The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 19: On Twilight Shores

Shortly after arriving in Annúminas, Sámaril explores the city of the shores of Lake Evendim. He sees that although the lives of the Middle Men of Arnor may be improved by the presence of the Númenórean exiles, they still face the consequences of mortality, just as they did many years ago in the settlements around Tharbad. It is with these consequences of mortality that Sámaril struggles as he prepares for his farewell to Isilmë.

~*~

First, thanks to The Lizard Council (Drummerwench, Oshun, Jael and Moreth in particular) for comments and feedback.

I use common Anglo-Saxon (or Celtic in some cases) names for the Middle Men with the assumption that these are translations from Westron. With regard to languages, I adhere to the Seamus Heaney approach to translation and do not hesitate to use certain words (and names) familiar to the contemporary mind, e.g., "tenement," as translations from the "original text" in my tertiary world of JRRT's secondary world.

A glossary and a short list of characters may be found in the end notes of this chapter; the longer list of characters is given in the Appendix.

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A single bell chimed high in the Tower of Sunset, its peal muffled by the mists that rose from the mirror-smooth lake. A cock crowed, overeager to greet the dawn, but other than his exuberant call, the city lay hushed in waiting. Waiting for its new king to arrive. Waiting for its men to return. Waiting for its queen to die.

While I watched the light of dawn slowly push the night away, I thought of Ost-in-Edhil where the mornings had been filled with the voices of those on their way to work at the guild houses, the clatter of the marketplace where yeomen rolled their wagons in from the western fields, the piping of children’s voices as they ran out to play or on their way to the House of Lore, and women singing paeans to the dawn, their voices blending with the songbirds in the city gardens. At other times, Annúminas must have resembled the Ost-in-Edhil of my memories, but on this morning, it was subdued.

Nonetheless, life went on in this city by the lake of twilight. The sounds of awakening — doors opening and shutting, the clop of hooves against cobblestone, voices from the docks at the lakeside — drifted up through the fog, inspiring me to explore. I left my view from the narrow window of my small guest apartment, adjacent to Elrond’s grander suite. The linen chiton slid over my naked skin, sending a thrill through my body when I considered that Elerína had likely woven its smooth fabric. After fastening a belt around my waist, and strapping on my sandals, I slipped out of my quarters and walked as silently as I was able through the dim corridors of the palace and down its many stone stairs.

The night watchmen who awaited the changing of the guard acknowledged me with bleary nods when I passed out of the palace gates. I sympathized with their weariness. I had not taken any deep sleep since we left Imladris. Our party had traveled west along the road to Amon Sûl and then on to Bree, the village of the crossroads, and through the verdant farmlands that lay south of the royal city. Throughout our journey, whether we camped under the stars or stayed under a roof, I had always remained alert, dozing at most when we rested. An instinctive protectiveness toward Valandil never allowed me to sleep fully. I was not alone in this: Elrond increasingly yawned toward the end of our journey when we arrived in the city late last night.

Although I had hoped to sleep well in a bed with soft linens and a mattress, dreams had disturbed my rest, waking me several times in the depths of the night, but I managed to fall asleep, only to dream again and toss restlessly.

A good walk and exploration of the city might prove to be a tonic against my weariness. I was genuinely curious, too. Although I had adapted to the long rhythms of life in Imladris, even thriving there in spite of the loss of my loved ones and friends, my heart yearned for the life of a city.

As I walked along the streets, I noted the motifs of the sea that were everywhere in this city well removed from its waves. Corbels were carved to resemble breaking surf, stylized fish formed the rainspouts of gutters, and friezes bore the repeated motifs of seashells. Mosaic murals depicted the shores of She-That-Fell, as the exiles called their lost homeland. The people of Annúminas still yearned for the ocean.

The bitter green odor of water weeds combined with the tar-pitch of boat craft to guide me toward the lakeside where stone quays extended well out into the water. A few boats, tied to iron rings embedded in the docks, knocked against the stone, but most were out on the water far from shore. There fishermen cast their lines and nets, seeking the day’s harvest of fish from the cold deep waters of Lake Evendim.

