The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 15: A Midsummer Night's Converse

The smiths arrive in Imladris on Midsummer Eve. While Thornangor celebrates, Sámaril, tired from his journey, spends the evening in quiet conversation with Elerína. She tells him of her frightening but puzzling encounter with Sauron in Armenelos.

Heads up for a bit of mythological cross-over with The Ramayana.

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After I dispatched the troll spawn, Thornangor and I resumed our journey to Imladris. Thorno grumbled but agreed to ride Tuilin while I walked. We had made our way to the Dúnedain’s hill fort overlooking the bridge. There we informed the Men of the trolls and bid them to stay wary should any others make their way south. We remained there for two more days to allow Thorno’s rib to knit.

Along with others of the Dúnedain, I had kept the night watch. One morning, when the eastern horizon brightened, a silken voice sang the hymn of dawn. Thorno ambled up the steps to the top of the wall, still singing and stretching his arms and shoulders to greet the new day. My mortal companion on the watch straightened up from leaning on the outer wall and rubbed his sleepy eyes.

“Greetings, my lords!” Thorno said, his eyes bright and voice clear. “Any sign of trolls or did you just hear owls last night?”

“Only owls,” I said. “I take it you’re feeling better.”

“No pain whatsoever. We should press on so we do not outstay the good Dúnedain’s hospitality.”

“You are welcome to stay as long as you wish, Master Thornangor,” said the Dúnadan guard. “When was it that you were injured by the troll?”

“Three days ago.”

“And you’re in no longer in pain? From a broken rib?”

Thorno nodded and set off along the perimeter wall, resuming his song and looking out over the landscape. The Dúnadan watched Thorno walk away. The man shook his head, a shock of shaggy brown hair falling onto his forehead, and muttered, “Only three days ago...would that we were so blessed.” He pushed his unruly hair back from his brow and trudged down the steps when one of his better-rested fellows arrived to take over the day watch.

The Dúnedain provided Thornangor with a rough-coated but strong horse so we made good time to Imladris, arriving on Midsummer’s Eve, or more accurately, that afternoon. Song greeted us as soon as we arrived in the valley: women in the gardens and orchards lifted their voices in praise of Yavanna while they collected vegetables and fruits for the evening’s feast.

The guards of the valley must have passed along the news of our imminent return, since a few wandered into the court before the house to meet us. We dismounted, the stable hands leading the horses away. Midhloth, her leaf-green eyes shining, held two wreaths of flowers. Thorno and I each bowed so that she could place these over our brows.

Then I looked up to see Elerína walking toward us with Lairiel by her side. Clad in a misty grey gown, her arms bare and adorned with simple gold bracelets, Elerína's was a somber presence amidst the more festive elven-women. Her hair was pulled back tight and plaited, her blue eyes grave. A smile lifted the sorrow from her face and that nearly sent me to my knees. I repeated the words in my mind over and over -- She is my dear friend. I will not jeopardize our friendship -- until I could breathe again.

Following the tradition of homecoming, she carried a goblet filled with sweetened wine. I took it from her and sipped the summer-wine, tasting the grassy flavor of woodruff.

“Welcome home, my lord.” She put her finger to her lips when I started to protest the unnecessary honorific. “Indulge me, Istyar. You deserve that much. I have heard some of what you accomplished at Amon Sûl. We are indebted to you. I would speak to you about it later.” She glanced at Midhloth and the other women who milled around Thorno who, I noted with interest, focused his attention on Lairiel, who stood Noldorin tall above the woodland sylphs.

“Of course, my lady,” I said, returning the goblet to her hands, trying to take care not to let my fingers linger upon hers, but memorizing the fleeting touch that could not be avoided. “Where is the prince?”

“Valandil is with Galfaron and the dogs and falcons. Are you surprised?”

“Oh, very! I expect he’s ready for some fishing, too. That is, if he has stayed on top of his arithmetic.”

“He has. Not a day passed when he did not show me his assignments and ask when you would return.”

“I’ll take him to the river tomorrow. I really must excuse myself, my lady. I’m sure I’m in desperate need of bathing. Will you and your ladies join me for wine on the eastern porch after the feast tonight? We can talk then.”

