“Peas? How did you arrive at Náryen’s peas from the queen of Doriath?”

“It sounds like an unlikely tangent, doesn’t it? The Istyanis grew sweet pea vines in her family’s garden – not for consumption, but for study. Over the years, she cross-pollinated strains and catalogued the outcome. I often assisted her, taking notes for her while she rattled off descriptions of flowers, pods and leaves.”

“Ah, so she studied inheritance! Stands to reason that she would pick up that interest from her mother.” Elrond said, his expression remote in memory for a moment. “Lady Culinen was most enthusiastic about her fruit flies. We corresponded over the years about our pet theories.”

“You studied inheritance, too?”

“Oh, yes! Maedhros was keenly interested in the subject, infectiously so. His studies piqued my curiosity, and I learned so much from him. I bred rose hybrids in Gil-galad’s gardens for a short time as a means to study inheritance." He laughed. "Culinen maintained that I would gather more data with the shorter generation time of fruit flies. I countered that my subjects smelled better." He shook his head slightly, and I knew he remembered a lost time and a lost life. "I have been thinking about resuming the hobby again. So do you believe that a lost trait is now being expressed strongly in Valandil? One that causes this sensitivity?”

“Yes. That’s it exactly. The Istyanis believed the peas carried within them discrete elements that passed through generations; she thought that the Children of Ilúvatar must carry these elements, too. Just like the peas, these characteristics may disappear and come back again. Perhaps that is the case with Valandil. His perception may be more powerful than that of other Men.”

I did not add that Valandil had shown some degree of talent for the deep arts by his ability to manipulate the substance of wood and most disconcertingly, that he had tapped into these to knit the bones of the injured peregrine chick. I was not sure how Elrond would receive such knowledge because many considered the deep arts to be perilous.

“That must be it,” mused Elrond. “If so, then his talents must be nurtured carefully. His fit tonight troubles me deeply.”

“And me as well. I feared that he wouldn’t come back.”

We stopped at the door to my quarters. Elrond laid his hand on my shoulder. “Have no doubt he will come back to you. I want you to know this, Sámaril. I may be his kinsman through the generations, but you are more than that. He loves you dearly.”

“Thank you, my lord. He is…” my voice caught. “He is dear to me, too.”

Elrond’s face was weary, but his smile was kind. “Good night, Istyar. Leave the dark waters behind. May you dream of blossoms of sweet peas.” He walked away, silent as an owl in flight.

I returned to my bed, burying myself into the covers, and promptly fell asleep, the images of frilled pink and white flowers drifting along the paths of my dreams.

~*~

No more nightmares troubled Valandil while the second year of the Third Age drew to a close. The New Year burst forth with spring-green leaves, silver rain, golden sun and white apple blossoms whose sweet scent drifted throughout the valley. The moon waxed and waned twice but still, Isildur and his men did not return.

Elrond tried to reassure Elerína and her ladies who all waited for their men but with limited success. Elerína became increasingly irritable, immersing herself in her work in attempts to distract herself, but her anxiety erupted into anger when she and Erestor clashed over the household ledgers. Their raised voices carried from the library on that morning. Laurefin had intervened, settling Erestor and bringing Elerína –- red-faced and tight-lipped -- to me.

“Let us go for a walk, my lady.” I offered her my arm, but she refused it, stumping swiftly away from me toward the entryway of the great house. Then she looked over her shoulder at me before she stepped over the threshold.

“Well? Aren’t you coming?” So I followed with Lady Vórwen in tow.

We hiked along one of the paths that ran along the rises and little dells within the larger breadth of the valley. By the time the sun was near its zenith, Elerína had walked most of her anger out of her system. Feeling it was safe to query her, I asked what had happened to set off the disagreement when we stopped to rest, the three of us sitting on a rock on a rise that afforded an expansive view over the vale, blanketed in the pastel colors of spring.

“Master Erestor informed me that my assistance with the ledgers was no longer needed,” Elerína said. Then she cocked an eyebrow. “I took umbrage at that. I enjoy working with the numbers in the ledgers, figuring the tallies and inventories. I felt like something was being taken away from me.”

“I would think the loom would be enough for you,” I said, ensuring my tone was blatantly teasing. Lady Vórwen stifled a snort of laughter when Elerína swatted my upper arm with the back of her hand in a playful gesture that was nonetheless hard enough to sting.

“You know it is not! I need to occupy my mind with the ledgers, especially now.”

“Then speak to Elrond about your need. Erestor has been at this for a very long time, and it may be that he feels threatened. However, there is enough work to be done that I am sure we can find similar work for you.” I mulled this over while I watched a flock of blackbirds dip and spin in the distance. “In fact, I could use your assistance in the forge. I am expecting a shipment of ores and minerals from the Dwarves of the Ered Luin soon. I'll need someone to take inventory of these, weigh the ingots, make measurements...”

“Something one of your assistants could do. You needn’t patronize me, Istyar.”

Something snapped in me then. I grabbed her arm, my grip firm.

“Do not ever think I would patronize you!”

She looked at me, startled. I added, “My lady.” Then she smiled and patted my hand where I held her. I released my grip, embarrassed by my less than measured reaction.

“Forgive me, Sámaril. I am still a bit irritated, I suppose.”

“And I apologize for manhandling you. Let’s walk a little longer. The exercise will lift our moods.” We rose from the rock and continued on our hike.

~*~

After that day, I made a point of taking Elerína and Lady Vórwen, along with anyone else who wished to accompany us, on hikes along the paths of the valley. Although the exercise and company eased Elerina’s cares, they did not remove them. She remained worried for her husband and sons, always looking toward the east while we walked along the paths, watching the snows recede into the heights.

Elrond maintained optimism but his mounting concern became evident.

“I wonder if they took the longer road?” he fretted. “But we would have heard if they had.”

Valandil was restless, infected by his mother’s anxiety. I set aside most of my work in the forges to spend time with him, most often by taking our rods and reels to fish in the river.

Valandil and I had been casting our lines into the rushing waters of the Bruinen on that perfect afternoon in waning days of Tuilë, the sun bright and the sky crystalline blue when the horns of the guards blared in alarm across the vale to be answered by the urgent peal of the tower bell of the house. The peregrine screamed overhead and streaked toward the high moor where, when I squinted, I could see small figures beginning their descent into Imladris.

We quickly stowed our gear and stuffed our trout into our creels. We ran along the riverside path to the house where we halted at the end of the path to catch our breath while others poured from the house and the outbuildings to gather in the court before the House of Elrond, all watching the figures make their way slowly down the path into the valley. Valandil and I edged through the crowd to where Elrond and Elerína stood. Rather than anticipation, a sense of dread settled over all who waited for those who trudged down into the valley.

At last, they crossed the bridge: three young Men of the Dúnedain escorted by the elven-guards. The men’s grey cloaks were tattered, boots encrusted with dried mud and their breeches torn. Their hauberks glinted in the sun, but blotches of rust marred the metal links. Their gaunt faces were smudged, dark circles shadowed their eyes, and their hair was lank and ragged. But the most unsettling sight was their stained black tunics bearing the emblems of the High King, leaving no doubt that these young men were soldiers of the King’s Guard.

Only the breeze whispered and birds sang when the men walked forward, one of them limping. Lady Vórwen’s cry broke the silence. She took two steps toward the men but stopped at Elerína’s signal.

The men halted. The tallest of the three came forward. He carried a bundle of cloth in his arms, cradling it like a child. Step by deliberate step he walked to Elerína whose face was as white as cold marble.

“My queen, my lord." He bowed to Elerína and Elrond. "I am Cánomir Arinnerion, squire of the High King, and this is Estelmo, squire of Prince Elendur and Haryondur, squire of Prince Aratan.”

Elerina’s lips tightened into a thin line. She straightened, stiffening her slender body as if preparing for an assault.

“You are well known to me, cousin, as are your companions. Speak.”

“I bear terrible tidings. The King has fallen.”

The collective gasps and cries of shock among mortals and Firstborn alike silenced the breeze and birdsong.

Elrond opened his mouth to respond, but not before Elerína did.

“Tell me, Cánomir son of Arinner. Tell me what happened.”

“We were on our thirtieth day of the march from Osgiliath. We traveled near the northern borders of the Gladden Fields,” he said. “The King had led us to the eastern path that follows the river and leads to the Elven-King’s realm.

“It had been a fair day, and we were all singing when we were ambushed by orcs.” Cánomir paused, gathering himself to continue. “They screamed their hideous war-cries, bearing down on us from the eaves of the forest on our right. We were greatly outnumbered and at a disadvantage on the slope.

“The King drew us together as best he could in the thangail, but the orcs were driven by great ferocity, and they began to break through our defenses. It was then my King commanded me:

“‘Ohtar,’ he said, "I give this now into your keeping' and so the King gave these to me.” Cánomir raised the bundle in his arms slightly. “The sheath and the shards of Elendil's sword. King Isildur then said to me: ‘Save it from capture by all means that you can find, and at all costs; even at the cost of being held a coward who deserted me. Take your companion with you and flee! Go. I command you!’

“So Haryondur and I fled as our King ordered us. Our travails are a tale for another time, but later Estelmo found us, and we made for the high pass. We nearly reached it but were trapped in the heights by the snow. We wintered over in a cave below the tree line. Winter did not release his grip on the heights for months. We almost starved, but we persevered through great hardship and now bring the dire tidings and this to you:”

Cánomir then unwrapped the cloth bundle, revealing the sheath and the broken blade. Sunlight glared off the shards of great sword. He extended them to his queen, his head bowed, while she took them from him. Then she fixed him with her eyes, now icy-blue, her face still stern but her voice trembled when she asked the heartbreaking question.

“My sons,” she said. “What of my sons?”

Cánomir turned to Valandil, who was stricken silent and pale as a wraith. “Long live the King,” the squire said, barely audible. Tears rolled down his cheeks, leaving tracks on his grimy skin.

For a moment, Elerína stood still as a graven image, but then her eyes rolled back in her head. Her knees buckled, the broken blade and sheath ringing when they hit the stone, but Elrond and Laurefin caught her before she fell to the hard pavers. Lady Vórwen rushed forward, torn between her queen and the young man who stared at the broken sword lying on the pavers. She faced him.

“Cáno, where is your father? Please. Tell me!”

“Oh, Mama...” His face crumpled, and Lady Vórwen took her tall son into her arms.

---

Chapter End Notes

I have used The Reckoning of Time in Valinor and Middle-earth Throughout the Ages as a guide for the names and months of seasons. To the best of my knowledge, this site is not blatantly inaccurate but I'm sure caveats apply. I figure Sámaril would "think" in terms of the calendar of Imladris whereas Elerína would refer to the Númenórean calendar. Although my interpretation holds that Elerína speaks Sindarin (bilingual mother tongue with Adûnaic), she would refer to the months in Quenya, much like the names of our months give reference to Latin.

Narquelië - approximates our October
Yavannië - approx. September
Tuilë - approx. mid- to late spring

Isildur's words to Ohtar are quoted directly from Unfinished Tales. With regard to "Ohtar's" given name, footnote 17 in the "Disaster of the Gladden Fields" makes note of the following:

Ohtar is the only name used in the legends; but it is probably only the title of address that Isildur used at this tragic moment (bold text, pandemonium), hiding his feelings under formality. Ohtar "warrior, soldier" was the title of all who, though fully trained and experienced, had not yet been admitted to the rank of roquen, "knight." But Ohtar was dear to Isildur and of his own kin. [Author's note.]

"Ohtar" is often used as a given name in fan fiction. I have chosen to acknowledge the footnote in UT and have given the fellow an actual name: Cánomir, a somewhat Sindarized Quenya name derived from the brilliant mind of Pixellated Fëanor™, mostly because I thought it sounded better than Cánomirë or Cánomiro.

Chapter 25: The Council of Elrond

When Sámaril is summoned to the Council of Elrond, he discovers why the succession of Valandil to the throne of High King of Gondor and Arnor is in question. After agreements are reached, Valandil utters a prophecy concerning broken Narsil, and Sámaril later overhears a heated conversation between Elerína and her sister-by-marriage, Lindissë -- Anárion's widow and Meneldil's mother.

~*~

Many thanks to Jael, Aearwen, Moreth, and Drummerwench of The Lizard Council for comments and nitpicking of the draft.

If it wasn’t clear from any of the preceding 24 chapters that The Elendilmir represents an alternate history of Middle-earth, it should be apparent in this one. A significant fly in the heirs of Elros’ ointment was spawned via the often heretical elements that comprise the overlap of Venn diagrams of Surgical Steel’s interpretations of Middle-earth and my own. Thus I owe Steel a debt of gratitude for graciously allowing me to borrow her characters and concepts. I have linked the Steel's stories that are specific to this chapter in End Notes. You may also find her work here on the SWG, at her LJ repository -- surgsteelfic and on The Last Ship archive. I highly recommended her work. The saga of the surgeon, Serindë, is a compelling one and represents one of the best OFCs crafted.

A genealogical chart of Númenóreans pertinent to the Pandë!- and Steel!verses is included in End Notes.

With The Elendilmir rated as Adult, this may be superfluous, but here's a warning for strong language nonetheless.

Read Chapter 25: The Council of Elrond

Autumn’s first strokes of red and gold painted the maples and birches, and the ashes of midsummer’s solemn bonfires had long been cold when the last of the emissaries arrived in the valley. The squire’s anguished hailing of Valandil as King had been heartfelt but premature. The deaths of Isildur and his sons threw the kingdoms of Men into tumult when others came forward to challenge Valandil’s right to succession as High King. I had never been one for politics, always letting the maneuverings of rule and realm flow around me while I focused on my craft. Now I found myself swept up in their currents because of my friendship with the young prince and his mother.

Thorno and I watched the last delegation from our vantage point by the forge. The valley’s guards escorted a dozen riders, accompanied by pack animals, across the bridge. Thorno polished an apple against his shirt.

“They represent Gondor?” he asked and then crunched into the apple with vigor.

“Some of them, yes.” I said. The emblems of the House of Elendil -- the white tree, seven stars and a crown – flashed from the black banner lifted by a gust of wind.

“The others with them though,” Thorno said, eyeing the two men and a woman mounted on horses girt with rich tack, their herald bearing a standard with a golden tree on dark blue field. “Those must be the delegates from Umbar.”

“So I would surmise.”

“I thought Umbar had been at war with the Alliance.”

“Other realms of Harad, maybe, but from what Erestor told me, the duumvirate of Umbar -- with the support of oligarchs -- maintained neutrality, at least officially. The people of Umbar are a mixed lot, he says: neither loyal to Sauron nor to the West. They are most loyal to their coffers.”

“So not all were King’s Men,” Thorno said, clipping at the apple with his front teeth.

“Apparently not. Those who established the settlement that became Umbar -- even before you and I were born – were refugees from Númenor.”

“So they have not rejected our people like the King’s Men did?”

“As long as the Firstborn trade with them, we don’t trouble most of Umbar. Erestor says that although most are not comfortable with our people, their leaders still recognize Elrond as kindred.”

“Then they have long memories. For mortals, that is.” Thorno flicked the apple core over the cliff to be caught by a crow in mid-flight. The riders had now crossed the bridge and dismounted from their horses.

“Very long memories from what I have been told. Erestor says they are no less proud of their lineage from Elros than Elendil’s people are. That is why they are here.”

“Which should prove to be interesting. Who is that?”

A tall woman wrapped in a pine-green cloak, hood thrown back and strands of her honey-brown hair floating in the wind, approached Elerína, clad in the dark grey garments of mourning, who had emerged from the front entry of the house and approached the new arrivals in the courtyard.

“That, I would guess, is Lindissë: Anárion’s widow and King Meneldil’s mother.”
Elerína greeted her sister-by-marriage while the first cold drops of rain spat from the scudding wet-wool clouds that had blown in from the northwest, the coming chill of winter matching the cold formality between the two women.

Thornangor grimaced while he watched them. “I can see from here that there’s no love lost between those two,” he said. “I would wish to be as far away as possible should they come to disagreement.”

“I hope it does not come to that.”

“How is Lady Elerína faring?” Thornangor asked.

“Not well, but that is to be expected. I would think that you know as much as I do, given Lairiel’s friendship with her,” I said while I watched the two women walk arm-in-arm into the house, knowing that such affection between them was feigned.

“She has not spoken to you about Isildur’s death? Or her sons?”

“Not yet,” I said. “She has been preoccupied with the affairs of the succession.”

“Lairiel has noted the same, that she has avoided speaking of them, but we are worried for her,” Thornangor said. “Lady Elerína needs to mourn. Truly mourn.”
“I understand, but I respect that she must do so in her own way and time.”

“You’re right. It’s just that Elerína is dear to my beloved, and I hate to see Lairiel unhappy. That is not to say that I do not care about Lady Elerína’s well-being, but I share my bed with Lairiel.” Thorno crossed his arms, hugging himself against the chill wind. “Valandil seems to be holding up. At least we are keeping him preoccupied.”

“He is overwhelmed, and you know it, Thorno. He did not expect to ever become a king.”

“I know. I think there is nothing more that he wanted to do than study the lore of nature, hunt with his bird and hound, and craft wood. Poor lad...”

“He’ll be all right,” I said with a confidence I did not feel.

Thorno and I left the ledge, returning to the forge where I remained in my office well into the darkest hours of early morning, using the excuse of working on a project to delay returning to the hearths and halls, but in truth wishing to avoid the numbers of new arrivals that swelled the House of Elrond. However, when I passed by the Hall of Fire that night, a lone figure seated near the great hearth caught my eye. I recognized Elerína’s silhouette against the firelight. Briefly, I debated whether I should leave her to her solitude or to talk to her. My concern for her won out.

She stared at the fire, now burning low, but she met my eyes when I approached, rising to her feet and holding out her hand to me. I brushed her smooth skin with my lips.

“I am sorry to intrude, my lady.”

“Don’t be silly, Istyar,” she said. “It is no intrusion. You know I welcome your company. I could not sleep so I thought I would find peace here.” She gestured to the chair opposite hers, inviting me to sit. “I regret that we haven’t spoken much these past weeks.”

“There is no need for regret.”

“I would like to talk to you sometime, Sámaril. Really talk to you, I mean. It’s just that...it’s just that I fear that if I speak of my losses, I will break down and grief will never release me.”

“You must acknowledge your grief, Elerína. It is not healthy to keep it bottled up. It is natural to break down. You will recover. I did.”

“But such grief never truly vanishes, does it?” she said, less of a question than a pronouncement.

“No. It never does, but you learn how to keep it from consuming you. Please know you have understanding from me and a sympathetic ear whenever you wish to talk.”

“I know. I know you understand. But I need all my strength now.” She twisted her fingers together on her lap. “For Valandil and the kingdom.” She gazed into the embers of the fire before turning to me again. “Valandil and I need your strength now, too. So I have asked that you attend the Council of Elrond.”

“I have no stake in these high matters,” I said.

“Ah, but you do. The shards of Narsil must be reforged. I cannot imagine anyone more qualified and fitting to forge the sword anew than you, my friend. The Elendilmir has also been lost -- lost along with my husband’s body. Isildur shall not be laid to rest to sleep on cold stone...” her voice drifted, trembling with the threat of tears, but she sniffed, wiped her eyes and regained her composure. “Yes, I believe that you do have a stake in these matters, Istyar. For better or worse, you have entwined your life with that of my people.”

A wave of guilt swept over me when I recalled the flaw in Narsil that I had deemed insignificant and had not repaired using my unique talents, fearing to apply them to the sword that had resonated with such power. But perhaps Elerína was right, and that gave me hope for redeeming myself. Yes, I could forge the sword, correcting my past hesitation, and perhaps making amends for the dark paths my other works had taken and the terror they had inflicted on Men, not least those who bore the nine rings.

“Your confidence honors me, my lady. I will answer Elrond’s summons.”

“Thank you, Sámaril. I must warn you that the debate of the succession could become ugly. The lineage of Elros is...” She paused and frowned. “The lineage is entangled, shall we say?” She yawned and then smiled. “Well then. It seems I am sleepy. Good-night, Sámaril.” I rose along with her and kissed her extended hand again. She padded away on bare feet, her robes rustling a soft benediction, and left me alone in the empty hall.

~*~

Two days later, the peal of the tower-bell summoned us to Elrond’s council. We gathered on an east-facing porch, the morning sun filtering down upon it through a filigree of green and amber leaves. The river roared below, providing the steady bass to the fluting of orioles that still lingered deep in the forest. Seated in the inner circle were Erestor and Laurefin, Elerína, Lord Vorondil of Annúminas and their counselors. There, too, were Lord Anardil and his advisors from the province of Rhudaur and by them, Lindissë and Meneldil’s other representatives. The three ambassadors from Umbar, led by the Lady Zimrazra, were positioned near the delegation from Gondor.

Few could tear their eyes away from Zimrazra, whose beauty stood out among the women of the North like an exotic lily among wood violets. Her long black hair, partly held in place by golden clasps, rippled with tight waves over her shoulders; her shrewd eyes were blue-grey like many Númenóreans, in striking contrast to her golden-brown skin.

The Lord of Imladris arrived last, his gait stately and his mien formal. All rose when he walked onto the porch and remained standing until he settled into the dark wooden chair, and thus completed the inner circle of the Council.

“I welcome you to Imladris – Queen Mother Lindissë, Queen Mother Elerína, Lord Anardil, Lady Zimrazra and Lord Vorondil,” Elrond said. “You were summoned because of the issue of succession. You are my brother’s heirs and therefore my kin, so I have an interest in your decision, but ultimately, these are the affairs of Men. I will only advise and facilitate.

“The issue at hand is the succession of Valandil, Isildur’s heir, to the crown of the High King of Arnor and Gondor. Who comes to challenge this?”

“I challenge the succession,” said Lord Anardil, rising from his seat. “I claim direct descent from Eärendur, brother of Tar-Elendil and the second son of Tar-Amandil the third king of Númenor.”

“Which on behalf of Valandil Isildurion and as Steward of the realm of Arnor, I reject,” countered Lord Vorondil, springing to his feet. “The House of Elendil claims the right to the throne of the high king through primogeniture. The line of Isildur descends from Silmariën, eldest child of Tar-Elendil.”

“And that is a stronger claim than from a second-born prince?” Lord Anardil retorted.

“Who would question succession through Silmariën?” Lord Vorondil's words carried a weight of authority but the ruler of Rhudaur was undeterred.

“I do,” said Lord Anardil. “The law of succession was changed after Tar-Aldarion ruled in favor for Tar-Ancalimë. You cannot make such a claim through Silmariën retroactively. Furthermore, if you insist on this argument, then why does not Princess Súrien, eldest daughter of Elendur Isildurion, stand here today to claim the throne as High Queen?”

“Because the Andunië hold to the tradition of sons claiming rule like our Eldarin kin did in the most ancient of days.”

Lord Anardil huffed with exasperation. “Then how is my claim the lesser? You contradict yourself!”

“You leave me no choice but to say it, my lord,” said Vorondil. “Because it is questioned if Caliondo was truly Malantur’s father, and so the legitimacy of your lineage is in great doubt.”

“To which I say that is rank speculation.”

Although I had long been aware that paternity among Men was sometimes questionable, that it was equally problematic in the royal lineage of Elros took me by surprise. However, Vorondil’s challenge of the legitimacy of Lord Anardil’s ancestors was only the beginning. The debate continued between Vorondil and Anardil until a feminine voice interrupted them.

“Umbar wishes to be heard!”

Silence fell leaving only the river's muted roar and the birds' piping among the trees. Zimrazra stood. All eyes were drawn to her.

“Umbar challenges the succession to the seat of High King. The Judges hold that the claim of Valandil, fourth born son of Isildur, does not supercede the claim of Princess Isilmë, daughter and eldest child of Isildur.”

Daughter of Isildur? Eldest child? My breath caught at the startling wrench that had been flung into the machinations of succession. Lindir, sitting beside me, leaned over and whispered incredulously, “You did not know? How could you not...”

“She never told me. No one ever told me,” I hissed, the tingles of shock crackling along the back of my neck.

Elerína rose from her seat, her hands fisted, and her voice tight but controlled. “I would remind Abârî Zamîn’s envoy that Princess Isilmë is not a legitimate heir,” she said, facing the envoy from Umbar. “Númenórean matrimonial law did not and does not recognize the union of Isildur and the Abârî. Neither the princess nor her brother can make such a claim.”

“And I would remind the Lady Elerína that the first rites of betrothal were performed between Zamîn and Isildur prior to your liaison with the king, a liaison which in turn Umbar does not recognize. Umbar would therefore argue that neither Valandil nor any of your sons by him are of lawful get.”

My hands clenched the arms of my chair and my thighs tightened, but Lindir’s hand was on my arm, re-directing my impulse to leap to my feet and rebuke the one who insulted my young friend, his dead brothers and their mother.

“Does sacrificing a goat or worse to the Black Foe of the World constitute betrothal rites?” Elerína snarled, her composure crumbling. “How dare you slander the dead and insult my only living son!”

“Do not insult Umbar with your insinuation that we encourage human sacrifice! As for daring? How daring was it for your lords to wash up upon these shores and then make claims of empire, ignoring the long history and rule of Umbar?”

“Ah yes,” said Elerína, her voice controlled again but its cold tone dangerous. “Umbar’s long history: a history of those who so nobly claim neutrality but who cozened the King’s Men – those who persecuted and murdered my kin; Umbar who opened her hand in trade to Gondor and with the other treated with the Deceiver.”

“We were never in league with Zîgur!” Zimrazra exclaimed, her voice heated. “Would Lord Elrond permit us to even enter his realm if we were?”

“Enough!” Elrond raised his hand. “No progress will be made if diplomacy is breeched.” Both women became silent but remained standing. He then addressed Zimrazra. “Do I understand from the duumvirate’s missives that the primary objection raised is the designation of a new High King – a ruler of both Arnor and Gondor? But that Umbar sees room for discussion should the heirs of Elendil rule southern and northern kingdoms separately?”

“Yes, there might be room for such a discussion,” replied Zimrazra, her voice with its sinuous accent now silky. A cool smile flitted across Lindissë’s face.

“Then I believe we have a starting point.”

Lindir whispered, “They have at last reached the heart of the matter.”

The negotiations extended through the morning and into the afternoon, but my attention waxed and waned. During the discourses, I watched my friend: the mortal woman who had knitted my scarf, picked apples with me, who took pride in balancing the ledgers, who had laughed and danced with me, and who had cried in my arms. Now I saw her in another light, a light in which she showed as much regal steel as her late mother-by-marriage. She remained firm in the face of what had to be terrible humiliation, only losing her temper when Zimrazra had called Elerína’s sons – in essence -- bastards.

The porch had long been in shadow by the time the parties came to foundations of agreement upon which treaties would be drawn. In the end, Umbar, Gondor and the province of Rhudaur recognized Valandil as King of Arnor and that he would take up the Sceptre of Annúminas when he came of age. At this point, Elrond called upon me to escort Valandil into the council and bring forth the shards of Narsil.

Inside the house, I found Valandil, nervous and pale, sitting next to Thornangor on a bench in a dim alcove. Thorno cradled the broken sword wrapped in black silk.

“They are ready, my lord.”

Valandil said nothing, but rose to his feet, slowly walking toward the double doors that opened onto the porch, Thorno and I on either side of him.

The council quieted when Valandil appeared. Elrond rose from his chair and spread his arms, a gesture of welcome to the boy.

“Hail, Valandil, King of Arnor!” Elrond cried. The rest of the council rose to their feet and -- some more enthusiastically than others -- echoed Elrond’s words, hailing the young prince.

“Bring forth the sword,” Elrond commanded.

Thornangor placed broken Narsil on a small table that had been moved to the center of the inner circle and stepped back. Elrond walked to the table and lifted the black folds of cloth, revealing the halves of the blade.

“Who shall reforge me? Who shall he be?” Elrond half-whispered when he ran his fingers over the metal and touched the large garnet embedded in the hilt.

I took that as my cue and spoke clearly: “I – Sámaril – will forge Narsil anew.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Elerína’s smile. Elrond nodded his silent approval, opening his mouth to speak as I reached for Narsil’s hilt.

“No!”

All eyes turned to Valandil, white-faced and trembling, who laid his hands over the hilt of the broken sword, blocking my intended grasp. “No!” he repeated. His eyes clouded, and shadows deepened on the porch. Then he spoke strange words intoned as if another had taken his voice:

Til Isildur’s bane comes forth
Narsil broken remains.
Til hope springs from the shadows
All smith craft shall be in vain.
When brilliant shines the elfstone
When light born of dark weaves its spell
Then shall the shards be made into one
And renewed be the blade of the Moon and the Sun.

A vision of flame blazed before my eyes, and I saw a smith’s hammer striking the hot metal of a blade, white-gold sparks flying against the darkness, but the hand that wielded the hammer was not my own. The image evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.

The members of the council murmured in response to Valandil’s words: Isildur’s bane? What does this portend? A few, myself included, likely could make an astute guess as to the meaning of Isildur’s bane, but nothing was said. Elerína came to Valandil, his thin face white, and put her arm over his shoulders. The new king leaned against his mother and wrapped his arm around her waist.

His expression solemn, Elrond met my eyes. “We will honor the prophecy of Valandil. You will not forge Narsil anew, Istyar. The blade that was broken shall be an heirloom of Valandil and his descendants...until Isildur’s bane comes forth.”

“So be it,” I said, lowering my eyes to the shards, the steel dull and lifeless. Although no argument could be made against Valandil’s prophecy, the demon-imps of hurt pride stung me even before I stepped away from shattered Narsil.

Elrond adjourned the council. All stood to file back into the house, leaving behind the shadowed porch. When Elerína glanced back at me over her shoulder, I hurled a spear of thought toward her:

Why didn’t you tell me?

She winced as if I had struck her, quickly averting her eyes, and turned her back on me, walking away with her son at her side.

My disappointment hung over me like a cloud through the rest of the day and well into the evening. Conversation swirled around me at the head table while I picked at my food. Although I followed the rest to the Hall of Fire after the evening’s feast, I did not join those who listened to songs and tales, but remained apart. Laurefin found me slumped against a pillar in the Hall of Fire that night, nursing a glass of red wine, while the others gathered around Lindir and his musicians.

“You couldn’t possibly be more obvious, Istyar.”

“About what?”

“That your damned smith’s pride has been hurt. You’ve been wearing your anger all evening. I think everyone assumed you would be the one to reforge Narsil, but when Valandil spoke...”

I cut his sentence short. “So are we to believe the words of a boy who has suffered from fits and nightmares and whose life has been turned upside down?”

“I understand your skepticism, but let me assure you, another spoke through him.” Laurefin looked away, grimacing a little. “I would rather not say who I think it was, but Valandil’s words were not the stuff of madness, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’ll take your word for it. You know far more of the Ainur than I do. One was enough for me.”

Laurefin grunted in agreement. He sipped his wine and then said, “It’s not just the broken sword that is eating at you, is it?”

I swirled my wine, watching the fluid trail back down the sides of the glass like misshapen spider legs.

“No. I’ll grant you that I am not the historian that either Elrond or Erestor is, but I have studied the lore of the Númenóreans. Nothing was written of this.”

“You would expect such a sensitive subject as Isildur’s other family to be documented here in Imladris? It’s a matter of some delicacy as you witnessed. Still, I would have thought Lady Elerína might have told you.”

“I would have thought so, too.”

“Are you angry with her for not doing so?”

“Yes. No. More hurt than angry. I had hoped she trusted me enough to tell me such things.”

“Have you told her everything about your past?”

“I have not.”

“Then you have little cause to complain. At least speak to her, Sámaril. After today’s events, I expect she would welcome kind words from a friend.”

Laurefin’s words cut through my selfish shroud. I excused myself and approached Elerína where she sat near Lindissë and the others off to the side of the hearth.

“Lady Elerína, if you will allow it, I would like a few words with you.”

She rose, and taking my proffered arm, she let me lead her away from the group gathered around musicians and the fire. I stopped in the shadow of a pillar near the entryway.

“Elerína, I am sorry for what happened earlier -- for intruding into your thoughts like that. It was selfish of me...”

She laid her hand on my arm, stopping me in mid-sentence. “No, Istyar. I am sorry. I should have told you of these family complications before now. You must understand what a difficult subject this is for me. I have been living in Zamîn’s shadow for years.”

“Then today’s council must have been very hard for you to endure, especially when Lady Zimrazra...” I stopped, seeing pain flicker across my friend’s face. “You handled it well. I admire you for it.”

“Thank you, Istyar. It was hard for you, too, was it not? When Elrond told you that you could not forge the sword anew?”

“Yes. I want so much to do something for you and Valandil, for the sake of Isilmë and Elendil -- and yes, for Isildur, too.”

“Thank you for saying that. About Isildur. He had his flaws, but I loved him.”

“No one is perfect, my lady. I will set aside my disappointment that I cannot forge Narsil because I think there is something else I can do.”

She nodded silently, encouraging me to continue.

“With the Elendilmir lost, the King of Arnor will need a new crown. I may not have the skills of the artisan who crafted Silmariën’s fillet, but I will try. I will replicate the Elendilmir as faithfully as possible.”

“I had hoped you would say that. I have no doubt that you will create a work of great beauty.”

“I do not have the materials I need to craft it, but I expect an arrangement can be made with Durin’s folk in Hadhodrond.

“I will leave those particulars to you.” She made a move to return to the others, but I laid my hand on her arm, staying her.

“Elerína, we truly must talk.”

“I know. We will, Sámaril. Please give me more time.”

“Very well.”

She held me with her eyes, darkened to the color of twilight in the shadows of the hall. I resisted falling into those eyes, but with no success. We had spent only superficial, fleeting moments together these past few months, and I missed her company desperately. Reaching toward her, I traced the line of her jaw with my fingers. She clasped her hand over mine and pressed my palm against her cheek.

“Soon, Sámaril. I promise.” Then she released my hand and turned away, returning to the musicians with Lindissë’s eyes locked on her.

I left the Hall of Fire and walked out into the night, the autumn air clear and chill with the diamond-dust of stars scattered across the vault of the sky. Although vague plans for the new Elendilmir floated in my head while I hiked along the trail high above the river, a thought flickered and guttered in my mind: What exactly did she mean by “Soon...I promise?” That we should speak soon or something else? I snuffed out the thought thoroughly – a hopeful thought but a wanton one -- realizing my hröa was taking too much control of my mind and causing me to misinterpret what was no doubt an innocent remark.

I quickened my pace, breathing in the chill night air, and made an effort to walk as quietly as I could on the dry leaves littering the trail. I managed to walk within a few strides of a fox before it caught my scent and melted into the forest undergrowth. I looped back along a narrow trail that branched off the main one, and made my way to the margins of Elrond’s expansive gardens where the heads of cabbages squatted like fat silvered flowers under the starlight and the musky odor of ripe grapes drifted from the arbors.

Still taking care to walk silently, I picked my way through the maze of squash vines and along the rows of kale, and approached the flower gardens closest to the house. Late-blooming roses sent their perfume into the gentler airs nearest to Vilya’s presence, but sharp voices from one of the balconies overlooking the rose garden caught my attention. I recognized Elerína’s voice and then Lindissë’s rising in answer. Their words slurred subtly, suggesting they had imbibed a fair amount of wine. I sank into the shadows of the tall boxwoods nearest the house and almost directly beneath the wooden balcony where they stood, knowing full well that I should not eavesdrop, but strangely compelled to listen.

“That was quite a spectacle this morning, Elerína. How could you let that woman get the better of you?”

“‘That woman’ you say," Elerína retorted. "Zimrazra was merely Zamîn’s voice. Do not think I am so naïve as to not know you and Zamîn were in league to secure Gondor for Meneldil and push Valandil aside.”

“Zamin!” Lindissë spat out the name. “She lets her injured pride rule her decisions. For all her strength and wisdom, she is not so difficult to manipulate when it comes to her heart. If you had kept Isildur better served, he would not have sired a second bastard on her. That daughter of hers – Isilmë – is bad enough.”

“Enough, Lindissë! You know nothing of my marriage.”

“Oh, something of it, I think. Enough to know that your loose hold on Isildur confounded the claims of the House of Elendil.” Lindissë paused and then continued with a venom-drenched voice:

“How you must resent Isildur’s wetting his sword in a foreign sheath! I’m not at all surprised that you linger here among the elves with their wanton ways -- with their men who cannot sire children unless they call upon the gods or whatever strange thing they do. Tell me, Elerína...that elven-smith. Has he fucked you yet? Surely he has by the way he looks at you. And Isildur not dead even a year. Or maybe he has been fucking you all along.”

Footsteps thumped above me followed by the sound of a slap that carried across the gardens.

“You miserable bitch!” Elerína cried.

“So you prove your worth: a common woman’s common daughter from dung-heaped sheep pastures,” Lindissë rasped, but then she spoke with poisoned honey. “I bid you good night -- sister -- and wish you well here where you hide like a vole under the faerie hill.”

Footfalls stepped away, and a door slammed. Silence fell for a few moments, and then the sounds of Elerína’s weeping filtered down to my burning ears.

I had witnessed Elerína’s humiliation this morning. And now? I was the cause of her humiliation. My stomach now clamped in knots, I saw with startling clarity how I had allowed this –- no, how I had encouraged this -- to happen. How many times over had I heard the admonishment given to my people: Take care when mingling with the Followers. Liaisons with them only result in sorrow? It was time to heed those words. My plans crystallized at once – hard and jagged like winter’s ice over the river -- and I knew what I must do.

---

Chapter End Notes

Zimrazra (Adûnaic) – from Zimra, jewel and azra, sea.

Abârî (Adûnaic) -- a title constructed from abâr, meaning strength, loyalty, fidelity plus the feminine ending.

Hadhodrond – (Sindarin): Khazad-dûm

Elrond's reflection on the shards of Narsil, "Who shall reforge me? Who shall he be?" is taken from the prologue of Gandalf's Apprentice's The Sword of Elendil, a wonderful fic that inspired me to start writing this monster-WIP and whose canon strongly influences this story.

Similarly, Surgical Steel's vision and characters of Middle-earth make an appearance in this chapter, so because of this confluence of Surgical Steel’s ‘verse and mine, these end notes are more extensive than usual.

Surgical Steel’s emerging vision of Umbar is an appealing one. Rather than the proto-Islamic/Moorish interpretation often seen in fan fic, her Umbar recalls ancient Carthage. Canonically speaking, Tolkien had Umbar ruled by a duumvirate: two leaders who shared equal power. In Steel’s version, Umbar is ruled by two elected Judges and governed by a group of powerful folks known as the oligarchs, also a nod to Carthage (see Aristotle’s discourse on the Constitution of Carthage).

Steel also gives a nod to the founding of Carthage by the legendary Princess Elissa a.k.a. Queen Dido of Phoenicia. Umbar is founded by the (canonically unnamed – of course) daughter(s) of Tar-Anárion, the son of the first ruling queen of Númenor: Tar-Ancalimë. From Unfinished Tales:

Her son Anárion, who was afterwards the eighth Ruler of Númenor, first had two daughters. They disliked and feared the Queen, and refused the Heirship, remaining unwed, since the Queen would not in revenge allow them to marry. Anárion's son Súrion was born the last, and was the ninth Ruler of Númenor.

In Steel’s ‘verse, the two daughters of Anárion flee their overbearing grandmother. Some of the circumstances behind this – and a wonderfully subversive consequence of the “round Middle-earth” view may be found in The Far Side of the World.

Zamîn, who is mentioned in this chapter, is a descendant of the eldest daughter of Tar-Anárion – named Quildeló. Zamîn at the beginning of the Third Age is one of the two Judges of Umbar. I gave her a title of “Abâri” from the Adûnaic – abâr meaning “strength, loyalty, fidelity” plus a feminine ending. In Survivors of the Downfall, which is told from the point of view of the ship’s surgeon, Nemir, Zamîn and the crew of her ship sail toward Númenor after hearing what sounds to be a massive explosion and experience a huge swell at sea – a nod to the mutually held theory of Steel’s and mine (again consistent with a round earth as opposed to the mythic flat one) that Númenor’s destruction resulted from a volcanic explosion on the order of a Krakatoa or a Santorini. They also drag a mysterious survivor from the sea. Note that Sámaril mentions a “year without a summer” in an earlier chapter. This refers the climatic change that resulted from the particulates thrown into the atmosphere from the explosion.

Zamîn also has a strong connection to descendants of Silmariën, in particular Isildur, the son of Elendil. This is developed in Steel’s The Men Who Would Be Kings, The Last Day of Our Acquaintance and The Price of Doing Business.

From Unfinished Tales, footnote 10 of “The Disaster of the Gladden Fields:

Meneldil was the nephew of Isildur, son of Isildur's younger brother Anárion, slain in the siege of Barad-dûr. Isildur had established Meneldil as King of Gondor. He was a man of courtesy, but farseeing, and he did not reveal his thoughts. He was in fact well-pleased by the departure of Isildur and his sons, and hoped that affairs in the North would keep them long occupied. [Author's note.] – It is stated in unpublished annals concerning the Heirs of Elendil that Meneldil was the fourth child of Anárion, that he was born in the year 3318 of the Second Age, and that he was the last man to be born in Númenor. The note just cited is the only reference to his character.

My ‘verse is not a chaste one. Neither is Steel’s. Well, heck, not many are on the SWG. There are consequences of that, including the political. My bet is that Meneldil did not particularly embrace the idea of a High King and may very well not have wanted his young cousin Valandil to assume that role. I'm sure the more canonically inclined might look askance at the concepts put forth here, not least of which would be Elrond allowing representatives of Umbar into Imladris. However, if it were not already evident, I don't see these things as black and white; neither does Steel. And I tend to think, neither does Elrond. I'd like to think Elrond was a pretty savvy fellow, capable of seeing many sides to an issue and of nuanced thought. I mean, he's been around the block a few times.

Finally, here's a handy genealogical diagram at the end of the draft for reference to help decipher the complex canonical Númenórean lineage as well as the quasi-canonical and OCs. Succession to the crown is not so facile in our primary world. Why should it be any different in Middle-earth?

Chapter 26: Beyond the Doors of Durin

After a terse farewell to Elerína, Sámaril departs abruptly from Imladris in the company of a healer, Brethilion. They arrive at Casarrondo (later known as Moria) to exchange their skills for mithril and gems from the Dwarves. On the way to an audience with Durin the Fourth, Sámaril sees a mural hidden in the shadows and recalls an unusual observation made by Istyar Aulendil.

Thanks to the Lizard Council for pre-reads, to Darth Fingon for post-publication edits and to Surgical Steel for suggestions concerning the elven-healer. See end notes.

Read Chapter 26: Beyond the Doors of Durin

The howling wind rattled the sharp leaves of the holly trees and muffled the rushing waters of the Gate Stream behind me, but it could not overcome the harsh complaint of my traveling companion.

“Get on with it, will you?” Brethilion snarled, punctuating his annoyance by jabbing me in the ribs with his bony knuckle. “I’m freezing my stones off out here!”

With exaggerated deliberation, I swiveled my head around to glance down at him, pausing to let him know that I intended to torment him further, and then raised my eyes to the sky where clouds scudded over the face of the gibbous moon. I waited until Isil’s face shone clear and bright. It was then that I faced the wall before me, ran my hands over the stone and chanted the verses that would reveal the hidden designs.

The lines of ithildin glowed in the moonlight: first Durin’s anvil, hammer, stars and crown, then the twining trees of my people and Tyelperinquar’s script. Last shone the Star of Fëanáro. I stepped back, slowly spread my arms, and then spoke the password.

“Mellon.”

The outline of the west-gate brightened. Then, silent as an owl’s wings, the Doors of Durin swung open. Golden light poured over us; warm air rushed out into the late autumn night only to be snatched away by the wind. A dozen Dwarves stood before the steps that climbed to the western levels of Casarrondo. Seven of them rushed out to aid our escorts from Imladris with unloading the pack animals while five important Dwarves –- the gems and gilt thread woven into the plaits of their auburn, brown and black beards displaying their high status –- awaited us.

Brethilion grumbled an almost inarticulate curse –- something about “buggering gold diggers” -- but straightened to his full height and attempted to cloak himself with elvish dignity. Together we walked toward the waiting Dwarves.

Brethilion bowed first: “Brethilion of Lothlórien at your service.” Then I followed his example as protocol demanded.

“Sámaril at your service and your families',” I said and then added in halting Khuzdul: “May the blessings of Mahal let your hammers strike true.”

“How does an Elf know the speech of our folk?” said one of the Dwarves, a burly young fellow with a red beard and hair, his gold and emeralds shining in the torchlight. He eyed me with suspicion.

Another Dwarf, an older black-bearded man more plainly dressed than the others but wearing a golden belt and necklace of extraordinary craft, then spoke.

“It is no surprise that this Elf knows at least some of our tongue for he is Sámaril of the Gnomes. He lives in Rivendell now but before that, he was of Eregion. His folk were our allies and friends in ages past.” The other Dwarves murmured to one another.

At that I bowed again. “So I am, but I know little of your tongue,” I said. “Hail and well met. I am at your service.”

All five of the important Dwarves bowed in return while their servants scurried to and fro, bringing in our luggage and the many items we brought for trade. The black-bearded Dwarf stepped forward, his voice stern but his eyes friendly.

“Sámaril of the Gnomes, I am Láki son of Már. I think perhaps my grandfather Onarr was known to you?”

“Why, yes! He was a lad when I last visited your halls.”

“And you?” Láki turned to Brethilion. “You are the healer?”

“I am.”

“I fear we already have work for you. A miner’s hand was caught beneath a fallen rock today. One of our healers had to cut off the hand to free him.”

“And you wish me to look it over.” Brethilion sighed, shaking his head, but turned to one of the servants and barked: “Bring me that pack, would you? Someone lead me to your injured miner.”

