A Fragile Chalice by pandemonium_213

A Fragile Chalice

Read A Fragile Chalice

So entangled he was in her twilight eyes that the brassy rap at his front door made him startle.  His hand jerked, and wine splashed out of the crystal glass that he held, spilling over his fingers and onto the cuff of his sleeve.  Tyelperinquar grinned sheepishly.

"Pardon me, my lady..."

Considering that he had been expecting to hear the familiar knock at the door, his jittery reaction caused him no small degree of embarrassment.  He turned quickly to extract himself from Isilmélë's charms.  For a moment, the room spun, and he had to steady himself.

I'm only on my second glass of wine, and already it's going to my head!  Must be my empty stomach.

Still, he was grateful for the wine's effects, which washed away the tensions accrued from days upon days spent haggling with petitioners in the city council chambers, rifling through inventories in his office, guiding his apprentices and journeymen, and working on his own projects in the forges.  A few days ago, he had been tempted to cancel tonight's gathering, but now feeling warm and convivial, he was glad that he had not.  He had to admit he enjoyed these dinner parties, and this particular mixture of guests might prove to be entertaining.

"Never mind, Thamlad! I'll get it!" he called down the hallway as he set the glass of wine on a small side table.  The grunt that accompanied retreating footsteps informed him that his manservant had heard him.  "If you'll excuse me, my lords and ladies..." he said to those who mingled in his parlor where they nibbled on dainties and sipped fine white wine, crafted from the grapes of the arbors draped over the hills along the Glanduin.  The men murmured "Of course!" or merely nodded whereas the ladies aimed polite bows of smiles his way and resumed their conversations except for Isilmélë who added a heavy-lidded look of promise.

He opened the door with dramatic flourish and caught his young cousin in the act of wiping her hands on her overdress.  Mélamírë's head jerked up, her eyes wide with surprise, and a flush of rose bloomed on her cheeks.  Tyelperinquar suppressed a smile at this obvious inheritance from her grandfather Carnistir.  She dipped her head to examine the ruby-colored samite.

"You left no stains, my dear," he said, lifting her chin and leaning forward to kiss her cheek, a gesture that was returned affectionately.  "I assume you have washed your hands since you left the forges."

She wrinkled her nose, her blush draining away.  "Of course! I even bathed for the occasion.  I'm just a little uncomfortable so my..."

"...palms are sweaty. It happens to the best of us."

Tyelperinquar stepped back and swept his eyes over her garb: the red overdress, embroidered with floral designs of golden thread, topped a flowing skirt of amber silk and a sheer yellow blouse beneath which the outline of a modest chemise peeked.  A belt of hammered gold discs cinched her waist.  Her hair, shining like jet and smelling faintly of almonds, hung loose down her back, but the sides had been woven into thin plaits, caught up by jeweled clips.  The eight-pointed star of their house, set within a swirl of gold and mithril, gleamed from where it was centered high on her forehead.  That she wore one of the three circlets he had crafted for her pleased him inordinately.  Too gaudy, he thought as he contrasted the overall effect of her garb to the subtle craft of the circlet,  but she does clean up well.

"You needn't have dressed so elaborately for a casual supper with your old cousin."

"A casual supper with my old cousin?  Who has invited me to one of his infamous salons?  Mother would be appalled if I had not made a fuss over my dress and my hair, or rather, if I had not allowed Mistress Brúneth to make a fuss."  Mélamírë reached up tentatively to touch the plaits over her right ear.  "Mother reminds me that I must make at least some effort to appear a lady."  She grinned archly.

"You look splendid.  And a bit of ladylike behavior will do you some good.  After all, I promised your parents I would keep you out of trouble while they are away."  He offered her his arm, and she looped her long fingers around the crook of his inner elbow.  "We wouldn't want a repeat of the dragon-stove incident, now would we?"

She rolled her eyes.  "Oh, no, we would not want that!"

Tyelpo chuckled and patted her hand as he guided her slowly through the corridor that led to the parlor.  What a riotous mess that had been!  The smoke billowing out the door.  The young apprentices and journeymen coughing and milling about in the kitchen helplessly.  Mélamírë cursing her father's black dragon-stove that belched smoke, thanks to the stuck flue.  His cousin's embarrassment that she had to summon him to the impromptu celebration, hosted, Tyelpo had noted wryly, in the absence of her parents.  With a few firm words, he had cajoled the agitated stove into letting him open the damper, and after refusing an offer of wine, he had taken his leave graciously, allowing the young people to enjoy the rest of their evening.

"Haldanar has my dragon-stove firmly in hand," he said.  They were making almost unbearably slow progress toward the parlor.  That progress came to a stand-still when Mélamírë stopped and tugged at his arm.

"Haldanar?  The Haldanar?  You managed to persuade him to cook this evening?

"If by 'persuade' you mean paying him in gold coin and promising him a jeweled chain and pendant, then yes, I persuaded him."

"He's said to be an artist, even with the most simple of foods."  Mélamírë closed her eyes and sniffed.  "Mmmm! Roasted game hen with rosemary, lemon and bacon!"

"Precisely!  Not to mention polentë and..."

"Please, coz, don't tell me. Let me be a little surprised."

"Very well.  Now we'd best move along.  My guests are waiting.  Master Lóremin has been asking when you'd arrive."  But when he again made to step forward, Mélamírë 's fingers dug into his arm through the fabric of his sleeve.

"Lóremin? You invited him?"

"Why, yes!  As well as Saeri.  I hear they have been dueling with their verses throughout the city of late.  I thought it might be amusing to hear them spar.  Why do you ask?"

Her fingers relaxed, but he knew that came from an effort of will on her part.

"No reason in particular.  I just have a case of nerves."

He did not believe her for one moment.  There had to be a reason for her response, but he would get to the bottom of that later.

"You?  Who faces the fires of the forge, wrestles with dragon-stoves and who can hold miniscule gears and bolts with steady hands?  You have no reason to fret."

"I know.  It's just that I am unaccustomed to such gatherings."

He faced her and placed his hands on her shoulders, slender but hardened from her work.  "And that is why I have invited you. You've buried yourself in the forges and workshops long enough, and when you do come up for air, you carouse with your young friends.  You are now a master of the Míretanor, not to mention one of my blood.  So you really must get out and about into adult society more.  Your father and I are in agreement on this."

"Ah.  You and Father," she replied with a resigned sigh.  "Well, there's no gainsaying you two, is there?"

Tyelpo smiled.  "There's truth in that.  Don't worry.  I'm confident you'll hold your own."

