The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 16: Letters from Gorgoroth

Sámaril assists Valandil in a matter of craftsmanship and comes to a logical conclusion concerning the peacock brooch. Couriers arrive from Osgiliath, bearing news from the Alliance, and Sámaril learns of the hardships of the siege from Glorfindel's letters.

Thanks to Drummerwench for picking the nits and to Jael for allowing me to borrow Thranduil again.

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A curse followed the sharp snap and clatter of wood.

“Morgoth’s balls! It splintered again!”

I jerked my eyes up from my tasks at hand.

“Val! Watch your language! Your mother will have my hide if she hears words like that coming from your mouth.”

My young friend hunched over the workbench, his hands clenched in frustration, and with rough chunks of wood scattered on the floor around him. Nella, who had been curled up nearby, leapt up and circled the stool where her master sat, whining her concern. Val cast a sidelong glance at me, and I berated myself silently. One of the consequences of his time spent in the forges and workshops was hearing salty words. Val was decent enough not to point out my hypocrisy.

“I’m sorry, Istyar,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’ll never finish this on time!”

“You will,” I said. “But you must be patient. Let’s go see Master Calaquar and get more wood from him.”

Valandil rubbed his eyes with thumb and fingers and slid off the stool, giving Nella a pat on her fuzzy grey head for reassurance. With the gangling wolfhound pup in tow, we sought Master Calaquar. The woodwright labored in his workshop, fragrant with the warm scent of cut wood. He bent over what would become the arched back of a chair, carving a vine twining around a branch. He straightened and wiped his brow when we approached.

“Another block, young prince?”

Valandil hung his head. “Yes, Master. Another, please.”

“Come then. Let’s make another selection.” The woodwright led the boy to a storage room while I waited, petting the young wolfhound to keep her from following her master.

Had Valandil consented to work with Calaquar, his project might have proceeded with less difficulty, but I knew the futility in suggesting this, and so did my colleague. Valandil, whose affinity for woodcraft had blossomed at an early age, admired Imladris’ master woodwright, whose arts graced all parts of the House of Elrond, from simple wooden bowls in the kitchen to the carved beams that spanned the ceilings of the halls. However, Valandil’s attachment to me was deep. He might listen to Master Calaquar’s advice, but invariably wished to work in my company, scattering sawdust and wood shavings in my workshop. Once, when I had bemoaned this, Calaquar had looked up from planing a board, drawing me into the ancient depths of his eyes, which still shone faintly with the light of Aman, but faded from the toll of long years and much sorrow.

“Count yourself blessed, Istyar. You may have lost your son, but that boy adores you. Cherish him while you may.”

Chagrined, I had disregarded Calaquar and his wife’s tragedy: they had lost their son, their daughter-by-marriage and their grandchildren in the fall of Ost-in-Edhil. I never complained about Valandil’s preference for me as his teacher in woodworking again, but I made sure he swept the bench and the floor.

Valandil emerged from the storeroom, another block of wood in hand. The boy had chosen a difficult material for his project: curly maple, a hard wood that splintered easily. Calaquar groomed and cajoled the trees that yielded this prized wood, sacrificing one from the remote grove now and again, and even then only after much supplication to Yavanna and the tree itself. Before we left, Calaquar put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked him square in the face. 

“You must pay attention to the Istyar’s instructions. This is not a common wood, you know.” Although Calaquar had always been generous with his materials, impatience crept into his oaken-steady voice. 

Valandil lowered his eyes and nodded. “Yes, Master Calaquar. Thank you for the wood.”

I knew that if Val was not successful this time – his third attempt -- he would not receive another piece of maple and would have to resort to more common oak or beech. We returned to my workshop where he placed the wood on the bench amidst splinters and sawdust. He settled himself on the stool, and Nella found her spot on the floor nearby where she curled up but kept a close eye on her master. I stood next to my young friend, placing my hand on his shoulder to ease his obvious tension.

“Look carefully at the grain of the wood, Val. The craftsmen of my people study their materials thoroughly before they set to work. By observing every detail, Master Calaquar knows how the grain lies in the wood and coaxes it to split smoothly.” 

