The Writhen Pool by pandemonium_213

Chapter 1: Not Suitable for a Woman

Mélamírë feels the pain of rejection when the Istyari deny her a place on an imporant — and mysterious — project and does not take it well.

Read Chapter 1: Not Suitable for a Woman

She ground her anger deep into her bunched fists.  Mélamírë exerted every shred of self-control to keep from shaking — and from crying — before the implacable consideration of the two great men of the Otornassë Míretanoron.

 

She exhaled her frustration and opened her fists to flex her fingers. Three more breaths, in and out, and her heartbeat slowed.

 

"Again, I ask you, Istyar Tyelperinquar, Istyar Aulendil: when shall I begin working on the Rings?"

 

"And again, I say that you shall not," replied Istyar Aulendil, unruffled, but with an edge in his voice that sharpened his measured tone.

 

“I must respectfully ask why my assistance will not be required for this initiative?”

 

"Just how did you come to find out about the initiative?" The edge became sharper still.

 

She recalled just how she had plied that information from the apprentices. How she had wanted to slap the smug expressions off their faces!

 

"It was easy enough," she said, feeling not a little smug herself. "Flattery chased down by several glasses of strong wine, a few well-placed questions, and Teretion and Sámaril were crowing about it in no time."

 

Aulendil frowned. "Young fools. I shall deal with them later."

 

That those swaggering apprentices would get their due was some consolation at least. Even before Teretion and Sámaril had told her much about the nascent plans for the crafting of Rings, many Rings, they said, she had already heard the whispered conversations among her colleagues that stopped when she approached, the trailing end of a sentence that spoke of a new work. Even worse, the apprentices' and journeymen's secrecy confirmed what she had long suspected, for the same whispers, the same hushed conversations had occurred in her own home, only to cease abruptly when she had walked in on her father and his colleague — her cousin — conferring deep into the night.

 

She had no intention of telling the Istyari that last year, her suspicions drove her to eavesdrop on one such conversation. As she stood silently on the other side of the door of Father's study, partly ajar, she heard those tantalizing snippets of ideas that flew back and forth between them, their enthusiasm undisguised by their lowered voices as they discussed an exciting new application of an exotic form of curwë.

 

"You have not answered my question, Istyari. Why was I not selected?"

 

Aulendil glared at her, and she braced herself for his remonstrance, but before he could say anything, Tyelperinquar spoke up.

 

“You are certainly capable." He glanced at Aulendil, tacitly seeking his support. His colleague responded with the slightest of nods, buttressing Tyelperinquar's position. "But we feel that Teretion and Sámaril are best fitted for this particular initiative."

 

Her hands threatened to bunch into fists again, but she willed her fingers to stay loose.

 

“Istyari, with all due respect, I have been a master for nearly as long as Teretion and Sámaril have been alive. Both of you well know that I require little guidance, and so I will be more efficient than inexperienced apprentices." Whose hands you must hold. "And I am certainly as capable as the other masters."   Aulendil's brows furrowed at that, and Tyelperinquar opened his mouth to speak, but not before she continued.  "Don't bother to deny it.  I know there are others chosen to work on the Rings."

 

Tyelperinquar rubbed his forehead with his hand, a sign that she might be wearing him down. Perhaps he would capitulate, but that hope was quickly dashed when she looked at Aulendil. A thrill of fear skittered up her spine. His steely gaze reminded her of nothing less than a snake readying itself to strike. She had seen him glare at others like this, but never at her, and now, her cousin no longer showed any hint of uncertainty. His grey-blue eyes were just as steely as those of her father, even if marginally less intimidating.

 

“We do not doubt your skill, Master Naryen," said Tyelperinquar, "but it is the very nature of this task that poses a problem. Simply put, the work is not suitable for a woman of the Eldar."

 

Her fury consumed her fear, burning it to ashes. "Not suitable for a woman? That's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard."

 

Neither Istyar said a word.

 

"You are serious."

 

"Yes. Quite serious," Tyelperinquar said.

 

"You will give me no other explanation than that? Not suitable for a woman?"

 

Aulendil remained coiled in silence.

 

Rage rattled her arms and shoulders, and tears welled up in her eyes. She hated that. She could not let them see her weep, but her breaking voice betrayed her.

 

"I do not understand. You both have trained me. You know my skills and my strength of mind better than anyone. You know my experience exceeds that of Sámaril and Teretion.”

 

"This matter is closed, Master Naryen." Tyelperinquar's face was hard with resolve now. "If there is nothing else, then you may leave."

 

"How dare you dismiss me!"

 

“Naryen, show some respect!” Aulendil snapped at her, but quickly regained some measure of control. “Do not blame Tyelpo. The decision is mine.”

 

Any pretence of formality vanished, for this had escalated into a family fight.

 

“Your decision, Father? Do you think so little of me that you snatch this opportunity away only to…" Don't cry! Don't cry! "… to give it to callow boys?”

 

The smack of his fist against Tyelperinquar's desk was no less than the thunder that shook their very bones when summer's storms crashed against the mountains.

 

“I said the decision is final! You will not question me!"

 

She answered with the sharp retort of the oaken door, slammed behind her as hard as she was able. The head of every apprentice, journeyman, and master smith in the corridor jerked around toward the crack of sound. They drew back as she strode through the hall, the heels of her boots thumping hard against the terrazzo floor.  Staring eyes bored into her back; murmured speculations burned her ears as she aimed for the broad stairs that led to the upper floors of the south wing. She bounded up two flights and went straight to the corner of the House of the Míretanor that was her office, hardly more than a closet, but her very own. 

 

She shut the door behind her and locked it. With her back pressed against its hard surface, she struggled against the temptation to give in to her rage and tear the papers stacked on her desk, toss books from the shelves, break the simple furniture, anything to give her anger release. Then, she slid down to the floor and let loose her suppressed tears.

 

She was not sure how long she cried, not long, she hoped, for such weeping was never a constructive exercise, although it did make her feel better. She wiped her face with the hem of her shirt, pushed herself off the floor, and stretched, easing the tension out of her neck and shoulders.

 

Work. I need to work.

Settling herself at her desk, she arranged her papers to one side, pulled on tight-fitting gloves and carefully extracted the ancient scroll from its brass tube. She unrolled it, placing smooth stones on the paper to keep it flat. She had borrowed the scroll from Tyelperinquar, who in turn had rescued it from the fall of Nargothrond: his father's notes on the phase transitions applied to the crafting of carbon steel, a subject that fascinated her, but remained elusive in its subtlety.

 

She focused on Curufinwë's firm cursive writing, his equations, diagrams, and graphs. "Atarincë" in more ways than one, Curufinwë's keen analytical mind reached out to her across the long-years. Not for the first time, she wished that she could have known him and wondered just what he might have been able to accomplish had it not been for the tragedy of the Oath.

 

She studied a graph intently, but try as she might, she could not stop the earlier scene from bullying its way back into her thoughts. Once again, she found herself tense with anger as the confrontation with the Istyari unfolded in her mind's eye. Then, like picking at an old scab, her memory sought every perceived slight since she had first stepped into the smiths' guild, not as the Istyar's daughter, but as a mere assistant, to be treated no differently than the other youngsters who came to learn in the House of the Míretanor.

 

The Istyari took pains to ensure there was no hint of favoritism, and the other masters followed their lead, holding her to what seemed to be impossibly high standards. She met their challenges again and again, and exceeded them. But to what end? The most important project ever conceived in the House of the Mírdain, the culmination of long-years of arcane studies, had been withheld from her — because I am a woman.

 

Worse yet, her cousin and her own father had denied her: men who had encouraged her from the first day she held in her chubby child's hand a small hammer, made especially for her; men who had never told her that she, as a woman, had no place in the man's world of the forges. Until now. Their astonishing display of hypocrisy made her sick at heart.

 

Curufinwë's numbers jumbled into nonsense. It was no use. She could not concentrate worth one whit. Resting her forehead against her hands, she attempted to collect her thoughts.  She soon gave up and pushed herself back from her desk to rise from her chair, and went to the single narrow window of her office. The graze of her finger across one of its panes left a streak, so she made note that she ought to ask Níthurin, the washerwoman, to clean the glass. Still, the window was not so grimy that Mélamírë could not see the bright, spring morning that dawned over Eregion, the harbinger of a sunny day that might be the warmest yet since winter had retreated.

 

That was what she needed, she decided. A long hike and fresh air would go a long way toward purging her mind of frustration and allowing her to collect her thoughts as to how to deal with this latest set-back. She knew just where she would go. It would take her the better part of the morning to reach the place, and she might not return until after dark. Well, she might be missed, but she did not care.

 

She clicked through the list of what she would need for this small adventure. She wriggled her toes, cushioned by soft wool socks, within her smith's boots. They were more than suitable for such a hike, supportive and worn so often that they would not rub her feet raw. A water skin, yes, maybe some dried fruit and nuts. She patted the small knife at her belt, but prudence dictated that she take a sword. Although it was unlikely that any bands of orcs would venture so far from the mountains at this time of the year, one never knew. The memory of when she had first seen orcs was vivid as the day it had happened. She could still feel the soft touch of the orc-child's hand against her palm, and the fright that had paralyzed her when its clan arrived, long canine teeth bared, to collect the wayward youngster.

 

There were plenty of swords to be had in the House of the Míretanor, but taking one would entail sneaking back into the workshop she shared with several other masters. Her pride still stinging, she had no desire to speak to anyone. Home, yes, she could stop at home, and take her sword, slim-bladed but with a razor-edge, and gather water and fruit. Culinen would be fully occupied in the House of the Heart by now, hunched over her bench and staring at the animalcules that gyrated beneath the crystal lenses of her henincë. The realization that her mother was away came as a relief. Mélamírë had no desire to tell her of the latest familial conflagration just yet. Only the servants would be at home. She grabbed her old wool cloak, flung it over her arm, and left her office, locking the door behind her and pocketing the key.

 

By this time of the morning, the corridors were free of students and masters, as all were in classes, the workshops or the forges and the foundry. Thus, she slipped unnoticed through the corridor, down the stairs, and out of the House of the Míretanor.

 

The doors, hewn from oak and reinforced with iron, were open wide to the brisk morning air. Sunlight gleamed from gold, bronze and silver plated in patterns over the wood and from the many gemstones inlaid in the metalwork. She paused briefly to admire the craftsmanship of the doors, reaching out to run her fingers over the inlaid gems, bright and untouched by years of sun, wind, and ice. Tyelperinquar had guided their construction, assisted by the Khazâd, but it was rumored that the Lady Galadriel had a hand in their design.

 

Mélamírë traced the pattern of a forge's flame, created by garnets and topaz. The doors had been made long-years before Father had arrived on the shores of Middle-earth and had come to Ost-in-Edhil. Galadriel's name was one that was now rarely spoken among the smiths. Mélamírë felt a twinge of regret that she had never met this great lady.

 

Leaving regret and the doors behind, down the black granite steps she went, and out into the wide square. Pale smoke billowed from the vents of the open-air forges that bordered the court, and beyond, white steam wafted from the high chimney of the Guild of Iron's foundry. A few men sat on benches set around the periphery of the square, taking a break and discussing their work, most likely. They took no notice of her. The waters of the fountain in its center splashed around the feet of the marble statue of Aulë, leaning on his huge hammer. The sculptor had endowed the nude Smith with another hammer of notable significance, which in turn resulted in the bawdy nickname for the statue: The Tool.

 

Through the Gates of Silver she walked and on to the cobbled street, past homes and shops, and people out on their business. From open windows, she heard voices sing paeans to the budding and new growth. The sound of a harp, its notes hesitant as if a novice were practicing, wafted from a hidden courtyard. Birds, newly arrived from the warm South, sang among the trees. In the workers' neighborhoods, women fastened laundry on lines that they ran out with pulleys so that homely banners of linen shirts and underclothes flapped high over the cobblestones.

 

She turned down Goldsmith Street and into a well-to-do neighborhood of tall, stately rowhouses, interspersed with small parks of meticulously trimmed trees, invariably with a fountain set amongst the sculpted shrubbery, its cascading waters fed by the waters of the massive aqueduct. She ducked down a narrow alley and entered her home through the servants' door. She made her way to the kitchen where old Calennur gently kneaded egg dough, a task that he insisted on doing himself, rather than leaving it to his assistants. He looked up at her, but did not stop kneading the dough.

 

"Lady Naryen! You're home early. Amareg! Fetch m'lady a cup of tea. A scone, too."

 

"Ah, no, no need for that, Amareg!" she called to his assistant. "I'm just stopping by for a bit. I'm off for a hike in the foothills. I just need some water and dried fruit, if you would."

 

"Very good, m'lady. Amareg! You heard her!" The young man immediately set to putting the supplies together while Naryen went to the entry hall to collect her sword and a pack. She fastened the belt around her hips and patted the scabbard of smooth oiled leather. When she returned to the kitchen, a small muslin bag and a water skin awaited her. As she put these into her pack, Amareg thrust a small bundle of linen toward her. Mélamírë took it; the cloth was warm.

 

"A loaf of raisin bread, m'lady. We baked it just this morning."

 

"Thank you, Amareg, Calennur. I shall see you later."

 

"Will you be home for supper?"

 

"I'm not sure. Most likely not." 

 

Calennur's face fell a little. "I'm preparing lamb braised in red wine." He glanced down at the dough. "With noodles and mushrooms as a first course and new strawberries with clotted cream for dessert."

 

Mélamírë was in no mood to indulge Calennur's vanity. He fancied himself to be an artist. His cuisine, although certainly palatable, did not approach the imagination of the best cooks from the Guild of Corn, but he was fussy about the quality of the food and wine he procured for the household. He did set a good table for her family, and he took pride in it, lapping up every compliment from her parents and sulking at any hint of a slight. So it was now. He took her absence at supper as a sign of disfavor, but she was in no mood to placate him today.

 

"I'm sorry that I shall miss it. Farewell!" And she was out the door.

 

She paused only to wave at the guards when she passed through the massive gates of the city, now open wide to the road where she walked past gardens and farm fields where yeomen guided the huge horses that pulled the ploughs, readying for spring planting. Some of those ploughshares must be hers. The faster teams, she thought. No other smith's blades cut the earth like hers did. Now warm, even sweaty, from her brisk walk, she stopped to remove her cloak, stuffing it in her pack, and breathed in the damp scent of the newly turned red earth before she walked on.

