The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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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).

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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.”

 

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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