She nodded and then went to Thornangor to offer him the summer-wine.

Even during that time of war, death and uncertainty, Imladris’ Midsummer’s Eve celebration was lively. After the feast, replete with fruits, vegetables, grilled venison and smoked trout with side dishes of song and verse, I made my way to the kitchen to fetch carafes of white wine and glasses. There I encountered Midhloth who caught my hand.

“Will you join me tonight?” she asked. I knew that she meant more than just the dance around the solstice bonfire.

“I must decline for this evening. The Lady Elerína has asked that I speak with her about Amon Sûl. And I am tired from my journey. Another time.” I kissed her lightly on her smooth cheek.

Midhloth frowned, but her displeasure evaporated when Thornangor came through the door.

“Well, I am not tired, Mistress Midhloth! I’ll dance with you,” he said. With a dramatic sweep of my arm, I bowed to Thornangor.

“It is my loss. Enjoy yourselves.”

Astaron, in a hurry to join the festivities in the woods, nonetheless found two carafes for me, filling them with wine chilled by blocks of last winter’s ice extracted from beneath the icehouse’s mounds of sawdust. Limnen carried the wine and glasses on a tray while I hefted two copper buckets of crushed ice.

On the side porch that overlooked the valley, I found Elerína along with her ladies, Irimë and Vórwen, who had remained in Imladris after Isilmë had returned to Annúminas. Limnen, after pouring the wine, left to join the many who made their way to the bonfire. Irimë and Vórwen sat off to the side by a lantern in evening’s fading light, playing yunque témar, while Elerína and I pulled up chairs to a table at the other end of the porch closer to the gardens where the scent of lilies drifted in the night air. The sounds of pipes, drums and singing interspersed with laughter could be heard from deep in the valley where most of the household gathered.

“Please forgive me for taking you from the festivities, Istyar.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. Frankly, I’m tired. I do not mind a quiet evening of conversation.”

“Word has it that you killed a troll. That was not an expected outcome of your journey.”

“No. Not a welcome one, that is for certain. It has been many years since I had to do that. Fortunately, I remembered what Lord Glorfindel taught us. Also –- fortunately -- it was only a starving female, not a full-grown male.”

“You shouldn’t dismiss your deed. The Dúnedain hunt them with a minimum of five men. It was only you and Master Thornangor. Only you, actually, from what he told me earlier today.”

“He exaggerates as usual. Killing is not an accomplishment worthy of pride. I did it to save my friend.”

“I know that, Sámaril. Still, it was no small feat.” She took a long drink of the wine and then listened to the revelry.

“They are so merry,” she said. “I wish I could be.”

It struck me that my people’s gaiety might be an affront to her and the Dúnedain of Imladris in the face of Lord Anárion’s death. There was no pall of mourning in Imladris even if some of its residents had known loss.

“I offer you my condolences,” I said. I, too, listened to the sounds of the solstice celebration. “The Elves look upon these things differently. They do not mean to seem callous. In our hearts, we honor our mortal brethren’s sacrifices on behalf of the Firstborn, especially those of my people. The Noldor and the Men of the West have ancient ties.”

“Thank you,” she said, after sipping the wine again. “I’m aware of those differences and understand that the affairs of Men are usually of little concern to your people.”

I bridled at her remark. “They concern Gil-galad the King and Elrond. They concern me. I am here with you, aren’t I? Not off singing that ‘tra-la-la-lally’ nonsense.”

Elerína's laugh dispelled my defensiveness. “I cannot imagine you singing that! Please, I take no offense at their celebration. Life goes on, does it not? Even for those of us not in the fray.” She reached across the table and patted my hand. “I am glad you are here. Now please tell me of Isilmë. Her letter to me was so measured and full of courage, but I know her too well for her to fool me. The news of Anárion’s death must have struck her hard.”

I told Elerína of Isilmë, her sorrowful words to me at the heights of the tower as we had watched the approaching storm, and her departure. Elerina’s eyes misted with tears in the lamplight.

