The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 21: Songs of Returning

The first year of the Third Age finds Sámaril saying farewell to Midhloth and welcoming the returning Firstborn to Imladris. Erestor brings back more materials for Sámaril's planned -- and secret -- project. Later, Glorfindel shows Sámaril what he discovered in Sauron's inner chambers of the Barad-dûr.

Thanks to The Lizard Council, specifically Drummerwench, Jael, Claudio, Moreth and oshun, for critique and comments.

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The first year of the new age came quietly to the valley, unfurling on new green leaves and sighing on the winds over the moor. We sang the hymns of loa at the turning of the year, some looking ahead to the new age, but many looking back with resignation, knowing that fewer of our people now lifted their voices under the stars. It was a year of returning for many: some back to their homelands under the great trees of Eryn Galen, others at last forsaking Middle-earth, and still others returning to Imladris.

In late spring, after the high pass opened, five riders came to Imladris. Compact Silvan men guided their small graceful horses that trotted down the path with steps as sure as those of mountain goats. Galfaron’s dogs barked while Nella, along with the other wolfhounds, loped out into the court before the House of Elrond to greet these strangers.

Thorno stood by me while I watched the arrivals from our vantage point by the forge. Members of the household came out to greet the Silvans. Midhloth flew down the steps and into the arms of one of the men, his nut-brown hair whipped wild by the spring breeze. Then they kissed, long and deep. A whirlwind of emotions stirred within me -- disappointment, envy, but also relief -- while I witnessed my sometime lover in the arms of another.

Thorno’s strong arm, comforting and solid, reached around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, old man.”

The next day, Midhloth knocked on the doorjamb of my office.

“Please, sit down,” I said, standing and pulling a chair up for her. She smoothed her skirt and apron around her legs and settled on the wooden seat. “What brings you here? You usually don’t have much interest in my golodhren crafts.”

She smiled but twisted her hands in her lap.

“I have...” She paused, her eyes lowered at first, but then she looked at me directly. “Istyar, I have come to tell you that I will be leaving Imladris. I intend to return to Eryn Galen. I have already asked Master Elrond, and he has given me leave.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose you have missed your home.” A flat and uninspired response, but I could not articulate my mixed feelings over her announcement.

“That I have, but there is more to it than that.” She fidgeted in the chair. “I have news...joyful news. My beloved has asked me to marry him.”

“Marry? I – well, congratulations, Midhloth.”

“Thank you, Istyar. I am relieved to hear you say that after what…” Her lips lifted in a sly half-moon. “...after what you and I have shared.”

I memorized her delicate features while I thought of a response. I would miss that devious smile, those forest-sprite eyes and her lively enthusiasm in my bed, but in my heart, I did not love her, and she knew that.

“Midhloth, I cherish your company, but I am happy for you. You deserve more than the occasional attention of a churlish lachenn.”

“You are not so churlish, Sámaril, although you like to think that you are.”

“When will you leave?”

“Tomorrow evening when the first stars shine.”

“So soon?”

“Yes, Elunir wishes to return home as soon as we can while the weather is fair.”

“I see.” Then my jumble of thoughts coalesced into a single clear idea. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“I...” She blushed. “I am sorry but I cannot...well, I am betrothed now.”

“No, no, it is nothing like that! I’d find Silvan flint at my throat if I took such liberties with you!” I laughed, but uncomfortably. “Tell me...who are the greatest woodsmen among your kindred?”

“It is difficult to name the greatest, Istyar. Most of our people speak to the trees, but my great-uncle Galion is among those who know the most of Eryn Galen’s forest.”

“Would Master Galion know where the Ashes of the Stars grow?”

“Yes, Galion knows.”

“I have need of that wood. Would you carry a letter with such a request to him on my behalf?”

“Yes, I can do that, Istyar, but he will not part with that wood so readily to a golodh. The Ashes of the Stars are beloved by my people. To use the trees’ wood requires offerings to the dryads who tend the groves.”

I pulled open a drawer of my desk and reached deep inside to extract a small chest. Casting my will into the wood, I unsealed it, and lifted out a leather pouch. I poured out its contents: gold coins and trinkets jangled onto my desktop.

