Driftwood by pandemonium_213

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Driftwood

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In an isolated and undateable note it is said that although the name Sauron is used earlier than this in the Tale of Years, his name, implying identity with the great lieutenant of Morgoth in The Silmarillion, was not actually known until about the year 1600 of the Second Age, the time of the forging of the One Ring. The mysterious power of hostility, to Elves and Edain, was perceived soon after the year 500, and among the Númenóreans first by Aldarion towards the end of the eighth century (about the time when he established the haven of Vinyalondë, p.185). But it had no known centre. Sauron endeavoured to keep distinct his two sides: enemy and tempter. When he came among the Noldor he adopted a specious fair form (a kind of simulated anticipation of the later Istari and a fair name: Artano "high-smith," or Aulendil, meaning one who is devoted to the service of the Vala Aulë. (In Of the Rings of Power, p. 287, the name that Sauron gave to himself at this time was Annatar, the Lord of Gifts; but that name is not mentioned here.)

~~ From Footnote 7, Chapter IV, "The History of Galadriel and Celeborn," Unfinished Tales, JRR Tolkien.

 

Flying in winter was never pleasant.  The raven had left the snow-covered hills behind her, but the air slicing over her wings was still frigid and thin.   She flapped from tree to tree, landing on the bare branches of oaks and beeches in the uplands, and now settling in stunted pines that twisted in the sandy soil near the coast. The wind from the sea ruffled her feathers as she hunched down over her feet to warm them. She smelled the salt in the air, and beyond the dunes, she heard the roar of waves.  The wind bore the tantalizing stench of dead fish, tempting her to fly away and find the carcasses, but she did as she had been instructed:  she watched the rider. 

She had been following the man on the black horse for three days. She knew of men, of those who spoke clearly to her tribe and possessed enduring strength of life that fended off the decay of the world.  She also knew of those whose words were garbled and whose lives blossomed and withered with the earth's rhythms.  Regardless, few of either kind ever traveled here, so the man's presence was worthy of attention.  She had been chosen as the watcher.  It was not an important task, not like scouting for those men with weapons when they went on a hunt, which ensured that the ravens might feast on the leavings of their kills, but then she was young and less experienced. So a task like following a lone rider fell to her.

Some of the things he did were unremarkable. Just like any man, he rode his horse from dawn to dusk, stopping to let it rest and graze, and he kindled small fires against the night.   But his voice. Now that was remarkable and identified him as the kind who spoke clearly.  The raven enjoyed listening to him as he talked to his horse; the big animal also liked its master's voice, nickering in response as if it understood him. Sometimes he sang, too, a mesmerizing sound that blended with the song of wind through the branches of the sleeping trees and the brown grasses.  Most of all, the man’s bright eyes attracted the raven, who like all her folk, found shiny things irresistible.

Maybe he will fall off the horse and die, she hoped.  Then she might pluck out one of those silvery eyes and treasure it, even if she knew that men's eyes did not last long after their deaths.  Her sister had made such a discovery after prizing a pretty, blue eye from a dead man and carrying it back to the nest where it rotted.  The raven had learned from this.  She would admire her prize for a day, maybe two, and then eat the jelly within the man's bright eye before it spoiled.

However, the man proved to be a strong rider and showed no inclination for dying. When the path his horse trod upon became soft with sand, he dismounted.   The horse stood still while he lifted the saddle, blanket, and bags from its back.  He next removed the leather straps from the animal's head so that the beast was free of all human trappings. The man pressed his cheek against the horse's neck and stroked the animal's glossy hide.  He murmured something the raven could not hear. Then he stepped away from the horse.  The beast bowed its black head to the man and whirled around to canter back along the path whence they came.

The man remained silent for a while, watching the horse until it disappeared behind a rise in the East.  Then he began to gather driftwood scattered among the dunes.  He piled the wood in a protected hollow.  

He must be building a fire.  She had seen men make fires before. Nothing unusual about that. The raven curled around to pick a troublesome mite from beneath her wing, crunching the insect in her bill, and then swallowing the tiny morsel before she looked up again to see the man placing the saddle and tack onto the now large pile of wood.  That is a strange thing, but all humans are odd creatures, she reminded herself.   Then he did something stranger.  The man began to take off his coverings.

First the thing over his shoulders. The raven thought for a moment. Cloak...cloak...cloak, she repeated, priding herself in her knowledge of man-words taught to her tribe by the humans who spoke clearly. He threw that onto the pile.   Then he sat down on the sand and yanked off the things on his feet. Boots. Stockings.  She fluffed her feathers with satisfaction at her own cleverness.  He rose to his bare feet and loosened the shiny fastenings that held a garment covering his arms and torso, pulling over his head then tossing it on the pile.  Only the garment covered the lower part of his body remained on him.

Once he leaves, and the fire dies, she thought, those shiny bits will be mine.

Then a very strange thing happened, something even stranger than she had seen any other human do.  He squatted down by the pile and placed his hands against the wood, closed his eyes and sang, but not like any bird she had ever heard, and not like any human either.

The wind in the grasses ceased its whispers, and the crash of the waves hushed, as if all were listening to the man's song.  The entire world stood still, holding its breath.  The only sound the raven heard was the song, weaving itself through the sand, grass and firs, drifting up to the clouds and seeping into her bones.  A wisp of smoke rose from the pile.  Small flames flickered and then swiftly grew into a blaze that beat with fiery wings at wood, garments and leather.  The man backed away when the fire roared in response to the sudden gust of wind; beyond the dunes, waves hammered ferociously upon the shore.  The flames rose higher, and the wood crackled and snapped. The raven knew that this was no ordinary fire.  Unlike the orange and yellow flame that she had seen in humans' camps, this fire burned white.

