The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 34: A Question of Precautions

Sámaril accompanies Apairivo on his inspections of his tenants' crofts.  He discovers that Apairivo has a peculiar avocation, one that reminds Sámaril of Valandil's gifts. They enjoy the hospitality of the farmer and his wife, but when Sámaril lets down his guard, thanks to drinking a couple of generous flagons of hard cider, Apairivo asks a very direct question about an indelicate subject.

 

 

Acknowledgements:

Thanks to my fellow Lizards -- Oshun, Raksha, KyMahalei, Erulissë, and Surgical Steel (an extra nod here for Steel's generosity for sharing her toys with me in the Tolkienian sandbox) for comments and feedback, and especially to Jael for assistance on matters equine.

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Ragwort swayed to and fro on the driver's seat, and the feather in Apairivo's cap bobbed with every jolt of the carriage. We lumbered along the rutted road, hardly more than a wide dirt and gravel path, which wound down into the wide vale that opened below the manor. Early morning sunlight spread over green meadows stippled with white, yellow and purple wildflowers, their fragrance mingling with the pervasive odor of sheep and also horses that grazed in a nearby paddock. I saw my own mount among those of the rest of our party alongside the manor's steeds. A fine-boned horse with a smooth red coat and black mane and tail raised its head and whinnied. Nettlefoot, the rough-coated mare that drew the carriage, returned the call.

"Hold up, Ragwort!" Apairivo barked, but he had no need to order his servant, for the weedy man had already reined in the carthorse. My companion climbed down from the carriage and gestured for me to follow him through the grass and weeds along the roadside. The red horse broke into a canter toward us, stopping just short of the wooden fence that enclosed the paddock. He stretched his head out over the top rail and blew noisily through his muzzle, grizzled with silver hairs.

"Good morning!" cried Apairivo. "How's my fine fellow?" The horse lowered his head so that the lord of Cardolan might scratch behind his ears. He then bumped his head against his master's arms. "Yes, yes, I have something for you, you old rake." Apairivo pulled out an apple from his pocket. In two bites, the horse had devoured it. His whicker was low but demanding, and he lipped Apairivo's outstretched palm.

"I know. You'd like a good ride, wouldn't you, old man? But I have other business to attend." Apairivo fell silent and cocked his head toward the horse as if listening. "Yes, this is one of the elvish riders. Istyar Sámaril, may I introduce Carnhul?"

The horse dipped his noble head as if bowing to me and turned back to his master. Apairivo's eyes took on a thoughtful inward cast. "You don't say? Curious, that!" the man said, but then he smiled brightly and patted his friend's neck. "Now back to the paddock with you. I will visit you when I return." The horse spun around and galloped to join his fellows while we climbed back into the carriage. Ragwort called "Walk on!" to Nettlefoot, and we were rocking along the road again.

"Old Carnhul!" said Apairivo, who had twisted around to gaze back toward his friend. "One of the last of his kind."

"How so, my lord?"

"His sire and dam came from Númenor. He was foaled not long after we were driven upon these shores."

"I see. So he is old for a horse here in mortal lands."

"Yes, very old. He was a terror in his youth, but now he's as mellow as honey."

"Which of the ships brought your horses to Middle-earth?"

"All of them. All that survived the tempest, that is. Carnhul's parents were on the Rilyavingë, one of Elendil's ships. The same one I was on actually."

"Were you originally from Rómenna?"

"No, although I lived there for part of my adult life, at least after the King's men commanded me to move there. I hail from the interior of the country -- the Emerië -- the same land as Elerína. Her grandmother and my father were sister and brother. So I'm a landsman with no sea-longing. Odd among my folk, I suppose. Most assume that we're all obsessed with the ocean. We are not."

"I have never laid eyes on the sea myself."

"So that is why my cousin is taking you there? She has decided that you must see the ocean!"

"Yes, that is the heart of it."

"That sounds like Elerína. Once she is determined to accomplish a thing, there's little that will deter her. Speaking for myself, I would just as soon never set eyes on the sea again. I've had enough of it for my lifetime." Then he turned away toward the rise ahead. "Look! There is our first stop. See those buildings at the top of the rise? Well, of course you can! Famous sight of the Elves and all that."