At the signal from Láki, one of the servant Dwarves picked up Brethilion’s pack and handed it to him while another Dwarf motioned for Brethilion to follow him. Brethilion turned to me, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. “Damn you for dragging me here and damn you for making me forego a flask of Dwarf ale. I’ve been craving the stuff for days, and now I most likely face a botched amputation that will lead to me revising the blasted stump. I will see you later...lad.”

Refusing to be unsettled by his goading, I merely smiled at Brethilion. For all his irascibility, I knew that my reluctant traveling companion was now in his element. He and the Dwarf walked up the stairs and disappeared into a hall.

The Dwarves invited our escorts –- guardians of Imladris –- to join them for ale and meat, but the Sindarin men tersely declined, reluctant, I assumed, to step into the great mansions of the Dwarves although it was unlikely the Dwarven hosts would have allowed them further than these western antechambers of their great mansions. That Brethilion and I had been allowed past the Doors of Durin was exceptional enough. I bade our escorts farewell after which they had melted into the night. The gates swung shut, closing tight with a soft nick. A brief moment of sadness welled up in me when I remembered the days of peace and friendship between our peoples when the gates had remained open.

Láki and the others then led me to a side chamber to take refreshment. I sat in a chair by the long oaken table, stretching out my legs so my knees did not bump against the table’s underside, and made light conversation while servants brought in flagons of dark amber ale and silver platters layered with sliced cold, cured meats and smoked fish.

~*~

My decision to come to Casarrondo had been an abrupt one. Previously, I had considered writing to my contacts here to specify the ore I required and asking the Dwarves to select a suitable gem, but Lindissë’s accusation had shocked me into making an impulsive decision. Elerína had been compromised because I could not rein in my feelings for her. I did not wish to be the source of such pain, but at heart, I was ashamed of myself for my inability to adhere to the discipline of mind and body expected of my people. I concluded that I must leave Imladris for a time, hoping that in my absence, speculation as to the nature of my association with Valandil’s mother would fade and that Elerína might even return to her people in Annúminas. It was cowardly to flee, but I could not face the reality of what my friendship with this mortal woman had become.

The morning after I had overheard that searing conversation, I had knocked on the door of Elrond’s study. Elrond bade me enter. There I found him in discussion with Brethilion over documents that Elrond was drafting.

“My lord, I would like to speak to you about a matter of craft that will entail my traveling to Hadhodrond.”

“What matter of craft is this, Istyar?” Elrond folded his hands on his desk, giving me his attention while Brethilion looked put out that I had interrupted their discourse.

“I mean to replicate the Elendilmir for Valandil's coronation when he comes of age. I have spoken to the Lady Elerína; she has given me her approval to do so.”

“That is a fine idea, Sámaril. Likewise, I approve of your plans. I had hoped you might craft a new fillet for the king, but why not send for the ores and gems? That is what you usually do.”

“Because I require mithril and a diamond of surpassing clarity for this, I prefer to select the materials myself.”

Elrond frowned. “The people of Durin have become even more secretive and suspicious these days. Do you think they will allow you into their halls?”

“Oh, they will allow me past the Doors of Durin. I possess skills that they do not, and they are well aware of this. I thought to offer my services for a time to them in exchange for the materials although that may not be enough. They will want much in exchange for mithril and a diamond of the caliber I desire.”

“No matter how much they can use your skills, those likely will not be enough, given that you desire mithril. They hoard that more than gold.” Elrond rubbed his chin in thought, glanced at Brethilion, and then continued: “However, there may be something else you might trade in addition to your knowledge. Besides gold and mithril, the Dwarves desire medicine. Their healers are not always skilled...”

Brethilion interjected, “Not always skilled? Their best are barely adequate!”

Arching his brow, Elrond eyed his fellow healer. “If I may continue. I will send medicines with you toward payment for the gem and the ore. In addition, I think that Brethilion ought to go with you so that he might aid in applying those medicines and his talents in surgery as part of the trade.”

“What?” Brethilion snapped. “How in blazes did I become an item of barter? Master Elrond, I thought you might wish me to add a few more diagrams and notes to the treatise.”

“Brethilion, the accounts of your surgeries at the Battle of the Dagorlad are complete. I thought you wanted to return to Amroth’s realm so there is no reason to linger here. It’s not as if you are unfamiliar with the Dwarves. How many times have I heard you complain that their bones...”

“...are thick as oak and harder than granite. Yes, yes, you’ve heard that a thousand times, I am sure. Well, if it is your will that I am to travel to Hadhodrond with this whelp of a smith, then I had better see to my kit, hadn’t I? I’ll have that other whelp take a look at my bone saw and make sure it’s sharp. At least Thornangor is half-competent at crafting surgical instruments.”

I rolled my eyes at his insult, but thanked Elrond and went about my own preparations for departure. Among these was speaking to Valandil. I found him in the stables tending to his horse and falcon and took him outside to talk. We walked out into the courtyard and over to a low wall where we sat, looking out over the river that surged through the gorge below.

“How long will you be gone, Istyar?”

“I don’t know, Val. Several months. A year. Maybe longer. It depends on my success in finding the gem for your crown and paying my debt to the Dwarves.”

Valandil swung his legs, knocking the heels of his shoes against the stone, while he studied the river rushing through the gorge. He picked up a loose rock from the wall and flung it into the current. Then he spoke, keeping his eyes fixed on the swift waters.

“Will you come back?” Val’s voice trembled with anxiety, and then I knew. He feared he would lose me like he had his father and brothers. I placed my hand on his shoulder. He lifted his face, and I looked him straight in the eye.

“Of course I will come back, Val. I will always come back to you.”

His tension melted away, but he still looked worried. “Who will go fishing with me?”

“Galfaron will. You might ask Master Thornangor, too. But you must promise not to catch all the best trout. Leave some for me.”

“I will, Istyar.” Then casting aside adolescent awkwardness, he leaned against me as I put my arm around his shoulders.

My farewell to his mother had been less affectionate. At dawn on the morning of my departure, I prepared to ride, tightening the girth and adjusting the stirrups of the saddle, and making sure the saddlebags were secure on my horse when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around to see Elerína, her hair unbound and her cloak wrapped around her against the chill of the morning mists.

“Did you intend to leave without saying farewell?” She hugged herself against the cold morning air.

“I am in a rush to depart, my lady. I wish to reach Hadhodrond before the winter sets in.” I continued to adjust the saddle, paying attention to minute details in each strap and buckle. My horse stamped a front hoof and snorted impatiently.

“Would speaking to me have delayed you that much?”

“No. Perhaps not.”

“Then what is wrong, Sámaril? Have I done or said something to anger you?” The plea in her voice tore at my heart, but I continued to focus on the horse.

“You have done nothing of the sort. I am of a firm mind to leave. That is all. I have no time for niceties.”

“Niceties? Is that what I am?

“No, my lady. You are the king’s mother. Please forgive me if I have breached protocol.”

She was silent for a moment while I checked the saddlebags one more time.

“When will you return?” she said.

“Before Valandil is crowned king.” I led the horse out into the courtyard in front of the stables with Elerína following me.

“You speak with the guile of your kind.” Her voice now trembled.

It took every measure of my strength to prevent myself from dropping the reins of the horse and taking her into my arms. Instead, I stopped, holding the reins of the horse’s headstall tightly. I faced her. She pressed her lips together, her chin set, but her eyes glittered with rising tears.

“Yes, my kind,” I said, pausing to let those words cut into her heart. “There is truth in what you say. We are of different kinds with different fates, but strange fates have afflicted those of the Firstborn and the Followers who have become too close. Better to avoid such things, my lady.”

I swung up on to the saddle. “Farewell, Lady Elerína. May the stars shine down upon you.” Chirruping to the horse, I rode toward the waiting guards and Brethilion. I did not look back.

~*~

“Master Sámaril!” Láki’s deep voice jolted me out of the mire of regret, bringing me back to the chamber of the Dwarves. “Are you ready to take your rest? We shall leave early in the morning.”

“Yes, please. Thank you for the ale and food. I had nearly forgotten how good Dwarven ale is.”

Láki chuckled, his brown eyes twinkling. “Then we shall make sure you drink enough while you’re here so you do not forget it again! Hafr, escort Master Sámaril to the guest rooms. I wish you good-night. Well met, Master Gnome. I look forward to our collaboration.”

“As do I. Well met,” I replied, rising up, my legs cramped, but I bowed to him as custom dictated. I followed the servant Hafr out of the chamber and down a dark hall, where my Dwarven escort opened a wooden door to a room where our packs and bags were piled. Beyond that was another room with two chairs and a bulbous ceramic oven, its door open to reveal a small fire burning in it. Opposite the chairs and oven were two elf-sized beds piled with blankets and pillows. The sight of the room and small fire was cozy but the odor of mildew hung in the air. I resisted wrinkling my nose.

Hafr waited expectantly. I reached into my belt pouch and pulled out a small green beryl, placing it on his outstretched palm. His brown eyes alight, he thanked me, tugged at his russet beard, bowed, and then left.

I pulled off my boots and stockings, wriggled my toes, and stripped off the rest of my clothing. Seeking warmth from the unremitting chill of stone, I burrowed deep beneath the thick but musty blankets and promptly fell asleep.

A crash and a stream of cursing woke me. Disoriented by the sudden waking from deep sleep, I sat bolt upright with my knife in my hand, my eyes straining against the inky blackness.

“Bauglir’s balls!” exclaimed the voice in the dark. “Don’t stab me, man. It is only I, Brethilion, the faithful healer of Dwarves!”

Brethilion reeked of ale. Evidently, he had found what he craved after he had tended the injured miner.

He grunted when he hit the bed. “Such fine, fine ale. And with a lovely head of foam on it, too. I tell you, Sámaril, that half-arsed amputation was bloody awful. Poor fellow will certainly need a revision but he’d best recover a bit first. Takes quite a lot of poppy to knock back a Dwarf. I wonder how long I will be stuck into this chasm? Ai, it’s as black as an orc's cunny! Don’t ask me how I know that! It’s no matter how long I remain here, I suppose. There is no one in Lothlórien to really care if I arrive sooner than later. I’m sure my wife took whatever of value she could with her to the Havens. Might as well earn a bit here so I can find a nice little talan at the edge of the city. Say, did I tell you about the first sutures I made in live flesh?”

“Yes, Brethilion, many times. Go to sleep!” I groaned, turning away from him and his drunken chatter. Oblivious to my admonishment, he plowed ahead.

“The Lady Culinen had me stitch up Lord Caranthir after he cut his hand with a paring knife. My first live sutures and she had me stitch up her own father! Imagine that! I swear I was so nervous that I nearly pissed myself while I was stitching the laceration, but my hands stayed steady. Lord Caranthir thanked me.” Brethilion paused, belched loudly, and sighed. "Poor Culinen! Fell in love with the wrong man, she did. I thank Elbereth’s stars her lord father did not live to see that.”

From there his babble descended into maudlin tales of his past and by default, some of my own. I pulled the pillow over my head and crushed it against my ears. At last, Brethilion’s meandering words transformed into snores.

~*~

We traveled through the mines for three days as best I could tell. Although the Dwarves had set shafts through the mountainsides to bring natural light into their halls, the tunnels and corridors were in shadow, but lit by many lamps crafted from bronze and tin. Servants quenched and lighted the lamps with a rhythm that gave a semblance of day and night, but it was still strange to me, a creature of open skies and air. We passed through many halls, climbed many steps, and took our rest in musty quarters made for outsiders, where we were none too subtly guarded.

At the end of our third day of travel, we reached the expansive eastern halls of the city. There Brethilion and I were escorted to a suite of rooms, hewn into shining black rock and richly appointed with fine furniture and carpets. Unlike the other guest quarters, these did not stink of mildew but were fragrant with the scent of pine and spices. The most welcome feature was a bathing chamber where steaming water already filled a tub sunk into the stone floor.

“I call the first bath!” exclaimed Brethilion, dropping his pack on the floor. Hopping on one foot and then the other, he pulled off his boots, then stockings followed by his tunic, leaving a trail of clothing to the bathing room door which he closed. A gratified sigh and splashing soon followed.

Láki smiled. “Master Brethilion apparently appreciates the tub.”

“I think I will, too,” I replied, looking around the quarters.

“Do you like these rooms?” Láki asked to which I agreed. He then said with some pride in his voice, “It has been many a year since any of your people visited us, but I am glad you approve of these quarters. Narvi had them carved and furnished especially for your folk when they visited. Who knows? Perhaps even Celebrimbor slept here!”

“It’s likely he did,” I said, not adding that it was equally likely that Sauron had, too.

“I recommend that you follow Master Brethilion’s example,” said Láki. “You will have an audience with the king this evening and after that, a feast to attend. I intend to wash away the weariness of our travel myself. Then I will give my beard a good combing! I will return for you in two hours.” He pointed to a sideboard where a hourglass sat, its golden grains sparkling as they trickled through its narrow neck.

After Brethilion emerged from the bathing chamber, I took my turn. My companion had courteously drained and refilled the tub. I sank down into the hot water, a luxury that had been denied me since we had left Imladris. After I bathed and dressed, layering gold finery over a robe of damasked blue fabric, I returned to the parlor where I found Brethilion sitting in a cushioned chair, tying yet another knot in a fine thread – one of what must be hundreds – that hung from his clothing.

“Manwë’s stiff rod! You’re wearing that?”

“Yes,” he said, unfazed by my judgment of his apparel. He fixed me with his pale blue eyes beneath arched brown eyebrows before returning his focus to the thread, in which he tied a knot deftly with the fingers of one hand. “What is wrong with it? This is one of my finer robes.”

“It’s just that...oh, never mind! It is your choice.”

I looked over Brethilion: his dark brown hair had been combed to a smooth shine and fell neatly down his back; the peculiar but striking white streak that started at the hairline on the left side of his broad forehead gleamed like a silver stream as it flowed through his darker locks. He would have cleaned up reasonably well had it not been for the many threads that he had tied on to his clothing – to his belt, eyelets, hooks and loops, whatever purchase he could find. All the threads had tiny knots in them, and all of his clothing had such threads dangling from the fabric.

I recalled his response when a visitor from Lindon had asked about his habit of knot-tying. Brethilion had snapped at Gil-galad’s soldier, “I am a surgeon. Tying knots is what I do. You damn well better be grateful if I ever have to stitch you up!”

The threads were just the most obvious of Brethilion’s idiosyncrasies, but he had been Elrond’s most skilled and trusted field surgeon during the War of the Alliance and the subsequent siege of the Barad-dûr, treating Men and Firstborn alike. Thus, his eccentricities were often overlooked.

A knock at the door informed us that our escort to the audience with the king had arrived. There was Láki, his beard gleaming blue-black and entwined with mithril thread, dressed in rich clothing, and dripping with mithril finery. Two other Dwarves were with him, also black-bearded, whom he introduced as Lafsi, his son, and Lagrr, his nephew.

In silence, we followed the Dwarves from our quarters to a long corridor, which led to the Hall of the King. I knew this, for I had passed this way once before.

On that occasion, Teretion and I had accompanied Tyelperinquar and Aulendil on a visit to then King Durin the Third. Murals made of precious gems, metals and glass lined the corridor then as they did now, depicting scenes from the history of the Dwarves. At one of these, Istyar Aulendil had paused, beckoning me to come to his side.

“Take a good look at this, lad,” he had said. I examined the mural, dim in its alcove but its details visible to my eyes. It was a creation story: behind a looming mountain were the open hands of Aulë and at the roots of the mountain was a naked Dwarf with a long beard extending to his belly. Surrounding him were other Dwarf-men, but also naked Dwarf-women with large pendulous breasts that rested on their round bellies.

“That is the awakening of Durin the Deathless by Mount Gundabad,” said Aulendil and then almost inaudibly he had whispered, “Open your mind to me. There’s more I want to say but it must be done discreetly.”

I did as he requested and had followed him back to the center of the corridor, continuing our conversation through mind-speak:

“Did you notice the Dwarf-women in the mural?” asked the Istyar.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you notice anything odd about them?”

“All Dwarves seem odd to me.” I knew that Aulendil was trying to pry reasoning from me, but I did not grasp his point.

“Have you seen no Dwarf-women during your visits here? I thought you had at least met Náryen’s friend, Dísa.”

“Yes, I have met Dísa.” Then it came to me, slapping my face with cold deduction. “The women in the mural have no beards!”

“That’s right, Sámaril. Something has changed since Aulë created the Dwarves. Dwarven culture -- no matter if it’s that of the Blacklocks, Firebeards or the great Longbeards -- exalts the male. Strangely enough, that caused the Dwarf-men to seek mates – when they could be interested in such things – who looked more like them -- more masculine, in other words. After generations of such selection, Dwarf-women have grown to look much like Dwarf-men, at least when they are clothed!”

“How...how bizarre!” I responded, shivering from a chill at the thought of the alien Dwarves, so different from mortal Men and the Firstborn.

“Isn’t it though?” said the Istyar in my thoughts. “There has been a consequence of this. The Dwarves have fewer children now. Whatever gives the women those luxuriant beards has affected their ability to conceive and give birth. It is rumored that the Dwarves have devised elaborate fertility rites using talismans to counteract their dwindling ability to procreate. That’s nothing that you or I will ever be privy to, for if the Dwarves are secretive about most matters, they are extremely secretive about those ceremonies. But I think there is a lesson here, Sámaril.”

“What is that, Istyar?”

“The male and female principles must be balanced for life to be ordered. You and I may operate in a man’s world, but never discount the power and importance of women. Ah, here we are! Straighten up, lad, and carry yourself well before the king. Remain silent. Istyar Tyelperinquar and I will do the talking.”

While I recalled Istyar Aulendil’s remarks on the Dwarves, Brethilion and I passed by the same mural, hiding deep in the shadows, but clear to my eyes and to Brethilion’s, too. He looked at it while we walked by. He glanced sideways at me, throwing his thoughts to mine, just as Aulendil had:

“Now that is just damned strange!”

“What isn’t strange about the Dwarves?”

We arrived at the Second Hall where soaring pillars lined the vast chamber, their bases shaped like the roots of trees, their capitals carved with twining branches and leaves high above and illuminated by crystalline lamps of gold and silver. We approached the throne in the center of the hall. On a high dais with many broad steps was a black stone seat with the emblems of hammer, anvil, stars and crown of mithril embedded in its back. There a figure sat, hunched and bent, as if all the gold chains he wore weighed him down. Durin the Fourth, his long silver beard thick with diamonds, sapphires and opals threaded on gold twine and interlaced through its heavy plaits, stared at us with rheumy eyes, his gaze slightly unfocused. He raised a wizened hand, beckoning us forward, and there – gleaming on his right forefinger – was a Ring of Power.

---

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to Darth Fingon for his ideas that hatched during our off-the-radar discussions on the implications of the apparent androgenization of female Dwarves, including his notion that the Dwarven women did not have beards in the earliest times but acquired them through sexual selection in the highly male-oriented Dwarvish society.

The document that occupies Elrond and Brethilion may very well be Elrond’s Treatise on Combat Injuries, seen in Surgical Steel’s The King’s Surgeon. Also thanks to Steel for the inspiration for Brethilion’s many threads and his habitual knot-tying. Although Brethilion has been vaguely floating around as a misty character in my 'verse (unwritten) for a while now, since meeting Steel's Serindë, I figured the Third Age/Fourth Age surgeon might like to meet one of her ilk, this one elvish, who was actually on hand at the Battle of the Dagorlad, so Brethilion may wind up visiting in her 'verse, too.

Hadhodrond – Sindarin, Khazad-dûm
Casarrondo – Quenya, Khazad-dûm

As with Laurefin/Glorfindel, Sámaril uses "Casarrondo" as narrator, writing in his mother tongue of Quenya, and "Hadhodrond" when speaking Sindarin with others. Khazad-dûm was not known as Moria until later in the Third Age when the balrog awoke and wrecked havoc.

Taking my cue from Tolkien, I have named the Dwarves using Old Norse. See Viking Answer Lady Webpage – Old Norse Names.

Chapter 27: Spirits of Amber

In order to obtain a diamond and mithril from the Longbeards, Sámaril agrees to teach the Dwarves an unusual art that will allow them to extend their gold stores for trade, and Láki introduces Sámaril to a form of Dwarven relaxation.

Thanks to the Lizard Council for encouragement and feedback. Please see End Notes for glossary, background on Sámaril's art and more acknowledgments.

Read Chapter 27: Spirits of Amber

Durin appeared less a Dwarf than a bearded toad burdened with gold chains. The king leaned against the arm of the black granite throne, croaking unintelligibly to the brown-bearded Dwarf who stood next to the high seat.

“Sámaril of the Gnomes, approach the throne!” commanded the king’s chamberlain, his surprisingly mellifluous voice rebounding off the high vaults of the throne hall.

Step by step, I ascended stairs of polished stone until the chamberlain signaled for me to halt just below the upper dais. He leaned toward the king who made a dismissive gesture with a shaking hand. Durin squinted at me through red-rimmed eyes, their whites tinged with a pale yellow cast, and spoke, his grating voice trembling with effort:

“You are known to us, Gnome, as is your purpose. You seek our mithril and our gems. In exchange for these, you offer your knowledge. But our people are the most skilled craftsmen in Middle-earth. What can you bring to us that we do not already have?”

I knew the question was moot. The Dwarves would not have entertained my request had they not believed I would be able to give them something in return.

“Indeed, your folk are acknowledged masters of stone and steel, my lord,” I said. “But unlike you, I have knowledge of the deep arts. I know that your gold stores for trade with Men are dear. There is a way in which you might extend the use of that gold, thus keeping more for yourselves.”

Durin’s ring caught the light when he motioned for me to continue. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end when memories of the crafting of that ring and its companions threatened to bubble up to the surface of my thoughts. I shoved these back into darkness.

“We wish you to tell us more,” he said.

“Gladly. What I propose is a means of plating thin layers of gold over other more common metals.”

“We already possess great skill with gilding. You offer us nothing new.” He waved his hand in dismissal, the ring glinting again in the lamplight.

“It is not gilding I propose, but plating by a method that uses the spirits of amber.”

“’Spirits of amber’? What do you mean?”

“If one rubs an amber rod with fur, sparks are generated. The Wise believe these sparks are akin to lightning. The curwë I propose to use harnesses the spirits of amber in a controlled manner. With certain salts and metals, the spirits of amber may then be used to drive a layer of gold upon another metal,” I explained.

“Is this dark magic?” the Dwarf-king asked, his eyes narrowed even more until all that remained were watery slits beneath his heavy silver brows.

I considered my answer carefully for it was in fact Aulendil who taught the technique to the smiths of Ost-in-Edhil. Thus many might consider it to be evil simply by association with him. However, we had applied the craft to decorative items only, from small chests and vases to the golden domes of the city’s buildings, and never for Aulendil’s more heinous work. For that, he had required solid gold.

“Like any curwë, it can be used for good or evil purposes." I replied. "In my hands and yours, my lord, it is not dark magic, but the process itself is perilous."

“A means of conserving our gold sounds like good magic to me!” Durin then emitted a disturbing series of croaks, which I realized was laughter when his chamberlain smiled.

“You will work with Láki,” said Durin, “...but you must demonstrate your method’s utility before we will give you a diamond of the quality you require.”

“I agree to these terms. And the mithril?”

“That is still subject to negotiation.” With his gnarled fingers, the king gestured to me to come closer and closer until I leaned over to hear his whisper. His fetid breath –- saturated with the odors of death and decay -- assaulted my senses.

“I desire something else, Ringmaker.” His imperious tone now turned to supplication. “Might you craft more?” He waggled his finger. “More rings?”

“No, my lord. That I cannot – and will not -- do.”

The king frowned, and for a moment I feared that Brethilion and I would be immediately escorted to the East Gate and tossed out, but then his ancient visage softened with resignation. “We understand, Master Sámaril.”

Then Durin whispered to his chamberlain who called Brethilion to approach the throne. The king gestured for him to lean in close and whispered to him. Brethilion nodded and said, “Very well, my lord. I will speak to your servants and make arrangements.”

We were then dismissed and told to join the other Dwarves at the feast prepared in the adjacent hall.

“What was that all about?” I asked Brethilion while we walked together behind Láki and two other Dwarves.

“The king wants me to examine him, but I hardly need to do so to see that he is very ill. He’s jaundiced, palsied, and he retains fluid in his tissues. The stench of this breath tells me that his kidneys are failing not to mention that most of his teeth have rotted. That thing on his finger has extended his life far longer than its natural span. He must be nigh on to nine hundred years old. What did he ask of you?”

“Besides asking for a way to further hoard their gold stores? He asked me for more rings.”

Brethilion shuddered. “That’s the last thing they need.”

We entered the dining hall, lit by gold and silver lamps and decorated with artful carvings and tapestries on its walls. The Dwarves filed in, taking their places before pewter plates and tankards on a long table already laden with many platters of roasted meats, fowl and fish. Here and there were baskets of bread, but not a vegetable or a piece of fruit was to be seen.

Brethilion shook his head. “Not even an apple. No wonder the Dwarves have such awful cases of piles! Make sure you take that a spoonful of the oil I gave to you if you do not wish to suffer the same. Take it every damn day. Or for whatever passes for a day in this black hole.” Then he clapped me on the shoulder and with fringes of threads shimmering around him, left my side to take his seat at the table.

~*~

Brethilion and I quickly fell into the rhythm of our respective servitude with the Dwarves. While I consulted with Láki, explaining the basic principles of the curwë as I understood them, drawing diagrams and listing materials I required, Brethilion was off tending the injured and the ill. He revised the crude amputation of the miner. He stitched up lacerations, set broken bones, and enthusiastically described the various lung ailments found among some of the miners which allowed him to apply remedies and palliatives used during the siege of the Barad-dûr when the fiery mountain's vapors afflicted both Men and Elves.

"They have even taught me the names for black lung and grinder’s disease in their own tongue. Imagine that!" he effused. “A few of the metal workers are afflicted with an odd malady that I have never encountered before among Men and certainly not among our folk. The Dwarf healers say that the lungs of those who have died from this illness are covered with thousands of small fleshy tumors. Strange! Very strange! But fascinating, don’t you think, Sámaril?” Whether I murmured my agreement or ignored him, Brethilion continued his narratives of his work. Then he would be called away to another part of the Dwarven realm to disappear for long periods of time.

Láki and I first set to work on the most critical component of the gold plating process: ensuring our safety in the work areas. The Dwarves had designated a series of connected chambers with ventilation shafts that opened up high above onto the mountainside, but I proposed to put fans in place, to be driven by gears turned by water so air would always be drawn away from the plating tanks. The curwë of the spirits of amber and the plating process used toxic salts, among them malinaqualmesingë. This yellow salt was mildly poisonous in itself, but if exposed to acid, it produced fumes fatal to Elf, Man and Dwarf alike; care would be needed to make its complex with a gold salt. Other noxious vapors were produced during plating, so along with the workers, Láki and I set our muscle to constructing the gears needed to drive the fans.

After one long day of wrestling with gears, fan blades and levers, I grimaced when I rubbed my sore shoulders. Láki, wiping the sweat from his brow, said, “I know just the remedy for stiff muscles!”

“Something other than ale?”

“Oh, yes! Come, Master Gnome! It’s off to the sauna we go.”

“The sauna?” I said, walking beside Láki but slowing my stride so we remained apace. “What is that?”

“You mean to say no one brought you to the sauna during your previous visits? It is a most relaxing place. You will see.”

We reached an enclosed stairway and began an ascent that led higher and higher, broken only by occasional landings where tunnels and doorways led off to other parts of the Dwarven realm. When at last Láki turned off from one such landing into a hall, both of us were breathing heavily. I followed him down the corridor to a large door, opened by the sleepy Dwarf attending it, which brought us into an antechamber where another Dwarf sat at a counter with a closet full of boots behind him.

Láki sat on a stool and pulled off his boots, indicating that I do the same. He handed our footwear to the Dwarf at the counter, who set these on a shelf alongside many other heavy leather shoes. Then Láki led me to a large room where Dwarves – all men – stood or sat in various states of undress.

We walked to a long stone bench where Láki sat, gesturing for me to sit beside him, and he proceeded to strip down to his loincloth. I followed suit, and like him, folded my clothing and placed the pile on an empty space among the many shelves lining the room. Then Láki untied the strings of his loincloth and placed the garment alongside his folded clothing. Gulping silently, I also removed my loincloth, hoping that my sudden onset of modesty was not apparent.

“This way, Sámaril,” Láki said, his deep voice jocular. He led me to another door from which steam billowed every time a naked Dwarf emerged or entered the unseen room beyond. He picked up a linen towel from a neatly stacked pile near the door, and I did the same

Stepping across the threshold, I walked into a wall of warm, humid air. Diffuse yellow light illuminated the large chamber filled with clouds of fragrant steam that billowed up to the unseen ceiling. Pink marble columns, their capitals obscured by the warm fog, marched along either side of the chamber. Benches – cedar, I surmised, by the wood’s odor and color – lined the chamber and on these lounged many naked Dwarves.

I had to avert my eyes for a moment. Naked Dwarves never failed to shock me. Pelts of coarse hair covered their chests, shoulders and backs. Their vier lolled from dense nests piled in their crotches; Dwarven male parts were at least commensurate with those of Elves and Men – and just as varied -- lending the appearance of rather notable virility in relationship to their short stature.

Láki and I sat side by side on a vacant bench. He sighed, closed his eyes and leaned back against the cedar-paneled wall. Aware that not a few curious Dwarves glanced my way, I looked with keen interest toward the ceiling of the chamber, hoping to avoid eye contact and also to avoid assessing Dwarven hammers and making an inevitable comparison. When the clouds of steam thinned a little, the capitals of the pink stone columns caught my eye. I stared for a while at these and then dropped my eyes to their bulging bases. I stifled a rising chuckle: the columns had been carved to resemble phalluses. Aulendil’s assessment continued to be accurate: the Dwarves exalted the male principle.

My almost adolescent bemusement of sitting among huge erect penises and my self-consciousness of being not only the tallest – by far – but also the least hairy – by far -- of the sauna’s patrons disappeared when the steam worked its magic on my stiff muscles. Sweat poured down my back, chest and limbs and with it, the weariness of hard labor.

Láki and I spoke idly of our tasks for the next day while I watched a Dwarf with a towel wrapped around his hips ladle water onto a pile of rocks artfully stacked on top of a nearby iron stove, one of several in the chamber; steam billowed from the hot rocks, thickening the air. I noticed a few Dwarves exiting the steam room through an arched tunnel, and then returning, flushed and bright eyed.

After some time, Láki stretched and shrugged his broad shoulders. “I am thoroughly cooked. Come, Sámaril! On to the next stage.”

Again I followed Láki, this time to the arched tunnel. We walked a short ways through it when I felt the temperature drop rapidly.

“Where are we going?”

“Outside.”

“Outside? Are you mad?” I blurted. “We must be high up on the mountainside here. There will be snow and…”

“That is the point!” Láki grinned wickedly. “I thought the Gnomes were strong folk, but if you rather not venture outside...”

My pride now ruffled, I replied, “No, I will try this. What do I do?”

“Run out upon the snow, roll around on it a few times, and then come back in. That is all. It is most invigorating!”

Shaking my head with disbelief, I steeled myself when Láki opened the thick wooden door, letting in a blast of frigid air; gooseflesh immediately rose on my damp exposed skin. Láki let out a whoop when we darted out into brilliant sunshine but fearsomely cold air. Several Dwarves wallowed around on the snow, looking like small bears against the white field. I flung myself onto the snow, applying every bit of discipline I possessed to keep from shrieking while my muscles contracted, and my stones tried to scramble back into my body. After rolling over several times, I stood and ran back to the door, but before I entered the tunnel, I turned and looked up at the sapphire blue sky and then down at the land –- lost Eregion -- that faded away into the West.

“Well?” Láki queried while we sluiced tepid water over our bodies in the lavatory, the last stop before we returned to the dressing chamber. “What did you think?”

“It was...” I paused, noting that in spite of the shock of the cold, my muscles were revitalized, and my skin gleamed. “You are right, Láki. It was invigorating. I have experienced nothing like it before,” I said while I toweled off.

Láki beamed, his big teeth white against his red lips and black beard. “Excellent!” he declared. “Excellent! So there is something new under the sun even for an Elf. Let’s dress and find some ale, Master Gnome. I will make a Dwarf of you yet.”

I guffawed in response, but happily followed my colleague into the dressing room, finding myself suddenly in great need of amber ale.

~*~

Time passed, but I had little awareness of its measure while Láki, his men, and I prepared for the gold plating. I delved deep into my memories of my work with Naicasir, the master chemist of Ost-in-Edhil, when I had assisted him and his apprentices to harness the spirits of amber needed to drive the plating of metal on metal: setting up the fans, assembling the vats and crafting the components required for the task – large glazed earthenware jars, copper sheets bent into half-cylinders and unglazed ceramic cups to fit within these, and rods of zinc, all shaped to nest within the larger jars. With Láki and his apprentices’ assistance, and guiding them just as Aulendil had guided Naicasir, I would duplicate these for the Dwarves.

I worked closely with Blesi -- the Dwarven chemist -- who formulated the various salts required to generate the spirits of amber and for the plating itself. Thankfully, Blesi, possessed of a quick mind and good instincts, was familiar with many of these salts from the Dwarves’ masterful work in metallurgy. He also took pains to train those who would work with the salts how to handle them properly and protect themselves although he had long ago lost much of his sense of smell due to the many chemicals he had been exposed to over the years. He also devised means to treat and dispose of the waste that the process would generate, again calling upon his formidable experience with the leavings of his craft.

My labors were interspersed with visits to the sauna where hairy Dwarven bodies no longer gave me pause and likewise, they became inured to my relative lack of body hair. I stretched out naked in the sunning chambers alongside them, absorbing the rays of the sun that climbed back into the spring sky in the outside world. Camaraderie with my Dwarven collaborators was further forged and tempered though the collegial meals we took together in the common dining hall.

However, when I returned to my quarters, I was alone with my thoughts. I had seen nothing of Brethilion for weeks and in spite of his irascibility, I missed his company, the one connection to another of my kind. Off in the mines that lay some twenty-five miles to the south, a miner’s lamp had ignited a pocket of fire damp, causing an explosion that had killed several miners and grievously injured more. The Dwarven healers had summoned Brethilion to aid them.

“Burns!” Brethilion had exclaimed while he inspected his surgeon's kit and shoved even more medicines and dressings into a pack to the point of bursting. “Burns and crushed limbs on a dozen miners. Lacerations, I’m sure. A ghastly business, but I suppose I’ll have more case histories to add to my notes on Dwarven medicine for all that’s bloody well worth. Rather an obscure field for an Elf to study.” He had hoisted his pack over his shoulders and had his kit in hand. He had looked at me for a moment, and then gave me a rare smile which brightened his face so much that one might even call him handsome. “Well, Sámaril, don’t poison yourself with all that shite you and the Dwarves are fooling about with for your golden ventures. It will take me days to get back so you’re on your own. Wish me luck!” He had spun on his heel and was gone.

Thus I missed Brethilion’s sometimes grisly descriptions of his work, the filthy jokes that the Dwarf-healers told to him and his reminiscences of the war of the Last Alliance and even earlier, of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad that had claimed the lives of so many including Culinen’s mother and her unborn child who would have been Culinen’s brother.

I occupied myself with writing in my journal and by treading the paths of waking dreams, but these all too often took me back to the days I had spent in Elerina’s company in the orchards, on the moors and in the Hall of Fire. Invariably, the memory of my cold farewell to her and the pain in her blue eyes consumed the happier ones. Tossing and turning on my bed in the pitch dark, I willed these memories away with only limited success and sought the oblivion of true sleep, only to have her reappear in my dreams again.

~*~

The day came when we were ready to test the gold plating prototype. That morning Láki and I assembled the earthenware jars that would yield the spirits of amber. First, we placed a curved copper plate in each of six jars. Within the circle of the curved copper, I lowered a ceramic cup in which I then placed a solid zinc core, its cross-section shaped like a star. Carefully, I poured white vitriol dissolved in dilute acid into the ceramic cylinder that surrounded the zinc core, and then poured a solution of blue vitriol in the outer chamber that held the copper plate. Next I connected the jars in series with wire attaching copper plate to zinc core and lastly, a pure gold wire that led from the zinc core of the sixth jar to the copper vase to be plated.

Using tongs, I carefully lowered the vase into the vat of the solution, heated by smoldering coals stacked around it, in which the salt of gold made with malinaqualmesingë was dissolved. Then I linked the wire leading from the vase to the jars containing the spirits of amber.

Láki and the other Dwarves peered into the vat of gold salts while another stirred the warm solution with a wooden paddle.

“Now what?” asked my colleague.

“We wait, and he stirs.” I said to Láki and the apprentice with the wooden paddle at the plating vat.

Hours passed while three of Láki's apprentices took turns stirring the gold salt solution and I checked the progress of the plating. At length, I asked the young Dwarf to remove the paddle from the solution. When the surface of the fluid stilled, I peered at the vase. At my signal, Láki disconnected to wire leading to the series of earthenware jars, and I fished out the vase with wooden tongs. When I held it aloft, there was silence for a moment, and then the Dwarves simultaneously exclaimed their wonder. All were eager to examine the gleaming vase.

"We must rinse it before handling it," I cautioned, transferring the vase to a vat of cool clear water. Once the vase was thoroughly rinsed and safe to touch, the Dwarves passed it among themselves, scrutinizing the gold surface.

Láki ran callused fingers over the shining gold. He nodded with satisfaction.

“We will request an audience with the King and the Guild of Smiths,” he said. “I believe you shall have a diamond in your hands soon, Master Gnome.”

---

Chapter End Notes

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some comments on Durin's ring: canonically speaking, the Rings of the Dwarves did not extend their life span. This strikes me as inconsistent with their effects on Men and Hobbits because Dwarves -- for all their fortitude -- are nonetheless a race of mortal humans (at least in my 'verse and viewed through a life scientist's lens). Although the Dwarves were later secretive about who bore the ring that Celebrimbor allegedly gave to Durin III, I figure at this juncture (with Sauron seemingly out of the picture and the One Ring lost), Durin IV is more open with his possession of it.

curwë (Quenya) -- technology

Thanks to Moreth for suggesting that the craftsmen of the Noldor may have understood and applied the principles behind batteries and electroplating. Because of JRRT's "canonical" allusions to certain 19th and early 20th century technologies in The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings, I figure this is fair game.

Elektron is the Greek word for amber, named so because of the sparks generated from it when fur is rubbed on the material as Sámaril describes. Hence Sámaril’s term – spirits of amber -- for electricity. I think it sounds like an “alchemic” term.

If I’m vague in describing the precise mechanism and arrangement of a Daniell cell, it's because I’m trying to keep this from sounding too much like an elementary physics class and it’s already careening dangerously in that direction. Here’s a good article about John Daniell and his invention and a brief description of of the Daniell cell from Answers.com:

“The Daniell cell proper consists of a central zinc anode dipping into a porous earthenware pot containing zinc sulfate solution. The porous pot is, in turn, immersed in a solution of copper sulfate contained in a copper can, which acts as the cell's cathode. The use of a porous barrier prevents the copper ions in the copper sulfate solution from reaching the zinc anode and undergoing reduction. This would render the cell ineffective by bringing the battery to equilibrium without driving a current.”

Blue vitriol = copper sulfate (sulphate for you Canadians and Brits)

White vitriol = zinc sulfate

Thanks to Darth Fingon for gamely coming up with a Quenya name for potassium ferrocyanide: Malinaqualmesingë = “yellow death-salt.” As Sámaril notes, the salt is only mildly toxic but when it's exposed to acid, it releases hydrogen cyanide gas which is deadly. Also thanks to Darth for his quip that led to the motif of the columns in the sauna.

Thanks to Surgical Steel for her overall suggestions (medical and otherwise) and specifically for those of the various diseases and injuries that might afflict the Dwarven miners.

Black lung -- coalworker's pneumoconiosis

Grinder’s disease: silicosis

The strange disease with tiny lumps (granulomas) in the lungs that Brethilion describes may be berylliosis.

Nírnaeth Arnoediad -- Battle of Unnumbered Tears

vië (s.), vier (p.) (Quenya) -- "manhood" (wink, wink, nudge, nudge)

Chapter 28: A Shadow Dreaming

Sámaril prepares to journey with Láki to the northern mines to search for mithril but encounters Brethilion, distressed because he has been called upon to treat an important Dwarf-woman and her child. Sámaril and Láki descend into the roots of the mountain where an increasing sense of dread and disturbing dreams of shadow and flame afflict Sámaril.

Heads up for some medical stuff in the first part of this chapter (and thanks to Surgical Steel for helping out Brethilion's craft as well as a pre-read). Although he does not describe it in graphic detail, Brethilion mentions a grisly obstetrical procedure that was used in non-progressing labor before the advent of forceps for delivery; this might be disturbing for some readers. Other than that, this chapter is rated PG to PG-13. Many thanks for the Lizard Council for comments and nitpicking.

Read Chapter 28: A Shadow Dreaming

The sharp retorts of chisels, the grate of diamond-edged saws, and the gleam of earnest brown eyes were the first things that greeted me when I emerged from the rough diamond that I cupped in my hands. The young gem cutter’s gaze was as steady as his hands.

“What do you think, Master?”

“Impressive,” I murmured, still dizzy from the trance that led me into the crystalline lattices of the diamond, its ancient substance humbling me. “If cut properly, it should yield a fine gem.”

“Be assured it will be cut properly!” the young gem-cutter replied with gruff emphasis.

“I have no doubt it will,” I hastened to assure him. “Master Láki tells me your skill surpasses that of Randr who supplied me with beautiful gems in the past.” I empathized with the young Dwarf, remembering when others questioned my abilities because of my youth.

“You knew Randr? But he was my great-great-great grandfather and died long ago!”

“Yes, I knew him, and his forefathers before that. I was born and raised in Ost-in-Edhil and often came here to work with your forefathers when I was a young man and long after that as well.”

“Ah! Yes, of course. I am sorry, Master Sámaril. Sometimes it is easy to forget that you’re a --“ He cut off his words, his cheeks flushing pink above his rusty brown beard. “If you’ll forgive me, you have an ease around us that sometimes makes me forget that you’re an Elf. Now if you had a beard and were of normal height. Oh! I am so sorry, I mean…”

“I understand your meaning and take it as a compliment.” I smiled, handing him the rugged gem. “I leave you to your task, Master Ragni. I am confident I will be more than pleased with the result.”

Ragni’s whole face brightened, eyes and mouth smiling in unison. “I will have it ready for you two weeks hence.”

Thanking him again, I bowed, took my leave, and made my way to Láki’s workshop, not far from the gem-cutters’ hall. Láki had requested that I meet him there to review the final plans for our journey to the northern mines. After supplying Durin’s treasury with many gold-plated items, I had at last been granted permission to seek mithril -- the ore that was the wealth and pride of Khazad-dûm. Láki would be my guide, leading me to the mines beneath Caradhras where veins of the precious metal snaked down into the depths.

I found him seated with two other Dwarves at a table where I joined them, maneuvering my legs to avoid adding yet more bruises to my knees. Láki tapped the unfurled map before him with his thick forefinger.

“It will take three marches to reach the northern mines, but there are halls along on the way where we may take our rest so pack only what is of utmost necessity. I will provide the tools: picks, shovels, and mells. If you have elvish rope, bring it. Sturdy boots, too, but you have those, Master Gnome. Bring your long knife, too.”

“Do you anticipate any danger? I was given to understand that your folk had eliminated the orcs from these regions.”

“Not orcs, but there are things that crawl in the roots of the mountains, and many are not friendly. Besides, a miner always should have a knife or two on hand, don’t you agree?”

“You’ll find no argument from me on that account. What time tomorrow shall we depart?”

“Before dawn. At four strikes of the bell, that is,” he said, referring to the clockwork that more often than light dictated the rhythms of the Dwarves in their mansions beneath the mountains.

When I left Láki’s workshop, I digested the information about the things that dwelt in the roots of the mountains. These were a vague rumor among most of my people, and the subject of fantastical tales in which slimy monsters crawled from darksome dens to prey upon the unwary, tales that were popular among the youth of Ost-in-Edhil, meant to be deliciously frightening when we gathered around small fires out in the hills under the autumn moon. Láki’s casual advice to bring my long knife reminded me that I might encounter the reality of my boyhood tales, which was a disquieting prospect.

Upon opening the door to my quarters, I found Brethilion kneeling on the floor, rifling frantically through his supplies. When he turned at the sound of the door, his strained expression startled me.

“What is wrong?”

“Ai! Everything!” He hunched over, as if curling into himself; his hands, normally rock-steady, were shaking. Tentatively, I lay my hand on his shoulder. When it was not shrugged off, I lifted him to his feet and guided him to one of the chairs in our sitting area. I poured a dram of miruvor for him, which he gulped down at once.

“Tell me,” I said, sitting down in the other chair.

He sucked in a deep shuddering breath, but color returned to his face. “I was on my way back from the south mines when they found me. Messengers from the king. They led me to the royal mansion and to the family hall.”

“The family hall? So you saw…”

“Yes! I saw Dwarf-women and not just any Dwarf-women. Dwarf-women of the royal house!” Brethilion snapped. “More than that, they brought me there to treat one of their own. She lay in childbed, but for all the midwives’ care, she had not progressed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bah!” he spat. “Are you really that obtuse? I mean that she had been in labor for almost three days!” Brethilion held out his glass so that I might pour more of our dwindling cordial for him. He made short work of that and continued. “Whatever gives the Dwarf-women their beards also constricts their pelvic girdle. They may look broad and sturdy, but inside, the birth passage is narrow and perilous for both mother and child.” He shook his head, damp strands of his hair falling over his brow. “She was so weak. The midwife feared for both mother and baby and rightly so. Now a midwife of Men would have just perforated the infant’s skull and drawn out the body with…”

“Please, Brethilion! I do not need to know that!”

He frowned at me. “It’s a fact that mortal midwives do such things: they sacrifice the infant to save the mother. Why hide it? But births are so few among the Dwarves, much like our race. They were desperate to save both mother and child. The midwife knew that some elven-healers have skill with sectioning of the womb, and she presumed so with me. Of course, she was right.”