Her shoulders rose when she took a deep breath, and upon their fall, Tyelpo felt the tension drain away from her with a measure of control that impressed him.  When they stepped into the parlor, all the guests turned toward the door.  Assessing eyes, kind eyes, clever eyes, languid eyes and sardonic eyes took them in.

"Here she is at last," Tyelpo said.  "My own dear cousin, Naryen Mélamírë.  I believe you know some of my guests, but nonetheless, introductions are in order.  First, Councilman Tarmandil and good lady Erilmelin."

With bluff country manners, the councilman, visiting the city from his estates in Gwathló Province, reached out to shake Mélamírë's hand.  Tyelpo was amazed to see that Tarmandil had actually managed to scrub all the dirt from beneath his broad fingernails.

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Naryen!  That is to say, Master Naryen."

"Yes, we hear you passed your mastery examination last spring,"  added ruddy-faced Erilmelin, also reaching out to Mélamírë with a sylph-like grace that countered her robust figure.

"That I did, and I think being flayed alive would have been a more pleasant experience," replied Mélamírë, returning the handshake firmly while Erilmelin flinched at the gruesome reference.  "But I survived."

"Oh, really now!" Tyelpo interjected lightly.  "We weren't that hard on you."  His protest earned him an acute sideways glance from his cousin.  In all honesty, he and the other masters had in fact subjected her to a higher standard, but it had been in the interest of avoiding any hint of favoritism.  Maybe we made too much of an effort.

"Do you know, Master Naryen, that we have three ploughshares you forged when you were an apprentice?" Erilmelin asked.  "They cut the hardest soil like a hot knife through soft butter.  Our farmhands vie for their use.  Why, even the dray horses compete to draw them!"

"Surely your farmhands and horses overstate their qualities, Mistress Erilmelin, but thank you all the same.  I am glad they are of use to you in your fields.  That's the most important thing."

Tyelpo recognized the timbre of pride beneath her veneer of modesty.  Yes, she's one of the family all right.

He then introduced her to the Guild Master of Iron, Ferillir, and his wife, Nuinellë, to the Steward of Forests, Samdur, and his wife Baidhruth.  Next was Isilmélë, whose stunning mosaics graced city walls and floors and whose willowy body had arched in passion beneath Tyelpo on occasion.  The artist gave Mélamírë a smile of studied insouciance.  The poetess Saeri, austere in a fitted gown of somber shades of grey with her hair bound in a single tight plait, dipped her white forehead solemnly to his cousin.  But the next introduction proved to be by far the most effusive.

"Coz, may I present Master Lóremin..."

"I am well-acquainted with Lady Naryen."  The man with brown hair that curled artfully over his shoulders took Mélamírë's hand and brought it to pillowed lips of high color.  Tyelpo reckoned that he stained them with pigment, but Mélamírë 's skin was left unmarked by the kiss.

"My lady," Lóremin crooned, raising limpid chocolate-colored eyes, "did you receive my lilies?"

"Yes, I did.  Thank you, but you needn't have..."

"And the poem I sent with them?"

"Yes.  The poem as well."  Mélamírë pulled her hand back, but the poet tightened his grip.

"I fear I cannot say farewell to your fair hand, my lady.  So pure, so white, like the lily..."

Tyelpo swallowed a snort when he considered the juxtaposition of poet's compliment to reality: the skin on the backs of his cousin's hands was spotted with partially healed burns and criss-crossed with small cuts; rough calluses lay like patchwork on her palms.  The poet cleared his throat and launched into verse with a voice thick as dark honey:

The modest rose puts forth a thorn,

The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:

While the lily white shall in love delight,

Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

She extracted her hand from his with a yank of conviction.  Tyelpo caught the glint of annoyance in her eyes.

"Such lovely words, Master Lóremin.  Your gifts of the poem and the lilies are very thoughtful.  Thank you again," she said, keeping her tone pleasant and appreciative.

Well done, Tyelpo thought. She's laid into the journeymen for much less when she's vexed.

Lóremin smiled widely, revealing small white teeth.  "I am your servant, my lady.  The moth to your flame..."

The tall man standing next to Lóremin stifled what might have been a cough, but just as likely might have been a laugh.  Mélamírë's relief was visible for the distraction.  Tyelpo gave Lóremin a polite smile and guided her away from the unctuous poet.

"Last but hardly least is the emissary from Gil-galad, the honorable Erestor.  My old friend, I am pleased to introduce my cousin."

Erestor clasped Mélamírë's hand.  Tyelpo, with no small amount of satisfaction, noted the mutual firmness of their handshake.

"I am pleased to meet you, Master Erestor.  Celebrimbor has told me much about you."

"I assure you that not a single one of his tales is true.  The pleasure is mine, Master Naryen.  Allow me to offer my congratulations at passing your examination.  You're obviously an apple from the family tree."

"She's the apple of our eyes, too," Tyelpo said before Mélamírë could make a self-deprecating remark, an affectation that never failed to irk him.  At that moment, a bell chimed.  "And her arrival is timely. Dinner is served! Shall we?"

The chattering guests streamed into the dining chamber where twelve settings were arranged on a long table covered with wine-colored damasked cloth; candles, which afforded a more flattering light on foodstuffs than blue lamps, flickered in an ornate bronze crown hanging from the ceiling and from sconces along the walls.  Tyelpo seated himself at the head of the table while Mélamírë, as the lady of the house for this evening, sat at the opposite end.  His guests were strategically placed along the sides.  Erestor sat at Mélamírë 's right while Lóremin was at her left.  When Tyelpo had planned the seating arrangement with Thamlad, he had no inkling Lóremin was courting his cousin or, if not courting, at least openly displaying some manner of romantic inclination toward her.  But then both he and Mélamírë had been focused on their work these past few months, their paths crossing rarely, save for the dragon-stove incident.

His cousin showed no hint of discomfort, and again he commended her control, but her coolness toward the poet was obvious, even from where he sat.  He could not say he was surprised that Mélamírë did not return Lóremin's affections.  From what he knew of the poet, his personality was not the sort that he thought his cousin would find attractive.  Not to mention it was a well-known secret that Lóremin's conquests were more likely to be men than women.

Yet another improbability, as Tyelpo saw it, was that her parents approved of the poet's paying court to their daughter.  What am I thinking? he chided himself. Culinen and Aulendil have been away for three months. How could they even know about this?  Aulendil would have nipped this in the bud long before any lilies showed up for Mélamírë.  Tyelpo allowed himself a moment of grim amusement, imagining the effete poet face to face with the formidable Istyar of the Míretanor, who was protective of his child to the point of possessiveness.  Perhaps the seating arrangement was fortuitous as it would allow him to sit back and observe the interactions between his cousin and this would-be swain.