I turned around to look at the city. The Tower of Sunset, flushed with the rosy light of dawn, soared above the other towers and domes. Its columns, arches and buttressing recalled the tower of Amon Sûl. Like that structure, the upper level of the Sunset Tower had a domed roof and was encircled by a colonnade.

The tower’s design reflected the other structures of the city I had so far observed: the Noldorin influence was visible with the penchant for arches, vaulting and columns, but the Númenórean aesthetic was more robust. Its muscular lines testified to solidity, in contrast to Ost-in-Edhil where my father, along with the other masons and architects, had created delicacies of stonework that arched and floated through the air, defying the pull of the earth, but thanks to precise calculations, just as sound as the structures of Annúminas.

Taking a circuitous route back into the city, I wandered through the streets of the residential quarters. Walls shielded the compounds of the wealthy, but glimpses through their gates revealed stone houses with loggias running along their length and topped with red tiled roofs. I wandered through a neighborhood of taller buildings of stone, daub and wattle, standing close together with stairs that ran along the outside walls to doors that marched along the wall. I recalled what Elerína had told me of the ways of life in Annúminas during our journey. These were flats where merchants, tradesmen and skilled laborers dwelt with a single family living on each floor of a three to five story building. Often a shop could be found at the street level of these structures. Small courts and squares with gardens and fountains dotted these neighborhoods.

The sun rose, burning off the mists. More people walked along the paved street, going the same direction. Almost all were women who appeared to be the servants from the wealthier houses. They carried baskets of various sizes and shapes, suggesting errands to a marketplace. So I walked along with them. They cast inquisitive glances my way, to which I smiled and offered a morning greeting. They nodded shyly in response, bowing their heads with a “M’lord” before hurrying on their way.

The street opened up on a large square surrounded by buildings of various heights with tall windows and arched doors bracketed by decorative columns. Market stalls lined two sides of the square with a fountain in its center, the water falling over a white marble sculpture of falmarindi cavorting with dolphins. Colorful banners were strung above the stalls, advertising their wares. Wagons sat still at the periphery of the marketplace; ponies and donkeys, taken out of their harnesses but still tethered to the wagons, stood dozing or eating from feedbags, lazily switching their tails.

Women, some with children in tow, clustered in front of the stalls, their voices rising and falling like a flock of blackbirds, but it was here that I saw more men in a city largely devoid of Dúnedain males in their prime. Some men were short, broad, and had tawny complexions, much like the those related to the Haladin who lived in the lands south of Eregion. Others were tall and bore the signs of kinship to the Númenórean exiles: traces of the ancient Bëorians and Marachians still lingered in their faces, descendants of the Atani who had not crossed the Ered Luin. Yet the Númenóreans named their distant kin the “Middle Men” — the lesser folk — not reaching the stature of the exiles from the drowned lands, but fit to be absorbed into the Kingdom of Arnor.

The last shreds of my weariness vanished when curiosity took over. I wandered along these booths where the sturdy crofters sold fruits, meats, vegetables, clothing and craftwork. Although my presence caused a minor stir, these folk had seen the Firstborn before so they were not at a loss when trying to persuade me to buy their goods. Eager faces, some hopeful, some sly, peered at me when I picked up an awl, examined a necklace or armband, or ran my fingers over rough cloth. Out of courtesy, I bought a few items, bargaining half-heartedly since this was expected, and paying significantly more for a hammer and a bag of nails than they were worth.

The inferior craftsmanship displayed in cheap jewelry, coarse fabrics, and rough-edged tools grated at my aesthetic sensibilities, but I reminded myself that these were the goods that the common folk could afford, both to make and to purchase. I knew that the race of Men was capable of much more, but those who had remained in the twilight of Middle-earth had been beaten back time and time again, whether by war or plague or ignorance. What would it take to push them forward so that they did not slip back into a more primitive state?

