The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

---

Chapter 4: A Queen in the Kitchen

Sámaril returns Valandil's refurbished toys to the kitchen of the House of Elrond and encounters Valandil's grandmother.

Character list provided in end notes. Many thanks to oshun, Rhapsody and Moreth for their betafying!

---

The first snow had come and gone. Back in my element, I latched on to the comforting familiarity of my labors in the forges.

Last month’s mortifying confrontation with Elerína had driven me away from the public spheres of the dining hall and the Hall of Fire. While I awaited snowflakes, I had spent my time hiking by day and night in the valley, riding my horse up to the high moors or fidgeting in the library where I read tomes of lore or poetry in attempts to occupy myself. Yet equations and formulas danced among the turgid stanzas of the Lay of Leithian, and I had chafed to return to my work.

Every day I had watched the sky, disappointed when dry ground greeted me at dawn. At last wet wool clouds released flurries that later would burgeon into heavy snowfall. Thorno already awaited me at the doors of the forge when barely a dusting of snow had settled in the ground. With a dramatic gesture, he handed my tongs and hammer to me, the rest of my staff applauding as I stepped into the entry hall.

A few days after I had made my grand entrance into the smithy, a commotion of another sort swirled about the House. A packet of letters from the men of the Alliance arrived. The courier and his escort had just come through the Cirith Forn before the mountains’ snowfall rendered it impassable. Although the most urgent messages made their way through mysterious pathways from Amon Sûl in the west and thence by messenger to Imladris, such exchanges were limited to critical matters. This packet of letters represented the correspondence of those who by now surely engaged the Enemy’s forces.

Many had gathered in the entry hall of the House to receive the letters, but as was my wont, I did not join the others, preferring to avoid the throng. Much to my surprise, I had received a missive and even more surprising was the manner in which it was delivered.

Upon my return to the forges, I had resumed a pet project: replication of a mysterious steel alloy used in blades of the distant East. We of the West had only heard rumor of this special steel, said of surpassing strength and capable of taking an extremely sharp edge. Without having seen the steel itself, its crafting proved to be elusive, but I relished the challenge in guessing what the distant smiths used in their alloy and applying my hunches to experiments. I sat at my desk, sketching diagrams to determine the rate of cooling required for an experimental smelting procedure when Lhainir, my assistant, rapped on the door jam to get my attention.

“Istyar, you have visitors.” He stepped back and gestured to whomever had made the trek up to the facility to find me.

Young Valandil confidently walked into my office, dragging the reluctant redheaded girl – Gaereth, yes, that was her name – by the hand.

“Please forgive me, my lord, but the prince insisted on coming here. He has something for you.” She hung her head, averting her eyes.

“I am no ‘lord.’ Most call me ‘Istyar.’”

She looked up briefly, but quickly glanced away. “Ist-yar ?”

“It is Quenya – High-elven – and means the same as ‘Istuinir.’ You might know that better.” I noted that she spoke Sindarin reasonably well and with a charming burr.

“Istuinir. Istyar,” she repeated. “A wise man.”

“He is wise!” Valandil’s voice piped. “He is an Elf! All Elves are wise.”

I stayed my contradiction to his childish confidence in my flawed race. In contrast to his nursemaid, the little boy had no fear whatsoever of me. His eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Istyar, you have a letter. Master Gildor said I could bring it to you.” He extended the small parchment, which I took from him. I immediately recognized the firm script on the carefully folded paper and the design of a rayed disk stamped into the wax seal.

“Thank you, Prince Valandil. It was kind of you to bring this all the way to the forge for me.”

“I am Val, Istyar. Are you going to read the letter? It is from Lord Glorfindel! That is what Master Gildor said. Will you read it to us? Mama read Papa’s letter to me.”

I had to smile at his audacious request. He was exceptionally articulate, too, for such a young child of Men. His precocious way with words likely reflected the Elvish inheritance among the descendants of Elros.

Gaereth leaned over and spoke softly to the boy, “The Istyar’s letter is private, Prince Valandil. It is not polite to ask him to read it aloud.”

