The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 8: A Jewel in Winter

Sámaril and Elerína reach an understanding on a cold winter's afternoon.

Thanks to Rhapsody and the skinks* at The Lizard Council for betafication. List of characters provided in end notes.

*Moreth, oshun, and Jael :^)

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Morning sunlight slammed against my face, followed by skull-splitting pain and the taste of putrescence. Groaning, I turned away from the unforgiving light. I groaned again when the memories of the night past unfurled. Pulling the coverlet over my head, I hoped to block the light and return to the oblivion of sleep.

Then I remembered that I told Val that I would give him his gift this morning. Gooseflesh erupted on my skin when I threw back the coverlet, the heat of my body sacrificed to the cold room. The crumpled wad of silk, stiff with the dried remnants of my seed, flew to the floor. Even if Midhloth’s words had driven me away last night, my body had demanded release so I had resorted to my usual tactic. I shoved the cloth behind the wash basin in the small lavatory. Lifting the lid of the chamber pot, I sighed with another kind of relief.

Frigid water on my hands and face revived me enough so that I had the wherewithal to untangle and brush my hair, securing its length with a gold clasp at the nape of my neck, and then I yanked on leggings and pulled a loose tunic over my head. Grabbing Val’s gift and a small sack of pinecones, I charted a purposeful track to the kitchen in search of the black tea that I so craved.

Maidhel had poured steaming tea into a ceramic mug before I even sat down at one of the long tables in the kitchen. After placing the mug in my supplicant’s hand, she scooted forward in a chair across from me.

“Did you enjoy the celebration last night, Istyar? I have not seen you dance like that for quite some time!”

“Ah, well, I enjoyed myself a little too much. My head’s splitting.” I gulped down the black tea, a pleasant addiction I had acquired in Ost-in-Edhil. She refilled the mug.

“Hmmm, yes. From all the twittering that flew about earlier this morning, I hear that you created some consternation among the Laegrim maids.”

“Ai! What a flock of gossips!” I rubbed my temples, aiding the stimulant in the tea as it beat the headache into retreat.

“Everyone gossips in Imladris. Well, save for Master Elrond. Don’t fret, Istyar. Your manliness is not in question.”

My face warmed, but she grinned and her eyes twinkled, telling me not to take her too seriously. Nonetheless, I changed the subject, preferring to let the memory of Midhloth’s curses slide away into sediment.

“Have you seen the queens this morning?”

“No, but Limnen took their breakfast to their quarters not long ago. I expect they are up and about with their ladies.”

“In that case, I suppose I’ll wait until they emerge to give this to Prince Valandil.”

“Why wait, Istyar? Take it to their quarters. I can have Limnen return and inquire if you might visit Queen Isilmë.”

“I don’t wish to intrude. It’s not my place to...”

“Istyar, really!” Maidhel refilled the mug. “Why do you hesitate? It’s more than obvious that you have Queen Isilmë’s favor. And you are the Master of the Forge of Imladris. That is not a minor thing among Elves or Men. You are one of Master Elrond’s cherished treasures, you know. That is why you sit in this kitchen sipping tea instead of shivering from cold and damp around an army encampment’s fire.”

I grunted, stung a little by the reminder that I had been deliberately sequestered here. I continued to question whether this was for my protection - to preserve my skills as Laurëfin insisted or if Elrond and Ereinion Gil-galad wished to keep anyone ever associated with Sauron well removed from his pernicious and far-reaching influence.

“Yes, I’m a real treasure,” I said and then gulped down the hot tea, savoring its astringency. “You do not think it would be too forward to visit the queens’ quarters?”

“From what I have seen of the high queen and her manner around us, she would not bat an eye. You know your young friend would love to see you. And why else would you have brought his gift with you if you hadn’t planned to seek them out?”

“True enough. I half-expected them to be here, but then my mind is foggy this morning. I know Val wishes to see me. I’m less certain about his mother though.”

“Queen Elerína? Have you done something to displease her?”

“I have spoken to her with less courtesy than I should.” I swirled the tea around, focusing my attention on the small whirlpool in the mug rather than my previous ill-considered words and the disconcerting undercurrent of why her good opinion should matter so much to me.