The bird shifted nervously back and forth on her perch, eyeing the white flames.  That was her last mistake.  The man froze and slowly raised his eyes toward the raven.   

Something warned her she ought to fly away, but she did not.  She could not.   The stars in his eyes snared her as surely as a hunter's net. The man moved his arm, and she followed the movement.  He reached into a hidden place of his lower garment, a place where humans often carried things, and he pulled out his hand, clenched in a fist.  He slowly opened his fingers to reveal a white stone flecked with gold.

Lust rose in the raven's gorge.   The pebble caught the soft light of the overcast sky and flung it back at her.  She forgot what her tribe's elders had told her: watch but do not approach.  I must have that stone. I must! I must!  Launching herself from the pine, she flapped toward the man, her keen eyes fixed on the pebble.  She landed on the sand nearby, but now she felt fear.  Fly! Fly away! I must warn the tribe! The gold bits in the stone sparkled. No, I want it.  I must have it. 

Yes, a soothing voice crooned within her.  Yes, you may have it.  Come to me, dearfeather, come.

She hopped closer.   Stray strands of his hair, black as her tribe's wings, flew about in the sea wind, writhing around his face like snakes that stole eggs from nests.   She tensed, poised for flight, readying herself to flee and tell her tribe of this very strange human, but now the pebble in his hand almost glowed. He bent his knees to squat, his hand outstretched.  

Come. Come to me, dearfeather, he beckoned, sweet and seductive as any of the young males of her tribe who tried to woo her.

The white stone was within reach now.  All she need do was flick her beak forward, and she would have her prize.  She hopped closer yet to the man with the shiny eyes, the man who held the most beautiful pebble she had ever seen. 

When darkness swooped down with cruel talons and twisted her life away, all she uttered was a strangled croak. Thus, the raven did not see the man stand tall and put the stone back in his pocket.   She did not see him throw her body, with head dangling from a broken neck, into the white flames.  She did not see him wait until the fire died down to embers before he scuffed sand over the smoldering ashes of wood, feathers and death.   She did not hear him sing the song that made the sand move to look as if nothing had disturbed it. Nor did she watch him wend his way among the sleepy beach roses and tufts of saw grass to the strand, his footprints disappearing behind him, as he walked straight into the cold sea.

~*~

He does not look like much.

Elrond silently assessed the figure huddled by the hearth in the fisherman's cottage. Dark hair hung in brine-encrusted ropes, obscuring the stranger's face; long fingers, white as alabaster, clutched at the edges of a rough wool blanket while he reached for the bowl of steaming broth that the snaggletoothed mortal offered to him.   His hands trembled, nearly spilling the hot liquid.  He raised the bowl to his lips and drank down the broth in almost one gulp without flinching at its heat. He lowered the bowl and raised his face to the crone.

“Thank you, my lady."

In contrast to his shaking body, the stranger’s voice remained steady and smooth, and if the man had intended to charm his hostess, he succeeded. The gaps in the old woman's smile were like caves in the sea cliffs. She bowed to both the stranger and Elrond before she shuffled back to the hearth.

“How are you feeling?”  Elrond asked, a simple query that belied his intense curiosity.

Beneath strong dark brows, grey eyes caught the light from the hearth's fire to reveal the glint of stars, confirming the race of the man as Firstborn.   The stranger's skin was deathly white, which gave his aristocratic nose and the angled planes of his face the appearance of a marble sculpture.  The effect was broken when he offered Elrond a weak smile. “Better.  Much better.”

“You are fortunate the fishermen found you.  Much longer and…”

“I know.  I would be fluttering like a lost bat in the foyer of Mandos about now."

Elrond smiled at the grim humor, which he took as a good sign that the man was on the way to recovery.   “How did you come to be foundered in the winter sea?” 

Elrond had considered the possibilities long before he had stepped foot into this forlorn hut:  perhaps he was a lone fisherman whose boat succumbed to Ossë's anger or perhaps one who had lost all hope of life and had chosen to walk into the swift death of the sea rather than slowly fading away.

Behind him, Elrond heard the scuffing footsteps of the crone.   "Beggin' your pardon, m'lords..." 

The stranger reached for the bowl once more, this time filled with thick, white chowder.  He took a wooden spoon from the old woman, and raised his eyes to Elrond, silently seeking permission to eat.  Elrond nodded his assent and had to wait for his answer.    

While the stranger concentrated on the hot chowder, Elrond examined the dim room, one of two, in this stone cottage.   Baskets and nets hung from the beams above.  An old tin tub sat off to the side of the hearth.   Coils of rope were piled in a corner, and a rough plank table sat under the shuttered window.   The savory scent of the chowder mingled with the reek of dried fish, mortal age and decay.  The cottage had a sad air about it, as if it missed the fisherman who had once lived here but had left his old wife behind when the sea at last claimed him.  Yet when Elrond saw the embroidered linen laid across the table, the blue glass vase on the mantelpiece and a broom in the corner, he knew that even if impoverished, the widow tried to keep a tidy home.  Her grandson, a boy of about eight years and skinny as a mullet fry, sat on a bench at the table, his sea-green eyes wide as he watched Elrond and the stranger.