 

It was almost mid-day when she turned off the road and onto a path that snaked up into the hills, cutting through fragrant woods of cedar and oak. She found the familiar trail that led into the foothills of the mountains. Up and up she hiked, until she reached the summit of a high hill. She paused, hands on her hips and her heart pounding, and took stock of herself. She had walked off her anger, and her hurt and disappointment were mollified — for now. She went to the edge of the cliff, a favorite vantage point that she had discovered when she was a girl.

 

An ancient force had sliced off the side of the hill, exposing red rock that dropped one hundred feet to a jumble of stone at its base. She sat down on a flat boulder where she had sat many times before. The stone was warm from the sun, welcome in the brisk, chilly breeze that blew down from the mountains. She pulled her cloak from her pack and wrapped it around her shoulders. Uncapping the water skin, she took a long drink of water, cool with a sunny, tart flavor. Amareg must have added a little lemon juice. She pulled out the loaf of raisin bread, broke off a piece, and chewed on it while she took in the landscape of Eregion. 

 

Beyond the rocky, tumbled terrain of the foothills, the cultivated lands rolled away to the blue horizon in the West. Wooly mounds of sheep grazed in meadows, with tiny dots of white, grey and black — the spring lambs — gamboling around them. Holly trees and cedars marched along the roads. Oaks, chestnuts and orchards of fruit trees marked homesteads and villages. Some fields were already emerald-green with new oats, barley and wheat. Other fields would bloom later, golden with sunflowers and blue with flax. Her homeland.

 

She tucked her knees up toward her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She gazed past Eregion into the blue haze of the western horizon, imagining she could project her sight over the Gwathló River to the woods and dells of Minhiriath and on to Lindon and even Númenor.

 

The thought of the island of Men called to mind her girlhood friends, whom she had first met in Tharbad when their father was lord of that city. Falmantur's sisters might still be living on the island, although they would now be in the waning of their middle years as highborn women of the race of Westernesse.

 

Despite the poignancy of grief that had once raised tears, she could now smile when she thought of their brother, Falmantur. The first man who had truly loved her. Her memory returned to Tharbad, the last day she had seen him alive: compact and lean, handsome as any Noldorin boy, but at fifty years of age, a young man. How sweet his kisses had been, and the way he touched her there and there. She shivered but not from the cold. What they did together was nothing like that awkward fumbling in a closet with Sartanor.

 

Squinting, she tried to force her sight deeper into the haze, but Númenor was veiled to her. Had she and Falmantur successfully indulged in youthful impetuousness, she might now be living on the island, exalted as one of the Firstborn but with an aging mortal husband. But Ossë's wrath had devastated their grand plans. Falmantur's bones were buried deep in the silent vaults of Ulmo's palace, and his memory would remain ever young for her.

 

She also remembered bitterly her parents' reaction to her announcement that she was in love with Falmantur and wished to marry him. For all their ease with mortal Men, more so than many of her people, Culinen and Aulendil's tolerance ended with the prospect of her marrying such a man, his noble lineage notwithstanding. They had been sympathetic when the news of the shipwreck came to Ost-in-Edhil, but even so, she had detected their sense of relief.

 

Her resentment had faded over the years, even if it had not entirely disappeared. At least neither of them pressured her to marry, although Culinen on occasion would tease her, saying that "a grandchild or two would be nice." As long as the father of those grandchildren is Firstborn, Mélamírë always added silently.

 

She drew her thoughts back toward the East, lingering in Lindon, which, like Númenor, she had never seen, but liked to imagine in her mind's eye from what others had told her. When Erestor visited Ost-in-Edhil last year, he had said that King Ereinion would welcome a smith of her caliber into his court. After this morning's confrontation, she was sorely tempted to take him up on that tenuous offer. She could step out of Aulendil and Tyelpo's long shadows and come into her own. Yet, she knew that there was no one who could teach her like they could, and she had to admit, she was still learning, even if she was a master. And they were not her only source of intellectual invigoration. Brilliant minds surrounded her in Ost-in-Edhil: her mother, her friends, and her peers. No, she was not ready to leave just yet. Perhaps she would never leave.

 

Mélamírë took another drink of water and shifted so that she sat cross-legged. The sun slid down the western sky, stippled with puffy scraps of white clouds. Truly, would it be any different for her in Lindon, where a sizable population of the surviving Noldor and their descendants had settled amongst the Shore-folk?

 

She could hear the self-congratulatory words of prim scholars, just as likely to be spoken in Mithlond as here in Eregion: "There are no matters that only a man can think or do, or others for which only a woman is concerned." But always, the scholars offered their qualifications: women's creativity was most appropriately directed toward the forming of their children, and invention and change should thus be the province of men.

 

Her own mother was proof enough that an inventive woman was not necessarily welcome in Lindon. Culinen had leapt at the opportunity to leave and come with Tyelpo to Ost-in-Edhil, where she pursued her unconventional ideas in the House of the Heart. There she flourished and rose to become its guild master. Mélamírë's birth had done nothing to quell her mother's intense curiosity and study of living things from large to the unseen.

 

She remembered fondly those days when Culinen took her, little more than a baby, into her laboratory. Her mother would lift her up and set her on her lap, letting her hold the jars of fruit flies so she could see the many shapes of eyes and wings and letting her look into the henincë at tiny, spinning forms. "Alive," her mother said, "As alive as we are." Although there was no denying Father's influence on her, Mother's love of nolmë was the spark that set aflame Mélamírë's desire to seek deeper and deeper knowledge.

 

Yet for all her mother's empathy, Mélamírë was not convinced that Culinen, who worked in a guild comprising mostly women, could truly understand what it was like for her daughter, who labored with molten metals, wrestled with complex equations, and jostled with the analytical posturing of men.

 

She cast her thought back to the West again, skipping over Lindon, leaping past Númenor, and on to the mysterious Blessed Lands, where her great-grandmother yet lived. Like her, Nerdanel was the daughter of a talented smith, a man who had taught her both the theory and practicalities of metallurgy and the principles of stonework, neither of which were the traditional pursuits of women. According to Tyelperinquar, Nerdanel's creativity continued unabated, even after bearing seven sons, belying the conventional wisdom that the sole inventions of women were their children.

 

How did you do it? Mélamírë asked the haze. How did you become a master smith in the realm of men and yet raise a large family? How did you command the respect of your people?

 

But the West was silent, and did not give answer. It never did.

---

Chapter End Notes

Otornassë Míretanoron - Brotherhood of the Jewelsmiths, "jewel" being both literal and metaphorical, bearing in mind that "mírë" also means treasure.

henincë - little eye; a nod to occhiolino, which is what Galileo called his compound microscope.

nolmë and curwë - science/philosophy and technology, respectively. See note 30, "The Shibboleth of Fëanor," HoMe XII.

Chapter 2: Opportunity Knocks

After some contemplation and advice from Celeborn, Mélamírë waits for a new opportunity, which arrives in the form of a letter from the Lady of Lindórinand.  

Read Chapter 2: Opportunity Knocks

The howl jerked Mélamírë out of her one-sided conversation with Nerdanel. She froze, alert and listening, but heard only the sigh of the wind through grass and over stone. From high in the foothills, a second howl answered. She let out her breath, relieved to recognize the call of a hunting wolf, rather than a warg's shriek. Rising to her feet, she stretched her arms over her head and kicked the stiffness out of her legs.

 

Where had the afternoon gone? The haze in the West had deepened to violet, fading to lavender high in the twilight sky. The last rays of the sun painted crimson a ragged lacework of clouds. In the East, the first stars of the evening sparked, but the Moon would not rise from behind the Misty Mountains tonight as Tilion turned Isil's face away from the world.

 

Another howl rebounded across the far hills. Reflexively, she touched the hilt of the sword.  The wolf pack that claimed these hills as its territory was no threat to her, but nonetheless, she was glad that she had thought to bring the weapon. She began her descent on the steep trail that wound down and across the slope of the hill.  There was still enough light to make her way easily to the broader path.  By the time she reached the open fields and copses of farmlands, the vault of the night sky was awash with stars, and the main road was grey under their remote light.

 

She slowed her pace, opening eyes and ears wide to the dark, and expanded every sense to take in the night.  Beetles and the shrews that pursued them rustled through dry leaves and grasses, and a fox's paws padded across a nearby field.   The scent of the animal's musk, the fresh green smell of new growth, and the tang of newly turned earth filled her nostrils.   There was not one sound out of the ordinary in the peaceful evening air.

 

Assured that any potential threat had been left behind in the foothills, she relaxed and focused ahead on the white beacon that shone from the Elemminas, the highest tower of the city, where gold and silver lights glittered from domes and spires to pay homage to the stars.   Ost-in-Edhil beckoned to her, urging her to return home to its light.  It was a sight that never failed to move her for its beauty.

 

According to Father and Tyelpo, as well as the other Exiles who remained here in Middle-earth, the city reflected Tirion-on-Túna.  The architecture of its structures, made largely of pale limestone, had been designed to recall that of the remote home of the Noldor.  Both cities were built on hills, Tirion so that the light of the Trees might better be captured, but in the case of Ost-in-Edhil, for defense.  

 

A riot of chirps greeted her as she passed near a pond.  Its water must be churning with spring peepers, all bent on mating.   She kicked a stone, sending it skittering down the road ahead.  Father and Tyelpo often spoke of the West, discussing the marvelous inventions and arts of Aman and how they might duplicate them here.   Given how Father went on and on about the incredible instruments and devices at his disposal in the Smithy of Aulë, she sometimes found it odd that he could have borne to leave the West. 

 

"Adventure, for one thing," he said, when she asked him of this after he had waxed poetic about the array of diamond-bit drills he often used in Aulë's workshop.  "And the desire to heal the wounds inflicted by Morgoth Bauglir. That is why the Valar sent me here."

 

She wondered if Father missed the company of his own peculiar race. He claimed he did not. She held this close: that he — a Fay — truly wished to live as one of the Eldar and not to overshadow the Eruhíni, particularly with the depth of knowledge he harbored. She and Mother were the only two who knew that the strangeness of the Maiar flowed in his veins and through his mind, and they guarded his secret. It was possible, maybe even likely, that Tyelpo knew, too, but he never said anything to this effect. 

 

Mother seemed to feel honored that a Fay of Aulë's train had taken her to spouse, even if she could not announce it to the world.  Mélamírë, on the other hand, found that the half-Fay blood presented unsettling difficulties, not least of which was hiding aspects of her own nature. Yet this shared heritage offered a strong connection between her and Father, which made his vehement opposition to her joining him in his work all the more shocking. 

 

The city's thick walls now loomed high on the hill above her; she craned her neck to look up toward the western faces of the buildings and saw lights glowing in the windows of her home. No doubt both her parents were home by now.  The sight of her father's cold stare had engraved itself in her thought,  and she could still hear the thunder of his fist slamming on the desk.  Anger and hurt threatened to flare again with every step that took her closer to the city.  Confronting Father was not something she wished to face tonight or even tomorrow. She could not bear to speak with him until she was in a more measured frame of mind.

 

Yet she had been alone long enough and itched to talk to someone, if anything to give voice to her feelings and chew over her next steps. There was one who would offer counsel without judgment, a confidante whose friendship extended back to the day when she, then a little girl, had wandered into his haunts looking for her lost kitten, her knees skinned and bloody and her dirty cheeks streaked with tears. With no moon tonight, she knew where she would find him.

 

A deep chime rang from the Tower of Sunset, the first alert that the city gates would close within the hour. She was not the only one who approached the city at this late hour. Ahead, carts drawn by plodding horses carried weary tradesmen and the tools of their trade: blacksmiths and carpenters for the most part, coming home from their rounds of work in outlying villages. From behind, boisterous young voices were overtaking her. She turned to see a gaggle of youths, boys on the verge of becoming men, who half-danced, half-stumbled along the road, no doubt returning from an impromptu celebration with cheap wine out in the hills.

 

An alarmingly small figure trailed them. What was a child doing out so late? She recognized the boy, who often skirted the edges of the market, seeking handouts of bread or fruit.  Side-stepping a mound of horse-dung, she stopped; the older boys' raucous laughter ceased when they passed by, and they tugged their forelocks, murmuring "M'lady." The child behind them slowed, perhaps indecisive as to whether if he should bolt or approach her.

 

"You'd best hurry, lad," she called, "if you don't want to be shut out." 

 

She turned and resumed walking.  Footsteps pattered against paving stone, and there was the boy at her side, keeping pace with her brisk strides.  They were the last to enter the protection of the city walls, and the guards lowered the portcullis behind them. In the lights lining the tunnel through the thick wall, she could see that his dark hair was tangled and clumped, and his cheeks were filthy. He should be at home, warm, bathed, his mother combing his hair, reading a book to him.

 

"I do not mean to pry," she said…Oh, what am I thinking? I am prying. "What were you doing out with Calardil and his rowdies?"

 

"Just a bit of fun, m'lady. They wanted me to come."

 

"Why would they wish a child to go with them?"

 

He rounded on her. "I am no baby!"  Then he hung his head. "I am sorry, m'lady. I. . .you see. . .they like my tricks, I guess."

 

Now she should pry. "What manner of tricks?"

 

"They. . .they made me take off my clothes and dance about before they'd let me have some wine. Told me to roll in the dirt like a pig."

 

It was all she could do to prevent herself from making a scene, calling out the boys who now sang and lurched through the Gate Square. She glared at them instead, and without a second thought, a jagged string of words formed in her mind and emerged as whispers that went flying from her mouth like an arrow. Calardil, their ringleader, squawked and swatted the back of his neck, as if stung by a wasp. He looked around, confused, then rubbed his skin as he and his cronies disappeared around the curve of the street.

 

She looked down at the boy, who was staring at her.  "What is your name?"

 

"Da calls me Polkincë. So does everyone else."

 

She winced. Little Pig. Despicable, that a father would do this to his own child. She wanted to hunt down the man and throttle him. However, she could already hear Culinen's admonishment: Whoever meddles in a quarrel not his own is like one who takes a passing dog by the ears. Not for the first time did Mélamírë stifle a smirk at the irony of that quote, allegedly spoken by Fëanáro.

 

"Do your parents know where you are?" She had to ask although she could guess the answer.

 

"No. Ma's been late most every night these past weeks. Stays on at Lord Parmatëo's house for extra work. And Da, well…you know. He's at the Stag and Hound."