Settling in with that thought, Tyelpo relaxed against the cushions of his chair while the hired servants, under the watchful eye of Thamlad, brought out the first course: bowls of steaming soup.  However, no one raised a spoon.  All eyes turned toward him expectantly.  In other households, in other times and places, the head of the household might give thanksgiving to Yavanna for the bounty of the table.  But this was a city of those who had refused the summons and who strove to create a wondrous realm in Middle-earth removed from the edicts of the Valar.  More than that, this was a Fëanorian household.  So Tyelpo rose from his chair and following the custom of his grandfather, invoked Eru directly:

"We would like to thank Ilúvatar for that which we have received from Endórë this day, and we shall return to her in excess of what we have taken.  I give thanks for the iron for my steel, for the branches I have cut to fuel my forge."

Mélamírë, well attuned to the tradition by virtue of her mother, spoke next:  "I give thanks for the metals and gems I have taken from the earth."

So the thanksgiving circled around the table with each guest offering his or her gratitude to Ilúvatar for one thing or another, all spoken with an undercurrent of thrill from the mild blasphemy of bypassing the Valar.  The words circled back to him for their conclusion.

"And we are all thankful for the lives of creatures we have taken for our sustenance and for the fruits of Endórë that grace our table.  In excess shall we replant the trees we have cut and nurture the fruits we have taken from their branches; so shall we protect those creatures whose kin have given their lives for our sustenance."

The thanksgiving invocation complete, Tyelpo seated himself. "Right then!  Tuck in, honored guests!"

The men and women at his board needed no persuasion to dip their silver spoons into the soup that blended the exotic sensuality of tomato with the clean spice of fennel.  Tyelpo rolled the last spoonful around in his mouth while the maids cleared the table for the next course.  If the soup is any indication, Haldanar's work will be well worth those gold coins.

Next came dates, a rarity that had cost Tyelpo dearly, stuffed with almonds and wrapped with paper-thin slivers of smoked trout.  I'll add a few extra garnets in that chain for this, he considered while he savored smoky sweetness that surrounded a soft crunch.  The wines shifted from a delicate white to a light fruity red and then to noble vintage of serce valaron, which complemented the main course and its accompaniments: the roasted game hen, creamy polentë studded with white truffles, and wilted greens dressed with garlic and black syrupy vinegar.  Tyelpo chewed a juicy piece of meat slowly.  Perhaps several extra garnets...

All the while, his guests alternated between praising the food and conversing amongst themselves.

"The wheat harvest is bountiful this autumn.  That's why my lady wife and I are here, of course, to sell our grain to the Guild of Corn," Tarmandil said stiffly.

Tyelpo knew the landowner was out of his element here in the city and even more so with its elite, but Tarmandil, who had been chief among Fëanáro's tenant farmers back in the Blessed Lands, was thoroughly loyal to the family.  His grandfather himself had ensured that Tarmandil was on his own ship.  "Someone must grow grain to feed us," Fëanáro had said. "And who better?"  Leave it to his grandfather to think of something so practical, even in the midst of all the blood and chaos.

"Master Ovoreth drives a hard bargain though," Tarmandil said after swallowing a mouthful of polentë.

"You must remind her what fine bread it makes," Nuinellë said primly. "Oh, Erilmelin, isn't the roast hen delicious?"

"One of our own."  The landholder's wife laid proud claim to the poultry. "We brought a cage of them with us to give to Lord Celebrimbor's cook.  That fellow has worked wonders, I agree."

Ferillir's voice next caught Tyelpo's attention. "...but surely, Samdur, that stand of oaks is blighted.  I still maintain that you might cull out a few of the more sickly ones for our forges.  I cannot tell you how many commissions we have received of late for iron gates.  People are mad for Neceloron's new designs and want them for their gardens and homes.  Even the guild houses are clamoring for them."  The ironwright speared a piece of meat. "And ironwork needs fire.  Which means wood."  He shoved the chunk of meat into his wide mouth and chewed vigorously with little smacks of appreciation.  

The Steward of Trees pushed the wilted greens around with his fork as if reluctant to eat plant matter although he had heartily consumed the game hen.  "Those so-called blighted oaks are yet green with growth, and I have a healer working with them.  I am not ready to give up hope just yet.  But there's a patch of alder that is dumb and dry.  Perhaps those?"

"Oak makes better charcoal," Ferillir grumbled. "Why ever can't you people just plant a stand of oaks and not awaken them?"

Tyelpo swallowed a sigh with a long drink of wine.  The ceaseless arguments between the Noldorin craftsmen of the forges and the Sindarin keepers of the forests were not those he had hoped for this evening.  In fact, he had hoped the two men might find some common ground at such a social occasion.  But what should he expect?  Once gathered together, guild masters and merchants so often talked shop. He could hardly fault them.  He and his smiths, most notably the other Istyar, discussed and defended their theories for hours and hours, days even.  At the far end of the table, conversation more scintillating than wood-culling and the price of grain was taking place, based on Lóremin's gesticulation with his fork at the emissary from Lindon, whose mouth was pulled to the side with a smile that might have been ironic.

"Always laugh when you can, Master Erestor, even at the truth," Lóremin was saying. "It costs nothing."

"I often take the opportunity to laugh, for there exists no bulwark that can withstand the assault of laughter.  But truth? That is another matter.  We so easily swallow lies that flatter us, but we sip only a little of the bitterness that is truth."

"I find flattery to be an overly sweet drink," said Mélamírë, cutting a piece of roast fowl with a silver knife.  "I cannot abide it in large gulps.  But a bitter truth is that you, Master Erestor, stifled a laugh when Master Lóremin claimed to be the moth to my flame.  Why did that amuse you so?  Do you always laugh when a lady is given a romantic compliment?"

"I never tell the naked truth in front of ladies."

Mélamírë dabbed her lips with a napkin.  "Please make an exception for me."

"Aside from such trivial words from a renowned poet, the truth is..."  Erestor raised his eyes toward the crown of candles above.  "The truth is that your colorful garb gives the effect of a candle flame.  The thought of Lóremin swirling around you like a lovesick moth struck me as funny."

"And that's the naked truth?"

"It is."

Mélamírë arched her brow at Erestor's admission.  "So you criticize my choice of clothing?  The truth is indeed bitter."  She softened her blow by angling the corners of her mouth into a sly smile.  "I believe I prefer Master Lóremin's flattery."

Matching that smile, Erestor raised his glass to Mélamírë.  "Here's to poetic moths and gowns that look like flames."