“Perhaps some golodhren gold would persuade him? He can make a generous offering to the dryads for taking their beloved wood.”

“That might catch his attention and the dryads’ as well.” Her eyes danced with merriment.

“As it might catch yours.” A delicate golden necklace with a green-enameled pendant lay in my palm. I rose from my chair and handed it to her. The thin chain slid through her tapered fingers as she admired the pendant, which I had shaped in the likeness of a birch leaf.

“For your trouble of taking my request to your kinsman,” I said. “And this is for your husband-to-be. He is a lucky man.” I placed a heavier leaf-shaped brooch, which matched her pendant, in her outstretched hand. “Thank you for keeping me warm when my spirit threatened to freeze. I will always hold your affection dear. I am sorry that I could offer you no more than I did, little leaf.”

She smiled and turned away from me, lifting the silky fall of her hair so that I could clasp the chain around her neck. She turned around to face me again.

“Thank you, Istyar. You gave me enough. I enjoyed keeping you from freezing, but I think the warmth you truly desire remains out of your grasp. You must make peace with that somehow, my friend.”

Midhloth rose on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. Before she crossed the door’s threshold, she gave me the parting gift of her sprite’s smile and singing a woodland song, she danced joyfully out of my life.

~*~

Spring swelled into summer, its warm breezes light and the rainfall gentle while thunder rolled over the moors. Strawberries, blackberries and plums ripened in lush abundance. The roses and lilies in the gardens did not wilt. Grapes ripened to perfection on the vine as the sun marched toward the equinox. Leaves blazed yellow and crimson but clung to the trees long into the autumn. The river ran fast, but the currents of time had changed subtly. Vilya was at work.

Valandil was hard at work, too. Elrond took his role as mentor and kinsman to heart, instructing the boy daily in the long histories of the Dúnedain and of Númenor. After he finished his lessons with Elrond, Val would rush into my office, workshop or even into the forge itself to seek me out, barreling into me with the brusque strength of what he believed to be a manly embrace, but revealing his abiding need for my affection.

“Memorizing those long lists of names is so hard!” He complained while I walked with him to the woodwright’s shop where Val was working on a project. “It’s a surprise,” he had said, something that he could not share with me. Calaquar had winked at me when Val had made this announcement, both of us pleased that Valandil had come to trust the master woodwright’s instruction and company.

“I like the way you and Master Calaquar and Master Galfaron teach me,” he nattered. “I think I learn better when I put something in my hands or see examples. All those kings and princes and wars! I know I must learn them, but I can’t say that I like it much or that I am very good at it.”

“Well, you are a king’s son now,” I said, putting my arm over his boy’s bony shoulders, marveling at how much taller he was than last year at this time. “You are expected to know your lineage.”

“I am a king’s fourth son,” he said. “Let Elendur learn all those names. He will be the king one day, not me. That is not what I want to do. I want to know the lore of nature. Now that, I can do!”

It was with exuberance that Valandil rode with Galfaron on a crisp bright day in Narquelië, released from his day’s lessons and relishing the freedom of the hunt. Lady Vorwen, an avid huntress, rode her dark gelding near Galfaron, but Elerína and I observed from another vantage point, content to watch them pursue grouse.

We sat side-by-side on a stone outcropping, warmed by the sun. Our horses stood nearby, nipping at a few late season shoots. We watched Pilin dive toward the heather while Galfaron’s bird dogs watched the falcon intently, waiting for the signal from Galfaron. The falcon slammed into the fleeing grouse. Galfaron’s whistle sliced the air, and the dogs went charging toward the downed game bird and the raptor. Pilin waited calmly for the dogs, grasping the dead grouse in her talons.

I turned toward Elerína, who looked down at the hunters with a half-smile on her face.

“Shall we join them?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I’m enjoying it here. Such a beautiful view. Sometimes the moor reminds me of the sea.”

“Isilmë said that once.”

Elerina’s grin blossomed into an open smile which she turned toward me.

“Did she? That sounds like my dear Isilmë.”

“I am glad to hear you say that.”

“Why is that, Istyar?”

“You are not as sad when you speak of her lately.”