I broke the seal and scanned the letter, noting the parts that I must censor. “No need to fret, Mistress Gaereth. Your young charge is nothing if not bold so I will oblige him. Lord Glorfindel writes:

Dear Sámaril,

As I write this, we are camped forty kilometers from the Anduin, having passed through Cirith Forn en Andrath without event. We marched on the Men-i-Naugrim and shall cross the river tomorrow where the bridge has been strengthened and expanded by the Dwarves to allow the passage of our militia. King Oropher of the Woodland Realm has committed to eight hundred archers in support of the Alliance, and we anticipate joining them near the Greenwood. Lord Amdir will send reinforcements from Lorien. So our forces continue to grow. I am proud to serve in the retinue of Ereinion Gil-galad and alongside the Kings Elendil and Isildur and the Princes Elendur, Aratar and Ciryon.

Valandil interrupted. “They are my father and brothers!”

I smiled at the boy and continued reading.

Côldring has been busy, less with armaments and more with boots, once the armies crossed the high passes. The Númenóreans, as you know, are of great stature. By virtue of their size and carrying so much gear – even more than the doughtiest Noldo – they wear down their footwear quickly. For whatever reason, the Men hold our people in great esteem with regard to construction of boots and shoes. I’ll grant you that there are fine cobblers among the Firstborn, including Lathronir on your staff, but Côldring is flummoxed by the attention. “I am not a bloody cobbler! Give me steel!” he complains but he repairs all and sundry boots anyway and does it well. I find it most amusing, but I imagine Côldring will set his skill to steel all too soon.

I hope this finds you well. Please let Naurusnir know that I indeed will skewer him if he allows you into the forge before the first snow.

Sincerely,

Laurëfin

I omitted the bulk of the letter in which Laurëfin described a fierce skirmish with a band of orcs on the east side of the mountains. He had noted that three of the Dúnedain and two elven-soldiers of the Third Spear sustained non-lethal but significant injuries. I left unspoken the fact that the letter was written more than a month past, and that the Alliance already met the Enemy’s forces in battle even while I read the letter to the little boy.

“Will Lord Glorfindel really skewer Naur – Naurusnir?” Valandil asked.

“I think not, Val. More likely, he, along with your father and brothers, will skewer the ranks of the Enemy.”

“Well, that is good. My papa and brothers are very brave men,” he stated emphatically.

“That they are, Val.”

“My lord, we should leave the Istyar to his work and go on with our walk,” Gaereth said.

The boy sighed with resignation but brightened to ask his nursemaid, “May we go to the river? I want to see the ice at the falls.”

“Yes, we can do that, my lord.” The girl began to lead Valandil out of my office.

“Wait a moment,” I said. Opening my desk drawer, I lifted out the small box tucked inside. I flipped open its lid, running my fingers through the gemstones.

“Here. This is for you, Val.” I placed a small uncut amethyst in his little hand. He thanked me and turned the rough-cut stone over in his fingers, and then pocketed it.

“And for you, Gaereth.”

She hesitated, so I took her hand, placing a polished green beryl on her palm.

“An elfstone!” she exclaimed. “I cannot take this!”

“Of course you can. I...well, this is long overdue, but I’m sorry for speaking so harshly to you. I can see that you care for young Valandil. That beryl is the least I can do by way of apology.”

“Thank you, my lor--, Istyar! It is beautiful! Is it magic?”

“No, it’s not magic, but it is one of my people’s favorite gemstones.” I pulled my cloak off the hook by the door. “I’ll walk down the path with you. Now shall we go?”

I escorted them down the wide path, switching back and forth three times, but stopped twice so that Val could look out over the valley. The child peered intently at the sky, searching for something. Then he skipped, running his mitten-wrapped hand against the cold limestone of the cliff. When we reached the path leading to the river, I took leave of them.

“Good-bye, Istyar! I will see you later!” The child smiled brightly as he waved, and then holding his nursemaid’s hand, skipped away toward the river.

The ache in my heart was a little less acute when I returned to the forge. Yet I cautioned myself against the flattery of the boy’s attention and the affection for the child that had begun to flicker within me. I suffered from the loss of my son, even if I had never known him: any attachment I might form with this boy would inevitably result in loss again.