“Of course,” I agreed, relieved by the return of Brethilion’s gritty arrogance that came to him as naturally as breathing. “Go on.”

“I cut her open and took the baby. A boy. He was barely alive, but the midwife managed to get him to breathe and pink up.”

“That sounds encouraging,” I said, inwardly wincing at my bland remark, but Brethilion did not miss a beat to assure me that the situation was dire.

“It would be if there were a wet nurse nearby. The mother lost a large volume of blood so I had to inject her with saline. That helped but she is too fluid depleted and weak to nurse him, and he needs more than sugar-water. It may be days before they can find another nursing woman and…” He paused to take a deep breath. “I am worried about both mother and child, Sámaril. I thought everything was scrupulously clean – my instruments, my hands, the operating field -- but I fear she may be developing an infection of the womb.”

“You have treated mortals with far more grievous injuries and have saved them. The Dwarves are a strong people,” I said. “What has you so distressed?”

“That tiny boy? He is Durin’s heir. If his mother -- the King’s granddaughter -- dies…if that baby…” Brethilion held his breath, and then released it, his words racing. “If something happens, I’ll be out on my arse, or worse, and likely you along with me. For all their seeming good will, the Dwarves do not trust us.”

“Oh, come now, Brethilion! I believe you and I have more than earned their good graces.”

“Then why do they perpetually keep their guards trained on us? Old prejudices die hard. Maybe they never die.” Brethilion raked his fingers through his hair. “I should get back to packing.”

“Would you like some help?”

Brethilion’s mouth curled into a sneer, but then his expression softened. “I suppose I could use your help. You had best not drop and break any bottles or I will lop off what you hold most dear.”

I grinned at his admonishment, which suggested that he had regained a grip on his fear. He picked out the medicines he required while I wrapped them in soft cloth and packed them in the box.

“Ah! Here it is!” He held aloft a black glass bottle, its stopper sealed with red wax. “Colloidal silver. Douches with this will help stave off infection of the lady’s womb. I’ll have to get her to take it by mouth, too.”

“Silver?”

“Yes. We have known about its properties against infection for a long time. The Exiles told us that even in the Blessed Lands, a severe wound could still become infected and cause a fever. This treatment makes the hröa more comfortable while the fëa does the work to heal. The stuff worked well for many of the Men who had been injured before the Morannon, too. Now I expect the midwife has rosehips and yarrow, but I doubt that she has these.” He held up two vials filled with dry vegetation. “Coneflower and goldenseal. The Númenóreans brought these to our shores. Also useful for infection.” He continued to hand off glass vials and jars of various sizes, filled with dried plant material or extracts. “And none of her medicines will be as strong as mine. I do believe that little trinket on Elrond’s finger has an effect on the potency of the herbs grown in his gardens.”

“Don’t speak of that trinket lightly, Brethilion. Remember what Elrond said. Sauron may be defeated, but one never knows…”

“Always the optimist.”

“Look who is accusing me!”

He made a noise halfway between a grunt and a laugh and continued sorting through his pharmacopoeia. After we packed the last of his medicines in the wooden box, assuring all were secure and padded, Brethilion hoisted the pack over his back and grabbed the rope handles of the medicine box. His keen blue eyes were softened with worry.

“I know that you are no more observant than I am, but offer words of supplication to the Healer, would you? Oh, and to the Weeper, too. I need all the help I can get.”

“I will pray to the Healer and the Weeper. And the Kindler for good measure. I have confidence in you, Brethilion.”

“I have confidence in myself which is more important.” His mouth cocked in a wry smile. “But your confidence doesn’t hurt either, young whelp. Let’s hope I can pull the Dwarf-lady and her baby through this. I will see you, well, whenever we are both here again. Farewell!”

~*~

Just as Láki said, it took three long marches to reach the northern mines. We trudged over roads that ran through vast caverns and across arched bridges that spanned subterranean rivers roaring far beyond the reach of lamplight. We passed by granite colonnades that lined long halls and through arched tunnels that opened into chambers with vaulted ceilings where the light of the outside world poured through openings high above.

As we traveled, I recognized landmarks of previous journeys taken shortly after I had passed my mastery examination when Teretion, Mélamírë and I had accompanied the Istyari to the northern mines as part of trade delegations. But much had changed since then, casting an element of the unfamiliar even when I recognized a particular set of columns or entry to a hall.

We stopped along the way to enjoy Dwarvish hospitality at what amounted to inns carved into the stone: welcoming places where fires roared in hearths, ale flowed freely, and where the beds were invariably too short, which I remedied by tossing linens and blankets on the floor where I slept fitfully, the chill of the stone seeping through carpets and bedding.

Late on the third evening, Láki asked to speak with me privately so I invited him to my room where he made himself comfortable in the Dwarf-scaled chair while I sat on the edge of the too-small bed.

“We will descend into the mines early tomorrow morning. You and I, that is.”

“Won’t Haddi and Darri join us?”

Láki’s black beard swung to and fro like a hairy pendulum. “No, they will not,” he said, his voice low. “I am taking you to an offshoot of the primary vein. It is my private claim where you are guaranteed to find high-grade ore. I will guide you there personally.”

This was an extraordinary gesture on his part, taking me to what amounted to be his own hoard. “Are you quite certain that you wish to take me there?”

“You enriched my family treasury when you taught me the craft of gold-plating. I have already made good trade with the settlements of Men who dwell along the river. I owe you.”

“Ah. I see.”

“It is more than that, Master Gnome. You have been a most welcome colleague and, if I may be so bold, a friend.”

“I count you as my friend, too, Master Láki.”

“That is good,” he said, rising from the chair, “because you must put your trust in me when I lead you into the deep, for you will never find your way out without my guidance. Meet me outside the inn tomorrow morning at three bells. Be discreet!”

~*~

If I thought I had been disoriented before, the twisting route that Láki took thoroughly turned me around, but that must have been his intent. The path that led through the upper part of the mine was wide and its ceiling high, but as we progressed, the tunnel narrowed, its walls closing in around us. Láki had been singing a miner’s tune, but when we went further down, he ceased his song. Only the dripping of water and our footfall broke the solemn silence.

“Not much longer now!” Láki said intermitently. Although my sense of direction had failed me, when we passed a wall of rock that glimmered with crystals, I thought it looked familiar. Had I seen this part of the tunnels before? I said nothing but raised my lantern and followed Láki.

Further beneath the mountain we trudged. The air remained fresh albeit damp. Occasionally, a scratching noise like claws raked against rock reached my ears, my sense of hearing heightened, but I could not pinpoint the source of the faint sounds. I remembered Láki’s offhanded remark about the things that gnawed at the roots of the mountains and wondered if I heard their activity. Tension built behind my eyebrows, threatening to become a headache. I wondered if the air was bad, but the currents that wafted through these depths bore no trace of foulness. Láki tramped along with vigor, apparently unaffected. I attributed the growing ache in my head to disorientation.

When we rounded a bend in the tunnel, Láki’s lantern set the wall to his right aglow. He stopped and beckoned me forward to his side. He held his lantern aloft, its white light breaking into a thousand rainbows from the many crystals embedded in the walls of a small cave that opened into the main tunnel.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? I found this when I first went prospecting for a new vein. It is one of the entries to the Garden of Crystals. Shall we have a brief look?”

My stomach lurched when a suppressed memory threatened to boil up to the surface of my thought. My head throbbed, but I shook it off. I could not afford to quail now.

“No, Láki. Let’s press ahead.”

“Very well,” but he sounded disappointed.

My discomfort turned into dread when our path plunged down into a spiraling tunnel. The vague unease was now a distinct awareness of something, but what, I did not know. A waking dream of eddying smoke and shadows stirred in my mind. I attempted to push the vision aside by imagining the west wind blowing away smoke in a clear blue sky, but the dream only intensified as we descended, resisting my rejection of it. I strained to see beyond the torchlight, and wraiths of orange flame flickered at the periphery of my sight.

The air became warm, and my sense of dread worsened. The memory clawed at me again, insistent that I stop and return to the upper halls. But I never would find my way back without Láki, and I dearly wanted that mithril. I called up Valandil’s young face before my eyes, remembering that I did this for him, the boy as dear to me as my own son, the boy who would rule a kingdom of Men. But the flames at the edge of my vision roared into fire and burned Valandil away. The reek of brimstone filled my nostrils.

The air in the tunnel was now hot and close. I concentrated on Láki’s broad back, wresting my mind away from the strange dream. Sweat that had been a trickle now poured down my neck and soaked my shirt. I could not tell if the dream of fire and shadow was my own or if it came from another.

Then I felt it: a slumbering presence that turned beneath the stone like a somnolent snake stretching itself when the hot light of the sun hits its cold flesh. I stopped, stilling my thoughts, and pushed away the presence, my guts in knots for fear of waking this thing.

“Sámaril? Is something wrong?”

“Yes. Don’t you feel it?”

“Feel what? I am hot, yes, but that is not uncommon at these depths. Barazinbar may have been an ancient fire mountain.”

“It’s more than heat. There is something down here. Something that is a threat.”

“Ah!” Láki stood still, listening. Again I heard the faint scratching noises, joined by an occasional muffled grunt and chattering. Then Láki sniffed, wrinkling his bulbous nose. “The elvish senses of hearing and smell are indeed keen! If we went further down, we would encounter the tunnels of the things that gnaw at the mountain’s roots. Like great naked moles they are and ruled by their cruel queen. It is she whom you must sense. She is a malign creature and does not wish my people well. But truly, we do not have much farther to go, and we are still well removed from the queen’s domain. Do you trust me, Sámaril?”

I swallowed hard. Was it the queen of these mysterious creatures who was projecting dreams of fire into my mind? Perhaps he was right, but then another tale, one whispered among the survivors of Beleriand Lost, ignited my imagination, made wild by the darkness and disorientation. Yet I dismissed the thought as superstition for I wanted that mithril, and we had come so far.

“Yes, I trust you, Láki.”

We continued our descent. Shadows and smoke resolved into jumble of images: three high mountains that reached to swallow the stars, belching forth fumes.

“There!” Láki’s cry pulled me out of the vision. Our lanterns’ light gleamed off streaks of white-silver that ran through layers of red and grey rock. We pulled off our shirts, brought forth our picks and set to work. The physical labor and sound of iron against rock banished the dream of shadow and smoke from my thought, and I felt relief while we worked to free the ore from the stone that trapped it. I lifted the mell and struck the stone hard, its strike reverberating off the walls of the tunnel.

Then, with terrible force, the dream returned: anger and fear flared like dry tinder set afire. Jagged words, their sharp rhythm weird but also familiar, formed in my mind, even as I concentrated on pummeling the stone.

They approach from the West, my lord. No! The light, the terrible light! I cannot see. The master calls. I cannot, I cannot. Forgive me, master! I must flee. Forgive me!

I had exposed a large chunk of white-silver ore, but it remained trapped.

They come. Hide, hide. To the mountains.

I pulled out a small pick to work loose the fingers of rock that still grasped the mithril, as if reluctant to let it go. The sleeper tossed and turned when I tapped the stone.

Into the depths. They will never find me here.

At mid-strike of the pick, I froze when a sensation of cold water washed over me, followed by the crushing pressure of rock.

Lost! All is lost! I am quenched.

Tearing my thoughts away from the awful distraction, I focused on my task, chipping away at the stone, trying to quell my rising terror, but the voice in my head became a horrible wail, weeping with fear at its entrapment. I aimed the tip of my pick at the last piece of rock that held the ore. One more tap and the mithril fell to the floor of the tunnel with a sharp thump. Then the crying ceased.

Who are you? Are you my brother?

At the verge of panic, I shoved the dream away but struggled to keep myself from answering it. Closer and closer it came to full awareness, writhing in its tomb of stone. Then, without thinking, I spoke the words of command, the same glittering phrase that had paralyzed the troll, and the same that Aulendil had used to prevent me from stepping over the cliff. The presence froze.

Unfortunately, the command had also rendered Láki immobile. Swiftly, I assessed our predicament: the Dwarf standing stock-still, the waking presence paralyzed wherever it lay beneath the stone, our tools scattered about, and the gleaming mithril at my feet. However, I dared not release the spell so I repeated the command over and over while I gathered the ore into my pack, which I slung over my right shoulder. Grunting with effort, I lifted Láki and slung him over the left, and then plucked a lantern from the hook where it hung on the wall. Thus burdened, I stumbled forward step by step, hoping to retrace our route. I continued to send the command deep into the stone where the presence now lay silent and stunned, sinking back into sleep. I stopped frequently, catching my breath and checking the signs along the stone walls. When the last vestige of the shadow-dream was gone from my mind, I put Láki down, none too gently, and sat beside him, panting. Soon, he emerged from the spell.

“What?” Láki gasped and wrapped his hand around his beard. “Where are we?”

“Hopefully on the same path that we followed on the way down.” I gave him my flask of water, which he gulped down. Clarity returned to his brown eyes.

“What happened down there? I remember that you loosened the ore and had such a look of terror on your face. Then I heard strange words but…well, whatever it was, that was my last memory.”

“I’m sorry, Láki,” I said, knowing I must choose my words carefully. “I used an elvish spell against...against I am not sure what, but something that lies beneath the stone in the deep. I had to command it to be still. The thing is evil. It was awakening while we worked.”

“I felt nothing.”

“I said it was evil! Is that not enough for you?" I snapped. "It likely could not have freed itself but I am convinced it would have done us harm if it could.” But it asked if I were its brother. “I warn you: do not delve too deeply in your claim.”

Láki's eyes narrowed and his round cheeks tightened. “Where then exactly does this thing lie?”

“I am not certain.” That was the truth. I could not pinpoint the source of the shadow-dreams, no more than I could the first sparks that ignite a brushfire.

“Then I have no idea where I should or should not delve, do I?” Láki’s voice crackled with impatience. “You Elves see phantoms everywhere. As I said, you must have sensed the queen mole. She is an evil thing, and there are others just as bad that crawl in the depths. We Dwarves know of such creatures. We do not flinch at anything that goes bump in the dark! Nothing will stop me from mining my claim, least of all a flighty Elf!” Then he rubbed his eyes and softened his tone. “Forgive me, Sámaril. We are both exhausted. I will admit that even for a Dwarf, a descent into the deep tunnels is always stressful. I think you are in need of ale. I know I am.”

“Yes, I believe ale is in order.” It was more than apparent that Láki would brook no more argument about his precious claim, and given that he had been so generous to take me there, I did not press further.

Long after we had returned to the upper halls, bathed and sat down to meat and ale, I retreated to my room where I dimmed the lamp to a dull glow. I lay down on the mattress flung on the floor, my pack with the mithril ore at my side, and folded my hands across my chest, freeing my mind of all thought and allowing the suppressed memory that earlier had clanged with warning to well up. In my mind’s eye, I saw a fire roaring in the huge hearth of the dining hall in the Mansion of Narvi, and laughter and song filled my ears.

~*~

It had been some thirteen yéni ago when Teretion, Mélamírë and I had drunk far too much ale at the feast held in honor of our delegation from Ost-in-Edhil. All those in attendance, Dwarf and Elf alike, had loosened their voices, including the Istyari who sang along with the master smiths at the head table. We three sat well off to the side with the younger Dwarven craftsmen, who included including Mélamírë’s friend, Dísa, the bold and headstrong sister of Dagr, one of Narvi’s descendants.

“They look to be conspiring,” Teretion said when he watched Mélamírë and Dísa leaning toward one another, speaking below the noise while the rest of the hall sang with ale-soaked mirth and the clear voices of the Istyari wove like strands of silver and gold through the sonorous iron of Dwarven song.

Dagr chortled. “If I know my sister, that is exactly what they are doing. But she is a good lass. So is your friend…I mean, your colleague.”

“She’s both friend and colleague. She’s a good lass, too. Just don’t let her hear you…”

“Did you just call me a lass, Teretion?”

“Ha! You’ve been caught out! You Elves can hear a pine needle drop in a windy forest!” Dagr laughed.

Mélamírë smiled in return. “Dísa has been telling me about a marvelous cave deep under the mountain.”

"Would that be the Rainbow Cave?" Dagr said.

“Yes!” said the Dwarf-woman. She wagged her honey-brown beard enthusiastically, her amber eyes shining from lamplight and ale both. “It is filled with crystals that break light into many colors.  I would be happy to take you there.”

“I wouldn’t mind escaping the racket,” said Dagr. “As long as we take a jug or two of ale with us.”

“A splendid suggestion!” agreed Teretion.

After assuring ourselves that the Istyari were ignoring us, we five snuck out of the dining hall. Our Dwarf friends guided us along a narrow road, up and down stairs, and then through an arched entry. Following Dísa’s will-o-the-wisp lantern with Dagr bringing up the rear, we careened through narrow corridors and descended into looping tunnels, ducking our heads under low ceilings and then emerging onto paths that skirted sheer walls, stone on one side of us and the cool black void on the other. We trusted the Dwarves entirely in this unfamiliar place.

As we went further down, the air, once cool with subtle currents, became still and warm. A vague sense of unease crept over me. Although the Dwarves continued singing, we, the three Firstborn, lapsed into silence. We passed a wall that glittered in the lamplight where Dísa stopped and ran her stubby fingers over the crystals embedded in the stone.

“We’re nearly there!” she said, and we started forward, but I was brought up short by the sound of retching behind me. Turning swiftly, I saw Mélamírë leaning against the stone. Dísa pushed past me to Mélamírë’s side. The Dwarf-woman reached up to lay her hand on my friend’s shoulder, but Mélamírë tried to wave her away.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry...” but then my friend turned abruptly and vomited over the edge of the path into the crevasse that yawned to our side. Dísa held Mélamírë’s hair back while she wrung out her guts, remaining bent over and panting.

Dagr muttered something about elf-women not being able to hold their ale. Dísa shot him a warning glance.

Mélamírë took a deep breath and straightened up, but her face was deathly pale in the lamplight. “Dagr is right. I drank too much.” She attempted to walk but stumbled. I was at her side in an instant, supporting her. She rested her head against my shoulder, and I could feel her heart pounding. Then she whispered in our own tongue, “Sámaril, take me away from here. Now!” The urgency in her tone alarmed me.

We made our way back up the circuitous route with Dísa leading us again. When we reached our quarters, Mélamírë collapsed on her bed. Dísa barked orders at the servants and saw to her comfort.

“Shall I fetch you some herbal tea?” Dísa adjusted a damp cloth on our mutual friend’s forehead.

“Yes, please, my dear Dísa. Sámaril will stay here with me.”

When Dísa had closed the door behind her, I was free to speak. “What happened? I have seen you drink far more without becoming so ill!”

“I…I am not altogether certain how to say this.” She searched my face. “I felt a presence of some sort. Something…dark. Monstrous. Did you not feel it?”

“I was uneasy, but I thought that might be due to disorientation.”

“It was more than unease for me. Fear. But of what, I am not sure.” She then pinned me with her gaze. “You must promise me something, Sámaril.”

“What is that?”

“Please do not tell my father about this!”

“Of course not. Why would I?”

“I don’t know why you would. I…just please do not tell him.” She turned away and then looked at me again. “I have felt this thing before. When I was with him.”

“You did? Then why did you not know where we were? That you might encounter this thing again?”

“It is easy to get turned around in these tunnels. When this happened before, it was in another part of the northern mines, and I was so very young.” She winced, knitting her brows, but then smiled wryly. “The ale we drank tonight may have had effects on my judgment, too.” She continued her tale:

“I was no more than four years old when Father and Tyelpo thought it would be a lark to take me with them to look at the old mithril vein under the North Slope, the same vein from which Narvi mined the ore for the gates. I would rather have stayed in the Mansion of Narvi and played with Dísa and the other children, but Father deemed the trip 'educational', and Mother agreed with him. So off I went.

“All was well until we descended deep. I remember feeling ill. I fussed, but Father assured me that I was merely tired so he picked me up and carried me. We rounded a curve in a deep tunnel. There I saw mithril shining in the stone, but I also felt hot and even sicker. Father and Tyelpo had been talking non-stop with one another before, but they became strangely silent, as if each looked inward at something.

“Then it came upon me suddenly: I saw nothing but fire; I smelled nothing but fumes. Then it…” Mélamírë paused and shut her eyes tight. “It started to wake up, and I screamed. I was so frightened that I pissed myself. And Father’s clothing, too. I thought that he would be angry with me, but he wasn’t. Instead, he insisted that we turn back, commanding our guide to lead us with all haste back to the upper halls. When we retreated, the presence dreamed again, and all the fire and smoke became nothing more than shadows.

“When we returned to the upper level, I saw what frightened me most of all: my father was afraid. We were both a mess so Mother had her hands full. But his fear soon gave way to curiosity, and he wanted to return to the deep tunnel to discover what exactly had stirred beneath the stone. Mother was having none of it, so he gave in to her. But you know him. Once his curiosity is aroused, it does not die. So that is why I ask you not to tell him. He will...”

“You do not wish Sámaril to tell me what?” There in the door stood her father, holding a cup of steaming tea.

Mélamírë shot a sharp glance my way before turning toward her father and sighing: “That I made quite a fool of myself.”

“Ah. I have already found out about your little escapade, thanks to Dísa.  She told me all.” Her father came to the side of her bed and sat beside her. He helped his daughter sit up so that she could take the fragrant tea from him. “This should help settle your stomach. Dísa said you were quite ill.” She sipped it while he watched.

“The next time we attend one of these functions, you shall sit with me at the high table rather than with these young louts who think they are smiths. Obviously, they are a bad influence.” I withered when he eyed me. “Sámaril, I am sorely disappointed in you. I should think you have better sense than to swill so much Dwarven ale.” He returned his attention to Mélamírë. “Thanks to your carousing, my dear, you missed a fascinating discussion with Kali regarding a metal he has discovered. He says it is not as beautiful as mithril, but light in weight and flexible. I think it might be useful for creating an admixture with…”

“Father, please! My head aches terribly. I am in no state of mind to discuss craft just now. Please sing to me. Make the pain go away.”

“Yes, I can do that.” He removed the damp cloth and stroked her forehead, not taking his eyes from his daughter. “Sámaril, you may leave us now.”

~*~

Abruptly, I was back in my quarters, lying on the mattress, as if I had been dismissed from the painful memory. The dissonance of the tender scene between father and daughter with the horror of what came later was agonizing to recall, but my friend’s reaction to whatever lay in the depths had called out to me, as if she were trying to warn me these many years later. But the memory gave me no answers, only heartache and apprehension.

What was it that slept in the stone? The thing had not only frightened Mélamírë and me, but it had also alarmed her father, and that was no small thing. What could frighten him? Certainly not a queen-mole.

The tales said that none of Morgoth's most fearsome servants had escaped the War of Wrath, but the haunted looks in my parents’ eyes when the minstrels sang lays of the Fall of Gondolin came back to me. I knew who might offer more information of beings who wrapped themselves in shadow and flame, but would Laurefin wish to revisit that dark memory to answer my questions? Would it matter anyway? The Dwarves were obsessed with mithril, and warnings of what they dismissed as elvish phantoms would not deter them from mining the beautiful ore that was the foundation of their wealth. If I were honest with myself, I coveted the metal, too, and envied Láki his claim. My warnings would be taken as churlish affirmation of my own greed.

I tried to settle into the true sleep that I so desperately needed but continued to argue with myself, debating the merits of pressing the Dwarves to consider carefully where they mined, but realizing that I could not truly pinpoint where the dream had originated nor have any way of providing firm evidence to confirm my suspicions.

My spinning thoughts kept me awake for a long time. At last exhaustion swept me on to the dream-paths leading to the borderlands of sleep. Out of the mists, an image formed: Elerína, bent over picking apples from the ground, her dark hair mussed with bits of dried leaves and pulp stuck among silky strands. My need for comfort overcame the pangs of regret and longing that always surfaced when I thought of her. I went to her side in the dream and helped her gather apples, letting my voice join hers in song, and I fell into a deep peaceful sleep.

Chapter 29: A Kiss in the Dark

For saving Durin IV's heir and his mother (Durin's granddaughter), Brethilion is awarded with unusual gifts. With their departure from Khazad-dûm imminent, Sámaril and Brethilion are the guests of honor at a celebration in Láki's mansion where Sámaril is faced with peculiar Dwarven cuisine, finds himself the object of attraction by a Dwarven-lady and then plays matchmaker.

Many thanks and bows of "at your service" to the Lizard Council -- Jael, sanna, Aeärwen, Surgical Steel, Raksha, klose, Drummerwench, Russandol and Darth Fingon. Special thanks to Darth for linguistic assistance. See end notes for that.

Some mild sexuality in this chapter: soft R-rated at the most.

Read Chapter 29: A Kiss in the Dark

Naked, I stood ankle-deep in new snow while I watched a solitary goose trail after the flock that winged its way south. It honked mournfully as it flew, becoming a speck in the distance and then disappearing. I wondered if the bird had lost its mate and if it might find another or remain forever bereft.

“Come, Master Gnome! Your stones will freeze off! And then what shape will you be in for the feast tonight?” Ribald laughter snapped me out of my melancholy. I dropped to the snow, rolled three times, and then leapt to my feet, sprinting back toward the sauna to complete my preparations for the evening’s festivities.

My time in Khazad-dûm drew to a close. Gold- and silver-plating continued apace with no need for my guidance. With superlative skill, Ragni had cut the diamond into a rounded form with hundreds of glittering facets. The gem was locked away in the treasuries along three ingots of pure mithril that I had smelted in Láki’s forges, all ready to be retrieved when I left the mansions of the Dwarves.

Brethilion, too, had triumphed, having brought Durin’s granddaughter back to health. With his medicine and vigilance, she had fought off the infection, and her milk had come in with abundance. Already Durin’s young heir had blossomed from a pale little creature into a pink lusty babe with fine golden-brown hairs on his chin.

So we were to be honored before I was to depart to Imladris and Brethilion to Lórinand. Láki had announced his intention to host a feast for us at his family mansion, and the day had arrived.

When I returned from the sauna to our quarters, I found Brethilion dressed in trousers but barefooted and bare-chested. He sat on the edge of a footstool in the parlor, brushing out his hair.

He stopped in mid-stroke when I entered the room. “Ah! Here you are! I was wondering when you’d be back. Don’t know why you went off to the sauna when you could have bathed here.”

“It’s politic, Brethilion. Going to the sauna with the rest keeps me in good favor with the craftsmen.”

“Even when you’re leaving so soon? Well, good for future trade, I suppose. But that rolling naked in the snow? Madness. Pure madness, I tell you. Are you certain you haven’t worked with quicksilver?”

“I’m certain.” I had nearly entered our bedchamber where the doors of the large armoire that held our clothing were flung wide open when he called to me.

"Say, would you mind braiding my hair? I am not as adept at it as you.”

“Certainly.”

In fact, Brethilion had deft fingers that were fully capable of dividing his brown locks into dozens of plaits if he so desired, but he refused to admit that he enjoyed being groomed. I edged in behind him.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes when I ran the brush through his hair.

“So when do you think you will start work on that trinket for the young king?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call it that,” I admonished him. “The Elendilmir means a great deal to Valandil’s people.” I set aside the brush and splayed my fingers around the dome of his head. “I will begin work on it as soon as I return to Imladris, I expect. Valandil will be crowned six years hence. Wait. Maybe in five years. I have lost track of time here.”

“Five or six years hence, that is hardly any time whatsoever. You’d best get cracking.”

I rubbed his scalp, making small circular motions with my fingertips, applying pressure where I felt tension. Just when I thought I had massaged him into silence, Brethilion spoke up again.

“What will you do after that?”

“What I have always done. Work on my projects. Implement improvements for Elrond’s house. Study. Read. Hike. Maybe hunt. I will probably fish.”

“May I ask you something personal?”

“You’re asking for permission this time?”

“Have you considered taking the Straight Road?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“I doubt that I would be welcome among those who dwell in Avallonë. What about you?” I turned the question back on him, hoping to deflect his probing.

“Me? No, I have no desire to see my wife until the Final Battle. “

I had to chuckle at his acerbic remark. I continued to work my fingers over his scalp. “They say Aman is a vast country, truly a world unto itself. It should be easy enough to avoid her.”

“It would be my luck to wind up living in the same city as she. More likely the same neighborhood!” He paused but continued with a more subdued tone. “I am not certain I would be welcomed either.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s just say I am circumspect because of my associations with the House of Carnistir.”

“It cannot be worse for you than me.”

“Because of Aulendil?”

“Yes.”

“You have a point, although I’m not sure being associated with the Fëanárians is much better.”

“Others of the Fëanárian Houses have returned to the West. Laurefin says some have been accepted.”

“’Some’ is the operative word here.” Brethilion sighed with pleasure again when I moved my fingers to his temples. “Maybe you and I are fated to remain here for some time yet. Frankly, I have mixed feelings about leaving. I have not known anything other than Middle-earth.”

“True,” I agreed, “but it is also fated that Men will take our place. How will we continue to function in a world of mortals?”

“You and I manage to deal with them well enough. In fact, I’d think you’d be anxious to return to Imladris considering your…” his breath caught when I ground my fingers into skull, “…considering your close friendship with Elendil’s folk.”

“How about you? Are you eager to return to Lórinand?”

“Yes and no. Yes, because I am sick of the darkness in this place. The Dwarves can light it up with their marvelous lanterns and carve high windows to let in the sunlight, but it is not the same as walking under the sky. And no, because there’s not much left for me there. My wife took everything, and our talan passed on to one of Amroth’s captains.”

“You will be able to rebuild your life.”

Brethilion moaned when I rubbed his scalp firmly enough to move the skin of his forehead.

“Great stars, man, but you have strong hands! Must be all that smith work.”

“Probably. Now shut up and relax, Brethilion.”

His grumble turned into a hum of pleasure, and at last lapsed into silence. He remained so while I divided his hair into strands and plaited it, but a sharp knock on the door made us both jump. I answered, opening the door to find a pair of Dwarves, one holding a polished wooden chest bound with brass.

“Lófi at your service.”

I bowed. “Sámaril at yours and your family’s.”

“We are here for Master Brethilion.”

“You have found him.” Brethilion stepped forward, shrugging his dressing gown over his shoulders.

“We bear a gift for you from King Durin.” Brethilion tilted his head toward the round table in the middle of the parlor. The Dwarf bearing the chest placed it there while Lófi unrolled a small scroll and read from it:

“In gratitude for your skills that saved the lives of our heir and his mother, we present these tokens of our appreciation. Signed Durin the Fourth.“ Lófi extended the scroll to Brethilion so he could check its authenticity.

“Thank you,” Brethilion replied. “Please convey my deepest gratitude to the king.”

The Dwarves bowed and left. As soon as the door shut, Brethilion tossed aside his composed demeanor. He ran his hands over the smooth surface of the chest.

“I wonder what this could be? ‘These’ I should say. More than one. More jewels, perhaps? Maybe gold. Hopefully none of your plated stuff. You’d know if it were solid gold, wouldn’t you?”

He unlatched the chest and lifted the lid. What we saw rendered us both speechless. There, nestled in crimson fabric, lay neither jewels nor gold but six phalluses carved from what looked to be stone. Three resembled life-like erections with bulbous heads and prominent veins snaking over the shafts, but the others were more abstract, covered with curious bumps or ridges, but nonetheless obvious as to what they represented and what their purpose was. We stood gaping in silence. Then Brethilion whooped with glee.

“Praise the Valar! I am saved!” He picked up one of the life-like cocks, running his hands over it, a most disconcerting effect.

“Do you have any idea what these things are worth? They will fetch a fortune in Lórinand. This is truly a kingly gift, more than gold even! Here take it.” He waggled the phallus at me. “What? Haven’t you ever seen a tiutarincë?”

“I have heard of them, but I...well, I have never seen one.” Curiosity replaced my shock, and I took the phallus from him. It was carved of soapstone: smooth and cool to the touch. The craftsmanship was excellent.

“There are lonely wives in Lórinand whose husbands’ minds have turned to other pursuits: lore, poetry, sometimes other men,” said Brethilion. “A number of these wives are married to men of means and can afford to pay handsomely for such pleasure toys. Quite handsomely. Dwarven-crafted tiutarinci are highly prized. Why, it is rumored that the Lady of the Galadhrim has an impressive collection of...”

“That’s more than I need to know!”

“Don’t be such a prude!”

“I’m not! It’s just that the thought of Lady Galadriel in that manner makes my stones shrink.” Although beautiful, Artanis was a fearsome woman, and I could not summon one shred of desire for her.

I placed the tiutarincë back in its nest. An unexpected wave of sadness washed over me when I thought of those whose spouses had turned away from them. I knew of couples like that. The sadness deepened when I thought of my own loss, my lovely Nierellë, taken from me by death, and wondered how any man could lose interest in a loving wife.

“Why so solemn?” Brethilion clapped me on the back. “Those stone cocks will make my life very comfortable: a wide talan among the mellyrn with a new house on it, fine clothing, good wine. Who knows? Perhaps even I might comfort a lonely wife or two! Mine’s warm at least.”

“Brethilion!”

“You need to loosen up, young whelp. Now make yourself presentable! I’m ready to celebrate!”

With haste, I slipped on my clothing, perhaps not the finest I possessed, but once I draped myself in gold -- thread twined through my hair, chains embedded with jewels around my neck, cuffs about my arms and a belt of hammered disks -- I doubted that the Dwarves would take much notice of my garb. Two Dwarves arrived at our door to escort us to Láki’s family mansion.

Our guides led us along twists and turns on our way to the feast, but we never took a flight of stairs, indicating that Láki’s mansion was on the same level as the King’s -- a sign of high status hitherto unknown to me. We stopped before a pair of stone doors, carved with the stylized reliefs of lakes, forests and mountains. Runes tracked across the lintel, and columns with surfaces carved to resemble tree bark bracketed the doors. Without the announcement of any sort of bell or knock, the doors opened, silently swinging inward, much like the action of the west gates of Khazad-dûm. Golden light and the sounds of laughter and music flooded over us.

Láki stood in the wide entry of his domain, his black beard glittering with jewels on mithril clips that held fast a pair of thick plaits. Flanking him were two others, dressed as finely as he and with just as many or more jewels decorating their persons, but rather than trousers and jerkins, they wore gowns, revealing the swell of full breasts beneath gem-strewn beards.

“Sámaril of Imladris at your service and your family’s.” Brethilion followed suit with the accepted greeting.

“And Láki at yours. May I present my lady wife, Birna.” The Dwarf-woman with the tawny beard bowed, the creases around her green eyes deepening when she smiled. “And this is my dear sister, Valka.”

The younger black-bearded woman bowed, lowering her dark brown eyes. “At your service, Master Sámaril.”

“And at yours, Lady Valka.”

“Master Sámaril, it is a pleasure to meet you at long last,” said Birna, her voice deep as a man’s. “My husband and his sister have spoken of you so often.”

Láki’s sister had spoken of me? I glanced at Valka, wondering if I had seen her in the smithies where some Dwarf-women were rumored to work but were difficult to discern from the men because of the way they girt themselves. Here, though, clad in her gown and her gleaming hair as carefully groomed as an elf-maid’s, Valka was decidedly feminine. Except for the beard.

“Come, let’s go to the hall,” Láki said. “You must get a tankard of ale in those empty hands.“

Láki and his womenfolk escorted us to an expansive hall where a fire roared in a huge hearth at its far end. On one side of the chamber were long tables of dark polished wood with many cushioned chairs; one table sat upon on a dais above the others. The opposite side of the hall was open with chairs and benches shoved up against the walls where tapestries hung. About three dozen Dwarves congregated there in the open space -- mostly men whom I recognized from the smithies and workshops but women, too, about a third as many as the men. Servants hustled to and fro, carrying trays with tankards and food on them. An ensemble of musicians played an understated yet pleasant tune with flutes, fiddles, viol, harp and drums.

I looked around the large hall and up to its high barrel-arched ceiling. The stonework was beautiful but eccentric -- a melding of recognizably Noldorin design with Dwarvish geometry but also with sinuous organic elements: tree branches craved from stone served as sconces, the bases of columns with roots that dug into the floor. Stone foxes, squirrels and fawns peeped out from behind leaves and tree trunks. Butterflies were frozen in mid-flight. The hearth glittered with mosaics of glass in many shades of blue surrounding it, like the surface of a lake at sunset. The entire effect was like that of an ancient structure surrounded by a garden that had been reclaimed by the forest. Láki noticed my interest.

“Do you like the hall?”

“Oh, yes! The artistry is most impressive!”

“Come with me.” We followed him to an alcove where, sitting upon a black stone pedestal, was a bust carved of white marble. Much to my surprise, the sculpture was not that of a Dwarf, but an Elf with a short straight nose, an angular jaw and expressive eyes, all captured in stone. Carved into the base of the bust were Dwarvish runes.

“That is Felagund,” Láki said reverently. “I am descended from the chief stonemason who worked with Finrod to construct Nargothrond. Before Beleriand fell, my forefather came to Khazad-dûm and delved this mansion.” Láki pulled out a thin gold chain from beneath the collar of his shirt. An emerald, held in place by gold claws, caught the light. “This was a small gift among many that my ancestor received from your great Elven-King. It is said that it was made in Elvenhome. Do you wish to examine it?”

“May I?”

Láki reached behind his neck to unclasp the necklace and placed it in my open hand. The gem was remarkable and unlike any other of its kind I had seen save for one. No inclusions marred it, and like Tyelperinquar’s great jewel, Láki’s emerald seemed a living thing, giving the impression of filtered sunlight through green leaves. When I peered into the gem, I had a vision of verdant hills under strange sunlight and white waves crashing against a far rocky shore; longing filled my heart. Before I became immersed in melancholy on an evening to be enjoyed, I handed the necklace to Birna; Láki lifted his thick hair to let her fix the clasp again.

“Your family has a deep history with my people, Master Láki.”

“Indeed we do. Ah, here we are!” A servant appeared with a tray of five pewter tankards, filled to the rims with red ale. Birna and Valka each took a tankard before Láki, Brethilion and I reached for ours. Láki raised his in salutation.

“To Master Healer and Master Gnome! There’s no need to wish you health and long life, for you have that! So here’s to your good fortune and to our enduring friendship!”

“To friendship!” I repeated, raising my tankard.

“Hear! Hear! And to pleasure!” exclaimed Brethilion, who tipped his head back and drank long and deep.

Brethilion and I finished two tankards of ale each when the chiming of bells summoned us to dine. I offered my arm to Valka who looped her sturdy hand around the crook of my elbow. I escorted her to the high table where I sat between Láki and Valka.

“Lady Valka,” I said, as I pulled up my chair beside her after helping her into her seat. “If you do not mind my saying so, you look remarkably familiar. Have we met before?”

Round cheeks above her beard flushed pink. “I often work in my brother’s forges. Perhaps you saw me there.”

I examined her face closely, and she blushed even more. Then I remembered.

“You assisted with the first metal-plating! You stirred the solution.”

“I did.” She beamed, exposing square teeth as white as the pearls strung through her beard.

“I must apologize for not recognizing you straightaway.”

“There is no need, Master Sámaril. I know that it is not always so easy to distinguish us from our men folk, especially when we are garbed for the forge or forays out-of-doors. Ah! Here comes the first course!” Servants streamed, bearing large trays. The first dishes were set before Birna, Valka and Láki, and then before Brethilion and me.

It was the most unappetizing thing I had ever seen. A translucent gelatinous mass was piled on an earthenware plate alongside what looked to be boiled earth-apples and mashed peas. When the odor of rotten fish slammed into my nostrils, my hunger evaporated. Láki dug into the stuff with enthusiasm. I glanced to my right and met Valka’s limpid dark eyes. She plunged her fork into the ooze and lifted a blob.

“This is a great delicacy, Master Sámaril, Master Brethilion,” she addressed us both, and then took a bite. Then she whispered to me. “We call it ‘lye fish.’ It’s cavefish that has been dried, cured in birch ash and then soaked in water.”

I looked over her head at Brethilion who eyed the plate with his fork poised in his steady hand. He met my eyes, shrugged, and then dug into the mess, eating the stuff with as much gusto as Láki. Brethilion maintained that after the offal he had eaten during the campaign of the Last Alliance, he could wolf down anything. He proved his claim when he made short work of the repulsive fish. I made a conscious effort not to breathe through my nose and thrust a glob of slime into my mouth along with earth-apple. The taste was bland and not nearly as awful as its smell.

I managed to eat about a quarter of the lye fish before servants whisked my plate away and brought out great joints of boar, crowns of venison roasts stuffed with apples, and roasted grouse surrounded by herbs. These were more to my liking, if heavy. As swiftly as my tankard emptied of ale, it was filled again, and likewise, the evening was filled to the brim with laughter and music. With each tankard of ale, Valka became increasingly charming and her dark eyes struck me as lovely. I lost myself in their depths more than once while she told me about her approaches to steel alloys, forcing me to wrest my attention back to the particulars of what she was saying.

After the last plates were cleared, and we celebrants had time to digest our repast, the musicians picked up the beat of their tune. The Dwarves began to clap in time. Láki stood and took his lady’s hand.

“Let the dancing begin!” he declared, his voice booming over the music.

At that point, my bladder was near to bursting. Before I could ask, Láki perceptively said, “It’s down that corridor. Make two left turns and watch your step on the stairs.”

The corridor was long and dark, lit only by a few dim lamps. Following Láki’s directions, I found the latrine chamber where the sound of rushing water welled up from the holes carved into the stone bench. Upon hearing the water, matters became more urgent. I flung back my robe and unlaced my trousers, sighing with relief while I discharged my burden of borrowed ale. My vision spun. To steady myself, I leaned forward, balancing myself against the wall behind the latrines, until I had wrung my bladder dry. After putting myself back in place and washing my hands in a basin of warm water, I made my way back into the dark corridor, confidently walking in the dark, until I tripped on a low step and went sprawling, hitting my forehead sharply on the stone floor. I lay stunned, trying to get my bearings. I propped myself up on my elbows but another wave of dizziness hit me. I groaned and lay my head back down on my crossed arms.

“Master Sámaril! Are you hurt?”

Valka’s strong arms lifted me, easing me to a sitting position in the dark corridor. I leaned against the wall, my eyes closed while I concentrated on making the dizziness stop.

“No, I don’t think so. I just need to rest for a moment.”

Sitting in silence, I closed my eyes and focused on making the throbbing pain in my head dissipate. A hand moved to my shoulder, then to my neck, massaging me. With Valka’s hand kneading my muscles, the pulses of pain fluttered away. I had almost opened my eyes, ready to thank her when soft lips pressed against mine.

One kiss. Then another and another. Sensual tugs of lips became passionate with caressing tongues fired by ale-fueled recklessness. In my mind’s eye, I beheld a dear face -- a face that had been so full of hurt and disappointment when I had given her such a cold farewell that morning in Imladris. I pulled her to me, trying to make up for being such a brute, and whispered her name. A familiar tightness pushed against my trousers, but when my face tingled from the brush of her beard, my reason returned and crushed my body’s need. I put my hand on Valka’s shoulders, gently pushing her away from me.

“My lady...I am sorry. Please forgive me.”

She gasped. “No, I...I don’t know what came over me. Too much ale, I think, but you are so...I couldn’t help myself.” She reached to stroke my cheek, but her other hand slid up my inner thigh. For a moment, I wanted her to touch me, but I clasped her hand before she reached my now obvious response.

“No, we cannot.”

She turned away from me. “You think I am ugly.” Her voice wavered at the verge of tears.

I could not respond in all honesty and tell her that the Dwarven women were simply too alien for me to find beautiful, but I would be lying if I said she had not stirred me. More than that, she was a woman, and like any woman, she had feelings that could be hurt. The memory of how I had hurt another stung me. So I told her what truth I could:

“Valka, I have no doubt that you are a gem among Dwarf-women.” I brushed a strand of hair away from her brow. “I think you have beautiful eyes. But your brother would castrate me if we carried through with this. Besides, I think you want another. Not me.”

Her eyes widened in the dim light. “How did you know?”

“I sat by you all evening and saw you glance whenever you could at Ragni.”

She hung her head. “He does not notice me.”

“Then he is blind.” I raised her chin with my fingers. “You are a lovely and talented woman.”

“Thank you.” She smiled shyly, but her expression became thoughtful and serious. “You love another, too. Who is she, this Elerína?”

Of course she would have heard me whisper that name when I had been lost in the heat of the moment.

“One whose fate is not mine.”

“I do not know what you mean by that, but it sounds sad. Does she not love you?”

“She loves me as a friend. Now I am not sure of even that. We are estranged now which is probably for the best.”

“Why should that be for the best?”

“For one, I am married.”

Valka’s brows furrowed. “But my brother said that your wife is dead.”

“She is, but by the laws of my people, I remain wed.”

“Those are cruel laws then. Widows and widowers among my folk may remarry, even if it is rare.”

“You would not understand. You are mortal. So is my friend.”

“Why should that make any difference if you love one another?”

“Don’t you see, Valka? Our fates are divided. My people believe that it is not fitting for a man of the Eldar to pursue the daughters of Men.”

“Or the daughters of Dwarves it would appear. I will not pretend to understand your folk, Master Sámaril. You all seem to want to be miserable.”

“Do we? If so, it is the outcome of long years of hard experience. But we are not always like that.” I stood up and took her hand, helping her to her feet. “I can still be a merry elf when the occasion warrants.”

“What occasions are those?”

“Tonight. I would be honored if you would be my dance partner.”

“Now that I understand!”

We returned to the hall where most of the Dwarves were dancing. The hall thundered with their footsteps while the fiddles and flutes carried the tune over the pounding rhythm of the drums. Brethilion danced among the Dwarves, the multicolored threads on his jacket standing straight out when he spun so that he appeared to be a tall exotic water bird among stout ducks.

I danced with Valka for much of the evening, but after she excused herself when the musicians took a break, I sought out Ragni who stood alone nursing a tankard of ale.