“You’re right. My memories of my mother-by-marriage have become brighter of late. It has been over a year since her death. I will always miss her, but time mellows the sharpest pains of loss.”

“You are lucky that way. The memories of my losses still cut like a knife.”

She looked at me with such pity then that I felt ashamed for speaking of such an emotional subject.

“Is it like that for you when you think of her, of your wife?”

“Nierellë,” I said, naming her, and trying to drive out of my mind that the color of her eyes was almost identical to Elerina’s. “Yes. The pain stabs me.”

“She may yet await you in the West. Why don’t you seek the Straight Road of your people?”

“As I have told you before, I do not think they will not welcome me in the Blessed Lands.”

“Do you bear the curse of the Oath?”

“No, but yes, in a way. Perhaps I bear that curse from association. Or something else is at work.”

“From him then. From the Deceiver.”

“Yes. From him.”

I could say no more, but Elerína did not press me. Instead she reached across the rock and put her hand over mine. I didn’t look but from her warm touch, I could picture her slender fingers and fine-boned hand over my larger one, nearly a third again bigger than hers. I turned my hand over and returned her gesture, squeezing her hand quickly, then releasing it and placing my hand with propriety on my own knee. We sat in companionable silence, the sound of the dogs and the voices of Galfaron, Vorwen and Valandil carrying up the hill.

I glanced at my friend’s profile: the smooth line of her forehead, a high-bridged nose, long dark lashes shielding her blue eyes and curved rosy lips, her upper lip a little fuller than the lower. Loose strands of her brown hair whipped around in the wind. My heartbeat quickened until I willed it to a cool steady cadence again. She is my friend, I repeated to myself, stilling my body’s desire. I wondered how much longer I could endure this and found myself hoping that Isildur would return soon and take his wife away to Annúminas, but at the same time, I dreaded her inevitable departure.

The clear call of a horn interrupted my ruminations. I sprang to my feet, looking off to the edge of the hill where the earthen road snaked through gorse, grass and heather to meet the sky. Dark silhouettes of riders emerged from over the hill. Shading my eyes from the afternoon sunlight, I saw the glitter of spears and midnight blue and green standards waving in the wind with silver and gold shining from the heraldry embroidered on their fabric. Voices raised in song could be heard in the distance.

“Who is it?”

I reached down to grasp Elerina’s hand and help her to her feet.

“The lords of Imladris have returned.” I said.

That was hyperbole, of course, but then, my people were prone to such poetic exaggeration. Only Laurefin could lay claim to a title, although he deemed it superfluous, but there was no doubt Erestor was a lordly man.

I watched Laurefin and Erestor approach, leading the contingent of the Firstborn who returned to Imladris. They rode side-by-side, day and night, sun and shadow. More riders and foot soldiers emerged from over the rise, forming a long line. They all sang an elven-warrior’s song of return, a song far older than I, and one that did not extol victory but sang of loss and parting. Erestor’s clear tenor carried the heartbreaking melody. Every time I heard him sing, I wondered if his voice echoed that of Maglor, whom he had served for so long.

In spite of the sorrow in verse and melody, smiles flashed among the men, including the leaders, as they approached Galfaron, Vorwen and Valandil. Pilin chattered while she spiraled above. A sharp whistle pierced the air. The falcon dove toward the company, spreading her wings to alight on the leather vambrace covering Erestor’s outstretched arm.

I held the reins of Elerina’s mare while she lifted herself onto the saddle. She hesitated, staring at Erestor and Laurefin while I waited for her to ride ahead.

“Go on. I will follow.”

“I know. It’s just that they are...they are so regal, Sámaril. They have always intimidated me.” The apprehension in her face startled me.

“My friend, you are the High Queen of the Dúnedain, not a callow maiden. Erestor and Glorfindel are affable, courteous men, not fey creatures who will carry you off under the faerie hill.”

A glint of mischief quickly replaced the nervousness in her eyes. “Perhaps I wouldn’t mind that.”

“You are a wicked woman, my lady!”

She burst out with a short laugh at that and urged her horse forward down to the path.