It was this boy who had ridden a nag from Mousehole, a little village of mortal fishermen hard against Lindon's northern boundary.  The boy had come to the border post, seeking help. As it happened, Elrond was visiting the nearby town of Ringfalas when a guard sent word that the lad had an urgent message: an elf-man, nearly dead, had been pulled from the sea.

Elrond had mounted trusty Gaernil and rode to the border post. The boy quaked when he stood before Elrond and the guards.  He twisted his woolen cap in grimy hands; his eyes darted from Elrond and back to the guards again.

"Please, m'lords.  There's a man me uncle and cousins hauled in from the sea.  They took 'im to me gran's house, but he's near dead.  Gran says he is one of your own so maybe m'lord..."

"I will come."

Elrond, along with the two guards and the boy, named Kernick, rode the ten miles along the coastal path to Mousehole and confirmed that the half-drowned man was indeed Firstborn.   Not that this surprised Elrond.  The cold waters would have sucked the life from a mortal in a matter of minutes.   The chill of the northern sea would kill elven kind, too.  It would just take longer to do so.  Not for the first time did Elrond consider that the fragility of mortals and its consequence of swifter death might be a blessing of sorts.  By the time Elrond and the guards arrived, the man had regained consciousness and now sat on a stool beside the hearth of Kernick's grandmother.

The stranger devoured the entire bowl of chowder before he raised his face to look at Elrond again.   Color had returned to his lips and cheeks.  The stars in his eyes shone brighter.

"My apologies.  I was starving."  He turned to the old woman, and without missing a beat, changed his speech from Sindarin to the Mannish dialect the fisher folk spoke. "That is excellent chowder, my lady.  Thank you."  He handed the bowl and spoon to her.  Then back to the Grey-elven tongue – flawless and without any accent that might place him:  "As for your question, my lord..."

"Elrond.  My name is Elrond."

"Elrond?  The Elrond?"  The man lowered his eyes with deference.   "I am honored." 

"You have heard my name?"

"Who in the Blessed Lands has not heard of Eärendil the Bright and Elwing the Fair...and the sons they left behind?"

Despite his effort to suppress them, boyhood memories welled up from his mind's depths where he kept them buried: the profound loneliness when his father voyaged far and wide; and when his mother, during the day of blood and wrath, had left him and his brother, throwing herself over the cliff with that terrible light clutched to her chest.  He shook the horrifying image out of his head.  However well intentioned and desperate his parents might have been, no matter that he knew how much they had loved him and his brother, the loss still stung.   He wrested his attention back to the stranger.

"I see.  You were about to answer my question, I believe."

The man responded quickly. "Our ship hit an iceberg in the northern waters.  It went down like a rock.  Three of us survived.  We rowed one of the ship's boats, hoping to reach the shores, but a storm capsized our little craft and swept my companions away.  I can only assume they drowned.  So I swam and kept swimming.  I have no awareness past that.”

“A ship? Whose ship and from where?”  Elrond’s mind raced, making note of questions he would put to Círdan regarding the disposition of vessels and crews.   

“A ship out of Alqualondë.   The Swan's Feather, captained by Beldacáno.  May his feä be at peace.”

“Alqualondë! We have not seen any ships from the Blessed Lands since the War of Wrath.  What is your name?”

“Annatar.”

With a will of their own, Elrond's eyebrows lifted at the irony.   What a lofty name for this bedraggled piece of driftwood washed up by the cruel winter sea!   

Annatar grinned.  "I know it sounds pretentious. It is something of a joke actually.  When I was a boy, I was constantly making little gifts for my parents. Some were quite absurd, but my mother treasured them all, no matter how silly they were. Hence the epessë."

"A heart-warming story," Elrond remarked. "It still does not tell me who you are."

Despite Annatar's affable mien, Elrond knew he must maintain his focus: he had come to gather facts and ascertain just who this man was before bringing him into the heart of Lindon.  Not just anyone was allowed past the boundaries. 

His liege had been increasingly ill at ease of late, thanks in part to rumors and tales brought back to his kingdom by Númenórean mariners.  They spoke of a new empire rising in the East and of alliances forged amongst the barbarous peoples there.  

"Merely a warlord who fancies himself an emperor, no doubt," maintained the court counselors, "ruling a kingdom of upstart mortal barbarians so far to the East that we need not concern ourselves."

Such dismissals did nothing to allay Gil-galad's worries.  He confided to Elrond that this threat felt much nearer than the faint rattle of sabers in a far kingdom of the Followers.  Yet the king admitted that he was unable to identify precisely what troubled him.

"I tell this to you in confidence, Elrond," the king had said.  "If I openly fret over an elusive threat, I will be deemed just a little mad, and maybe that would be right.  I think most of us who are descended from Finwë are a bit crazy although you seem sane enough.  I must take a sensible approach.  Of all my counselors, Erestor speaks with the most wisdom and has provided me with what I deem to be sound advice. I mean to follow it."

Gil-galad's tactic was to send scouts to the East, scouts who had not returned, and he tightened his borders with increased vigilance.  More men were recruited as march wardens, and new outposts were built.  Neither Man nor Elf could step into Lindon without being found and subjected to questions from Gil-galad's march wardens or others entrusted by the king. Thus Elrond was obligated to question this shipwreck survivor, however unthreatening he might seem.