“Good evening, Master Ragni. Are you enjoying yourself?”

The young Dwarf-man grumbled. “I suppose it’s a good party.”

“You suppose? Why aren’t you dancing with the rest?”

“No partner. I do not wish to dance with my fellows.”

“Why don’t you ask Lady Valka for a dance?”

“Oh, I couldn’t!”

“Why not?”

“She is Master Láki’s sister! They are of a noble house.”

“Master Ragni, you come from a line of honorable men, and Master Láki speaks well of you. Ask her!”

“Well…”

“She will not say ‘no.’”

“Do you really think so?” He glanced from beneath his dark brows toward Valka where she mingled with the other women.

“I really think so.” I knew the hook was ready to be set. “Ragni, look at all this.” He followed my eyes around the expansive hall. “This is a beautiful mansion, don’t you agree?” Ragni nodded. “Láki does not have an heir,” I said. “But if Valka were to wed and have a son...”

“Say no more, Master Sámaril!”

At first, I thought he had taken offense at my nudging, but instead, he wiped the ale from his lips with his sleeve, set aside the tankard, and strode with determination to Valka. Just as the music resumed, I saw him bow deeply before her and take her hand.

She remained his dance partner for the rest of the evening. When Brethilion and I departed, she looked across the hall and silently thanked me with her dazzling smile. Then she returned her full attention to Ragni who grinned like one besotted.

~*~

The next morning, Brethilion and I dragged ourselves out of bed early to prepare for our departure. The rap on our door announced the arrival of our escorts so it was time to say our farewells. While the Dwarves hauled chests and boxes out of our chambers, he divided his attention between watching the servants and tying tiny knots in a string fixed to his belt. When the last of his gear had been removed, he looked up at me.

“So, young whelp.”

We stood for a time, regarding one another with no words spoken. Then I reached out to embrace him. He stiffened at first, not being one to demonstrate affection easily, but then relaxed and returned the embrace.

“Take care, you cantankerous old man,” I said. “Thank you for all that you have done. Your skills as much as my teachings made it possible for me to gain the mithril and the diamond for Valandil.”

“Learning something new is always worthwhile,” he said. “And I certainly learned much about Dwarven medicine.” He pulled away and caught me with his intense blue eyes. “I have some advice for you. Not asked for, I know, but you’ll hear it all the same.”

“I would expect nothing less from you.”

“You should not over think your emotions, Sámaril. Do not let your past or the laws of those who remain so detached from us fetter your affections and deny them to someone who deserves your love. You know who I’m talking about.” I said nothing, but he squeezed my shoulder. “Farewell then. Visit me if you come to Lórinand.”

“I will do that. Please give my regards to Macilion.”

Brethilion smiled, turned on his heel, and then he was gone.

~*~

After three marches, I, along with my belongings, arrived at the threshold of the Doors of Durin. There, Láki and Valka along with other representatives of Durin’s court met me. Láki spoke the words of opening, this time in Khuzdûl. The doors swung inward, opening to reveal three elven-riders bearing torches and leading a riderless horse and pack animals.

While Dwarves helped load the horses, I bade farewell to Láki. We bowed before one another, as protocol demanded, but then we embraced: two craftsmen of disparate heritage who, by virtue of what we shared, had become friends. Then I bowed to Valka, but before I could move away, she stepped forward, motioning for me to lean over so she could whisper to me.

“Ragni has asked my brother if he may court me. I do not know what you said to him, but whatever it was, it worked. Thank you, Master Sámaril.” She pressed a small cloth-wrapped parcel into my hand.

I resisted the impulse to kiss her cheek, a gesture that would have been considered highly improper among the Dwarves, and instead bowed again. After tucking her gift into my pack along with my other treasures -- the ingots of refined mithril and the diamond -- I walked out into the cold night where ragged clouds fled across the waxing face of the Hunter’s Moon. Although my escorts strived to maintain elvish impassivity, in the torchlight I saw the flicker of contempt in their eyes as they looked upon the Dwarves. These men -- all Sindarin survivors of fallen Doriath -- would never understand the Khazad as I did, a son of the Eregion Noldor. I turned around just as the doors began to close and waved at my friends. Valka’s bright smile was the last thing I saw before the doors shut.

We traveled long into the night before we made camp. Later in the dark hours before dawn, when the small fire had burned low and the guard was set, I unwrapped my gift. It was a small figure of a squat woman, her hands crossed over full pendulous breasts with a beard hanging between them. Her cleft was exaggerated, swollen like a peach. I unrolled the small note that had come with the parcel, turning the parchment so I could read it in the dying firelight.

Dear Master Sámaril,

As a token of my thanks, I give you this small talisman. I know that your folk prize the more unusual artefacts of my people. I understand that Master Brethilion was most pleased with those gifted to him by our king. This figure is called the Mother, beloved of the women of my folk, and used in the most ancient of our ceremonies. Mahal may have given us life, but it was the Mother who gave us our substance. May She bring you good fortune, and may you forever remain in the Great Smith’s keeping.

Your friend always,
Valka

I cupped the little figure, feeling the fired clay warm in my hands. I had no idea what its use was, but that did not matter. It was a gift and apparently a rare one. The Dwarves were such a strange, mysterious people, but I counted myself fortunate that some named themselves my friends. I gathered my cloak around body, lay back on my bedroll and at long last gazed up at the stars in the dome of heaven.

---

Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to Darth for the creation of the Quenya word for dildo: (s.) tiutarincë, (pl.) tiutarinci, meaning "little consoler or comforter". In characteristically wicked clever fashion, Darth derived the term from tiutalë (noun), which means "comfort, consolation, easement", thus linking it to the Spanish consolador, the word used in our primary world for the same sex toy.

Chapter 30: Stars Upon the Jacinth Wall

Sámaril returns to Imladris where he is met with a cool reception from Elerína and admonishment from Elrond who has deduced that Sámaril, however well-intentioned, has exposed young Valandil to the perilous deep arts. Sámaril’s evident distress resulting from these events prompts Laurefin to suggest star-gazing out on the moor where they have a frank conversation.

Thanks to all my reptilian pals on the Lizard Council: Steel for a pre-read, Raksha and Drummerwench for suggestions of where to prune a bit, Russandol for catching nits, sanna, Jael, Oshun, and Aeärwen for comments, and Darth for under-the-radar philosophical natterings about the mores of the Calaquendi and the Moriquendi. There's also a little nod to one of Rhapsody's ficlets -- Prince of Hearts -- in there, too.

Read Chapter 30: Stars Upon the Jacinth Wall

Like a stone thrown into a lake, the silver peal of the guard’s horn sank into the morning fog that drowned the valley. The house’s tower bell answered, its ring muffled, but in the iron sky, a falcon’s whistle pierced the high airs. The bird wheeled around to dive down into the heavy mists. Thus my return to Imladris was announced.

Our horses picked their way along the path that skirted the cliffs’ edge and then descended into the shrouded vale. Pine and fir loomed veiled on either side of the path and gave way to oak and birch, the clean scent of evergreen mixing with the smell of autumn must that clung to the damp air. I breathed in the odors deeply, savoring the open air. Soon, we approached the wide court that opened up before the House of Elrond, its gables and tower curtained by the fog. The figures standing there resolved into Elrond, Thornangor and Valandil. My eyes swept across the court to the shadows of the porch, wondering if another had come to greet me, but I saw no one else.

No sooner had I dismounted than Valandil stood before me, his wolfhound Nella at his side, wagging her tail. Val and I faced one another in silence. It seemed I had only seen him yesterday, but now he was taller, only a few inches shorter than me. The lines of his face had changed, too, with the marks of maturity breaking through boyish softness. He held out his hand to shake mine.

“Welcome back, Istyar. Pilin told me you were on your way two days ago.”

The falcon, resting nearby on a perch driven into the stone, chattered in response, but behind Valandil, the shadow of a frown crossed Elrond’s face.

“Did she now?” I glanced over at the bird, who preened her breast feathers. “Well, I am glad to be back.”

Then he was in my arms, hugging me tightly.

“I missed you!”

‘”I missed you, too, Val. ”

He released his hold on me, and pulled back, his blue eyes brimming with happiness. “Will you tell me about the Dwarves? I want to hear everything! Oh, I shall have to tell you of the boar hunt with Galfaron! And the trout I caught last summer. He was a fighter. I made a beech wood jewelry box for Mother but locked it with a puzzle. She hasn’t figured it out yet. I’m better with my numbers, too. Lord Glorfindel is a good teacher, but it is still hard for me to figure...” He took a deep breath. “I have so much to tell you!”

“So it would seem! Yes, I will tell you all about the Dwarves. And you shall tell me what has been happening in the valley while I have been gone.” I paused before asking, “How fares your mother?”

“She is busy as usual, weaving and such with Mistress Lairiel. She still argues with Master Erestor over the ledgers. Oh, she gathered the most apples this year and will be crowned the Harvest Queen!”

Valandil had answered my most pressing question. Elerína had not left for Annúminas.

Thorno then stepped forward to embrace me, thumping me on the back.

“Hullo, old man. It’s good to have you back. I take it you have the materials?”

“Yes, and then some.”

“Good. Then we’ll store them in the treasury until you’re ready for them. I am eager to hear about the ‘and then some.’ ”

“I am sure you are, Thorno. We can speak about it later.”

“I wish to hear all about the Dwarves, too,” Elrond said, clasping my shoulder. “And then some. I daresay you’d like to rest and refresh yourself first though. Come to my quarters this evening after supper. Welcome home, Sámaril.”

~*~

That evening, after soaking away the weariness of the journey in a much-needed hot bath, I made my way with the others of Elrond’s household to the dining hall where the scent of roast duck, baked apples and fresh bread wafted from the kitchen and incited my empty stomach into a fit of audible growling. I tried not to be too obvious in my searching, but I did not see Elerína. The high table remained empty while we waited for Master Elrond to enter.

Then he did, and there she was: Elerína walked alongside her kinsman, her slender hand resting on his forearm. Her steps measured and graceful, she was just as beautiful as I remembered. A few more streaks of silver ran through the dark hair at her temples, and the corners of her eyes creased a little more when she smiled, but her expression was peaceful. She turned that smile toward Elrond, and a pang of envy shot through me. I warred within myself, disappointed that she had not come to greet me, but angry with myself for deliberately rejecting her. At the same time, I believed that this was for the best: it was not fitting for the Followers and the Eldar to join in love.

Nonetheless, I could not take my eyes off her and found myself willing her to look at me. But she did not. Even when I took my place at the far end of the high table, she avoided my every glance. I forced merriment upon myself and soon found distraction in answering the many questions from those who sat nearby; thus I was able to ignore her presence until we had finished the apple tart and cheese that concluded supper. Then Elrond rose from his chair, and all followed his lead, ready to retire to the Hall of Fire where the first notes of Lindir’s harp drifted. When I stood, I felt eyes upon me before I saw them. I looked up to meet Elerína’s direct gaze. I saw pain and longing in her face, but just as swiftly, her regard became icy. She turned away from me. Whatever hope I had of reconciliation was dashed.

Elrond leaned over and whispered something to Laurefin who then offered to escort Elerína and her ladies to the Hall. Elrond then signaled that I should join him. Elerína took Laurefin’s arm without so much as a backwards glance even when I walked close behind them, but I maintained my composure when I turned aside and left with Elrond.

He led me to his quarters where he opened the heavy oaken door, revealing a welcoming scene of a low fire in the hearth with two cushioned chairs set on either side. A flask of brandy with two harebell-shaped snifters rested on a sideboard. Curled up on a wool rug before the fire was a slate-grey cat, a descendant of Istyar Tyelperinquar’s beloved pet and, I had no doubt, one of Istyar Aulendil’s similarly pampered beasts. The cat rose to its feet and stretched languorously before padding over to Elrond who picked it up.

"Help yourself to brandy, Sámaril, and please have a seat.”

I poured the amber liquid into the pair of snifters and gave one to Elrond. The cat settled on his lap and purred loudly.

“I’m afraid I indulge her too much,” Elrond said, scratching the cat behind its ears, “but she’s an affectionate little creature and does not divulge my confidences. With that in mind, tell me of Durin. He bears a Ring of Power, does he not?”

“He does.” I proceeded to tell Elrond of Durin’s deteriorated condition, physical and otherwise, but that a new heir had been born. I recounted Brethilion’s role in saving the baby and his mother and his reward. Elrond’s jaw dropped at that, but laughter quickly followed his surprise.

“Durin gave our good surgeon tiutarinci? Brilliant, just brilliant! Durin knows the denizens of Lórinand all too well. I am sure Brethilion will make a killing with those. Now tell me of the gold plating. How extensive is this? Do you have any idea how much has been traded with the Men of the Anduin Valley?”

“I am not certain of the precise amount, but I know that the Dwarves are enthused about this, and apparently the Men they have commerce with are, too.“

Elrond rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I hope that the Longbeards will trade fairly, but I do have concerns over this. Less than scrupulous Dwarves might pass the plated goods off as solid gold to the lesser tribes of Men. “

“I did not hear of such while I was there.“

“I expect that you would not.“

I continued to report all the knowledge that I had gathered during my stay in Casarrondo, sparing no detail for I knew that Elrond absorbed everything that I said. The night drew on before I yawned.

“My apologies, Istyar. You are no doubt still weary from your travels. I shan’t keep you much longer but...” He hesitated, clearing his throat. “There is one more matter. An awkward one.”

“What is that, Master?”

“Valandil. More specifically, what you have taught him.”

“You are questioning my teaching?”

“Yes.”

“Have I erred in some way?”

“Not intentionally, but it seems that you have taught Valandil how to wield the deep arts.”

“How so?”

Elrond lifted the cat from his lap and placed her on the floor. She mewed in protest but ambled to the rug where she lay down again. Elrond went to the fireplace and stirred the embers before turning to face me.

“Last summer, I saw Valandil in the garden where he stooped to retrieve a half-feathered fledgling that had fallen from its nest. The bird was close to death. Val wrapped his hands around it, shut his eyes, and moved his lips. He did this for some time. Then he opened his hands: the bird was now whole and alive! Not only had he brought it back from the brink of death, but he had also given it strong feathers so that it could fly away into the trees. But just after he released the bird, Val fell into a swoon. I carried him to his bed but could not rouse him. He did not recover consciousness for two days. Elerína was beside herself, but I was able to reach him and draw him back.

“When he regained his strength, I questioned him, asking him how he had healed the bird that was so grievously injured. He said you had taught him to see into materials when you helped him make a wooden puzzle box, that from watching you, he learned to ‘move the smallest things’ as he put it. He repeated to me what he had heard you say in your mind. I know these words to be a spell of Making.” Elrond paused. “Valarin words.”

Now Elrond knew. There was no use hiding it from him, not that I should ever have doubted that he would have found out that Valandil had learned to see into the fabric of wood as well as that of sinew, flesh and bone.

“Yes, it is true: I showed him the interior of the wood when he kept breaking it, but that was the only time I actively instructed him in the deep arts. Not long after that, before you returned, he healed Pilin’s broken wing, but with no incitement from me. That experience did not affect him adversely, at least from what I could tell. If he has continued to experiment with the deep arts, it is not under my guidance.”

“That is what concerns me. He must be given direction. I believe his gift is natural, but that does not make it any less hazardous, especially in a mortal. You and I have noted his sensitivities to dreams and that he communes with beasts and birds more so than most mortals. The blood of Melian runs strong in him, stronger than I would have guessed.

“Apparently he has continued to apply what he learned from you. His healing of that half-dead fledgling -- and making its feathers grow -- demanded far more from him than anything he had attempted previously. As you well know, these are perilous arts; I must now teach him how to apply them judiciously. In this, I believe there can be only one teacher so I must ask that you never do this again.”

“I am not sure what to say, Master.”

“I am not asking you to cease teaching him altogether, Sámaril. He has learned much from you. More than that, he loves you. Just refrain from exposing him to the deep arts.”

“I see. You do not trust me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course, I trust you! You would not be the master smith of Imladris nor even dwell here if I did not. Your craftsmanship has benefited all of Imladris tremendously. But I admit that I am circumspect about your instructing a mortal in the deep arts.”

“Because of my association with Aulendil.”

“Yes. Because of that.”

Elrond’s blunt words stung, enough that I could no longer bear to continue the conversation without fear of an angry outburst, surely ill advised with the lord of Imladris.

“If I may take my leave, Master,” I said, rising and bowing formally to Elrond, who nodded his dismissal. “I will take heed of your request. Be assured I will no longer expose Val to the deep arts. Good night.”

“Good night, Istyar.”

~*~

My conversation with Elrond had been disturbing enough, but subsequent encounters with Elerína worsened my already dark mood. After her chilly avoidance of me in the dining hall, I refrained from joining the others there for the next several evenings, pleading the excuse of work, but hoping to avoid Elerína’s presence. However, I could not avoid her entirely. We saw one another in the kitchen, where polite but cool greetings were offered, but nothing more, not even a hint from either one of us that further conversation was desired.

A particularly awkward encounter occurred when, upon opening the door to the bathhouse, I nearly walked into her as she emerged, snug in a wool robe with a towel wrapped around her head.

“Please pardon me, my lady!” I apologized with a forced brittleness to dispel the image of what lay beneath her robe, separated from me by one mere layer of fabric.

She blushed, and my face warmed, too, when I worried that my eyes might have given away my thought, but she responded with equal rigidity, “It is no matter, Istyar. Good day to you!” The she was off with her ladies trailing behind her.

I gritted my teeth and entered the steaming bathhouse, hoping to soak my misery away, where I forced my thoughts to turn to the coming festivity of the evening: the Harvest Dance.

One could not have asked for a finer night for such a celebration. The air was crisp and dry; the moonless night sky so clear that the entire dome of heaven was awash with stars. Earlier at sunset, many had gathered in the large open glade near the house, the same glade where I had swooned when I became ensnared in the Threads of Vairë.

Lindir’s music celebrated the changing of the seasons and the lushness of the harvest: the trilling of birdsong pipes vied with a lightning fiddle while drums thundered out a rhythm that set elvish feet, including my own, to dancing. I had no lack of partners, although I glanced now and then at the edges of the oak grove, looking to see if Elerína had arrived. I decided that I would make a discreet exit before she was brought into the circle to be crowned the Harvest Queen.

The brew master broke out casks of apple brandy. I quaffed one cup and then another and another, savoring its sharp scent and the fire that warmed my throat. Its spirits made me laugh louder and lift my feet with more abandon, spinning around and around in the circle of dancers.

Then the drumbeats ceased abruptly, and a single flute sent silver droplets like a nightingale’s song dancing around the glen. All eyes were drawn to the west side of the grove where two elf-maidens bearing torches walked into the clearing, escorting Elerína between them.

My plans to depart evaporated. I could not take my eyes off her. She was clad in a wine-red gown, cinched around her waist with a belt of green and gold leaves; the scooped neckline of the dress exposed the rounded swell of her breasts. Her unbound hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back, free of any adornment. She smiled and laughed at the cheers: “Long live our lady of the apples!” “Break out the wine! Let us drink to the Harvest Queen!” Erestor then came forward to help her step up on top of a low stump. She bent over so that Elrond, smiling broadly, could place a wreath of autumn leaves woven with wheat over her brow.

“All hail the Harvest Queen!” he declared to the cheers and applause of the crowd. Then the music resumed, even more lively than it was before. The drums thrummed with a more primal beat, and the dancers leapt and spun. The apple brandy now eroded my conviction to keep Elerína at a distance. What would be her response if I asked her to dance with me? Would she reject me or accept? I was in the process of mulling this over when I saw Erestor and Laurefin assisting her down from the stump, and then stood on either side of her, each apparently offering himself as her dance partner. She smiled at each man, but turned to Laurefin who took her hand and raised it to his lips, which lingered far too long on her tapered fingers. The look I imagined exchanged between them sent fire and ice through me.

My decision to leave became immediate. I shoved my way out of the throng of celebrants, ignoring grunts of protest and cheerful cries admonishing me to stay and have a dance and yet more apple brandy. I freed myself from the crowd, running out into the night where I loped along the path and on to my refuge: the forge.

Having imbibed more spirits that I should, I knew that work on anything delicate or dangerous was unwise so I went into my workshop, surveying it to identify a task that would calm my mind but not harm my body. I settled on sorting scrap metal. Setting up three empty coal hods, I threw odds and ends of iron, copper and steel into the buckets, venting my anger and disappointment with each clash of metal against metal.

“You have a rhythm going there, Istyar.”

Startled, I looked up to see Laurefin standing alone in the doorway. He held my cloak and pack in his left hand. Tucked underneath his right arm were his telescope and its folded tripod.

I said nothing, but resumed tossing metal into the buckets. He came across the room to stand in front of me.

“This is quite a show, Sámaril, but do not think you can fool me into thinking this is anything truly productive.” He gentled his voice. “Come now. I have your horse ready.”

“My horse is ready? For what? Tonight’s wild hunt? No, thank you.”

“Don’t be obtuse.” He raised his right arm, lifting the telescope. “I propose that you and I ride to the moor and gaze at the stars.”

After lobbing a piece of rusty iron into a hod, I searched his eyes -- said to be the color of the sea -- and saw nothing but concern and sincerity. I knew he wished to talk to me at length, and his invitation was a thinly disguised command. From past experience, I knew it was best to agree. I took my cloak and pack from him.

“Very well. Lead on, my lord.”

~*~

We rode in silence, making our way out of the valley where the call of the hunter's horn and the answering bays of Galfaron's hounds could be heard as those who would ride in the night's wild hunt gathered. The sounds of the hunt, music and laughter diminished to silence when we rode out onto the moors. A low hill rose before us, and there Laurefin called a halt. “This will do.” We dismounted, tethered the horses and gathering our packs and the telescope, we set off up to the top of the rise. There Laurefin stood, his head thrown back, and his golden hair now silver in the starlight. He turned around slowly with arms outstretched, surveying the heavens while singing.

O! happy mariners upon a journey long
To those great portals on the Western shores
Where far away constellate fountains leap,
And dashed against Night's dragon-headed doors,
In foam of stars fall sparkling in the deep.
While I alone look out behind the Moon
From in my white and windy tower,
Ye bide no moment and await no hour,
But chanting snatches of a mystic tune
Go through the shadows and the dangerous seas
Past sunless lands to fairy leas
Where stars upon the jacinth wall of space
Do tangle burst and interlace.

“'Stars upon the jacinth wall',” I said. “I have not heard that song for a long while. Mother and Father used to sing it in memory of Eärendil.”

“Nor have I sung it for some time now. It just seemed fitting.”

Laurefin unfolded the tripod and set it in position while I unfurled an oilcloth on the ground, tossing our packs and bedrolls on it. I watched him in the dark, while he locked the telescope onto the tripod, and then looking through the eyepiece, he made adjustments in relationship to the Pole Star until at last he straightened and beckoned to me: “Come look, Sámaril.”

I peered into the eyepiece of the telescope. Through powerful lenses, I gazed at two stars, distant beyond elvish comprehension. One was red-orange in color and the other blue-white, so close that arms of fiery mists reached out to encircle one another in eternal embrace.

“Those twin stars -- the Lovers -- were her favorite objects in the constellation of the Harp,” Laurefin said. “I remember when she first showed them to me through this very telescope when we were in the hills of Eregion.” He paused, letting me continue to stargaze in silence before he spoke again.

“Do you remember when I first met the Istyanis, Sámaril?”

“Yes, Laurefin. I was there.”

This was not the first time we had this conversation. He rarely spoke of her, but when he did, it was with me -- the brother of her heart -- and one of the few remaining touchstones of she whom he had lost. He said nothing more for a time, but continued to move and adjust the telescope so that it was aimed at a milky island of stars uncountable that swirled majestically in the depths of Ilmen: a “galaxy” Laurefin called it, the harsh Valarin word grating against its mysterious beauty. Then he picked up his reminiscence where he had left off.

“It was when she unveiled Galadriel’s Mirror.”

His voice became remote as he reached back into deep memory, but he retained the presence of mind to walk over to the oilcloth where he sat down on his bedroll, stretching his legs out before him. I followed and opened the jug of apple cider we had brought with us, pouring a generous amount into each of two silver cups. He took one from me and sipped it while I settled myself on my bedroll, wrapping my cloak around myself and listened to his familiar tale, but one that revealed new details each time he told it.

“I had come to Ost-in-Edhil with Elrond. He told me about the Istyanis and her mother, the Lady Culinen, not long after I returned to Middle-earth. After all, Elrond and Culinen had been friends for many years, well before she left Lindon to travel east with her kinsman, Tyelperinquar. I must admit I was curious about her daughter. I had seen Lúthien once when I accompanied Findaráto into Doriath and was allowed to pass the Girdle of Melian. Tinúviel was a beautiful woman but no more so than Artanis, Itarillë or Irissë. Yet when she sang and danced, she cast an enchantment over all and indeed became the fairest of the Children of Ilúvatar. So I wondered if there might be any similarity between her and the Istyanis.”

“Were you disappointed?”

“Yes and no. At first glance, the Istyanis was rather ordinary, plain compared to Lúthien. It’s not that I didn’t find her attractive, but she was not my type, and there were lovelier women present at the unveiling. But when I heard Mélamírë speak and witnessed what happened when Lady Galadriel put the Mirror through its paces, I knew I had to meet the woman who possessed the kind of mind that could create such a thing. That she turned her mind toward me was a gift. But I squandered that gift, Sámaril. That is why I asked that you come here with me tonight so that we could talk. Do not make the same mistake I did.”

“I fear my mistake is irreparable.”

“Maybe, but maybe not. I know that you and Elerína are both miserable.”

“But I thought...when I saw you with her,” I stammered. “She seemed so happy.”

“You assumed she had taken me as a lover, did you? You were seeing through the fog of apple brandy. For my part, I tend to dally with men these days when I dally at all. But even if I had an eye for her, Elerína wants only you, my friend. If you are not aware of that, then you are blind.”

“I am not blind. It’s just that this is so hopeless.”

“Why? Because she is mortal?”

I nodded silently in the darkness.

“It is true that your time together would be short, but wouldn’t a short time be better than none? Do you love her?”

“Yes, but I am at a loss of what to do.”

“Sámaril, I may not the best one to be giving advice to the lovelorn. I have been betrothed three times.”

“Three?” I had only known of one.

“Yes. First to a maid of Vanyar in Aman. Beautiful, pious, of noble birth but none too bright. Mother and Father considered her a good match. I left her behind in the Rebellion. I suppose I have Nolofinwë and even Fëanáro to thank for saving me from a dull marriage. Then I was betrothed again in Ondolindë because of pressure from Lord Turukáno and to provide a distraction from my involvement with Ecthelion.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, for all that the maidens now coo and whisper over our 'doomed and forbidden' romance, in reality, ours was a dangerous affair. Turukáno was a traditionalist in many matters, and he interpreted the teachings of the Valar with strict orthodoxy. He did not look kindly upon men who...well, you understand what I mean.”

“I do.”

“I don’t know that he would have thrown us from the walls, but had Turukáno chosen to do so, he could have shunned us, made us into pariahs like the released thralls of Morgoth but confined within the walls of Ondolindë. Turukáno had shunned two of his courtiers who had become involved and were less discreet than Ecthelion and I. What a terrible life to lead: trapped in the city but spurned by all. It was something that Ecthelion and I wished to avoid. So that betrothal was a sham. I am not proud of this. She was a lovely, gracious woman, worthy of one better than I, or at least the man I was then.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died in the Fall of Ondolindë. Cut down by orcs as she tried to flee. I saw her death but was helpless to do anything about it. She was too far away.”

“I am sorry, Laurefin.”

“Thank you. I am sorry, too, and I paid my penance in the Halls of Mandos, at the times when I was aware of my existence, that is.” He shuddered briefly. The subject of Mandos was not one that he ever discussed in detail. “When I was reincarnated, I made a promise to myself to better obey the Valar's edicts. I have not held fast to that promise. I feel guilt when I succumb to my desires, but at other times...” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I tell you this in confidence, my friend: sometimes I question the teachings.”

“As do I, my lord. But I, too, understand the guilt when the hröa’s desires overcome the discipline of the fëa.”

“That has happened often enough that I have been accused of being a rank opportunist, but I adhered to the teachings strictly for some years after I set foot on these shores again. But then one pretty face and another tempted me. Backsliding and then praying to Nienna as penance became a way of my life.

“Then I met the Istyanis. She was the first woman who saw beyond my looks and the heroics of my first life. She was actually interested in my love of mathematics and astronomy. Not only was she interested in these subjects, she truly understood them! At last, I had met an intellectual equal, and truth be told, in many ways, my superior. The woman who had been merely attractive became beautiful to me. If Lúthien was the nightingale’s song, then the Istyanis was the fire of making.” He laughed, but it carried the bitter notes of regret. “I imagined how appalled my parents, especially Mother, would be if I joined with this woman who had such a checkered family background, but that just enhanced her allure. She must have seen something in me, too, because we fell in love.”

“Why didn’t you marry her?” I knew the answer, but I also knew that he wanted me to ask the question.

“Because I hesitated, Sámaril. I had been in Eregion for three years, and we were betrothed for two of them. War was inevitable. I begged her to flee while there was still time. But she and Culinen were determined to stay. In part, this was because of their loyalty to Tyelperinquar, but Mélamírë did not want to leave me. So I drew away from her -- gently, I thought -- in hope that by letting our ardor cool, rational thought might prevail and she would leave for the protection of Gil-galad’s kingdom or even Númenor. So I invoked the teachings in order to forestall marriage. I recited them to her: the Eldar do not marry in a time of war. I did this knowing full well how much she wished to wed.

“My strategy failed miserably. She returned her ring of betrothal, smelted and forged into the metal of my helmet. She left the city only when she was taken captive. I tried to save her, Sámaril, but when he blocked my way -- when he turned his hatred and fury on me -- there was no hope then.

“So I will give you this advice. If you love Elerína, tell her. Do not cast away happiness when it is presented to you. Even if it is fleeting.”

“But the fact that I am married remains.”

“Yet we are capable of loving more than one in our lifetimes. So it was with Finwë.”

“Look what happened with that!”

“True, but what is left unsung are the lives and loves of the Moriquendi. It is said that the Valar, when first encountering our people, were entranced with our song and speech, but appalled by other behaviors that they considered licentious. Our ancestors were barbaric in the eyes of the Valar. So those of our forefathers and foremothers who sought the Light in the West were expected to embrace the guidance handed down from the Valar. But the Dark Elves are different than the Exiles and our descendants -- a feral, rustic folk, we say -- but perhaps more like the One meant us to be. And that includes loving another when a spouse dies.”

“But what if Nierellë lives?”

“I can tell you that without your presence in Aman, it is extremely unlikely that she has reason to come back to the living. That is the way of things. Yes, some have been returned to their bodies made whole and new again. Many have not. If the situation were reversed, what would you expect of Nierellë?”

“I would wish her to be happy.”

“Even if that meant that she found happiness in the arms of another man?”

I thought about this for a moment, and then answered sincerely, for there was nothing more I wished than for my wife to find joy.

“Yes, even with another man.”

“Look into your heart. What do you believe she would wish for you?”

A brief vision of Nierellë’s floral blue eyes with their fringe of brown lashes fluttered within my thought. I felt a phantom’s kiss on my lips.

“I believe she would wish me to be happy, too,” I whispered for fear of my voice catching on the knot of sorrow in my throat. “Nevertheless, by our laws I cannot marry Elerína.”

“No, you cannot. But you can love her.”

Laurefin’s words sank into me, but I said nothing to him. We lay silent, watching the stars wheel overhead, each lost in his thoughts, until the sky behind the mountains became grey. Laurefin sat up and rubbed his face, turning toward the growing light in the East.

“Let’s pack up and head back. I’ll fix kaffea for us.”

The dawn promised an even more beautiful autumn day than the one before. We stripped off our cloaks after we escaped the chill wind of the high moor and descended into the gentle clime of the valley, now glowing pink in the early light. By the time we stabled our mounts, the sun had climbed to mid-morning and the kitchen was bustling with Astaron’s staff, cleaning dishes, pots and pans left from breakfast. Laurefin set to grinding his roasted beans and brewing coffee while Maidhel ensured that plates of toasted bread with blackberry jam, butter and rashers of bacon were placed on the long table before us. I had already devoured the bacon and was slathering butter and jam on the toast when Laurefin placed a steaming mug of hot black kaffea in front of me. He took a long sip, sighing with pleasure.

“O sweet devil-nectar, how I love thee!”

“You ought to write a poem about kaffea.”

“Maybe I shall.”

Likewise, I sipped the hot drink, finding it too bitter for my taste, and reached for a small pitcher of cream nearby, pouring it into the kaffea to mellow it.

Movement in the doorway caught my eye. I looked up to see Lady Vórwen, coming into the kitchen like us for a late breakfast. I rose, inviting her to join us, which she did, sitting by my side on the bench.

We made idle talk, and then Laurefin excused himself, picking up pack, telescope and tripod, and he left the kitchens. I waited until Lady Vórwen finished her breakfast, and then stood when she did, walking with her out of the noisy kitchen. Before we parted, she to her quarters and I to the baths, I spoke to her in the solitude of the corridor.

“If I may have a word, my lady?”

“Of course, Istyar.”

“Do you think Lady Elerína will be willing to talk to me?”

“Yes, I should think so, Istyar. I am surprised that you ask such a thing.”

“She has been rather cool to me since I returned.”

“She might say that you have been the same. It is time that you speak to one another.”

“Will you ask her then if I may speak to her alone? Truly alone?”

She raised her eyebrows at that, but then a gentle smile formed on her aging face. “I will ask her, Istyar, and will let you know.”

Later, after I had returned to my quarters from the baths, Vórwen knocked on my door.

“It is a fine day for a walk in the valley, but I fear that I have a headache so I will not be accompanying my lady this afternoon. She intends to hike along on the path that runs above the river. I believe you are familiar with it?”

“That I am. Thank you, Vórwen. I hope you feel better soon.”

I sat by my window for most of the morning, ostensibly reading an obscure treatise on the crystalline and amorphous forms of copper written by a Dwarven-scholar of the Blue Mountains, but more often than not. I looked outside. When I at last saw a slender figure walk across the court and disappear down the steps on her way to the path that ran beside the Bruinen, my heart leapt to my throat. I set aside the scroll, counted to one hundred and forty-four twelve times, and then left my quarters to follow my fate.

---

Chapter End Notes

The verses Laurefin sings are from one of the early poems JRRT wrote about Eärendil. See Tolkien, JRR. “The Tale of Eärendel.” The History of Middle-earth, v. II, The Book of Lost Tales, Part Two, ed. C. Tolkien. 2002; HarperCollinsPublishers, London: 274.

Kaffea is my own speculative concoction of a Haradric term for coffee with a nod to the Kaffa region in Ethiopia and the genus Coffea.

Chapter 31: A Scent of Autumn

Sámaril finds Elerína waiting for him at the rock where he heard Valandil cry out from the river twelve years before. There, guided by his heart, he makes a decision that will forever affect him.

This chapter is a solid R-rating for sexual content, more than "moderate" but not graphic either; just obvious as to what is occurring.

Thanks to Lizards Surgical Steel, Erulissë, Jael, Aeärwen, Drummerwench and Russandol for comments, nit-picking and otherwise holding my hand.

Read Chapter 31: A Scent of Autumn

As I hiked along the familiar path that wound through the forest of beech, oak and holly, my heart pounded, not from exertion, but from nerves. I did not know how Elerína would receive me. All I knew is that I could not bear continuing these games of avoidance and awkward encounters. The trail climbed higher, the trees of the lower vale giving way to a mix of silver birch and firs. I rounded the bend, and there she was, sitting on the same rock that I had twelve years ago when I had heard her child cry out from the river.

She greeted me with a solemn bow of her head. My heart fell, but it was a better reception than the chill that she had turned upon me of late.

“Istyar...”

“My lady, please. No 'Istyar'.”

“Then there is no need for 'my lady'. Please sit, Sámaril.”

I sat down beside her on the rock, but put space between us.

“The view is beautiful from here.” She looked out toward the meadow that rolled above the river on the opposite side of the valley, where once the many tents of the Men of the West had stood.

“Yes, this is one of my favorite spots in the valley. I was resting on this very rock when I heard Valandil cry out from the river.”

“You rescued him and brought him back to me.”

“I remember when you came down the stairs. I scolded you for neglecting your son.”

“I remember that well. I thought you to be a high-minded, arrogant Elf.”

“I still am and not apt to change. That is why I wish to speak to you, Elerína. I have come to beg your forgiveness. I treated you in such a beastly way when I left for Hadhodrond. I am sorry for what I said to you -- for hurting you. You are my friend. You deserve far better than that.”

After an agonizingly long moment, she turned to me, her face grave. “You are forgiven, Sámaril. For my part, I should not have treated you so coldly when you came back, but when I saw you, all that pain returned. What you said hurt me deeply. You have been gone for two years, and I had hoped I might forget your words in that time, but I could not.” Her voice quavered for a brief moment before she steadied it again. “I missed you so much. I know that two years are nothing to you, but to me, they were long.”

I had given little thought to the time I was away, but now I knew that those two years had been drawn out for her, even if they had been a blink of an eye to me.

“I missed you, too. I thought of you often.” I reached across the gap between us and clasped her hand in mine. A thrill ran up my arm when she squeezed my hand with affection, but she kept her gaze focused on the meadow. “Elerína, you will always have my friendship.”

“I am grateful for that,” she asserted. “But…”

“But what?”

“I desire more than friendship from you,” she said, barely above a whisper. “That is why your cold farewell hurt so much.”

“Elerína, I am sorry…”

She cut me off. “I know. It is not appropriate. The fates of Men and Elves are divided, and by the laws of your people, you are married.”

“This is true. I cannot marry again.”

At that, she stood abruptly, jerking her hand away from mine.

“Forgive me, Sámaril. I should never have brought this up.”

She snatched her cloak and swung around to take a only few steps along the path before I leapt to my feet and strode to her side where I grasped her hand, pulling her around to face me. She kept her eyes lowered. I knew what I must say.

“Elerína, I may not marry another, but that does not mean I cannot love you.”

I lifted her chin with my fingers and wiped away the tears that tracked down her cheek. I took her face in my hands, searching her eyes, blue as the clear autumn sky above but glistening with tears yet unshed. Then I made the decision that would affect me forever: I kissed her.

Her response was not the hesitant butterfly’s flutter of lips she had given to me before, but a full, rich kiss that told me of the love she wanted to give and that I now so eagerly received. I returned her kiss with a fervor that surprised me. I embraced her tightly, savoring her warmth and the feel of her arms around me, drinking in her scent of woodbine and rose. Our kisses deepened, and our hands began to wander. I pulled back from her.

“Elerína, I desire you, but I should court you first. If we continue this, I will not be able to stop myself.”

The smile she gave to me made my knees weak. “Sámaril, save for the time you spent among the Dwarves, you have been courting me for years now. I think we are ready to move past that.” She kissed me again and pressed herself so closely against me so that she must have felt my natural response. “I do not want you to stop. I desire you, too.”

Her directness was more than I could have hoped for, but a thread of doubt needed to be cut. “Are you certain you want this?”

She fitted herself against me once more. “I am certain. But are you?”

“Yes. Certain enough that I cannot wait any longer. Will you come with me?”

“Yes, Sámaril, I will.”

Taking her hand, I led her into the woods. Some ways off the path, we reached a secluded dell encircled by tumbled rocks interspersed among dark firs and yellow birches with their leaves fluttering in the breeze. Together we made our way down into the center of the dell, warm and golden in the sun. We faced one another again. She scanned our surroundings before meeting my eyes.

“Here?”

“You have taken an Elf as a lover. We are wild, fey creatures.” She laughed at that, but I kissed her, gratified to hear her mirth change to a hum of pleasure.

“No one will see us?” Her question was warm against my neck.

“Only the birds.”

I unfurled her cloak, letting it come to rest on the cushion of grass and dry leaves that lined the bottom of the little hollow, and we lay down upon it. Legs and arms entwined, our hands coursed over one another’s bodies, now free from restraint, hers over my hips and mine to her breasts. I became increasingly aware of her scent with its subtle notes of mortal decay, but I did not find it repulsive. Instead her odor enticed me, blending with the bitter, ripe fragrance of autumn that suffused the earth in the dell and the surrounding forest, the fermenting scent of the dying season that was the necessary partner of renewal to come.

The sun and our passion warmed us. She ran her hands beneath my shirt over my bare skin. Her every touch, from the caress of her fingers to the silk of her hair against my face, thrilled me.

“You must be hot,” she murmured. “I know I am.”

I slid my shirt off, casting it aside into the dry leaves. Her eyes stroked my body, lingering upon my evident arousal that pushed against my trousers. Her smile was triumphant and not a little wicked.

“Have I done this to an Elf? One who is so disciplined of mind and body?”

“Not so disciplined...”

She reached out and traced the outline in the strained cloth. I sucked in my breath, thinking of her hands on me, wanting to take her then and there in desperation, but not yet, not yet. I leaned over her, draping the laces that secured the bodice of her gown over my fingers.

“May I?”

She lowered her eyes, her expression uncertain. “I no longer have the body of a maiden.”

“I do not want a maiden. I want you.”

She trailed her fingers over my cheek, down the back of my neck and along my shoulder, sending ripples of pleasure over my skin. “Then yes, Sámaril, you may.”

I untied the laces of her bodice, pushing aside the fabric to so the sunlight fell upon her breasts -- a mature woman’s breasts with rose-brown nipples and thin silver scars threaded across white skin.

“You are lovely.”

I expressed my appreciation by taking one nipple and then the other into my mouth, paying attention to her soft moans that might hint at what exactly pleased her. For as much as I wanted her, I was also anxious that I might not satisfy her. When I was a young bridegroom, I had been advised in no uncertain terms that I must ensure a woman’s pleasure before I sought my own. I had more confidence now than when I first lay with my new bride, but I also knew every woman varied. Much to my relief, I was discovering that Elerína, save for her mortal scent, was little different than a woman of my own race.

Emboldened by her pleased little noises, I lifted her skirt up to expose her bare legs. Her breathing quickened when I moved my hand along the smooth skin of her inner thigh, gently pushing her legs apart, but I hesitated. This was a woman of noble birth whom I wanted to touch. Who was I to take such liberties with the mother of a king and a woman who had been named a queen?

She looked at me from heavy-lidded eyes and took my hand, placing it upon what I so desired.

“Please,” she said, her voice husky. Given permission, I pressed my hand against her yielding flesh. She tilted her hips against me, and when my fingers made a circle in the soft wetness, she gasped: “Yes, there!”

When she started to tremble, I removed my hand. She made a sound of protest, grasping for my hand again, which I denied her. Instead I sat up and positioned myself between her legs, pushing her skirt further up toward her waist so that I could admire her. The skin of her thighs was so pale, flawless but for a mark on her inner left thigh. A blemish perhaps, but then I realized it was ink embedded in her skin, shaped like a crescent moon. She closed her legs in response to my curiosity, her smile teasing me. I pushed her thighs apart again and put my lips on the mark of the moon, encircling it with my tongue, making my way upward until I found her.

Her scent became her taste and aroused me to the point of pain. She dug her fingers into my scalp and then reached to hold my hand, gripping it harder and harder. She trembled more now, gasping and moaning. Then she released a low cry, arching her body, her hand relaxing its hold on mine. When she subsided, withdrawing a little from me, I pulled myself up to lie by her side again, taking her in my arms, but now I was the one shaking with unreleased passion. She ran her tongue over my lips, her own scent thick upon them. Her hand brushed against my belly while she unlaced my trousers. I fumbled in my rush to shove the hindering garment down to my ankles, kicking it off.

“Now you...” she breathed against my mouth. The first feather-light touches of her fingers were maddeningly delicate, but then she grasped me firmly. I closed my eyes and lost myself to the pressure of her strokes. She tried to pull me on top of her, but I flipped onto my back, the leaves crunching beneath the cloak when I put my body between hers and the hard ground.

“I don’t want to crush you.”

“You are very considerate.”

Hitching her skirt up, she straddled my hips and guided me into her. She leaned forward, her breasts grazing my bare chest and the silk curtain of her hair falling over my shoulders and face. She rocked against me with the rhythm of a woman who knew what she wanted. Any remaining worry that I might not please her fled from my thought, replaced by the sensation of the most intimate of embraces. Closing my eyes, I clasped her to me, and met her with my thrusts. I glided across a plateau of pleasure, but my focus was interrupted when wings beat frantically at the gates of my mind.

Her presence within my thought surprised me for I did not know if she -- a mortal -- would be capable of this connection during the height of lovemaking, but I opened the barriers wide to bring her fully into my burning mind, allowing her see how much I loved her. Instead of blending into me, she streaked away, taunting me with powerful wings. I pursued her, dipping and rising, dipping and rising. She soared higher still and then dove again, grinding herself against me. Closer and closer I spiraled toward her, plunging deeper into her, while she plummeted just out of my reach until my talons caught hers, and our minds now joined along with our bodies. We tumbled, locked together in reckless flight, our love fierce and tender at once.

“Oh, Sáma...” and she cried out again. Then my own inarticulate moan joined hers when I reached my peak, all the pent-up desire that had built over the past years released into her, and I became hers.

She collapsed against my chest, burying her face in my hair, her breath warm against my shoulder. Her heart thudded against me, its beat slowing as she succumbed to the bliss that followed lovers’ completion. I held her, not wanting to let her go.

“Elerína,” I whispered against her hair. “I wish to tell you something, something I should have said before, but feared to.”

She raised her head to look at me with blue eyes foggy from the aftermath of lovemaking, her smile sleepy.

“What do you wish to say?”

“I love you. I will always love you.”

She responded with a sweet kiss and melted into my arms again. Then her body shook, and I realized she was weeping.

“What is wrong? Why are you crying?”

She met my eyes again, but a beautiful smile shone through her tears.

“Nothing is wrong, Sámaril. It’s just that I am so happy...I love you, too.” We kissed again, and I tasted the salt of her tears.