“Yes, she is right. My brother-by-marriage was so different from my husband, but they loved each other so much. Would that I could say the same about his wife. Lindissë’s and my differences do not complement the other but clash.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“When one marries into such a family as Lord Amandil’s, one cannot choose the other members. That holds true for any family, I suppose, whether king or crofter."

“Whether elven or mortal, too," I said. "My father-by-marriage never really warmed to me. He did at least stop calling me a ‘pompous ass’ within earshot after I wed Nierellë.”

A thin smile flitted across Elerina’s face. “Just as Lindissë never warmed to me,” she said. “I came from the country, from the mid-lands of Numenor where I grew up on the estate of my grandparents. Lindissë was born to an aristocratic family of Armenelos.” She paused, rubbing her forefinger around the rim of the glass, making the crystal sing for a moment. “She has always considered me quite the rustic and disapproved of my friendships with commoners.”

“The city mouse and the country mouse then.” I said, recalling a child’s tale that Valandil had loved when he was younger.

“Something like that,” she said. “But unlike those mice, we have never come to a reconciliation. More than just our different approaches to protocol and appearances disturb my sister-by-marriage. She has been blessed with four wonderful children, just as I have. She has three lovely daughters and Meneldil, her son, is her youngest. But that is not suitable for her ambition. I have given birth to the heirs of the High King. She envies me my sons.”

“They are all fine men, my lady.”

“I have no disagreement with that, but she should be proud of her children, too. Meneldil now inherits the regency of Gondor. What more does she want?” Elerína paused, again listening to the distant song and laughter. She glanced over at Irimë. “I adore my sons’ wives and my granddaughters, but if only Lindissë knew how I envy her.” She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “I wish I had a daughter of my own.”

“There is still hope for that. Perhaps when the war ends, you will be blessed with another child – a girl.”

Elerína let out a derisive snort, loud enough that her ladies looked up at us from the far side of the porch. Vórwen touched Irimë’s pale hand, reminding the younger woman of their discretionary roles. They turned their attention back to their game.

“Aside from the fact that I am approaching the end of my childbearing years, I would need to have Isildur in my presence long enough to get me with child.”

Warmth threatened to blossom in my face, but I stifled that indelicate response to the allusion of Isildur with her and that he often left her bed cold. I re-filled her glass and mine full of chilled wine, returning the carafe to the bucket of ice.

“Elerína, you are a lovely woman and still young. Lord Isildur will not be able to resist your persuasion.”

“You are sweet-tongued this evening, Istyar! It must be the wine. Thank you for your compliments, but I think you sometimes forget the nature of mortality. I am not young. I am a grandmother!”

I nearly blurted out a vehement protest that my compliments did not come from the wine, but thought better of it. She was right. I had disregarded the curious aging process of the Númenórean nobility with their admixture of elven and fay blood. Elerína looked to be in a woman in her prime – neither girlish nor aged – other than a few strands of silver hair lacing the dark at her temples, a feature that I found exotic.

I raised my glass to her. “Then here’s to all beautiful women: the young, the old and the ancient.”

She grinned. “Ancient? You are a wicked elf, sir, but this old mortal woman will accept your toast.”

After our salutatory drink, we sat in silence for a while. Song and laughter floated down the valley accompanied by Irimë and Vórawen’s murmured conversation and soft clicking of their game pieces, the churring of a nightjar, and the hoot of an owl in the deep woods.

“I was so worried about you that night in the glade when you swooned and fell to the ground," she said. "Master Thornangor said me that you were also shaken by your experience with the palantír.”

“And what exactly did he tell you?” Thorno’s well-intentioned solicitousness behind my back irritated me

“Very little. Don’t be angry with your friend. He is concerned about you. He confided this because he thought I might be able to offer support even if only from listening. There were times when gazing into the palantír sapped every bit of strength from Isildur. It always aided him to talk to me about it.”

I considered what to tell her. Revelation of my conversation with Fëanáro seemed unwise and too immersed in the deep arts to make much sense to her in any case. So I told her of my vision of Sauron. That had disturbed me deeply. Perhaps talking to her about it would ameliorate the vivid memory.