“She has always been gracious to me, and she impresses me as a woman capable of forgiving others.” Maidhel said, pushing a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “She and the lady Lairiel have become great friends. I think that speaks to the queen’s character since I hold our mistress of the loom in high regard.”

Maidhel’s confirmation of the younger queen’s friendship with our master weaver was oddly comforting. Lairiel's husband and two sons had marched away with Elrond, so it was likely that Elerína and the Noldorin weaver found empathy with one another. Although Lairiel had not been among my inner circle of friends in Ost-in-Edhil, we had worked together on an unusual project and later enjoyed an easy social acquaintance. Lairiel and her husband Cuivendil, whom she then referred to as “a happy dalliance,” had even attended a few of the parties that Mélamírë hosted. I smiled at the memory of our youth and with the warmth of affection I felt for Lairiel and Cuivendil, who had become my cherished friends in Imladris.

“Very well. You may send Limnen. I’ll wait here.” I pushed the empty mug away. “I believe I am ready for my own breakfast. I don’t suppose you have any bacon left over? The smell has been driving my stomach wild.”

Maidhel laughed and within minutes, I tore into the rashers and devoured the fruit compote that she had set before me.

~*~

Knuckles poised, I took a deep breath and rapped on the carved oaken door. Muffled footsteps approached and Lady Vórwen greeted me, beckoning me into the warm, sunny parlor.

“Please come in, Istyar!” She directed me to an upholstered chair to the side of the black granite hearth. “The queen will be out shortly.”

The parlor was the nexus of a series of bedchambers, small sitting rooms and lavatories – all interconnected but also arranged for privacy and discretion, reflecting the paradox of Noldorin propriety and recognition of how people really behaved. Soon Isilmë entered the parlor, still in her dressing gown and her hair loose. I rose and kissed her hand in greeting. She sat down on a stool and Vorwen proceeded to brush the queen’s long black and silver-streaked hair.

“My apologies for intruding, my lady queen. Limnen said you were up and about.”

“Please, Istyar. You are not intruding. I was more weary than usual this morning and lazed around in bed. I believe you wore me down more than I had anticipated with your elvish dancing. I trust the reminder of the evening was merry?”

“Yes, most of it was,” I said and re-directed the subject. “I have brought a Yule gift for Valandil. May I leave it here?”

“I should think you would like to see him open it. Irimë, please summon Queen Elerína and the prince.”

The lady-in-waiting left through one of the doors opening into the central room. Within moments, Valandil burst into the sunlight and wrapped himself around my legs. I could not resist picking him up. His mother effected a far more reserved entry. I took Elerína’s hand, my lips grazing her soft skin with a fleeting and dry-as-dust kiss.

“Did you bring a present for me, Istyar?”

“Yes! Here, let me put you down before you fling yourself out of my arms, lad.”

“Valandil, isn’t there something else you wanted to do before you open the Istyar’s gift?” Isilmë said.

“Oh, yes!” He scurried to a chest against the far wall, lifted its lid and extracted a bundle of red silk, which I had helped him tie with a ribbon and embellish with a sprig of holly.

He stood before his mother and extended the gift to her where she sat in a chair opposite to mine. “Happy Yule, Mama!”

Elerína removed the holly, tucking it into the waves of her dark hair, untied the ribbon and unwrapped the bundle.

“Oh, Val! How lovely!”

She turned the ovoid shuttle over in her hands and ran her hands over the smooth red-brown wood. Although I had carved the essential shape, Valandil – showing an impressive aptitude for one so young - had sanded it to a slick surface that would glide through the warp of his mother’s weaving. She held the shuttle up for Isilmë and the other ladies to see. Kneeling, she embraced her son.

“Thank you, Val. This is a wonderful gift. It will come in handy with my weaving.”

“The Istyar and I made it for you! He carved it, and I sanded it.”

She smiled at me – not a remote half-smile, but warm and open like the sun in the parlor. “Then I thank Istyar Sámaril, too.”

“He has a talent for the work, my lady queen,” I said. “He needed little assistance with the sanding. All those smooth curves are his doing, not mine.”

“Now may I open my present?” Val scanned the room, searching for his gift and saw the box, which I had decorated with the images of stylized swords and shields.

“Yes, now’s the time at last,” I said as I handed him his gift.