 

Mélamírë put her hand on the boy's shoulder, feeling the bone beneath his rough homespun shirt. The boy's father must dive well into his cups. And his mother? Given Lord Parmatëo's penchant for indulgence, she declined to consider what that extra work entailed.

 

She hesitated when they reached the middle of the Gate Square where a large fountain sprayed, its droplets glittering in the lights of the street lamps. She meant to turn onto South Street, but the boy said that he lived in the walk-ups that cluttered the Lower Quarter, just off North Street. He was safe now behind the protective walls of the city, and he could find his way home easily enough.

 

She looked the boy over. His blue eyes were bright in that dirty little face. Despite the abuses that had been heaped upon him, not least the painful epessë given to him by his own father, the child had a sweetness about him.  It was too late to take him to the public baths for a scrubbing. Shrugging the pack off her back, she opened it and pulled out the remainder of the raisin bread and the dried apricots and almonds that she had not eaten.

 

"Here, take these. It's not much, but they'll quiet your belly before you sleep. Tomorrow, I want you to come to the House of the Mírdain and ask for Master Naryen. That's me." The child nodded. "I could use a boy to sweep my workshop, run errands for me, things of that nature. I can pay you two coppers a week. Will you do that?"

 

The boy snatched the food from her. "Oh, yes, m'lady. I will be there! Thank you, m'lady!" With a chunk of bread crammed in his mouth, he was off, leaving her alone in the square. She watched him disappear around a corner before she left the square toward her destination.  

 

South Street, like its northern counterpart, gradually climbed from the Gate Square, following the natural contours of the huge hill. Past the Gate of Wood, she walked along one of the side streets that led into the Sindarin quarter. After more twists and turns through narrow streets and alleyways, she lifted the latch of an oaken gate and passed under an arch to enter a walled garden of beech, cypress, river birch, and holly trees. The notes of a small harp rippled from deep within this patch of woodland held captive by the city.

 

She followed the path to emerge in a glade where the harpist sat on a stone bench near a pool, its water still and silver as a mirror. Even sitting, Lord Celeborn was a tall man, and his hair fell like moonlight over his shoulders.  Without ceasing the play upon the harp's strings or saying a word, he beckoned to her with a sideways glance, an invitation to sit on the bench beside him. Once she settled herself, he sang.

 

The sweet tune in the Grey-Elven tongue was interspersed with glittering phrases that she recognized as Valarin, which told her from whom he must have learned this song. His singing register was higher than his deep speaking voice, but equally mellifluous. The pure tones of his throat and harp pulled her into a dream of a primeval forest, where the Firstborn had first wandered when they came to these western lands, where a Fay had enchanted a man, luring him away from his tribe and pulling him onto a bed of moss and leaf mould to lie with her as the stars wheeled above them.

 

He ceased singing but continued to play the harp. Another took up the song: a nightingale's call rose from a nearby tree and spiraled to the stars. A second nightingale joined the first, braiding their duet into a song that ensorcelled the secluded garden of trees.

 

She wasn't sure how long she sat next to him while the nightingales sang, for she felt as spellbound as Thingol must have been in the arms of Melian. At last, the birds' song faded to leave the chirping of a few crickets and the muffled sounds of the city beyond the walls. It was then that Celeborn laid the harp across his lap and turned to her.

 

"Mélamírë. It has been a good long while since you last visited me."

 

"It has, my lord, and I am sorry. I must plead the excuse of my work and studies, although that is a poor excuse."

 

"It's not the first time I have heard such, many times in fact, and from another woman who also likes to think and study. What brings you here in the middle of the night then, away from the fires of your forge to sit in the starlight and listen to nightingales?"

 

"I would like to talk to you about something that happened today, something that upset me. I'm trying to decide how to best approach it."

 

"Then tell me."

 

So she did, sparing no detail, except the nature of the project in contention. To do so would violate the code of the Otornossë Míretanoron, who hoarded their ideas until they could be brought to fruition and shared with all. Celeborn did not press her about the new initiative, just listened, nodding and encouraging her. When she finished, he remained silent for a while, as if digesting all that she had told him. The crickets continued to chatter with one another, and a dog barked far off in the lower streets of the city. At last, he spoke.

 

"It surprises me that Celebrimbor and Annatar would thwart you, in particular your father. This seems unlike him. From all you have told me, and from all I have seen, he has always supported and nurtured your talents, just as your mother has.  Still, he must have his reasons, even if they do not make much sense to you. I will advise you that fathers can be overly protective of their daughters."

 

"Did you deny Celebrían any of her ambitions because she is a woman?"

 

"Well, I was none too pleased when she decided to play cammag, and I might have even raised a fuss about it." He grinned, and she surmised this was an understatement. "I was afraid she'd get her front teeth knocked out, but she became a skilled, even ferocious, player. Her teeth are still intact."

 

"Did her mother support Celebrían's desire to play cammag?"

 

"With some misgivings, but yes, Galadriel did, for she herself never shied away from games and sports. Don't forget the nickname that Eärwen gave to her!"

 

"Yes. Nerwen. That's largely why I am here. Lady Galadriel must have faced similar situations to mine, right? After all, she studied with Aulë! That could not have been easy."

 

"Very difficult, according to her, and there were many times when she was denied what she desired because it was deemed a man's role. Not least her ambition to rule her own realm."

 

"How did she approach these setbacks, if I may ask?"

 

"She sought new challenges that she could make her own. That is, in part, what brought her to Middle-earth and what took her beyond the mountains when the rule of Eregion was denied to her.   She is nothing if not persistent in pursuing her desires."

 

Denied to her by Tyelpo and Father, Mélamírë thought.

 

"Yes, I know what you say makes sense, and I have tried to console myself with the notion that I should seek a new project. There is no lack of these in the House of the Mírdain, but…"

 

"But you wish to craft a great work, a grand accomplishment upon which you can set your mark and be proud."

 

"Yes, I admit as much."

 

"Of course. You're not only a Noldo, you're a Fëanorian. Pride is as natural to you as breathing. You handle it better than some of your kin though." He gave her a wry smile. "Be patient, and keep that keen mind of yours open to possibilities. A marvelous invention will come of it, I'm sure. Now listen. Do you hear the nightingales rustling about in the trees? They are restless. I believe they are ready to sing again." And once more, he put his hands to the harp.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Although Mélamírë took Celeborn's words to heart and knew that to remain alert for new opportunities was wise counsel, the burden of disappointment did not disappear so easily. Tyelpo and Father owed her an explanation, and she believed that they ought to seek her out to give such to her.  However, neither man made any overtures, both too preoccupied with the first stages of their new project to take notice. It was just as likely that they were none too eager to risk another clash with her, which she concluded was evidence of their guilty feelings about the whole matter.

 

Mélamírë found herself sleeping more and more often on the narrow cot in her little office and taking her meals from street vendors' fare, in particular from the fellow who sold the delicious meat pies like those the Dwarven miners took with them into the deeps. The savory treats had caught on in the city, a mundane but tasty facet of the rich exchange between the Eldar and the Khazâd. In the evenings, she dined at the Rusty Ale, a tavern in the neighborhood of the Guild of the Vine that catered to the smiths, where she might join a few of the other master smiths or sit in solitude at a small table in a shadowed corner. Increasingly, she considered finding a small flat to rent in a neighborhood near the House of the Míretanor, something unheard of for a young woman or man of her station.

 

When she did find herself at home, the atmosphere was cordial enough but charged with the unspoken. She and Father affected a studied politeness with one another while Mother looked on, increasingly annoyed by their contrived courtesy. Her parents were prone to pillow talk, so she assumed Aulendil had told Culinen of the confrontation, if not of the exact nature of the project. She overheard them arguing in muffled tones in the parlor behind a closed door as she passed by on the way to her quarters. She did not pause to eavesdrop on their latest battle, but she knew it was about her.

 

Culinen became overly solicitous, her typical response when tension thrummed between her husband and her daughter, but a marked contrast to her far more stern behavior with the masters and the apprentices in the House of the Heart. Her mother meant well, but it drove Mélamírë mad with irritation.

 

So it continued until the trees dropped their flowers and new leaves unfurled from the branches. The late afternoon sun of the waning days of spring shone through her window, suffusing her office with golden light. She was scribbling equations on a slate when a knock on the doorjamb alerted her to another's presence. Istyar Aulendil stood in the entry, his tall frame only inches short of the top of the door. He held a courier's tube in his left hand. This was the first time he had set foot in her office for almost two months.

 

"Good afternoon, Istyar Aulendil." She made an effort to avoid sounding pleased — and perhaps a little vindicated — that he was there. Maybe now was the time for his explanation and, she hoped, his apology.

 

"Good afternoon to you, too, Master Naryen."

 

The grin on his face gave credence to the expression of the cat that got the cream. Shutting the door behind him, he pulled up a chair to sit in front of her desk and extended the leather tube to her.

 

"Here, this arrived for you at mid-day. Special delivery."

 

"Special delivery?"

 

"Yes. An eagle brought it."

 

Her eyebrows rose. Very few could summon an eagle of the Misty Mountains to serve as a courier.

 

"It looks to be from Galadriel," she said, examining the device on the brass medallion of the cap.

 

"So it is. Aren't you going to read it?"

 

"I beg your patience, Istyar."

 

"Patient? When am I ever patient?" He leaned back in the chair, legs splayed and relaxed, but that knowing grin remained on his face.

 

Mélamírë broke the seal of red wax around the edges of the cap and extracted the roll of parchment inside and read:

 

 

Dear Master Naryen,

 

I am writing to request a commission from one whom Celebrimbor names as "the most talented young smith among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, bar none." That was how he described you in answer to my earlier query, when I asked him if a certain matter of craft I desire might be attained. He demurred from the project himself, claiming another commitment, but assures me that you are more than an adequate substitute. He speaks highly of your ability to meld practical applications of metallurgy with abstract theory, and not least, of your imagination and knack for making connections that are not altogether obvious to others. I am therefore convinced that you are the smith to accomplish this task.

 

I desire a scrying device, and an exceptional one. In some respects, the artefact might bear some similarity to the palantíri of Aman, but in others, not at all. Although the far-seeing stones are useful for communication, they tap into visions of the past only because prior messages, if you will, accumulate, eventually cluttering the stones. What I seek is a device that is not a means of communication, but one that flows with the very Currents of Time, a device by which the viewer can see not only what was, but also what is, and further, what will be, or at least the possibilities of the future.

 

Celebrimbor tells me that you have a good understanding of the principles behind those that your mutual forefather used when he crafted the palantíri, which may be applicable to this new instrument, but I expect you will need to bring other theories to bear as well. So there is your challenge.

 

You will likely need to obtain rare metals from Hadhodrond for your work. Celebrimbor notes you are comfortable around the Dwarves and even speak some of their tongue. That is good, for they are a shrewd, crafty people, and it heartens me that you are not prejudiced against them as some of our folk are.

 

I shall provide compensation for your labors and materials. Celebrimbor informs me that you do not as yet have an apprentice. I encourage you to rectify that as swiftly as you are able. The stipend I provide should prove attractive to a couple of young would-be smiths.

 

I do have conditions. I shall not place a limit of time on the completion of the device's construction. Celebrimbor writes that your imagination leads you along many paths, so that you are not always focused on a single project, but often are engaged in several at any given time. I do not see that as a disadvantage, for ideas in one area may lead to breakthroughs in another. However, I have the expectation that you will send me progress reports at regular intervals.

 

My other condition is this: save for your apprentices' assistance, you and only you shall work on the design and construction of this device. Of course, you may solicit ideas and gather information from others, but I do not want the hands of Annatar, or for that matter, those of Celebrimbor on this artifact. I have my reasons, but some are best left unsaid. I will say this, however: I understand well what it is like to work at such endeavors of craft among men, and how easy it is for them to overshadow a woman. By making it clear that neither your father nor your cousin should have a hand in the construction of this device, I hope to put you in a position so that you, a promising young woman, may take all the credit.

 

I hope that you will accept the commission, and I eagerly await your response.

 

Cordially,

 

The Lady Galadriel Artanis Nerwen Arafiniel of Lindórinand

 

 

 

Mélamírë read the letter thrice over before she raised her eyes to Istyar Aulendil.

 

"I take it that this is good news?"

 

"It is good, I think." She handed him the letter. He read it through, frowning once. Mélamírë surmised that he must have taken umbrage at Galadriel's conditions. He gave the letter back to her, and his face had softened into that of her father, not the demanding, impatient Istyar.

 

"Did you know about this? That Galadriel would request my assistance? I thought that she and Tyelpo were…well, if not estranged, then cool toward one another. I know how you feel about her!"

 

He looked past her and out the window at the light, now taking a reddish hue as the sun sank in the West. "There's a long history of hurt feelings between those two, from the personal to the political, yet they cannot let go of one another. For my part, I do not dislike her although she would not say the same of me. Let's just say that Galadriel and I don't see eye-to-eye and leave it at that. That doesn't mean I do not respect her." He returned his gaze to her. "But to answer your question, yes, I knew that Galadriel made this inquiry of Tyelpo and of his response. This is a wonderful opportunity for you, meldyanna. You should accept it."

 

"It's daunting, the idea of tapping into the Currents of Time. The curwë for such a scrying device has not even been invented."

 

He sat up in the chair, no longer relaxed, but invigorated, as he always was when his mind's wheels started spinning. "Then you shall be the one to invent it. I can help. . ." he raised his forefinger to still her protest. ". . .I can help in a manner that is acceptable to Galadriel: simply the sharing of ideas. I have made notes on the mathematics of temporal oscillations; you may have them for reference. The materials? I will leave that up to you to discover, but my suggestion — and it is an important one — is to use water as the medium."

 

"Why water?"

 

"Because water is central to all life in Eä, not only here on Endórë. Ilúvatar may have released the Imperishable Flame to expand through the universe when it came into being, but He brought forth the seeds of life by watering them. Water has unusual properties: its essential components — the one and the two — resonate in a harmony that makes ice expand and steam float, that coats the cells in our bodies, supports the very thoughts within our brains. That harmony will allow your invention to link with the mind and act as a conduit to call upon the Threads of Vairë."