 

~*~

 

Three days later, a storm blew through the valley, blanketing the crags, meadows and trees under drifts of soft snow. A deep cold followed, leaving the air crystalline and the sky an impossible shade of blue. Val appeared in my office again, eyes as blue as that winter sky, cheeks pink from the brisk air, his cap pulled over his forehead and a large scarf wrapped a few times around his neck. Gaereth, also bundled against the Northern cold, again was in tow. Val extended a wooden toy to me that he held in mittened hands.

“Istyar? Could you please fix my wagon? Its wheel has broken.”

He handed the small wooden wagon to me. I scrutinized it. Not only was the wheel broken but the toy was also worn and cracked. This was a beloved plaything. The reddish-brown wood was of a type I had never seen before.

“Yes, I can fix this for you, but it will take me a day or so. Will that do?”

He nodded. “Yes, my soldiers can wait for it.”

“Ah! So you need it to carry your soldiers?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, carved figure that he placed in my hand. “Yes. Here is one. But he is getting old. Maybe he is tired of war.”

~*~

In between my experiments in the forge, I repaired the toy’s wheel and axle, filled the crack with a mix of glue and sawdust, and then sanded and lightly oiled the entire assembly. Using small carving knives, I refined the worn solder, bringing his armor, helm and sword into relief again. I traced the details of scrolling on his shield and scabbard, striving to stay true to the original designs, which were distinctly foreign.

I summoned Lhainir to take the toys back to the House, but while he stood in the door, waiting for me, I waved him away.

“Never mind,” I said as I wrapped the toys in an old but clean cloth and then threw my cloak over my shoulders. “I’ll take them down to the House. I think I’ll take my lunch in the kitchen today so I’ll deliver the toys to Master Astaron. He can see that Prince Valandil receives them.”

When I stepped out from warmth of the forge into bitter cold air, the peregrines’ distant whistles echoing off the cliffs greeted me. They flew high in the airs over the snow-laden meadows and woods down the valley. One of the falcons dove with startling speed at a flock of wood pigeons. That was a welcome sight since the birds raided the orchards and berry batches in the spring; a dent in their population wouldn’t hurt.

I trotted down the path, now free of ice and snow. My assistants had cleared the way using a pair of shovels of my crafting, the tools cutting through snow and ice with ease. “Magic elven-shovels!” the Dúnedain of Middle-earth had exclaimed as they wielded these shovels to clear their campsites during the last three winters.

The shovels were not magic: elven or mortal muscle was still required to move snow, but I had applied the deep arts to their making. The metal of the blades amplified the smallest amount of friction, converting the drag of invisible jagged edges of ice crystals into heat, thereby forming a warmed surface that sliced through snow. Construction of such shovels - using clever innovations by Istyar Aulendil - had been among my first projects as his apprentice. I shoved aside the dissonance that reflexively arose in my thought: the terrible incongruity of my brilliant mentor who had given so much to the people of Eregion and then betrayed us all so ruthlessly.

A bustle of activity greeted me when I entered the side door that opened into the huge kitchen of Elrond’s residence. Master Astaron and his assistants prepared food and drink for those who would dine in the hall at mid-day. Maidhel whirled out of the adjacent hearth room and saw me.

“Istyar! Have you come to join us for lunch? I can set a plate for you in the dining hall.”

“Not in the hall, I think. Here in the kitchen will do. I’m hardly presentable.” I wore my usual work clothes, scorched and pitted from the fires and smudged liberally with soot. “I have this for the young prince - Valandil. I thought it might be delivered to him.”

Maidhel smiled and nodded toward the arched doorway that led to the dining hall. “You may give it to him yourself, Istyar.”

The little boy had just entered the kitchen, pulling on the hand of a very tall woman clad in a simple charcoal-grey gown, her silver-streaked black hair meticulously restrained in a long plait. From my reckoning, she was at least as tall as the Lady Galadriel, whom I had seen on a few occasions in Ost-in-Edhil before the war.

“Istyar!” Valandil greeted me cheerfully, eyeing the bundle in my hand. “Do you have my wagon?”

