The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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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.

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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 Patches of dead trees, the result of the year without a summer after the cataclysm of Númenor, had been replaced by lush green growth.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!