 

She felt a tingle of both fear and excitement when she thought of the Threads, those bizarre strings of…well, she wasn't quite sure what they were. She just knew that by virtue of the Maiarin blood she had inherited from her father, she could visualize the things. The Threads, Father had taught her, resonated not only in this manifestation of Eä, but touched upon others, too, a concept that she found unnerving: that there might be many versions of herself living at any given moment in Middle-earths that might obey different laws than this one did. The Threads crossed not only Space, he said, but Time as well. He had explained them to her as probabilities, not certainties, and to be wary of the visions they showed. It was only when Vairë the Weaver plucked them from the multitudes of being that the probabilities became locked in this world as past and present.

 

Calling upon the Threads was never easy, and invariably she was nauseated, sometimes violently ill, afterward. But he had trained her to see them even if it was an exercise in which she engaged infrequently. Sometimes the visions were too terrifying and alien to process.

 

"Yes. The Threads of Vairë," she said. "I see what you mean. But it is one thing to follow them twisting among the stars when you are at my side, helping me to see them. It is another to apply the principles to a material object. Have you derived equations that describe the Threads and their behavior?"

 

He shook his head. "I have attempted to do so, but I have not arrived at definitive solutions. That will be your province. I will do what I can to assist you, but I am in agreement with Galadriel: this must be your work, not Tyelpo's, not mine. You should use her commission to step out of our shadows."

 

"Then you deem the project worthy of a woman's touch?"

 

He winced with no small drama. "Ouch. That stung."

 

"Oh, stars' dung, Father! Don't you think it hurt when you and Tyelpo told me that I was unsuitable to work on the Rings because I am a woman?"

 

"Of course, I knew it hurt. It cut you to the core."

 

"Then why?"

 

He did not hesitate in his answer. "Because the curwë we will apply to the Rings could put you in real danger. It is untried and given the way it works with the mind and body, it might cause harm. I cannot expose you to that."

 

"Yet you would subject another man's child to these dangers?"

 

"That is different. You are my daughter."

 

So Celeborn is right.  He is being overly protective.  

 

He rubbed his chin; she could almost hear the gears of his thought clicking and whirring.  "There is something else, too."

 

"What is that?"

 

"The Rings will be…how shall I put this?"  He furrowed his brows briefly, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. "They will be designed in accordance with our race, yet attuned to Dwarves and Men as well, so we, the Firstborn, might utilize their distinctive talents to augment our own. Tyelpo and I believe this is a means to elevate all of the Eruhíni as a means to heal Middle-earth of Melkor's predations.  The Rings will also allow us — the Firstborn — to maintain our place in the world and continue to build our own land of Eregion as a mirror of Aman, even to rival it. But to achieve this, the Ringmakers must study and delve into the minds of the Followers, meaning men as well as women. I'm not sure that a man's mind is a place I want my daughter to be."

 

"I can understand your concern about untried curwë harming me, but as for the male mind? I am no innocent maiden, Father."

 

"Yes, I am aware that there may be some question as to whether you would qualify as one of Nienna's gaggle of virgins. It's not knowledge a father relishes."

 

She felt her face grow hot, unable to staunch the flush that set her cheeks aflame.  That memory of Father opening the door of the closet, where she and Sartanor had hidden, her young lover's eager cock clasped firmly in her hand, was still as vivid as the day it had happened, and Father had surely made astute guesses about Falmantur. She had studiously avoided any dalliances with men — mortal or Firstborn — since then. She willed the betraying blood to drain from her cheeks.

 

"Neither your fear that I might be harmed nor your worry that I might be exposed to unsavory masculine thoughts are particularly good excuses, Father, and that is what they are — excuses," she said. He opened his mouth to protest, but she stopped him by brandishing Galadriel's letter. "That said, I believe this may be compensation for your lack of faith in me."

 

This time, the hurt in his face did not appear to be feigned. "You are wrong. I have faith in you," he said. "But feel free to judge me ridiculous because I only wish to protect you."

 

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty? Because you will not succeed."

 

He laughed. "No, I suspect I will not.  Galadriel has faith in you, too, and to have her favor is no small thing. In fact, I believe I envy you that. Now…shall we go home? Perhaps we might have a glass of wine together before Calennur sets out supper. He will be ecstatic to have you at the table once again."

 

She studied him, her brilliant, often proud, often stubborn, sometimes frightening, and always demanding father. This was as good as it would get as far as capitulation to her outrage was concerned. "Yes," she said. "I'd like that."

 

Mélamírë rolled up the letter and placed in the side drawer of her desk. He offered his arm to her, but she took his hand instead, entwining her fingers through his.

 

"I love you, Father."

 

He responded with nothing more than a squeeze of her hand and a smile, but it was a glorious smile, and that was all she needed. Then they left, and at that moment, all was right with her world.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

-------------------------

Polkincë — my best guess from polka, "pig" in JRRT's Qenya Lexicon.

 

Culinen's proverb is, in fact, a proverb: Proverbs 26:17.

 

cammag - what the Sindar call a game very similar to hurling. In our primary world,cammag is played on the Isle of Man.  See A Rose by Any Other Name.

 

Arafiniel  — Galadriel's speculative patronymic, based on comments by JRRT in Parma Eldalamberon 17.

 

Aulendil describes water's ("the one and the two," that is, a single oxygen and two hydrogen atoms) dipole moment ("the harmony"); water really is a special molecule with unusual properties.

 

The Threads of Vairë are a wholly scientifictitious concept with lots of handwaving, derived from M-Theory, multiverses, and this wild and crazy stuff: Symphony of Science:  The Quantum World.

It would seem artist Daniel Govar might have a similar notion concerning Vairë the Weaver.

 

Chapter 3: Eagle of Iron

Told from the point of view of the boy whom Mélamírë met outside the gates of the city in the previous chapter.   Polkincë screws up his courage and goes to the House of the Míretanor as the lady smith requested, and he regains his name.  

Heads up for corporeal punishment of a child and bullying.

Read Chapter 3: Eagle of Iron

Faint light seeped through the crack of the curtains drawn across Polkincë's sleeping alcove. He flipped over on his back and rolled to sit up. He had not even been able to will himself into a waking dream, let alone sleep. Now that dawn was at hand, he no longer needed to play at slumber.

 

Snores rumbled beyond the curtain. He pushed aside the thick cloth to peek out into the room that served as his home's parlor and kitchen. Yes, there at the table sat the lump that was Da, clad in a many-times mended nightshirt, his head resting on his crossed arms, and an empty bottle beside him. The room's centerpiece, Da's livery of the Guard, hung nearby, its dark blue turned to black in the dim light. The emblem of the Guard, a smith's crossed hammer and tongs over an eight-pointed star, embroidered with precious mithril thread, gleamed even in the pre-dawn gloom. No matter how much Da drank, he was always so careful with his uniform. He let no one but Ma touch it.

 

Polkincë peered at the alcove where his parents slept, well, where only Ma slept mostly. The curtains were drawn back and the bed made. She had already left for her work at Lord Parmatëo's great house.

 

He let the curtains fall shut and ran his fingers through his hair, still damp from having doused himself in a fountain last night before he snuck into the apartment. He had been so careful, not even daring to piss in the chamber pot for fear of waking Ma. Sometimes she slept deeply; at other times, she hovered half-awake, her eyes open, teetering on the edge of a dream. Fortunately, she had been genuinely asleep when he came home, and as usual, Da was dead to the world.

 

The memory of last night erupted: Calardil holding the wine skin out of reach, the other boys laughing. Telling him to caper and then to take his clothes off and roll in the dirt. His face burned as the scene unfolded behind his closed eyes.

 

 Dance, Little Pig!  Dance!

 

It might have been worse. Calardil could have made me...no, no, do not think of that! Remember the lady smith. She said to come to the House of the Míretanor today. This morning.

 

This morning was now. With his thumb and forefinger, he picked at his nightshirt. What could he wear? The dirty clothes from last night were entirely unsuitable. He had another pair of trousers, clean, but uncomfortably tight, too tight really, thanks to his growth spurt last autumn. He did not want to be plucking them out of his arse all day. Perhaps his tunic and hose? Those were reserved for special occasions, like the Gates of Summer and the Longest Night. Still, he could not go to the House of the Smiths in dirty clothes.

 

He scooted off the bed and dropped to his knees onto the cold planks of the floor. Reaching under his bed, he grasped the handle of the chest that lurked in the dark. Slowly, so slowly, inch by inch, he pulled it toward him, trying not to make any noise because he did not want to risk waking Da. The chest, as if annoyed to be disturbed, squealed against the floor. Da let loose a mighty grunt. Polkincë froze. The chair Da sat on creaked, as if it were answering the chest.  Polkincë continued to hold his breath. He wasn't sure how much time passed before his father snorted, made a smacking noise with his lips, and the steady snores resumed.

 

Polkincë breathed again. He silently pleaded with the chest to be quiet as he pulled it toward him until it cleared the bedstead. The sweet scent of cedar rushed out when he lifted the lid and dug around to find his good clothes. He wormed his legs into the hose and pulled the tunic over his head, the velvet fabric soft against his skin.

 

He picked up his shoes from the corner and pushed back the curtain. The reek of brandy overwhelmed the fragrance of cedar. Da remained motionless. Polkincë tiptoed as quietly as he could across the floor. With a slow turn of the handle, he was out the door and padding along the corridor. No one was there, although he heard voices murmuring and dishes clinking behind closed doors as his neighbors readied for their day. He trotted down three flights of stairs and stopped to slip on his shoes before he stepped outside into the dank morning.

 

Heavy clouds obscured the dawn, and a few spits of rain dotted the cobblestones. He would have to hurry to avoid the rain, which could ruin his fine clothes, especially the velvet tunic.

 

The pressure at the pit of his belly threatened to burst, and so he ran toward the latrines. He turned the corner at the end of his street, which opened up into a small square where a low building sat. Men rushed into a door on one side of the building, and women to the other. Polkincë sidled up to the line of men and boys pissing into the common urinals and relieved himself. The release was bliss, and it was all he could do to keep from heaving a sigh. He washed his hands and face with cold water from the wide basin in the center of the square, ran his fingers through his hair again, and then off he went.

 

The banners of the guilds along North Street hung limp in the damp air, their emblems dull in the grey morning. Many others passed him by, mostly grown-ups on their way to work in on this side of the city. Children of his age would be trudging up South Street to the House of Lore or its nearby squares where the street teachers held classes for those who could not afford the tuition of the loremasters' guild. It had been a good long while since Polkincë had attended a street class, and longer still since he had set foot in the House of Lore. The last time he had attended a class there was the week before his sister had been found dead in the mountains. After that, nothing had been the same.

 

He passed through the Iron Gates, then the Bronze. More men walked alongside him now: tall men, men of medium height, short men, but all of them had broad shoulders and muscular arms. Smiths. They must be smiths. There were boys, too, all older and bigger than he, who trotted along with purpose. A few looked at him with curiosity, but he recognized no one. A few more blocks, and he arrived at the Gates of Silver where he looked past the gates to an open square with a fountain and a statue in its center, and beyond that, the House of the Míretanor.

 

Polkincë had walked by the Gates of Silver a few times, but he had never passed through them. He shivered and not just from the cold damp that snaked through the fabric of his tunic. His legs twitched, wanting to carry him away and back home. Da might be waking up though, and he would be cross. He always was after drinking so much brandy. Polkincë risked a cuffing if he went home now, followed by a lecture from Da on how lucky he was not to have been born a mortal boy, for their fathers beat them senseless, and wasn't Da civilized like a man of the Firstborn ought to be? Civilized or not, those smacks from Da's strong hands stung. No, he could not go home. The lady smith said to come here this morning. But where was she?

 

He did not know much about her, only that she was a smith and a lady of the nobility. But she had offered an assistant's job to him. Polkincë. The little pig. He had a feeling that once he stepped through these gates, his life would never be the same again. For better or worse, he did not know, but the promise of two coppers a week made it worth his while. So with a deep breath, he sucked courage into his heart and walked into the square.

 

However, his bravery failed him when he climbed the stairs and reached the threshold of the smiths' domain. The huge doors were shut, and he could see their decorations embossed on the wood panels. The designs told the story of how Aulë sang the substances of the earth into being. Swirls of precious metals and gemstones formed the pictures. Aulë himself was made of gold, his hair and beard flowing with red garnets and yellow topaz, like the flames he held in his hands. Oh, this was grand, too grand really. How could he, the Little Pig, so small and mean, pass into such a place?

 

Yet the lady smith had said to come ask for her and that she would give him work. He watched the men and boys who were entering through a smaller pair of doors set within the larger. He would have to enter with them and ask for her. He couldn't bring himself to do it. He was not worthy. He was only the son of a guard and a housemaid, not from one of the families of the guilds, like the boys who passed through the smaller doors.

 

He turned around, thinking that he could just run back down the stairs and out onto the street. He could forget about all this. A drop of rain hit his face, then another. Dark blotches appeared on his velvet tunic. He was about to run down the steps and flee when he saw a cloaked and hooded figure, slighter in stature than many of the men, walk past the gates with a gait that was graceful rather than swaggering. He remained right where he was, and she walked up the stairs, stopped before him, and threw back her hood. He looked up into grey eyes fringed with thick, black lashes.

 

"You're here after all," she said, sounding surprised. She placed her hand on his shoulder. "Come with me."

 

She led him right up to the small doors that another smith held open for her and guided him through a confusing set of corridors until they entered a large room with one wall that was all windows, and the others lined with benches, shelves, and cabinets. A jumble of copper, steel, and tin, glass jars, and wooden boxes was crammed on those benches and shelves. All manner of instruments and tools were scattered about and hanging from hooks on the wall, some familiar like pliers and hammers, but others wholly strange.

 

"Welcome to my workshop," she said, taking off her cloak and handing it to him. He stood dumbly. What did she want him to do with her cloak? She arched an eyebrow and nodded toward the entry of the chamber. "The hook is on the other side of the door."

 

He ran to the door and stood on tiptoe to hang the cloak up on the brass hook. When he turned around, she had already seated herself at a stool at the bench and motioned for him to come to her.

 

"Now I want to ask you something. What is your name, lad?"

 

"Polkincë, m'lady."

 

"No, I mean your real name. The one your mother gave you."

 

"Thorno, m'lady. That is to say, Thornangor."

 

She smiled, pleased, it seemed to him. "Thornangor it is then. That is who you shall be in the House of the Míretanor: the eagle of iron. Now fetch me some hot tea. Black."

  

"Yes, m'lady...but I...where..."