The woman looked down at the effusive child and smiled, the skin around her eyes and mouth creasing deeply, as if countless smiles had etched themselves into her face. Yet there were also faint lines that belied slumbering furrows of worry and sorrow. She released the boy’s hand, and he scampered to me. I unwrapped the wagon and the toy soldier and placed them in his waiting hands. Valandil immediately set the wagon on the floor, placed the soldier in it, and scooted them about on the tiles.

“What do you say, Val?” She prompted the child, her husky alto voice firm but gentle.

“Oh!” Val jumped up from his play. “Thank you, Istyar!” Then he threw his little arms around my legs and hugged me. I stroked his dark hair, the warnings against friendship with this mortal child weakening as the instinctual affections of human to human shouted them down. He pulled back, not releasing me, but looking up, his face alight with childish eagerness.

“Istyar, will you take your lunch with my grandmama and me?”

Stunned, I realized who this tall regal woman was. It took me a few moments to regroup and answer properly.

“Thank you, that is kind of you to invite me, Prince Valandil, but I usually dine here in the kitchen. I don’t wish to intrude, my lady.” I met the storm-grey eyes of the High Queen of the Dúnedain, standing before me in the noisy kitchen of Imladris.

“You are welcome to join us, Istyar,” the queen said.

I could hardly refuse her gracious gesture. “It would be my pleasure then to dine with you, my lady queen…” She extended her hand, which I took in mine, reactivating my little used knowledge of courtly behavior. I brushed my lips against her large but decidedly feminine hand.

“I am Isilmë.” She smiled, and I thought I saw the hint of a flush beneath skin that was washed with a warm tawny color from many years of the sun’s light.

“We usually take our lunch here in the kitchen instead of the dining hall,” she said. “Valandil can be rambunctious, so he is less constrained here. Dining in our suites is too confining for my tastes, and there are times when I would be away from my ladies-in-waiting. So I seek the hustle and bustle of Master Elrond’s kitchen.”

Thus I found myself in the extraordinary circumstance of dining with Queen Isilmë and Prince Valandil in a noisy kitchen. Maidhel set a heaping plate before me. I had only taken tea before dawn, having slept briefly on the cot in my office, and had not eaten the evening before so the abundance of food was welcome.

I focused on the meal, unsure as to how I should behave around this queen of Men. Ost-in-Edhil had no regent when I lived there but was governed by an elected council. Lord Glorfindel was the closest to a sovereign for me. Even so, that was comradely by virtue of the history between his father and mine and by our shared friends in Eregion lost. My previous experiences with Númenórean nobility in Tharbad had been less than pleasant.

The Queen must have perceived my discomfiture and my curiosity, too. I had assumed that royalty would eschew such a common setting, but she was perfectly at ease.

“I am glad to meet you, Istyar,” Queen Isilmë said as she tucked a cloth napkin into Val’s collar. “My lord Elendil spoke well of your work.”

“Thank you, my lady. It was nothing really.”

“Nothing? I should say not! Narsil is precious to him and to our people. If its keen edge gives him even more confidence, then you have done much, Istyar.”

“That is kind of you to say.”

“I know you are capable of greater works, but your placing the edge on Narsil and cleaning the Circlet of Silmariën meant a lot to him. After all, you are one of the last great smiths of the High Elves here in mortal lands, are you not?” The Queen smiled, her skin creasing around her eyes and mouth again.

My face warmed at the compliment. “I don’t know about ‘great.’ I am merely one of the more experienced smiths remaining, I suppose.” I engulfed a piece of honey-sweetened beet and noticed that Val then imitated me, sticking a piece of the red vegetable into his wide-open mouth.

“You are too modest, I think, but you must have your reasons for that.”

This woman disarmed me with her directness. I could easily imagine that husky voice raised in command. Yet she did not project the distant hauteur of royalty, or at least how I perceived such from Ereinion Gil-galad and his court or from the highborn Númenóreans who had been stationed in Tharbad. In spite of my misgivings and rusty social skills, I began to relax in her presence. But it was her grandson’s sweet and open manner that steadily chiseled at the wall I had erected around my heart.

“Istyar? Will you come to the winter festival?” he asked in between mouthfuls of bread.

He referred to the celebration that took place on the winter solstice. The Tawarwaith and Sindar of the household relished this festival, and even my people with their propensity for formalism loosened up during this celebration. With the preparations for war over the past few years, its celebration had been perfunctory. Apparently this winter, something more elaborate was planned.