I ran my fingers of my left hand over the maple. “See how the grain curves here?” Val nodded. “Focus on that. Just breathe deeply, look for the clues on the outside of the block and try to imagine what it looks like inside. Open your mind to the wood. Like a dream.” 

Val inhaled deeply and exhaled several times, breathing away the tension in his shoulders. He placed his hands on either side of the maple block, and I covered them with mine, seeking to steady his nerves. Val became still, eyes closed and now barely breathing. With practiced reflex, I sent my thought into the material, swirling and twisting past the fibers of the wood that became columns of fantastical shapes in mimicry of trees. My mind snaked through the matrix of the wood, finding no knots that might hinder my young friend. I removed my hands from his.

Val twisted around to face me, determination set in his chin, an expression so like his mother. “I think I am ready to try to split the wood again.”

“Very well. I’ll leave you to it. I expect that you will be better able to speak to the wood if I am not standing by your shoulder.”

I returned to my stool, but before I sat, I heard the gentle tapping of his hammer on the sharp chisel, and soon a crack followed by a triumphant cry.

“It worked, Istyar! It worked!” 

“Very good, Val! See, knowing your materials gave you success.”

“I’m going to try again.” Val placed his hands over the wood and closed his eyes, deep in thought. He then set his chisel to the wood and proceeded to separate another piece, smooth and with crisp angles, from the block. 

Pleased with his progress, I returned to my own craft. An aviary of jewels flew across my workbench. Elerína’s story of the peacock brooch had settled in my mind, not to be dislodged until a brood of ideas hatched and transformed into these small objects of beauty. 

After my midsummer night conversation with Elerína, I had not replaced Mélamírë’s precious book immediately in my storage chest. Instead I pored over drawings, paintings and text while I contemplated the wildly improbable hope that my friend’s strange tale of the peacock brooch had engendered.

The irrational premise that the Istyanis might have been the secretive smith of Bharat continued to haunt me. Sauron’s keen interest in the brooch was the key. Had he recognized Mélamírë’s handiwork? Was that why the jewel had captivated him, so much so that he ordered it stolen, perhaps had even stolen it himself? 

However, I knew that this hopeful possibility was more than improbable. It was impossible. If anything, we – her surviving friends and colleagues – had wished a swift death for her and even now prayed that she haunted the Halls of Mandos rather than suffering a shadow life as a tormented thrall. I said nothing of Elerína’s tale to Thornangor, who did not need to have false hope enflamed.

For several days last summer, I had contemplated the painting of that proud bird, his iridescent tail feathers fanned behind him. Small fingerprints still smudged the paper, poignant remnants of Mélamírë’s childhood. She must have loved this painting. However, I accepted the most logical conclusion: Elerína’s brooch represented no more than an artefact crafted by a foreign elven-smith, a skillful artisan of the fabled Lost Tribes. Sauron’s interest in it was likely triggered by a memory that he could release no more readily than I could. Nothing more than a memory. Better to believe that Mélamírë was dead. 

In my attempt to transform a sad memory into a happier one, I decided to craft jewels in the shapes of the exotic birds illustrated in the book, jewels that were to be Yule gifts for my friends and their family. Mélamírë had made jewelry inspired by the world around her for the women in her life, whether casual acquaintances, wives of colleagues, her closest friends or her beloved mother. Such gifting was a natural act among my people. Thus I had grafted a familiar elvish tradition upon the Mannish Yule holiday. 

The birds from the tropics of the far eastern and southern lands were far more colorful than the birds of the North –- brilliant green, red and blue -- so I resurrected an enameling technique I had not used for many years. I spent my time goldsmithing in the forge and my workshop and working with Master Bruinîr, Cuivendil’s senior associate.

The reminders of Cuivendil were everywhere. Just like me, he had many projects in various stages of progress: glass goblets, vases, and stained glass like the shards of the rainbow. These Bruinîr had left in place in hopes of completing them, he told me, but I suspected they served as a memorial to his dead colleague and mentor. How much worse was it for Lairiel, his widow? I had expected her to forsake Middle-earth after the deaths of her husband and sons, but she did not. Although she had mourned her loss deeply, she had gracefully returned to life again.