 

"Ah, of course. You have no idea where to go." She looked toward the door and called out: "Macilion!"

 

A boy, who had been rushing by, stopped in his tracks and poked his head into the room. "Yes, Master Naryen?"

 

"See here, lad. This is Thornangor. It's his first day as my assistant. I'd like you to show him around. First order of business: black tea." She pointed toward a stained ceramic mug that might have been white at some point in its history. Thorno grasped its handle and went to join the boy. "Now be off with both of you."

 

Macilion looked to be older than he by some years, and his voice cracked now and then, but he had a friendly face framed by wavy brown hair. "Come on now...Thornangor? Is that right?"

  

Thornangor! I can be Thornangor now! "Yes, sir, that's right. Or Thorno, if you'd like."

 

"Sir? No need to call me sir. I'm just an assistant."

 

"Oh. Who is your master?"

 

"Istyar Tyelperinquar," Macilion answered, his crackly voice now ringing with pride. "But I am just one of many in his shop. I sometimes don't have enough to do."

 

"Why are there so many?"

 

"Because everyone wants to work for Istyar Tyelperinquar, you goose! If you're an assistant for a master, that helps you get an apprenticeship with him."

 

"An apprenticeship? Do you want to be a smith?"

 

"Yes! Don't you?"

 

He hadn't really considered it. Ma wanted him to be a scribe, but once Terénel was lost and Da started drinking, there had not been enough money for Thorno to continue studying in the House of Lore. Da complained that becoming a scribe was too fancy for the likes of him anyway, and that he should become a guard like him. But a smith. A boy had to be very smart to be a smith.

 

"I...I don't know. I hadn't thought much about it, I guess."

 

"You hadn't thought much about it? How did you get the job then?"

  

"The lady...Master Naryen offered it to me."

 

"She did? Huh. Well, then, here we are." They arrived at a room where, at long sideboards, smiths were pouring steaming hot tea into cups and mugs. A couple of women were also attending them. Macilion elbowed Thorno, who held out the lady smith's mug. The servant filled it with steaming hot tea.

 

He followed Macilion back to Master Naryen's workshop, trying not to let the hot tea slosh out of the mug while the older boy hurried him along. The master smith was assembling what looked like a nest of tiny brass gears and crystals. She didn't even look up when she took the mug from him.

 

"You'll find the broom and the dustpan in the closet. Macilion, you may go, but come back at mid-day to take Thornangor to luncheon."

  

"Yes, m'lady!" Before Macilion left, he winked at Thorno. "I'll see you later."

 

Sweeping was just the first of his tasks. He was also expected to dust with a rag that might have once been a shirt in the First Age. The work was harder than he expected, because there were so many objects crammed onto the shelves, and it had been a long time since they were last dusted. He sneezed a few times until Master Naryen told him to open a window. He thought he would struggle to lift it because it was so tall, but it slid open easily. The dust was sucked outside into the rain.

 

Macilion returned as instructed at mid-day and took him to a large hall with a high ceiling and many long tables arranged along its length. These were filled with men and boys although women and maids brought food and drink to the tables. Thorno ate a hot beef stew with brown bread, crusty on the outside, and tender on the inside. It was the best meal he had eaten in months.

 

That afternoon, Macilion led him all over the House of the Míretanor delivering messages from Master Naryen to the other masters and showing him around in the process. The House was not just one structure but a complex of many buildings, which included the forges, some of which were not much more than a roof over vented furnaces outdoors, but others were housed in a vast chamber filled with a thrumming roar, which Macilion said was the sound of the fires and the bellows. Thorno found it all very overwhelming, but Macilion knew exactly where to go.

 

Later, Thorno was dusting a set of bottles filled with strange fluids when Master Naryen called to him.

  

"You may go home, Thorno."

 

He looked at the windows to see the crimson sky of sunset. Bluish-white lamplight now lit the workshop.

  

"I can stay longer, m'lady."

 

"Those bottles will be waiting for you in the morning. I expect your mother would like to see you tonight."

 

Thorno felt heat creep into his cheeks. It was true. He had not spoken to Ma for days. She had been away at work, but then he had been avoiding her, too. He couldn't bear the sadness that had lodged in her blue eyes. He put the broom and dustpan away in the closet. Before he could take a step out the door, the master smith called to him yet again.

 

"And Thorno? Do not wear your fancy clothes to work again. This is a dirty job."

 

For the first time, he took notice of what the master smith wore. She was dressed in man's trousers, the wool fabric of good, tight weave, but pocked with burn marks and splotches of oil. Likewise, stains blotched her leather bodice and the linen blouse she wore beneath it. He looked down at his tunic and hose, now dusty and smudged. Maybe he could brush off the dirt. He hoped so. Ma would not be pleased at all that he had mussed his good clothes.  He might as well have worn his filthy shirt and trousers from last night.

 

"Yes, m'lady."

 

Thorno followed the other smiths who were leaving and stepped out into the evening, now clean and fresh after the rain clouds had spent themselves against the mountains. The last rays of the sun peeped above the horizon. He went out to North Street. He had not gone far when he heard a guffaw.

 

"Hey there, Little Pig!"

 

Calardil! Thorno flinched. Please, no. Not now. He took only a few steps before the older boy had grabbed his arm. He jerked away and heard a ripping sound. Another boy lunged at him, and he was caught. Calardil and his cronies dragged him into an alleyway and soon he was stumbling back and forth within a circle of laughing boys, who pushed and taunted him with a sing-song "Dance, Little Pig! Dance!" Calardil gave him an especially hard shove, and he fell onto rough gravel. Fire shot up from his hands and knees.

  

"Hey! Hey! Stop!" A boy's angry voice rebounded off the walls along the alley, and through the fog of pain and humiliation, Thorno heard footsteps pounding. Then Macilion was at his side, helping him to his feet.

  

"What do you think you're doing?" Calardil snarled, his fists bunching. "I ought to..." but his words were cut short. Through his tears, Thorno saw Calardil and his cronies scatter, but not before a tall man caught Calardil by the scruff of his neck. The man must have held him hard, for Calardil visibly winced. The man leaned over, his face inches from the youth's snub nose. Thorno could not hear what was said, only that Calardil's face went white, and that the boy fled like a scared rabbit when the man released him. The man knelt down beside Thorno.

 

"Are you all right?" The man's eyes, dark in the twilight, were full of concern.

 

"I...I think so." Then Thorno looked down at his knees. His hose were torn and blood seeped through the dirt ground into his skin. "Oh, no!"

 

"Don't worry. We will wash your knees at the Fountain of Estë. Your clothing can be repaired, I think," said the man, who, although young, looked very strong. "Or you might just buy a new pair of hose."

 

"No, I cannot! I don't have the money. Ma will kill me!" He didn't even want to think of what Da might do to him.

 

Then all the anger and shame that he had suffered at Calardil's hands poured out of him, and he bawled like a baby. Macilion patted his hand while the young man put his arm around him.

 

"Don't cry!" said the young man. "And don't be silly. Your mother will not kill you! They are only clothes. Here..." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin that glinted silver in the failing light. He pried open Thorno's fingers and pressed it into his palm. "That should buy a new pair of hose and pay for the repairs of your tunic."

 

Thorno snuffled and stared at the coin. A tyelpilin could buy much more than hose. This was more money than he had seen in his life. But he had done nothing to earn it. Just had been pushed around and shamed. Dance, Little Pig! Dance! He remembered what Da had said when he brought home two loaves of bread that old Parthros the baker had given him: "What is this? Charity? Don't I provide for my family?" Then he had cuffed Thorno — hard — but the bread was eaten all the same.

 

"I cannot take this, m'lord." He tried to give it back to the man.

 

"Yes, you can. And you will." The tone in the man's voice said there would be no more argument. He again pressed Thorno's fingers around the coin. "Macilion and I were on our way home, but we will walk with you. I insist."

 

So he went with Macilion and the tall young man. First, they made him sit down by the Fountain of Estë where the man pulled a clean kerchief out of his pocket and, with the healing waters of the fountain, bathed his bleeding knees. He looked at the man's thick brown hair, bound back in a plait that shone like bronze in the light of the street lamps.  His wounds stung when the man started cleaning them, but soon the pain eased with the chill of the pure water that came all the way down from the mountains.

 

Then they walked on and passed the neighborhood where Macilion and his tall companion lived. Thorno recognized it as the neighborhood where many of the stonemasons dwelt. He glanced down the street that led into the neighborhood with its tidy homes built from granite and limestone blocks carefully fitted together. He thought of his neighborhood with its many apartments and all its noises and smells. How could he let his rescuers, who must come from fine families, see where he lived?

 

"I'm fine, m'lord. I can get home by myself." 

 

"I said that we are taking you home, lad. Don't argue."

  

So on they went, walking along the streets where lampwrights touched the lights and murmured a word to make them glow blue before they hung them back on poles, or where they lit oil lamps made of brass and glass, driving the darkness into the alleyways of the city. They came to the neighborhood of tenements where the laborers of the city lived. Thorno wanted to bolt again when they reached the entrance to his building, but in they went. At least the stairwells and corridors had been swept, but the smell of frying food was thick. What if Ma was home? Or Da? The very idea of what Da might do when he saw the torn hose made Thorno shudder. Maybe this time he would forget that he was a man of the Firstborn and beat him senseless like a poor mortal boy.

  

When the young man with the bronze hair knocked on the door of the apartment, Ma answered. Da was nowhere to be seen. She took in Thorno with a swift scan head to foot. She leaned down and put her hands on his shoulders.

  

"Oh, Thorno! What happened?"

 

"Some young rascals were shoving him around," said the young man. "They won't be bothering him again though."

 

"Thank you, m'lord..."

  

"Please, not 'm'lord.'  I am Sámaril. An apprentice of the Otornassë Míretanoron."

  

"Oh! You are Master Orontáro's son, are you not?"

 

"I am, my lady. Please don't scold Thorno for his clothes. He seemed very worried about that. I have given him something that should help replace them."

  

Thorno understood then. The coin was not just for him. It was for his family. He held out the tyelpilin to Ma, and her blue eyes widened.

  

"We cannot take this, Master Sámaril."

  

"I would be grieved if you did not, my lady, and my mother and father would surely insist."

 

With no further protest, Ma plucked the coin from Thorno's open palm and tucked it into the pocket of her apron. She thanked Sámaril and Macilion, calling upon Nienna to bless them for their kindness. As soon as the door shut, Thorno flinched, expecting a tongue-lashing from her, but instead she dropped to her knees and hugged him close. He felt her trembling and realized that she was crying. She pulled back, tears streaking her cheeks.

 

"I am so sorry, my little love. I have not been here for you. But I want you to tell me what you have been doing. Everything. Why did you go out dressed in your finery?"

 

Once released, his words spilled like a rushing torrent out of the foothills. He told her all that had happened to him for the past several months, maybe longer, maybe even since the news that his sister's journey to Lindórinand to join her betrothed had ended in tragedy. He told Ma how he skulked at the market when his belly was empty, how he avoided the street classes because he felt so ashamed that he was poor. He told her of the nights when Calardil and the other boys bullied him, although he could not bring himself to tell her everything about that. Ma's eyes filled again with tears, but she encouraged him to keep talking. He finally came to the reason why he wore his tunic and hose.

 

"My other clothes were dirty, Ma, and I needed to look nice when I went to the House of the Míretanor today."

 

"Why did you go there?"

 

"Because I have a job!" The excitement that rose in his voice could not be contained. "I am Master Naryen's assistant!"

 

Ma's eyes widened again. "Master Naryen?"

 

Thorno nodded.

  

"First Master Orontáro's son brings you home, and now you tell me that the great lady of the House of Fëanáro has employed you? How did you come to keep company in such high circles?"

  

"I...I am not sure. They found me, I guess." He told her of meeting Master Naryen on the road last night.

 

Ma's smile lit the dim room. "Well, I am glad of it!" She hugged him again, but when she released him, her face was somber once more. "But we cannot afford an apprenticeship for you, my love, even if you want to become a smith. I can make sure your clothes are clean though."

  

"What about Da?"

  

Ma pressed her lips together before she answered, her voice firm. "Don't you worry about your father. I will deal with him."

 

The next morning, Thorno arrived at the House of the Míretanor in his trousers and shirt, still a little damp from having been washed last night, but clean. The first thing he did was fetch hot tea for his master and then set to dusting the bottles and performing the other chores that she had listed on a tattered piece of parchment. That evening, before he went home, she gave him a parcel wrapped in cloth and tied with string.

 

"Here. Sámaril left this with me and wants you to have it."

 

Thorno wondered what it might be, because the package was so thick and soft.  He ran home. Ma was there, and they sat together on his bed. She watched while he untied the package. In it were folded three pairs of trousers, four shirts, and a dark green jacket. All looked a bit worn, but they were made of good fabric. He and Ma found initials embroidered with gold thread on the inner collar of the jacket and realized it and the other clothes must have belonged to Sámaril when he was younger and smaller.

 

"That is very generous of Master Sámaril!" Ma held one of the shirts up against Thorno. "Yes, these should fit, and if not, I can make a few adjustments."

 

A few days later, Ma took him to the House of the Loom where they picked out a new tunic of midnight blue velvet, even nicer than his other one, which they left with a seamstress to be repaired and cleaned, and they bought grey woolen hose to replace the torn pair. Thorno also insisted that Ma buy a silk scarf for herself, a beautiful sky-blue color that matched her eyes and its fabric as light and airy as a spider's web.

 

It took a good two weeks before Da noticed that Thorno wore new clothes. It had been a rare evening when both his parents were at home as Da had not yet left to go to the tavern with his comrades.

 

"What's that you have on, boy? Haven't seen those before."

 

"Uh..."

 

But Ma intervened. "Sámaril Orontárion gave those to him. Thorno has work at the House of the Míretanor now. Best that he doesn't show up looking like a ragamuffin."

  

"Taking charity from Master Orontáro's son, are you? And the House of the Míretanor? You're reaching beyond your station, Polkincë!"

 

The hated name burned his ears. Little Pig! Dance, Little Pig! He bunched his hands into fists.

  

"Thornangor. My name is Thornangor."

 

"Talk back to me, will you?" Da drew his hand back, and Thorno braced himself for stinging pain, but in a flash, Ma clasped Da's wrist with her slender but strong hand.

 

"You will not strike him again. Ever."

  

Da's open hand closed into a fist. "Release me, woman! Or I shall..."

