The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

---

Chapter 3: The Matter of Song

Sámaril takes some relaxation in the Hall of Fire and requests a song originally written by Fingon and elaborated upon by Maglor. The song sends him into recollection of a dance in Eregion.

Heads up here for mildly adult concepts and heresy pertaining to the ever popular "Laws and Customs of the Eldar."

---

I had done Thorno one better than simply making an appearance in the Hall of Fire that evening. In a rare fit of sociability, I decided to take my meal in the dining hall instead of the less public kitchen like my usual custom.

Although more often than not of disheveled appearance, I was as prone to aesthetic display as the next fellow when the occasion arose. Thus, after a long soak in the bathhouse, I dressed formally for dinner, donning trousers, tunic and long robe of autumn-hued russet, amber and pine-green. I brushed my hair over and over again until it gleamed, cascading over my shoulders and down my back. Setting a circlet of hammered gold leaves over my brow, I pushed a few wayward strands of hair off my face. From my chest of finery, I selected a gold torque, snapping its clasp in place, and secured cuffs studded with topaz gems around my forearms. A quick glance in the mirror before I left my quarters confirmed that I didn’t look half-bad.

Gildor, the leader designate of Imladris in Elrond’s absence, greeted those who entered the dining hall.

“Istyar! What a surprise! You are not filthy for a change. What have we done to deserve this honor?” His tone dripped with honeyed sarcasm.

“Nothing in the least.” I answered smoothly, not lingering for his rejoinder. Although Master Elrond never remarked on my frequent absences from the dining hall, understanding my dedication to my craft and my frequent need for solitude, Gildor was a stickler for protocol. My often empty seat at the high table rankled him.

This evening, I took my place next to Thorno who already sat and sipped wine from a goblet. He laughed when I adjusted my robe awkwardly after sitting down: "You look like a prince, you old curmudgeon! One might even say resplendent."

“One might even say skittish. If you make too much of a fuss over me, I’ll bolt.”

“Then let me anchor you to the table with this.” He reached for the nearby bottle of wine and filled my goblet with the crimson liquid, which I gratefully sipped.

After the tables filled with awaiting diners, the kitchen staff wheeled two carts into the hall. Four maids glided among the tables, setting the plates laden with food before us.

Unaccustomed to being on display at the high table, I shifted in my chair, uneasy when one of the maids set the steaming plate in front of me. My discomfort evaporated when the aromas hit my nostrils.

I tucked into the meal – venison sausage, chard, squash and bread - with vigor. My enforced leisure had re-activated my appreciation of food and drink. During the intense periods of work over the past several years, I might go for many days without eating. I would then devour food like a wolf when Astaron, the head cook, noted my haggard appearance and slowed me down long enough to place meat, buttered bread and fruit before me. With scrutiny no less keen than that of my late mother, he would then watch diligently until I ate what he deemed adequate.

With single-minded immersion in my labors and thought, I rarely took notice of the flow of guests in the House. However, this evening I had the opportunity to relax and observe. A number of mortal women and youths – presumably their children - sat at the lower tables. These mortals were the people of Elendil. That much I knew even if their specific identities were unknown to me. Most of his subjects lived to the west, but the wives of his captains remained here after their husbands departed to war. I scanned the hall for the little boy – Valandil - whom I had rescued this morning, but saw neither him nor his mother. I spotted Naurusnir at a table with my staff from the forge and others of Elrond’s household. He caught my eye and nodded hesitantly. I raised my goblet to him. I would apologize to him later.

The meal wound down, finishing with an apple tart and sheep’s milk cheese, which I polished off. Maidhel, the maid who removed my plate, smiled with approval when she noted how barren it was. As Astaron's second in the kitchen, she was well aware of my erratic dining habits and even had delivered food to us in the forges during the height of our labors. She likely would pass along the news to Astaron that I had eaten every last crumb of his cuisine.

At the note of the silver bell that chimed high above, Gildor pushed back his chair from the table. Three empty chairs were a melancholy reminder of Elrond, Erestor, and Laurëfin’s absence. In Elrond’s place, Gildor rose and led all who were so inclined to the Hall of Fire. Thorno and I followed him.

