The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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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.

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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.

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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.