From a distance, the company was an impressive site, all gleaming mithril and steel hauberks, glinting spears, bright shields, and colorful banners flapping in the wind. However, as they approached, dirty over-tunics, grimy skin and dull, lank hair revealed the toil of the long journey. Laurefin, given a choice, invariably selected a white horse as a steed. The quick-stepping legs of this one were caked with mud. Nonetheless, Elerína, Vorwen and Valandil were wide-eyed and silent when Laurefin hailed us.

The company stopped when Erestor and Laurefin did. Erestor remained on his horse, Pilin content on his forearm, while Laurefin dismounted. He took off his helmet, its indigo feathers faded and worn, but its metal shone just as brightly as it had when it had first been forged and polished. His fabled hair, usually the color of golden ripe wheat, was now sun-bleached and ragged. He tucked his helmet under his arm and walked to where Elerína sat upon her horse.

“My lady.” He bowed his head. “King Isildur sends his fondest regards to his dear queen.” Elerína blushed like a rose. “We bear letters for you and your family from him.” Then he turned to Valandil. “Quite a number are for you, young prince.” A broad smile, which matched his mother’s, broke the awed expression on Val’s face.

“Letters from Father! And from my brothers, too?”

“Yes, from your brothers, too.” Laurefin’s formality also vanished when he smiled in return at Val. Then he turned to me.

“I don’t believe this. Sámaril out hunting.” He turned back toward the vanguard who waited, the horses stamping, anxious to be on their way. “What do you make of this, Erestor?”

“Ice has formed in Udûn as we speak.”

“How ever did you manage to get him out here, Galfaron?” asked Laurefin.

“Prince Valandil is an enthusiast. I expect that influenced the Istyar.” The hunter winked at me.

“Is this your falcon?” Erestor asked.

“Yes, my lord,” said Valandil, his eyes like saucers. “Her name is Pilin.”

“Pilin. She is a fine lady.” He brought the falcon near his face, whispering to her. She lifted her wings, shot into the air and circled above us. Erestor then smiled at Galfaron. “I’d say Prince Valandil has been a good influence on you, too. You haven’t been hawking since, well…since the days when you hunted with Celegorm.”

“Young Turko here has brought back the good memories,” said Galfaron, grinning at Valandil. “It no longer pains me to see the falcons take flight.”

Glorfindel then strode forward, reached up and clasped my forearm, a gesture that I returned, relieved that my lord and friend had returned safely.

“It is good to see you, Istyar. I have much to tell you,” he said. “And a project for you, too. Say, speaking of projects, I believe Erestor has something for you,”

Erestor twisted around in his saddle and opened the flap of one of the saddlebags that hung over the haunches of his horse. He searched around, pulling out a muslin bag, which he tossed to me.

“Damn near got poisoned by one of those abominations when I harvested this stuff for you. What on Yavanna’s green earth you want it for, I can’t imagine.”

I opened the mouth of the bag and reached it to feel sticky filament on the skein contained within. Spider silk. My cheeks tightened with a grin.

“Many thanks, Master Erestor. I am indebted to you.”

“Yes, you are. By all accounts, I should be a hollow elf-husk wrapped in webbing and sucked dry by a wretched lob.”

“Pay him no mind,” said Laurefin. “He loved slaying those things. He’s just angling for a gold torque in return for that stuff, no doubt.”

“No doubt!” Erestor laughed. “There’s something else to be delivered to you.” He turned and jerked his head, the tattered black feathers of his silver helmet ruffling in the wind. From the rear of the company came one of Erestor’s men leading a sumpter horse. Lashed to the animal was a bundle of long slender wands of grey wood embedded with glinting motes of light.

“Ash of the Stars! I only wrote that letter three months back. How did...”

“Golodhren gold talks,” observed Erestor, the other men around him chuckling. “Apparently that incited Thranduil’s servant to make haste. Perhaps he thinks there will be trade in it for him.”

“Or it may be that our timing happened to work out well for Thranduil’s men to have met us near the bridge over the Anduin,” said Laurefin. “Spider-silk and wood from the Ashes of the Stars. What are you planning, Sámaril?”

“I’d rather not say. It’s a secret project.”

Laurefin arched a chestnut-brown eyebrow at that. “I can’t tell you how tightly my guts clench when I hear a smith say ‘secret project.’”