In fact, I could easily make out the small wattle and daub house and its outbuildings, their thatched roofs blushed pink and gold with the rising sun. Sheep dotted on the hillside that sloped away from the farmstead. When we approached, a large white dog emerged from the herd and trotted toward the carriage; a growl rumbled from deep in his throat. A brief vision of the flocks on rocky foothills of Eregion flitted before my eyes.

"A fánahuan! I haven't seen a dog of that kind for many years."

"You're familiar with them, eh? Excellent guard dogs for the herds. Hey, now Frostfang!" Apairivo called to the dog. "Tend to your charges now." The dog immediately ceased his growling and ambled away to blend with the herd.

My companion watched the dog settle among the sheep. "It's said that the Elves of Tol Eressëa gave these dogs to my ancestors," he said.

"And my understanding is that the fánahuani came to Eregion from Númenor itself."

"You are from Eregion then? Before Imladris, I mean."

"I am."

"You don't strike me as a country lad, but one never knows about an Elf's lengthy history."

"I'm not from the countryside although I knew many farmers. I was born and raised in Ost-in-Edhil."

"Ost-in-Edhil. The ancient city of the Elves." He glanced down at my ring. "Is that where you acquired the skills to make such a jewel?"

"Yes, it is."

"Dare I ask if you were one of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain?"

By his question, I guessed that Apairivo had knowledge at least some of the history of my fallen home, and it was not surprising that he did, given that he was one of the Faithful. But how much does he know, I wondered, and just how much has Elerína had told him about me? I opted for a simple answer.

"Yes, I was one of the brotherhood."

"Fascinating! Here I sit with a legend from the mists of history, and my cousin shares his bed! Did you work with the mighty Celebrimbor himself?"

"I did." That was at least true although not the whole of it. "What do you know of Celebrimbor?"

"Only what I have read in the scrolls of Elendil's library."

It was a cagey answer. Apairivo could have studied anything from fanciful tales to historical accounts. I hoped that no explicit mention of the Rings of Power had been made in the material he had read. Only a very few of the Númenórean nobility had known of their existence, or at least that was what we who had been involved in their crafting assumed. Nonetheless, Apairivo danced toward an uncomfortable topic, but just as quickly he spun away and chuckled.

"Well, you don't waste words on the subject of Eregion, I will say that." He then cupped his hands around his mouth and boomed, "Hullo, the house!"

A short broad-shouldered man clad in homespun cloth strode out of the barn, scattering the red chickens that pecked in the dirt.

"My lord!" Bright hazel eyes looked out from a brown face weathered by sun, wind and a life of labor. The farmer wiped his hands on the tails of his long shirt. "You've come to see about Blaze?"

"Yes, Master Fernbrake. How is he faring?" Apairivo leapt out of the carriage, followed by Ragwort who climbed down from the driver's seat.

"A little bit better, my lord, but only a little bit."

"Let's have a look then. Say, Istyar, bring my bag, would you?"

While Ragwort tied Nettlefoot to a hitching post, not that the docile carthorse was likely to wander, I lifted the battered leather bag from the floor of the carriage. It was then that I turned and met the farmer's eyes: he visibly flinched.

"An Elf!" he exclaimed. Close to his side, his fingers make a tiny gesture of warding, identical to that of Pansy earlier this morning. Immediately, I extended my right hand in greeting, hoping that I might ease his fear. He hesitated but reached out to clasp my hand. The strength and warmth of the land lay in his handshake, and I was certain he felt long-years of calluses in mine.

"I am Sámaril of Imla...of Rivendell, Master Fernbrake. It is a pleasure to meet you."

He smiled, and his eyes dropped their guard. "Likewise, pleased to meet you, my lord. We have so many tales of your folk, and I saw elvish soldiers march through our lands, but, well, I have never shaken the hand of an Elf nor thought I ever would!"

"You have now. Who is Blaze?" I asked as we followed Apairivo into the barn.

"My horse. Had him out in the field for spring ploughing a few days back, and he must have stepped on something sharp. He took lame, but my lord is fixing him right up." Fernbrake then lowered his voice. "My lord has a wonderful way with beasts, he has, especially horses."

"So I have noticed," I replied, thinking back to his affinity with the old gelding Carnhul and how the growling Frostfang had obeyed him. His connection to animals reminded me of his young kinsman, Valandil. I wondered what the young man was up to now. No doubt chafing under his lessons with Elrond and Laurefin, and trying to wheedle his way into joining Calaquar in the woodshop or riding with Galfaron. I missed him, but I cherished the time spent in the company his mother without him also vying for her attention.