The trill of the flute, the harp’s crystalline droplets and the rapid patter of drums wandered disconnected as the musicians tuned their instruments and flexed their fingers. The fire crackled in the massive hearth, lending its random snaps to the meandering notes. Thorno made a beeline for two flaxen-haired Silvan maids who lingered at the other side of the expansive hall. Leaning against a pillar, I watched the others filtering through the wide door. Naurusnir entered with a clutch of the household staff. I waved at him, and he angled away from his cronies.

He approached, trepidation flickering in his eyes. Remorse stung me when I saw his hesitation. Naurusnir, a Sinda, was not a natural for smithing, but he worked hard to elevate his skills and gain my approval. I recalled my intense need as a young man for such approval from both my father and my teacher. I considered that in many ways, I had adopted their attitudes – short on praise, long on criticism - and I felt sympathy for the young smith before me. Placing my hands on his shoulders, I leaned forward to kiss his cheek.

“Please forgive me, Naurusnir. I should not have lost my temper this afternoon. You did not deserve that.”

“It...it is well between us, Istyar.” He flushed but visibly relaxed at my apology. “Life has been stressful for all of us of late and especially for you.”

“That is kind of you, lad, but I plead no such excuse. Now why don’t we enjoy the music? It sounds like they are ready to begin.”

The random notes coalesced into structure and rhythm: a familiar melody glittered throughout the hall when the musicians opened with a traditional hymn to Elbereth. Most joined in the song for the first stanza, and then fell silent, listening to Laerwen’s jeweled soprano that wove in and out of the harp’s glissando and echoed the fluid notes of the flute.

After four pieces, the musicians took a break, standing to stretch their legs and their hands while the singers drank draughts of cool water. I made my way over to them and whispered a request into Lindir’s ear. He turned to the flautist, drummer, the viol player and the lutist, naming the song to them. They nodded in response.

“Yes, we are happy to play that for you, Istyar. You are the only one who ever requests it.”

“Am I now?” Lindir knew good and well that I enjoyed this song, but he did not know the full reason why. “I’m glad you are an aficionado of the melodies of Aman, Lindir, else I should rarely listen to this rare piece.”

They began again, first with a hymn to Yavanna. Then they segued into my request. It was a love song and a favorite of Mélamírë, my long-lost friend from the House of the Míretanor. As I listened to the musicians in the Hall of Fire, I smiled, recalling the languid summer night in the hills of Eregion when a number of us younger folk gathered to dance, sing, drink wine and engage in more private activities under the full moon that bathed the land in silver light.

~*~

Neither Mélamírë nor I had suitors who accompanied us to the night’s moonlit revelry. She and I had long been friends with one another but never lovers. Mélamírë –- an only child -- had adopted me as something akin to a younger brother, a role that I was flattered to fulfill. At the time, I was immersed in the forging of the third Ring of Power with Istyar Aulendil. I had not yet begun to court Nierellë who was then involved with a Sinda vintner, a man with whom her father encouraged her to keep company. Mélamírë claimed to be too busy for lovers, although I suspected that the formidable barrier of her kinsmen likely precluded men from paying court to her, particularly after Mírucáno’s unfortunate experience that had become the stuff of legend among the young men of the Míretanor. Thus detached from the drama of romance and sexual tension, my friend and I observed the obvious flirtation among the dancers. We gleefully speculated who would be slipping off into the darkness with whom and how many greenwood marriages would arise from the evening's festivities.

Mélamírë was in a celebratory -- and feisty -- mood that evening, recently having been designated Istyanis by the Otornassë Míretanor. After a few cups of wine, she had sauntered over to the musicians and made a request. She returned, sitting cross-legged by me, with a sly smile on her face. The melody - a superlative love song - began, and couples wound sensuously around and against one another in subtle reflection of foreplay. Mélamírë chuckled, and I asked she found so amusing.

“Our people. For all our insistence that we Noldor are so enlightened, we are rigid on some matters. We deny reality in so many ways, including the courses of love,” she said, smiling wickedly as she watched the dancers. “Everyone assumes that the song is a romantic paean from a young man to his lady love as fitting and accepted by Noldorin custom. Well, let me tell you something…” and she had proceeded to whisper in my ear.

Mélamírë’s mother had adored this song and along with Istyar Tyelperinquar, who was likewise taken with it, had worked with a few of the musicians in the Guild of the Harp to introduce it to their repertoire. None other than the mighty Cánafinwë had composed the original piece, but the root melody was written by Findekáno, Mélamírë had said, for his lover – Nelyafinwë. Everyone knew that Fingon and Maedhros had enjoyed a legendary friendship, yet I looked at her with amazement upon her quiet revelation. An unspoken question nagged in the outer shell of my thoughts as I tried to make sense of this.