 

"You shall what?" Ma's voice was soft but dangerous.

 

Ma and Da's eyes remained locked, and Ma's arm trembled against Da's strength, but she did not release him. Da's face was a mess of fury and confusion. Then Ma broke the crackling silence.

 

"Thornangor is Master Naryen's assistant. I needn't tell you just who Master Naryen is, do I?"

 

Da's expression changed from anger to astonishment, and his arm relaxed. Ma released her grip.

 

"The scion of the First Prince," Da whispered.

 

"Yes," said Ma, "The daughter of Lady Culinen and Istyar Aulendil. The cousin of Istyar Tylperinquar. You know how powerful that family is. This is good fortune for us. Maybe the best we have had for a long time."

  

Da stared at Thorno as if he were a stranger. "Very well, boy. But mind yourself around your betters and don't get any foolish ideas." Then he popped open the cork of the brown bottle, and the room filled with the scent of cheap brandy.

 

~*~

 

The days of spring passed into summer. Master Naryen paid him every week, and Thorno gave his coins to Ma, who squirreled them away with her own money so that Da could not spend it, as he did all his own pay, on brandy. Two coppers a week was no insignificant sum when added to Ma's wages, and things at home improved. The food she set on the table was better, and she was home more often in the evening. Da even smiled now and then, and once Thorno glimpsed a soft look exchanged between his parents that made him hope a little, but he squelched that. It did not pay to set one's hopes too high.

 

Thorno continued his chores for Master Naryen. He dusted, swept, fetched tea, delivered messages and carried parcels to the other masters, not only in the House of the Míretanor, but also to the other guilds, even to the House of the Heart where Lady Culinen was the guild master. At first, he was a little scared of Lady Culinen and her stern, commanding voice, until she thanked him for the message from her daughter and told him to take a peach from the basket of fruit that was always in her office. Thorno discovered another benefit to his work: the treats that the recipients of Master Naryen's messages and parcels would give him. He especially liked going to the Guild of Corn where he was given hot rolls and sometimes honey cakes. Macilion often accompanied him on these errands and otherwise sought out his company, and they became friends.

 

One of Thorno's duties was to organize and sort the many small parts like bolts, screws, and gears that Master Naryen used for her trade. He especially enjoyed this task, and when Master Naryen was not in the workshop, he fitted these parts together to make little devices. He often fixed things for Ma at home, and he was good at it. It was a game to him: which part fitted best here or there, like a puzzle that wealthier children had. Then he would take the gears and screws apart and file the pieces away in drawers and cubbyholes of the cabinets so that his game would not be discovered.

 

One afternoon, he became so caught up in fitting a series of brass gears together and connecting them to a small lever that the sounds of voices at the door of the workshop took him by surprise. Leaping off the stool at the bench, he scurried into the broom closet just as the door of the workshop swished open. He heard Master Naryen's voice and a man's deep, smooth tones. A thrill shot up his spine. Istyar Aulendil! Thorno had only seen and heard the great smith from a distance. Now only the door separated him from the man said to have been in Aulë's train, and whose talent, some smiths argued, might rival that of Fëanáro himself.

 

Then Thorno's heart was in his throat. In his rush to the closet, he had left his puzzle of gears and levers, as well as the tiny screwdriver, right there in plain sight. There was no hope that it would not be noticed, and this was confirmed when the Istyar spoke.

 

"What's this?"

 

"Oh!" Master Naryen laughed, a pleasant sound. "My assistant did that. He thinks I don't know that he plays about with the tools and such."

  

She knew! And here he thought he had been so careful until now! Yet she sounded cheerful, not angry. Thorno slumped with relief.

  

"Your assistant? Do you mean that boy who follows you around like a kitten?"

 

"That would be Thornangor."

 

Neither Master Naryen nor the Istyar spoke. Thorno strained his ears to try to hear what was happening. The closet was hot and stuffy. Thorno felt a trickle of nervous sweat glide down his neck.

 

"This is impressive," said the Istyar at last. "Shows not only a good grasp of mechanics but a true subtlety of thought. I do believe that you have found your apprentice."

  

Apprentice? Does he mean me?

 

"But he is so young," said Master Naryen.

 

"Do you think so? How many sun-years has he seen?"

 

"Twelve, I believe."

 

"And how old were you, my dear, when you first put hammer to steel?"

 

"I was four years old, but..."

 

"Well, there you have it!" The deep voice paused. "Come on out, lad. I know you're in there."

 

Now his heart skipped a beat. He could not pretend he did not hear the Istyar's command. He would have to face them. Thorno opened the door and stared at his feet as he shuffled toward the master smith and the Istyar.

 

"What do you think, lad? How would you like to be Master Naryen's apprentice?"

 

He continued to stare at his battered shoes. Here he had been prepared for punishment for playing with the tools and parts and that Master Naryen would tell him to leave the House of the Míretanor. Instead, he was being offered something that other assistants coveted.

 

An apprentice! Me! And for Master Naryen! She might be young and not have the reputation of the Istyari or the other grand masters of the House of the Míretanor, but Thorno thought her very smart, and although her commands sometimes had a bite to them, she was also kind and fair. Then he remembered what Ma said. They hadn't the money to provide for such a position.

  

"I, uh...I cannot afford..."

 

"No, Thorno," Master Naryen said. "You needn't pay me. I will pay you. I have a benefactor, you see, and she has given me a stipend for an apprentice or two. Would you be interested? It will be hard work, and you must study, but I agree with Istyar Aulendil. I think you have the aptitude to do it."

  

Aptitude? He wasn't quite sure what she meant by that. But paid to be an apprentice? And to become a smith?

 

"Yes, m'lady. I would like that, if you'd have me."

  

Istyar Aulendil ruffled Thorno's hair with his large hand. "Then it's settled. Very good. Send your kitten to Master Naiteser. I daresay he needs some tutoring."

 

The right side of the lady smith's mouth angled into a half-smile, and she shook her head while she watched the Istyar stride out of the workshop. Something occurred to Thorno, something dreadful, and before he could stop himself, he blurted it out:

 

"M'lady? You won't be calling me 'Kitten,' will you?"

 

Master Naryen laughed. "Don't worry, I won't! You'll always be 'Thornangor' to me. We'll talk about next steps, but for now? I am very much in need of tea."

  

He grabbed the stained mug. "Yes, m'lady!" And off he went to perform his first task as the apprentice of Master Naryen.

       

 

---

Chapter End Notes

This chapter provides what hopefully is a major background story for Thornangor, an original character who appears in my other works, cf. The Elendilmir.  Also, Sámaril, the protagonist of The Apprentice and The Elendilmir makes an appearance here. Insofar as Da's brutish treatment of Thorno and the bullying by Calardil and his cronies are concerned, I realize there is a school of thought in Tolkien fandom that prefaces arguments against less than idealized behaviors on the part of the Firstborn as "Elves would never..."  One needs to remember that Eöl was not exactly Father of the Year, and that there are plenty of other instances of cruelty on the part of Elves throughout The Silmarillion.

 

The class differences that exist in Ost-in-Edhil of the Pandë!verse are highlighted here, a stratification that I think is consistent with Tolkien's very obvious class structures depicted in his legendarium. I have wanted to address this for a good long while now. Bear in mind that the living standard of the Elves of Ost-in-Edhil is likely quite high compared to the other, less fortunate denizens of Middle-earth, so "poverty" is relative here.  A mortal peasant child of Minhiriath (land between the Baranduin and Gwathló rivers) might consider Thorno to be living in the lap of luxury.

 

On the use of "tenement," although in modern times, it is often used as a pejorative, its general meaning is a multi-occupancy building. The working class of ancient Rome lived in apartment buildings a.k.a. tenements.

 

"First Prince" refers to Fëanor and was nabbed from Oshun's story, cf. Chapter 5, Little Father of Five Times That Nerdanel Said 'Yes' and One Time She Did Not.  

 

Tyelpilin is a silver coin, from Tolkien's Qenya Lexicon, Parma Eldalamberon 12.

Chapter 4: A Scent of Distant Lands

A young Dwarf guides Mélamírë into the depths below Zirakzigil in search of a rare element; the dwarf-girl makes a surprising request of the elven-smith, reminding Mélamírë of a secret shared with Dísa, the girl's grandmother.  Meanwhile, in the land of Nurn, Mairon, while writing a letter home, is interrupted so that he may provide a cruel lesson of consequence to rebellious slaves.

Head's up for fleeting sexuality and for not-so-fleeting violence/torture.

Read Chapter 4: A Scent of Distant Lands

Stone raked across Mélamírë's back as she pulled herself forward with her elbows, now rubbed raw. The weight of the mountain pressed down upon her from above and squeezed her belly from its unfathomable roots below. Less an elf-woman than a thing of slime, she squirmed through this cool, wet hole in the Silvertine's bones. The pack trailing behind her caught on something; cursing under her breath, she wedged her arm between the mountain and her ribs to reach the rope attached to her waist and jerked to loosen the pack, then she crept forward once more.

 

By the light of the Dwarven-crystal bound to her brow, she saw the boots of her guide some ten to twelve feet ahead in the narrow passage. She struggled to keep up with the dwarf-girl. Aldís, for all her stoutness, was as slippery as an earthworm in these tight quarters, adept and confident, whereas Mélamírë continually stood guard over the panic that threatened to choke her.

 

A muffled but cheerful "Not much farther now!" made Mélamírë grit her teeth. The dwarf-girl had said that many times. The guide also passed wind with nearly as much frequency, an inevitable result of the copious amount of brown ale the Dwarves consumed. Mélamírë chided herself: she was none too fragrant after she drank the stuff, putting to rest the vulgarity so popular amongst the Dwarves: that Elves "shit roses and fart daisies."  The heady mix of flatulence, sweat, and the damp assaulted Mélamírë's nostrils, made all that much worse by her heightened senses straining in the dark. The limitations of sight and hearing had triggered her deeper perception, a peculiar ability that she did not speak of to others. Disconcerting as this was, she could not stop it, no more than she could stop the beating of her heart.

 

From the North and the South, she heard rivers rumbling as they coursed through channels carved by their lightless waters over thousands upon thousands of years.  Above that rumbling, the mellow bass of gold, the smooth mid-range of silver, and the achingly pure tones of mithril blended together in stately harmony, the remnants of Aulë's great hymn. Gemstones caught in rocks twittered and warbled like finches and robins in a hedgerow.

 

From the roots of the mountain came gnawing and chattering noises of the mysterious things that burrowed in the darkness. Far away, in a lake trapped in permanent night, something large and without bones made a horrid, squelching gurgle when it squeezed through an underwater crevasse, a loathsome noise that slithered through Mélamírë's very core. Rather than filtering out the cacophony of sounds, she listened harder, and much to her relief, she did not hear the stirrings of the Shadow that slumbered beneath the mountains.

 

Stars' blood! I should not think of that! Not now. She inched forward. Aldís' boots were now barely visible.

 

She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat, along with the memory of the expedition under Caradhras that had started off as if it were a picnic in a sunny meadow: Tyelpo and Father so cheerful and interested in everything, so eager that she learn something during this jaunt into the northern branch of the mines: Kali — the son of Narvi — proudly leading them; the darkness driven back by miners' bright lamps; Father's strong hand holding hers while she looked in wonder at the stone walls crazed with tiny silver veins of mithril. All had been well until they descended deep, and she became hot, burning up as if with a fever. Then came the horrifying vision of flame and shadow. . .

 

Gasping, she hurled the nightmarish memory into dark vaults of her thought and slammed the door shut.  Better to examine it — and contemplate just what the slumbering thing might be — in sunlight with a fresh breeze, and not in a tunnel that wormed its way beneath Celebdil the Cold. The stone raked against her back again. The mountain wanted to crush her, an Elf so impertinent as to invade his cold bowels. Celebdil was only moderately less cruel than his brother Caradhras.

 

Darkness had swallowed Aldís' boots, but Mélamírë heard her guide scooting against the stone, then a clambering sound as the dwarf-girl rose to her feet. Her voice echoed when she called out.

 

"Here we are, Master. Just a few feet more now."

 

This time, Aldís' encouragement bore fruit when Mélamírë was able to pull herself out of the tunnel and at last stand on her feet. Her elbows and knees throbbed, and her back practically sighed with relief. She took in a long breath of cool air, refreshingly free of dwarf flatulence. The air about them even stirred a little. Perhaps they were not as deep as she thought, or perhaps the miners had drilled an airshaft nearby.

 

They stood in a cavern, its rocky ceiling low enough to be lit from the lantern that Aldís ignited, but much higher than the top of Mélamírë's head. The dwarf-girl beckoned to her so she followed her along the periphery of the small cavern to a non-descript pile of rock.

 

"There. That is the ore. The black stuff."

 

Mélamírë pulled the small pickaxe from her pack. By all evidence, others had mined there before, but not much.  The element she sought was rare but not in high demand, more of a curiosity than anything else. She knew that a few Dwarven-clockmakers had experimented with it. She tapped at the stone. Here. There. One more tap and a chunk dislodged to clatter on the floor of the cavern. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands.

 

The black ore gleamed in the lantern light with a purplish luster. The sparse element within, when refined, did not impart strength to alloys nor was it of particular beauty. Yet to her and those Dwarven craftsmen who had an understanding of its properties, it was valuable. Mélamírë was now convinced that it was an essential element for the crafting of the scrying device for Lady Galadriel.

 

Before he left, Father had given her many of his papers, bound, neatly organized and catalogued, along with perhaps twenty rolled scrolls, all containing his notes on various arcane subjects that she might bring to bear on her commission. Most were barely decipherable, not because of his penmanship, which was exquisitely precise, but because the patterns of numbers and symbols that flowed across the pages were thoroughly unfamiliar to her. Nonetheless, she set herself to the task of trying to make sense of it all, shutting herself in her office for days and nights at a time, only looking up when Thorno brought tea or food to her. After one such long spell, Culinen appeared and did not brook Mélamírë's protest that she could not set aside her labors.

 

"You must come home," her mother said, wrinkling her nose. "And you must bathe." 

 

"Just this one last page, Mother. Then. . ."

 

"No, you shall put that aside now, or it will be one page and then another. Time enough to dabble with your numbers later."

 

"I'm not dabbling," Mélamírë snapped, sharper than she intended. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Ai! I'm sorry. You're right. I need to rest. It's just that these equations are so complex, and it's not clear to me how they connect with one another. I wish Father. . ." She caught herself for raising such a painful subject, but Culinen had already stepped to her side and stroked her hair.