"All this talk of flames, flattery, moths and truth!"  Lóremin interjected before Mélamírë could answer Erestor's tribute.   Now that's dangerous! thought Tyelpo.  She hates being interrupted.  But Lóremin was oblivious to Mélamírë's irritation.  "Master Erestor, I am not altogether certain of what you mean by 'the truth' for it wears many different faces, does it not?  Bitter or no, if one tells the truth, one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out.  So it is my contention that it is best to laugh in the face of truth."

"I quite agree," Erestor responded pleasantly, "and if it is your intention to tell others the truth, you had best hope that they do laugh.  Otherwise they will slay you."

At that, Mélamírë punctuated Erestor's quip with her own laughter, and for moment, Tyelpo heard Maitimo.  Sorrow for the lost stained the evening's merriment as he considered his young cousin.  Her eyes, brows, and dark hair made her unmistakably her father's daughter, and she had her mother's determined chin.  But the curve of her lips and her generous smile?  Those were Nerdanel's.  He saw glimpses of his own father and through him, his grandfather, in the shape of her nose and cheekbones.  More subtle things — a gesture of a hand, a note of song, a certain impatience, an acerbic turn of phrase — reminded him of his uncles, each and every one lost to him. It was as if his family had been distilled into this one young woman, and he found their signatures to be achingly poignant.

Yet there was something else, too, an uncanny way in which she adapted to others, making them feel as if they were the most important people in the world when she spoke and listened to them.  She shared that with her father, he supposed, but the way she did this differed, less draining somehow.  Perhaps that characteristic came from his side of the family.

Tyelpo vaguely remembered Aulendil's father, a talented man whom his son resembled and who was as dedicated to Aulë and his craft as Nerdanel's father, Mahtan, had been, but not one who could ever be called charismatic.  Perhaps Aulendil had inherited his ability to charm from his mother, who, according to his colleague, had been born in Tirion after the Exile.  Only a very few remained in Endórë who had known Aulendil's father, Tyelpo among them.  Even so, Tyelpo had been only a boy when he met the smith, but he remembered him as being a stern and aloof man.  He could hardly conceive of Nóletamin looking up from the forge long enough to notice a woman.  She must be something, thought Tyelpo, to pull his interest away from his work.

He shook off the gloomy thoughts by refocusing on the excellent meal and reminded himself that he still had a family and a cherished one at that: Mélamírë and her mother, Culinen, his cousin through Carnistir, who had become as close as a sister.  She, in turn, brought Aulendil into the family by marriage, and her husband became more than his colleague and advisor, even more than his friend.  As Aulendil had declared on that strange night on the terrace, they were brothers of the heart.

Stars' mercy but I am sentimental tonight. Enough of that!  He scooped up another mound of polentë on his fork but before he could put it in his mouth, the lower edge of his trousers lifted, and the delicious sensation of naked toes crept up his lower leg.  Warmth spread up his thigh to stiffen between his legs.  He smiled at Isilmélë, and with his free hand, stroked her knee under the table.  A fragment of conversation from the other end of the table caught his attention again.  This time, Mélamírë was speaking.  He removed his hand from Isilmélë's knee, ignoring her huff of frustration, and pricked up his ears.

"...you possess an exceptional talent for flattery, Master Lóremin. May I ask whether your attentions are derived from the impulse of the moment, or are they the result of previous study?"

Lóremin's smile froze while Erestor pressed his lips tightly together, his face straining, but he failed to contain the guffaw that erupted. When others turned inquiringly of the outburst, the emissary caught his breath.

"I do believe Master Naryen has hit upon the heart of the matter," Erestor said. "Why would a woman be pleased when a man ladles sentiment that he does not mean sincerely?"

All attention was now riveted on the two men and the young woman at the far end of the table. Tyelpo leaned forward, bemused, and wondering what might come next. This was far better than arguments over the fate of blighted oaks!

"Please, Master Erestor," Mélamírë said. "I expect Master Lóremin is completely sincere, are you not, sir?" She directed a charming smile at the poet, but Tyelpo, even from his end of the table, detected the tightness around her eyes.

Lóremin squirmed under her scrutiny. "Of course, I am. How could I not be sincere when singing your praises?"

Erestor reached to take a pinch of salt from the glass salt cellar by his plate. He sprinkled the crystals over the wilted greens as he addressed Lóremin. "Sincerity is a seasoning best used lightly. Too much of it poisons the pot."

Lóremin's soft mouth hardened, and his eyes were no longer limpid but sharp. Before he could let a retort fly, Ferillir, now boisterous from wine and good food, laughed merrily and raised his glass.

"Hear, hear! Master Erestor, you have lost none of your wit! A toast, I say, to sincerity, but not too much of it." The rest of the guests smiled and raised their glasses, thus deflating an escalation of barbs between Erestor and Lóremin. For civility's sake, at least with respect to the delicacies of two or three of the ladies present, Tyelpo was relieved that the exchange had not become more heated, but at the same time he was disappointed. Erestor's wit had the potential to slice through pretence like a sharpened blade.

The tension was further reduced when dessert arrived. After the pear tart was devoured and only the cheese board remained, Tyelpo reached to lift the small silver bell that lay to his right, ready to summon Thamlad so that he might bring the cook to the table to thank him. The sound of the dining chamber doors swinging stayed his hand. Tyelpo turned to see Haldanar, his long white shirt speckled with stains, at the door.

"Please, approach..." but the bold young man had already stepped to the side of the table.

"Master Haldanar, you are truly an artist. The meal was superlative."

His guests agreed by offering enthusiastic applause. Haldanar basked in the diners' adulation with a self-satisfied expression on his face.

"It was my pleasure, my ladies and lords." He bowed to them all, but before he took his leave, he leaned toward Tyelpo and whispered, "And Lord Celebrimbor? Do not even think of garnets for my pendant. You know I am worth rubies."

Haldanar was out of the room before Tyelpo could gather himself to rebuke his impertinence. His guests waited expectantly for him to rise. So he obliged them, leading them from the table to the colonnaded porch that faced the West. Here oaken chairs, piled with thick cushions for comfort, were arranged in a semi-circle. A fountain built into the wall murmured discreetly while late blooming roses, lavender and flowering galenas, planted in glazed urns, added their fragrance to the setting.

Once the guests had settled into the chairs and the servants had poured spirits of hazelnut, grain, honey and grape into crystal chalices, Tyelpo rang the golden bell at his side, summoning the evening's entertainment: musicians who had come from the village of Laergobel and were popular among the folk of the city.

A woman with an ample bosom and wide hips emerged from the shadows; the fabric of her green gown rustled to the rhythm of her heavy footsteps. Silent as a mouse, a slight silver-haired man carrying a viol followed her.