That past autumn, I, along with many others of Imladris, had assisted with the apple harvest. The women who performed this task appreciated every spare hand for gathering fruit to be dried or crushed into pulp for cider. I had found Lairiel alone near the edge of the orchard, picking through apples that had fallen to the ground. She smiled in greeting, and I bent to winnow through apples too rotten for use, and those that were salvageable for the presses. 

The heady, half-fermented scent of autumn rose from the fallen fruits. Lairiel struck up a sweet song in praise of Yavanna, and the plunk of apples tossed into the baskets took on a rhythmic beat. Her voice, rich and a little husky, trailed away after the last verse.

“Lairiel, you amaze me,” I said, flinging three more apples into the basket.

“Why is that?”

“Your happiness. You lost so much in this war. Most would have sought the Straight Road. And yet you remain and you sing. You laugh. You still have joy.”

She straightened and pushed a wayward strand of dark hair behind her ear. 

“I have not ceased mourning the loss of my husband and sons,” she said, her deep blue eyes kind but her voice firm. “If the Judge wills it, I will meet them again on the farthest shore. But here life goes on, and I wish to stay.”

At that moment, Thorno joined us, and the unguarded smile that Lairiel gave him bespoke more than friendship. Something had changed between them, and it made me deeply uncomfortable. I lifted a basket brimming with apples and excused myself. Thorno took over my task and joined Lairiel in an answering song: he sang the part of Aulë and she, that of Yavanna, their voices twining around one another like a climbing rose that embraces a silvered lattice.

I had found Elerína in the brewery where she tossed apples into a cider press. I joined her, but other than a perfunctory greeting, said nothing, and dumped apples from my basket and the others surrounding her into the press.

“Why are you so glum, Istyar?” she asked, wiping her forehead with her hand and smearing pulp across her fair skin. Bits of apple clung to her hair and clothing and a dried leaf stuck to her hair, a disheveled effect I found charming, but which did not dispel my petulance.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something. Your dark mood is practically begging me to ask you of it.”

“It’s Lairiel. It just struck me today. She is so happy.”

“Only today you noticed this? She has found joy in living again, and you know why. Would you begrudge her the right to seek happiness?”

“No, of course she has the right. It’s just that...”

“She is a widow, just as you are a widower. You could have succumbed to grief, but you have not. You must have found at least some joy in living here. If not, then why do you linger in mortal lands?” 

I had no answer to that, or at least none that I wished to give her.

“The manner of Lairiel’s happiness troubles me.” 

“Please, Sámaril! Spare me such judgment. It is beneath you of all people. Your dear friends have found love with one another. Be happy for them. Now I really must return to my work. The brew master has more tasks than hands at the moment. Perhaps you can make yourself useful in that way instead of trying to cast your cloud over me.” She turned away and bent down to grab a handful of apples, which she tossed into the press.

Annoyed by her lack of sympathy and her dismissal, I left the brewery and returned to the orchard to assist for the remainder of the day, but I did not go back to the brewery. Later that evening in the forge, I had hammered away my frustrations on a blade. I had admitted that I was fishing for answers and sympathy from Elerína. I knew she and Lairiel were close. I could not bring myself to ask Thorno directly, even if I had noticed the change in him,

While my thoughts meandered back in the autumn orchards, I etched one of the jewels -- a brilliant green parrot -- for Lady Vórwen. Thornangor appeared in the workshop, stopping first to make of point of admiring Valandil’s handiwork, and then he came over to my bench.

“They look like they could fly at any moment, old man,” he said. He picked up a bright jewel of a bird that the naturalist had named a beecatcher. “You’ve done a nice job replicating these from the Istyanis’ book. The ladies will love them.”

“I hope so,” I said. “These little fellows have been a pleasure to craft. So what are you about?”

“This.” He lay the blade of a knife down on the bench. Subtle swirls interlaced its grey steel. “I think I’m getting closer with the proportions of carbon and iron, but it’s still not quite right. Might I take a look at the Istyanis’ book again tonight?”

“By all means. Come to my quarters whenever you wish.” 

Among the drawings in Mélamírë’s book were sketches of Men of the South and East, some of whom brandished swords with swirling patterns set into the metal. The naturalist had written that the blades crafted from this steel could take an edge so sharp that they could split hairs. We could scarcely believe that mortals could craft such blades, but the tantalizing words and pictures said otherwise. Those drawings and rumors served as our sole guide in our experiments to replicate the mysterious alloy.

