The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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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.

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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.”

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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.