"Welcome to my home, Thelthoniel and Nelchir," Tyelpo said expansively. "Would you be so kind as to lead us in the holy song?"

"You honor us with your request, Lord Celebrimbor," said Thelthoniel, her voice so mellifluous that she already seemed to be singing. Nelchir set his bow to the viol to make it cry with haunting sweetness, and the woman began the familiar hymn:

A Elbereth Gilthoniel

Silivren penna míriel. . .

From petite Baidhruth's high notes to Ferillir's deep bell-like tones, the guests added their voices to the song. For those born in Middle-earth, like his cousin, the hymn to Elbereth represented a tradition of their people, but for Tyelpo and the other exiles in attendance, it was a song of remembrance, and one that was expected at all such gatherings. He disliked the feeling of loss it produced, but each time it was sung, his conviction to create a realm in Eregion as fair as Valinor was further reinforced.

After the song faded, and all reflected in silence as was customary, Nelchir made his viol sing again. This time, Thelthoniel, her bosom straining against the fabric of her bodice, warbled a sentimental lay that told of young lovers who bound their lives together during the Great March. Tyelpo hoped that the fastenings of her gown did not break, although the mayhem that might result from those abundant breasts breaking free of their confinement struck him as hilarious. He stifled an inappropriate laugh.

Thelthoniel sang of the lovers' hardships and joy throughout the seasons until, when burdened with the weight of many long-years, one took the Straight Road while the other remained behind in the Outer Lands. Tyelpo's attention began to wander as much as the lovers' journey did. His thoughts settled upon the lattice structure of an unusual mithril and steel alloy that one of the smiths had produced until Ferillir's single grunt of a snore interrupted his reverie. Tyelpo straightened in his chair and attempted to appear entranced with the cloyingly sentimental song. At the lay's conclusion, Erilmelin and Nuinellë wiped tears from their eyes, and Mélamírë's sniff was poorly disguised.

Nelchir's viol took a more cheerful turn to offer a tune from an ancient springtime rite, rumored to be a form of licentious revelry among the ancients of the Great March, but now tamed to a festive folk reel.  In the countryside, the guests would have risen to dance but here in Tyelpo's home, the music set more dignified feet to tapping.  The musicians concluded their obligation with a merry tune about the Moon's errant ways and how he amorously pursued Varda's star-maidens across the sky to cover them with his love, only to be scorched by the jealous Sun.  As if on cue, moonlight silvered the porch, and stars in the West faded when Isil's brilliance outshone them.  Thelthoniel and Nelchir bowed to the guests and took their leave.

"How delightful!" Erilmelin said. "Thelthoniel sings such lively tunes. Why, 'The Moon and the Star-Maidens' was almost bawdy."

"Theirs is a common sort of music that would appeal to country folk, I suppose," Lóremin opined. Erilmelin's face fell while Tarmandil shot a dark look toward the poet, who continued undeterred. "You did them a service by hiring them, Celebrimbor."

"Perhaps," said Tyelpo. "At least they are capable of performing songs that are not laments."

"Maybe. But I found the verses of the song about Isil to be terribly vulgar."

Tyelpo seized upon the opportunity afforded by Lóremin's snobbery, and asked that which he had awaited all evening.

"Such an opinion is to be expected for a poet of your stature." Tyelpo let Lóremin chew on that briefly and then leaned forward in his great chair to address his guests. "Shall we ask for a sampling of fine verse from our esteemed poet?"  Unanimous agreement swept through the porch. "There you have it, Master Lóremin. Might you give us a poem to the moon?"

Lóremin took a sip of liquor from his chalice and placed the vessel upon the low table beside his chair. He cleared his throat and then spoke with a rich voice whose beauty neither Tyelpo nor any of the others could deny.

Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high

Travelling where he from time to time enshrouds

His head, and nothing loth his majesty

Renounces, till among the scattered clouds

One with its kindling edge declares that soon

Will reappear before the uplifted eye

A form as bright, as beautiful a moon,

To glide in open prospect through clear sky.

The men murmured their approval upon Lóremin's final verse while the ladies sighed.  Tyelpo then turned to Saeri, who sat quiet and solemn just as she had while they dined.

"Master Saeri, might you give answer to that?  Then we shall judge which is the better!"

"As you wish, my lord," she replied, her words clipped.  Tyelpo wondered if she took offense from his request to engage in a contest with her rival.  Unlike Lóremin, who had remained seated, she stood, the grey and silver silk of her gown whispering as she walked to the center of the semi-circle and turned to face them all.  She raised her hands, and light reflected from the many rings on her fingers, her only outward concession to vanity.  When she began to recite her verses, her austere mien evaporated, replaced by an enchanting voice that invoked the stuff of dreams:

Slowly, silently, now the moon

Walks the night in his silver shoon;

This way, and that, he peers, and sees

Silver fruit upon silver trees;

One by one the casements catch

His beams beneath the silvery thatch.

Her audience sat rapt at the poem's conclusion, but Erilmelin broke the silence: "Oh, I do like that!"  The other ladies added their agreement whereas the men preferred Lóremin's verse, all except Tyelpo whose role was that of the tie-breaker.

"Saeri wins this round," he declared. "What next? Please, Lady Baidhruth, what should our poets address?"

"Oh! Trees, I should think. I love poetry about trees!"

How predictable.  Tyelpo tipped the chalice to swallow more spirit of the grape.  Yet he was not disappointed in the poets' verses.  Lóremin, not to be outdone by his rival, now stood and added embellishments to his already lush diction, and won the battle of trees whereas Saeri took the next contest with her verses to the mountain winds. Round and round the poets went with each guest offering a cue.  Then it was Tarmandil's turn to make a suggestion.

"The Sea," said the councilman, his booming voice now so soft that he almost whispered.  "I should like to hear poems about the Sea."

The Sea always calls to us, Tyelpo reflected. Even in this landlocked realm at the feet of the mountains, we cannot escape it.  A troubling memory, one of sadness and regret, stirred deep within him, threatening to break the surface of his thoughts.  He stifled it before it could emerge by concentrating on the pattern the liquor made as he swirled it around in the chalice.

Lóremin took up the challenge first:

Thou glorious mirror, where in Ulmo's form

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time

Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime

Dark-heaving; boundless, endless and sublime-

The image of eternity-the throne

Of the invisible; even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made; each zone

Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

"Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful" Tarmandil declared, and the rest concurred. Saeri resumed her place before her audience again and gave answer, her voice as gentle as waves that lapped the strand on a calm day:

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.

The infinite sky is motionless overhead

And the restless water is boisterous.

On the seashore of endless worlds

The children meet with shouts and dances.

They build their houses with sand,

And they play with empty shells.