I brushed my fingers over the surface of the blade, still warm from the forge. Thornangor had taken a keen interest in my attempts to replicate the legendary steel of the East and had asked if he could collaborate. I happily accepted and in effect had turned over the project to him. A superb experimentalist, Thornangor had a sharp eye for detail and an uncanny ability to connect seemingly disparate pieces of evidence to create something new.

“I’ll stop by right after the evening repast then,” he said, taking the blade, and returning to Valandil, who now sanded the maple. In a kind manner, Thorno offered compliments mixed with advice. Val ceased his work, listening intently to Thorno, who pointed out where the hinges for the little chest Val constructed might be placed.

A commotion in the corridor then caught our attention. Thorno started to walk to the door to investigate, but stopped mid-way when Naurusnir burst into my workshop.

“Couriers!” he cried. “Couriers have arrived from Osgiliath! They bear many letters.”

The three of us set our work aside and joined the rest of the smiths and craftsmen who hurried down the path to the house, eager for news, for it had been a span of some time since letters had arrived. Many of the household already milled around the front steps near the two elves and two Dúnedain who unloaded their pack horses. In addition to supplies, the beasts carried oiled leather satchels favored by messengers. In short order, the satchels were arrayed around Gildor on the front porch, where he called out the names of the household after first giving Elerína and her ladies the letters from their men.

“Istyar!” Gildor held up a battered leather pouch. “For you from Lord Glorfindel.”

Stepping away from the throng in front of the house, I opened the flap of the pouch and found its interior brimming with folded parchment. I first extracted a posthumous letter from Côldring, which I tucked back into the pouch for solitary reading later. Also enclosed were several letters for Thornangor from Macilion, his longtime friend who had also apprenticed with Mélamírë. Macilion was now the master smith of Galadriel and Celeborn’s realm and served as the chief smith for Gil-galad’s army. Thornangor took these and retreated back to the forge. The rest, written on parchment of varied quality, whole or in scraps, but all folded with mathematical precision and placed in chronological order, were addressed to me from my lord. 

Retreating to a stone bench tucked away in a woodland garden some distance from the house, I unfolded the most recently written letter, dated just two months ago:

Dear Sámaril,

I hope you do not find these many letters overwhelming. Our supply of paper, made from fibers pounded from reeds of the southern lands, is generous. A large cache was liberated from Minas Ithil when Isildur retook the city, and it was distributed to us. I have taken advantage of the windfall. I have been writing to create a journal of sorts if for no other purpose than to occupy my mind and to keep my penmanship precise. 

Something is building. I do not know how much longer the siege will last. Not much longer, I am thinking. The air crackles with dire and desperate portent. Therefore, when it was announced a few days ago that couriers would arrive at our camp to carry letters to Osgiliath and on to Annúminas, I thought it prudent to send these to your safekeeping. May you remain safe, the Valar willing.

Yours truly,
Laurefin

Up to this point, I had received just the one letter in which he had described Côldring’s complaint about taking on the task of a cobbler. But here was a torrent of words. It had taken me the entire afternoon to read his many letters, and that was at a burning pace. 

One of Laurefin’s earlier letters had been written after the Battle of the Dagorlad:

These past few weeks have been hard ones. By now, you have heard of the battle, and that many of our Silvan brethren perished. That can be called nothing but a rout. Many wives, maidens and children now weep in Eryn Galen. Some have second-guessed Oropher’s decision to lead that ill-fated charge, and this has been the cause of rancor. However, I would expect that you have also heard of Thranduil’s extraordinary feat: disguising himself and his men as orcs, climbing the heights around the Morannon and picking off the key orcs and trolls manning the gates. Had it not been for Thranduil’s strategy and the bravery of his men, we would not have gained the Morannon.

He is shrewd as any Noldo but surpasses us with his ease of adapting to the world. Mark my words: that man is a survivor. Thranduil, I deem, will be a force to be reckoned with for years, perhaps even many an age, to come. 