Wrapping his arms around the box, he trundled to the center of the red and gold patterned wool rug spread in the center of the room. The ladies clustered around him. He wedged the lid off and lifted the toy out of the box, setting it down on the rug, and examined it with curiosity. I picked up the bag of pinecones and planted myself cross-legged beside him.

“It’s an onager,” I said. “A siege machine for your soldiers. Here, let me show how it works.”

Val watched intently when I pulled the lever back, demonstrating how to hook the spring. I placed a pinecone in the sling and then pushed the lever, sending the pinecone flying into the fireplace. The little missile landed with a crunch in the logs and sent sparks flying up the chimney.

Val squealed with delight. He repeated my procedure and flung another cone into the flames. Isilmë applauded her grandson’s antics with the ladies following suit. Except for Elerína. Her chin was set, an expression that had become all too familiar to me.

“A machine of war. Just what my son does not need.” She rose from her chair, her arms stiff at her sides.

I gaped at her, befuddled as I groped for a response to her bitter remark. She averted her eyes and strode to the door whence she and her son had entered.

“Elerína! Please!” Isilmë called to her, but Elerína had already shut the door to her quarters in her haste to leave.

Valandil looked up from his play when the door firmly shut. Then he shrugged, fitted another pinecone in the bucket and lobbed it into the fire. Reining in my hurt feelings, I was on my feet, ready to tear myself away once and for all from this family of mortals, regal or no.

“I am sorry, Istyar,” Isilmë rose quickly and stood beside me, taking my hands before I put them to the door. “The war and its uncertainly have caused Queen Elerína much distress. I know that does not excuse her behavior, but I shall speak to her.”

“There is no need for that, Queen Isilmë. If you’ll excuse me, I must take my leave. I hope Val will continue to enjoy his gift.”

Rather than retreating to the forge as I might have done after such distress, I returned to my quarters where I flung myself on my bed. The effects of too much brandy and the nagging guilt of last night’s erotic encounter – guilt derived from the memory of my wife together with my shoddy treatment of Midhloth -- had already taken their toll. The rejection of Val’s gift by Elerína further wearied me in both mind and body so I sought the forgetfulness of sleep.

~*~

Gentle rapping at my door woke me. Extracting myself from the warmth of my bed, I half-expected to see Thornangor so I did not trouble to put on my tunic. In mid-yawn, I opened the door wide, but instead of Thorno, there stood Elerína and her ladies-in-waiting.

“Istyar, I have come to apologize to you for my behavior this morning,” she said. “I hope you can forgive my ill manners. Your gift for Val was most generous.”

“I - of course, I forgive you. I should have asked you about the appropriateness of the gift. I’m sorry I did not.”

“No, it is not right for me to hover over every detail of Val’s life even if he is so young. Your gift is entirely appropriate.” She glanced into my quarters. “I would like to speak with you at length so that I might explain my behavior. Yavien, Irimë and I are going to take our walk now. Would you please join us?”

Then I noted that the women wore fur-lined mantles over their gowns and gloves on their hands, prepared to go outside.

“Yes, I can do that. Excuse me a moment.” While they waited in the corridor, I pulled on tunic, stockings and boots, draped my cloak over my arm and then joined the three women.

Once I stepped out of the house and onto the terraces, the winter-crisp air whisked away the fogginess of my afternoon’s nap. High wisps of cloud scudded overhead with the wind, but the valley floor was still. Sunlight cascaded down the frozen waterfalls, crystallized against the cliff faces, and diamond-sparks sprayed glittering from ice and snow.

“It’s like living within a great jewel,” Elerína said as we strolled along the path above the river, which led to the stone bridge that spanned the Bruinen. “But it chills me to the bones. Sometimes I think I will never be warm again.” She gathered her mantle around her slim form, the silver fox fur that lined the hood mingling with her dark hair.

Elerína and I walked ahead, the other women well behind in accordance with the long custom of those who attend their lords and ladies, remained within propriety’s eyesight but out of earshot. The rush of the river’s water beneath the cantilevered ledges of ice further obscured our private conversation from her attendants.