“Yes, I suppose I will attend.”

“Good!” Then he turned to his grandmother. “Grandmama, may I play with my wagon now? I have eaten all my food, even the beets.”

“Yes, you may. Just stay out of the way of Mistress Maidhel and the others in the kitchen, my little one.”

The child took the wagon and the soldier to a space beside the table and pushed the toy around, chattering orders and exclamations of victory.

“Master Gildor thought the festival would be good for morale,” the Queen said as she watched her grandson. “It is hard to be left behind, knowing that the Alliance must surely be set to battle by now but not hearing news of their fate. No word has yet passed from Amon Sûl, and this troubles me.”

“Yes, it is hard. Perhaps the winter festival will provide a distraction for those of us sequestered here.”

“Val can scarcely wait for the coming holiday. He is so young, my grandson. He was born here just four years ago when my husband, my sons and your king formed the Alliance.”

“Val was born here? I didn’t know that, but I have been so engaged in my tasks that I haven’t taken much notice of anyone other than the armies and the staff of my smithy. I knew there were women and youths of your people residing here, but I never delved into your identities. Please forgive me, my lady, for my preoccupation. It wasn’t meant as a slight. I assumed that you and your family remained in Annúminas.”

I thought it puzzling that Isilmë did not act as sovereign in her husband’s stead. Perhaps she chose not to do so, but possibly the High King, as one of the Faithful, adhered to long-held Eldarin customs that tended to keep women officially removed from governance with very few exceptions. Yet I well knew that women of the Noldor often gave strong counsel behind the scenes and woe to the man who did not heed them! Perhaps this was the case with Queen Isilmë – that she wielded influence in spite of being sequestered in Imladris.

 

“There is nothing to forgive. The women of the Dúnedain are often overlooked,” she said with a touch of bitterness. “I saw the helms and hauberks, the swords and axes when they marched away, so I know that you and your smiths along with those of my people labored hard. As for remaining at Annúminas, both my lord Elendil and Master Elrond were firm that we all remove to Imladris for safety among your people. Master Elrond feels a strong sense of kinship with my husband and our family. He is very protective of us, and he is so kind, too. We are grateful to him and to your people.”

I had heard that before from Lord Glorfindel, who had remarked on the close friendship that had developed between the High King and the Lord of Imladris. Such intimacy between Elves and Men was unusual, but then Master Elrond not only carried the blood of the Firstborn, but also that of the Edain and the strange inheritance of Faerie, which imparted a curious adaptability to new situations and people. As a consequence, he was much more at ease with Men and we, the residents of Imladris, were expected to follow suit.

My feelings toward mortals roiled in conflict. By virtue of study with my mentor, I understood the minds of Men better than others of my people did. In many ways, the Firstborn and the Followers were much the same, but in others, we diverged profoundly. Among the more notable differences were Men’s sense of time and the urgency and impatience thus conferred to them. These characteristics led them to make rash decisions yet made them far more adaptable to change than my people.

Then there was the guilt I suffered from what I had done to Men: nine of them inflicted terror and suffering on many of their own kind as my devices put them under the Enemy’s control. Even my good intentions toward a young mortal woman had soured when the gift I made for her had twisted her life. This unrelenting guilt reinforced the barriers I had erected between mortals and myself.

Many of my kin regarded mortals as the lesser race. Not I. I was all too aware of my race’s failings. From observing the minds and motives of Men in the deepest ways, I knew that they were my brothers and sisters, however short their lives might be compared to mine and however differently they might perceive time’s currents. It was what I had done to them that caused me to believe that it was I who did not deserve their company.

I picked at the remnants of my food, lost in those grave ruminations, when a small hand patted my forearm.

“Don’t be sad, Istyar,” Val said, his bright eyes holding me as he stood beside my chair. “We will go to the winter festival, and you will be happy then.” He then resumed his play.

Blinking, I managed to hold back the threat of tears. When I looked up at the Queen, I fell into dark eyes filled with warmth and sympathy as she cautiously opened the gates of her mind to me. But beneath her concern, I glimpsed a twisting fear that had rooted itself deep within her, entangled in her mind like a parasitic vine that chokes a strong tree.