The new King of the Greenwood has a strong will but practices a cocky sort of diplomacy. In this, Erestor, who exercised the worst judgment imaginable, put Thranduil to the task by referring to the dead king as ‘Oropher Turn-tail.’ I must commend Thranduil for not impaling Erestor with his sword on the spot. I was present when Erestor later made contrition and with exceptional humility, particularly for Erestor, explained himself. He received a well-deserved comeuppance from Thranduil. Erestor may be my friend and he indeed offers wisdom to Elrond, but that sharp tongue of his consistently gets him into trouble.

I know by now you have received the news of deaths of Côldring, Cuivendil and his sons. All fought courageously. Côldring perished but his defense of the armory kept it from being captured. May his fëa find peace. Cuivendil, Hallarin and Ránefino were in the front line of the Second Spear and slain before the Morannon. Fortunately, we were able to inter their bodies in a cairn so that the scavengers will not defile them. I have enclosed sketches of them during better times, before the great battle. Please give those of Cuivendil and his sons to Lairiel on my behalf and extend my condolences. May the Judge see fit to reunite them.
 

I extracted the drawings, rolled and protected in a small wooden tube. Laurefin’s talent had caught them in the mundane tasks of a military camp: here was Côldring sharpening a blade, Cuivendil repairing a bow, Hallarin building a fire, and Ránefino hauling water. He had captured each characteristic expression and their personalities well. My eyes filled with tears, remembering our vanished youth and innocence in Ost-in-Edhil the fallen: Côldring’s first attempts at forging nails under my tutelage and the joy that consumed Cuivendil and Lairiel when their sons were born. I carefully rolled up the sketches, replacing them in the tube and returned to reading.

Many bodies were scattered across the Dagorlad. It was as grisly as anything I witnessed in Beleriand. The sheer number of the bodies and the stench overwhelmed us so we gave up trying to inter the fallen. But over the course of only a week, waters seeped across the plain and covered the decay. Clear water with a brown hue it is, like the bogs of the North where the deep moss and the dragon plants that devour flies grow. The bodies no longer decomposed and in fact reversed their decrepitude. It was a strange event and the cause of much fireside debate: did the waters derive from an evil enchantment of the Enemy or were they a blessing from elsewhere, from Ulmo even, to preserve the dead? I daresay you’d search for a rational explanation.
 

Laurefin’s longest series of letters had been written during siege. Some were philosophical musings with veiled and complex commentary on the Valar and their servants, others recounted events of his previous life in Gondolin, from the mundane to the grand, and he even wrote of his youth in Tirion in which he described my father and his own with affection. But he also wrote of the long siege and the life of a soldier:

I cannot begin to cite the many hardships of the siege in this terrible land. Waiting is interminable, but then Sauron sends out sorties from the tower to harass us. We are bombarded with volleys of fire, stones, or filth from the Barad-dûr. Flinging dung and rotten offal has become a strategy in an attempt to spread disease among the Men. 

I had some near misses from the Enemy’s assaults, but I have escaped grievous injury, partly due to training, partly due to dumb reflex and partly due to the strength and resilience of my hauberk and helmet. Thanks to the latter, my ‘remarkable brains’ remain intact. That isn’t to say I have avoided my fair share of cuts and gashes. I have one evil scar, the result of a poisoned scimitar, which will take some time to disappear.

Along with other captains of the Alliance, I am responsible for training the new troops sent in to replace those who have been here for a time. Most of the new troops are young men from Gondor, all eager to make a name for themselves through the heroics of the battlefield. The realities of the siege hit them hard. 

The lungs of our mortal brethren cannot cope much longer than several months or so with the foul airs that hang over Gorgoroth so Men must be rotated out to recover. The captains of the Dúnedain and the Firstborn endure as we must. ‘Providing continuity,’ as Elrond puts it. The sound of coughing is ever present even among our people; I have developed a persistent hack that will take months of breathing the clean airs of the North to remedy.

Other than the training, there is little to occupy the mind. I follow the dream paths in rest, walking the green hills of Valinor or alongside the sea on its far shores. Yet the mind must be active; too much time spent on the dream paths softens the brain. So I have taken to scrawling equations with ash on the black rock of Gorgoroth and of course, I write.