We entered the barn, bright from sunlight streaming through its eastern windows; the scent of dusty straw and beasts filled its interior. Apairivo had sidled up alongside a large black horse with a broad white streak on his forehead and white fetlocks. He lifted the horse's left front leg to examine the hoof and shook his head.

"Istyar, will you look in my bag? There's a black cloth envelope in there. Yes, that's it!" he said after I extracted the desired item. "Open that up and you'll find my abscess knife. Small blade that's hooked on the end. Third one from the...yes, you've got it!"

I handed the bone-handled knife to him, its blade finely wrought and reminiscent of the surgical instruments that Thorno crafted for Brethilion. It looked to be of Dwarven craft. Apairivo set to work on the sole of the horse's hoof, chattering all the while.

"The horse took something sharp to the sole here." Apairivo pointed to the afflicted area. "I dug into this spot and released the pus yesterday morning, but it needs to be drained and cleaned again. So out with the plug first."

Using the knife, he scraped at the horse's sole and dislodged the clay plug. Cloudy matter oozed out, and the stench of suppuration overwhelmed the pungent but pleasantly earthy scent of the barn. I suppressed a gag.

"Not much that smells worse than pus," said the nonplussed Apairivo. "Right then. Hand over the green bottle. It's in a wooden box." I rummaged around in the bag to find this. I unlatched the box's lid and lifted it to find a number of vials and bottles nested within. I found what I hoped was the correct one, all the while becoming more and more curious about how this mortal nobleman of Númenor came to his peculiar avocation.

Apairivo poured fluid from the green bottle over the sole of the horse's hoof. The crisp scent of firs cut through the odor of pus. "Distillate of grain mixed with a little pine oil. That cleanses the outer area, but we need something more powerful because the affliction is deep in the foot. Now if you would, Istyar, please find a black vial. Yes! Thank you." He took the small bottle from my hands. In the meantime, the horse stood placidly while his owner hung back, running his hands nervously over the brim of his straw hat while Ragwort silently watched the proceedings.

The lord of Cardolan tipped the vial and tapped it with his forefinger. A few shiny black crystals dropped out of it into the small hole in the sole of Blaze's foot.

"Now the brown bottle please." Taking that in hand, Apairivo muttered what sounded like a nonsense rhyme while he carefully tilted the vessel. A few drops fell from its rim onto the horse's foot. Immediately, a furious purple storm burst forth from the hole and roiled around the horse's leg.

"Oi! Oi!" Fernbrake cried as he stared at the vapor. "Is it magic, my lord?"

Apairivo nodded solemnly, waiting for the violet cloud to dissipate. "Indeed! Now I'll replace the plug, clean up, and we will be on our way..."

"Oh, no, my lord! You and Master Sámaril must come in for breakfast. My missus would have my head if I didn't invite you to the table. Please!"

"If you insist..."

Somehow, I knew that Apairivo did not need much persuasion to stay. After he finished with the horse, and I helped clean his instruments and replace the bottles in his bag, we left the barn and washed our hands in a pail by the well. The farmer strode ahead with Ragwort to the thatched roof house, giving me the opportunity to query Apairivo about the dramatic treatment.

"Like sorcery, isn't it?" he said, his keen eyes twinkling. "The reaction of turpentine with the iodine crystals drives the medicine deep into the tissues. That's the theory at any rate."

"Iodine! Of course. I have only seen it applied as tinctures."

"It impresses the blazes out of the farmers. Makes them think I'm a wizard!" He winked as we stepped across the threshold into Fernbrake's humble home.

There on a coarse table before the hearth, Mistress Fernbrake, a plump, pink-faced woman with reddish hair plaited and wound about her head, set out platters mounded with scrambled eggs, rashers of bacon and thick slices of toast. To wash these down, we were given flagons filled to the brim with hard cider. Ragwort turned down the cider in favor of a mug of steaming tea. The mortal woman fussed about while searching among bottles and pots on a shelf, but exclaimed with triumph when she found her quarry: a glazed earthenware jar. She placed it on the table before us.

"This here is honey for your toast. It's from the River-daughter herself, taken from the hives of her own bees. There's a bit of magic in it, so I thought perhaps you might like it especially, my lord," she said to me.