“We must take our leave now,” she said firmly, snapping the tendrils of thought that had begun to thread delicately between us. She rose from her chair and smoothed her gown. I stood along with her. “Thank you for joining us today, Istyar.” Then she lowered her voice, just above a whisper. “My grandson is a sensitive, perceptive child. He sees something in you in want of healing. I only ask that you do not hurt him.”

Those words, though spoken softly, were firm in their implication. She turned to the boy. “Come, Val. Let’s be sure that lunch gets delivered to your mother and then see how her work at the loom is proceeding.”

I watched Isilmë as she spoke to Maidhel with Valandil orbiting around their skirts. This queen of Men could not be described with a better word than magnificent. Her forthright – even blunt – manner appealed to me. Yet when we had silently touched one another, she had seen my guilt and regret, and I had perceived her fear. Perhaps they were derived from the same source.

---

Chapter End Notes

Elerína - Isildur's wife, exiled co-queen of Gondor.

Lhainir - Sinda, Sámaril's assistant

Côldring - Noldo, master smith.

Lathronir - Sinda, master tanner and cobbler.

Naurusnir - Sinda, journeyman smith

Astaron - Noldo, master of the kitchens in the House of Elrond.

Maidhel - Sinda, Astaron's senior assistant.

Aulendil - one of Sauron's aliases during the Second Age.

Isilmë - Elendil's wife; the queen of Arnor.

Istuinir – my Sindarin construct: istui- learned + dir - man. (see Claudio's references on Sindarin name construction).

Cirith Forn en Andrath: The High Pass; from Tolkien, J.R.R. “Disaster of the Gladden Fields.” Unfinished Tales. Houghton Mifflin Company: Boston, 1980. p 278 fn4

Men-i-Naugrim: The Dwarf Road = The Old Forest Road; from Tolkien, J.R.R. “Disaster of the Gladden Fields.” Unfinished Tales. Houghton Mifflin Company: Boston, 1980. fn14, 281.

Tawarwaith: Silvan Elves

I imagine the Faithful Númenóreans, who tend to use Quenya names and titles, would thus call Sámaril “Istyar,” and that out of respect or perhaps Sámaril’s preference, the Sindar also use the Quenya title.

In spite of the canonical prevalence of Sindarin, it’s notable that among the Noldor, not all names are completely “Sindarized.” For example, “Erestor” at a cursory glance appears to be concocted from eressë variously meaning “solitude” or “alone” and toron = brother. Sámaril’s name has no palatable equivalent in Sindarin, or at least in the lexicon that is available. So in the pandemoniverse, he is called “Sámaril” by Noldor, Sindar and Silvans alike.

On the winter festival: Based on Appendix D of The Lord of the Rings, such a celebration among the Eldar is non-canonical. However, since the Eldar are so closely linked with nature and clearly recognize seasonal cycles, it doesn’t seem far-fetched that they would have a festival surrounding the winter solstice, an event that had a far-reaching influence among many cultures.

Not that I am enslaved to canon (obviously), but curiosity drove me to the Calendars in The Peoples of Middle-earth (PM)* which offers a curious jumble of accounts as to the beginning of the new year. Based on what I have gleaned, Yule is a Mannish custom, marking the beginning of the new year as opposed to the Eldarin new year (for the coranar or solar year) that begins in the spring. However, an interesting bit appears in PM in which a “historian” discusses the quantiën (century) of the Eldar. Apparently this – in Tolkien’s development of the legendarium – preceded the yén of 144 solar years. It is noted that “the quantiéni are arranged to begin as nearly as possible with the first sunset after the Winter Solstice.” The historian also notes that he believes that “the Elves observe the Sun and stars closely” in the context of making occasional corrections in their calendar. Among these corrections were two days added to the end and the beginning of the quantiën: “Quantarië Day of Completion, Oldyear’s Day, and Vinyarië Newyear’s Day; they were times of festival.” This historian’s information contradicts that of those who suggest that the Elves did not hold any midwinter celebrations.

*Tolkien, J.R.R. The History of Middle-earth, vol XII, edited by C.R. Tolkien. HarperCollinsPublishers: London, 2002. 127.