She listened intently when I confessed my worry of my connection to him.

“Of course there is a connection, Samaril.” She finished the wine and held out her glass to be filled again and after taking a sip, continued.

“Our teachers engrave themselves in our memories. I will never forget Mistress Zadanî’s corrections when she passed judgment on my spinning and weaving. It’s as if she still stands behind me at the loom, ready to find fault. And Master Lôminal, my tutor: he was a gentle man, but if I fell short in my studies -- a mispronounced word here, a miscalculation there -- he managed to make me feel guilty, as if I had personally disappointed him. You would think I’d remember more of their praise, for they did give that to me, too. I cannot imagine that being Annatar’s student is an experience one can easily forget.”

“You make good points, and I agree with you,” I said. “But Annatar’s instruction went well beyond what you experienced with your teachers. They did not enter your mind and entwine themselves within.”

“I think I may have an understanding of that. Not like yours, but some understanding.”

“How so?” I asked.

“He once spoke to me...touched me,” she said, her voice subdued. “His presence is unforgettable, Istyar. You should know that better than I.”

“Well, that happened to me many times, but you say he spoke to you. Please tell me -- if you’re willing, that is.”

“Isilmë told you of the horse sacrifice?” she asked. I nodded in response. “This happened on the same day.” And she proceeded to capture my complete attention with her tale.

“We had been escorted by the King’s soldiers to Armenelos for the day of Erukyermë. Sauron led the procession along the street to the altar. His acolytes waved flowered branches and swung censers burning with perfumed wood; musicians followed and singers lifted their voice in hymns to Melkor who would deliver us all from death.

“Sauron’s very presence commanded attention. He was tall yet not as much as King Elendil. But his bearing was so regal that his stature seemed greater than any Man of Númenor.

“His appearance was striking. You have told me that he had crafted his form to resemble a man of your people and that was the same we knew: a strong and graceful body, dark lustrous hair and the handsome face of the Eldar. But those eyes...so beautiful but with such terrible burning in them.” She shuddered.

“I stood by Isilmë, willing myself neither to tremble nor to be taken in by his beauty. But then, when he approached where we stood on the side of the street, he stopped, and the whole procession came to a halt. He came over to stand right in front of me, looking down as if he stood on a mountain, and I were a mouse. His gaze fell to the brooch I wore.

“ ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked of me.

“I told him that it was a gift from Lord Amandil upon my marriage to Isildur and that he had brought it from a far land. He then asked me which land that was. I told him that Lord Amandil had brought it from Sakal an-Khâr.

“ ‘How did he come by it there?’ he then asked.

“I told him that I did not know. I shut the gates of my mind, hard and fast against him when I felt his tentacles probing my thought.

“He then addressed Isilmë. ‘Surely you, my lady,’ he said, ‘must know whence and from whom Lord Amandil obtained this.’

“Isilmë told him that she knew only that it came from a native of that land. It was a gift in turn to Lord Amandil. The man did not even give Lord Amandil his name. Just the brooch and other goods and then he returned to the forest.

“Sauron studied my brooch with such intensity.  Then, only for a moment, the fire in his eyes diminished, and I saw sorrow in them. He reached out and touched the brooch and then my cheek with such tenderness, his stare focused elsewhere. His touch was electrifying. But then pride returned to his countenance; he set his jaw and went on his way. It was then I started shaking.

“Two months later, I wished to wear the brooch for a feast, but I could not find it. Perhaps I misplaced it, I thought, but I had always put it in an accustomed spot in my jewelry chest. Then I felt a rush of fear, and I knew it had been stolen. There was no evidence of anyone breaking in. It was as if a ghost had come in and out of our very home.”

I digested her story. Sauron did not take such keen interest in trivial things. I had no doubt that he had sent someone under his sway to steal the jewel.

“That is a remarkable tale, my lady. But why would he be so interested in a brooch? Was there anything in particular special about it? Other than the fact it came from a distant land?”

“It was special to me. Lord Amandil was a great man, and I was honored that he would give me such a gift. The brooch was that of a peacock, birds from the East. Some lived in the King’s gardens.”