With withered leaves they weave

Their boats and smilingly float them

On the vast deep.

Children have their play on the

Seashore of worlds.

Again the approval was divided between the men and women with the latter favoring Saeri. The poets now stood even in their approval from the guests. Then it was Tyelpo's turn to suggest a subject. The suppressed memory churned again; he shoved it back, unwilling to let it disturb him on this evening that was meant for his relaxation and entertainment. A cool breeze, its chill a harbinger of the winter to come, rustled through the roses in their urns and ruffled the guests' clothing. The breeze brushed against Tyelpo's face with a sensation like a cold splash of water.  A single word bubbled up from the deep memory and broke from his tongue:

"Ctenophore."

All except Erestor and Mélamírë exchanged puzzled glances.  He repeated the awkward Valarin word, causing a few guests to wince.  "Ctenophore.  It's a jellyfish. Specifically, a comb jelly."

"Ah," said Lóremin.  "A thing of slime.  But what a name!"  The poet did not rise from his chair this time, but tossed back his luxuriant brown curls and smiled knowingly to those around him.

Consider this, the combed jellyfish!

Neither a jelly nor exactly a fish.

A curious creature, this thing of the sea.

What shall we name it? What shall it be?

A ctenophore? Why that breaks my tongue!

As do all such words, when said and done!

The guests laughed, Tyelpo along with them, but beneath his chuckle, he bristled at the dig the poet made at the terms of deep lore and by inference, those who used them.  The harsh words, concocted by the Ainur who hoarded their vast and mysterious knowledge like they hoarded light, had proved their utility again and again amongst the loremasters of the natural world.

"Very clever." Tyelpo had to give Lóremin that. "Now you, Saeri. Can you best him?"

"I will let you be the judge of that, Lord Celebrimbor."

Again, she rose to face her audience. She lifted her hands and cupped them together; she fluttered her fingers, the gems of adamant in her rings caught the blue light of the lamps to create a shimmering effect.

On Uinen's waves it drifts, this lesser star,

Cast upon blue waters unbarred.

Light free of oath, of greed or malice.

Captured in a fragile chalice

That shines above Lord Ulmo's palace.

How the others responded to the remainder of Saeri's verses, Tyelpo could not say, because the waking dream he had struggled to suppress broke free of its moorings, erupting from the deeps to crash over him and sweep him helplessly into its current:

Strong arms carried him to the bedchamber of his childhood where he sat on his father's lap and opened a worn and beloved book with its illustrations of Ulmo's palace, a fantastical place made of seashells and sand, and inhabited by whales and wonderful sea creatures. The dream's current swirled, tearing him away from childish comforts, and he felt the sting of icy rain on his face.  He gripped the wale of a lurching ship to steady himself while his eldest uncle shouted orders, and his grandfather paced back and forth across the deck.  Reassurance fell across his shoulders in the form of his father's arm, and he heard his own angry words in response to Curufin's attempt at solace.

The current caught him to spin him around again.  Now he was diving into cold waters off the coast of Nevrast to pursue a living chalice of light: a ctenophore.  He emerged from the waves to meet the stare of the gawky child of Turgon's scribes. But young Pengolodh's eyes faded to be replaced by Curufin's expression of anger and hurt when rebuked by his own son.  Tyelpo turned his back on his father to stare into the setting sun, hoping to burn his tears away.  Sunset became sunrise and out of the dawn, beyond all hope and expectation, came his cousin Culinen, who led the remnants of Carnistir's folk to the refuge of Gil-galad's rough settlement.  The dream of memory then swept him into a sunny room where Culinen's tiny daughter, barely more than a baby, climbed onto his lap so that he might read to her the book of Ulmo's palace that he had copied.

That part of dream he did not fight and would have been content to drift there, but the dream would not allow it, and like waves rushing back from the strand, it dragged him to darker waters: the docks of Alqualondë where he stabbed and slashed with the sword forged by his grandfather.  He heard nothing but cries, shouts, and screams.  Blood splattered his clothing and made slick the stones of the quay.  The stench of spilled entrails filled his nostrils.  His feet slipped on a gangway as he ran up to the deck of a swan ship.

The sea rose in anger to lash the vessels the Noldor had won and foundered them. Furious waves snatched oars from the rowers' grasps, and men's ribs broke when the released oars smashed back into their bodies.  Tyelpo's stomach clenched with nausea as he watched the sea rise and fall.  The black clouds above him became thicker, heavier, and descended upon him as the dream sucked him down into an even blacker maelstrom.

He still heard cries, shouts and screams, but many were guttural and foul.  The crackling of flames added to the cacophony of violence; the odor of burning flesh replaced the salt-scent of the sea.  He struggled to move his arms and legs, but he was bound fast.  Darkness choked him, and the iron taste of his own blood spread thick in his mouth.  Lips pressed against his forehead while a voice at the edge of recognition murmured bittersweet words that he could not comprehend, knowing only that they elicited in him grief, anger, and a resolve hard as granite.  The dream told him no more than that.  Was this a memory?  A phantom nightmare?  But the searing pain that flared red from his right side was not ambiguous.  He clenched his fists against the agony and...

...the snap of shattering glass jolted him back to awareness. Something sharp sliced into the fingers of his left hand while someone shook his shoulder.

"Tyelpo? Tyelpo! Come back!"

His vision cleared to see familiar eyes, filled with anxiety, but he could not bear to look at them. He did not know why.

"No! Not you!" He pushed Mélamírë away.  She stumbled backward, but Erilmelin caught her before she fell.  Tyelpo sought Erestor instead, who also leaned over him and took Tyelpo's hand to press a fold of his robe around it.

"Summon his manservant, would you?"  Erestor called to no one in particular "Have him bring ointment and bandages."  The pain in Mélamírë's expression hurt Tyelpo far more than the cuts of his fingers from which beads of blood oozed, but she left quickly to find Thamlad.  Erestor turned his attention back to Tyelpo.  "That was foolish.  The cuts don't look to be too deep though."  The fabric of Erestor's robes darkened with Tyelpo's blood.

His servant appeared carrying the chest kept in the household for minor injuries. Erestor applied his experience from the battles of Beleriand to Tyelpo's wounds.

"I am no healer, but I will have to suffice until you can see a real one tomorrow."

"I know your skill," Tyelpo said. "Go on then."

When Erestor released his hold on Tyelpo's hand, he saw that the broken chalice had cut all four of his fingers.  Gingerly he flexed them; blood welled up from the clean edges of the cuts, but the ability to move his fingers freely assured him that he had not severed any ligaments.  Erestor unwound a bolt of white cloth from the chest and used the absorbent fabric to staunch the bleeding.  He cleaned the wounds and then applied a solution of regal stone before winding bandages around Tyelpo's hand.  In the meantime, Mélamírë ushered the concerned guests away from the porch while Thamlad swept the shards of the chalice from the stone tiles of the porch.