“I am obliged to explain my rude behavior earlier,” Elerína said, turning to me when we stopped at the height of the bridge. “There’s nothing I wish more for Valandil than a life of peace. When I see him entranced by toys that reflect warfare –- his soldiers and now the onager –- I fear that I will lose him, that he will grow up to leave me like his father and his brothers. And I see him turning more and more to you. He seeks the comfort and love of a father, and I fear he will never truly know his own sire.”

“I do not seek to replace his father, my lady queen, but neither can I deny your son the affection he seeks from me. Valandil brings comfort to me, too.”

“Yes, I know this, and I am grateful to you for your kindness. It’s simply difficult for me to witness,” she said. She twisted her hands together. “Valandil is my last child. He may be all that I have left of Isildur.” Her voice faltered. “I would see him seek a life of peace, the life of a scholar –- like you.”

“Like me? My lady queen, Master Elrond forbade me from joining King Gil-galad’s army. It shames me that I remain here when I could lend my skills and strength to the Alliance. For if the Enemy is not stopped, none of us will have the luxury of a peaceful life.”

“This shames you? Is it the lot of all men –- Firstborn and Followers both –- that they must go to war? That dying in battle is the only way to prove their worth? Little good that does for their widows and fatherless children.”

“Little good would come from a land overrun by the Enemy or even to live in a false peace, surrounded by his dominion. Your husband and sons not only march to war on behalf of your people and mine, but also for you and Valandil personally.”

She sighed and turned away, looking down the valley along the course of the river and toward the icefalls that reflected countless white and gold shards of the winter sun.

“That is what Isildur has told me many times – the first when he set out to take the fruit of Nimloth. He nearly died in his quest. I would have been left a young widow with an infant. Then, after all we suffered in Númenor, he chose to build his stronghold on the very doorstep of the Deceiver’s realm. We barely escaped with our lives when Sauron took Minas Ithil. And now Isildur has left me again and taken my sons with him to face war...again. On my behalf.”

Bitterness infected her words, and her voice quavered. She lowered her head to hide her expression, but I saw the tear that tracked down her cheek. It took all the discipline I could muster to prevent myself from putting my arm around her in comfort. But she was a queen, and such familiarity was forbidden.

I rifled through my thoughts for comforting words, but dark nuances obscured every reassuring outcome that came to mind. I buried these as soon as they surfaced. The last thing this woman needed to hear was elven subtlety, so I offered what I thought best to say, banal as it might be.

“You must hold on to hope, my lady. The Alliance will prevail, and your husband and sons will return to you.”

“You have such confidence. Do you have any idea what they will face? I do. I know it all too well.”

“So do I.”

“How is this?” She turned from her faraway contemplation of the Bruinen’s icy vale and looked at me directly, torment and question in her blue eyes. “You did not live under fear with the Deceiver’s spies watching you at all times. You did not have your relatives taken away in the night, simply disappearing, not knowing if the vile smoke rolling from that hideous temple might be their flesh and bones burning. You did not see your homeland engulfed by the sea. You did not fly into exile, only to be thrust into a fortress of stone so close to the Enemy’s land – told to make your home there.”

“No, my lady queen,” I said. I focused on the ice-locked vale now, and my hands gripped the cold unyielding stone of the bridge. “You are right. I have not experienced those things, but this is what I know of the Enemy: I saw my home destroyed –- a city leveled to ruins, fields and farms burned, a great civilization obliterated. You say you struggle with loss. I have also experienced this at the Enemy’s hands. My friends were killed or taken captive to who knows what horrible fate, maybe worse than death. I saw my father’s severed head displayed as a trophy, paraded through the city streets by Sauron’s loathsome army. My sister. My mother. Both killed.” I swallowed hard, all the force of my will keeping my voice smooth and firm. “My wife and our unborn son –- dead. They were all slain by the orcs who ambushed them when they fled the ruin of our home.” I met her eyes again.

“So yes, my lady queen, I have an idea of the fear you faced in Númenor and Minas Ithil.”

“You are from Eregion? But that was so long ago…” she almost whispered, shaking her head before she looked at me, her expression softened. “I am so sorry, Istyar. I beg your forgiveness for my presumption. I did not know.” She took my hands in hers. “You are bleeding.”

I had gripped the freezing stone of the bridge so hard that I cut my fingers. She extracted a white kerchief from somewhere beneath her mantle and dabbed at my lacerated skin. Onto my right forefinger one of her teardrops fell, an ephemeral jewel that mingled with the salt of my blood.