 

"It is all right, my dear. I miss him, too. Very much." The look of longing in Mother's face was unmistakable. "Now come with me." And so they had returned to a home whose fabric was rent.

 

Mélamírë ran her fingers over the ore, already estimating the gradations of heat required to separate the element from the other metals. She could always turn to Tyelpo, she supposed, should the theories prove too obscure for her to parse. He and Father had worked so closely together that they could finish one another's sentences when they discussed the nature of Time and the arts of preservation. But she rejected the temptation to ask Tyelpo for help. This was to be her own work, and she was determined to accomplish it without relying on others, save for Thorno's assistance.

 

Still, she was grateful that Father had directed her to his notes. Most were written in Quenya, but some were in what she deduced to be Valarin or a language much like it. It had taken her the better part of two years to tease out the meanings from its phonetics, for she was no scholar of language. In the end, the words turned out to be the common tongue of smiths: that of materials and the abstractions behind them.

 

One scroll, written in the odd tongue, dealt with the nature of Time, something of keen interest to Father and Tyelpo. It was there that Mélamírë found a short discourse on materials that might be used to stir the Currents of Time, and that included the ore in her hand. She needed to refine it and blend the result into an admixture of metals and glass. But in what proportions? How must the exotic substance be aligned with the other materials? Those were only a few of the weighty questions she faced.

 

Aldís was busy gathering the ore that she stacked in a neat pile. The dwarf-girl whistled a cheerful tune as she worked. Stopping mid-whistle, she asked, "How much do you think you might carry out of here, my lady?"

 

"Twenty pounds," Mélamírë answered, throwing out an estimate, which assured the sturdy dwarf-girl would carry twice that out of the mines, for Dwarves were never to be outdone by Elves.

 

The two of them worked side-by-side until Mélamírë deemed the amount suitable. After they stuffed the stone in their packs, they sat down to rest and take refreshment before making the trek back to the light of the spacious Dwarven mansions. They drank from their water skins, tore at dried strips of meat, and ate handfuls of dried fruit. By the glow of the lantern, Aldís turned to Mélamírë, her amber eyes as mellow as honey beneath long brown lashes, so much like those of her grandmother.

 

"May I ask you something?"

 

"Of course."

 

"It is very bold."

 

"Your grandmother assures me that you are a very bold girl."

 

Aldís proved her grandmother right. "Will you kiss me?"

 

"What? Kiss you?"

 

"Yes. I. . ." she stammered. "You see, we, I mean, my friends and I, have heard that the kiss of an Elf gives you good luck.  Yes, good luck.  So I wonder…well, I wonder if that is true. And what it would feel like." Aldís' round cheeks flushed red as ripe apples.

 

Mélamírë leaned over and kissed the girl on the smooth skin above her golden-red beard. "So? How was that? I expect my kiss is little different than one from your own dear grandmother."

 

"No, but. . .that's not what I meant." The girl's voice became husky, and she paused to clear her throat. "I meant. . . on the lips. There is a tale, I have heard, that you once kissed Grandmother on the lips."

 

More than kissed. Mélamírë stifled the blood that threatened to rush to her face. She turned away from the girl to stare at the darkness beyond the lantern's light and concentrated on maintaining the illusion of cool detachment, so carefully cultivated by her people.

 

The touch of Aldís' beard, youthful and soft, had called to memory that afternoon when Mélamírë and the dwarf-girl's grandmother — Dísa — were both young, both so curious, both so eager to explore and experience new things, including one another. Dísa's warm kisses, her deft fingers, her silky beard sliding across Mélamírë's bare thighs. . .

 

Heat gathered in the pit of Mélamírë's belly, threatening to smolder until it ignited into arousal that she would be hard pressed to quench.

 

No! Do not indulge in such thoughts. Applying the discipline expected of her, she wrested control of her body's passions, and became cool and calm again.

 

When she looked at the dwarf-girl again, the humiliation pooling in those amber eyes stung her. Bold Aldís might be, but the forward-speaking girl, the girl who dared ask an Elf for a kiss, knew she had overstepped her bounds. Mélamírë could not bear to leave her with such embarrassment. So once again she leaned over, but this time, she kissed the girl on her lips.

 

I will give her something to remember.

 

It was a chaste kiss, for the most part, but she lingered on the girl's plump lips, sweet and rose-pink, the surrounding fuzz tickling Mélamírë's chin.  She pulled her lips away slowly, ending the kiss with a sensual tug.

 

"What do you think now?"

 

"That was nice, but. . ."

 

"But?"

 

"I like Boli's kisses more. He has a very nice beard. It is so strange to kiss someone without a beard!"

 

Mélamírë wanted to laugh aloud. Aldís' curiosity was more about kissing one who sported no hair on his — or her — face, and less about the kind of curiosity that had prompted this girl's grandmother to reach up and caress a young elf-woman's face, there in a secluded grotto by a subterranean waterfall. Aldís' dreamy expression forestalled any laughter. The girl was in love. She could only hope that the young dwarf-man returned Aldís' affections.

 

"I daresay it is! I fear we Elves are deficient in that area. Well, most of us."

 

"Most of you? Do some Elves have beards?"

  

"The very eldest of our men do, or so I hear. I have never seen a bearded elf-man."

 

"Oh." And with such a simple expression, Aldís made it known how sorry she felt for a race of beings whose faces sprouted no beards. "Well, then," the girl said, rising to her feet. "Shall we return? Grandmother has ordered quite the supper this evening, and she will want us back there on time."

 

Mélamírë glanced at the black mouth of the small tunnel, scarcely believing she had crawled through it. Now she would need to wriggle through the mountain while dragging a twenty-odd pound pack of stone behind her. She suppressed an impending shudder and looped the rope of the pack around her waist.

 

"Oh, no," said Aldís, who hefted her pack, bulging with ore, onto her broad shoulders. "Not that way. There." She lifted her lamp to reveal the outline of an archway, the entrance to a tunnel that could accommodate a tall dwarf-man, which meant Mélamírë could walk upright, if stooped.

 

"Do you mean to say we could have reached this place by this passage instead of that slimy wormhole?"

 

Mischief glinted in Aldís's eyes. "Yes, but Grandmother said you like a bit of adventure so she told me to take you here by way of the wormhole, as you call it. I thought it was fun. Didn't you?"

 

Mélamírë answered with a grumble as she hoisted the pack over her shoulders. Her idea of fun was entirely different. Dwarves! Such exasperating creatures! She followed the girl into the passage.

 

~*~

 

Her back screamed in pain when she was at last able to straighten, but after she and Aldís walked along the Dwarven road, lit by lanterns and by shafts of natural sunlight, now fading, the pain became a dull throb. Nothing a hot soak would not cure. The Dwarves were famed for their hot mineral baths and saunas, which they segregated by sex. The women of the royal household, which included Aldís and her grandmother, enjoyed bathing in pools carved from pink and grey marble, surrounded by columns and benches of sensuous lines that recalled the curves of heavy Dwarven breasts. The men's bathhouse, it was rumored, sported motifs of impressive virility, but no one would speak openly of it.

 

After depositing the ore in the guest quarters, Mélamírë went to the baths, where her prediction came true. The hot water washed away all aches and pains as well as the memory of the things she had heard beneath the mountain.   She returned to the guest quarters to prepare for the feast, thankful not to have Seldelótë, the maidservant whom Mother had employed to attend to Mélamírë, hovering and fussing over her while she dressed.  After brushing her hair thoroughly, she donned a presentable gown of indigo-dyed wool, decorated herself with a golden belt, arm-bands, and jeweled necklaces, and last, she set a gold circlet over her brow with the Star of her house centered on her forehead.   Then she was ready.

 

Making her way along the corridors, brightly lit by the silver lamps that hung along the walls, she let laughter and music lead her to the feast hall of Danr, Dísa's brother, a lord of the House of Dúrin, and the head of the family.   The ceiling of the hall was high and vaulted, carved with intertwining branches, and limestone columns were crafted to resemble the boles of trees, recalling beeches, she thought.   Tapestries hung from the walls, the weave not as fine nor the colors as rich as elvish-make, but beautiful all the same with their scenes of mountain landscapes.   Three Dwarves in a corner of the hall played instruments:  flute, harp, and viol.  Their music was soft and pleasing.

 

The Dwarves, twenty all told, were making their way to the long table, set with silver and crystal. Mélamírë took her place near the center of the table at Dísa's side.

 

"I hear your expedition was a success," croaked the elderly dwarf-woman, "And that my grandchild took you there by way of an interesting route."

 

"An interesting route? Is that what you call that bloody wormhole? I thought Zirakzigil was going to crush me like a bug!"

 

Dísa chuckled, but her laugh ended with a hacking cough. The sound alarmed Mélamírë; she had heard the same in mortal Men whose lungs had weakened with illness. When the coughing subsided, the dwarf-woman lifted her silver flagon and took a long swig of cool brown ale.

 

"Yet, here you are, safe and sound and as fair as ever. I just thought you might appreciate a bit of adventure," Dísa said, her brown eyes twinkling. Then the look in those old eyes softened, misted by the memory of a secret they shared. "You have always been an explorer of sorts."

 

Mélamírë managed not to blush, and instead patted her friend's hand, gnarled with arthritis and spotted with age. "You know me too well, dearheart."

 

Another guest diverted Dísa's attention by asking a question of her that resulted in a longish discourse on the more obscure properties of tin. Mélamírë watched her friend, her once thick, honey-brown hair and beard now snow-white and thin with age, her body, at one time robust and lush, now bent and shriveled in upon itself. It was painful — horribly painful — to see one so dear to her succumb to the decay of mortality. This was the price to be paid for having mortal friends, whether Dwarven or Mannish. Nonetheless, Mélamírë was determined not to be one of those Firstborn who, at best, avoided mortal company, or at worst, sneered at them. Mother and Father were comfortable in the company of Men and Dwarves, and she admired them for that.

 

Dísa turned to Mélamírë again after the empty bowls of the first course, a surprisingly delicate mushroom soup, had been removed from the table.

 

"How is your dear mother?"

 

"She is well and sends her warmest regards."

 

"Is she still making her forays into Minhiriath?"

 

"Yes. She just returned from Burrstock. An outbreak of the bloody flux. She and the others managed to stop the contagion and enlisted our folk to dig a new well, further removed from the village cesspit."

 

Dísa's face, already wrinkled by almost two hundred and thirty-three years of life, creased a thousand-fold more with disgust. "Pah! Men are such filthy creatures! Time and time again, they reap the miserable harvest of their sickening habits."

 

"Which is why we must teach them better ways…"

 

Dísa grunted skeptically. "But will they ever learn? Truly learn, I mean? Well, regardless, your mother is a woman of compassion."

 

Perhaps, but Mélamírë thought that Mother's compulsion to help the Men of the Minhiriath, those forest and hill folk that the Númenóreans had cast aside as savages, was driven just as much by the same curiosity that made Mother study her fruit flies so intently.

 

"And your father? How fares Istyar Aulendil? We miss him greatly."

 

"We miss him, too. He writes letters to us, and he seems to be enjoying his studies and adventures in the East."

 

"When do you expect him to return?"

 

Mélamírë shrugged, taking care not to let her worries show. "Whenever he is ready, I suppose. It might be another five years — or another fifty."

 

Dísa's shudder was visible. "There are times I forget about how time flows for you. I would say it must be hard for Lady Culinen, but then, fifty years is a blink of an eye for your folk."

 

Not exactly. And it is hard on Mother. But she did not voice her thoughts to her old friend, dear as she might be, for these were family matters.

 

She did not tell Dísa of the cataclysmic fights, the tears, the pleading she could not help but overhear. Mother and Father's more heated arguments had always raised the roof, as might be expected of two strong-willed and outspoken people. Inevitably, they forgave each other, falling into one another's arms and shutting the door to their bedchamber, where, with equal fervor, they made up, while across the hall, Mélamírë, young and embarrassed, stuffed the pillow around her ears. In later years, their disagreements went far deeper as Father became more troubled and secretive, and they no longer fell into one another's arms after their battles. Their parting was bittersweet, both seeming to understand that time apart would be the balm that would heal their wounds, for both of them festered with hurt and anger.

 

Mother went on about her life, overseeing the House of the Heart, cataloguing her fruit flies, and journeying to the rough settlements of Men to study their maladies. The house still bustled with servants, but Father's departure left a palpable silence, broken in the night by the sounds of grief. Mélamírë alone saw her strong mother's unguarded sadness after the servants had departed for the evening and heard her weeping behind closed doors.

 

She also saw how Mother brightened when that first letter from Father arrived. More letters came at irregular intervals, for Father was far, far away in the East, in the cities of Kitai, and the Lands of the Dawn, where he studied ancient arts that he promised to bring back to Ost-in-Edhil, making it even greater. He was never all that specific about what he studied, but always, he sent his love to them both.

 

Mélamírë enjoyed the letters, too, for she missed Father. His tales of the East were fascinating, even better than the fairy tales he told to her when she was a little girl. She took his letters to her bedchamber to read — alone — because she always had to smell them, seeking traces of his scent and the lands he visited. She did not want Culinen seeing her at this odd practice, for Mother had scolding sharply when she was a little girl, with a need to smell anything and everything:

 

"You are no better than a hunting hound, child! You must cease that disgusting habit!"

 

Father, though, he had understood.  He taught her how to dampen this compulsion to smell things, for she had inherited this trait from him, he told her, but he also taught her how to use this gift when she needed it.

 

His letters awoke a spark of wanderlust in her heart, and she sniffed the parchment, trying to catch the scent of distant lands, but inconsistencies troubled her.  Although he wrote of cool lakes in the Lands of the Dawn and of the green jungles of Khuruthani, his letters smelled of flame and brimstone, but only for a moment, then the odor was gone, elusive as wood smoke on an autumn breeze. Perhaps he writes near a forge, she thought. So she said nothing.

 

In his latest letter, he told Mother how much she would enjoy the lands of the South, where the Sun shone bright most days and the waters of the Sea were so blue, how he dreamed of her joining him there. Mother's eyes grew misty as she read his sweet words and traced her fingers across the script, as if trying to touch her husband who was so far away. Later, after Mother had retired to bed for the evening, Mélamírë unfolded the letter and inhaled the scent of sunlight and lemons, but she also smelled blood.