"Would you tell me more about yourself?  Who are your parents?"   Elrond knew it was unlikely that he would recognize any names that Annatar might give, but there were those at court who might be able to verify such information.

Annatar hesitated before answering, switching from the Grey Tongue to Quenya, the words rolling from his mouth, fluid as quicksilver.  “My father is Nóletamin of Aulë’s house.  My mother is Arinírë.”

Elrond responded in kind: “Your parents did not follow Fëanáro or Nolofinwë?”

“Obviously not.”  Annatar's words took on a sharp edge, but he softened his sarcasm. “My father admired Fëanáro, but his loyalty lay with his friend Mahtan and ultimately with Lord Aulë.  So Nóletamin remained in Tirion.  My mother was born there after the Rebellion.”

"Your speech would mark you as one born in the Blessed Lands," Elrond said, "and yet you speak the Sindarin tongue remarkably well for one who has not lived here."

"Thank you. My teachers are counted among the Lambengolmor who lived in the Outer Lands for many years.  They knew well the speech of the Grey Folk and the languages and dialects of the Followers.  My teachers always said I was a quick study."

"I would be inclined to agree with them. What is your purpose here?"

This time, Annatar answered with no hesitation.  “To bring aid to you.  Your struggles to heal the Marring inflicted by Morgoth Bauglir are known to us in the West.  I have been sent as an emissary to assist in the healing of Middle-earth.   Aulë and Ulmo themselves arranged for my passage on one of the swan ships of the Teleri.  Our ship was on the way to the havens to deliver me for this mission and to seek an audience with Gil-galad."

“You mean to heal Arda's marring?  That is a tall order. How then would you aid us?” 

"Ah.  Now that requires a much longer answer, and one that I would rather address in dry garb."

"Understandably so," replied Elrond.  He turned to the woman, who stood by the hearth, stirring her kettle of chowder. "Goodwife, might you or someone in the village spare clothes for the master?"

"Aye.   I still have some of my Kenan's shirts and trousers, may his bones rest easy in the arms of the sea.  'Tis only rough homespun.  Not like the fine cloth of your folk."

"My lady, as long as it is warm and dry, I do not care," replied Annatar.

"I will send Kernick here for a cloak and boots.  Old Melwyn might have summat to spare.  Her Gorran had feet like boats," she said, glancing at Annatar's bare feet.  He smiled wryly and curled his long toes.  The boy leapt from his seat and was out the door.

The crone limped into the adjoining room, and soon the rustles of her fumbling could be heard.  She emerged with a pile of clothing in her arms.  Annatar took these from her; he slid the blanket from his shoulders and rose to his feet.

He was much taller than he had appeared hunched on the stool.  Not as tall as Maedhros, Elrond caught himself thinking, but with a height that seemed characteristic of those born in the Blessed Lands where life was abundant.   While Annatar carefully folded the blanket, Elrond watched the play of muscles beneath pale skin.  His build fits his story. He has the strength of a smith.  

The old woman clapped her hands over her eyes while Annatar stripped off his  salt-encrusted breeches.  Her fingers, however, did not form a tight seal; Elrond caught the glint of a curious eye peeking through the cracks.  He grinned.  If she had expected to see a bizarre appendage between the elf-man’s legs, then she must be disappointed, for Annatar was endowed just as any man, neither more nor less. Also, just as any man, he pulled on the trousers one leg at a time, balancing on one foot and then the other to do so.  The hems flapped well above his ankles, and the garment was so loose around his hips that it threatened to slide off.

"Your Kenan must have been broader around the middle than I am," he said gently to the old woman. "Might I trouble you for a length of rope?  And twine if you have it?"

The woman pulled a small knife from the sash of her apron and went over to one of the coils of rope.  With a few swift, sawing motions, she cut a length of rope, and then a piece of twine from a fuzzy roll; she gave them to Annatar.

"These folk are remarkably eager to assist," Annatar said as he wrapped and knotted the rope around his waist.   He then tied back his hair with the twine.

"For all their hardships, the people of Mousehole are generous.  They also believe aiding the Fair Folk, as they call us, may ward off evil and bring them good fortune."

"Does it?"   Annatar sat down on the stool again and pulled on thick woolen socks; both his big toes poked through holes in the ends.

"Sometimes."

"But sometimes not?"

"We take care in our relationships with the Followers.  It is not wise for our kind to mix too often."

Annatar arched his left brow. "Interesting to hear you say that.  All things considered."

Elrond readied a retort, but his words were cut short before they even flipped off his tongue, for the boy returned, his errand successful: he carried a folded woolen cloak and a battered pair of boots.  Annatar received them graciously.  He thrust his feet into the boots. Standing again, he fastened the threadbare cloak over his shoulders.   Despite the comical garb, Annatar carried himself like a prince, but effortlessly and without a trace of self-consciousness. Elrond was struck by the combination of Annatar's regal bearing with his willingness to embrace the commonplace.   He was reminded of Maglor and Maedhros who had displayed similar traits.

"Not exactly elegant, but it will do," Annatar said.  Then he leaned over and picked up his discarded breeches.  Before he draped them over his arm, he reached into a pocket and pulled something out, but kept his fist clasped tight around whatever it was.

"My lady...you must have a name."

"Ursell, m'lord."

"Ursell."  Her plain name sounded like music when Annatar pronounced it. "I have no coin with which to pay you for your kindness.  I can only offer you this."   