“Peafowl, yes, I have heard of them,” I said. “Please go on.”

“The peacock brooch was fashioned of gold with tiny precious gems set in its tail: rubies, emeralds, sapphires and diamonds. Its workmanship surpassed even the skill of the jewel-smiths of Númenor. In fact, I had not seen anything equivalent until I saw the relics of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain here in Imladris and in Gil-galad’s kingdom.

“Lord Amandil had sailed to the shores of that far country three times before, but on this voyage, Elendil accompanied him. The men of Umbar call the land Sakal an-Khâr but its own people name it Bharat. Lord Amandil was fascinated by Bharat and had found a few men of the East who could serve as interpreters of the languages there.

“These men told him of a hidden kingdom full of wonders and riches. They said that two devatas ruled that kingdom – a king and queen they named Rama and Sita. Men and a race they called the yakshas – the spirits of the forest -- dwelled together there under the protection of the devas. But, they warned, death guarded the hidden kingdom.

“It sounds much like the old tales of Doriath,” I said.

“Yes, like that," she said. "Except that there might be more mingling of Men with those named yakshas as you will see. Amandil and Elendil guessed that the devatas – Lord Rama and his queen, Sita -- were fays like Ossë and Uinen, but like Melian and Annatar, they had taken human form.

“The temptation to seek the fabled kingdom became too strong to resist. Lord Amandil was always keen on adventure. He sought the riches of Bharat but also wished gain knowledge and to forge an alliance with this powerful king and his queen.

“On the night before they intended to set off into the jungles in search of Rama’s kingdom, a man came to them. A prince of Men he seemed – richly dressed and noble -- but he was alone. Lord Amandil said he was brown-skinned and black-haired like many of the men of Bharat, but although he was mortal, he was beardless and had the glint of starlight in his eyes: this man had elven ancestry. More amazing was that he spoke to them in the tongue of the High Elves – halting and accented – but he made himself understood.

“He came as a representative of Lord Rama, he told them. He warned them not to seek the kingdom, that they would meet their deaths if they did. However, he said, his lord and lady were not without goodwill to those who opposed Ravana and his servant. At the least, they would bring gifts to Amandil and Elendil. He left them, but returned the next day with others who brought spices, seeds, brilliant silks, rugs, teakwood carvings, medicines, and jewelry. The noble man of Bharat placed the peacock brooch in Amandil’s hand.

“The most skilled artisan of Rama’s kingdom crafted the brooch, he told Amandil. The artist asked that the jewel should be given to a woman of Lord Amandil’s house as a token of friendship. Rama’s messenger told our lord that the peacock was beloved of Saraswati, Bharat’s goddess of knowledge and the arts, whom they believed protected and guided their great artisan.

“Lord Amandil recognized that the craftsmanship was that of the Eldar, and he then knew that the yakshas of whom the Eastern men spoke must be Elves. However, the artist had not put his mark on the brooch. Lord Amandil asked the man of Bharat the name of the jewel-smith and how he had known about the lords of Andúnië.

“The princely man of Bharat said he was forbidden to name the artisan nor impart any other information about him. After the boats were loaded and the gifts and Rama and Sita taken to the ship anchored offshore, the man of Bharat and his servants slipped away into the forest.

“When I married Isildur, Lord Amandil gave this to me. He knew how much I liked to figure with numbers and to read. He said that brooch of the peacock, sacred to the goddess of Bharat, would be a fitting gift for me.

“Why did my brooch catch Sauron’s eye? Of that I have no idea. But I believe he wanted it, and he sent someone to steal it. I never found it.”

Just as the spicy scent of Valandil's sandalwood toys had transported me to a far mystical land, so had Elerína’s enchanting but strange tale. Many rumors, now the stuff of myth, surrounded the fates of those elves who had wandered East and South from Cuiviénen. Were these yakshas one of the Lost Tribes?

Sauron’s interest in Elerina’s jewel, the gift from an exotic land, also intrigued me. A tenuous thread of recollection stirred in my mind, which might attach significance to the brooch. But what was it? I shelved the thought for later examination.