Our rations are soldier’s fare: dried meat and dried fruits supplemented with lembas. Serviceable but monotonous. The Dunedain’s food stuffs are identical save for their waybread but it is of a kind to lembas. Supplies are brought from Osgiliath to the camps on Gorgoroth with risk. The supply trains have been attacked, and men have been slain.

Water, as you might expect, is problematic. However, Sauron’s allies and thralls need water, just as we do, so there are deep wells, but only a few. The water stinks, and it is now so contaminated as to be non-potable. Fortunately, the Dúnedain know how to purify water, rendering it safe for them to drink. Macilion has exchanged information with them and together, the Dúnedain and our field smiths have concocted efficient purification systems, a mix of sand, silver filings and charcoal. The Men were surprised that we required clean water, thinking that the Firstborn would be immune to foulness. They have learned that we also can be poisoned and that contaminated water, although lethal for mortals, causes us to grip our guts in agony for some days even if it does not kill us.

Although the purification systems are impressive, they do not remove the stink of brimstone. That is everywhere, and we all reek of it, thanks in part to soaking in the hot springs, our only source of water for bathing. 

How I long for a real bath! Our mortal kin were taken aback at first when they discovered that Firstborn bodies become rank with sweat and our hair, including my own vaunted locks, becomes filthy and stringy in the absence of washing. Just as it was during the battles of Beleriand, the ancient kinship of the Firstborn and mortal men becomes more evident when we fight against foes together and live side-by-side.

We discover this at the latrine trenches. I thought one Man, a young fellow from near Pelargir, was going fall over into the trench when I positioned myself alongside the others and pulled out my vië to piss. I remarked ‘Yes, all this and I shit, too. But I shit flowers, you understand.’ His face turned bright red and his comrades got a hearty laugh out of his embarrassment, but then he laughed, too. An education of sorts, I suppose. Men have so many misconceptions about us, but to be fair, we have equal misunderstanding of them.

His last letter described Anárion’s death. Smudges of ash and dried blood stained the paper.

Anárion died today. I was not more than twenty feet away when it happened. The volley of stones came flying fast, and Anárion did not move quickly enough. The first stone grazed him but the second that trailed on its heels caught his head full on, smashing in his skull. Fortunately, his neck snapped, too, so he likely felt nothing or so we hope. His body was borne out of this wretched land and taken to Osgiliath where he will be interred with all the elaborate funereal ceremonies the Númenóreans practice.

Beloved son and brother Lord Anárion was, but neither Elendil nor Isildur succumbed to the distraction of grief. If anything, his death has fired their hearts and the rest of the Dúnedain. Our assaults on the supply routes to Barad-dûr have intensified, and none are allowed to retreat to the dark fortress from the sorties. 

We believe that the orcs resort to cannibalism now. Among the offal flung from the heights of the tower are orc bones scored with the marks of their fellows’ teeth. These signs tell us Sauron’s Men, now trapped in the Barad-dûr, are in grave danger. I remember what you and the Istyanis told me of Sauron’s need to see to the physical well-being of those who pay homage to him. The dire straits of his loyalists within the tower, I think, fuels Sauron’s desperation. A cornered beast is a very dangerous one.

I saw him on the day when Anárion died. Sauron stood high up on a balcony of the tower, watching the volley. His face is a mockery of what it had been, but his eyes are still the same, Sámaril. As beautiful as they were when he was your teacher but now filled with calculated malice. I do not know if he saw me or not, but I am certain he is aware that I am here. More than once I have felt his mental probing when the iron will that bears down on all then focuses on us one by one. 

I cannot fathom how he could have allowed himself to fall so far and how he could have cast so much aside. It is a frightening prospect to contemplate because if it could happen to him, it could happen to any one of us, from the greatest king to the most humble foot soldier. Although many are not afflicted with pride and ambition as immense as Sauron’s, pride that dragged him back to his master’s ways and down into darkness, who among us is without weakness? Who cannot be tempted? I will not claim to be above it.

Such solemn thoughts! I do not wish to leave you in ashes, so I will close by wishing you well. I would offer a prayer to Varda, but I think it is Aulë who watches over you – and who now watches over me for that matter. But by all the Valar’s grace, I hope to be back in Imladris soon so that you and I can ride to the moors and gaze at the stars through my telescope. You are among the few I know who are truly interested in such things. Until then, my friend.