"I'm certain Lord Celebrimbor will be fine," he heard her say. "It is only a minor wound, and he has good care. He has been working very hard, you see. That and perhaps too much brandy made him swoon."

Isilmélë offered to remain behind and give him comfort. "That is kind of you, but truly, he needs his rest this evening," Mélamírë said pointedly. In the midst of his confused state, Tyelpo felt a little embarrassed that his cousin evidently had noticed the flirtation between him and the artist.

The guests offered their understanding while Mélamírë thanked them for attending, particularly the poets.

"But who is the winner?" Lóremin asked.

"You and Saeri are both fine poets so I declare the contest a draw. Now good night, Master Lóremin."

 

~*~

 

His hand throbbed beneath the bandages, but other than that, Tyelpo, wrapped in his favorite dressing gown, was warm and comfortable before the hearth in his bedchamber.  Likewise attired, Erestor and Mélamírë sat nearby while the fire in the hearth sparked and crackled.  Thamlad had assisted him in readying himself for bed, grumbling all the while that " M'lord really must rest..."  but Tyelpo insisted that his friend and his cousin join him for a hot posset before they retired, in part to make up for his shameful rejection of Mélamírë.

Erestor slouched in his chair and stretched out his legs.  "Quite an evening, Tyelpo, but you probably should have canceled your party," he said as he wriggled his bare toes, so long that he often joked he could pick up a pen and write with his foot.

"Should have maybe.  Didn't want to.  I don't regret it. It was worth seeing Lóremin and Saeri duel.  Lóremin provided more entertainment than I would have guessed."

Mélamírë flushed.  "Should I have said something to you about him?"

"Not necessarily.  I don't see him as a serious contender for your affections.  More likely he is angling for patronage."

"Exactly," Mélamírë agreed.  "I doubt that he could have been any more obvious. His poetry is lovely though, and his hair... I have to admit I should like to touch it."  She sipped her drink, set the cup on the flat arm of the chair and stared at the fire.  "Why is it that the most handsome and intelligent men prefer those of their own sex?"

"The most handsome and intelligent men?  I don't know that I would classify Master Lóremin among such," Erestor said.

Mélamírë drew her gaze away from the fire and looked directly at Erestor.  "I was not speaking of Lóremin."

Tyelpo laughed as he caught the surprise in the usually imperturbable Erestor's face.  The emissary rebounded and offered a wicked smile to the young woman who returned the same.

"You, Master Naryen, are a young minx."

"A minx?   No one has ever called me that before.  I'm honored, Master Erestor."  She raised the cup to take a long drink of the steaming posset, licking her lips when she finished.  "You must consider Master Lóremin to be at least somewhat appealing, given the play of feet between the two of you during dinner."

Tyelpo smiled again at the pink color that crept into Erestor's cheeks.  "I am caught! Well, just call it a mere dalliance.  I would not seriously consider..."

"It doesn't matter to me whether you were serious or not.  But I did find it funny that when the two of you were exchanging barbs, you were flirting all the while.  Men are such odd creatures."

"Then those of your fair sex are equally as odd.  I have seen women do the same with men.  I'd say it's all part of the same dance.  Besides, I was too engrossed in the meal to succumb to Lóremin's charms."

"It was excellent, wasn't it?" Tyelpo said.  "Haldanar has emerged from the ranks as a very talented young man."

"Agreed.  That meal was superb.  You ought to send him Gil-galad's way.  I expect the young man could work wonders with the black lobsters.  All Master Eryndol does is steam them."

"Black lobsters?"  Mélamírë inquired.

"Yes, a variant of the creatures that dwell along the western coast.  Gil-galad hosts a feast every six years in honor of his father.  Fingon eschewed the flesh of beasts, fowl and fish, but he made a single exception for steamed black lobster served with boiled tubers and carrots.  None too exciting, but Fingon loved this.  You really ought to visit Lindon and come to the Feast of the Black Lobster.  Steamed lobster may be boring, but the feast itself is always entertaining."

"Thank you for the invitation, but I do not think I would be welcome."

"Don't be silly!  Of course, you would be, and not just as a guest either.  I deem that a master smith of your calibre would be welcome in the king's court."

"Is my father welcome, too?"

"Ah, well, that is another matter."

"Just so.  If he is still not welcome in Gil-galad's realm, then neither am I."

"But you are not he."

"I am not welcome."

"And I say you are.  I can speak for the King's herald, who wields great influence in the court.  Master Elrond wishes to meet you, and I'm given to understand that he and your mother are long-time friends and colleagues, that they often correspond to discuss their studies.  Or at least they did so in the past.  He misses her.  So you and your mother are welcome."

"We are a family.  If the Istyar is not welcome, then why would my mother and I visit Lindon?"

"Why indeed.  Well, I regret to say I am not at liberty to extend the same to invitation to Istyar Aulendil.  Speaking of your father, I had hoped to see him during my visit.  You say he is away?"

"Yes, he is in Lond Daer until the spring.  Then he will meet Mother in Tharbad, and they will return to the city next summer."

"Lond Daer?"

"Aulendil has a keen interest in the Númenóreans," Tyelpo said. "This has served us well with favorable trade agreements."

"Judging by the amenities here in the city, I'd say he has served you well in other respects, too.  I haven't shat in a privy with running water since I left Aman."

Tyelpo choked on a mouthful of warm, spiced milk and sputtered:  "Aulendil and I have achieved more than privies that flush, let me assure you."

"That is obvious.  But civilization can be judged by its plumbing and sanitation. Seriously, Tyelpo, the city is marvelous.  You have achieved so much.  You say that Aulendil has had a hand in much of this?"

"Yes, as an advisor and craftsman both.  Between him and Narvi's kin, our arts have been invigorated."

"Pity the Istyar isn't here.  I should have liked to have spoken with him and not just about privies and sewage fields."

It took a good deal of control for Tyelpo to keep from furrowing his brows with displeasure at Erestor's remark.  Unspoken for days since Erestor's arrival had been the real reason for his visit to Ost-in-Edhil, ostensibly as a courtesy to the council of the city and a friendly reunion with Tyelpo, but now the truth was given voice.  Tyelpo was not inclined to laugh at it either.  He shifted in his chair, chafed by Gil-galad's prying of the Míretanor's activities, or more likely, by the prying of his peredhel counselor.  Elrond's friendship with Culinen notwithstanding, his continued probing irritated Tyelpo.  He often wondered just how much affection Elrond had harbored for Culinen, and that perhaps some of the aspersions that Elrond cast upon Aulendil were due to jealousy.