She had laughed again when she perceived my quandary. “Ai, Sámaril! The dynamics of any family are complicated, and all the more so for the House of Finwë.” Her mirth subsided, and she said thoughtfully, “Of late, Mother and Tyelpo have begun to tell me more about them. I wish that I might have known Maitimo and Findekáno.” Then she lowered her voice, leaned against me and whispered, “What the Valar have taught the Eldar about bonding consists of half-truths and outright deception. Remember that.”

I barely had time to digest her startling words when the music switched to a lively dance tune. Mélamírë leapt to her feet, grabbing my hand as I unfolded my legs to follow her. “Let’s dance, my friend,” she said, her eyes reflecting the silver light of the moon. “We ought to make some more requests so we can forestall any tiresome hymns.”

“You are an unrepentant heretic, my lady!” I had laughed while we swirled among the dancers under the summer moon.

~*~

Leaving my nostalgic reverie, I returned to the Hall of Fire. Although I smiled while I listened to the concluding verse from Maglor's adaptation of Fingon’s love song, a tear tracked down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away. Who knew where my old friend was? I wanted to think that she argued with Námo over the true nature of death among Men and the Firstborn or hovered behind Vairë, advising that a particular color in the weave of the world should be a bit brighter here, a bit darker there, and would Vairë like her to forge better hinges for the Loom of Fate? I laughed to myself when I imagined Mélamírë’s predictable response to such thoughts: “Now that is superstitious nonsense, Sámaril, and you know it!”

Lindir filled the hall with the rippling cascades of his harp when he began the next piece and lifted his golden tenor in harmony with Laerwen’s silver soprano. For us – the Firstborn – this soaring music was practically sustenance like bread and water. Mortals warned that Elven music enchanted and trapped the unwary in a perilous glamour, and that time became warped and unnatural. While the latter did not hold sway with us for whom time flowed so differently, we were equally subject to the enchantment.

The music guided me into another plane, a green and blue world beyond the confines of Imbar, where I walked over the hills of Elvenhome, a land that I had never seen, but whose image was engraved as deeply in me as the essence that imparted the color of my hair and eyes. My mind wandered to a crest of a green hill and gazed out over a far azure sea, the subtle scent of lilies floating in the light breeze. In the dell below, maidens in gossamer dress danced in a circle beneath a sun which shone with a faintly alien but beautiful light.

Enraptured by the song’s spell, I heard my name called from a far shore. She called again and again over the crash of the waves. I thought my heart would break. Then the call clarified, now close, soft, low and melodious but more powerful than the sea. I wanted to drown in that voice. Then its tone became sharp and insistent.

“Istyar Sámaril? Istyar Sámaril?”

I started, irritated that I had been yanked away from the melancholy but lovely waking dream.

“What?” I snapped, twisting around to see who had so rudely interrupted my meditation. Sky-blue eyes fringed with dark lashes caught the light of the fire in the hearth, and I withered with humiliation at the churlish response I had just flung at Valandil’s mother.

“Forgive me for interrupting you,” she said coolly. “But I wish to speak to you about this afternoon.”

“Yes, certainly, my lady.” I rose from the bench. Her tone and demeanor told me she was accustomed to others listening carefully to her wishes. “Shall we speak there?” I indicated the entrance to the Hall where it would be somewhat quieter, but still within sight of all and conforming to propriety.

She walked alongside me, her movement graceful but hinting at underlying strength. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, noting that although she stood perhaps twenty centimeters shorter than me, she was nonetheless a tall woman, taller than many, but consistent with what I had seen of the men of her people, most of whom had great stature.

We stopped near the entry and faced one another.

“I wish to thank you for rescuing and returning my son to me today, Istyar. Valandil is especially adept at escaping our watch when he sets his mind to it.”

“It was fortunate happenstance that I hiked along the ridge this morning. The current of the river is powerful there.”

She averted her eyes and looked at her hands, her long fingers entwined. She raised her face again, the candlelight painting her creamy skin gold and casting shadows that emphasized her fine cheekbones and straight nose. Her chin was firmly set as she drew herself up to respond to me.

“I know that I should have been more vigilant, Istyar, but you must understand that Valandil is a clever boy and can slip away from us as easily as one of your people’s youngsters might, or at least that is what I am given to understand. Gaereth is beside herself with guilt.”