My growling stomach got the better of my deep thoughts when the alluring scent of ripe fruit drew me to a booth, manned by a stout broad-shouldered fellow with round pink cheeks, shaggy sun-bleached hair and a dark beard. To my astonishment, there among berries and vegetables was a large basket of ripe peaches. I picked one up and inhaled its distinctive sweet fragrance.

“You will find no better peaches in the market, my lord,” said the seller. “Would you like a sampling?” He pulled out a small knife and cut a slice of fruit. Its flavor and texture transported me to the rare occasions I had tasted this fruit in Tharbad when I was a young man.

“Extraordinary!” I exclaimed. “I haven’t eaten a peach in...” I looked into friendly brown mortal eyes and knew I didn’t wish to remind him of the chasm of years between us, “...in quite a long time. These fruit are hard to come by.”

He gave me the rest of the peach. I bit into it with unabashed greed.

“They grow well enough in the dells of the King’s farmlands south of here,” he said. “A fair country, it is, and I am proud to call it my home.”

“Yes, the King’s farmlands. We passed along their eastern border during our journey here, and I had traveled through them before the High King came to these shores, on my way to the Ered Luin. The Blue Mountains, that is,” I said, remembering the words in the vernacular of the Middle Men.

His round cheeks lifted with a broad smile. “That is where my orchards grow. If you rode along the border road, then you were no more than two leagues from my croft.”

“You are a fortunate man. That is beautiful country,” I said, in between bites of peach.

The crofter’s brown eyes twinkled with pleasure at my generous assessment of his homeland.

“There is a tale told among my folk,” he said. “Long ago, the White Lady of your people passed through our lands on her way to the shores of this very lake and blessed the lands where my people now live. Our farms are fertile because of her grace. Now whether that be a fanciful tale or not, my peaches — and apples and pears and cherries — all flourish. Our lady, Queen Isilmë herself, may the One bless her, brought the scions of peaches from Westernesse and gave them to us. They say before that, the Sea-Kings brought them back to Westernesse from the Land of the Dawn.”

“Whatever their origin, they are fine peaches,” I said, after wiping juice from my chin. “This has done more to lift my spirits than a flagon of wine would. I’ll take a dozen.” I reached into the leather wallet on my belt and rummaged around for currency, extracting a few coins. Since I did not have a basket, the man found a scrap of muslin to serve as a sling for the fruit. He added two more peaches to the little pile.

“A little something extra, my lord. These are so ripe that they won’t last much longer. And it’s rare that we see the Fair Folk in our city these days, not since the great march. My son’s off with them in the dark land, you see, with your people and the Men of the West. Many of our lads were eager to go. My Rowan is one of the foot soldiers in Lord Alcarin’s legion. We’ve heard nothing these past ten years. I don’t suppose you’d know of Lord Alcarin’s legion? How they have fared?”

I sifted through my memory for details from Laurefin’s letters or third-hand news that had circulated through Imladris.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know,” I said, watching the man’s open face fall. “But I will ask Master Elrond. Do you have your booth set up here every day?”

“For the next four days then I must return to my land.”

“Then I will return with word for you, Master...”

“Greensheaf. Robin Greensheaf.”

I reached out to clasp his right hand in mine. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Greensheaf. I am Sámaril of Imladris.”

“Likewise, my lord. I’m grateful for, well, for whatever you might find out. Not knowing is so hard on me and my wife.”

“I hope that I may bring you good news. You must hold on to that hope, too.”

“I pray to the One that you are right.” He sighed and looked around the market place. “Before the war, you’d have found twice the folk at this market. Our land has emptied of so many young men, leaving only the young and the old or those like me who must remain and provide, keep things running as it were. Sometimes, I wish I could have marched with them, so glorious, like in the old tales.”

“I understand. Like you, I remained behind, too, although I would have wished it otherwise. I must be on my way, Master Greensheaf. Be assured I will return.”

I bundled the fruit into the muslin cloth and began my walk back to the palace. I ate yet another peach as I ambled along, tossing the pit into the gutter. The street I chose for my journey was narrow and dark from the shadows cast by the tenements that lined it. I heard the voices of children and turning a corner, saw five youngsters playing a game in the street. They rushed about, kicking a battered leather ball amongst themselves. I smiled as I approached them. A little tow-headed boy turned around, his blue eyes bright with merriment. I froze in my tracks.