When I spread the honey on a piece of toast and bit into it, the sweetness was that of a simple, earthy magic, but there was something else: something wild, elusive and even a little dangerous. The River-daughter. The name triggered recollections of strange tales told and snippets of songs sung in Imladris. However, after drinking the cider to the bottom of the flagon, I was more interested in conversing with these mortals who were such generous hosts than sifting through details of old memories, so I set the question of the River-daughter aside for the time being.

After we each drained a second flagon of cider to the last drop, Apairivo announced that we really must move along and thanked Fernbrake and his wife. We took our leave and were soon on our way along the rutted road again. With every lurch of the carriage, the cider sloshed in my belly, leaving me a little woozy but content and convivial. My thoughts returned to the taste of the honey that farmer's wife had shared.

"This River-daughter that Mistress Fernbrake mentioned. What can you tell me about her?"

"What can I tell you about her?" Apairivo blurted incredulously. "An Elf asks this? Ragwort! Stop the carriage at once!"

I wondered if I had caused offense, but Apairivo leapt out and began to stride up the slope that bordered the narrow road. He stopped and turned about to shout: "Well, come along, Istyar!"

Leaving the carriage behind, I followed him to the height of the hill where a ring of ancient stones was set in the grass and where spring daisies bloomed. He faced the West and pointed to a grey-green mass of trees in the distance.

"That is the Old Forest and see the mists there? That is the Withywindle River. The River-daughter and the Green Man live near the forest's eaves."

"The Green Man?"

"That's one of the many names the middle folk give him. You know him as Iarwain Ben-Adar."

"Oldest and Fatherless. Yes, his name comes into our tales. I do not know him personally though nor have I set foot in the Old Forest. Sigilros has though. He says it is a queer, even perilous place."

"That it is, but the Green Man has no fear of it. I have met Iarwain twice. Quite a remarkable fellow. Not exactly one of your folk, but not exactly one of mine either. Iarwain is, well, he is unique."

"And the River-daughter?"

"Goldberry is her name. His wife. The women of the countryside know her better than Iarwain. She attends the women's moon ceremonies."

"The moon ceremonies?"

"Oh, really now, Istyar! Surely you know about these? I should think you have heard of these, given your ties to Elerína." He gave me a knowing look that made my face warm when I thought of the crescent moon on the smooth white skin of Elerína's inner thigh.

"Ah, yes. That. She and Isilmë have told me a little about their belief in Rana."

"Well, to be fair, no man knows the details of the ceremonies. But I'm surprised that you're not more familiar with Iarwain and Goldberry. He has dealings with the Elves after all."

"I have no doubt that he has, but not all Elves have dealings with him."

Apairivo gave me an appraising look and nodded. "Fair enough. You asked and I gave you an answer. Let's move along, shall we? There are three more crofts that I wish to inspect today, and it is already mid-morning."

There were no injured or ill beasts at the next two farms on his circuit. Apairivo simply wandered among the flocks or fields of flax while taciturn Ragwort followed and took notes on a ledger. The farmers and their wives insisted that we at least have a "little something to eat and drink." Their invitations were met with no resistance from Apairivo. Ragwort again turned down flagons of ale in favor of tea, but his lord happily accepted the barley brew, and I did the same. We also had jugs of ale, small wheels of cheese, dried herbs and sealed jars of jam pressed upon us.

The cumulative effects of cider and ale loosened our throats so on the way to the third and last farm, Apairivo and I sang boisterously while Ragwort silently drove the carriage. One song struck us as especially funny, no doubt enlivened by our drinking, and its repeating chorus sent us into convulsions of laughter. We recovered our breath while the green hills passed by, and birds sang out in the grasses. However, the peace was broken when Apairivo jolted me with an unexpected question.

"I must ask you something, Istyar. Indelicate perhaps but I must ask it all the same: are you and Elerína taking...how should I put this? Precautions?"

"Precautions?" My head spun while I sought his meaning. "What do you mean, precautions?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

The warm flush in my face from ale and song threatened to become further heated, but I mustered the discipline to remain calm.

"That indeed is an indelicate question about a very private matter, my lord." I glanced at Ragwort, who remained focused on the road ahead, mindfully oblivious as to what was happening in the carriage behind him.

Apairivo narrowed his eyes. "It's a serious question about a private matter that could have very public consequences. Do I need to tell you how successions can be disrupted by the birth of children of nobility outside of wedlock? Well, maybe I do need to remind you, given that your folk don't have such issue."

"No, I understand. I know about Umbar...about Isildur and Zamîn."