She looked up at me again, her sky-blue eyes brimming with tears.

“I think we have much to say to one another, Istyar.”

“Yes, I believe we do.”

So we stood on the bridge and began to carefully unwind our histories to one another, or at least I told her parts of mine, and I suspected she withheld some of her own. I did not tell her who my master had been or that I was the smith who had crafted the rings of the Nazgûl. I only said that I knew Annatar, unable to bring myself to reveal the terrible pain his betrayal had caused me because I had admired and trusted him - or the depth of my guilt for what I had done.

In turn, she told me of Sauron’s machinations in Númenor. These were familiar to me: his tactic of offering his vast knowledge to ensnare those hungry for it; his counsel –- full of wisdom but ever self-serving; his charisma and brilliance, winning others over, even those who thought themselves resistant to such flattery. But there were things he had done in Númenor that were different and much darker than what I had known –- indicative of a depth of cynicism and bitterness he had not revealed in Ost-in-Edhil.

“My lady queen! It grows dark!” Yavien’s voice - tremulous in the cold - carried up to the bridge.

Startled, Elerína turned to her ladies-in-waiting, who truly had been waiting. The two women huddled together on the path between the bridge and the house. The sun had set and the torches along the terraces in the distance flickered.

“Irimë, Yavien! Forgive me! Yes, let us return to the house.” She turned back to me.

“Time seems to have slipped away, Istyar, as it so often does in this uncanny place.” She looked at my hands, which she still held. “Good. You have stopped bleeding.” She released my hands – now warm. I held fast to the ghost of her touch, engraving the sensation in my memory.

“My lady queen…”

“Elerína. Please call me Elerína. I am not a queen of the Firstborn.”

“I – well, I cannot call you that. I am a stonemason’s son, my lady – a commoner. It doesn’t matter that I am of the Eldar. Respect is respect.”

She laughed. “You are not always one to show respect.” I cringed when she reminded me of my previous blunt words to her, but she just smiled kindly at me.

“My father was a nobleman of the Faithful – descended from Vardamir Nólimon, but my mother was a commoner. The Faithful believed it healthy to marry outside of the nobility,” she said as we walked back to the terraces, the stars jewel-bright in the eastern sky. “My father’s father was also a commoner, a landowner and husbandman. He raised sheep on the downs of Emerië. Those sheep had marvelous fleece that made for fine smooth wool which never scratched tender skin. That was where I first learned to spin and weave.” She sighed after recounting what I guessed was a cherished memory. “I understand if you feel you must observe propriety in front of others, but please do not eschew my name.”

“Very well, Lady – Elerína.” She smiled with approval. “In turn, I must insist that you call me Sámaril.”

“Sámaril. A brilliant mind. That is fitting.”

“I’m not always brilliant, but more often than not I am. Perhaps not with queens though.”

She laughed again. “And with no abundance of modesty either! Well, you are a character – Sámaril. Yes, I think we have much to say to one another. I am glad to have found another friend among your people.”

When I had left the house with Elerína on that late afternoon in winter, I had hoped for a truce between us. What I received upon our return to the House of Elrond was more.

The next day, when I joined Queen Isilmë and Valandil, Elerína entered the kitchen with Lairiel, both women disheveled with threads and woolly fuzz sticking to their aprons. Elerína sat opposite me, smiling as she pulled her chair to the table.

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

I passed a basket of warm bread to her, and my heart beat a little faster.

“Not at all.”

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Chapter End Notes

Maidhel – Sinda, senior assistant to Astaron, the master of the kitchens in the House of Elrond.

Limnen – Sinda, kitchen assistant.

Lairiel – Noldo, master weaver of Imladris

Cuivendil – Noldo, master glass artisan of Imladris; Lairiel’s husband.

Vórwen – Isilmë’s senior lady-in-waiting.

Irimë – Elendur’s wife and lady-in-waiting to the queens.

Yavien – Aratan’s wife and lady-in-waiting to Elerína.

Note: Tolkien does not say whether Isildur's three older sons were married or not, but given that Elendil and sons' wives were not named, the omission does not imply one or more of Isildur's sons had not married. In my 'verse, I assume that Elendur and Aratan had wives and daughters.