Angry red scars marred his creamy skin, the unmistakable remnants of fire-pox. Two of the other children bore these marks. With startling speed, last night’s troubling dreams of memory rushed into the forefront of my mind.

~*~

I had been alone in the office I shared with Teretion, where I was working out the calculations for a renovated gear system of the old centrifuge that we used to drive out air from molten alloys poured into casts. The messenger from the Guild of the Heart had knocked on the door.

“Master Sámaril? Lady Culinen wishes to speak with you. She expects you in her office at mid-day.”

“Please tell her I will be there promptly.”

The man nodded once, darting away to deliver his next message. As characteristic of the guild master, Culinen did not add a “if you have time available” or “when it is convenient.” Just that she expected me, and I knew that disregarding her expectation would be perilous.

At mid-day sharp, I stood in the door of the guild master’s office where Culinen squatted down on her heels, rummaging through cabinets and extracting bottles of herbs and powders. I announced myself.

She riveted me, as she always did, with her brilliant blue eyes and arresting features, and, as always, I was made uncomfortable by the fact that the mother of one of my closest friends was so distractingly attractive.

Once, when we attended the First Feast of Yestarë in the Hall of the Míretanor, Mélamírë had caught me admiring her mother whose fitted gown of emerald fabric accentuated her curves. With the interest typical of a young man with strong drives, I stared without thinking. Mélamírë had elbowed me in the ribs, knocking my goblet askew and spilling some wine.

“Ai! My mother? You do like to take risks, my friend!”

“It is nothing. I was simply admiring her new gold hair clasp...”

“Ah, yes. The one my father made for her. You’d best not look at her like that when he’s around!”

Then I sputtered, incoherent as I searched the hall nervously, but Mélamírë just laughed at my distress with devilry in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Sámaril,” she said, patting my arm with reassurance, her expression softening. “I’m just teasing you. You’re hardly the first to look at her like that.” She watched her mother talk to a wide-eyed young woman, an apprentice of the Guild of Corn. The master healer had a knack for making each person she spoke to feel like the most important person in the hall at that moment.

“Tyelperinquar says her eyes are just like the old king’s – like Finwë’s. Not that I would know,” said Mélamírë, taking a sip of wine from her goblet. “I’m also told that she was born with a full head of hair, dark like it is now. On her first day of life, the light of the setting sun fell upon her little head, and her dark hair shone like copper. It reminded my grandfather of the light of the sunset on the deep waters of Lake Helevorn, on whose shores they dwelled. So he named his daughter 'Culinen'.”

The sunlight from the windows of Culinen’s office caught in her curly brown hair, reflecting that distinctive copper fire, when she stood and walked toward me. She wiped her hands on her apron, which still bore faint bloodstains from her work.

“It is good to see you, Sámaril.” She took my hands and leaned forward, turning her face to receive a kiss. “You’ve not been a guest in our house for ages now. I hope that means your courtship of Nierellë is proceeding well?”

“Yes, that is indeed what it means,” I said, after kissing her cheek. “I spend whatever time I can with her when I am not in the forges.”

She released my hands, her expression turning grave. “I summoned you here to take your time away from your beloved, I fear. I have need of your help.”

“What do you require, my lady?” I assumed she might want steel instruments for her craft or new seals for the containers that held her rare medicines.

“I would like you to accompany me to Minhiriath. A contagion of fire-pox has broken out in the settlements of Men and is spreading fast. Tharbad has sent word that they need our assistance. Two of my healers will go, and Istyanis Naryen will ride with me, of course, but I need more hands yet. You have more comfort with Men than many others of our folk. I would have you come with us.”

I hesitated. Although it was true that I was familiar with Men, often mingling with them during those years when I had forged the Rings of Power, I had never witnessed a mortal’s death. I had seen the maimed and the mad, but nothing like this portended.