He returned to his dirty white horse and swung up into the saddle. “Let’s be on our way. Queen Elerína, if you would, please ride with Erestor and me.”

Elerína blushed again like a young girl, but took her position with the leaders of the company. I looked back at the men who followed and guessed that less than half of those from Imladris who had left for the war now returned.

Valandil rode beside me. He was quiet and solemn.

“What do you think of them?” I asked. “Lord Glorfindel and Master Erestor?”

“They are like the elven kings from my stories,” said Valandil.

“Elven kings with dirty hair,” I said which made Valandil chuckle for a moment. His grave expression quickly returned.

“Is it true what they say about Lord Glorfindel? That he returned from the dead?”

“Yes, it is true, but that is not something to be discussed lightly.”

“Oh. I won’t say anything then. Will he teach me arithmetic now?

“Ah! You remembered that. Yes, I expect he will. He is very good with numbers.”

“I am not so good with them.”

“Don’t worry. Lord Glorfindel can explain very complicated ideas in ways that others can understand. Do you know that he performed the calculations that helped the engineers destroy the Dark Tower?”

“He did? I guess knowing numbers is good for something!”

Soon we heard the peal of the tower bell echoing off the cliffs, welcoming our weary warriors home. Then the company broke out into song, not one of sorrow, but a lively and frivolous one. Erestor’s tenor rose above all:

Oh, the river is running, the harps are now strumming!
To the Fire-hall we go! Let the cups overflow!
Tra-la-la-lally, we return to the valley!

When we arrived in the courtyard before the House of Elrond, many of the household milled in the courtyard. Even yeomen and the women of the crofts were coming in from the pastures further down the valley, all anxious to greet loved ones who returned. Cries of joy or embraces of quiet weeping mingled with the barks of the dogs and whinnies of horses. The knights began to remove their gear from their horses; footmen and stable hands unloaded the pack animals.

One of the men lifted a large burlap sack and draped it over his shoulder. The writing on it was in a foreign tongue, which I did not recognize, but with the stamp of a stylized red eye was unmistakable.

“Those go to the kitchens,” Glorfindel called, indicating the sack the man carried as well as three more still tied to the packhorses. “Tell Astaron I will deal with those later.”

“What’s in those?” I asked, watching the man haul the sack off toward the house.

“Beans. Beans that the Southrons call kaffea," Laurefin replied. "They are roasted brown and then ground into a coarse meal. That is brewed like tea. The result is incredible. This is where you come in. Will you make a grinder for me?”

“Yes, although Astaron already has a grinder.”

“That won’t do. He uses it to grind spices. Their flavors will contaminate the kaffea.”

I watched the men hauling the bags of beans to the kitchen, scrutinizing the brand of the red eye.

“Dare I ask where you found these?”

“In the Barad-dûr. I believe they were Sauron’s private commodities. I found them in a storeroom close to his chambers.”

“You mean you went all the way in there?”

“Well, yes. Who else would have?”

I shook my head. “You’re right. Who else would have...”

Laurefin inhaled the clear air deeply but broke out into a hacking cough. “Excuse me, Istyar,” he said when he recovered. “I still have the remnants of Mordor lung. Nothing that a good breath of steam will not ease. I am desperate for a long soak in the baths, and my hair is filthy. Come to my quarters tonight for brandy. We’ll catch up then.”

“I will see you then, my lord.”

Long after the evening feast had concluded, after the toasts of homecoming had been made many times, and while song and verse still filled the Hall of Fire, I made my way to Laurefin’s quarters. At my rap on the door, I heard Laurefin call out.

“Who is it?”

“Sámaril, my lord.”

“Please come in, Istyar!”

I opened the door to see Laurefin, wrapped in a dark green dressing gown, barelegged and barefooted, sitting on a stool in the middle of his parlor. Behind him was a lithe Sinda, clipping away at Laurefin’s hair with scissors. Piles of the golden stuff littered the floor around them.

I couldn’t help but stare. Startlingly short hair barely grazed Laurefin’s shoulders instead of falling down his back as his usual wont.