“So she should be. Your servant nearly lost your son. If Valandil is so clever, then perhaps you should request that one of my people watch over him.”

“Do not judge her too harshly,” she said. “Gaereth is a naive young woman from a coastal village. Imladris has set her adrift. Your people frighten her, and she still adjusts to living here among you. If I may be so bold, you did not help matters this afternoon when you rebuked her.”

Far from the first time that I had heard that Elves intimidated Men, the superstitious notions of mortals nonetheless exasperated me.

“My people frighten her? I frighten her? Well, good! Perhaps she’ll watch after your child more diligently if she fears us so much!”

I gesticulated to emphasize my consternation. My hand grazed a garland of red leaves and purple asters attached to the paneling near the doorframe, and the decoration fell to the floor. Elerína bent to pick up the garland. She reattached the garland adroitly and turned to me, her chin again set, her fine dark brows furrowed, but she did not speak.

The silver circlet over her brow had been knocked askew when she had retrieved the garland. Just as no cautious governor had stayed my words, with unthinking spontaneity I reached forward and straightened the circlet, my fingers grazing the silk of her dark hair. Her eyes widened, but still she said nothing. She compressed her lips into a thin line, turned from me abruptly and left the hall. Stunned at my idiotic behavior that lurched from who knows where, I watched her walk away and found myself admiring the sway of her hips and her rounded...

“Oh, now that was simply brilliant, Sámaril!” Thorno, holding two full goblets of wine, was at my side. “Very well done. You have set your sights on the impossible.”

A scorched tingling suffused my face. “What in Utumno's blazes do you mean by that?”

“I haven’t seen you that taken with a woman for ages. Do you know who she is?”

Much to my chagrin, I realized I had not asked her name, but then neither had she introduced herself. It was as if she assumed I knew who she was.

“I only know that she is the distracted mother of Valandil, the Dúnadan child I pulled off the rocks today. And I am a widower, Thorno. A married man. Of course I do not linger around women, especially mortal women. She merely wished to thank me for rescuing her son.”

Inwardly, I winced at my self-righteousness since I had succumbed to my hröa’s demands on numerous occasions after my wife's death. Knowing this, Thorno cocked his brow at my protest but said nothing. I took the goblet of wine from his hand and drank long from it.

“From what I observed, you accepted her thanks ever so graciously.” Thorno smiled wryly.

I groaned. “Varda’s stars! I am hopeless when it comes to manners.”

“You also have a blasphemous mouth!” He laughed, savoring his remark since he swore as often as I did. “Sámaril, honestly, you spend far too much time in the forges.”

I ignored his assessment of my work habits and the implied impact on my social skills or lack thereof.

“So do me the kindness of enlightening me, Thorno. Who is she?” I took another gulp of wine, my racing heart steadying.

“Her name is Elerína. She is Isildur’s wife – one of the Queens of Gondor.”

The wine sprayed from my mouth, punctuating with vulgar exclamation my appalling lack of control.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Astaron - Noldo, master of the kitchens in the House of Elrond. (derived from astar - a Quenya gloss meaning "faithful, loyalty.")

Maidhel - Sinda, Astaranon's chief assistant.

Mélamírë - Noldo, master smith of the Otornossë Mírëtanoron/Gwaith-i-Mírdain.

Istyanis (Q.) - my construct for scholarly or learned woman; I imagine the titles of "Istyar" and "Istyaní" among the Noldor to be equivalent to a tenured professor, i.e., a step beyond a master.

Tyelpo = Tyelperinquar - Celebrimbor

Cánafinwë (Macalaurë) - Maglor

Findekáno - Fingon

Nelyafinwë (Maitimo) - Maedhros

----

Based on a number of items in both "Laws and Customs of the Eldar" (History of Middle-earth, vol. X) and Tolkien's letter (#43 - Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, ed. H. Carpenter) to his son, Michael, on the subject of marriage, I interpret Mélamírë's vocation as a master smith to be a very rare one for a Noldorin woman. Mélamírë has her own story which I hope to get around to telling. As for Ælfwine's assessments in "LaCE," all I have to say about that is that he was no Margaret Mead.

 

The song which Sámaril requests has its origins in Chapter 3 - "Promises" of oshun's Maitimo and Findekáno. I extend my thanks to her for allowing me to borrow from her canon.