“I have so much work to do. I don’t think the Istyar will release me from my tasks...”

“That is not an issue. You will be released from your duties.” Her tone assured me this had already been discussed.

“I am...I do not know, my lady.” Shamefully, I searched for excuses, and in the process, stumbled upon a truth. “Men become desperate — and dangerous — in such dire situations.”

“Sámaril, these people are desperate. That is precisely why we must help them. Why else would we be on this Middle-earth with the gifts that have been endowed to us if not to assist our mortal brothers and sisters?” She had fixed me with those eyes again, and in that moment, I understood why so many had followed Finwë.

“Very well. I will go with you to do whatever I can.”

“You have my gratitude. Prepare to leave tonight after sunset. Take only what you absolutely need.”

So I had assisted the great healer of Ost-in-Edhil while she struggled to contain the infection. Tharbad had shut its gates, trying to keep the disease out, but one of their most skilled healers, a man trained in Numenor, defied the quarantine and worked with Culinen. After three weeks, his robust constitution failed. He succumbed to the disease, and we burned his body in a pyre with the other dead.

The people of the villages and rustic settlements in Minhiriath fell to the fire-pox like dry grass before a wild fire. Day after day, night after night, I sat by bedsides which often were no more than a rude pallet on the ground, holding hands, stroking a burning forehead with cloth soaked in cool water, and watched as the disease that had caused me only a day of aches and fever consumed mortal men, women and children. Death had come as a blessing to them, these Middle Men, releasing them from the savagery of the contagion, while we, the Firstborn, did what we could to try to save them or make their passing from the circles of the world easier.

~*~

Fire-pox epidemics had continued to break out now and then in Eriador, but after Sauron’s armies had overrun the land, the contagions became worse. War and plagues devastated the populations of these lands, the specters of disease forever stalking mortal Men. Yet some survived these infections, like these children playing in the street of Annúminas had, likely aided by the medicine brought from Númenor, but they were forever marked by their ordeal. I gathered my wits and noticed the children had stopped playing and stared at me.

“You are an Elf!”

“Yes,” I said. “I am Sámaril, one of Elrond’s folk.”

The tow-headed child stepped forward. “I am Ned.” He looked at the peaches with frank hunger and averted his eyes quickly. Although these children did not appear starved, they had a ragged look about them.

“Would you like a peach, Ned? Any of you?”

Grubby hands reached out eagerly. I gave away all the peaches save for one, which I kept for myself. They immediately began to eat the succulent fruit, juices dripping down their chins. They burbled their thanks in between bites of peach.

I remembered my other purchase from the market.

“Do any of you lads know of someone who could use a hammer and nails?”

One of the boys piped up, “Yes, my da could. He helps Master Bellor the carpenter.”

“Then take these to him.” I pulled the hammer and sack of nails from my belt and extended them in offering to the boy, now wide-eyed.

“An elvish hammer?”

I nearly answered ‘no’ but their wide eyes stopped me.

“I did not craft this hammer, but I will put a little elvish magic in it for your father.”

I passed my hand over the simple tool and spoke a few words of a verse taken from an incantation to Aulë, a translation into my mother tongue from the Dwarven language.

“There,” I said, giving the hammer to the boy. “May this drive nails straight and true.”

I bade them farewell and continued on my way back to the palace, eating my last peach and considering that as fair as Arnor was, there were those among its citizens who still struggled and suffered the ills of mortal Men.

~*~

Not long after I returned to my quarters in the palace, a servant knocked gently on my door. She and another elderly woman brought in a small basin and buckets of hot water as I had requested. They left towels, soap and a vial of sweet almond oil.

With cloth and hot water, I washed myself, the act of cleansing my body taking on a ritualistic quality while I prepared myself for my meeting with the queen. I poured the almond oil onto my palm, rubbed my hands together and smoothed it over my hair, and plaited it tightly. I dressed in the formal clothing I had brought with me, girding myself with belt and courage for what was to come.

The rapping of knuckles fell on the door of my quarters, firmer this time. I opened to door to see Lónando, the Dúnadan knight.