"That damn near broke Elerína's heart, you know. How well I remember when Elendil and Isilmë came to Emerië in such a rush to arrange a marriage for their eldest son. I was more naive then and didn't know exactly why there was need of such haste, but I found out later. Elendil was determined that the Lords of the Andunië would never be united legitimately with the Umbarin line, and he had to procure Elerína to ensure that. My cousin grew to love Isildur, but she hated sharing him with that Umbarin she-pirate. And now she shares you with another."

"My wife is dead."

"But you are nonetheless considered married and may even reunite with your wife again if the tales hold true. Oh, don't look so surprised. I am a man of the Faithful. Or what remains of us. I was compelled to learn your languages, your history and your beliefs. How many times have I been told that the blood of Lúthien runs in my veins? How many times am I reminded of that when I heal a horse or a ewe?" He took a deep breath. "Do right by her, Istyar. And take precautions. My people do not need the royal succession stirred up any more than it is, and if there is elvish blood involved, especially that from a descendant of the High Elves, it will be that much worse. I would even fear for such a child's life."

His last remark sent a chill down my spine when I considered that among Men, succession in royal lines could spark such contention that murders of innocents were committed. Certainly, my own race was not guiltless of similar acts as I recalled the fate of Dior's sons, abandoned to starve in the dark forests of Doriath. I looked again at Ragwort, his back to us, who remained silent with discretion.

"I...well, to be direct, my lord, Elerína takes an elixir made from Queen Melian's lace even though she needn't do so. It's just an extra precaution for her peace of mind. You see, if I do not engage in the dreams of begetting, then I cannot father a child on a woman, whether she is mortal or Firstborn. So you have no need to concern yourself over the possibility of half-elven bastards. You can add that to your knowledge about my people."

His blue eyes bored into me while the carriage rocked, but then his expression softened a little. "I thank you for your candor, Istyar," he said stiffly. "That eases my worries a little. But what if my cousin begs a child of you? Do you believe you can resist her?"

"I believe she will never ask this of me."

He grunted an acknowledgement - a grudging one I thought. Perhaps he was satisfied with my answers, but perhaps not, for we did not resume our songs. Instead, we fell into an uncomfortable silence, save for the squeaking springs of the carriage, the crunch of wooden wheels against dirt and gravel, and the song of linnets and larks out in the fields. The road lay in shadow as the late afternoon sun dropped behind the hills. But when we approached the last croft, frantic cries broke the silence.

A man ran down the road toward us. Like many Middle Men, the farmer was short and broad; he was also bald and red-faced, reminiscent of a ripe apple.

"My lord! My lord! Thank goodness you've come!"

"What is it, Butterbur?"

"It's Daisy, my lord. She's in a bad way. Calf's stuck."

Apairivo snatched his bag and jumped out of the carriage before Ragwort could bring it to a halt. "Come, Istyar! I will need the strength of an Elf for this job. And bring that rope, too."

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Chapter End Notes

 

I have borrowed the term "Queen Melian's lace" from Surgical Steel, the grande dame in Tolkien fandom of medical and surgical history, with her permission. Here Queen Melian's lace is Daucus carota - wild carrot or Queen Anne's Lace. Daucus carota seeds contain terpenoids which are thought to interfere with progesterone metabolism and signaling, hence the contraceptive properties.

For more background on Surgical Steel's OFC Zamîn of Umbar, please see Steel's collection of stories here on the SWG archive, notably Survivors of the Downfall, The Last Day of Our Acquaintance, and The Men Who Would Be Kings.

Apairivo's treatment of Blaze's abscess with iodine and turpentine is lifted from All Creatures Great and Small (and in fact, this wonderful series by James Herriot provides a good deal of inspiration for this and the following chapter).  The reaction of turpentine and iodine involves some very cool chemistry: the release of ring strain of alpha-pinene, a component of turpentine.

If "iodine" and "turpentine" are too jolting for readers, well, then I welcome suggestions for alternative "Middle-earthy" terms keeping in mind that Quenya is Tolkien's "Elf-Latin" or maybe even "Elf-Greek" in terms of language of lore. I've (so far) found nothing in alchemy that works, but with Darth's help, I may change these later. Here's a little summary of the history of iodine. I figure the Dwarves of the Ered Luin isolate the element from seaweed they obtain from Círdan and crew, and savvy healers of Eriador may then get it from the Dwarves.