He opened his fist to reveal a white stone flecked with gold.   Ursell's old eyes gleamed. 

"So beautiful," she croaked, transfixed by the pebble. "Does it…does it have elf-magic, m'lord?"

Annatar closed his hand around the stone and opened it once more.  The pebble shone faintly with its own light. "It has my blessings. May your village's nets be full for six years."

She gingerly reached forward with a trembling hand as if reluctant to take the offered gift, but then swift as a striking snake, she snatched the stone from Annatar's outstretched hand. "Thank 'ee, m'lord."  She turned her prize over and over with her gnarled fingers.

Annatar passed close to Elrond when they left Ursell and her stone to step out of the confines of the cottage into a grey and chilly noontide.   He caught a whiff of Annatar's scent: a mix of seawater and unwashed male, but something else.   Charcoal clouds billowed over the sea, and spits of frigid rain dampened the flagstones of the cottage's threshold.   The clouds reminded Elrond of storms, and so did Annatar's subtle odor – that of rarified air after a lightning strike. He had smelled that on another before.  

Annatar took a deep breath. "As much as I appreciate Mistress Ursell's care, her cottage is a bit close."

"That it is.  I can offer you better accommodations at the border outpost, although I expect these are not quite to the standards of Tirion."

"I am not that picky."

"It's ten miles down the coast, but we did not bring an extra horse." Elrond had half-expected to find a dead man, not a live rider.  "Perhaps that nag the boy rode would serve as a mount."

"It's no matter. I can walk."

"Then I will walk with you, and we can talk about the nature of the aid you might bring to us."

"I'm amenable to that.  It feels good to be on my feet walking on solid ground again, to tell you the truth."

Elrond gave Gaernil's reins to one of the guards and told them to go along, and that he and Annatar would follow.   Elrond waited until the horses and riders were well ahead before they started walking up to the trail that meandered through the coastal heath.    For a good while, the only conversation was that of the wind through the grasses with the waves crashing on the shore, punctuated by the cries of gulls wheeling over a spit of rocks in the distance.  Annatar spoke first to break the silence between them.

"You asked how might I aid you.  For my part, what I can offer concerns matters of nolwë and curwë.  You understand what I mean by these?"

"Of course I understand!  Why wouldn't I know exactly what you meant by that?"

"Yes, of course.  Please forgive my presumption."  Elrond nodded and Annatar continued:  "Like my father and mother, I am of the Aulenossë, one of the Great Smith’s pupils and, setting aside false modesty, one of his best.  I have come to teach you what I have learned from Aulë.  To share my knowledge with you."

Elrond no longer could stifle his bitterness. "Yes, because we are so lacking in knowledge ourselves." He had seen how those of the West had looked down upon the survivors of Beleriand, both elven and mortal. True, they took pity on us, but they barely contained their sense of superiority and did little to disguise their sniffs of contempt.

"Forgive me again," Annatar said swiftly. "I do not intend to denigrate what you have achieved.  I am well aware that skilled artisans and loremasters remain in the Outer Lands.  But you must admit that much has been lost and much can be improved."

"That I will concede.  But what specifically can you do for us?"

"When was the last time you took a hot bath?"

Elrond shot Annatar sharp look.  I know my hair is dirty, but do I stink?  "Six days ago.  I daresay I could use another."

Annatar laughed, a pleasing sound that eased Elrond's tension. "Not as much as I need one!  How did you obtain your hot water for your most recent bath?"

"It was heated over the hearths and poured into the tub."

"How would you like to soak in a pool of hot water in a bathhouse any time you pleased?  Where the water is always warm?  Or turn a spigot and have hot water fill your tub?"

"Those of us who reside in Gil-galad's palace enjoy hot water from plumbing, but yes, it is a luxury for most. Nargothrond and Menegroth once had heated baths for the use of all.  Even the fortresses of Himring and Minas Tirith had such. But they are lost.  So are the smiths who built them."

Annatar coughed and then cleared his throat.  "Pardon me. Still a bit of saltwater in there. Please, do continue."

"We know this is what you have in the Blessed Lands," said Elrond. "Be assured we are working on these arts.” 

"Why then have you not yet reconstructed these plumbing systems for the benefit of all?"  

"Our smiths are not rushed."

"Not rushed?  Or perhaps not knowledgeable in the arts to craft such things with efficiency?  I can make these things happen faster.  Much faster."

"Our people are patient, and cold water serves its purpose."

"Don't talk to me about cold water!" Annatar snapped and then waved his hand dismissively.  "Yes, we have all the time in the world, but that's no excuse for more efficient use of innovations to live better."

"There is one smith, Master Harminco, who has been chafing to improve the plumbing throughout all of Lindon.  I expect he would be interested to hear what you have to say on the matter."

The path dipped down into a dell, shielding them from the wind and muting the sound of the waves.  A stand of scrubby ash trees grew near the top of the rise ahead.  A flock of crows burst from the trees.  The birds screamed incoherently as they flew to the East.  Annatar's gaze followed them.

"Tell me, Elrond, what else might you like to have from the Blessed Realm?"

"Other than the company of my mother and father?"

"I'm sorry.  I seem to have touched a sore point there."

"It is a sore point, but how could you know?  It's my turn to beg forgiveness for my hasty words.  But speaking of my parents, I must ask you something, if you do not mind." Elrond swallowed hard, uncertain of whether he wanted to hear the answer.  

"Go on..."

"Have you met them?  Eärendil and Elwing?"