Yours truly,
Laurefin
 

The sun had dropped behind the cliffs and veiled the valley in shadow when I folded the last letter and with care, replaced it among the rest. I shivered a little, not from the crisp autumn air, but from revulsion at the thought of my former mentor and his heinous actions. The grief and anger of betrayal formed a knot in my throat. I shifted my focus to the sky to crush the pain and saw the first stars of the evening, reinforcing my hope that my lord would return soon, his remarkable brains intact, and driving away the memories of Aulendil. 

Preserving Laurëfin’s letters and binding them into a manuscript became another project on my docket as autumn rushed to a close and the winds off the moor carried the chill of winter into the valley. The solstice revelries were soon upon us. Holly, pine and mistletoe once again graced the Hall of Fire. Elerína and her ladies watched the dances in the Hall, but Elerína declined to join us in the reels. So I stood with them, watching the elven-dancers and tapping my foot to the beat of the tabor. However, my mortal friend smiled and winked when Midhloth took my hand and pulled me away to the dance of the holly and the ivy. Midhloth and I then followed the others to the heat of the bonfire, but we did not flee to the woods at its culmination; instead we sank into the warmth of my bed where we remained entangled until dawn. 

The next day I took an entirely different kind of pleasure at the sight of the Dúnedain ladies exclaiming over my gifts for them. Elerína had held up the emerald and sapphire sunbird I had crafted for her.

“Thank you, Istyar! You are a marvel,” she said, her smile better than any gift she could have given to me, but then she plucked a small bundle out from the open chest in the ladies’ parlor. “Now I have something for you.”

She handed a muslin-wrapped bundle, decorated with sprigs of holly, to me. I unwrapped it to find a knitted wool scarf of the natural brown and buff colors of Imladris’ flock. I wrapped it around my neck. Although humble garb, its fine craftsmanship was regal.

“For your hikes in the valley, Istyar. For all your claims to the contrary, I know that you get cold.” Those sky-blue eyes twinkled wickedly, and my face warmed in response when I wondered if Midhloth had gossiped about my complaints of lying in the snow. 

“A lucky guess, my lady” I countered. “But I shall wear it this afternoon when we take our walk.”

Then Val, with the exaggerated ceremony of a near-youth, bowed deeply and presented his gift to his mother. She unwrapped its silk covering and lavished praise on her son as she ran her fingers over the maple chest with its simple but graceful lines and the intricate pattern of curls in the polished wood. 

“It is lovely, Valandil! Thank you!” She opened it to examine the cloth-lined interior. “My sunbird shall nest there when I am not wearing him. I am fortunate to know such fine craftsmen.”

Later that afternoon, Elerína and I, accompanied by Valandil and his cousins, had taken what had become another Yule tradition: a walk to the bridge that spanned the river. The overcast sky spit flurries of snow, but that did not dim Valandil and his cousins’ enthusiasm for hurling snowballs at one another. Elerína laughed at their antics.

“I am glad to see you in such good spirits,” I said. “It’s certainly a contrast from the first time you and I stood together on this bridge.”

“It is,” she replied. “And I still have the same worries and fears that I did then. But I try to focus on what gives me joy in the present: my son, my granddaughters, my friends and even my chores. And the letters from my husband! I cannot tell you how much those warmed my heart. I read them again and again.” She lifted her face to me. “I love Isildur so much, and I want him to return to me.”

“He will return to you,” I said. “You must have confidence in that. Lord Isildur’s love for you will endure, Elerína, even when you are apart and no matter what happens.”

The wind then picked up, twirling the ends of my scarf about; I tucked in the loose ends, the wool’s embrace warm against my skin. Tears welled up in my eyes, but it was only the sting of the cold wind that made them do so.

---

Chapter End Notes

Calaquar - Noldo, master woodwright.

Vórwen - Dúnadaneth, lady-in-waiting to Elerína.

Cuivendil - Noldo, master glassblower.

Lairiel - Noldo, master weaver, Cuivendil's wife.

Bruinîr - Sinda, Cuivendil's associate.

Macilion - Noldo, Mélamírë's former apprentice, now the master smith of Galadriel and Celeborn's realm.