We remained joined for as long as possible until my inevitable diminishment separated our union. Then she rolled off me and curled up against my side, resting her head on my chest, our mingled sweat now drying in the sunlight. Above us, the leaves of the birches rattled in the breeze, but we remained warm and protected in the little dell. Elerína’s breathing became slow and even while she dozed. Far away, I heard the whistle of a falcon, and sated and peaceful, I fell asleep.

~*~

The chill of shadows awoke us. The sun no longer shone down into the dell, and the light had taken on a crimson hue as the sun sank in the western sky. Elerína shivered, and I hugged her against my more resilient body.

“We had best return,” she said, but she snuggled closer rather than making any move to leave. I was equally reluctant to release her, wishing our afternoon interlude never to end, but knowing that it must.

“Yes, it will be dark soon.”

“I think we should go back separately.”

“That might be wise. You should go first, and I will follow.”

She shivered again so we collected our discarded clothing that had been flung out onto the leaves and grass. When she reached to pick up her cloak, she chuckled.

“What’s so amusing?” I asked while I sat on the cold ground, slipping on my shoes.

She held up her cloak, and there in its center was a telltale spot.

“Ah. Well, the laundresses are discreet,” I said. “I doubt that this is the first time they have seen such a stain.”

“Likely they have seen a few!” She laughed again. “Ai, but this is more than just our love spot that has mussed my mantle.”

She shook her crumpled cloak, trying to dislodge the bits of leaves clinging to the dark grey wool before throwing it over her shoulders. I fixed the clasp of her cloak, kissing her brow after I did so, but she pulled me down to give me a much hungrier kiss.

“Will you come to me again? Tonight?”

“Yes,” I returned her kiss with equal ardor. “Perhaps you should come to my quarters, away from your ladies.”

“That is the better idea. Late then, after the household has settled and after Val has gone to sleep.”

I kissed her, gently this time. “I understand. After Val has gone to sleep. I will be ready for you.”

“If we do not leave, I think you will be ready for me sooner than that.” She tilted her hips against my body before leaving my arms.

We climbed out of the dell and wended our way through the woods to the path. I stood by the rock, watching her recede down the path. The sun dropped further down the sky while I sang a lover’s poem from a happier time deep in my long past. When I returned to the first verse of the song, I set off on the path, kicking the leaves up into joyous fountains as I walked, breathing in the scent of autumn, the scent that would forever remind me of her.

~*~

The sun had just set by the time I returned to the House of Elrond. Light from the windows cut through the dusk. Judging by the remains of the day, supper would not begin for another two hours. My mind raced ahead to the coming night and what Elerína had said. Would she come to my quarters? I hardly dared to hope so, but she had seemed happy in the dell. I had no reason to doubt her, but the afternoon had taken on the quality of a dream, and I had to convince myself it was real. Needing to still my mind, I decided to go to the forge before I bathed, intending to distract myself with rote work for a while. No sooner had I settled myself at my desk than Thorno was there in my door, grinning.

“Yes, Thorno? Is there something you want?”

“No, nothing in particular.”

“Then why are you standing there grinning like a cat that has caught the mouse?”

“You have bits of leaves in your hair.”

“I went for a hike in the woods this afternoon. No doubt I encountered leaves there.”

“Ah. No doubt. Interesting, though, that they look very much like the bits of leaves stuck in the Lady Elerína’s hair and on her cloak.”

My face warmed.

“Don’t worry, Sámaril, I will tell no one although I think it will soon become obvious for all who have eyes to see.”

“Just how obvious is it?’

“To those of us who know both of you well, very obvious. I heard singing earlier when I stepped out to take a breath of fresh air, and there was Elerína walking into the court. Walking on air, I should say. I have never seen her happier. She also looked...mussed. But she did not seem to care. Then when I saw you come into the forge, well, Istyar, your smile was a mile wide. Now that I see the leaves, I can only conclude that you and the lady are,” he paused, searching for words, “speaking again.” His blue eyes glinted knowingly.

“Yes, we are speaking. Thorno, I hope I can trust you.”

“Of course. That goes without saying. I am simply happy for you. For both of you.”

“You are very accepting of this.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Lairiel and I can never marry for the same reasons, but I love her all the same. I will keep your secret, but I doubt that you will be able to hide your joy.”

~*~

Thorno was right. I could barely contain myself when all sat for supper that evening. If earlier Elerína and I had studiously kept our eyes off one another, now we had difficulty avoiding an exchange of glances and little smiles when we thought no one else would notice. After supper concluded, most followed Elrond and Elerína to the Hall of Fire where I willed time to rush as quickly as it did for mortals, but the evening dragged on. At last, when others began to filter out of the hall, I retired to my quarters, undressed and put on my warm wool robe. I sat down with a scroll, trying to read and relax, but leapt up again and again -- to light candles, to smooth the bed, to make sure all was tidy. I stared out the window at the new moon, my thoughts turning toward the mysterious mark on Elerína’s thigh, thinking how the moon shone against the black sky but her dark blue crescent sank into milky white skin. The night deepened, and all was quiet, save for wind rustling the dry leaves outside.

Then the soft knock sounded on my door. I opened it, and there she was, clad in a long dressing gown.

“Please, come in.” I stepped aside, and she entered swiftly. She surveyed my quarters.

“Your chambers look very comfortable.”

“They are, and even more so now that you are here.” I took her hands in mine. “I am glad you have come, my lady.”

“Sámaril, please do not call me...” but then she ceased speaking when I kissed her. I ran my hand along her braid hanging down her back. Her shiver of pleasure rewarded me when I nibbled the edge of her ear, whispering to her:

“Let me loosen your hair.”

‘Yes,” she murmured against my shoulder, her lips brushing against my skin. “But only if you will allow me to do the same to you.”

“That is fair enough.”

She turned around so that I could remove the clasps that kept the ends of her braid in place. I unraveled her hair slowly and ran my fingers over her scalp and through the length of her wavy locks, which nearly reached her waist. She almost purred. Then I pushed aside her hair and kissed the back of her neck. She turned around to meet my lips.

“Now let me return the favor.”

It was my turn to face away from her even though my body roared with the need to crush her against me. She unfastened the clips that bound my hair, and echoing my prior motions, unwove the strands of my plait.

‘”You have beautiful hair, Istyar. Like bronzed silk.”

I tilted my head back, enjoying the sensation of her fingers running through my hair. “You called me Istyar.”

“You called me ‘my lady’.” Her hands left my hair when she reached around with both arms to the front of my robe and untied the sash. She pulled at the fabric over my shoulders.

Delighted by her bold gesture, I shrugged off the robe, letting it fall to my feet. Her lips found my bare back while her arms encircled me, one hand on my chest and the other on my belly. I turned around to take her into my arms, but she backed away from me.

“I have dreamed of this,” she said, her eyes traveling over my body. “Once, I saw you working in the forge. You were shirtless, wearing very little actually. You appeared a god of fire. I wondered what it would be like to have you kiss me, to have you cover me.”

“I am yours now. I wish to see you, too.”

I unfastened clasps of her dressing gown until I could slide it over her bare shoulders. With considered, reluctant movement, she pulled one arm out of a sleeve and then the other. The garment pooled around her ankles, and she stood naked in the candlelight.

She had the body of a woman who had experienced childbirth: her breasts were neither small nor large but a little heavy and not as high as they once might have been. Her hips swelled with lush curves from a narrow waist. Her belly was rounded, a small hillock that sloped down to the dark triangle of hair that covered her secrets. Her earlier boldness faltered when I gazed upon her; she flushed and bowed her head, vulnerable now that she was so exposed.

“You are beautiful, meldanya,” I assured her. “Come to me and let me show you just how beautiful you are.” I reached out, and she took my hand. I led her to my bed, throwing the coverlet back, and we collapsed onto the soft linens.

I had wanted this reprise of the afternoon’s coupling to be slow, mindful of the artistry of pleasure, but her immediate need set my desire aflame, fueled by the touch of skin against skin with no hindering garments. She whispered endearments, tentative at first but strengthened when I returned these in kind: those coarse and most intimate of words that were the raw poetry of love. Our hands raked over one another’s bodies; our kisses became frantic. I trailed my lips and tongue down her belly, intending to seek the moon on her thigh again, but she shifted restlessly beneath me.

“I am ready for you now, love.” So she opened herself, and I sank into her.

I did not hold back, for she was cushioned against my strength by the mattress beneath us. With the movements of an experienced woman, she signaled with her hips just where I should apply pressure from my own body. She quivered like a tight bowstring while I pursued her with every thrust. Then, as before, her wings beat at the gates of my mind. When I opened them, she flooded me with her love and lust, crying out when she found her peak. I spiraled higher and higher with her, then dove swiftly down again, gratified that I had been able to give her pleasure. Her arms tightened around me once more, straining in her flight, and my beloved moaned my name again just before I plummeted over the brink, the intensity of my climax consuming me.

We lay quiet, still joined, for a time, but loath to part, I eased my weight off her and pulled her into my embrace. As brilliant as the peak of release was with this woman whom I loved, the aftermath was exquisite.

She snuggled against my side, her head resting on my chest and her arm draped over my body. “Words are not adequate, so I will just say that was very good for me, Istyar.”

“It was for me as well. I am glad you are a woman who is...” I hesitated, wanting to be certain that I expressed myself in a way that would not cause her offense. “I am glad you are not a maiden, that you know what you desire. That helps me know what to do. I am sorry that I was not more artful.”

“Hush, love. I do not doubt your craftsmanship, but there is time yet for such artistry. Rest assured that you pleased me. Couldn’t you tell?”

“Yes, I could tell.”

I pulled the coverlet over us when the candles burned low and the room chilled. We crooned to one another as lovers will until her whispers subsided into the steady breathing of sleep. I resisted following her into slumber for a while, afraid to let go of any moment spent with her, already dreading the time when our paths would separate irrevocably. But soon, lulled by the rhythm of her breath and warmth, I slipped into the blissful realm of a golden dream where I walked hand-in-hand with her, the sound of an unknown sea in my ears, and then the oblivion of true sleep pulled me into its depths.

Her stirring awoke me. The grey light that preceded the dawn had come all too soon.

“I must leave now, Sámaril.”

“Not just yet.”

I captured her in my arms before she could rise from my bed, and with only a short preamble of caresses, our embrace became the full union of our bodies. We did not have the luxury of time to savor the each other afterward, so I simply watched her while she lifted her dressing gown over her shoulders and padded across the floor to the adjoining lavatory where she closed the door. I rolled out of my bed, put on my robe, and waited for her. She emerged, and I took her into my arms, kissing her cheeks that were pink and damp from the cold water she had splashed on her face.

“Elerína...”

“I love you.” She kissed me one last time before she slipped out the door.

I stood there in silence, listening to her soft footfalls retreat down the corridor. When I heard them no longer, I flung myself back onto my empty bed. I buried my face in the pillow she had slept on, breathing in the scent of roses and woodbine, and from the rumpled linens, I inhaled the blended musk of my enduring life and her mortality, already missing her, and then allowed myself to sleep.

Chapter 32: Ringmaker

When Elerína and Sámaril tell Valandil of their love for one another, Valandil does not receive the revelation well.  However, when Sámaril enlists Valandil's assistance in crafting a gift symbolic of the elven smith's love for Elerína, Valandil appears to be brought round to accepting his mother and Sámaril's life together.

Thanks to Lizards Russandol, Surgical Steel, Scarlet10, Sanna, Aeärwen, KyMahalei, Moreth, Oshun, Lilith, Elfscribe, Raksha, Drummerwench & Darth Fingon for comments, lively discussion and valuable critique.

Read Chapter 32: Ringmaker

Her fingers trailed from my shoulders to the small of my back, tying the threads of connection that bound me to her when I tried to roll away. I steeled myself to leave the warm cocoon of her bed, but she sat up behind me and strengthened those threads as her lips followed the path where her fingers had run, her breath warm against my skin.

"Can't you stay a little while longer?"

Once again, I had to resist temptation, following the pattern of the past several weeks, which found me slipping into her quarters late in the night and then departing before dawn.  We continued this ruse of secrecy out of reluctance to declare ourselves to the one whom our love affected the most. I wanted her to take the lead in this, but had not pressed her.

When I tensed to rise from the bed, her embrace tightened with possessiveness. I leaned back against her to soften my rejection of her invitation.

"The sun has already risen. I must go, but I wish..."

"What do you wish?" Her breath brushed my ear, sending a thrill of pleasure down my neck.  Her hand slid down my belly, but I clasped her fingers to prevent their exploration of my body's agreement that I should remain with her.

"That I could stay. You know that."   

Abruptly, she drew back from me, and I heard her slap a pillow with the palm of her hand. "Then we must do something about this! I am tired of sneaking around when most of the household knows that we are...well, they have surely guessed about us."

"More than guess. Most know by now," I said. "My people are perceptive, and they enjoy gossip as much as your folk, if I may say so."

She laughed at that. "Oh, I am well aware of the elvish penchant for tales of all sorts, from the noble to the vulgar. But there is one who deserves our honesty."

"You are right. He does. What do you propose we do?"

"We must speak to Elrond first. As Valandil's guardian, he should know of our intentions, and then we will speak to Valandil -- together."

"What are our intentions, my lady?"

"To share our lives openly without shame. Isn't that what you want? "

"Yes, but until then, I really must leave you before Valandil awakens."

With a frustrated huff, she flopped down on the bed. I bent over and kissed her, tasting the promise in her lips and tongue, before I tore myself out of her embrace to dress in haste and steal out of her quarters.

~*~

That very afternoon, we sat side by side on a settee in Elrond's study where waning sunlight cast filigreed shadows from branches of the bare winter trees outside. Elerína spoke first, presenting our case, while Elrond sat behind his desk and listened, his brows slightly furled and his mouth taut. When we finished speaking, he leaned forward and set his hands with fingers interlaced on the leather blotter before him.

"If I were a chieftain of Men, and you were but a crofter and a widow of my village who sought my blessing," he said, "this would be so much simpler. But such is not the case. Elerína, I am well aware that it is not unheard of for a noble woman -- even a queen -- of your people to take a lover, but I have also seen the outcomes of such arrangements. As you well know, these consequences can disrupt the succession of a kingdom. So do be careful if you take my meaning." Elerína blushed, but he pressed on. "You say you do not intend to marry a man of the Dúnedain again?"

"I do not. I will not be barter for a political alliance. I love Sámaril, and I will to the end of my days." She reached to take my hand. I squeezed hers in return, but the affectionate gesture did not stifle the chilling reminder that our days together passed far too swiftly.

"Yet by joining with one of the Firstborn you have complicated matters. Far be it from me to gainsay the two of you, for that would be the height of hypocrisy. I would not exist if it were not for the love between mortal Men and Elvenkind." His lips curled up with a smile at his self-deprecation. "Nonetheless, I have my concerns."

He then fixed his considered attention on me. "Sámaril, as a married man of Noldorin descent, you must be aware that there will be repercussions should you decide to leave these shores and take the Straight Road to the Lonely Isle. It is with the Valar's sufferance that we are even allowed to set foot on the Blessed Lands, and you defy their teachings. Only the Elder King may sever marriage."

"I am aware of that, my lord," I replied but did not add that I was uncertain that I wanted to leave. In spite of the burden of weariness that the passing years laid upon my heart, Middle-earth was still my home while the Blessed Lands were foreign, even frightening.

"I hope you are." He caught us both with his somber gaze. "I cannot in good conscience give you my blessing, but neither will I obstruct you. Over the years, I learned well the benefits of tolerance and the hazards of orthodoxy. Thus there are those who defy the teachings and are permitted to live openly as lovers here. But Elerína, you are not just any woman. You are the mother of the future king of Arnor. It is Valandil who concerns me the most. Do you think he will understand?"

"Sámaril is like a father to him. They have been close since my son was little more than a babe. Their bond was forged long before you returned from the war." Elrond's grave face flinched minutely in response to her words. "I know this as his mother. I believe my son will welcome Sámaril into our family."

"You know your son best. Do as you see fit then. You may go now, but I must keep Sámaril for a moment."

I escorted Elerína to the door. We held one another's eyes, and in hers, I saw wraiths of uncertainty. I reached for her hand, lifting it to my lips for a kiss of reassurance.

"I will find you later." She gave me a wan smile before leaving.

Elrond had risen from his chair and stood before the windows that looked out over the grey landscape. A sideways glance beckoned me to his side.

"You know my history, Sámaril."

"There is no one here in Imladris who does not, my lord."

"My brother made the choice that would forever separate us. When I was young, even though I loved him, I hated his decision. Yet now, with the weight of years upon me, I question which of us made the wiser choice." He reached to rub his forehead, shutting his eyes briefly before he turned to me again. "The pain from the death of a loved one never disappears. For mortals, time smoothes the sharp edges; they have been given the grace to escape the unending cycles of the world. But for us, the Firstborn, the pain endures. You know this. Elerína is a brilliant and beautiful woman so I well understand why you love her. In fact, I confess that I envy you, but I cannot emphasize how agonizing your separation will be. Just know that when she leaves this world, I will be here for you. You may go now."

~*~

That night, for the first time in weeks, I slept alone in my own quarters. The next morning I hesitated before I knocked on the front door of Elerina's suite. To say I was nervous was an understatement. I had not felt this shaky since I had asked Nierellë's father for her hand in marriage.  Lady Vorwen opened the door and gave me a knowing look. She had been our co-conspirator, but I knew we had created an increasingly untenable situation for her.

Valandil sat slumped in one of the chairs beside the hearth where a fire snapped and crackled cheerfully. What a contrast this was to years before, when he was a little boy who would come running into my arms. He fiddled with a loose thread on his sleeve, no doubt wishing to be somewhere else, most likely in Calaquar's workshop where he spent so much of his time as Yule approached. Elerína rose from the settee opposite her son and invited me to sit beside her.

"Valandil, I have asked Istyar Sámaril to come here this morning so that we might speak to you about a matter."

Valandil glanced up at us but returned his attention to the loose thread.  The words I had rehearsed evaporated when faced with his discomfort. I simply blurted out what I felt.

"Val, I love your mother..."

"And I return Sámaril's love so...so..." Elerína stammered, her confidence fleeing. She looked at me with supplication.

"You will see me here in your quarters much more often. At night and in the early morning both."

I winced at my awkward words, but nonetheless they caught his attention. He said nothing but swung his eyes from his mother to me and back to his mother again. Then realization took hold.

"You mean that you are..." He blushed and averted his gaze, yanking at the thread, which snapped when it broke. Then he lifted his face to address us. "When are you getting married?

"We are not..." Elerína began.

Val cut her off sharply. "Why not?"

Elerína silently implored me to explain. I shifted uncomfortably.  I would love her regardless of her son's judgment, but I wanted Valandil's approval. My worry that he would be less than accepting of the change in my relationship with his mother was now borne out.  I tried to be direct.

"By the laws given to my people from the Powers of the West, I am forbidden from marrying your mother."

"Then what you are doing is not right."

"I understand why you would say that, Val, but I love your mother. We have been together since the harvest festival so..."

"But you should marry her, Istyar!"

"I have told you! I cannot, Val."

"How many times have you told me that I should not have relations until I marry? And how is this different than...than what my father did with that woman of Umbar? Mother, surely you know that I heard what her ambassador called you...what she called me!"

"This is different!" Elerína snapped, but her face reddened. Valandil had clearly struck a nerve, but she struggled to soften her tone. "You are so young, still a boy."

"I am not a child, Mother!"

"You may be at the brink of manhood, but you are far from being an adult like the Istyar or me, and our decision is an adult matter. We just thought it best to be honest with you."

"Then it really doesn't matter what I think, does it?" He leapt out of the chair and in a few strides had his hand on the door.

"Valandil!" Elerína cried, but she was too late. The door slammed, and her son's steps thudded away down the corridor.

"That did not go so well," she sighed.

I reached to take her hands, hands that were so graceful and fine compared to mine. Her fingers were unadorned save for her right forefinger where she wore a simple gold band of matrimony in memory of Isildur, just as I wore a similar band in memory of Nierellë. As I comforted her and admired her fingers, an idea rang through me like the chime of a great bell, resonating with both exhilaration and apprehension.

"Give him some time," I said, putting my arm around her shoulders. "I will speak to him."

~*~

I waited for an hour or so before I hiked up the path to the forge. There I found Valandil just where I expected him to be: in Calaquar's workshop. He sat hunched over the bench, pressing a slender carving knife into a small piece of wood. Nella, as was her custom, lay sprawled on the floor at his feet. She woofed at me in greeting when I entered the room, but Val did not look up from his task nor did I disturb him. When he set the knife aside, he stared at his work: a golden maple comb with fine teeth and inlays of cherry wood adorning its crescent. Its half-completed mate lay nearby.

"I am making these for Mother," he said dully. "For her hair."

"Val..."

He raised his face and met my eyes directly. "I am sorry, Istyar. I acted like a child . You are right. You and Mother are grown-ups. It is not my place to interfere with her life and tell her whom she should love." But he could not hide the hurt beneath his contrite words.

"Come with me," I said.

He set aside the carving knife and slid off the stool. He and his dog followed me to my office, the wolfhound's nails clicking on the stone tiles.

"Please sit." He pulled up a wooden chair while I sat behind my desk.

"Are you angry with me, Istyar?"

"No. But I understand why you are angry with me."

"I am not angry, but I am confused. You said your wife died long ago."

"That is true."

"Then why can't you marry Mother?"

"Because I am considered married."

"But your wife doesn't live!"

"Most likely she does not live now, and that's what I feel in my heart. I believe I would know if she had returned to the living. But that is the point: she could live, perhaps will live again in the Blessed Lands. Through the mysteries of the Valar, the spirits of our people can be put back into their bodies again, whole and new. That is why remarriage of widows or widowers to another is forbidden unless given dispensation by the Powers. If I, a widower, married another woman of my people, I might then have two living wives."

"Oh." He pursed his lips in thought. "But Mother is mortal. She will..."

"Yes, I know, Valandil. She will die. Nonetheless, the law remains the same, and I, who dwell here in Middle-earth, cannot plead my case before the Elder King and the rest of the Powers."

"I see. I just wish..." He paused. "I wish you could marry her. It just seems...forgive me, Istyar. It seems dishonorable. Like my mother isn't good enough for you."

His words pierced me like a blade. The Followers. The Usurpers. The Sickly. Always the lesser. Those pejorative words rang in my ears. How often had my people spoken less than charitably of their mortal brethren? Many of those Men whom I had encountered in Tharbad years ago bore the worst characteristics of their race and reinforced that harsh judgment, but Elerína and Valandil had taught me otherwise.

"On the contrary. I feel that I am not worthy of your mother. She is a high noble lady. You are right. It may be that I do her a disservice, but I love her, Val, and I love you, too. That is why I cannot hide in the shadows any longer."

"I think...I think I am glad that you told me how much you love her." Valandil lowered his eyes to his hands knotted together in his lap. "I honor my father's memory, Istyar. I often dream of him, but to tell you the truth, I never really knew him. You are more my father than he was, and Master Elrond? I think of him as my grandfather for I never knew Elendil the King either. That is why I wish you could marry Mother. So that we could truly be kin."

"Val, we are kin. You are the son-of-my-heart. No ceremony will change that. But I have made a decision, and I need your help. I am going to make something that I told myself I would never make again."

"What is that, Istyar?"

"Rings, Valandil. I am going to make rings."

"Why wouldn't you want to make rings? People like to wear them."

"It's a long story, one that I will tell you some day, but not now. I wish to make rings for your mother and me. I may not be able to marry Elerína, but I can pledge myself to her. I want you to be part of that. But you must promise not to tell her. I want this to be a surprise."

His blue eyes were now alight. "I promise! What do you want me to do?"

"You will be my assistant. We must work fast and efficiently because I wish to give her my pledge at Yule, and that is barely three weeks away."

"Yes! I'll help!" Then his eager face fell. "But Master Elrond said I must not use the deep arts with you."

"Don't worry about that. You will only assist me as any young man might. There is no need for you to dabble in the deep arts. What I'd like you to do now is go through my inventory for the materials I require. Here, I'll write a list for you."

Valandil ran to and fro, from my office to my workshop and the forge, gathering the items I had written down on the list, while I sketched the design of what I intended to be a matched pair of rings. The image flowed swiftly from my mind to the paper. When Val looked at my sketch, he broke out into a smile.

"Mother will love this. But how will you make the rings?"

I explained the art of lost wax casting to him, and he listened with interest, periodically interrupting me to ask questions. When I had no more to say, I looked out the window to see that it was dark. Time had flown while Valandil and I began the preparations. "We should return to the house. It will be suppertime soon. We can work together again tomorrow."

"I have lessons with Master Elrond and Lord Glorfindel in the morning, but I can come up here right after that."

"Good! I will look forward to seeing you." We walked together out of my office.

"Istyar?"

"Yes?"

"Will you sit with Mother and me at the table tonight? I mean, sit by us?"

"Of course. I would be honored, Val."

Thus we all sat together at the high table that evening, Elerína between Valandil and me. I remembered my dream some years before, when I imagined sitting at the high table with Nierellë and our son. With their lives cut short on the bloody fields of Eregion, that had not come to pass, but what had come to fruition, something I would never have predicted, filled my heart with joy and hope. Later that night, before Elerína and I drifted off to sleep, she asked me what I had said to Valandil to bring him around.

"I asked him for his assistance with a project I have undertaken."

"What kind of a project?"

"One that is secret."

Her chuckle sent delicate flutters across my chest. "A secret project? I'm afraid to ask. I will wait then."

~*~

Valandil not only assisted me in the forge as I prepared to cast the rings, but he also started another project of his own, saying only that it was meant to "go with the rings." The day came when I was ready to smelt the metal and remove any impurities that might linger in it. Valandil's eyes grew round when I brought out the cask that held a small ingot of mithril.

"True-silver! It is so beautiful! But why not make the rings with gold, Istyar? Mother loves gold."

"I know she does, but mithril is more precious, and it does not carry the marring of Morgoth."

"What do you mean by that? How did the Foe mar gold?"

"Melkor spread his power throughout many substances of the earth, including gold, in an effort to bend the entire world to his will, and failing that, to be able to wrest it away from those who loved it. But his power never touched silver and mithril."

"How do you know this?"

"Long ago, someone told this to me."

I said no more than that and sank into my own thoughts. I keenly remembered when I had asked Istyar Aulendil the same question while he worked on the mithril ring he intended to give Mélamírë on her one hundred and fiftieth begetting day.

"Gold is a beautiful substance, lad, and it flatters both ladies of my household," the Istyar had said, "but as lovely as gold is -- and as useful, too -- it carries the touch of Melkor. Silver was never corrupted as such, and true-silver is that much more pure. For all that Elves, Dwarves and Men might covet mithril, Melkor's influence can never take root in it." He raised the ring, its white-silver fire matching the same in his eyes. "I cannot take the chance that any marring might be caught within this ring."

Thus I knew that if any of Sauron's taint lingered in me, it would not be inadvertently captured in the substance of the rings when I crafted them. But as always, when I remembered that conversation, I wondered why it had been so important to him that Mélamírë's ring should be crafted of mithril. A generous guess might hold that he did not wish his corruption to entwine itself in her, but nothing he did was ever without self-interest. His true reason for choosing mithril would remain unknown to me for a very long time.

Valandil may have stood nearby when I poured the molten mithril from the crucible into the first cast, but he was not with me when I sent my will into the flowing metal. As the mithril solidified,  I allowed not only my love for Elerína to become bound to its very substance, to be held fast for eternity, but also the exhilaration I felt in this act of creation. It was an exercise that at once unnerved me, calling forth the bitter memories of when I had cast nine Rings of Power, but it also eased my self-loathing at what I had done in the forges of Ost-in-Edhil. Crafting her ring was symbolic of my love, unconditional and unsullied by pride or the desire for recognition and dominion.

Val watched eagerly when I removed the investment to reveal the new ring in its rough form. The next night I repeated the process and began the painstaking work of removing extraneous metal to refine the shapes of the rings. Then we rifled through my collection of gemstones I had acquired over the years: white diamonds from the Dwarves; rubies, sapphires, emeralds from far exotic lands of the South and East; and creamy pearls from the treasuries of Círdan. In the end, the stones that we selected were none of these, but instead a type of chalcedony that struck each of us as far more fitting to the design of the rings. While I worked on the finishing touches, Valandil hid himself in Calaquar's workshop, and each time he emerged, he practically vibrated with glee.

Although Elerína asked what kept us away from her in the evenings, she did not press us when Valandil and I exchanged conspiratorial smiles and told her that it would be a surprise. Often, we returned together to the family quarters late in the evening to find her waiting up for us with a single lamp lighting the parlor. We would bid Valandil goodnight, and then she and I would retire to the bedchamber where she reminded me with loving words and her supple body why I worked diligently on this project.

I completed the rings on the same day that the ladies of Elrond's household gathered pine, holly and mistletoe in the grey winter woods to decorate the Hall of Fire, filling the House with sharp green fragrance that mingled with the savory odors wafting from the kitchens. Although I intended to hide the rings in my quarters, Valandil had other ideas.

"I have a surprise, too, Istyar. When will you give the ring to Mother?" When I told him, he next asked: "Will you entrust your rings to me? I will bring them to you at the appointed time."

"Of course, I trust you. Here they are." I extracted the rings from my pocket and handed them to him. "Just keep them hidden."

~*~

Many winter solstices had come and gone throughout the course of my long life, each one fleeting by with every turn of the sun, but the celebration in the waning days of fifth year of the Third Age was especially stirring. Elerina's love made everything that much more intense and joyful. She held my hand when we sang down the sun as dark clouds heavy with snow lumbered over the foothills toward the valley. We shared sips of wine and morsels of the winter feast's fare while we pressed the lengths of our thighs against each other beneath the table. We laughed and sang during the evening's celebration in the Hall of Fire. Arms interlinked, we spun around with the others, weaving through the circles formed the dance of the holly and the ivy. But that year, when I felt swivel of her hips beneath her gown and the palms of her hands against my waist, I basked in the knowledge that later we would claim much more from one another.

When the others abandoned themselves to pipes, tabor and drums and fled into the night where they would reel around the bonfire and couple in the cold woods, I offered my arm to my lover and led her to her chambers where we embraced against the long dark in that bower of warmth. The hands that had clasped mine when we sang and danced now gripped my buttocks, urging me on, our naked rhythm matching that of the distant drums. I reveled in her passionate cries when I brought her to climax, and then I released my hold to spill into her. We lay joined, slick with sweat and unwilling to part, but when she shivered as winter's chill crept into the room, I rolled off her body and gathered her into my arms in one motion. She pulled the down coverlet up over us. Just when I thought she was asleep, she stirred a little.

"Look, Sámaril," she murmured. "It's snowing."

The first flakes of the coming storm glinted silver against the window. I watched the snowflakes drift and swirl, those exquisite crystals that we -- the craftsmen of the Eldar -- attempted to preserve in jewels by our arts but invariably failed for their ephemeral beauty was meant only to last a moment during the great march of Time. My beautiful beloved, her life as ephemeral as a snowflake, snuggled against my side, and I soon joined her on the dream paths, the sound of the drums diminishing as I fell asleep.

~*~

The next day found the valley blanketed in snow. Flurries still floated down from the dirty-wool sky. As we had in years past, Valandil, Elerína, and I took our morning walk after exchanging our gifts, although I had withheld mine. We shuffled through the soft snow until we reached the river where drifts muted the rushing waters below. When we reached the height of the bridge, I turned to face Elerína.

"I made you wait for your Yule gift, my lady, and I spent too many nights away from you these past weeks to craft it. I hope you can forgive me for my absence and secrecy, but I also hope you will think the wait to be worth it. Valandil?"

From beneath the fur of his jacket, Valandil produced his surprise: a small casket of polished rosewood; inlaid on its lid with rare mother-of-pearl were Elerina's and my initials.

"Val, did you make this?" she asked, running her finger along the edge of the lid and then over the inlay.

"I did."

"It's lovely. You are a fine woodwright. Thank you..."

"Mother, look at what's inside." He opened the lid slowly to reveal the pair of mithril rings nestled in a bed of indigo silk. Elerina's eyes widened at the sight.

"Oh, Sámaril, these are beautiful! And two of them!"

 Understanding lifted her face into a joyful smile as she gazed at the rings. Each was crafted with the design of a pair of wings cupping a gem called the falcon's eye: a dark blue stone with streaks of silvery grey running through it. After taking her left hand in my right, I lifted the smaller of the rings.

"Please accept this as a token of my love for you, Elerína. With this ring, I pledge myself to you until the end of your days. Please know you will forever hold my heart." I slipped the ring over her forefinger. She took the larger ring from the box and raised her eyes, which welled with tears. I remembered when her tears mingled with my blood the first time we had stood on the bridge together, when I knew I had fallen in love with her.

"Sámaril, you, too, hold my heart until the end of my days. Our fates may follow different paths, but I will take my love for you beyond the Circles of the World. " She then slid the ring over my left forefinger.

I took her in my arms and kissed her, but we quickly broke apart at the sound of clapping hands, first Valandil and then those who had followed us and witnessed our embrace on the bridge. There in the snow stood Vorwen, Thorno, Lairiel, Laurefin and Elrond, who, in spite of the gentle smile on his face and his applause, held immeasurable sadness in his eyes.

Chapter 33: The Downs of Cardolan

Stymied for inspiration and spurned by the diamond to be set in the new Elendilmir, Sámaril agrees to accompany Elerína to the sea so that he may learn more of the Númenórean exiles..  On the way, they visit Elerína's eccentric cousin, Apairivo, a lord of the province of Cardolan, who has a fondness for wine, whisky and a special kind of rope.

Thanks to the skinks, geckos and chameleons of the Lizard Council for their most excellent feedback and encouragement.  Special thanks to Darth for name-wrangling.

Read Chapter 33: The Downs of Cardolan

Ridges rose above the fog that filled the vales between them, giving the effect of long verdant islands that floated in a lake of mist. From the narrow window set in the thick stone wall, I watched the hazy disk of the sun rise above the horizon. The bleats of lambs and the answering calls of their dams joined the chorus of birdsong while a cock crowed somewhere within the walls that surrounded the manor. The fragrance of spring hung thick in the air: new grass, the first cherry blossoms in the orchards and everywhere the odor of wet wool and dung.

The smell of sheep pervaded this land. Our party of six had crossed the bridge over the Mitheithel twenty days ago and traveled along the Great East Road before we rode through the village of Bree under starlight and turned south at the crossroads. When our journey brought us into the heart of the downs, the captain of our escort sneered: "The stink of sheep shit. We must be in Cardolan.”

Elerína had guided her horse to walk alongside his mount. “That stink is perfume to me, Master Sigilros. It reminds me of the land of my childhood, now drowned.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady.”

“It’s no matter. I understand such base things offend the fine sensibilities of the Elves.” She glanced sideways at him and wrinkled her nose. None of us bore a clean scent. I hid my smirk at Sigilros’ comeuppance.

"Point taken, Lady Elerína," said Sigilros. "I'll admit the flock of Imladris is no less fragrant. Let's ride on and hope for a hot bath at the home of Lord Apairivo."

All of us yearned for a thorough soak in tubs of hot water. Save for our brief stay at Amon Sûl where we enjoyed such creature comforts, we made do with furtive splashes from cold streams and ponds along our route. We had ridden along the road that wound through valley until yesterday evening. When the sun sank behind the heights that swelled in the West, we climbed a path to the top of a ridge where high stone walls, dark and gloomy in the dusk, loomed upon its height. Iron-braced wooden gates that faced East were open wide, and beyond the fortified walls was a compound of several buildings with a large manor house, its lower windows glowing with golden light, as the centerpiece.

Our hope for hot baths did not materialize last night. Elerína’s kinsman, a bluff fellow with a pink face and thinning brown hair, hustled us along to his dining hall immediately after he welcomed all with open arms. The lord of the manor would not hear of us retreating to the guest quarters after we shared the cup of welcome, but insisted that we have “a spot of something to eat and a bit to drink.” The three Sindarin warriors, who accompanied us on our journey, thought this a splendid idea, especially Sigilros, whose travel-worn mien brightened considerably upon sampling Apairivo’s ruby-red wine, smooth of flavor but with a power that flexed beneath its refinement.

“Not bad for mortal fare,” Sigilros had allowed, but Apairivo saw the twinkle in the toughened warrior’s eyes and laughed heartily. He slapped the Sinda on his back.

“Then you are welcome to more! Here now!” he boomed to the waiting servants. “Bring a full goblet to our weary captain.” When the wide-eyed servants, who likely had never seen an Elf before but now had four in their immediate presence, balked at their lord’s command, Apairivo barked again, "Hop to it! These fellows won't bite you!" The servants sprang into action while their lord turned to the Sindar and me. "My apologies. The middle folk are such a superstitious lot."

Gaereth, now counted among Elerína’s chief maids, reluctantly joined the household staff, but the lord regaled us with his hospitality until well past midnight. When Elerína yawned widely, Apairivo at last relented and told his butlers and maids to complete the preparation of our rooms. He made a point of looking at the rings I had made for Elerína and myself. He reached out to take his cousin's hand and examined her ring closely.

“Such fine craftsmanship. Your handiwork, I suppose?" His blue eyes bored into mine with sharp appraisal. After I indicated that I had indeed crafted them, he turned a wide but stiff smile on me. "Well, then, seeing as how you two are as good as wed, you may as well share a suite." He clapped me hard on the back as he had Sigilros, this apparently being his favored gesture of camaraderie and followed that with an even more blunt comment. “Most unusual that one of your folk would take up with a mortal woman like this.”

I was not sure what he implied by that but I answered evenly, “The Lady Elerína is a remarkable woman among mortal and Firstborn alike.” And that was my truth.

Apairivo’s smile relaxed a little, but his gaze remained steely. “I’m inclined to agree, Istyar Sámaril. You and I must discuss your intentions toward my fine lady."

“Pairo, really now,” chided Elerína. “I am not a maiden nor am I one of your prize ewes.”

“No, you are neither, but you are my own dear cousin. Ragwort!” he called to a scrawny man lingering in the shadows of the hall. “Have your lads carry my lady’s and her consort’s luggage to the Rose chambers. Shall I have one of the maids sent to you, my dear?”

“No, thank you, Pairo,” Elerína said, her voice increasingly weary. “Just be sure Gaereth is settled nearby.”

“She already is.” Lord Apairivo kissed her cheek. He then turned to me. “Meet me in the front hall tomorrow morning an hour after dawn. I'd like you to accompany me while I inspect my crofts and have a look at the good beasts that live on them. We can have our talk then. In the meantime, I bid you both good night. But Master Sigilros, might I interest you and your fellows in a dram of whisky before I retire? It is said your people eschew sleep so perhaps you might be willing to keep me company for a while.”

“You mortals so often misunderstand us,” said Sigilros, his voice slurred by the strength of the wine. “We forego sleep only in dire need, but I deem staying awake for whisky to be of utmost necessity.”

“Then I do believe we understand one another! Come! To my study then.”

We left the Sindar in the care of the lord of Cardolan. Elerína was so tired that she was barely aware of our comfortable quarters of a small parlor which adjoined a larger bedchamber, each with a fire burning low in a hearth and sconces lit with oil lamps. The motif of roses was everywhere from the carvings on the fireplace mantles to the wool rugs on the floors to heavy curtains that hung around the large bed. While I undressed behind a wooden screen, its lattices formed by carvings of thorny stems of twining roses, bleary-eyed Gaereth helped Elerína with her bedtime preparations and then took her leave. My love fell asleep in my arms as soon as she lay down and remained deep in slumber while the sun rose above the green hills, already burning the fog out of the dells.

Walking back to the bed, I pushed aside the brocade curtain to gaze upon her face in repose: her dark eyelashes rested against delicate skin and her rosy lips parted with soft invitation. I resisted kissing her for fear of waking her up, but I wondered where she walked on her dream paths and what she saw as her eyes darted beneath closed lids. Did she already walk upon the wet sands of a distant shore? For that was where she was taking me: to the sea.

~*~

Her plans for this journey had been laid during the season of Coirë when cold wind and rain lashed the valley. She had taken it upon herself to bring me to inspiration, if I would not seek it out myself, and to show me what had shaped the Númenóreans.

In the days following the Feast of the Longest Night, I had turned my attention to the design of the new Elendilmir, starting with the diamond. The facets of the gem cut light into a thousand shards, but I wanted it to be more than just a glittering bauble. I wished the diamond to burn at its heart with the spirit of the Númenórean exiles: steadfast courage tempered by regret and wisdom. So I sought the center of the jewel, the core where I would ignite the spark to set the gem ablaze, but at every turn, the diamond eluded me, turning me back again and again to the geometries that angled across its outer matrix. Over the weeks of winter, I emerged from these thwarted explorations drained of energy and with no more enlightenment of the diamond’s heart than when the young Dwarven gem cutter had displayed his craftsmanship to me in Khazad-dûm. Perhaps that was the problem, I thought. The diamond had the heart of a Dwarf and that was why it spurned me.

To ease my frustration, I found purpose in mundane work. Some weeks after the winter solstice, word came to Elrond from Lord Anardil: a band of orcs had emerged from the Misty Mountains and harassed Rhudaur. At first, they raided isolated homesteads, stealing livestock and ransacking stores, but their predation took a darker turn when they began to waylay travelers. Lord Anardil sent his warriors to rout them, but the orcs proved to be cunning and elusive. Emboldened, they attacked a village, killing many, but they also abducted women and children. Our knowledge that these captives would be subjected to notorious abuse by the orcs was bad enough, but more disturbing was their penchant for eating the flesh of their victims, said to be part of their dark rites.

Elrond summoned me. “Lord Anardil has called for aid. He wishes to arm his farmers and herdsmen, particularly those in the more remote settlements of the foothills, and his armory is short. I have offered our assistance in weapons and men: Glorfindel will lead a contingent to the north, and you and your smiths will supply weapons. Pikes, knives, axes -- it doesn’t matter. Produce them quickly, Istyar. There is no time for your considered craftsmanship. Just give these folk the weapons they need.”

Steam had billowed again and again in the forge when Thorno, Naurusnir and I sank hot iron into brine. I pulled out the blade of an axe to examine my craft. It was neither graceful nor made of an innovative alloy. It was merely serviceable, just like the other weapons we crafted in haste. I pulled another axe blade from the furnace, striking the glowing metal with my hammer to send sparks aloft. I soon lost myself to the rhythm of my task, but the vague sensation that I was being watched caused me to lay aside my hammer. Turning about, I saw Elerína standing at the door to the forge. The hood of her cloak was thrown back, and she held a basket covered with a cloth: my lunch. She smiled and waved. I set aside my tools and went to her, pushing the door open so she could walk out ahead of me.

“How many this morning, Istyar?”

“Three axe blades and four pikes.”

“More weapons that can be used against those abominable creatures. You have been busy.”

“Yes, but they are not fine work.”

“You have high standards. The crofters and herdsmen will treasure these. An axe made by an elven-smith will be no small thing to them.”

“It’s good to know they’ll be appreciated even if they are inelegant.”

“Be assured they will be appreciated.”

After I shut the door to my office, she reached around and jiggled the handle. “I don’t suppose this locks?” 

“It does. Why?” Then I saw the invitation in her eyes. “Oh.”

I placed my hand on the door and spoke a word of command; the tumblers of the lock clicked into place.

“It’s uncanny when you do things like that,” she said, staring at the handle.

“Uncanny? I think the locking device is clever.”

“Too clever, I’m sure. Just like you.” She set the basket down and I pulled her into my embrace. She fitted herself to me while I pressed my cheek against her soft hair, still damp from her walk up to the forge and smelling of rain and rosewater.

“You must forgive me for being so forward,” she said, her lips a whisper away from my own while she reached around my waist to untie my leather apron, “but when I see you working in the forge – how your muscles ripple in your shoulders and arms, how your skin shines with sweat -- I can’t help myself.”

“You’re forgiven, my lady. If you can’t help yourself in these matters, neither can I.” Surrendering to my body’s urgent need, I lifted her in my arms and carried her to my desk.

Later, she sat on my lap while I leaned back in my chair. Although we had hastily readjusted our clothing, the top of my desk remained in disarray: pens and papers were scattered about the floor, but that could be straightened up in a while.

“I should return to the house,” she said, but she wiggled around and kissed me. “That was good, Sámaril. Quick but good.” 

“For me as well. A most welcome diversion.”

She glanced toward the side bureau where the black chest that contained the diamond sat.

“I probably should not be diverting you. Have you had any luck with the jewel?”

“Not really. It will come though,” I said with more conviction than I felt.

“It cannot wait much longer.”

“I know, Elerína, but you must understand the Eldar do not rush such things.” Lately, her queries regarding Valandil’s crown veered perilously close to nagging.

“And you must understand how quickly Valandil grows. He is to be crowned king in four years.”

“I am well aware of Valandil’s swift growth.” I nuzzled the curve of her neck in an effort to distract her from giving me further advice on my work. She purred with pleasure but remained undeterred.

“I have an idea, Istyar.”

“What is that, my lady?”

“It is my feeling that you need to understand what it is like to be of Númenor.”

I kissed the outer shell of her ear. “What do you mean? I have studied the history of your people longer than you can know.”

“It is more than lore I have in mind. You never have seen the sea, have you?”

“Only in my dreams.”

She sat up and twisted around to face me, the friction of her movement causing pleasant sensation across my thighs. “In over two thousand years of life, you have never felt the ocean’s waves lap at your bare feet, tasted and smelled the salt air…”

“I am not well-traveled.”

“I would say so. For one with such an expansive mind, you surprise me. I cannot fathom why you hide yourself away. You have the strength of the Firstborn and can resist that which might harm you in your travels, whether foe or disease. Why, you might have traveled to the Lands of Dawn and back again many times over by now.”

“Perhaps it is because my mind wanders on such strange paths that I am content to be a homebody, save for the times that I trade.” I leaned against the sturdy back of my chair and plucked up a memory. “I have smelled the sea, I think. The true sea that is, not a dream.”