"No, I regret to say I have not had that privilege.  Elwing keeps to her tower, and Eärendil bides there when he is not sailing. I have seen Vingilot come into port though. A most impressive vessel."

"I have seen Vingilot only from a far distance so you have seen more than I have.  But let me give you an answer to your question, a more practical one, I hope.  There are many things from the Blessed Land that I might like. For one thing, better tools for my studies."

"What manner of studies?"

"The study of inheritance.  That is to say, how traits are passed along from one generation to the next."

"Yes!  I am very familiar with the discipline.  What means do you use to study this?  You must use some sort of organism."

"Roses.  I breed roses."

Annatar smiled, flashing even white teeth. "My favorite flower!  So you cross them to generate hybrids?  I shouldn't think hybrid roses grow well here."  He looked out over the wind-swept landscape.

Such a fetching smile, thought Elrond, and he likes roses! Elrond glanced at Annatar's fingers and saw that they were bare of any marriage or betrothal rings. Clean him up, and he'll have the ladies of Gil-galad's court eating out of his hand.

"My gardens are protected.  As you surmised, I cross them and note the characteristics through generations.   I'm trying to breed a thornless variety for my latest project."

"Why ever would you wish to do that?"  Annatar blurted.  "The thorns are part of roses' appeal: beauty that draws blood.  Something to be said for the contrast, don't you think?  But never mind me.  Tell me more of your interest in inheritance."

"I first tried my hand with horses, but roses are quicker.  But there are organisms that allow for even more rapid results even if less lovely.  Fruit flies, for example.  I have a colleague – a friend – who studies these."

"Fruit flies?  Unlovely compared to horses or roses, to be sure, but your friend is very clever to make use of those bugs.   The generation time for flies would indeed allow for rapid results.  I take it you have been influenced by his findings?"

"Her findings.  Yes, she is producing very interesting results, based on the last letter I received from her."  Elrond thought of the last missive that Culinen had sent to him, complete with detailed drawings of the flies with their barred eyes and curly wings.   He could envision her sketching the images of the tiny insects with pen in her meticulous hand.  "My friend also studies much smaller forms of life — animalcules.  I'd like to do the same, but she has the advantage of a device with crystals her kinsman made for her that allows her to view these creatures in more detail than I can.  Perhaps not as powerful as those used in the Blessed Lands, but better than what I have here currently."

"Your friend and her kinsman. They do not dwell here?"

"No.  They live in a city near the mountains in the East.  Ost-in-Edhil."

"I see. So you would like lenses to view specimens more closely?"

"Yes."

"Those I can make for you.  Easily.  Furthermore, I can make an apparatus that will allow you to attain a clear focus on tiny objects.  Such a device will allow you to see more closely than anything you have available now or anything that your colleague might have.  But you said 'For one thing...' What else might you desire?"

"I am keenly interested in the recording of lore.   Memory alone is not enough to preserve history. Tales become garbled unless they are written and preserved for posterity."

"Indeed they do."

"The problem is parchment.  It decays so swiftly.  I have tried my hand at preservation of some of the older texts we salvaged from the fall of Beleriand, but   some are so old that they practically disintegrate in one's hands."

"So you wish to slow the process of decay?"

"Yes.  That's it essentially.  For parchment at any rate."

"That is a challenge.  I was told that decay is swift in these mortal lands, and I believe it.  Even as we walk, I can feel how swift it is.  Decay is slower, perhaps, in the Blessed Lands, but the River of Time cannot be stopped anywhere, even in Aman," replied Annatar.  "However, its currents can be...how shall I put this? Diverted."  

"Diverted?"

"Yes."  Annatar looked ahead at the guards who rode up a low slope.  He lowered his voice.  "In this, I believe I may be able to help you. I am skilled in the deep arts."

"The deep arts!"  Elrond stopped in his tracks.  "That is a rarity!  A perilous one, too."

Annatar turned to face him. "You are familiar with the deep arts?"

"Yes, well, I...yes, a little," Elrond stammered and resumed walking with Annatar alongside him.

Elrond, in fact, was more than a little familiar but had no intention of sharing his secrets with Annatar just yet.   From his deepest memories, he recalled that day in the meadow so long ago, when he heard cry of the fox kit that had been attacked by an eagle.  Elrond soothed the frightened baby, its rusty pelt streaked with blood, and somehow he perceived what needed to be mended.  He remembered diving into a sea of pulsing red forms and slick white stones, which later he knew to be blood, tissue and bone.   He had knitted the fox kit's wounds by using the little animal's will to live and his own need to help, but not without cost to himself.   His mother, frantic with worry, had found him unconscious in the meadow with the little fox, healed but trembling with fear, pressed against his side. 

Annatar examined Elrond's face intently. "Yes, the deep arts are perilous in unskilled hands, but I am...quite skilled. I can reach deep into matter and see more detail than even the most powerful lenses can."

"How..."

"Aulë has developed new techniques.  He taught these to me."

"You would use the deep arts to stop my scrolls from falling apart?"

"Yes.  Furthermore, I will teach you to wield the deep arts so that you may do the same, for I perceive you may have more knowledge of these than you say."

Does he see my memory of that day?  When my mother lifted me in her arms and brought me back to the light?  