"You see, Gil-galad has discerned a threat astir in Endórë," Erestor continued carefully.  "The Númenóreans believe it arises from one of the barbarous empires in the East, perhaps even from the Lands of the Dawn, but Gil-galad perceives that it derives from another source, a shifting one that is just beyond the reach of his knowledge, sometimes distant, sometime close at hand.  But he cannot pin down any specifics, and he admits as much.  Your Istyar Aulendil is a scholar, educated in the deep arts and an emissary of Aulë if his claims are true..."

"I have no reason to doubt him."

"Yes, I understand.  It would be useful to hear his perspective on this sense of evil that Gil-galad perceives.  That is all.  Forgive me, Tyelpo, Mélamírë.  I didn't mean to trouble you. I should leave..."

"No, stay.  I am not troubled.  Are you, my dear?"  Mélamírë raised her eyes from their focus on the cup in her hands and shook her head abruptly.  Tyelpo immediately saw that he had spoken falsely for her.  He decided to deflect the entire subject.  That Erestor, on Gil-galad's behalf, sought Aulendil's counsel struck him as blatant hypocrisy, given that the king had sent his colleague packing.  To my advantage though, Tyelpo admitted to himself.

"Thanks to my mishap, I missed the outcome of our poets' battle.  Who was declared the winner?"

"Neither, coz.  I told them it was a draw.  Truly, they both were excellent."

"But whom would you have selected?"

"Saeri," Mélamírë answered firmly.  "Her verses were the more lyrical and appealed to me although I cannot speak for others.  Her poems have an almost whimsical quality yet they are coupled with gravity.  Like that little poem about the ctenophore:  'Light free of oath, of greed or malice, captured in a fragile chalice that shines above Lord Ulmo's palace.'  She was bold enough to reference the light of the Jewels yet weave it into the fantasy of Ulmo's palace.  Remember Ulmo's palace, coz?"

"How could I forget?"

"What is so special about Ulmo's palace?" Erestor asked.  "It's just a child's faerie tale, isn't it?"

"Yes, just a faerie tale, but one that Tyelpo and I cherish."

"It was an old book of Nelyafinwë's," Tyelpo added.  "He passed it on to me.  My father often read the story to me, and I replicated the book for Mélamírë."

"Replicated?  So you drew pictures?  I didn't realize you had that skill."

"I wouldn't say I am skillful, but for a time, I dabbled in drawing and painting."

"Don't listen to him," protested Mélamírë.  "His drawings are wonderful.  It wasn't only the book about Ulmo's palace that he illustrated.  He also made a family picture book for me with portraits of those whom I have never met.  These books are among my most treasured possessions."

"A book of family portraits of the House of Fëanor?  I'd like to see that."

"Then you must come to my home so that you can.  Perhaps you and Tyelpo can join me for dinner?  I'm trying my hand at cooking these days.  It won't approach Master Haldanar's artistry, but I can prepare a few things that won't kill you."

"I would love to.  Just tell me when."

"Six nights hence, if that is acceptable to both of you."

"I will be there," Erestor answered.  "But for now, I must excuse myself."  He yawned widely.  "The sun will be peeping up over the mountains soon enough, and I'd like to rest."

Mélamírë also yawned.  Tyelpo rose to see them to the door.  Erestor made his way straight to his appointed quarters, but his cousin hesitated at the threshold.  Tyelpo recognized that look on her face, one that he knew from the time that she was a little child.  Beneath her pride lurked uncertainty and yearning for approval, the result of loving but demanding parents, and if he were honest with himself, his own high expectations of his young kinswoman.  Tyelpo knew he had not helped matters by rejecting her attempt to help him.  He saw the hurt still lingering in her eyes.  He placed his uninjured hand on her arm to keep her with him.

"I am sorry about earlier.  For pushing you away when you were trying to help. I don't know what came over me.  Forgive me?"

"Of course.  Will you tell me what happened?  What you saw?"

"Later perhaps.  Now good night."  He pulled her into his arms and embraced her.  "I love you, little bird."

"I love you, too."

She closed the door behind her.  Tyelpo stood for a moment, but before he could turn to go to his bed, its covers drawn back in welcome for him, a sharp pain seared his right side in the same place he had felt the burn in the dream.  He gasped and leaned against the doorframe.  He reached under his robe to rub the area and tried to will the pain away.  It dissipated but did not disappear altogether.

Probably pulled some tissue around my ribs when I was in the forges today.  That must be it.  I truly need to sleep.  He eased his dressing gown off his bare shoulders and draped it over a chair.  He lay down on the soft linens of the bed and pulled the coverlet up to his neck against the autumn chill that crept into the room.

But as tired as he was, sleep did not come.  His hand throbbed, and the pain in his side, although dull, still nagged at him.  He sought the paths to slumber as he had been trained from his youth, but to no avail.  The images of that waking dream persisted: the memory of blood and terror on the docks of Alqualondë, the unfamiliar choking darkness, the sensation of being bound, and that elusive voice, which slithered away at Tyelpo's attempts to identify the source.  He tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable position.

The latch of the door clicked.  Bare feet padded across the room toward the bed.  Tyelpo turned over on his back and watched the dark figure approach.  The fabric of a dressing gown rustled as it came off.  Warm weight shifted the bed, and smooth bare skin pressed against him when wiry, muscular arms pulled him into their embrace.

"Erestor, I can't.  Not now. I'm too. . ."

"I'm not here for that, not just yet.  I don't know what happened to you earlier, but your unease is obvious.  I didn't think you should be alone.  That's all."

"I am fine."

A kiss on his lips silenced him. "Go to sleep, Tyelpo.  Just rest.  Sleep late and then we'll see."

Erestor fitted his body against the curve of Tyelpo's back and draped his arm over his aching side.  All pain fled, and sleep at last came to bear him away on its gentle waves.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Excerpts from poems (some edited slightly to make them at least vaguely Middle-earth compatible) in order of appearance:

The Lily, William Blake

Silver, Walter de la Mare

Who But Is Pleased To Watch The Moon On High, William Wordsworth

Excerpt from Lord Byron's Deep Blue Sea

On the Seashore, R. Tagore.

Ctenophore poems by Lóremin and Saeri.

Regal stone = lapis imperialis = silver nitrate, which may be applied as an antiseptic. (Thanks to Surgical Steel for medical consultation).

Snippets of conversation have been snitched from Lord Byron, Oscar Wilde, Jane Austen, Denis Diderot and Mark Twain.