“When was that?”

“Two long-years ago when I was in the Ered Luin. I had visited the Dwarves there, not far from the borders of Lord Caranthir’s former realm. When the wind blew from the West, it carried an odor that was at once fresh and decayed. I tasted salt in the wind.”

“Yes, that was the sea that you smelled and tasted. Why didn’t you travel on to its shores then? I thought your people longed for the sea.”

“Some of us do, but not all.” I did not elaborate on my ambivalence toward the sea for which I harbored both curiosity and dread. What if I were one of those prone to the sea-longing? It would be torment to have it triggered while I rejected the Straight Road for fear of the judgment that awaited me in the West.

“Here is what I propose,” she said. “You must experience the sea to understand what it is like to be of the race of Westernesse. Perhaps that will help you reach into the diamond.”

“Perhaps. But this stone of the Dwarves may not wish one of the Firstborn to walk within its substance.”

“Or it may be that the diamond knows you have not reached the proper depth of understanding for what you intend." She captured me with those cornflower blue eyes. "I believe I am ready to set foot on the shores of the sea again after these years in the valley. Will you come with me?”

I could have waited another year or another one hundred to visit the ocean, but this was not just for me. When I looked into her eyes and saw her heart, I recalled snowflakes that melted against the windowpane or summer lilies that blossomed only for a day: compared to the long rhythm of my years, Elerína’s life was fleeting by.  She did not have all the time in the world to wait for me to wrestle with my mixed feelings. So I put aside my uncertainty.

“I would love to visit the sea with you.”

“Then in the spring, you and I shall travel to Gaillond, spend the summer there, and return here in the autumn.”

“Gaillond? The haven at the mouth of the Baranduin? Isn’t that Gaereth’s village?”

“Yes, that’s it. Fisher folk have lived there since ancient days. When the Númenóreans returned to Middle-earth during the voyages of Tar-Aldarion, we added to their number. I think you will like it.”

“I think I would like most anything in your company.”

“Then I will start to make our plans!”

“What about Valandil? Will he come with us?”

“Elrond and I agree it is safer for him to remain here. He will be disappointed, of course, but this is really for the best. I expect he will remain occupied while we are gone.”

“So you have already discussed this journey with Master Elrond?”

She blushed. “I have.”

“You have been busy. Why hadn’t you said anything before now?”

“You have been very preoccupied.” I wondered what else she was planning for us that she had not discussed with me, and she answered that as she now poured out her enthusiasm for this excursion. “I would also like to stop for a while in the province of Cardolan where my cousin Apairivo lives. He has a manor there and owns land with herds and fields of flax. The linen for your shirts came from his fields. He will welcome us, I am sure. In fact, I will write a letter to him this afternoon. When do you think you will finish with your work for Lord Anardil?” 

“Three more weeks, I should think. A little longer if I continue to be interrupted in such pleasant ways.”

Her face fell a little. “You could have said ‘no’.”

“I could have. I didn’t want to. I am teasing you, my love. I will complete my work in under a month even if you bring me such morsels daily for my lunch.”

“You tempt me, my wild elf. I don’t know what came over me today, but I don’t want to distract you from your task. At least not too often.”

~*~ 

A faint knock from the adjoining parlor pulled me out of my reverie. I opened the door of our quarters to find a stout woman with frizzy auburn hair caught up in a snood. She carried a tray with a pair of cups, a teapot, brown bread, and crocks of butter and jam. She bustled into the parlor as soon as I gave my nod of permission.

“My Lord Apairivo said to bring your breakfast, master," she said, her voice thick with a country burr. "Your lady’s maidservant is not here?” she asked as she set the tray on a table near the hearth.

"No, not yet."

She tsk’ed with disapproval and then stirred the embers of the fire. “My lord will be leaving in an hour for the farms.” She flipped over the sandglass on the mantle. “He told me to do this, master. He says your folk do not understand time the same way we do. Now will there be anything else?”

Before I could answer to contradict her, that I in fact did have a good sense of time for one of my people, Elerína called from the bedchamber, “Sámaril? Will you please send her back here?”

The woman wiped her roughened hands on her apron and entered to the bedchamber, shutting the door, and then emerged shortly. She picked up the tray again.

“Your lady will take her breakfast in her bed. Best for her, I think. She is very tired from your long journey.”

“Here, I’ll take it to her, Mistress…?”

“Applethorn.” She handed the tray over to me. “I’ll be back straight away, master.”

The fire in the small hearth now crackled and popped, driving the chill of the spring damp out of the room. Elerína sat propped against fluffed pillows with a blue shawl draped around her shoulders. I set the tray down on a small table beside the bed and poured tea for her. 

“Good morning.” I leaned over to kiss her before she took the cup from my hands. “You’re pale. Are you not feeling well?” I sat on the bed next to her.

“Just tired, and I have women’s complaints. Better that it happen here than while we were traveling.”

“Oh. Is there anything I can do? I shall ask Mistress Applethorn for raspberry leaf tea. Nierellë swore by that when she had such difficulties. Ah. I’m sorry. That was indelicate, wasn’t it? I shouldn’t have mentioned her at all.”

“Indelicate? Stars above!” She rolled her eyes and set the teacup down on the tray by her side. “Why would I be offended that you mention your wife?” She stroked my hand, which lay on the bed next to her hip; the affection in her touch eased my embarrassment immediately. “Your wife and my husband were part of us – are part of us. I do not mind if you speak of her. In fact, I would like to know more about her.” She winced. “Just a cramp. I take raspberry tea for women’s complaints, too. So that is something Nierellë and I have in common, besides you, of course.” Rapping at the door sounded again. “There’s Applethorn now. I asked her to bring rags.”

The woman burst into our chambers; she carried a wicker basket, its contents covered with a checkered cloth; a slender, short maiden followed her, bearing a small tray with yet another pot of hot water, a cup, and a jar of dried herbs. The girl kept her eyes averted from me, and the contents of the tray rattled subtly as her hands trembled, but Applethorn boldly looked me up and down.

“Perhaps the master wishes to dress before we tend to his lady?”

I still had the wool dressing gown on. “Yes, of course. Please excuse me.”

“See, Pansy?” I overheard Applethorn say to the girl as I retreated to the bedchamber. “They can be gracious, these Faerie Folk. He won’t be putting a spell on you.”

I dressed quickly behind the screen and returned to the parlor, while the servants entered the bedchamber to fuss over my beloved. The dwindling sand in the upper bulb of hourglass informed me that it was time to make my exit. Another knock rapped on the door, which I opened to find Gaereth, her cheeks pink from washing and her red hair nearly plaited and wrapped around her head.

“Good morning, Istyar.” Then Applethorn and the girl emerged from the bedchamber. Gaereth cast a sharp look their way.

“Your lady is settled in, master…” Applethorn began, but then Gaereth interrupted.

“You are to address him as ‘Istyar’. He is a man of great learning and should be respected as such.”

I suppressed a grin, recalling how I had intimidated Gaereth in her youth, and that she now acted to defend my honor. The girl Pansy, her thin face unable to mask envy and fear, glanced at the green elfstone that hung from a gold chain around Gaereth’s neck, raised her hand and made a quick but strange movement with her fingers. Old Applethorn elbowed the girl, hard enough to make the maid gasp, and narrowed her brown eyes at Gaereth’s haughty tone.

“Istyar then. Come, Pansy. Now that Mistress Gaereth has arrived at long last, we shall be going. Will you be needing anything more, Istyar? Mistress Gaereth?"

“No, that will be all,” Gaereth said. “I will summon you if needed.”

Gaereth closed the door behind them and shook her head. “The lord’s maid servants are a rough lot, but I am here now! Forgive me for not attending to you sooner, Istyar, but I was so tired and my bed so soft and warm…”

“Please, do not apologize. I daresay you needed the rest. Come, let's see to Lady Elerína. She's not feeling well."

"Oh, no! I am sorry! Truly, I should have arrived sooner. Is she…?"

"Don't worry, it's nothing out of the ordinary. She'll tell you."

We entered the bedchamber where Gaereth curtsied before her mistress.

"My lady. Istyar says you are not well."

"It is nothing, Gaereth. Just women's lot combined with weariness from travel. Applethorn has seen to my needs for now. I see you brought your embroidery. Please sit by the fire then."

I hesitated at the foot of the bed. “I must meet Lord Apairivo soon, but if you’d rather I stay…”

She waved me off. “You should go. I’m sure he wants to interrogate you.”

“What?”

“Aside from Valandil, Pairo is my only surviving male relative. So he’s protective of me, and I expect he wants to learn more about you. I think you’ll find him entertaining. Perhaps too entertaining! Besides, I am feeling so out of sorts that I would not be altogether pleasant company.”

“Too entertaining?”

“My cousin is not your typical nobleman. He enjoys getting dirt under his nails as he says. And he also enjoys…” She smiled. “You’ll no doubt discover what he truly enjoys. Now you should go. He is not a patient man.”

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Don't be silly. Gaereth is here, and she knows how to be quiet." Gaereth glanced up with a smile from where she had settled herself in a chair by the hearth. "My cousin and her noisy family will descend on us tomorrow for a visit. I could use the rest."

“Then I will see you later.”

I threw my cloak over my shoulders and made my way from our rooms through the corridor to the stairs that hugged the outer wall of the manor. Most of the building was constructed of stone, but the many wool rugs on the floors and tapestries hung upon the walls eased the hard lines and muffled sound. However, the taps of impatient footsteps in the entry hall greeted me as I descended the stairs into the open space. There was Apairivo, pacing back and forth. He was dressed in rough wool trousers tucked into worn leather boots; a plain linen tunic hung over his thighs, and a cloak was draped over an arm. He sported a rumpled green felt hat with a pheasant feather stuck in it.

“Ah! Here you are at last!”

At last? By my calculations, the sand in the hourglass had likely run out when I first started walking down the stairs.

“Well, then, let us be off.” He swept his arm toward the front door in invitation for me to proceed. I walked out into the cool damp air, the scent of the countryside even stronger now. There in the court before the manor waited an open carriage. Sitting on the driver's platform was the same reed-thin man who had overseen the disposition of our luggage last night. A rusty brown horse with a pale mane and thick muscles and limbs was hitched to the carriage.

Apairivo strode past me, but instead of climbing up into the carriage, he rummaged around in a battered leather bag that lay on its floor. Metal clattered against metal within the bag. I wondered what he had stashed away in there.

“Good, good! Everything’s here and clean. Did you bring the rope, Ragwort?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“The hithlain rope?”

“It’s right there, my lord.”

“Ah, yes! So it is. Always have rope on hand, I say, and nothing better than rope from the craftsmen of Lindon. A gift to me from King Gil-galad, you know, may the stars shine ever bright in his memory. Come now, Istyar! We’re late! I swear you people have no concept of time.”

I said nothing of having to wait while he inspected whatever it was he inspected or of the time it took for him to find coiled rope that was practically before his eyes, but instead I just climbed into the carriage and sat beside him. Ragwort chirruped to the horse, and we were off, leaving the walls of Apairivo’s compound behind us to follow the rutted road that snaked through the downs of Cardolan.

Chapter 34: A Question of Precautions

Sámaril accompanies Apairivo on his inspections of his tenants' crofts.  He discovers that Apairivo has a peculiar avocation, one that reminds Sámaril of Valandil's gifts. They enjoy the hospitality of the farmer and his wife, but when Sámaril lets down his guard, thanks to drinking a couple of generous flagons of hard cider, Apairivo asks a very direct question about an indelicate subject.

Acknowledgements:

Thanks to my fellow Lizards -- Oshun, Raksha, KyMahalei, Erulissë, and Surgical Steel (an extra nod here for Steel's generosity for sharing her toys with me in the Tolkienian sandbox) for comments and feedback, and especially to Jael for assistance on matters equine.

Read Chapter 34: A Question of Precautions

Ragwort swayed to and fro on the driver's seat, and the feather in Apairivo's cap bobbed with every jolt of the carriage. We lumbered along the rutted road, hardly more than a wide dirt and gravel path, which wound down into the wide vale that opened below the manor. Early morning sunlight spread over green meadows stippled with white, yellow and purple wildflowers, their fragrance mingling with the pervasive odor of sheep and also horses that grazed in a nearby paddock. I saw my own mount among those of the rest of our party alongside the manor's steeds. A fine-boned horse with a smooth red coat and black mane and tail raised its head and whinnied. Nettlefoot, the rough-coated mare that drew the carriage, returned the call.

"Hold up, Ragwort!" Apairivo barked, but he had no need to order his servant, for the weedy man had already reined in the carthorse. My companion climbed down from the carriage and gestured for me to follow him through the grass and weeds along the roadside. The red horse broke into a canter toward us, stopping just short of the wooden fence that enclosed the paddock. He stretched his head out over the top rail and blew noisily through his muzzle, grizzled with silver hairs.

"Good morning!" cried Apairivo. "How's my fine fellow?" The horse lowered his head so that the lord of Cardolan might scratch behind his ears. He then bumped his head against his master's arms. "Yes, yes, I have something for you, you old rake." Apairivo pulled out an apple from his pocket. In two bites, the horse had devoured it. His whicker was low but demanding, and he lipped Apairivo's outstretched palm.

"I know. You'd like a good ride, wouldn't you, old man? But I have other business to attend." Apairivo fell silent and cocked his head toward the horse as if listening. "Yes, this is one of the elvish riders. Istyar Sámaril, may I introduce Carnhul?"

The horse dipped his noble head as if bowing to me and turned back to his master. Apairivo's eyes took on a thoughtful inward cast. "You don't say? Curious, that!" the man said, but then he smiled brightly and patted his friend's neck. "Now back to the paddock with you. I will visit you when I return." The horse spun around and galloped to join his fellows while we climbed back into the carriage. Ragwort called "Walk on!" to Nettlefoot, and we were rocking along the road again.

"Old Carnhul!" said Apairivo, who had twisted around to gaze back toward his friend. "One of the last of his kind."

"How so, my lord?"

"His sire and dam came from Númenor. He was foaled not long after we were driven upon these shores."

"I see. So he is old for a horse here in mortal lands."

"Yes, very old. He was a terror in his youth, but now he's as mellow as honey."

"Which of the ships brought your horses to Middle-earth?"

"All of them. All that survived the tempest, that is. Carnhul's parents were on the Rilyavingë, one of Elendil's ships. The same one I was on actually."

"Were you originally from Rómenna?"

"No, although I lived there for part of my adult life, at least after the King's men commanded me to move there. I hail from the interior of the country -- the Emerië -- the same land as Elerína. Her grandmother and my father were sister and brother. So I'm a landsman with no sea-longing. Odd among my folk, I suppose. Most assume that we're all obsessed with the ocean. We are not."

"I have never laid eyes on the sea myself."

"So that is why my cousin is taking you there? She has decided that you must see the ocean!"

"Yes, that is the heart of it."

"That sounds like Elerína. Once she is determined to accomplish a thing, there's little that will deter her. Speaking for myself, I would just as soon never set eyes on the sea again. I've had enough of it for my lifetime." Then he turned away toward the rise ahead. "Look! There is our first stop. See those buildings at the top of the rise? Well, of course you can! Famous sight of the Elves and all that."

In fact, I could easily make out the small wattle and daub house and its outbuildings, their thatched roofs blushed pink and gold with the rising sun. Sheep dotted on the hillside that sloped away from the farmstead. When we approached, a large white dog emerged from the herd and trotted toward the carriage; a growl rumbled from deep in his throat. A brief vision of the flocks on rocky foothills of Eregion flitted before my eyes.

"A fánahuan! I haven't seen a dog of that kind for many years."

"You're familiar with them, eh? Excellent guard dogs for the herds. Hey, now Frostfang!" Apairivo called to the dog. "Tend to your charges now." The dog immediately ceased his growling and ambled away to blend with the herd.

My companion watched the dog settle among the sheep. "It's said that the Elves of Tol Eressëa gave these dogs to my ancestors," he said.

"And my understanding is that the fánahuani came to Eregion from Númenor itself."

"You are from Eregion then? Before Imladris, I mean."

"I am."

"You don't strike me as a country lad, but one never knows about an Elf's lengthy history."

"I'm not from the countryside although I knew many farmers. I was born and raised in Ost-in-Edhil."

"Ost-in-Edhil. The ancient city of the Elves." He glanced down at my ring. "Is that where you acquired the skills to make such a jewel?"

"Yes, it is."

"Dare I ask if you were one of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain?"

By his question, I guessed that Apairivo had knowledge at least some of the history of my fallen home, and it was not surprising that he did, given that he was one of the Faithful. But how much does he know, I wondered, and just how much has Elerína had told him about me? I opted for a simple answer.

"Yes, I was one of the brotherhood."

"Fascinating! Here I sit with a legend from the mists of history, and my cousin shares his bed! Did you work with the mighty Celebrimbor himself?"

"I did." That was at least true although not the whole of it. "What do you know of Celebrimbor?"

"Only what I have read in the scrolls of Elendil's library."

It was a cagey answer. Apairivo could have studied anything from fanciful tales to historical accounts. I hoped that no explicit mention of the Rings of Power had been made in the material he had read. Only a very few of the Númenórean nobility had known of their existence, or at least that was what we who had been involved in their crafting assumed. Nonetheless, Apairivo danced toward an uncomfortable topic, but just as quickly he spun away and chuckled.

"Well, you don't waste words on the subject of Eregion, I will say that." He then cupped his hands around his mouth and boomed, "Hullo, the house!"

A short broad-shouldered man clad in homespun cloth strode out of the barn, scattering the red chickens that pecked in the dirt.

"My lord!" Bright hazel eyes looked out from a brown face weathered by sun, wind and a life of labor. The farmer wiped his hands on the tails of his long shirt. "You've come to see about Blaze?"

"Yes, Master Fernbrake. How is he faring?" Apairivo leapt out of the carriage, followed by Ragwort who climbed down from the driver's seat.

"A little bit better, my lord, but only a little bit."

"Let's have a look then. Say, Istyar, bring my bag, would you?"

While Ragwort tied Nettlefoot to a hitching post, not that the docile carthorse was likely to wander, I lifted the battered leather bag from the floor of the carriage. It was then that I turned and met the farmer's eyes: he visibly flinched.

"An Elf!" he exclaimed. Close to his side, his fingers make a tiny gesture of warding, identical to that of Pansy earlier this morning. Immediately, I extended my right hand in greeting, hoping that I might ease his fear. He hesitated but reached out to clasp my hand. The strength and warmth of the land lay in his handshake, and I was certain he felt long-years of calluses in mine.

"I am Sámaril of Imla...of Rivendell, Master Fernbrake. It is a pleasure to meet you."

He smiled, and his eyes dropped their guard. "Likewise, pleased to meet you, my lord. We have so many tales of your folk, and I saw elvish soldiers march through our lands, but, well, I have never shaken the hand of an Elf nor thought I ever would!"

"You have now. Who is Blaze?" I asked as we followed Apairivo into the barn.

"My horse. Had him out in the field for spring ploughing a few days back, and he must have stepped on something sharp. He took lame, but my lord is fixing him right up." Fernbrake then lowered his voice. "My lord has a wonderful way with beasts, he has, especially horses."

"So I have noticed," I replied, thinking back to his affinity with the old gelding Carnhul and how the growling Frostfang had obeyed him. His connection to animals reminded me of his young kinsman, Valandil. I wondered what the young man was up to now. No doubt chafing under his lessons with Elrond and Laurefin, and trying to wheedle his way into joining Calaquar in the woodshop or riding with Galfaron. I missed him, but I cherished the time spent in the company his mother without him also vying for her attention.

We entered the barn, bright from sunlight streaming through its eastern windows; the scent of dusty straw and beasts filled its interior. Apairivo had sidled up alongside a large black horse with a broad white streak on his forehead and white fetlocks. He lifted the horse's left front leg to examine the hoof and shook his head.

"Istyar, will you look in my bag? There's a black cloth envelope in there. Yes, that's it!" he said after I extracted the desired item. "Open that up and you'll find my abscess knife. Small blade that's hooked on the end. Third one from the...yes, you've got it!"

I handed the bone-handled knife to him, its blade finely wrought and reminiscent of the surgical instruments that Thorno crafted for Brethilion. It looked to be of Dwarven craft. Apairivo set to work on the sole of the horse's hoof, chattering all the while.

"The horse took something sharp to the sole here." Apairivo pointed to the afflicted area. "I dug into this spot and released the pus yesterday morning, but it needs to be drained and cleaned again. So out with the plug first."

Using the knife, he scraped at the horse's sole and dislodged the clay plug. Cloudy matter oozed out, and the stench of suppuration overwhelmed the pungent but pleasantly earthy scent of the barn. I suppressed a gag.

"Not much that smells worse than pus," said the nonplussed Apairivo. "Right then. Hand over the green bottle. It's in a wooden box." I rummaged around in the bag to find this. I unlatched the box's lid and lifted it to find a number of vials and bottles nested within. I found what I hoped was the correct one, all the while becoming more and more curious about how this mortal nobleman of Númenor came to his peculiar avocation.

Apairivo poured fluid from the green bottle over the sole of the horse's hoof. The crisp scent of firs cut through the odor of pus. "Distillate of grain mixed with a little pine oil. That cleanses the outer area, but we need something more powerful because the affliction is deep in the foot. Now if you would, Istyar, please find a black vial. Yes! Thank you." He took the small bottle from my hands. In the meantime, the horse stood placidly while his owner hung back, running his hands nervously over the brim of his straw hat while Ragwort silently watched the proceedings.

The lord of Cardolan tipped the vial and tapped it with his forefinger. A few shiny black crystals dropped out of it into the small hole in the sole of Blaze's foot.

"Now the brown bottle please." Taking that in hand, Apairivo muttered what sounded like a nonsense rhyme while he carefully tilted the vessel. A few drops fell from its rim onto the horse's foot. Immediately, a furious purple storm burst forth from the hole and roiled around the horse's leg.

"Oi! Oi!" Fernbrake cried as he stared at the vapor. "Is it magic, my lord?"

Apairivo nodded solemnly, waiting for the violet cloud to dissipate. "Indeed! Now I'll replace the plug, clean up, and we will be on our way..."

"Oh, no, my lord! You and Master Sámaril must come in for breakfast. My missus would have my head if I didn't invite you to the table. Please!"

"If you insist..."

Somehow, I knew that Apairivo did not need much persuasion to stay. After he finished with the horse, and I helped clean his instruments and replace the bottles in his bag, we left the barn and washed our hands in a pail by the well. The farmer strode ahead with Ragwort to the thatched roof house, giving me the opportunity to query Apairivo about the dramatic treatment.

"Like sorcery, isn't it?" he said, his keen eyes twinkling. "The reaction of turpentine with the iodine crystals drives the medicine deep into the tissues. That's the theory at any rate."

"Iodine! Of course. I have only seen it applied as tinctures."

"It impresses the blazes out of the farmers. Makes them think I'm a wizard!" He winked as we stepped across the threshold into Fernbrake's humble home.

There on a coarse table before the hearth, Mistress Fernbrake, a plump, pink-faced woman with reddish hair plaited and wound about her head, set out platters mounded with scrambled eggs, rashers of bacon and thick slices of toast. To wash these down, we were given flagons filled to the brim with hard cider. Ragwort turned down the cider in favor of a mug of steaming tea. The mortal woman fussed about while searching among bottles and pots on a shelf, but exclaimed with triumph when she found her quarry: a glazed earthenware jar. She placed it on the table before us.

"This here is honey for your toast. It's from the River-daughter herself, taken from the hives of her own bees. There's a bit of magic in it, so I thought perhaps you might like it especially, my lord," she said to me.

When I spread the honey on a piece of toast and bit into it, the sweetness was that of a simple, earthy magic, but there was something else: something wild, elusive and even a little dangerous. The River-daughter. The name triggered recollections of strange tales told and snippets of songs sung in Imladris. However, after drinking the cider to the bottom of the flagon, I was more interested in conversing with these mortals who were such generous hosts than sifting through details of old memories, so I set the question of the River-daughter aside for the time being.

After we each drained a second flagon of cider to the last drop, Apairivo announced that we really must move along and thanked Fernbrake and his wife. We took our leave and were soon on our way along the rutted road again. With every lurch of the carriage, the cider sloshed in my belly, leaving me a little woozy but content and convivial. My thoughts returned to the taste of the honey that farmer's wife had shared.

"This River-daughter that Mistress Fernbrake mentioned. What can you tell me about her?"

"What can I tell you about her?" Apairivo blurted incredulously. "An Elf asks this? Ragwort! Stop the carriage at once!"

I wondered if I had caused offense, but Apairivo leapt out and began to stride up the slope that bordered the narrow road. He stopped and turned about to shout: "Well, come along, Istyar!"

Leaving the carriage behind, I followed him to the height of the hill where a ring of ancient stones was set in the grass and where spring daisies bloomed. He faced the West and pointed to a grey-green mass of trees in the distance.

"That is the Old Forest and see the mists there? That is the Withywindle River. The River-daughter and the Green Man live near the forest's eaves."

"The Green Man?"

"That's one of the many names the middle folk give him. You know him as Iarwain Ben-Adar."

"Oldest and Fatherless. Yes, his name comes into our tales. I do not know him personally though nor have I set foot in the Old Forest. Sigilros has though. He says it is a queer, even perilous place."

"That it is, but the Green Man has no fear of it. I have met Iarwain twice. Quite a remarkable fellow. Not exactly one of your folk, but not exactly one of mine either. Iarwain is, well, he is unique."

"And the River-daughter?"

"Goldberry is her name. His wife. The women of the countryside know her better than Iarwain. She attends the women's moon ceremonies."

"The moon ceremonies?"

"Oh, really now, Istyar! Surely you know about these? I should think you have heard of these, given your ties to Elerína." He gave me a knowing look that made my face warm when I thought of the crescent moon on the smooth white skin of Elerína's inner thigh.

"Ah, yes. That. She and Isilmë have told me a little about their belief in Rana."

"Well, to be fair, no man knows the details of the ceremonies. But I'm surprised that you're not more familiar with Iarwain and Goldberry. He has dealings with the Elves after all."

"I have no doubt that he has, but not all Elves have dealings with him."

Apairivo gave me an appraising look and nodded. "Fair enough. You asked and I gave you an answer. Let's move along, shall we? There are three more crofts that I wish to inspect today, and it is already mid-morning."

There were no injured or ill beasts at the next two farms on his circuit. Apairivo simply wandered among the flocks or fields of flax while taciturn Ragwort followed and took notes on a ledger. The farmers and their wives insisted that we at least have a "little something to eat and drink." Their invitations were met with no resistance from Apairivo. Ragwort again turned down flagons of ale in favor of tea, but his lord happily accepted the barley brew, and I did the same. We also had jugs of ale, small wheels of cheese, dried herbs and sealed jars of jam pressed upon us.

The cumulative effects of cider and ale loosened our throats so on the way to the third and last farm, Apairivo and I sang boisterously while Ragwort silently drove the carriage. One song struck us as especially funny, no doubt enlivened by our drinking, and its repeating chorus sent us into convulsions of laughter. We recovered our breath while the green hills passed by, and birds sang out in the grasses. However, the peace was broken when Apairivo jolted me with an unexpected question.

"I must ask you something, Istyar. Indelicate perhaps but I must ask it all the same: are you and Elerína taking...how should I put this? Precautions?"

"Precautions?" My head spun while I sought his meaning. "What do you mean, precautions?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

The warm flush in my face from ale and song threatened to become further heated, but I mustered the discipline to remain calm.

"That indeed is an indelicate question about a very private matter, my lord." I glanced at Ragwort, who remained focused on the road ahead, mindfully oblivious as to what was happening in the carriage behind him.

Apairivo narrowed his eyes. "It's a serious question about a private matter that could have very public consequences. Do I need to tell you how successions can be disrupted by the birth of children of nobility outside of wedlock? Well, maybe I do need to remind you, given that your folk don't have such issue."

"No, I understand. I know about Umbar...about Isildur and Zamîn."

"That damn near broke Elerína's heart, you know. How well I remember when Elendil and Isilmë came to Emerië in such a rush to arrange a marriage for their eldest son. I was more naive then and didn't know exactly why there was need of such haste, but I found out later. Elendil was determined that the Lords of the Andunië would never be united legitimately with the Umbarin line, and he had to procure Elerína to ensure that. My cousin grew to love Isildur, but she hated sharing him with that Umbarin she-pirate. And now she shares you with another."

"My wife is dead."

"But you are nonetheless considered married and may even reunite with your wife again if the tales hold true. Oh, don't look so surprised. I am a man of the Faithful. Or what remains of us. I was compelled to learn your languages, your history and your beliefs. How many times have I been told that the blood of Lúthien runs in my veins? How many times am I reminded of that when I heal a horse or a ewe?" He took a deep breath. "Do right by her, Istyar. And take precautions. My people do not need the royal succession stirred up any more than it is, and if there is elvish blood involved, especially that from a descendant of the High Elves, it will be that much worse. I would even fear for such a child's life."

His last remark sent a chill down my spine when I considered that among Men, succession in royal lines could spark such contention that murders of innocents were committed. Certainly, my own race was not guiltless of similar acts as I recalled the fate of Dior's sons, abandoned to starve in the dark forests of Doriath. I looked again at Ragwort, his back to us, who remained silent with discretion.

"I...well, to be direct, my lord, Elerína takes an elixir made from Queen Melian's lace even though she needn't do so. It's just an extra precaution for her peace of mind. You see, if I do not engage in the dreams of begetting, then I cannot father a child on a woman, whether she is mortal or Firstborn. So you have no need to concern yourself over the possibility of half-elven bastards. You can add that to your knowledge about my people."

His blue eyes bored into me while the carriage rocked, but then his expression softened a little. "I thank you for your candor, Istyar," he said stiffly. "That eases my worries a little. But what if my cousin begs a child of you? Do you believe you can resist her?"

"I believe she will never ask this of me."

He grunted an acknowledgement - a grudging one I thought. Perhaps he was satisfied with my answers, but perhaps not, for we did not resume our songs. Instead, we fell into an uncomfortable silence, save for the squeaking springs of the carriage, the crunch of wooden wheels against dirt and gravel, and the song of linnets and larks out in the fields. The road lay in shadow as the late afternoon sun dropped behind the hills. But when we approached the last croft, frantic cries broke the silence.

A man ran down the road toward us. Like many Middle Men, the farmer was short and broad; he was also bald and red-faced, reminiscent of a ripe apple.

"My lord! My lord! Thank goodness you've come!"

"What is it, Butterbur?"

"It's Daisy, my lord. She's in a bad way. Calf's stuck."

Apairivo snatched his bag and jumped out of the carriage before Ragwort could bring it to a halt. "Come, Istyar! I will need the strength of an Elf for this job. And bring that rope, too."

---

Chapter End Notes

 

I have borrowed the term "Queen Melian's lace" from Surgical Steel, the grande dame in Tolkien fandom of medical and surgical history, with her permission. Here Queen Melian's lace is Daucus carota - wild carrot or Queen Anne's Lace. Daucus carota seeds contain terpenoids which are thought to interfere with progesterone metabolism and signaling, hence the contraceptive properties.

For more background on Surgical Steel's OFC Zamîn of Umbar, please see Steel's collection of stories here on the SWG archive, notably Survivors of the Downfall, The Last Day of Our Acquaintance, and The Men Who Would Be Kings.

Apairivo's treatment of Blaze's abscess with iodine and turpentine is lifted from All Creatures Great and Small (and in fact, this wonderful series by James Herriot provides a good deal of inspiration for this and the following chapter).  The reaction of turpentine and iodine involves some very cool chemistry: the release of ring strain of alpha-pinene, a component of turpentine.

If "iodine" and "turpentine" are too jolting for readers, well, then I welcome suggestions for alternative "Middle-earthy" terms keeping in mind that Quenya is Tolkien's "Elf-Latin" or maybe even "Elf-Greek" in terms of language of lore. I've (so far) found nothing in alchemy that works, but with Darth's help, I may change these later. Here's a little summary of the history of iodine. I figure the Dwarves of the Ered Luin isolate the element from seaweed they obtain from Círdan and crew, and savvy healers of Eriador may then get it from the Dwarves.  

 

 

Chapter 35: All Good Beasts

After Sámaril and Apairivo arrive at Farmer Butterbur's croft, Sámaril is called upon to assist Apairivo with delivery of a calf and discovers one of the ways that Apairivo uses his gift of rope from Gil-Galad.  Once again, Sámaril enjoys the hospitality of mortal Middle Men and drinks and dances with Butterbur's household. However, on the way back to the manor, Sámaril unintentionally reveals something of his past that causes Apairivo concern.  This is further exacerbated when Apairivo mentions an observation made by Carnhul, his horse, and later confirmed by the sleepy Elerína.

Acknowledgements:

Many thanks to Lizards Elfscribe, KyMahalei, Erulissë, Randy_O, Drummerwench, Aeärwen, Jael, Russandol, sanna, Gandalf's Apprentice, and Surgical Steel for comments and critical feedback on this and the previous chapter.

Read Chapter 35: All Good Beasts

Slinging the coil of rope over my shoulder, I followed Apairivo into yet another wattle and daub barn, but this one was larger, and like the nearby farmhouse, it had an air of prosperity about it. Its interior was dim, lit only by a lantern hanging near a stall where a small fawn-colored cow lay on a thick layer of straw. When we entered the barn, she turned her head and looked at us with dark eyes as limpid as a doe's, eyes that brimmed with pain and fear.  Apairivo took matters in hand immediately.

"Butterbur, bring me clean water and soap straightaway!"

While the farmer dashed out of the barn, Apairivo hung his cap on a nail and stripped off his tunic so that he was bare-chested. The farmer returned with a bar of soap in one hand, a bucket of water in the other, and three other men accompanying him. Apairivo lathered his hands and arms thoroughly, all the way up to his shoulders. He then knelt down behind the cow, crooning to her all the while, and reached into her. He concentrated fully while he examined the beast. Then he withdrew his hand.

"Good news! Calf's alive!"

"Thank the stars for that!" cried Butterbur. The other men murmured their agreement.

"The little one's head is turned back, but let's see what I can do. Hand me the rope, Istyar."

I did as he asked. The hithlain rope shimmered silver in the lamplight when he unwound it. Apairivo grasped the one end and again thrust his hand into the cow's body. He stuck his tongue out in concentration, and his face blushed red with exertion; he grunted now and then as he worked his arm deep within the cow. She lowed in distress.

"Istyar, sing something would you?" he called.

"Sing? What should I sing?"

"Anything. Beasts seem to like the sound of elvish song. Whatever you choose."

I decided a gentle song might do the frightened cow some good so I chose a lullaby that had been beloved of Ost-in-Edhil's children and before that, from Ondolindë, a song that my mother had sung to my sister and me.

"Very good, Istyar. That is calming her. Just one more loop. Yes! Got it. Now take the rope. I need you to pull on it firmly but gently -- gently by all means -- when I tell you. Are you ready?"

After I rolled up my shirt sleeves, I wrapped the rope around my right hand and grasped the length with my left, still singing, and nodded to him.

"Right then. Now pull. Steady...steady...yes, that's it!"

I continued to pull on the rope, slowly taking one step back and then another until suddenly the resistance gave way. I stumbled backward and stepped on something slick. My foot slipped, and I fell on my arse right onto a pile of fresh cow manure. Laughter rippled among the men, and I overheard "So much for the grace of the Elves!" from one of them. A curse threatened to escape my lips, but when I saw the little creature, covered with slime and blood, that had slipped from its mother's body, I forgot about my lost dignity. The slender elven-rope was looped around its head and through its mouth like a bridle. That Apairivo had been able to manipulate the rope like that within the cow amazed me. He removed the loops while the calf gasped, taking in its first breath of air.

"Oi! It's a wee heifer!" cried the farmer. "May she be as blessed as her ma!"

"She's a fine calf, Butterbur," said Apairivo. "I wager she'll grow up to give milk and cream as sweet as her dam's. Now I'll clean up while you take mother and child out to clean pasture. Be sure to keep an eye on her. Daisy should pass the membranes in a few hours."

"Aye, she did before." Butterbur was about to walk to Daisy, who had risen to her feet to inspect her young one while I tried to stand without smearing yet more manure on myself. "Ah, here, my lord. Let me help you." He grabbed my hand in his and pulled me to my feet. He looked at my dung-smeared clothing. "Here now. My missus can clean that. But there's worse than cow shit. It's got an honest stink to it, wouldn't you say?" Butterbur asked philosophically.

"Yes, I suppose so," I said while wiping at the back of my trousers with clean straw and wondering what Gil-galad would have thought about the use of the rope he had given to Apairivo.

Joining Apairivo by the bucket of water, I washed up as best I could.

"Do you often use your gift from the king for such purposes?" I asked as I lathered my hands and arms.

"Oh, I use it for all manner of things, but it's a marvel for calving. It never injures the calf, and it is much easier to manipulate within the cow than crofter's rough rope. Cleans up beautifully, too."

"May I ask you something else?"

"Surely," Apairivo replied. "You're certainly allowed after the question I asked you earlier today."

"It's nothing quite that delicate, my lord..."

"Oh for stars' sake, call me Pairo! We're practically family."

"All right then...Pairo. How did you come to be a healer of beasts?"

He did not answer immediately but continued to scrub his hands and arms as vigorously as he had before he helped Daisy. Then he spoke up while he worked the soap between his fingers.

"It was back in Númenor. I have always loved beasts, wild and tame both. When I was a lad, I never could get enough of the tales of Oromë.  Then I found that I could call birds to light upon my hand, and I healed fledglings that had fallen from their nests. I could, in my own way, speak to beasts and birds to discover what ailed them. The old healer on our estate said I had a rare gift and encouraged my parents to let me study the healing arts. My tutor wished me to be a healer of Men, but truly? I loved beasts and birds more than anything that walked on two legs. Still do." He patted himself dry with a rough sack. "My mother was horrified that her noble son would sully his hands so, but my father, always a practical man, thought my skills might come in handy with the sheep and horses of our holdings. And so here I am: Lord of Cardolan and a healer of all good beasts."

"You remind me of Valandil."

"I do?"

"Yes. He, too, has the gift of healing. It runs very strong in him."

"Hmmm. The blood of Lúthien shows itself again for good or ill." He wriggled the tunic over his head.

"Why would you think such a gift to be ill?"

"Perhaps speaking to birds, beasts and even trees is normal for one of your kind, but for mortals such as myself? It is a thing that can drive Men to madness. I have been lucky enough to harness the gift. Others have been less fortunate, and even for myself, there have been times..." He paused and took a deep breath. "There have been times when the gift has threatened to consume me."

"I think I understand, Pairo."

"I thought perhaps you would," he said enigmatically. "I just hope that Valandil is able to handle his gift."

"Master Elrond guides him."

"I see. Then perhaps all will be well." He wiped his hands on the long hem of his tunic and adjusted his cap. "Come! Master Butterbur has asked us to stay for supper. We shouldn't keep him and his good wife waiting!"

We walked together out of the barn into the shadowed yard. A ways off to our right, I saw a very pregnant young woman trying to pump water from a well, but despite her efforts, only a trickle of water ran from the spout into a tin bucket. A small child whined and pulled at her apron.

"Looks as if the young lady is having difficulties," Apairivo said.

"It does. Would you excuse me for a moment?"

"By all means."

When I approached the well, the young woman, barely more than a girl, dropped her hand from the pump's handle and bowed. She did not make the warding gesture I had seen earlier, but neither did she raise her eyes to mine.

"My lord..." The child, a little boy, plucked at her apron, and his whine transformed into weeping. "Oh, Cobby, please! Don't fuss!" Then she looked up at me, and much to my relief, she did not flinch. "I'm sorry, my lord. He's tired, and we're all so busy in the kitchen, you see."

"Cobby?" I knelt before the little boy whose his brown eyes were reddened from crying and weariness. "Here, I have something for you." I plucked a small elfstone from the leather pocket that hung from my belt. "Be a good boy now while I help your mother." I set the pebble in his hand. He ceased sniveling, and his eyes grew wide as his mother's when he gazed at the stone that glinted green in the dying light of the day.

"What do you say, Cobby?"  His mother gently prodded him.

"Thank you," he said, turning the pebble over with his grubby little fingers. "Is it magic?"

"If you wish it to be, it is," I replied, ruffling his golden-brown curls. "Now let's see to this pump."

I stood and ran my hand over the pump, levering the handle to test it and sending my thoughts skimming along its parts to discover only minor repairs were required. Thankfully it did not need to be primed. Using the steel pliers that I always carried with me, I made the adjustments.

"Try it again," I said.

She lifted the pump handle and pushed it down in one smooth motion. Water gushed from the spout.

"Thank you, my lord..."

"Please call me Sámaril."

She bowed again. "I am Maida Butterbur. Tolman's wife, that is. He's the master's eldest son. You will be staying for supper, my lord?"

"I believe so. Here, I'll pump the water."

"Thank you, and begging your pardon, my lord," she said, wrinkling her nose, "you might want to remove your trousers before you...well, before you join us at the table."

"Ah. The honest stink of manure is less welcome there than in the barn."

She blushed but smiled. "You may borrow a pair of my Tolman's trousers."

"That sounds like a reasonable solution.  I'd be grateful for their use."

Maida and her son then watched me fill the tin pails to their brim with cold water. I lifted them, and when I glanced up, I saw Apairivo standing by the door and with what looked to be a smile of approval on his face.

Supper for us and Butterbur's large household of family and farmhands was homely but hearty fare of mutton stew, loaves of brown bread and new spring greens from Mistress Butterbur's garden, all accompanied by generous tankards of amber-colored ale covered with creamy foam. Butterbur's brew was no less delicious than that of the Dwarves, and I found my tankard never emptied, no matter how much I drank from it. After we finished the stew and mopped up the last drops from our bowls with the bread, Butterbur's wife, her daughters and daughters-by-marriage rose from the long table and cleared the plates. The men, however, remained seated and continued to talk amongst themselves.

At first, there had been a certain reserve among the mortals thanks to my presence, but soon, that disappeared and those at the large table spoke freely. A few polite questions were directed toward me, but mostly I listened to their conversations. Butterbur's eldest son Tolman remained on the farm, but I learned that his second son, Bron, had moved "up Bree-way" as they said, and had begun construction of an inn there. One of the Butterbur cousins at the table told us of the building.

"They've started on the foundations, Uncle," he said to Farmer Butterbur. "Bron thinks it will be ready for guests next autumn."

The farmer harrumphed. "Don't know why Bron is so keen on it. He could have just opened a tavern down this way."

"But it may become prosperous! After all, there are many who travel up to the City of the King and back and forth along the Great East Road: Men, Dwarves and even Elves," and then he turned to me, "but begging your pardon my lord, I don't think your folk would stay in such a place."

"Why ever not?" I said, after finishing a long drink of ale. "I like a decent mattress under my back as much as the next man!"

"And maybe a wench to warm the bed, too?" said one of the other men to the amusement of the others. Their laughter died when Butterbur shot the fellow a sharp glance.

"There's no call for that, Lind."

I opened my mouth to deflect the admonishment, for had I not made similar jests among my fellows when drinking? But Apairvo said smoothly, "Istyar Sámaril has a lovely lady to keep him company. He has no need of wenches."

The subject of women warming my bed was quickly dropped at Apairivo's remark, which coincided with the women's re-emergence from the kitchen. They carried bowls of the first strawberries of the season, a pitcher of cream and a wheel of aged cheese. "Made from Daisy's milk! Here's to the best cow in the country!" cried Butterbur. We all joined his toast.

When I ate the last berry in my bowl and nibbled on a wedge of Daisy's rich cheese, I thought we might be close to concluding the meal and departing, for the sun had set, and twilight painted the hills purple and blue. But I was wrong. Again, the last of the bowls were cleared, but the women returned bearing trays of small glasses and a large brown jug that was placed on the table. Butterbur pulled the stopper from the jug and poured a liquid that looked like brandy into the glasses. I eyed it quizzically; when I sniffed it, the scent of fire, smoke and honey burned my nose.

Apairivo leaned over toward me. "It's a special kind of whisky. Butterbur makes the very best in these parts."

He put the glass to his lips, tilted his head back and swigged it down. I did the same. Liquid flame seared my throat, and I could not stop the cough that erupted. Apairivo's smile took a triumphant turn when he took the jug and poured another glass for me. Meeting his challenge, I drank it down, this time without coughing.

Meanwhile, chairs and furniture in the large parlor next to the dining hall were pushed aside. One man produced a pair of skin drums, another a fiddle, and yet another, a tin whistle. Then the dancing began. I immediately gave myself over to the music, which became sweet and wild. I spun about the room, clapping my hands and stomping my feet, and stopped only to drink more whisky and to change partners. My borrowed trousers, too short in the legs and too wide at the waist, threatened to slide down my hips during my more vigorous movements. But I tightened the belt as best I could while I danced with every woman in Butterbur's household, and caused old Mistress Butterbur, the indisputable lady of the house, to giggle like a girl when I kissed her hand.

I was unaware when it was decided that we would depart, but through a whisky fogged haze, I found myself embracing my host, his wife and all the good people of their household as if they were the closest of my brethren and bidding them good night. Clutching a full jug of whisky that had somehow found its way into my hands, I stumbled to the carriage. Apairivo did not stumble, but neither did he walk straight. Ragwort, who had not touched a drop of liquor or ale, sat on the driver's seat, silently waiting for us. Old Nettlefoot stomped her hoofs impatiently while Apairivo and I tumbled into the carriage, nearly landing in one another's lap and laughing uproariously all the while. Once we were underway, Apairivo opened the jug of whisky and tilted it back; he took a long swig of it and handed it over to me. I did the same although a bump in the road caused me to spill liquor down my neck and over my chest.

Apairivo then lifted his voice in a song unfamiliar to me, and in the language of the Men of Númenor. Unlike many of the somber lays from Westernesse, it was a pleasant, lively song.