I poured the rest of the wine into our glasses. Our conversation drifted lazily to inconsequential things, resting from sad events and away from the disturbing. At length, Elerína yawned.

“I must excuse myself, Istyar, or I will fall asleep here. Ladies?” Vórwen and Irimë looked up at her call, their faces also tired and a little bleary from the wine. “You may go now. I will be along soon.” They packed up the game and folded it into a little wooden chest.

Elerína rose and walked over to the edge of the porch where she breathed in the fragrance of the lilies that rose from the flower beds below. Then she smiled, looking out into the darkness over the gardens. I followed her gaze to see a couple embracing in the shadows. The figures of a man and woman broke off their kiss, reluctantly it seemed, and then stood apart. The woman left the man who then picked a flower and turned back to the woods. My eyes, keener than Elerína's, watched Lairiel return to the house, and Thornangor disappear into the trees.

“I shouldn’t spy on lovers!” Elerína turned away from the gardens to face me. “But that was so romantic. I wish that my husband were here on a night such as this. And I wish that you could hold your beloved wife in your arms, Istyar. That was not what fate had in store for us, was it?”

“Whether by fate or happenstance, that is not the case," I said. "I wish the same, my lady. I know you miss your husband, and the part of my heart that my wife keeps aches."

Tears welled in her eyes. Then she moved close to me and standing on tiptoe, she kissed me, her lips soft on mine. For fear of losing myself, I kept my hands at my side although I wanted nothing more at that moment than to embrace her. Then a little unsteady from all the wine, she walked toward the open door where she stood for a moment, the light within the house shining through her filmy gown and silhouetting her long legs and the curves of her hips swelling below her waist.

“Good night, Sámaril,” she said, leaving me alone on the porch.

That butterfly’s kiss was sufficient to ignite a hard fire that no amount of elvish self-discipline or supplication to Nienna was going to deflate. For a moment, I considered joining the increasingly wild celebrants at the bonfire, but knew my motivation in seeking out Midhloth was not worthy of her. So I went to my room, shut and locked the door and disrobed. Opening the upper drawer of my cabinet, I found the folded square of red silk that I used for “polishing my sword,” a euphemism that Thorno and I favored. I threw myself naked on my bed and with fierce strokes brought myself to release.

I tossed and turned on the bed for a while, sleep being elusive as my mind sifted through the evening’s conversation, now less distracted by the outcome of that parting kiss. At last, I gave up on the pretense of trying to sleep, rose and washed my hands and face then yanked on a pair of trousers. I sat in the chair by the open window, listening to the faint traces of singing and music still wafting down the valley and the occasional chirp of a bird that awakened as the pre-dawn light seeped into the summer night sky.

Elerína’s tale had stirred a train of thought that nagged at me. I dismissed a possibility again and again, believing it to be wholly unreasonable, wholly unthinkable and no more than misguided wishful thinking.

At last, curiosity drove me to get up and open the chest where I kept my most treasured items. The sharp, clean scent of cedar filled the air when I propped open its lid. I extracted a very old book, preserved using the deep arts applied by its former owner, who had wanted the book to last through the years and not disintegrate to dust. Written on the overleaf was Mélamírë's full name, the childish letters the harbinger of the flowing and elegant script that would later grace documents and artefacts. I turned the yellowed pages with care, past faded paintings of elephants, lions and tigers, past the apes in the lush forest that had fascinated her so, and opened the page to the image of a proud, glorious bird, his tail spread behind him like a fan of jewels.

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Chapter End Notes

yunque témar: "twelve lines" -- maybe something like backgammon, a very old game?

Lairiel - Noldo, master weaver of Imladris.

Sanskrit:

Bharat - India; "Sakal an-Khâr" comes from a map of some Middle-earth role playing game (map drawn by Sampsa Ilmari Rydman); Sakal an-Khâr is roughly equivalent in location to India of our primary world.)
devatas - guardian spirits, equivalent to the Maiar in the Pandë!verse
yaksha - forest spirit; in my 'verse, the name in Bharat for one of the Eldar.
Ravana - the demon king in the Ramayana -- maybe a manifestation of Morgoth in this crossover?