“My hair was driving me mad. Brégamar here is the best barber in the army so I asked him to cut off all the damaged stuff. It will grow back quickly enough. Go on, help yourself to brandy.” I followed Laurefin’s eyes to the sideboard where a cut crystal carafe was half-full of amber liquor with two bell-shaped snifters bracketing it. I poured a generous measure in each glass, the mellow but complex aroma informing me that this was from one of the older casks.

The barber was now brushing out Laurefin’s hair, which shone in the lamplight but was quite wavy, even curling at the ends, now that its length was no longer weighing it down. Laurefin closed his eyes and leaned into the brush. I was reminded of a lion pictured in Mélamírë’s book. The barber ran the brush through Laurefin’s hair one last time.

Laurefin rose from the stool. I handed the glass to him. He took a sip and coughed a few times.

“Excuse me.” He cleared his throat. “Ah, thank you, Brégamar, that will do.”

Using a small broom, the barber had swept up the hair on to a tray, carefully depositing the clumps in a silver pail. He finished and bowed to Laurefin, taking his leave, but not before he gave Laurefin a sly, half-lidded look from the corner of his dark eyes, his angled cheekbones flushed pink, and his wide sensual mouth quirked by a grin. Laurefin inclined his head to the barber, a neutral polite gesture, but his green-flecked grey eyes had a languid, sated look about them. I surmised that had I arrived earlier, I might have interrupted something other than a hair cut. I quelled my disapproval as quickly as it arose.

The barber was nearly ready to slip out the door, but I called out to him: “Wait! Please leave that pail.”

The barber eyed me curiously and then glanced at Laurefin who nodded slightly. He deposited the pail of hair by the door and left. Laurefin gestured for me to sit on the leather settee near the large chair in which he settled, stretching his out his long legs and putting his bare feet up on a footstool.

“Whatever do you want my hair for?” asked Laurefin,

“The secret project.”

Laurefin snorted. “You are something else, Sámaril. It is so good to see you.”

“And you, too, my lord.”

“Need I remind you again to dispense with the ‘my lord’ business? No one else is around to cluck over propriety and our respective standings.”

“Very well, my lord.”

Laurefin frowned slightly and then laughed. “Yes, I know, I know. I will have to tell you a thousand times to not say ‘my lord.’ I take it you received all my letters?”

“I did. Quite an impressive number of words.”

“Yes, well, between waiting for Sauron to send out his sorties or bombard us, life on Gorgoroth was tedious. I didn’t account for everything. I spared you the worst details of the battle of the Dagorlad.”

“I thank you for that. Were you there for the final battle? Gil-galad and Elendil fighting with Sauron?”

“I was, but I would rather not discuss it this evening.” He took another drink of brandy, smacking his lips.

“Excellent. From the thirty-two hundred vintage, I believe. I have dreamed of this nectar for years now. Did Elrond tell you of the Barad-dûr? How we brought it down?”

“Yes! So you witnessed it?”

“Not only did I witness it, I was among those who lit the fuses. It was nothing short of spectacular. We were nervous to be sure while we waited. But the timing and position of the detonations were just right. The whole thing crumbled straight down to its foundations. The noise was deafening, but it was a beautiful sight, if you can believe that.”

I laughed. “Oh, I can believe it!”

“Macilion was overjoyed that it worked but as nervous as a cat while we waited. You can imagine what he said once the explosions began.”

“I nearly shat myself.”

“Exactly.”

“And the foundations? Were those destroyed, too?”

“Untouchable. The explosives did nothing to them. Smooth as black glass and as impregnable as adamant.”

“I see.”

“You have an idea of why the foundations of the tower withstood the detonations, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“The Ring?”

“Yes.”

“So the foundations of the Barad-dûr stand while the Ring remains.”

“I’m afraid so, given what he must have put into the One.”

Laurefin took another sip of brandy and stared into the fire cheerfully snapping and sputtering in the hearth.

“How long will it be, I wonder, before he reappears?”

“I cannot guess, but you know he will...unless the Ring is unmade.”

“Unless the Ring is unmade. Not likely to happen now, is it?”

“Not likely.”

“Bloody thing should have been tossed into the sea.”

“That doesn’t unmake it.”

He didn’t answer but rose from his chair, taking my glass and his, refilling them both with generous servings of brandy. He handed my glass to me.