"That was a folk song of Emerië," he said. "Now your turn." He took another swig of whisky. "Sing something of your people. Something merry. Or don't the High Elves have any songs like that?"

"Of course, we do!" So in my drunken state, I chose a rollicking and ribald song of my youth in Eregion. It was one that we had sung with the Istyar when we were with him out in the field for our studies or at his home for parties when none of the women were about to disapprove of our rowdy behavior. Apairivo picked up on the words and joined me in the lusty chorus.

When I finished, I, too, took a drink from the jug. Apairivo chuckled. "An elf-maid and a smith's rusty nail. Very funny. "

"It is a funny song," I said. "I haven't sung it since...well, since that last celebration with Istyar Aulendil."

"What was that name?" Apairivo asked abruptly. "Aulendil?"

The night's merriment evaporated at once. "Yes," I answered reluctantly, appalled that I had mentioned my teacher's name so casually.

"Aulendil.  Where have I heard that name before, hmmm?  One of Vardamir Nólimon's sons, but obviously that could not be him. Ah. Now I remember. Old Finion, the master of the palantír, used that name a couple of times. I believe that Aulendil was also known as the Zigûr in my homeland. Annatar was another of his names. But we of the Faithful called him the Deceiver. But now you name him Istyar Aulendil. What was he to you?"

I laid my head back to watch the stars spin around alarmingly fast. "I do not know what to say, Pairo."

"I can see why you'd be at a loss for words."

"He was my teacher, but I am not he."

"I know. I can see that."

"Then why are you doing this to me?"

"Doing what?"

"This! Making me help you with the beasts when Ragwort is clearly your assistant. Making sure I drink more and more and then putting me off guard so you might ask me questions about my intimacy with Elerina and now you ask me of my past!"

"I just wanted you to be honest with me, Sámaril. I am not unfamiliar with your people, and I well know how you will answer neither no nor yes. I want you to be direct."

"Why wouldn't I be direct? I do not play these games!"

"You were not so direct when I asked you of Eregion before."

"Great stars, Pairo! What did you expect? That I should advertise my association with the Enemy? And now Ragwort knows! May as well shout it to the whole bloody world!"

"Be calm, Istyar. Ragwort is nothing if not discreet. Is that not so, Ragwort?"

"Yes, my lord," came the laconic answer.

"I also wanted to see how you dealt with mortals. Let's say that quite a number of your folk whom I met in Lindon were arrogant and even contemptuous of Men."

"I am not like that. I have known the hearts and minds of mortals more thoroughly than you can comprehend."

"So I saw today. But you are for all intents and purposes wed to a mortal who is beloved to me. I wanted to be sure..."

"Did I pass the test?"

"You did. With flying colors. I'll trouble you no more tonight, but at least I know now."

You don't know the half of it, but I thought better of saying anything more.

We rounded a bend in the road, and in the distance, lights of torches flickered at the crest of a dark hill. "Ah, look, there's the manor," he said. "Won't be long now." Soon we passed by the paddock, the horses no longer grazing on it, but their scent lingered.

"Poor Carnhul," Apairivo sighed. "He will be vexed that I did not return in time for a ride today. But never mind that. We will ride tomorrow. You must come with me! Nothing better than a good ride in the morning to get the blood flowing and clear the head. Maybe not too early though."

"That's fine by me."

"Are you well, Istyar?"

"Am I well? I am drunk, Pairo. Congratulate yourself. You have managed to get an Elf drunk."

"Less of a challenge than I expected. I thought your folk shook off the effects of liquor more quickly than us mere mortals!"

"We do. Doesn't mean I won't have a headache in the morning."

"Elerina will be wondering where you are."

"She's probably asleep. At least, I hope so."

"I hope she will forgive me. I have been terrible, keeping you away from her as long as I have."

"She warned me about you."

"Did she now? What did she say?"

"That you'd question me. Intensely."

"So I did!" He chuckled. "Say, Carnhul told me something interesting about you."

"Your horse? What did he say?"

"He said you smell like lightning."

In spite of the numbness that had set in from drinking too much whisky, a shiver ran down my neck. I leaned back once more and closed my eyes to blot out the swirling stars, but a sad, dark memory continued to spin within my thoughts.

The remainder of the night was a blur after that: I lurched from the carriage and had to resort to a servant leading me to my quarters; then when I tried to be quiet as I undressed in the bedchamber, I stubbed my toe and cursed. Elerina remained undisturbed under the coverlet in the moonlight until I rolled into the bed. She half-woke and scooted toward me so that the curve of her back fitted against my chest, belly and hips.

"You are late," she murmured.

"I'm sorry, my love."

"It is all right. You are here now."

I pulled her closer, and soon her breathing eased toward the steady rhythm of sleep, but then a question that earlier had been careening around my inebriated mind worked itself loose and shot out of my mouth.

"What do I smell like?"

"You reek of whisky, my darling."

"Ai! I am so sorry! Here, I will go wash..." I did not know where I was going to wash at that time of the night, but she turned over and stayed me with her embrace.

"Sámaril, I love your scent: a man's musk but with that hint of green herbs like so many of your folk have. You can bathe in the morning."

"Oh. Very well then." 

She gave me a sweet kiss and then buried her face against the curve of my shoulder. She inhaled, her breath fluttering against my skin.

"There's something else," she said, her voice muffled.

"What is that?" 

"You smell like the air after a thunderstorm."

My spinning head threw me into a warm summer night in Ost-in-Edhil when we apprentices and journeymen milled about on the Istyar's terrace where we drank serce valaron, sang our songs of the smithies and toasted Aulë at every turn. Smiling at our antics, Istyar Aulendil had passed by me on the way inside to fetch more carafes of wine, and when he did, he left me in the wake of his scent: that of the air after a thunderstorm. And now many years later, my lover, and of all things, a horse, had each noted the same. Before I at last plummeted into sleep, my weary, half-dreaming mind gazed upon the wavering image of Apairivo washing and scrubbing his arms. I despaired for I would never be free of Sauron's taint, no matter how hard I scrubbed.

 

Chapter 36: The Wind-Lord's Finger

On their way to the sea, Sámaril and Elerína travel down the Baranduin on The Otter's Tale, a traders' keelboat, manned by a motley crew of Middle Men, including the superstitious but well-meaning Captain Rinan.  Elerína makes an offering to the River-mother, but will it deflect the threat of the Elder King's fierce storm that bears down upon them?

Acknowledgements:

Thanks to Surgical Steel for the nattering that led to the term "the Wind-lord's finger" and to Lizards Darth Fingon, Aeärwen, KyMahalei, Oshun, Elfscribe, Erulissë, and Russandol for picking nits and comments.  Deep-fried cockroaches with tartar sauce for all!  And an extra serving for post-publication nit-picking from Drummerwench!

Please see end notes for more acknowledgments.

Read Chapter 36: The Wind-Lord's Finger

The man with one eye faced the West where a wall of clouds loomed over the edge of the sky. Lightning illuminated the dark folds of the distant storm, but the sultry air that hung thick over the Baranduin River did not stir.

“Wind-lord looks to be angry,” grumbled Captain Rinan, squinting at the storm before he turned his dark brown eye, sharp as a gimlet, to me. “Perhaps your lady would make another offering to the River-mother?”

“I will ask her.” Before I took two steps from his side, Rinan offered another request.

“Your folk are in good stead with the Lord of the Waters, so might you put in a word with him, too? This one looks to be rough,” he said, nodding toward the storm, “and the river already runs high.”

Sigilros caught my glance and arched his brows from where he sat cross-legged on the deck behind the captain of the keelboat. For all that we had explained to the persistently superstitious Rinan that we, like him, had been born in Middle-earth and had never actually seen or conversed with the Guardians, the mortal man remained convinced that all Elves communed regularly with them.

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

“And I could use your keen eyes to look out for snags, too.”

“Yes, captain.”

I climbed down the short ladder from the flat roof of the cabin to the deck where Elerína and Gaereth sat on a storage locker built into the side of the hull. Both women watched the approach of the spring storm. Strands of Gaereth's red hair, darkened with sweat, stuck to her white neck. Elerína’s moss-green gown clung to her body, and her face was pale and drawn, her eyes focused elsewhere. Her lips moved, but I could not hear her words.

“My lady...” 

She jumped when I spoke. “Forgive me, Istyar. You startled me.”

I laid my hand on her shoulder, hoping to comfort her, but tension remained lodged in her body. “Our captain asks that you make an offering.”

She rose and with sure steps that met the gentle swaying of the deck, walked to the opposite side of the boat where a wooden tub filled with white water lilies was wedged between two storage lockers. She lifted a blossom, still fresh, and cradled it in her hands. Droplets of clear water dripped from the flower’s tendrils onto the deck and stained the linen of her gown as she carried the lily and held it out over the river. She lifted her arms and sang:

Hear me, O River-mother!
The mountains are your breasts;
Your foamy water is your smile;
White swans are your movements;
Your waves are your hands, 
And the lily is the garland that adorns you.
We beg you, O River-mother, 
Be of good cheer while you carry us, your children, to the sea.

She dropped the lily into the muddy brown waters where it was swept into the current, swollen from spring rains. 

This was the fourth time I had witnessed Elerína make such an offering to the river with a ritual unfamiliar to me, and one that added yet another layer to the mysteries of my mortal lover and the women of her people. She watched the flower swirl away to be drawn down into the waters, and then she returned to my side. Her scent filled me -- a heady mixture of roses, womanly musk and river water -- and triggered a vivid memory of our last night together in Apairivo's home.

~*~

At sunset, Elerína had left the manor in the company of Gaereth and old Applethorn so that she might take the bath of purification after her courses. She did not – and would not – tell me where they were going, and left me alone in our bed. 

Just before dawn, she returned, her hair still damp and smelling faintly of the river as it did now. She had awakened me with kisses, supple and yearning at first, but quickly becoming greedy. Her hands glided cool as rain over my face, my chest, and my arms and then slid down to stroke my hips and around to cup my stones, sending shivers of desire through my body and making me iron-hard. My need for her was immediate, but before I could roll her onto her back and part her legs with the push of my thigh, a gently forceful gesture I knew she enjoyed, she placed her hands on my shoulders and shoved me back against the bedding. I could resist her no more than I might a torrent cascading down from the mountains. She straddled my hips, and I was engulfed in deep waters. When her mind touched mine at the height of our passion, we did not join in the falcon’s flight, but instead the swell of tides sent me crashing into her body to spend my seed. Wrapped in her arms, I fell into exhausted sleep, as if I had swum against a current for many hours.

That was the last time we enjoyed such privacy for lovemaking. We had departed the next day to travel southwest along a rutted road through the downs, leaving behind Apairivo's manor, perched high on its green hill, and keeping the mists over the Withywindle to our right. A few days later, we met The Otter's Tale and her crew at the wooden dock on the east bank of the Baranduin. 

The traders' boat that traveled from the river's headwaters near Annúminas to the mouth of the Baranduin and back again was to be our transport to the small haven of Gaillond. The boat had been crafted by Númenórean shipwrights but manned by middle folk: ten men, some lean as reeds, others bulky but all strong, formed the crew; a stocky helmsman, muscled like an ironsmith, guided the boat; and her captain, the man with the grizzled brown beard and a black patch over his left eye, commanded all. The wooden vessel they crewed was about fifty feet long and nine feet wide with a low draught so that it might pass through shallow waters yet built sturdily enough to withstand heavy currents. Benches, where the crew might sit and row with long oars, crossed the bow section.  A low cabin with a flat roof was centered on the deck; at the cabin's bow side, rose a tall mast with a single sail, now furled.

When we boarded the boat, yet another mystery appeared: a coracle made from oiled hide, empty but for a wooden tub filled with water lilies, floated down the current to nudge its prow against a clump of willows overhanging the bank. Elerína had run down the gangplank and to the edge of the river, where, heedless of her gown, she waded into the brown water to grasp a rope tied to the little boat and pulled it toward the shore. She retrieved a parcel of oilcloth tacked onto the hull and extracted a piece of parchment folded within it.

“A gift from the River-daughter,” she said, smiling enigmatically after she read the note.

“You have the favor of the Lady of the Withywindle? You shall bring us good luck!” cried Captain Rinan. He had then ordered men of his crew to tie the coracle to the keelboat and to carry the tub of lilies onto the deck.

~*~

Now there was no enigma in Elerína's expression: fear clouded her face while she stared at the grey outriders that streaked across the blue sky above us, and beyond, at the black clouds that gathered in the western sky. “There’s much lightning in that storm,” she muttered.

 “So says our good captain. He wants me to put in a good word with the Lord of the Waters and to look out for snags.”

Her apprehension eased a little when she looked up to smile at me. “Captain Rinan will make a riverman of you yet.”

“He is just humoring me, my dear. He thinks Sigilros and I will protect him from the wrath of Manwë. More likely it will be I who brings it down upon our heads!”

Her smile disappeared. “That’s nothing to jest about, Sámaril.”

“It’s only a storm.”

“So were the tempests that lashed She-That-Fell. Only storms. That is what the Zigûr said. He lied.”

Her words stung me when I heard what I perceived as an unwelcome comparison to my former master. “I am sorry, Elerína. I didn’t mean to make light of what happened to you and your people.”

She took my hand in hers. “I am sorry, too, my love. Sometimes your humor is a bit dark, and if I am in a mood, I don’t take it well. I am just nervous from seeing all that lightning. I do not like the look of it. I do not like the look of it at all.” A rumble of thunder, less distant than before, accentuated her worry. “These rivermen will ride out a storm and risk of being raked by the Elder King’s talons. It’s not something I wish to experience.”

“We will be all right.”

“You seem confident.”

Unlike her, I felt no unease when I saw lightning flash and heard the distant drums of thunder.  On the contrary,  I felt the anticipation I so commonly experienced before a storm: an edgy sort of exhilaration.  I inflected my response with a reassuring tone. “I trust our captain and his crew. So does your kinsman. After all, Apairivo arranged this. Let’s hope the River-mother can soothe Manwë’s bad temper.”

Elerína and I climbed up the ladder to the roof of the cabin where Captain Rinan stood steady. The riverman pointed ahead. 

“See where the trees draw close on the right? Sand bar’s by that. We’ll go through the channel there,” he said. “Do you see any sign of snags below water, Istyar?”

I scrutinized the eddies and swirls in the brown water ahead. “I see no evidence of any, but you would know better. I am not rivercrafty.”

“Maybe not, but you have shown good instincts so far, and Master Sigilros here surely has been on boats before." 

"I spent some time with Círdan's people," Sigilros remarked casually. Left unspoken was that "some time" meant five yéni: a diversion for Sigilros who claimed descent through his mother from the shore folk, but what amounted to more than seven hundred years for Rinan's swift-lived kindred.

"Orvyn, guide her to port!” ordered the captain.

“Aye, sir!” The short man with iron-hard arms pushed the long tiller, and the boat turned slowly, gliding along the current. The black poplars and alders along the riverbank closed in upon us as the channel narrowed. The helmsman centered the keelboat well ahead of the channel and held the position steady. Faster and faster the keelboat sped. As we passed through the channel, I heard faint scraping at the hull. I thought at first that detritus carried in the current or the branches of submerged snags that I had not seen was the cause, but was an eerie sound, as if small beasts or insects were trying to claw their way past the hull. I cocked my head to listen more intently.

“My apologies, Captain. I seem to have missed a few snags.”

“Snags? No, that is not what you are hearing,” said Rinan. “Those are the river-sprites.”

“River-sprites?”

“Oh, aye! They can do a great deal of mischief, but I'm thinking that your lady’s favor – and if I may say so – the presence of you and Master Sigilros -- may keep them at bay.”

I leaned over to look at the water that roiled in the wake of the boat. Several pairs of tiny feet and hands, distinctly human in shape, but webbed with long claws, flashed through the foam. They were gone in the blink of an eye.

The captain offered no further explanation on the nature of river-sprites, which I surmised must be creatures counted among the Ailinóni and Earni,: queer, elusive beings wary of the folk of the Noldor, but more familiar to the Silvan Elves of the dark forests and, apparently, to mortal Men who plied the river. The boat shot through the final stretch of the channel into calmer waters, and we passed into a wide expanse of the river where the current was broad and slow.

Our view of the sky had opened, too. While we had maneuvered through the channel, the approaching storm had devoured the sun, and the riverbanks beneath the trees were deep in shadow. Lightning flashed, and thunder growled while the first gusts of storm-borne wind sliced through the sultry air, catching loose strands of Elerína's hair and sending them flying. 

“Captain,” she said, “I respect your judgment, and it is you who commands The Otter’s Tale, not I, but that storm...”

“...Looks to be a big one. We’ve ridden out greater storms before. There is no cause for worry, m'lady.”

“Yes, I am sure you have defied storms, but please, look at the base of the clouds. There. To the southwest. Do you note the color?”

Captain Rinan squinted his eye again, and I followed his line of sight. A sickly green hue tinged the base of the glowering black clouds. The captain’s face went white. 

“Orvyn!” he barked. “Take us to the leeward side of yon island!" He pointed toward a lump of trees far ahead near the east bank of the river. "Men! Be ready to drop anchor and tie her up as soon as we reach the island. Istyar, Master Sigilros, I could use that elvish strength of yours once again to tie the boat down, sure and fast."

"You have that," replied Sigilros, who leapt down to the deck to join the crew who had grabbed poles and oars to help guide the boat toward the island. The muscles in the helmsman's thick arms bunched when he pushed the tiller. The Otter's Talehesitated but then turned gradually toward the island. 

The storm raced toward us. With the skill of Orvyn and the crew, the keelboat eased toward the island: a tangle of vines, twisted willows, boulders and mud. Two crewmen weighed anchor while Sigilros threw a length of rope with a grappling hook tied to its end to catch the trunk of a gnarled willow. He tested the grip.

"Hold the rope taut as you can," he said to a wiry crewman, whose arms knotted when he pulled the rope tight. Sigilros stepped onto the wale of the boat and then set one bare foot on the rope, testing it. Then, with smooth steps, he glided along the rope and leapt onto the shore, landing on his feet with the grace of a cat. 

Then it was my turn to run the rope, and it was with no little apprehension that I kicked off my shoes and set my right foot and then my left on the wale, balancing precariously while the boat rocked. The rope stretched above the swift current. Over twenty feet away, Sigilros waited for me. 

I took a deep breath to still my jangling nerves and called back to memory the exercises of my youth, when we were compelled to run the ropes. Our first experience with rope-walking had been upon ropes anchored to thick poles, driven into stone. The strands swung only two feet above the ground, so a fall was not perilous. As we gained skill, learning to shift our weight with stride, we walked across ropes stretched from roof to roof above alleyways in Ost-in-Edhil. 

We, the sons and daughters of the Noldor, had taken umbrage at what we deemed silly exercises suitable for the dark-elves of the forest until Master Helegon reminded us this art might well come in handy. Later, when we climbed into the mountains to search for minerals, the art of rope-walking indeed became useful when we crossed crevasses cut deep by frigid streams that roared far below us. 

However, much time had passed since I had last run along a rope. At worst, I assured myself, if I slipped, I would fall into the brown river, get drenched and lose only my dignity rather than my life at the bottom of a rocky ravine.  Sigilros called out to me:

"What are you waiting for, smith?  I can use your help now!"

I exhaled my apprehension then placed my right foot on the rope, imagining myself light as air. I cleared all nagging thoughts from my mind and called upon my body's memory, and stepped smoothly, balancing myself, and jumped to the muddy bank of the island with no mishap.

"Not bad for a golodh," allowed Sigilros. "Now let's tie this tub down. The Elder King's wrath is almost upon us." The muddy-black clouds rolled over us; lightning flashed, illuminating the too-early eventide with blue-white light. Thunder boomed like giants' drums over the river, and the wind keened through the tortured reeds.

A crewman threw another rope to me. Catching it, I scanned the shore for a likely object to serve as an anchor. Sigilros was already knotting his length of rope around a thick tree that leaned out over the river. I spied a boulder sunk deep in the earth and set to wrapping the rope around its base. Sigilros came to tie the knot, creating loops that would tighten when pulled by the force of the boat. 

While we were at work, something cold and hard hit my right arm, and then my forehead. Hailstones the size of large peas fell upon us. Great bolts of lightning forked across the black sky, and the trees screamed as their leaves were shredded from thrashing branches. Back on the boat, Captain Rinan hustled Elerína and Gaereth toward the protection of the cabin. 

Satisfied that the ropes were fast, Sigilros gestured for me to run the rope back to The Otter's Tale. This time, I did not spare a moment for nerves, but ran swift and sure back to the boat, drawn by the fear I saw lodged in Elerína's face as she turned from the cabin door to look once more at the storm that sped toward the river. 

I leapt onto the deck of the boat, which rocked to and fro. The furled sail guttered as the wind tore at it. Sigilros glided along the rope and had just set his right foot on the wale when my scalp and skin tingled, and the hair on my head and on my arms lifted. I grabbed Sigilros' arm and yanked him down to the deck of the boat, pressing my body flat against his.

"Stars' blood! What in the..." he exclaimed from beneath me, but blinding light and a deafening crack of thunder cut off his words. The scent of lightning and charred wood engulfed the deck; smoking splinters joined the hailstones that bombarded us. Sigilros met my eyes, and mouthed something but his words were muffled as though he spoke through thick masses of wool. He pointed to his right ear and shook his head, and then looked up toward the mast: I followed his gaze to see that it was in smoldering ruin. 

We scrambled to our feet, unsteady thanks to the rolling deck and the driving wind. Waving his arms, the captain beckoned us to the cabin where Elerína and Gaereth, who covered their ears with their hands, peered out at the tempest from the open door, terror gripping their expressions, and yet transfixed by the might of the storm. The crew crouched low on the deck against the sides of the cabin with tarred palls pulled over their heads for protection. Rather than crowd inside the cabin, I stood alongside Rinan on the deck, who had also covered his head with a large square of stiff canvas. Sigilros sidled up beside me while we watched the ferocity of the storm lash the trees and tear at reeds. The river's surface roiled.

I turned my attention to my ears, calling upon the long-years of training to direct my fëa's energy toward healing the injury from the thunder's assault. Gradually, the clatter of the hailstones on the deck became sharp, as did the groans and squeaks of The Otter's Tale as she lurched against the straining ropes, which thankfully held fast. But then the wind took on a strange tone, and I wondered if my ears might still be damaged from the thunder. Beneath the shriek of the wind came a deep drone, distant at first but increasingly loud and unlike anything I had heard before. 

"Look!" Fear and marvel mingled in Rinan's cry. He pointed toward the southwest. "The Wind-lord's Finger!" 

There against a band of the lighter sky in the southwest was a brown-black cloud that snaked toward the earth. The line of trees obscured its lower reaches, but dirt and debris swirled up around it. The Wind-lord's Finger. I had read of such storms, said to scourge the plains of the East and to occasionally strike the more westerly lands of Middle-earth, but had never seen one.  The sight and sound of it terrified me, and yet filled me with awe. Entire trees twisted in the whirlwind, groaning and cracking in agony when the tempest yanked them from their roots and threw them like twigs. I had never seen such power unleashed in a storm. 

Trembling warmth squeezed between Sigilros and me beneath the canvas. I wrapped my arm around Elerína and pulled her against me.

"Manwë has come for us. His eagles have come..." The wind caught her voice and swept it away. I looked down at my lover; she was not with me, but instead stared into another time, another place, grappling with dark memories she had yet to share with me. I pulled her even closer, trying to protect her from past and present.

The funnel cloud undulated toward the river, bearing down upon on us with its unearthly howl. We stood helpless before its fury; dumbstruck, no one spoke, each captivated by the twisting cloud. Do I look upon my death? I wondered. Will Manwë's Finger pluck me from this boat to rend my body, and send my fëa spinning to the Halls of Mandos?  Elerína pressed herself against me; I clutched her, not at all ready for death that forever would separate us.

A branch hurtled through the air and struck the boat, making a loud crack.  My ears popped, but ringing into my memory came the words of my mother, who had prayed when Sauron's dread army had marched in sight of beleagured Ost-in-Edhil:

O most powerful Lord of the Waters, at whose command the winds blow, and lift up the waves of the sea, and who stills the rage thereof; We do in this our great distress cry unto thee for help; deliver us, Lord Ulmo, else we perish.

Ulmo had not heard her supplications then, but perhaps he would hear her son's now. It can't hurt, I thought. I murmured the words and heard Sigilros pick up the chant, but in his mother tongue. 

The monstrous cloud roared toward us, hurling more branches and an entire tree that flew over our heads, but as it neared the river, its course shifted. With ponderous grace, it lifted toward the sky, as if leaping over the angry waters. It then touched the eastern riverbank again to tear more trees from their roots.

The rains came after that, blowing sideways, so that the tarred canvas no longer offered even meager protection. The fearsome drone of the funnel cloud retreated into the distance. I urged Elerína back inside the cabin where the rain drummed hard on the roof and against the sides of the cabin rattling the shutters that were closed over the small windows. Gaereth, upon seeing us enter, eased her way past us along with a lean young man of the crew; she gave me a little smile and a shake of her head when I exhorted her to stay. I noticed that the young fellow held her hand. Perhaps they had sought comfort from their fear in one another.

Elerína sank into my arms, resting her head against my shoulder. Her heartbeat pummeled me, but I held her tight, stroking her wet hair and her back, crooning to her that she was safe, and silently thankful that we all had been spared. The tension and tremors left her body. When she at last looked up at me, her blue eyes had returned to the present. I pushed wet strands of dark hair from her face, and kissed her brow. 

"This is not the first time you have seen such a storm, is it?"

"No, it is not. The storms that inflicted Númenor in her last days spawned such funnel clouds and even greater winds. And that lightning bolt! We are lucky to be alive, Sámaril."

"We are lucky to have you on this boat. Your caution likely saved us."

"Maybe. Captain Rinan will say that the River-mother protected us."

"Perhaps she did, thanks to your offerings."

"I would like to think so, but we did not escape unscathed. Yet here we are!"

"Yes, here we are." I lifted her chin with my fingertips and kissed her, letting my relief and love flow over her sweet lips and eager tongue. When we broke off the kiss, she gasped with exasperation.

"I wish that we had some privacy! I miss you, Sámaril."

The intensity of Elerína's desire sometimes surprised me, pleasantly so, and I wondered if all mortals felt such a sense of urgency. But then, I, too, felt the joy of life returning to me: we had faced the tempest together and survived.

"I miss you as well. But it won't be long before we reach Gaillond, isn't that so?"

"Not long. About a week, I think, judging by the current's strength. You will like the villa in Gaillond," she said. "We will have our own bedchamber with a mattress stuffed with new rushes every day and a featherbed, too."

"It sounds wonderful," I kissed her lightly this time, not wishing to further fan the flames although I was already hard with want for her. "In the meantime, there's always the woods..."

"...And mud and thorns and insects that bite. I will try to apply discipline over desire like your folk do. I shall pray to Nienna for continence."

"Please do not pray too fervently."

She chuckled, the first time I had heard her laugh that day; then she paused. "Listen! The rain has eased."

Following her, I stepped outside onto the deck, which glistened wetly in the golden light of the late afternoon sun and into a newly washed air, the charged scent of lightning still lingering. Rain drizzled lightly with a gentle blessing after the storm. Sigilros stood beside Captain Rinan who was assessing the damage to the mast and the charred sail.

" Ah, here is our lady of the lilies!" the captain said, turning to greet Elerína. He gave her a short bow. "I thank you, m'lady. Your offerings to the River-mother protected us."

Elerína scanned the broken mast from which a thin trail of smoke threaded into the sky. "I fear the protection was not complete."

"That? Could have been worse. Much worse. After all, the River-mother turned the Wind-lord's Finger away from us. She must have liked your flowers." He gazed downriver again. "The current'll take us to the mouth of the river, and from there we will row to Gaillond. The shipwrights of the haven can fix her up. Can't head upriver without a mast and a good sail." His brown eye then swiveled toward the East. "Look! Now there's a good sign, lightning-struck mast or no."

We all followed the captain's gaze. Against the black clouds of the retreating storm, the lower pillars of a rainbow appeared. The crew shouted in triumph and began to sing as they cleaned the deck of debris. Elerína slipped her arm around the crook of my elbow.

"Nessa's bridge," she said. "It is said that she dances upon it after Manwë spends his wrath."

The rainbow's pillars grew to meet in an arch that gleamed red to violet. I did not see Nessa tripping along her bridge, but when I turned back to the river, sparkling in the sun, I saw the watery form of a man's muscled back and narrow hips, but greater than those of any man, slicing through the river, which reached up to pull him down into her deep embrace. I blinked, and only the hammered gold of the sun's sword lay upon the water.

---

Chapter End Notes

Illustration: Thomas Cole, 1836. View from Mt. Holyoke, Northampton, Massachusetts After a Thunderstorm -- The Oxbow.

Translated verses in praise of the River Ganga (Ganges) from Kalki Purana, Chapter 34, provided inspiration for Elerína’s invocation of the Mother River. Sámaril's invocation of Ulmo is adapted from the 1789 United States' edition of the Book of Common Prayer.

Special thanks to Darth Fingon for calling my attention to the following terms from Tolkien's Qenya lexicon:  Ailinóni = water-lily faeries and Oarni (or in "proper" Quenya, Earni) = merchildren.  See HoMe I: The Book of Lost Tales I for more faerie folk: brownies, pixies and leprawns.

And a hearty shout-out to Dwimordene for inspiring me to tackle tornadoes in Middle-earth.  Please read her excellent The Horn of the Kine.

Chapter 37: Gaillond

Captain Rinan and the crew of The Otter's Tale deliver Elerína, Sámaril and Sigilros to the haven of Gaillond, a seaside town near the mouth of the Baranduin.  There the port reeve and others welcome Elerína, the widow of a king and the mother of the king-to-be.  Limaerel, the housekeeper, shows Sámaril and Sigilros the villa built by Tar-Aldarion, but personalized by Isildur.  Sámaril finds that the many reminders of Isildur have an undesirable effect.

Rated R for sexual content.

Acknowledgements and such: Thanks to Darth for much under-the-radar nattering and generously allowing me to reference his canon (the black lobsters). Same to Surgical Steel. I give a quick nod to her Zâmin, the noblewoman of Umbar, who was Isildur's first love.

Gaillond is, of course, non-canonical (*faints from the shock*) but to me, a logical extrapolation: one would think that a port town might exist near the mouth of the Baranduin, which may have served as the waterway to Annúminas.  Gaillond bears reference to the Gloucester of New England and Wales. From Wikipedia: "In Old Welsh, the city was known as Caerloyw, caer = castle, and loyw from gloyw = glowing/bright." 

I also invoke the right of "translator" for the blatant use of Latin. Surely there were words in Quenya for the equivalent of a frigidarium and caldarium. I just don't know what they are, and Sámaril and his former mentor are of no help at all..

Uin the Great Whale may be found in The History of Middle-earth, Vol I, The Book of Lost Tales I.

Many thanks to the Lizards for the pickin' o' the nits.

Read Chapter 37: Gaillond

We drifted downriver for days after escaping the stroke of the Wind-lord's Finger. The Baranduin's course turned south, leaving behind the willows and poplars that crowded its banks, and gave way to marshes of reeds. Many birds dwelled there, some familiar like herons and kingfishers, but others strange like those Elerína named cormorants, birds with snake-like necks that dove into the water to catch fish, emerging to tip back their long beaks and swallow their flopping prey whole. 

Then there were the gulls. Some maintained that their cries aroused the sea-longing buried deep in the hearts of my people, but the birds did not stir me when I watched them spiral over the salt marshes of the estuary. The sea-longing awakened in my heart much later and through a very different means.

The river rose and fell with the as yet unseen ocean's tides, and the breeze bore the scent of brine. Its course widened, and to the west, highlands of granite rose beyond the marshes, but on the eastern shore, a line of trees loomed against the edge of the sky: that was the northern reach of the Eryn Vorn, the remnant of the great forest that had once covered Minhiriath. It was rumored that tribes of Men still lived there, a furtive hostile people.

Captain Rinan jutted his grizzled chin toward the mist-wreathed edge of forest. "The Men of Eryn Vorn are no friends to us. Like as not we'd have arrows raining down on us if we traveled near the eastern bank."

"The forest tribes bear long grudges," I replied.

Rinan grunted. "Can't see as why they do. My folk have done them no harm. They're naught but savages."

Savages treated terribly by those Men who counted themselves as the pinnacle of civilization. But I did not say that to Rinan, for he would not recall, as I did, Númenor's rapacious hunger for wood, a hunger that stripped forestlands of Minhiriath bare and deprived the indigenous folk of their homes and livelihoods. Worse, I also recalled how the less savory Númenóreans hunted down these native Men like animals. It was little wonder these descendants of the Minhirathrim harbored long resentment. We followed the western edge of the river, which continued to widen, and I saw no evidence of the remaining tribes of Eryn Vorn.

Two mornings hence, I rose from my bedroll and shook the dew from my hair like a wet dog, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and took in my surroundings. While I slept, the lands to the East and West had fallen away, and to the South, the sky met the water in a grey haze as far as I could see. The color of the water that lapped alongside the boat had a greenish cast.

The three men of the night's watch had already curled up on the deck to sleep out of the way from the rest of the crew. The door of the cabin behind me clicked open, and familiar footsteps padded across the deck. Elerína came to my side; she smelled of slumber, roses and mortality. How I longed to wake up next to that scent! We stood close to one another on the starboard side of the boat, gazing out over the expanse of water.

"At last we have come to the Sea, Istyar. What do you think?"

I breathed in the salt-washed air and listened to the sound of the waves sighing on the shore. Unlike the Sea of my dreams, an abstraction always beyond my reach, these waters were immediate, full of life, full of decay.

"It is...large."

She laughed. "Are you so taken aback that elvish eloquence has escaped you?"

"You'd have to ask a poet for his impressions if you want eloquence. I am only a smith who has just awakened after sleeping on a hard deck."

"Only a smith! Hardly." She sidled closer to me and lowered her voice to a whisper. "I promise you that you shall sleep in more comfort soon."

"I will hold you to that promise."

At Captain Rinan's orders, the crew set their muscles to the oars while Orvyn steered The Otter's Tale, hugging the coast in order to avoid the strong current that the captain said churned through the further waters. The boat rounded rocky outcroppings that jutted into the Sea; between their sheltering arms lay small bays where strands of sand glimmered in the morning light. Hills rose beyond the bays, and many gulls wheeled in the sky. The birds followed us, and Sigilros amused himself by tossing crumbs of stale bread to them.

On the third day after we had entered the Sea, I saw a wooden platform set high on the cliffs that rose above the shore. On it stood the small figure of a man. The crew, upon seeing him, unfurled a flag with the symbol of Annúminas' trade guild on it. The man on the platform waved back and brought a horn to his lips and blew it twice: its brassy peal carried across the water. A distant horn answered in kind from the West. 

"Who is that man?" I asked.

"He is one of the Watch of Gaillond," said Captain Rinan. "The port reeve will know we are on our way."

"What are they watching for?"

"Leviathans," Elerína answered. "The folk of Gaillond are whale-hunters. They seek the sign of right whales off shore. They watch for pirates, too."

"Pirates?"

"Yes, raiders from the southern seas. Not all the Umbarin and Haradrin mariners trade goods lawfully. Sometimes they just take them." The hint of bitterness in her words underscored her opinion of the Umbarin woman who had been Isildur's paramour.

From more wooden platforms, the Men of the Watch waved as we passed. The Otter's Tale rounded a massive headland to enter a bay that brimmed with the light of the noontide sun. To the West, another headland, topped with waving grasses, shrubs and stunted pines, formed the other border of the bay, giving the effect of a pair of rocky hands that cupped liquid sunlight. 

"This is the Bay of Gaillond," said Elerína.

"The haven of bright light. Aptly named." I squinted against the glare on the waves. Once my eyes adjusted, I saw quays in the distance. The headlands joined to form a south-facing hill where a town hugged its slopes. Houses in neat rows marched across the face of the hill. At its crest rose a stone fort with high walls. The westward slope of hill curved around to meet a ridge that arched to the headland where a beacon tower stood proud near the edge of the cliff. Like the stone fort, the tower was finely crafted with graceful lines yet possessed the distinctive muscularity that identified it as the work of Númenórean hands. Even in the bright sun, the beacon light could be seen burning at the top. At its base was a small cottage. Tucked behind a low rise and set back beyond the tower was the red-tiled roof of a larger house.

"That is the Súl-Barad," said Elerína. "Its beacon serves to guide ships into the harbor and warn them of Osse's Teeth - the rocks yonder." She pointed to the base of the cliff where waves battered black fangs. 

"The fort and the tower look to be the craft of Númenor."

"They are," she replied. "Tar-Aldarion built them. The Men of Númenor established Gaillond long ago, far back in the Second Age when Captain Anardil made his first voyages," she said. "Númenóreans settled here, but their blood has since become mingled with that of lesser men."

"With all due respect, my lady," Sigilros interjected, "the village of Gaillond was established long before your Mariner King set foot on these shores. I remember that little tribe from Eyrn Vorn who crossed these waters. They came out on the wrong end of a feud - someone's daughter ran off with the wrong fellow or some such mortal nonsense." 

Elerína frowned, but he cheerfully continued undeterred. "The couple fled here with their friends and followers. All were clad in the skins of beasts and paddled rude coracles. Most of us thought they didn't amount to much, but Gil-galad found their story to be romantic and quaint, so he gave them leave to settle here on the western shore. In return, they were to pay tribute to the king with a share of their catch and keep watch on this far reach of the coast. Cirdan's folk came here to teach them the arts of shipcraft, and the Men of Gaillond have become superb fishermen."

"Skills no doubt strengthened by Númenóreans," Elerína said defensively.

"No doubt," Sigilros replied, "but then again, they had much skill to begin with. The Men who settled here learned to speak my people's language fluently. That and Gil-galad's protection are likely the reasons the Men of Númenor favored them and did not persecute them as they did those of the Men of Minhiriath."

"The Faithful persecuted no one!" she retorted.

"So you say, but remember, I lived during that time. Not all Númenóreans were so kind. I have long witnessed how Men treat other Men, and how one clan lords it over another. It seems to me that the descendants of Lúthien, even those who have but one drop of her blood in their veins, set themselves above other Men." 

Elerína narrowed her eyes. "And Elves are not clannish?"

When I unsuccessfully stifled a laugh, Sigilros shot an arrow into me with his eyes before he bowed to Elerína.

"I'll concede your point, my lady, for indeed the Golodhrim are a very arrogant folk." 

Then I did laugh freely. "Never mind all your bawdy jests about the Tawarwaith!" I then sought a diversion before the prickly banter turned into a full-blown argument. "Say, look! What are those?"

Bobbing on the waters were large bubbles of many colors. When we passed close to a few, I saw that they were globes of colored glass encased in nets.

"Those?" Captain Rinan answered from portside. "They are fishing floats. They mark lobster traps. Gaillond is famed for the black lobsters that live right here in the bay. It's said the Sea-Elves prize them."

Sigilros' smile gleamed like the sun on the water. "That they do! Ghastly looking things, lobsters, but oh, they taste good! King Gil-galad established the Feast of the Black Lobster that is held in his father's honor every six years, and this year is one of those. I expect an elven-ship will appear in these waters very soon. I hope to catch a ride on it so I may visit my kin in Mithlond. In the meantime, I will enjoy some steamed lobster here."

An ancient stone quay extended far out into the bay, but there were also many wooden wharfs that stretched from the seawall that protected the village.  Boats of various sizes and build were anchored nearby.  We pulled up alongside one of the wharfs.  The crew drew in their oars as The Otter's Tale eased alongside the dock. Sigilros and I threw ropes to the dockhands, who secured our vessel and stretched a gangway across the wale. 

I offered my hand to Elerína who stepped onto the plank as gracefully as an egret. A number of people clustered on the dock; they bowed and curtsied when Elerína alighted from the gangway, sharply reminding me of her other role: the widow of a king and the mother of the king-to-be. A man, once tall but now bent, and his silver hair and beard streaked with black, came forward and greeted us.

"It is my honor to welcome you, Lady Elerína."

"Thank you, Reeve Cellorn. I am pleased to be here again."

"We remember well the times when you and Lord Isildur and your sons graced us with your presence. We are glad that you have returned but saddened that your husband and sons have not. Please accept our condolences."

"Thank you for your courtesy. I have fond memories of Gaillond, too." Sorrow welled up in her voice, but she quickly composed herself. "Now please allow me to introduce Sigilros who has escorted us from Imladris, and Istyar Sámaril, the master of Elrond's forges."

The port reeve's dark eyes swept over us in appraisal but otherwise, he was unperturbed when he reached to take Sigilros' and my extended hands. Obviously, we were not the first Elves he had encountered.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Sigilros. Istyar, I have not had the honor of hosting visitors from Imladris in my lifetime, so welcome.  We expect a ship from Mithlond to arrive before midsummer. I imagine you are both anxious to join your own folk."

"The Istyar will be staying on," Elerína said. "He wishes to learn more about the sea so that he might better know the Men of Westernesse."

Cellorn's old eyes brightened. "Then you have come to the right place, for we of Gaillond are descended from the sailors and fisher-folk of Númenor. We live and die by the Sea." He called to a straw-haired man with a sunburnt face who was overseeing the task of unloading our baggage from the boat. "Glimor! See that Lady Elerína's belongings are taken to Lord Isildur's villa. Istyar and Master Sigilros, I can offer you comfortable accommodations in the keep, if that is to your liking, although I understand your folk like to sleep under the stars."

"I have slept under the stars on the hard deck of a boat for more days that I care to name," said Sigilros. "I will happily exchange that for a soft mattress and a roof over my head."

"The Istyar will be staying at the villa," Elerína interrupted, "and Master Sigilros is welcome there, too, for as long as he wishes. You may take their baggage there as well."

"As you wish, Lady Elerína. I would like to welcome you with a feast, but perhaps after you have settled in?"

"Yes, that would be agreeable. Gaereth?" Elerína called to her handmaid who was surrounded by a clutch of women of varying ages. Several had the same copper-colored hair as Gaereth. "A word with you and your sisters, if I may." Elerína turned to me. "Go on with the others. I must arrange for servants to attend to us. I will meet you at the villa."

The dockhands carried luggage to the shore where bags and boxes were loaded onto the backs of three shaggy ponies. Two boys led the beasts while Sigilros and I walked ahead with Glimor. He led us through a reeking market just beyond the sea wall. Piles of fish lay on benches and in stalls where vendors held forth loudly that they sold the very freshest fish, their claims undercut by the stench. Sigilros inhaled deeply and laughed. 

"Ah, now that smell takes me back. Just as ripe as the market in Mithlond! It has been a long time since I have eaten a good fish stew."

"Not hard to find around here, Master," said Glimor. "Now Mistress Gaereth's ma, she makes the best in these parts. I expect she will be doing the cooking at Lord Isildur's villa."

"Then I will look forward to tasting her stew."

We left the market and made our way along a path that skirted the tidy cottages, all built of granite hewn from the rocky hills; some houses retained the natural color of the stone, whereas others were white-washed. All had window boxes where spring flowers bloomed with a profusion of color and fragrance. Youngsters of the village, rosy cheeked and laughing, trotted behind us.

"The Elves! The Elves are here!" The children's Sindarin had a curious but pleasing accent, the sound of óre softened to the point of non-existence, as they sang a childish rhyme:

The Elves, the Elves have come from afar

To dance on the strand and sing to the stars.

Lee to the East, lee to the West.

Who of the Elves shall like me best?

The Elves, the Elves have come over the Sea

To seek the jewels with the light of the trees.

Lee to the East, lee to the West

Who of the Elves shall like me best?

 

A little girl with nut-brown hair streaked with gold gave Sigilros two white daisies. Sigilros took these. "May Uin bless you, child," he said. He tucked one flower behind his ear and another behind mine. 

"Uin?" I asked while we walked along the path.

"Yes, Uin. The folk of Gaillond revere the Great Whale." 

Ahead of us, Glimor paused and pointed toward the horizon where the black hump of a distant island rose above the glittering waters. "Aye, there's a shrine to the Great One on Tol Uin. Ne'er seen it myself. Only the whale-hunters are allowed to go there."

We left the village and the children behind and continued on the path that turned and now ran over the ridge. Below I saw the sun glittering brilliantly on the waters of the bay, and ahead of us, the tower loomed high. The path forked, and Glimor led us along the right branch that dipped and rose through the heath. Soon we saw a single story house sited on a low rise with several cottages and outbuildings near it. 

The home reminded me of those I had seen in the finer neighborhoods of Annúminas. Like the cottages in the village, it was built of stone but of far more subtle craft. Clay tiles formed its sloped roof. Granite posts and a lintel upon which were carved the images of the moon in all its phases framed the entry. Waiting by the double oaken doors were a short, wiry man with a foxy face, his hair grizzled but his stance hale, and a dark-haired woman with sharp blue eyes, a small chin and a pointed nose.

"Welcome, m'lords," said the man, bowing to us. "I am Caraneg, keeper of the light."

The woman curtsied. "And I am Limaerel, keeper of this fellow here and the villa besides. Glimor, see to their luggage," the pointy-nosed woman said with authority."Take it to the antechamber for now. Where is the Lady Elerína?"

"She will be along soon," I replied. "She gathers servants for the household."

"Aye, a sound plan. My lady has arrived sooner than we expected. The place is still in need of airing out and a good bit of dusting. There's only so much I can do by myself," huffed Limaerel. "If you'll allow me, m'lords, I shall show you the villa, and you can make yourselves comfortable." 

She swung open both doors, and light flooded into a vestibule and across a mosaic floor, its colorful tiles depicting an underwater scene of reeds, fishes and strange creatures that I recognized as octopuses. This small room opened up into a much larger entry hall. In its center was a shallow rectangular basin, filled with clear water, with an opening in the roof above it. The tiny tiles on the larger entry hall's floor had been laid down to show falmarindi frolicking in the waves of the Sea. More doors opened to this large room, but we passed these by as Limaerel took us to the dining hall, the mosaics of its floor even more elaborate with scenes of waves, far shores and ships, and another of a battle between a toothed whale and a monster with many limbs that Limaerel called a kraken.