“Queen’s man,” I bowed and then stepped forward to meet him, clasping his right hand with my own in Mannish greeting. “It is good to see you, Lónando, even if the circumstances are sad.”

“Well met, Istyar. I, too, wish our meeting could have been in happier times. You are well? And Master Thornangor?” His fair skin turned pink, belying his memories of his short tryst with Thorno. He smiled with a shyness that was incongruous but somehow charming in such a resolute man.

“Thorno is well,” I said, leaving absent that my friend and colleague had fallen deeply in love with another. “I left the forge in his capable hands.”

He averted his eyes and flushed deeper, perhaps recalling Thorno’s dexterity, but he recovered.

“I am to escort you to the queen.”

“Yes, I am ready,” I said. “How is she?”

Lónando’s face drooped. “She has lost her husband, Istyar. Grief consumes her.”

“Then take me to her.”

Side-by-side we walked along corridors and up flights of stairs. What had started as a cold knot in my guts spread into the consuming numbness of dread as we drew closer to our destination. No matter how I tried to reduce it to abstraction, to the inherent nature of our different fates, and remind myself that death was a natural consequence of the cycles of nature, the mortality of Men still affected me deeply. How would I face my friend’s death, a death that was voluntary at that?  The sickly sweet odor of mortal decay engulfed me, and a brief vision of the towers and domes of Annúminas crumbling to ruin passed before my eyes.

After several twists and turns along bright corridors graced with tapestries and murals, we stopped before double doors of polished wood. Lónando pulled a smooth silver-hued rope and a gentle chime sounded behind the door, which opened shortly thereafter. Lady Vórwen greeted us, her voice husky with sorrow.

“Sir Lónando. Istyar Sámaril. Please, this way.”

She led us through the queen’s apartments toward a door that opened out on to a sunny balcony that overlooked the sparkling waters of the lake.

There on a cushioned chair, surrounded by pots of flowering plants and herbs, sat my friend. Her hair had turned almost all silver now with only a few streaks of black, the furrows by the sides of her mouth had deepened and many new wrinkles crinkled around her eyes, but worst of all, the light of those storm-grey eyes was extinguished. I swallowed my shock at how the smoldering fire of age had burned up her body. In the custom of her people, she rose to her feet, slow but steady, to greet me, her posture no longer straight and tall but stooped.

“Sámaril, my friend, you have come.”

She extended her hands in greeting. The stench of decay nearly overwhelmed me. How could Men not notice it? But this was my friend who stood before me, a woman whom I respected and loved. I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat and took Isilmë’s hands in mine for just a moment before my love and grief banished all revulsion. I fell into her embrace, like a small boy in his mother’s arms, and felt the first of many tears course down my cheeks.

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Chapter End Notes

"Fire-pox" could be small pox or the disease might be measles. At any rate, it's a nasty contagious viral disease. Also, in my view as a life scientist, because Elves are human and have the same receptors, enzymes, metabolic pathways -- in short nearly identical physiology -- as Men, they can still suffer some degree of illness from infectious agents, but their extremely effective (but tightly controlled) immune systems and their more fully integrated control of their minds over their bodies allows them to recover quickly from what would kill a Man.

Glossary:

Falmarindi (Quenya): water nymphs.
Míretanor (Q.) Jewel-smiths
Yestarë (Q.) First day of the Elvish solar year.
Minhiriath (Sindarin) is the region of Eriador that is bordered by the Greyflood and Brandywine Rivers and the seacoast.

Characters:

Culinen – Mélamírë’s mother; healer and guild master of Ost-in-Edhil.
Mélamírë (Istyanis Náryen) – master smith of the Otornassë Mírëtanoron/Gwaith-i-Mírdain; Sámaril’s friend and Thorno’s mentor.

Isilmë – high queen of the Dúnedain, Elendil’s wife.
Elerína – co-queen (in exile) of Gondor, Isildur’s wife.
Vórwen – Lady-in-waiting to Elerína and Isilmë.
Lónando – Dúnadan; Queen’s knight.