“Before we brought down the tower, we scoured it from top to bottom in search of prisoners and the dead. A gruesome task.”

“From what you wrote and Elrond said, it must have been horrible.”

“It was. Few could withstand the place, but much of that came from the foul conditions within. Once Sauron was gone, though, the worst of the horror vanished. He had wrapped a dark glamour around the tower, creating phantoms that struck deep fear into the hearts and minds of all. I was the only one who was able to enter his private chambers. The remnant of his spells guarded it, but they were nothing more than illusion. So I went in and found things there.”

“What sorts of things?”

“First of all, this...” He rose from his chair and walked to his desk where opened a drawer , bringing back something that at first looked like a ruler. When he handed it to me, I saw that was made of three strips of yellow enameled wood, the outer strips stationary but the inner one mobile. Each piece was engraved with numbers and hatch marks like a ruler, but many more of them in precise arrangement. A name – Mairon – was embossed on the surface of one of the stationary strips. I moved the inner piece in and out.

“What is this?”

“A calculating device. Here, let me show you how it works: line up this mark here on the number three, just so, then look along here to the four and there you have it: twelve. That’s very simple figuring. One can perform much more complicated calculations like roots, trigonometric functions and logarithms. It’s much faster than longhand. I haven’t seen one since I left Aman.”

“And you found this on his desk?”

“More precisely in it. His desk was a massive thing embellished with brass and with many drawers. The wood was black of a kind unfamiliar to me, but the Southrons called it ebony. That rule was tucked away in an alcove, along with everything else in its place. All very orderly, of course."

“Of course.”

“I found some other things. One is on my desk, there under the black cloth. Go take a look. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

I rose from the chair and walked to the desk. Faint light peeped through the fabric. A familiar light. I shivered. Taking a deep breath, I lifted the cloth.

It was one of my lamps. Its light had diminished since I had made it during my apprenticeship in Ost-in-Edhil but it still shone with the same hue. I touched the crystal and it immediately brightened, filling the parlor with a warm golden glow.

Speechless, I turned toward Laurefin.

“Yes, he kept it all this time. Now look on the desk beside it.”

I lifted the solid clear crystal, perfectly flat on one side, but domed on the other. Encased within it was a ring, not a ring of gold or silver, but a perfect circle of dark hair, woven into a thin plait. The last time I had seen this paperweight was when it sat on his desk in Ost-in-Edhil

“He kept that, too,” Laurefin said softly. I put the paperweight back down on the desk. I stared at the light of the lamp for a time before I raised my eyes to Laurefin.

“I must ask this. Did you find any evidence of the Istyanis there in the tower?”

“None, Sámaril. None whatsoever.”

I sighed, heartsick. “I am so sorry, Laurefin.”

“Why are you sorry? I see that as reason for hope. Hope that she escaped.”

“Escaped by death.”

“Ai, but you’re a cynical one! Escaped. Alive. I do not believe she is dead, and neither should you. You underestimate her.”

“You underestimate Sauron.”

“I think not. You seem to forget who I am.”

“You seem to forget who I am.”

Tension crackled between us: my despair born from utter betrayal against his unshakeable faith. I knew I would be the first to give way. I rose, draining my glass, and replaced it on the sideboard.

“I think we are both weary. I should let you get your rest, my lord.”

“Sámaril, I’m sorry that I was short with you. I would plead weariness, but you know this is a difficult subject for me.”

“I understand,” I said. “It is for me, too, for all her friends.”

“Yes, for all her friends.” He walked with me to the door of his chambers. “Now don’t just take my hair. You must take the lamp, too. I brought it back for you.”

He handed me the lamp. I bade him good night and wended my way through the corridors back to my chambers, the white-gold light of the lamp illuminating the dark halls and shining from the golden elf-locks piled in the silver pail.

---

Chapter End Notes

Narquelië (Quenya) = Narbeleth (Sindarin) ~ October

Laurefin (Q) = Glorfindel. I imagine that Sámaril uses "Laurefin" when speaking in Quenya (or in his own thought since Quenya is his mother tongue) and "Glorfindel" when speaking Sindarin.