From there we stepped out into the bright light of a courtyard surrounded by colonnades. In its center, water splashed in a fountain, cascading from the mouths of three marble dolphins. Small trees grew within the protection of the sunny courtyard: some bore green, yellow and orange fruit, which I recognized as citrus. Several bedchambers opened into the courtyard. In the southwest corner of the courtyard was a newer addition: a bathhouse that boasted both a frigidarium and a caldarium with marble basins and benches. Like the rest of the villa, mosaic tiles adorned its floors. Pipes and spigots in the bath indicated sophisticated plumbing.

"Furnace isn't fired up," said Limaerel while we admired the bathhouse, "but I will see to that soon enough as I expect you'll be wanting hot baths. Off there for your comfort is the latrine." She pointed toward a room where a stone bench ran alongside a wall, decorated with a mural of a garden. In the stone bench were six open seats aligned side by side. I heard water gurgling faintly and assumed a sewer flowed below to wash waste away. It reminded me very much of the public latrines in Ost-in-Edhil.

"Lord Isildur was so proud of the baths and that latrine. He'd conduct business there. Why, even your own elven-king himself and his advisors sat there in counsel with my lord!" 

As Limaerel guided us through the villa, she told us of its history: "It's said that the Mariner King himself had the first rooms of the villa built, though he never stayed here himself. Some of the other Sea-lords made use of it from time to time, but it was our Lord Isildur who expanded it and made this place his very own." 

Limaerel continued to point out Isildur's touches throughout in the villa: "Now Lord Isildur ordered that the mural to be painted here on this wall. It shows Elendil the King's seaside home in She-That-Fell" and "Lord Isildur wanted a mosaic floor of Uinen and her ladies dancing upon the waves here in the entry hall" and "Lord Isildur polished the dining hall table with his own hands."

Thus Isildur walked alongside us from room to room as we passed through his villa, our footsteps echoing on the mosaic floors. When we turned a corner into a large parlor, I half-expected to see him there, waiting for us. But there was nothing but furniture draped with cloth and a fireplace, its great hearth cold and dark. Limaerel went to the windows, and one by one, opened the shutters. Light of the early afternoon poured into the room, and the brisk scent of the Sea drove out the stale air.

The hearth, meant to be the centerpiece of this room, drew me toward it. I ran my hand over its stones, grey granite shot through with black and rose, carefully laid upon one another and mortared with precision. Then my fingers came to rest on runes carved into a cornerstone: Isildur. He must have built the hearth at least in part with his own hands. 

"It needs a mantelpiece." I turned to see Elerína standing in the doorway to the parlor. "He never finished it." She turned to call to Limaerel. "See that the Istyar's belongings are taken to the lord's bedchamber." 

Limaerel's thin eyebrows arched at the order but she replied firmly: "Yes, my lady."

"And Master Sigilros has use of the larger of the bedrooms across the courtyard."

"Yes, my lady!" Limaerel bowed and left.

Voices filled the emptiness of the villa as the servants arrived, mostly women and girls, but one older man and two boys. One of the boys tended to the fire to heat the caldarium. Elerína made use of the hot bath first, and Sigilros and I followed to wallow in the hot water with blissful enjoyment, the heat soaking away the weariness of long days of travel. 

After bathing, I returned to my quarters: a large inviting bedchamber where the windows opened to the West. On one wall was a mural of the Sea at sunset. An island with a light glimmered on the horizon. I realized this was a depiction of the view West from Númenor, and the distant light was the Tower of Avallone on Tol Eressea. I ran my hand over one of the tall posts of the bed, constructed of dark polished wood, and its curtains drawn back. Creamy linens were neatly tucked in around the mattress. Two chairs and a table were arranged near the fireplace, and a small desk and chair sat in a corner. Another mural of Elendil's seaside garden graced the wall shared with the adjoining room. An archway had been painted around a door that must open to Elerína's quarters, a door that was shut.

Clean clothing had been laid out for me while I bathed, but I left the chiton and blue robe where they hung. Instead, I unwrapped the towel from around my waist and stood naked by the door that separated me from Elerína. She had sequestered herself within, taking a nap most likely. I pressed my ear against the wood of the door, but heard no stirring on the other side. It had been so long since we had lain together in privacy and comfort, and I yearned for her touch. I considered interrupting her rest, but I took the shut door between our rooms as a sign that she was not to be disturbed. We would be together later, I assured myself. Thus resigned to solitude, I flung myself onto the bed with its firm but comfortable mattress and promptly fell asleep.

The sun in my face awoke me. Judging by the angle of the light that streamed through the west windows, the sun would soon set. I dressed quickly, and again went to the closed door to listen for Elerína, but heard nothing. I wandered out into the courtyard where I found Sigilros. We sat side by side on a stone bench and admired the fountain's song. Shortly, a silver bell chimed, summoning us to the evening repast. We met Elerína in the dining hall where she invited us to take our places on either side of her at the long table of glossy red wood, polished, as Limaerel had informed us, by Isildur himself. 

The servants brought out trays of food, mostly fruits of the Sea, and carafes of wine. A red-haired maiden set before me a platter upon which the half-shells of some sort of mollusk were arranged. My stomach lurched at the sight of the things. The half-shells were filled with plump grey mounds of glistening flesh that swam in clear fluid. They looked as disgusting as Dwarvish lye-cured fish. Sigilros plucked one from his platter and sucked it down, followed shortly by a second. His happy slurps revolted me. Elerína saw my discomfort and smiled with encouragement. 

"They are oysters," she said. "Just try one, Istyar. They taste much better than they look. Squeeze the lemon on them."

Taking the wedge of lemon, I did as instructed and tentatively raised the oyster in its shell to my lips, avoiding the horrid sight of its quivering flesh. 

"Oh, go on," chided Sigilros. "It won't kill you."

Steeling my nerves, I tipped the shell, and the oyster slid into my mouth. I had expected a slimy horror, not the briny, fresh waves of the Sea that burst onto my tongue. I rolled the morsel around and noted the texture was not slimy but velvety smooth, and the lemon added an agreeable tartness. A second oyster followed the first in short order.

"Well?" Elerína said expectantly.

"I like them. The oysters taste like..." I slid a third into my mouth and savored it.

"They taste like the Sea and..." I thought of something that the flavor reminded me of but thought better of saying it aloud. Instead I sucked down a fourth oyster.
"And what?" 

"Oh." I mumbled before I reached for the fifth oyster. "The Sea. Yes. That's what they taste like. As I said." 

In all I consumed six oysters and could have easily have eaten more, but the next course was presented to us: tender spring lettuces dressed simply with walnut oil and lemon juice. However, nothing could have prepared me for what came next.

One of the maids set before me a ceramic plate with a red monster lying upon it. The thing looked like an oversized crayfish. I surmised this must be a lobster. I had eaten crayfish harvested from the eddies of the Bruinen in Rivendell, but I had no idea how to approach this beast. Sigilros was right. The thing was ghastly in appearance. I just sat and stared at its beady eyes while Elerína and Sigilros tore into their lobsters with deadly efficiency, cracking the claws and picking out white flesh to dip into small bowls of melted butter.

"Does the young lad need help with his food?" Sigilros grinned between bites of lobster.

"Master Sigilros, you are so wicked," Elerína chided him. "Here, Sámaril." She reached over to take my lobster in hand. "First tear off the claw and then crack it with the pliers. Just so. Then break off the tail."

Soon enough, I was eating the succulent sweet meat and flinging chunks of shell into a tin bucket. The crisp white wine served throughout the meal counterbalanced the richness of the lobster.

The sun had set by the time we finished the meal with strawberries picked from the garden that afternoon. Elerína had summoned a harper from the village to entertain us. The young man appeared decidedly nervous at first, but soon gave himself over to his music, playing lighthearted rollicking songs that spoke to life's rhythms in this village by the Sea. But then he launched into a ballad that became a lament for the lord of the house. He sang of Isildur's life, from his childhood on the shores of Númenor to his daring raid of the fruit of Nimloth and the perilous flight to Middle-earth. 

Elerína's eyes brimmed with tears. How can she bear this house? I wondered. Everywhere there is a reminder of Isildur. 

By the time the last note was sounded on his sweet harp, the moon had risen and its silver light strove with that of the torches and candles. Elerína wiped her eyes with her napkin and spoke, her voice clear and steady despite her sorrow.

"That was beautiful. Your song does honor to my husband." She rose from her chair. "Now I shall excuse myself, my lords. I am weary. Master Tinnulin, thank you for your music this evening. I shall summon you again, but pray continue. The Istyar and Master Sigilros might not yet be ready to retire."

"Actually, I am more than ready for that soft mattress," Sigilros said, yawning mightily.

"Very well. Mistress Limaerel will see you out," she said to the harper. The servant did so, handing a small packet to the young man, payment most likely. Gaereth, who sat at the far end of the table, followed the harper with her eyes. He glanced back at her and gave her a little smile. Elerína rose from her chair and nodded to me, giving me my cue to rise from the table as well. 

I made my way to my bedchamber where the servants had turned back the bed covers and lit a fire in the hearth. A linen nightshirt had been folded and placed on the bed. A pitcher of water and a basin for washing were set on a washstand against one wall, and I glimpsed a chamber pot behind a screen in a corner of the room. Centered on the table was a bowl filled with fruit. The servants had attempted to assure that I wanted for nothing. However, there was only one that I wanted now, but the door between our quarters remained shut. I disrobed, and setting aside the nightshirt, I lay naked on the bed and waited.

My eyes wandered around the bedchamber that had once been Isildur's, taking in the murals and above me, the timbered ceiling. I glanced at the shut door. Had he lay here waiting for her, too? Watching that door shut to him? Or had he reached the end of his patience and opened it, taking what was his from his lawful wife? I dismissed that. The love Elerína bore for him contradicted a man who would behave in such a manner. 

Still, the door did not open. Restless, I rose from the bed and went to the desk, wondering if Isildur had once used the pens and pencils arranged in the cup that sat on a corner of the desktop. A magnifying glass rested near the cup. I resisted opening drawers to pry and instead walked to one of the windows to open the shutters, letting the cool sea breeze wash over my bare skin. The moon rose high in the sky over the Sea and cast the waters into rippled silver: Isil. Isildur's house. Isildur's wife.

Hinges creaked, a tiny sound, but enough for me to turn about and see my love, her sweet body clad in a gown translucent as mist, golden in the light of the fire. 
I closed the distance between us in a few steps and opened my arms. "Come to me, meldanya. It has been too long."

She wrapped her arms around me and fitted herself against my body. "It has," she whispered, "but we are together now." 

Her kisses traced the curve of my neck; she ran her fingers through my hair. My lips found her mouth, eager and hungry for me. Our kisses deepened, our hands roamed, and soon her gown lay discarded on the floor. We made our way to the bed where we collapsed entwined.

Her touch, her scent, her loving words -- all should have inflamed me to become iron-hard, yet my body hesitated. Doubt twinged when I turned my focus to my cock, hoping to will it into life, but there was no response. Elerína said nothing, but knowing what gave me pleasure, she took me in her hand. Still nothing. 

She had no such difficulties responding to my caresses that found her silky wet cleft. She trembled and gasped at my touch. My fingers teased her at first and then pressed against her firmly as her passion burned hotter. 

"Not yet!" she rasped, her voice husky with desire as she angled her hips away from my hand. She pushed me back against the mattress and straddled me. Her dark hair fell around me like a curtain, obscuring her face, but I felt her lips trace the line between the muscles of my belly down to peak of dark hair just below my navel and then beyond. I sighed while her mouth and tongue caressed me, but her attentions did not have the intended effect for that twinge of doubt had now become a seizure. 

This had not happened to me for many years, and before, such a lack of response had been due to horrific exhaustion or the burdens of profound grief. My mind raced. Yes, I was tired, but not exhausted, and I was more than happy to be alone with Elerína. Why, then, did my body betray me? The cycle of anxiety took firm now took firm hold and sucked me down into its whirlpool.

Elerína looked up at me. "Sámaril?"

"I think I . . .I must be tired," I lied. I pulled her up to hold her close. She reached to stroke me again, but I thwarted her hand to spare myself further humiliation. "Let me please you," I said, kissing her lips that now bore my own musky scent. "Let me seek the moon."

"I would like that."

So I did, finding the crescent mark on her inner thigh with my lips and tongue before I sought her deeper secrets. She grasped my hair in her hands and arched her hips when I brought her to the brink. At least I can do this well enough, I assured myself, but I remained limp even when she shuddered and cried out. I let her subside and catch her breath before I brought her to a peak again, repeating this until at last she pushed my head away.

Sated, she brought me up into her arms and held me. "I love you."

"I love you, too." I pulled the coverlet over us when the sea breeze chilled our sweat-slick bodies. "I am so sorry . . ."

She pressed her fingers against my lips. "Hush, my love. Don't be sorry. These things happen. You don't always have to..." she paused. "What you did pleased me. Very much."

I hugged her closer, grateful beyond words for her understanding. "The taste of you. I know it now," I murmured against her hair. 

"What?"

"When I ate that first oyster, I said it tasted like the Sea." I ran my fingers down to the base of her belly and gently cupped her mound. "It was not only the Sea though. The oyster tasted like you." 

I brought my hand back to embrace her. She rested her head against my chest, her hair silky on my skin.

I felt rather than saw her smile. "An oyster?" she murmured.

She then sighed with contentment. Soon she was asleep. But I remained awake, my thoughts a roiling jumble of disappointment and worry while I listened to the waves crash against the rocks, and tracked the watchful moonlight as it glided across the room.

---

Chapter End Notes

falmarindi: sea-nymphs

óre: Quenya and Sindarin consonant for "r" as in "car."

Chapter 38: The Crow's Nest

Because it has been a while since I updated (almost a year), I'll recap briefly: 

Sámaril (Ringmaker and Annatar's former apprentice, now master of the forge of Rivendell) and Elerína (Isildur's widow and now Sámaril's lover) and have arrived in Gaillond, intending to spend the summer there. The jewel that Sámaril has obtained from the Dwarves, and will use for the new Elendilmir, resists his attempts to apply the deep arts to it. Elerína believes this is because Sámaril needs to learn more of the Sea and the descendants of the Númenóreans who live and die by it. Hence, they arrive Gaillond, a port town northwest of the mouth of the Baranduin River. This chapter picks up about three weeks or so after their arrival.

Thanks muchly to the Lizard Council for their grooming and suggestions for the motifs on the ships' colors.  Darth Fingon's name generator came in handy, too.

Read Chapter 38: The Crow's Nest

 

The long dormant villa blossomed along with the spring flowers that waved in the meadows high above the Sea. The light of the bay and the ocean breezes drove back the shadows within, save for one that trailed Elerína and dogged my footsteps. It lingered in quiet corners, ever at edge of my vision, only to evaporate like mist in the sun when I turned my head to catch sight of it.

My beloved acknowledged no ghosts as she took firm charge of the household and more. Within a week of our arrival, Reeve Cellorn came to the villa to inform her of a problematic trade agreement between Gaillond and a port town called Brûn Hobas just beyond Edhellond. I learned quickly that issues of trade were common in Gaillond. Mortal and elven merchants sailed here from the south, the east, and the north seeking salt cod, sailcloth, whale oil, and the most precious of all commodities, ambergris, which Círdan's folk especially coveted.

As word of Elerína's arrival swiftly spread throughout the surrounding lands, visitors began to seek audiences with her. Up the path they came: traders from foreign ports; the local nobility, such as they were; and fishermen and merchants of the town. Elerína fell into the role of counselor with extraordinary ease. This should not have surprised me as much as it did, but then I had not yet seen this side of her so fully realized. Although she had contributed to the running of the household in Rivendell, she had little reason to display her capability for leadership so openly. Here in Gaillond, she left no doubt who had ruled by her husband's side in Minas Ithil, hard against Mordor's borders.

During those early days in Gaillond, I, too, was at her side when she conferred with her visitors. I sat on an exceedingly uncomfortable carved wooden chair nearby, where I felt like so much decoration, garbed as I was in a fine linen chiton and a robe of such a deep shade of purple that it approached black. The garments had belonged to Isildur. When I tried them on so that the tailor might adjust them, I recalled correctly that Isildur had been taller and broader than I.

"You look kingly, Istyar," said Elerína, who looked on with a smile of approval.

I ran my fingers over the gold embroidery of scrolled waves that edged the rich fabric of the robe. Although the garments had been cleaned and stored in a cedar chest, I was convinced that Isildur's scent still lingered on them.

"I am no king," I corrected her. "I am a commoner, my lady. A stonemason's son."

She shook her head, her smile now indulgent. "So you keep reminding me, but you truly have no idea the effect that the Fair Folk have on mortals, do you?"

I could only shrug and think that effect to be ridiculous, but also admitted to myself that I was not above using it to my advantage.

"So you wish me to exert these effects on your petitioners? Am I to be a fair elvish bauble on your arm?"

"A very fair one."

She introduced me to the tradesmen, nobles, and merchants as "the Istyar, the great loremaster of Rivendell's forges," or even more flowery titles, but I felt like a curiosity rather than anyone of real significance. More often than not, I found these audiences to be boring beyond words. Matters of business, save for the procurement of metals, ores, and gems from the Dwarves, had never held much interest for me.

Elerína, on the other hand, clearly enjoyed the dance of negotiations with the foreign merchants. She smiled, regal and gracious, while listening to their flattery that disguised slippery proposals, which would have left Gaillond short. Then she dashed their assumptions that a woman might have little ken for trade when she spoke of tariffs on imports and exports, projected needs of Gaillond, and currency values in their lands. She had a notable acumen for such things, and her practical talent for numbers served her well.

The disputes of the petty nobles that she heard were worse, but with patience, she presided over the unending disagreements, most often concerning borders of their properties, brought to her by the local landowners. Their bickering provided a form of entertainment for them, and perhaps Elerína, too, but they were exceedingly tiresome for me.

Thus, it was not long before I became restless and irritable from a growing sense of uselessness as Elerína continued to solidify her power in the region. Time and time again, she told me, "It is my duty as queen-mother to hear these men out. I do this for Valandil," but I had the sense that she relished her influence, now that she was out from under the ancient and often unyielding ways of Rivendell where Elrond was the undisputed lord and where his own counselors kept the books in order. Here, she had little in the way of competition.

She took note of my increasing restlessness. "You are here to relax, Istyar," she said. "You have worked hard for years uncounted. Enjoy your idleness for a change. If you do not wish to be a bauble at my side, as you say, then I excuse you to go do something elvish: enjoy the lands of the coast. Go explore!" Then she returned to the business at hand, whether it was reading a petition from a landholder, examining the map of a surveyor, or finding errors in the calculations of a sailcloth inventory.

Thus dismissed, I set aside Isildur's chiton and robe, donned my own clothing, and hiked along the narrow trails that meandered through the coastal heath, now fragrant with fresh green growth and resplendent with birdsong. From there, I entered the pine forest that loomed above the red and grey granite stones that tumbled down to the sea. I drank in the green scent of the woodlands and the briny odor of the ocean. I listened to the cries of the fish hawks, the trumpeting of swans, and the eternal sighing of the surf. Often, I found myself standing on the heights near the great beacon tower of Súl-Barad, where I looked out over the bay and beyond to the sea, watching the boats and ships come and go. I made my way down to the shoreline where waves broke upon the rocks to cover me with salty spray, but I found no peace.

It was around that time that I began to dream of the Sea. In some dreams, I walked into the surf that drew me into deep water where I swam, breathing as a fish might, with beams of sunlight that sliced down into the profound depths. A melody so deep that it was almost beyond hearing engulfed me. I strained to listen to this song of the Sea, trying to find meaning in words that were indistinct and mingled with the rush of the surf.

One of these dreams was exceedingly strange and vivid, as the most memorable of our dreams tend to be. I found myself braced on the deck of a swift ship that surged through the waves. Its sails caught the wind and billowed into the wings of a hawk that lifted the ship to fly over the dark waters. My heart soared along with the flying ship, and I felt I could fly, too, so I leapt over the wale of the deck. I did not plunge into the water, but ran across the swells, fast as a hunting wolf. I charged toward water that churned white streaked with crimson, closer and closer to my unseen prey, my blood running hot with the lust of the hunt, and then I awakened with my heart pounding and my cock iron-hard.

That I woke up in such a state of arousal at least assured me that there was nothing fundamentally wrong with my body, for the difficulties in the bedchamber between Elerína and me continued unabated. Despite her sure knowledge of what gave me pleasure, I was unable to maintain my erection such that I could enter her, or, on the occasions that I was successful, so that we could remain joined. I had other ways of sating her and took gratification in her moans of love, but I knew that she, as much as I, longed for the connection now denied to us. Each failure made the next one worse. While we lay together on my bed, her words of understanding no longer soothed me, but grated instead, for I sensed the frustration that lay beneath her thin coat of empathy.

One morning, as the rising sun burned off the morning fog and after I had failed once again in our lovemaking, I complained of an impending visit from an official from the sail-makers' guild of Lond Daer, one Master Caumbar. She shrugged on her dressing gown as she readied to return to her own bedchamber. While I grumbled peevishly, she pulled the long fall of her hair from beneath the garment.

"Then take a walk if it bores you so," she said while rolling her eyes. It was such a small gesture, trivial even, but it ignited annoyance into anger, and my response was not temperate.

"I can take only so many walks! I need something to do!"

"Then make yourself useful for something!"

Our eyes were locked while the tension between us crackled. The bitterness of what was left unsaid pierced me. Her face softened with remorse, and she forced a smile, but my manly pride, already wounded, was now severely stung. She closed the distance between us and wrapped her arms around my waist, but rather than pulling her to me, I clenched at her touch. Her face fell while her hands dropped away from my body. She gamely forged ahead while I ground my teeth to prevent another outburst.

"Then why don't you go with Gaereth to the market this morning?" she said, her voice wavering for just a moment before she regained control. "Her mother is sending her there to buy provender for this evening's supper that she will prepare for Master Caumbar. Visit the town and talk to the people. I daresay Gaereth would appreciate your company." Then she left me and closed the door between our bedchambers with a resounding thud.

So on that morning, Gaereth and I, both carrying large baskets, and followed by Lithorn, the kitchen boy, laden with more baskets, walked down the path into the town. It was a menial chore, but it allowed me to escape the mounting frustration between Elerína and me. As I walked along, I chewed on a blade of new grass and fretted: what I hoped would be a summer idyll had rapidly become fraught with worry and resentment. Every day that passed under the cloud of trouble etched yet another sad and painful memory that would remain with me until, if the tales were true, the world ended and the Firstborn along with it. I mashed the grassy stem between my teeth in an effort to wrest my thoughts from a spiral of despair and focused instead on Gaereth's chatter.

"Mama wants scallops and flounder for today's luncheon and lobster for supper tonight. She said we should bring back mussels and oysters, too." Gaereth's accent had reverted to a thick coastal brogue almost as soon as we rowed into the harbor. "Master Nibendur should be docking his boat soon, so we'll get the scallops and flounder from him. Master Losbreg will have mussels. He gathers them off the rocks most every morning at dawn. He'll have oysters, too. You like oysters now, don't you, Istyar?"

"Yes, I like them quite a lot actually."

"And lobsters? You like them, too?"

"Yes, Gaereth. Lobsters are tasty, even if they look like big, horrible bugs."

"But you eat crayfish back in Rivendell!"

"Yes, but they are smaller, less horrible bugs."

She laughed at that. "We must get lobsters at the docks, too. My kinsmen trap the best."

The path from the villa became a cobbled street. We passed modest but tidy stone cottages where spring flowers bloomed bright in window boxes. As we drew nearer to the walls of the fortress, the cottages gave way to larger houses that had shops on the ground floor with living quarters above. Carved wooden signs advertised their services: a barrel for the cooper, a boot for the cobbler, an urn for the potter, a sailboat in the wind for the sail-maker, and loaves for the baker. The tantalizing scent of freshly baked bread wafted from the shop and mingled with that of flowers and of the sea. The town was refreshingly free of the stench of sewage that so often plagued villages of mortals, thanks to the sewers built by the Númenóreans, and the village folk were the healthier because of it.

I looked down a side street, which ended in a wide paved courtyard before a building with a huge chimney with many vents rising from its center. Wisps of smoke floated up to the sky from the chimney. A wooden sign with a ship's anchor carved into its surface creaked on its hinges in a gust of the morning breeze off the ocean; it sounded like the riggings of a sail straining in the wind. This had to be a smithy, but one that made hardware for ships and boats rather than hoes and ploughs for yeomen of the land. I made a note of it, thinking I would pay the smith a visit at another time.

I smelled and heard the market long before I saw it: the reek of fish mingled with the odors of many people. Voices shouted and haggled. Laughter mingled with song. Someone played a tin whistle, another beat on drums. We emerged into the market that spread through the square in front of the old Númenórean fort.

In the center of the square rose a fountain where water spilled over the marble statue of a breaching whale. Merchants hawked all manner of wares in the two dozen or so stalls that surrounded the stone-paved square. Near the fountain, a juggler spun two glass floats, a hammer, a wooden ball and a large pinecone between the blurs that were his hands. Gaereth and young Lithorn made a beeline for the small crowd that had gathered round to watch him. His tin cup was half-full of coppers and guarded by little brown and white dog with fierce eyes.

While the juggler's skill captivated Gaereth and Lithorn, I looked over the crowd in the market square. As I had observed when we first arrived in Gaillond, these people were more accustomed to the presence of Elves than many of the Middle Men, so my presence was not met with fear, but instead with curiosity. Likewise, I studied them.

Some men and women were tall and thin, some squat and plump, and yet others compact and wiry. Many had dark brown or tawny hair, blue or green eyes, and skin that ranged from pale to amber. These people, based on what Reeve Cellorn had said (and confirmed by Sigilros), were the descendants of the Númenórean fisher folk and tradesmen who had returned to Middle-earth when life on the island had become oppressive. Before that, Sigilros said, they counted themselves of the tribes of Beor and Hador. Others, like Gaereth, had red hair that ranged from dark russet to fiery orange and milky skin dotted with freckles. These folk had come from the exiled tribe of the Minhiriath. A few people were brown-skinned with wavy or curly black hair, descendants of traders from the coasts of Far Harad and beyond who had decided to settle in this northern coastal town. Despite the differences in appearance, the ties to the sea united these people.

Unlike the juggler, the market stalls offered little distraction to Gaereth, who, after tossing a copper into the cup and scratching the not-so-fierce little dog behind his ears, threaded her way through the crowd with Lithorn and me in tow. We bypassed the stalls where merchants sold clothing, leather goods, vegetables, herbs, potions, jewelry, tools, bread, and pies. We stopped only at Master Losbreg's stall to select a bucket of mussels and oysters. It was situated among large booths where silver fish of many shapes and sizes lay lined up according to kind; squid and octopus were piled in tin buckets filled with sea water, but Gaereth bought no fish from these merchants.

"Mama always buys from our kin at the docks," Gaereth sniffed.

We left the market square by way of stone steps that led down to the wide street heading toward the docks. Beyond, the bay shimmered in the mid-morning sun. Small vessels under sail glided across the water, and fishermen tied their boats down on the docks, made from wood that looked relatively new, in contrast to the ancient stone quay that extended out far out into the bay. Although the fresh scent of the sea replaced the reek of the market, I caught another odor on the breeze, a rancid stench that made my stomach queasy.

Beyond the quay, four ships were anchored in deeper water. Three of these were single-masted cogs, similar to those that I had seen in Tharbad, but larger, no doubt capable of sailing on the open Sea. The banner of Lond Daer - a spreading oak tree surmounted by stars - flew from two of the cogs, but the other banner, that of a ship under sail on a pale blue field, was strange to me.

It was the fourth ship that captured my attention. Although larger than the cogs, the two-masted vessel was sleeker and possessed of a predatory beauty. Two smaller boats hung off its sides, one at the stern, one at portside, and I thought I glimpsed a third at starboard. The colors of Gaillond, a breaching whale against a dark blue field, waved lazily from the higher of the two masts. The figurehead at the bow showed the profile of a bird of prey, and I read a name painted on its side: The Sea Hawk. I caught a whiff of the horrendous odor again, and I realized it came from that graceful ship.

Tied to the wooden docks were lesser fishing boats of all sorts where their crews unloaded their morning's catch. Hundreds of gulls wheeled in the sky overhead, screaming and diving to snatch offal flung from the boats. Gaereth went to this boat and that, where we bought flounder and scallops from the fishermen, all of whom seemed to know her or her family. Then she led me to an old brown boat - the Beach Rose - where four men were hauling cages onto the dock. One of the men, the oldest of the four, looked up when we approached, and smiled broadly. His red face crinkled into a thousand wrinkles, and his smile exposed rotten and missing teeth.

"Gaereth, my lady-girl! I heard ye're back and here y'are. M'lord!" He swept the faded cap off his bald pate and bowed.

"Hello, Cap'n Gwathlin! Mama sent me to buy lobsters from you for my lady's supper."

"And right your ma is in sending you to me. I trap the best. How many?"

"Eight, I should think. Not too big, but not too small. She wants to make lobster pies."

"Your ma's lobster pies are the best in the port. Here, now, Raenhalf! Open up those cages for your cousin."

While Gaereth picked out the lobsters, all so dark as to be nearly black, I introduced myself to the captain of the lobster boat.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Istyar," he said, his brogue thicker than the creamy white clam chowder that Gaereth's mother served at the villa. "My cousin seems to be faring well with your folk up north there in the Faerie Vale. She has that lilt in her voice and the brightness of eye that mark those who spend time with the Fair Folk. Still, she has missed the sea, I warrant."

"I think you're right, Captain," I replied as I watched Raenhalf deftly tie the lobsters' claws with twine and then stuff the creatures and seaweed into the deep basket strapped to Lithorn's back. "She has adjusted well to life in valley, but her face was alight when we reached the sea."

"What of you, Istyar? You are not of the Sea-Elves."

"No, I am not a Sea-Elf. A Deep-Elf, rather. This is the first time I have visited the Sea. So far, I have liked it, and I would like to learn much more." Then I let loose the desire that had latched hold of me. "I'd like to sail out on the open waters. We came here by riverboat, but did not venture far from shore."

"I'm sure you'd find a captain willing to take you out for a cruise."

"What of that ship?" I nodded toward The Sea Hawk.

The lobsterman frowned and shook his head. "If m'lord is wanting a cruise, you might pick another. The Sea Hawk is a whaler. That ship means hard work and danger."

"I am not interested in a mere cruise. I have seen both hard work and danger, Captain."

"Like as not you have, m'lord, but not like that on a whaler. And if you'll pardon me, you are no man of the Sea."

Gwathlin was right. I was not experienced with the Sea, but I remained undeterred. The haunting melody of the deep waters called to me, even as I stood there talking to the lobster boat captain, and the image of the flying ship of my dream glided across the edge of my sight.

"I'd like to meet the captain of The Sea Hawk. Is he ashore?"

"Aye. Like as not, you'll find Cap'n Duin at The Crow's Nest."

"Thank you, Captain. Here's payment for your lobsters." I placed several coppers in his rough palm. "Could you tell me where The Crow's Nest is?"

"It's right there." He pointed toward a two-story stone building with a high-pitched roof that faced the water, bracketed by boatwrights' warehouses. "Raenhalf, you take m'lord to The Crow's Nest and find Captain Duin for 'im. Gilbaran, you help your cousin with the lobsters and walk with her and the lad back to the villa. Maetham and I will finish up here."

"Aye, Pa," answered both young men.

"Have a care in the Nest, Istyar. There's some rough trade there."

"I will." I patted the sheath of my long knife. "This blade has tasted troll and orc blood more than once." The lobsterman's eyes widened a bit. "I have also seen very rough trade long ago on the docks of Tharbad. I thank you for your concern, Captain, but be assured that I am capable of defending myself, should the need arise. Your lobsters are quite good, by the way, if those are what I have been dining on at the villa."

He smiled, baring rotten teeth again. "Aye that they are. Good luck to you then, Istyar."

Raenhalf led me to tavern where a weathered sign, carved with a crow pecking at a crab, which swung above the planked door. I stepped into a dark, smoky shroud. The place stank of ale, long unwashed bodies, and fish. The men at the tables and the women draped over them all stared at me. Behind the bar, a stout woman, her heavy breasts nearly spilling free of her laced bodice, wiped tankards with a grey rag. Sitting at the bar was a lone man, who remained focused on his ale as Raenhalf led me to him.

"Cap'n...sir," the boy said hesitantly. "I brung someone who wants to meet you."

The man swiveled around to face me. Luminous brown eyes under black brows raked me up and down. His skin was tanned from the sun, and his jaw bristled with unshaven whiskers. Despite his unkempt look, this man, with the sculpted planes of his face, square chin, and those beautiful eyes, could be called fair even among my people. He took a drink of his ale and assessed me shrewdly above the rim of the tankard as he did so.

"Cap'n Duin," Raenhalf said. "This here is the Istyar, the smith of Rivendell."

"Ah." Duin set the tankard down on the bar counter. His smile gleamed with perfect white teeth. "The Elf-lord from the North. The Lady's...uh, friend." My brows arched at his emphasis, but he answered with an impertinent wink. "I am Thólon Duin, captain of The Sea Hawk. Pleased to meet you." He extended his hand, and I shook it in my own, our grips tight.

"My pleasure, Captain Duin."

He invited me to sit beside him. I did so after telling the obviously uncomfortable Raenhalf that he could leave, which he did in short order, but not without staring at the blowsy women who lounged about the tavern.

"What brings an Elf to The Crow's Nest?" Duin gestured to the barmaid who silently set a full tankard of ale in front of me. The brew was sour and skunky. "None of Cirdan's folk set foot in here."

"I am not of Cirdan's folk."

"Should have figured," he said. "You're taller, bigger than the Sea-folk. I'd guess you are of the High Elves?"

"Descended from them, yes. My family followed Lord Fingolfin across the Grinding Ice, and they lived in Gondolin for a time, but I was born here."

"An ancient lineage you have then. I won't even ask when you were born. You're lucky to have caught me on land. Why did you wish to meet me, Istyar?"

"Captain Gwathlin said you are a whale-hunter."

"That I am."

"And yet you are the captain of a sea-faring ship. I thought the whales were hunted from shore here in Gaillond. I've seen the watch towers."

"Yes, that is how whales were hunted for many years here, and still are if right whales are the prey. They swim closer to shore."

"You do not hunt those whales?"

"No. I hunt the carcassi."

"Toothed whales?"

"Yes, the Lions of Uin. The great whales with fangs in their jaws and rich oil in the humps of their heads. They swim in the deep waters, and I know where to find them. Why would this interest an elven-smith?"

"Because I wish to go to Sea for a time, to sail out on the open water. I saw The Sea Hawk anchored in the bay. That is the ship on which I'd like to sail. So I am here to ask if you might take me aboard for a time."

For a few moments, Duin stared at me. Then, he started to chuckle, which grew into breathless - and derisive - laughter. When Duin at last got himself under control, he turned about to the men in the tavern. "Did you hear that, lads? This noble landlubber of an Elf wants to take a little pleasure cruise with us on The Sea Hawk!" Duin snorted again, and taking the cue from their captain, the men burst into half-drunken guffaws.

"What is so ridiculous about my request?"

Duin's smile faded. "What is ridiculous is that you have no notion of what a voyage on my ship is like. Our hunts are not a lark. We sail far into the Sea to find the carcassi." He took a long swig of ale, set the tankard down, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "What could you do aboard my ship? I cannot afford a useless landlubber."

"I am a smith so I can mend things. I'm good with knots. I can row well. And I'm very strong. Stronger than any on your crew, I imagine."

He sized me up again. "That may be. I know the Sea-Elves are a strong folk, and your smith's work shows in the breadth of your shoulders and the calluses on your hands. But, no. I cannot take you aboard. Our voyages may last months, more often a year or more. That may be a blink of an eye to you and your folk, but I doubt that the great lady in the villa would take too kindly to me whisking you away for what would be long time for her. I know a few here who might give you a ride, if you wish, or you might go out on one of the lobster boats."

"Oh, I intend on doing that, going out on the lobster boats, I mean. But I want to hunt a whale."

"Why?"

My vivid dream had begun to make sense, but that was not something I intended to reveal to Duin, who no doubt already thought I was quite mad. "I'm not altogether sure. Perhaps because whaling seems so important to the folk of Gaillond, and before that, of Númenor-That-Was, and that is what I wish to know: the heart of the people here and of the Númenórean exiles. Not just the nobility, but also those who work. Like yourself and your crew."

"You have good intentions, thinking of us hard-working mortals like that, and I wish you luck. But I simply cannot take you aboard my ship. It is far too dangerous, and I will not risk your lady's displeasure."

We kept our eyes locked for some time until he broke away to empty his tankard. "Another, Maedael, for me and the Elf-lord."

"Not for me, thank you," I said as I placed two silver coins on the counter, far more than the price of the tankard I had just consumed. Duin's eyes glittered when he saw the money. It was more than enough to pay not only for my tankard, but two times over for Duin and his men. I saw that there might be a way for him to take me aboard. "There's more of that, Captain. And elf-jewels, too, should you reconsider my request. Thank you for your time."

With that, I rose from the stool to walk out of the dusky tavern into the bright, brine-laden day. I went to the edge of the sea wall, where I squinted against the glare and watched The Sea Hawk gently rise and fall with the gentle swells. It was thoroughly impossible, this obsession to hunt a whale, but the Sea called and would not release me.

 

~*~

 

Three days later I stood at the edge of the cliff overlooking the bay where The Sea Hawk remained anchored, Súl-Barad at my back, and watched a lone figure trudging up the path to the villa. Soon enough, Thólon Duin was at my side, where he joined me to gaze out over the bay and the ocean beyond.

"What was it that Voronwë said to Tuor of the Sea?" he asked, revealing that he was a man of some learning. "Worse things it holds than to sink into the abyss and so perish: loathing, and loneliness, and madness; terror of wind and tumult, and silence and shadows where all hope is lost and all living shapes pass away. Is that what you wish to know, Istyar?"

"I have known madness and terror, Captain."

The whaling captain fixed me with his dark eyes, seeking more from me, but that I would not give him, not yet. He pulled off the battered cap from his head to reveal thick dark hair, shot through with strands of silver that gleamed in the sunlight. He raked his fingers through his hair and replaced his cap. "You are a fey one, no doubt, but I think I may be able to grant you your wish. For gold, that is. I cannot speak to your lady's ire."

"I will handle Elerína."

"Very well." His eyes took a distant cast, as if he were listening for something. "I can take you out for a month. You'll need to make it worth my while."

"I can accommodate that. How much?"

"Twenty kulustar."

I almost agreed at once, so eager I was to sail on The Sea Hawk, but I could practically hear Mélamírë's voice shouting in my ear: "Your counteroffer should make them bleed!" She had loved to dicker with the merchants of Tharbad, dragging us from stall to stall in the marketplace to buy almost worthless trinkets, simply because bargaining entertained her. She joked that she must have inherited her propensity for haggling from her grandfather Carnistir. I had to smile at the memory.

"Six."

Duin clapped his hand over his heart. "You wound me, Istyar! You may as well take a dinghy and try your hand at trawling for flatfish at that price." Then he grinned, his brown eyes gleaming. "Seventeen kulustar."

"Twelve. That's enough for two voyages I should think." I had no idea if it truly was, but the glint in his eyes suggested he thought it a good price.

He countered. "Fifteen."

"Twelve." I held firm and added, "The Eldar consider it a lucky number." I took my chances that Duin might be as superstitious as Captain Rinan.

"Twelve it is." And we shook hands on it.

"I will weigh anchor in two week's time," he said. "But let's you and I go fishing first. I want to see how much watercraft you have. Meet me at the docks at dawn tomorrow morning, and be prepared for new blisters. Good day to you, Istyar."

Duin doffed his cap and turned to walk back to the town. The man, who looked like tattered nobility with his unshaven but fair face, carried himself with confidence, and yet his legs seemed a little wobbly on land, as if they missed the Sea. When he disappeared behind the rise, I steeled myself to return to the villa so that I might count my coins and tell Elerína of my plans for an utterly mad adventure.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

In the Pandë!verse, Brûn Hobas is the port town that will become Dol Amroth latter in the Third Age; bear in mind that this chapter of The Elendilmir takes place very early in the Third Age (~ 4 T.A.) (, prior to Imrazôr settling there and the eventual name of Dol Amroth.   The banners of Brûn Hobas, Lond Daer and Gaillond are solely my invention with input from the Lizards.

Lond Daer (Vinyalondë) is the port at the mouth of the Gwathló, established by Tar-Aldarion in the early Second Age. 

On Brûn Hobas:  Cobas Haven is mentioned in The History of Middle-earth VII, The Treason of Isengard, "The First Map," page 312.   From Note 10: "In the Etymologies  (V.364  - 5) Quenya kopa 'harbour,  bay'  was given under the stem KOP, but this entry was replaced by a stem KHOP, whence Quenya hopa, Noldorin hobas, as in Alfobas = Alqualonde."   Thus,  in the Pandë!verse, Brûn Hobas = Enduring Harborage.  Thanks to Russandol for nattering about this.

Carcassi - derived from Quenya carcassë, row of spikes or teeth.  This is my guess at a word for Physeter macrocephalus, the sperm whale.

Kulustar -  plural of kulusta, gold coin, from JRRT's Qenya Lexicon.

Captain Thólon Duin takes a bit of inspiration from Captain Billy Tyne of The Andrea Gail out of Gloucester, Massachusetts, the subject of Sebastian Junger's The Perfect Storm, later made into a movie starring George Clloney and Mark Wahlburg.  Cap'n Duin might just resemble Mr. Clooney to some degree. ;^)

Appendix: List of Characters

Although I have noted characters in the End Notes of chapters, a more or less comprehensive list is provided here.

Read Appendix: List of Characters

Names were concocted using a combination of Claudio's name generators, the Ardalambion site, the Hesperides Sindarin dictionary and the Parma Eldalamberon 17 (PE17); links for these are given in story notes. Some changes have been made in pre-existing chapters. These are noted below.
----------------------------
Noldor (and their descendants) of Imladris

Sámaril – Master of the Forge of Imladris
Thornangor (Thorno) – master smith; Sámaril's right-hand man
Astaron – (was Apsaner) master of the kitchen (astar = faith, loyalty; a Quenya gloss gleaned from a list in the PE17)
Lairiel (was Lanyawen) – master weaver
Cuivendil – master glass artisan, Lairiel’s husband
Calaquar (was Panoquar)– master woodwright
Galfaron – huntsman formerly of Celegorm's following; a Sindarin name for this Noldo. This likely is his epessë.

Noldor (and their descendants of Ost-in-Edhil

Mélamírë (Istyanis Náryen) – master smith of the Otornassë Mírëtanoron/Gwaith-i-Mírdain; Sámaril’s friend and Thorno’s mentor.
Culinen – Mélamírë’s mother; healer and guild master of Ost-in-Edhil.
Manendur – loremaster, a sr. aide to Istyar Pengolodh.
Nierellë – Sámaril’s wife; died in the fall of Ost-in-Edhil.
Teretion – master smith (Tyelperinquar’s former apprentice); forged seven Rings of Power.
Midhel (Sinda) – Teretion’s wife ; see Risk Assessment
Orondo – Sámaril’s father, died in the fall of Ost-in-Edhil
Macilion – Mélamírë’s apprentice, now the master smith of Galadriel and Celeborn’s people.

Brethilion - a healer (Noldorin father, Sindarin mother) specializing in surgery; born in Caranthir's realm in the First Age; trained under Culinen's guidance. Lived in Ost-in-Edhil but fled to Lórien after the fall of Eregion. Served under Elrond duing the War of the Last Alliance.


Sindar of Imladris

Naurusnir (was Nauruscir) – journeyman smith (may change his name yet again)
Maidhel – Astaron’s chief assistant
Lhainir – Sámaril’s assistant
Lathronir – master cobbler
Laerwen – musician
Duineth (was Gwauneth) – mistress of the flocks (domestic geese, ducks, chickens) and Galfaron's wife.

Tawarwaith of Imladris:

Midhloth – Silvan, housemaid.
Limnen – Silvan, housemaid.

And the usual canonical suspects:

Glorfindel = Laurefin (from JRRT's notes in Parma Eldalamberon 17)
Gildor
Erestor
Elrond
Lindir

Aulendil (Annatar, Sauron)
Tyelperinquar (Celebrimbor)

Elendil
Isildur
Elendur
Aratan
Ciryon
Valandil
Anárion (briefly)
More to follow possibly -- oh, hell, probably.

The Dúnedain in Imladris

Valandil – youngest son of Isildur (see above!)
Isilmë – high queen of the Dúnedain, Elendil’s wife
Elerína – co-queen (in exile) of Gondor, Isildur’s wife

Vorwen (was Vorawen) – Isilmë’s sr. lady-in-waiting

Irimë – wife of Elendur, Isildur’s eldest son
Surien - Elendur and Irimë's eldest daughter
Yavien – wife of Aratan, Isildur’s second son.

Gaereth – Valandil’s nursemaid and later, one of Elerína's personal servants.

Dúnedain of Annúminas and Amon Sûl

Vorondil – chief of the Queen’s Men and Isilmë's nephew
Lónando - Queen's knight
Bregolas - Lónando's squire
Arindur - loremaster, keeper of the palantír of Amon Sûl
Finion - loremaster, keeper of the palantír of Annúminas and former smith/engineer of the shipyards of Rómenna.
Lord Anardil - nobleman of Arnor and ambitious member of Elendil's court

Dúnedain of Gondor

Lindissë - wife of Anárion; mother of Menendil

Longbeards of Khazad-dûm

Láki - master smith
Ragni – gem cutter
Birna - Láki's wife
Valka - Láki's sister