After she found him in the meadow, Elwing had explained to him and his brother this ability to see things so deeply was something she knew, too, although she applied it in different ways, in her case to her weaving so that her tapestries almost came to life.  She explained that this gift had come to her through her father, and from him Lúthien.  But ultimately, she said, it was a gift of the Fays, from his great-great grandmother Melian, who had taken human form.   

Elwing had taught Elrond and his brother how to use this ability at a basic level, but she had flown away before she could teach them much more.  Maedhros and Maglor had known of such things, too, for their father had wielded the deep arts most powerfully of all elvenkind.   Elrond asked if the Fays had gifted Fëanor with these talents, but Maglor and Maedhros refused to tell him more.  Thus, Elrond had been on his own for years in learning how to master his unusual gift.   He had found others who had assisted him here and there, but now here was one who offered to accelerate his learning.  Elrond glanced at Annatar, who scanned the landscape and the sea.  Elrond had the feeling that he was absorbing every detail around him.

"You would be willing to teach me?"

Annatar fixed his attention on Elrond again. "I would be honored to teach you, but I think this is a subject that causes you no little discomfort.  I understand why it might.  We can discuss this at length at a later time. Now you were telling me about that thornless rose hybrid earlier when I so rudely interrupted you with my opinion.  Please, tell me how you're trying to breed out the thorns.  I truly would like to know."

They spoke no more of the deep arts but returned to the subject of roses again, and then to other matters of lore.  Annatar genuinely listened to Elrond and drew him out with questions.  Annatar proved to be an engaging conversationalist, and to his surprise, Elrond, usually guarded with strangers, found himself increasingly comfortable with this man from the West.  Their conversation flowed easily as they hiked along the trail; they stepped aside more than once to avoid fresh horse manure, which led them to discuss sources of fertilizer for grain fields.  That in turn led to discourse on the baking of bread and then the kinds seafood they enjoyed.

"There's a fellow at the fishmarket in Mithlond who sells the best oysters," said Elrond.  "Do you like oysters?"  Annatar grinned and nodded. "We will have to go there.   He can shuck them fast as lightning."

"That sounds wonderful."

"And wine.  We must drink wine with the oysters!"  Elrond marveled at himself.   He sounded merry as if he had drunk a flagon of wine already. It was as if his tongue were no longer his own as words poured forth.

Annatar laughed. "Even better!"

It was late afternoon by the time they reached the border post.  The guards were already stabling the horses.    Elrond saw that Annatar was settled in comfortable quarters and that a tub was filled with hot water for his bath.   

"I hope you will forgive my hasty departure.  I would like to converse with you more, but I have another errand I must see to before I can return to Lindon and report to Gil-galad so that he may grant you permission to enter the realm.  I must apologize that I cannot take you straight to him.  I know he will wish to speak with you.  But this is our policy."

"I understand, and I will wait."  Annatar extended his hand.  "It has been a pleasure, Elrond.  I look forward to continuing our conversation."

"And I as well!"  Elrond grasped Annatar's hand firmly.   

The River of Time stopped at that moment.  Elrond's eyes locked with Annatar's, and their hands remained gripped while the sun and the stars ceased their stately dance, and the sea froze into stone.  Elrond broke the handshake first and made his decision.

~*~

Elrond stood silent while he watched Gil-galad offer limp leaves of lettuce, grown with great effort in the hot house of the palace, to his scaly pet that lounged on its tree-branch perch near warmth of the granite hearth.  The lizard took the lettuce from the king's hand and munched on the greens lazily.   Elrond found the creature both fascinating and repulsive, but Gil-galad was inordinately fond of these little dragons, as he called them, ever since Aldarion had brought one from a far land as a gift to the elven-king.  The lizards never thrived here, so generations of Númenórean mariners supplied a steady stream of the creatures to Gil-galad.

"Master Harminco will not like it," mused Gil-galad, speaking to the lizard. "He will not like it at all.  You do realize that a missive from this Annatar has already reached him?  You should have come to the palace with your news and not have dallied with that rabbit-toothed maiden."

Elrond winced.  Leave it to the king to guess why I tarried. I should have come straight to court.

However, the king's orders were clear. After taking hasty leave of Annatar, as instructed, he had ridden to Lord Faelras' estate to collect the tardy inventories of stores that the king had ordered. Gil-galad had been firm that Elrond must see to this errand, having reached the edge of his patience with Faelras' dawdling. Thanks to the charms of the lord's bold daughter, Elrond had lingered longer than he had intended on Faelras' estate.  Despite her prominent front teeth, Crisgeleth's kisses were sweet and her breasts? Perfection. 

Annatar, however, had no such lovely distractions and had quickly sent word of his arrival – and specifics as to what he might offer – to the smiths of Gil-galad's court. Some grumbled skeptically of this "young upstart from the West" as old Norrodh had put it, but others, like Master Harminco, who was well respected among the craftsmen and artisans of Lindon, were eager to meet Annatar and bring him into their fold.

"Harminco is practically salivating at the prospect of working with this Annatar," Gil-galad said while he ran his fingers over the leathery crest of the lizard.  "Rejecting his assistance will not sit well with Harminco nor with any of the younger smiths." He raised his eyes to Elrond.  "Are you prepared to deal with the consequences?"

"I am."

"You are certain about Annatar?"

"Truthfully?  I am not absolutely certain.  No more than you are certain about that sense of unease that vexes you.  I must confess that it pains me to turn Annatar away because I believe his claims of knowledge.   I enjoyed speaking with him.  I think you would, too.  And yet..."

"And yet."  

"I do not believe he is who he says he is."

"But who exactly is he?"

"I cannot say.  I just know that he is holding back information.  Concealing something."

Gil-galad turned away from the warmth of the hearth to pace across the parlor of his quarters.  The hem of his dressing gown whispered as it grazed the tiles and rugs on the floor.  The king stopped before a tall arched window and parted the heavy draperies to reveal the northern sky where the Valacirca swung high in the black vaults of Ilmen.   Gil-galad stood there for a long while before he turned to Elrond again, his eyes bright with starlight.

"Your word is good enough for me.   I shall write a letter to Annatar tomorrow and express my regrets, but that without further verification, I cannot allow him into Lindon.  See that he is given a good horse and supplies and let him be on his way to wherever he will."

"Very well, your majesty."

Gil-galad saw him to the door.

"And all because of a handshake?"

"Yes, your majesty."

Gil-galad studied Elrond's face before he shook his head, and his dark hair, flowing loose over his shoulders, shone in the firelight: gold on black.  "Perhaps you are a little mad, too, Elrond."

"Perhaps, but wouldn't you expect someone who had rowed for days, let alone one who claims to be a smith, to have calluses on his hands?  His palms were smooth as a baby's."

"It doesn't fit, I agree.  Well then. We'll deal with the matter of Annatar tomorrow.  Pity.  I should have liked to have spoken with him. Good night, Elrond."

"Good night, your majesty."

The heavy oaken door thudded shut behind him.  Elrond leaned against it and paused to gather his thoughts. Rather than returning to his own quarters, he made his way up stairs and through dimly lit corridors and up yet more stairs until he stepped out through a narrow door onto the roof of the keep.  From there, he had an unobscured view of the winter sky.   As he had done on countless evenings before, he raised his face to the heavens, spread his arms and slowly turned in a circle so that he could take in as much of the vault of the sky as he could. It was a habit of star-gazing from the earliest days of his childhood that had earned him his epessë.

He stopped turning and let his arms fall to his sides.  He looked to the north, toward the border post where Annatar, no doubt comfortable in the small room with a warm bed and a fireplace, awaited word from Gil-galad.  Elrond shivered in the frigid night and regretted that he had not brought a cloak.  He reached within to kindle the fires of his hröa that would warm him.  While he did this, he thought about the prospect of soaking in a tub filled with hot water filled from steaming spigots and of ancient parchment that remained supple even after thousands of years. 

Have I made the right decision?  He felt a twinge of regret when he considered the rejection of honing his talents under the guidance of Annatar.  And yet.  He scanned the heavens once again, seeking validation.  Bright Eärendil was long gone, but it was not to his father that Elrond's thoughts turned.     

One of his earliest memories was that of the distinctive sensation he sometimes felt when Elwing touched him: a pleasant tingle that vibrated through the fibers of his body and mind.  Then there was her scent, that of the forest after a thunderstorm, which mingled with her body's warm human odor, and different than any other he knew except for Elros.   His mother said she had inherited those things — the tingling and the scent — from her father, Dior. The sensation and the scent were strange, inexplicable things yet comforting, too, as if calling out We are kin, you and I but without words, using a language that reached into the very substance of one's being. 

But the lightning that had run up his arm when he shook Annatar's hand was unlike any other save one.   Who are you?  Elrond demanded when he returned Annatar's firm handshake, and the exhilarating shock shot up his neck to burst with familiar warmth in his mind.  Annatar's bright eyes widened.  He feels it, too.

Master, please tell me.  Please. Who are you? Elrond had pleaded.  A wall slammed down to barricade Annatar's thoughts, but not before Elrond perceived an elusive presence that slithered back into the shadows.  

The stars wheeled above Elrond in the night sky, remote and eternal. The other being whose touch had provoked the same powerful response had been the Elder King's herald, Eönwë, who had embraced Elrond after Elros had announced the decision that would part them forever.   Eönwë's scent had enfolded Elrond as strongly as his arms:  the odor of a thunderstorm over the mountains.

Elrond fixed his sight on the pole star. In spite of the care taken in crafting his form like that of the Children of Ilúvatar, Eönwë had not looked altogether human with his widely spaced eyes the color of lapis lazuli and ears that tapered into sharp points. Annatar, on the other hand, appeared perfectly human. Yet for all Annatar's apparent humanity, Elrond had caught a glimpse of something else lurking deep within this Noldorin smith from the West.  Something...Other.

What this Other was, Elrond could not say with certainty, and he was not inclined to discuss the stranger elements of his suspicions with the king.  It was bad enough that he was named "Peredhel" due to his mortal blood.   Reminding others of his heritage from the Fays might make it that much worse, but perhaps it was that very heritage that warned him now.

The lack of calluses is good enough for the king, Elrond assured himself after he bade farewell to the stars and entered the dark stairwell, and as for the rest?   Perhaps I am a little mad, too.

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

From "The Shibboleth of Fëanor," HoMe XII, nolwë and curwë approximate what we would call "science and technology."

My notion of distinctive Maiarin scent(s) derives from JRRT's writings in Parma Eldalamberon 17: the presence of incorporeal Maiar can be detected by their odor. The tingling sensation (see Trinity) is my own invention, based on the biology of the Maiar in the Pandë!verse.  It is a phenomenon that is not necessarily consistent among those whose Maiarin inheritance is diluted (like Elrond), but may serve as some sort of recognition signal amongst Ainurus maianensis.