 

~*~

 

 

Mairon sat nearly naked on the camp chair in his tent, roasting in the heat, with sweat streaming down his bare back. Pen in hand, he let his words flow across the parchment:

 

My dearest Culinen,

 

Today I write to you from a grove of lemon trees near the shore of a bright inland sea, blue as a sapphire and salty. Yet there are springs of sweet water about, which feed the groves of lemons, limes, oranges, and date palms. I know you would love this land. When the time is right, I shall arrange for you and Naryen. . .

 

"My lord. All is ready," called the voice from the outside of the tent.

 

"Half-a-moment, Khamîr!"

 

He threw sand on the parchment and took a long swig of orange juice, now warm, from the nearby goblet while the sand absorbed the excess ink and obscured his writing. He would leave the document just where it was, and he would know if anyone had tampered with it. Not that anyone would dare do so, but it was best to be careful. He looked around the tent; he was alone.

 

Blast it, where is Boldog? His manservant must have slipped out for some errand or another. Doesn't much matter. I can dress myself well enough.

 

Rising, Mairon went to the corner of his tent where black robes and scarves hung, freshly cleaned and smelling of cloves. While he draped himself with the lightweight fabric, covering his body, his hair, his mouth and chin — all but his eyes — he also wove the glamour that made him appear even taller and more imposing than he naturally was. His eyes stung, welling with tears, as he changed their color from cool grey to red and gold fire, to create a gaze that was nearly unbearable for all but the strongest to look upon.

 

He was well-practiced with this spell, for Melkor had given it to him long ago, and he had used it many times since, including when those wretched Elves and their Mannish companion had thought to disguise themselves as orcs and were brought before him while he still guarded the vale of the Sirion.

 

Dungalef and Nereb. Did they think me so stupid that I would not see through their trickery?

 

Oh, he had known who they were, all right, despite the lay that had made the rounds later in the First Age, making him seem the buffoonish minion of Melkor the Great. Mairon had taken great pleasure in tracking down the Doriadhren bard who composed the song so that he personally could see to it that the elf-man had his tongue cut out.

 

The capture of Finrod was the sole consolation he took away from the whole debacle of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. But Beren. . . Beren had escaped. Mairon winced at the memory of Lúthien's song, piercing and so painful. Best to put those thoughts of defeat behind him now and envision only victory ahead. He stepped out into the hot light of the Sun, already punishing at mid-morning.

 

As soon as he emerged, Khamîr and the man with him bowed deep. They waited a good twelve feet from Mairon's tent. He glanced at the pendant of a fox that swung from Khamîr's breast, the talisman that reminded his servant of the bond his tribe made with Mairon many years ago. The other man, loosely speaking, for he looked to have troll blood, was huge and thick with muscle; a scimitar and knives hung at his side.

 

Mairon put his hands on his hips and considered the brute. The Butcher, they called this man, who expertly hacked away chunks of flesh from his victims, so that they survived long enough to feel the agony but did not bleed out immediately, leaving the tissues exposed to all manner of insects and infection, rampant here in the southern climes, thus ensuring a protracted, tortuous death, although not nearly as gruesome as the craft of the Boatwright.

 

"I have changed my mind," Mairon said to them both, projecting his voice from behind the black cloth. "Send for the Tanner. I shall have need of his services."

 

"Yes, my lord," replied Khamîr, who gave the Butcher a curt nod. The hulking man left at once to fetch the Tanner.

 

"Well, then," said Mairon, "let's get on with it."

 

He strode across the rocky ground toward the platform that had been built in haste for this demonstration today. The Sea of Nurnen was a mirror to the Sun, and beyond, fields were green with crops, irrigated by water from the wells dug deep into the desert. Mairon turned his eyes toward a cluster of palms and citrus trees near the shore of the inland sea. The foundations of what was to be a large villa had already been laid, and blocks of white marble were stacked around it, ready for construction. How could Culinen not help but love this sun-kissed land and the new home he was building for her?

 

Still, he had much work to do before they could be reunited. That he was pulled away from his labors in the forge of Orodruin for this exercise irritated him to no end. He was already frustrated from yet another failed experiment, which had resulted in a useless ring, tossed onto a growing pile of the golden trinkets, to be melted down later. These sorts of interruptions just would not do. He planned to make this lesson stick amongst the slaves.

 

He climbed up the stairs, the banners with the symbol of wisdom, the All-Seeing Eye, hanging limp in the hot, still air. About one hundred slaves stood below him — men, women, and children, a multitude of races with complexions of reddish-brown, black, and white burned crimson. When he spoke, he allowed threads from the Music of the Ainur to be woven into his voice, and as he expected, the slaves quailed, but their eyes widened in wonder, too.

 

Good. I want their full attention for this.

 

"My people, it is most unfortunate that I have been called away from my tasks to deal with this latest incident. Most unfortunate. I am sorely disappointed that some among you have chosen to engage in such lawlessness, to disrupt the order that I have so carefully prescribed for you." He stepped slowly across the stage, watching them all, watching them flinch and turn away from his scrutiny.

 

"I ask you this: do I not feed you? Do I not clothe you? Do I not give you shelter?" Most of slaves murmured assent, fearful of the guards with whips and clubs among them, but Mairon memorized the faces of those who remained silent. "Perhaps I have been too soft of heart. Let it be known that rebellion against my benevolence shall always be met with swift and terrible retribution. Bring forth the leader of the uprising!"

 

A sun-burned man, clad only in a filthy breechclout, his wrists and ankles chained, was dragged up on to the platform. Blood caked his ragged beard, and his straw-colored hair was wild, but his blue eyes were defiant.

 

A man of the Éothéod.  Always a troublesome lot, these Rhûnic nomads, as he had discovered during those early years after the War of Wrath, when he had journeyed to the East in another guise. Most of the tribes of Palisor had been more amenable to his teachings. Not so the Éothéod. Unsuccessful, Mairon had moved on, albeit with a fine mare their chieftain had given him. But he had never forgotten that the horse-tribes had spurned his wisdom.

 

Mairon stared at the slave, who matched his glare for a surprisingly long time. "Your name?" he asked, less a question than a command.

 

The man spat in response, which was met with a blow to his head from one of the guards.

 

"Have a care with him! I do not want him addled for what is to come."

 

Mairon flicked his fingers at the Tanner, a wiry man with an array of knives hanging from his belt. Thus beckoned, the Tanner stepped forward, his many knives clinking and glittering in the sunlight. All was silent, save for the distant cries of the gulls that spiraled over the sea. Mairon scanned the crowd of slaves. His eyes stopped on a head of thick yellow hair, shining golden under the ferocious Sun.

 

"Bring her to me."

 

The straw-haired man shouted in protest; his hard-worked muscles bulged as he strained against his manacles, but he was held fast. Those around the girl scattered like frightened sparrows when the guards went for her, grabbing her thin arms, and half-dragging her along to the stairs of the platform. At first, she neither flinched nor wept, defiant and proud. But when the guards shoved her toward Mairon, her face contorted in terror. He felt pleased, for this was exactly the effect the glamour was meant to achieve. It was always gratifying to see it work so well.

 

He towered over her, this beautiful girl on the threshold of womanhood, who now had no future whatsoever, whether as slave or freeborn. He reached out to stroke her cheek with the same caress that he so often gave to Naryen. The girl's blue eyes now welled with tears, and she shook violently. The wood planks beneath her darkened as piss ran down her leg.

 

"Such a lovely girl, your daughter," he said, looking back at the leader of the slave rebellion. Fear and agony had replaced the defiance in the man's face. The slave shouted again, pleading now, only to be cuffed by a guard.

 

Then Mairon grasped the girl's head in his left hand.  She struggled, to no avail.  He had the strength to crush through the bone of her skull and scramble her brains, but her end was not to be quick.  No, care must be taken with this lesson.   He sent searing thought to his right forefinger, where its nail lengthened, the fibrils of its substance cross-linking to become as hard as steel and with edges sharp as a razor.  

 

Again, he caressed the girl's face, but this time, he raked the long, sharp fingernail along her jaw line, slicing through her skin.  She screamed, and he tightened his grip on her skull. Using the nail, he lifted the edges of the cut, revealing muscle, fat, and bone beneath the skin.  Blood streamed down her neck, soaking her rag of a gown, and spread over his fingers.   Then he released her, and stepped away, turning to face the crowd.

 

"Flay her," he ordered the Tanner, who skulked nearby, his array of knives faintly clinking, "starting with her feet.  Do it slowly. Make sure he watches. Make sure they all watch." He swept his gaze over the slaves. "Then, when you are finished, flay him, also starting with the feet, also slowly." He put even more power into his voice, and the sunlight dimmed. "Tan their hides and then give them to the orcs, but hang their bodies and scalps on poles. Let these standards remind you all of my displeasure."

 

Although he had a multitude of tasks he had yet to accomplish this day, Mairon remained on the platform to watch the Tanner approach the girl, now stripped naked and hanging by her ankles, her wrists bound and fixed, like a pig awaiting slaughter. The man ran a small sharp blade across the soles of the girl's feet, from toes to heel, blood welling up and streaming down the girl's legs. The Tanner's knife carefully lifted the skin and separated it from the tissues beneath, while the girl shrieked, and her father howled with misery. He had to give the Tanner credit: he was skilled at his craft.

 

Mairon met the anguished eyes of the girl's father and drilled into them, savoring the man's horror and despair. Satisfied, he left, striding down the stairs and back to his tent among the lemon trees, while the girl's screams and her father's cries spread across the fields of green wheat and barley.

 

When he entered the tent, a figure rose from the shadows and came to him, helping him remove his robes. Mairon discarded the dark glamour as well, and resumed his accustomed form.   His manservant brought a basin of precious water, scented with rose petals, in which Mairon washed the blood from his hands.  He examined his fingers to see thin lines of blood still trapped beneath his nails.

 

I must remember to scrub that out when I bathe this evening.  Blessed Melkor, but I could use a good, long soak.

 

"Thank you, Boldog," he said to the orc, or rather the Fay in orc form. Boldog's healthy bronze color, one that a sun-averse, pure-blooded orc would never sport, belied his inner nature. Mairon took his seat on the camp chair once more, and picked up the goblet, taking a swig of orange juice that was almost hot. He spat it out.

 

"Take this away, if you would. Bring me cold orange juice…no, make it that concoction of lemon juice and cane sugar. Chilled. That would hit the spot."

 

"Yes, sir. Very good, sir," replied Boldog as he picked up the golden goblet.

 

Mairon paused, listening. The girl's shrieks were fainter now. The Tanner must be completing his task, faster than he should have, but nonetheless, the terror and disgust in the faces of the other slaves were enough to assure Mairon that this demonstration would prove effective and remind them that they did not serve a mere mortal warlord. He glanced up at Boldog, who was placing empty plates and the goblet on a tray.

 

"Grisly business, that, not to mention a waste of strong backs. Not much else to be done though."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

Boldog ducked out of the tent to fetch the refreshments. Mairon placed pen to parchment and resumed writing to Culinen while the desert drank the blood of a man and his daughter.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Note: References are made to other fics of the Pandë!verse, e.g., Ch. 28 of The Elendilmir, A Shadow Dreaming, and Into This Wild Abyss, Ch. 2, The Talisman.

  

The rare element that interests Mél is germanium, which is used in semiconductors, and is found in argyrodite, although in our primary world, zinc ores and coal are the more common sources of the element. Argyrodite (from the Greek "rich in silver" - Quenya translation?  Bueller?) is pretty rare, but it seemed like something that might be found in the mystical mines under the Misty Mountains.

 

Re:  Mél's predilection for sniffing letters.  I can't resist messing around with that weird bit in Parma Eldalamberon 17 that Tolkien wrote about Maiarin fragrance, which extrapolates to a keen sense of smell among the Maiar (and those related to them) in my 'verse.

 

The Boatwright is one of Mairon's retainers who is skilled in the art of scaphism. Warning: not for the squeamish. Really.

 

Éothéod - horse-people

 

Boldog* is the result of watching far too much Downton Abbey. He has appeared as Professor Thû's manservant in "Gothmog and Draugluin" and appealed to me enough to bring him into the more serious stuff of the Pandë!verse.

*A canon name! Woo hoo! See HoMe X, Morgoth's Ring for the idea that some orcs are embodied Maiar, and that "Boldog" may be something of a title or class name for them.

 

Chapter 5: The Laws of Eä

Meanwhile, back in Mithlond, Erestor brings reports to King Ereinion and Elrond of a mysterious and troubling new project among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.  Ereinion attempts to recruit a talented smith excluded from the project, and disturbing rumors of a powerful warlord stirring up rebellion in the South make their way North.

Thank you a thousand times over to those who provided valuable feedback in the development of this chapter (you know who you are ;^)).  More acknowledgments are provided in End Notes.  A special thanks to Russandol for allowing me to borrow her concept of the ESS*.

*Elrond's Secret Service. Heh.

Read Chapter 5: The Laws of Eä

The lizard perched on an oak branch anchored to an iron plate, still as a statue, basking in the warmth of the sunlight that streamed through the arched, multi-paned windows of the King's study. Erestor's skin crawled at the sight of the creature, made all the worse when it stuck out its bulging pink tongue to taste the air. Why Ereinion was so taken with these scaly beasts was beyond him. The lizard appeared comfortable, which was more than he could claim, sitting in a hard, straight-backed chair. Elrond, on the other hand, was perfectly at ease. The King, seated at his desk, a massive thing of burled black walnut inlaid with swirls of rosewood, tapped his lips with the tip of his pen while he ruminated on Erestor's recount of his most recent visit to Ost-in Edhil.

 

Ereinion grumbled. "Very convenient that Istyar Annatar — "

 

"Aulendil." Erestor said. It was daring, to correct the King like this, but he could no more resist pointing out an inaccuracy than he could stop his heart. "He is known as Istyar Aulendil among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain."

 

Ereinion waved his hand dismissively. "Annatar. Aulendil. Why is it I suspect neither is his true name? So once again, he was away from the city the entire time you were there?"

 

I have told him that twice already. Isn't he listening?

 

"Yes, your Majesty. As I said."

 

"Off in Tharbad or Lond Daer?"

 

"Lond Daer, this time, or so said Tyelperinquar and confirmed by Lady Culinen."

 

Elrond's brows furrowed, just for a moment, when Erestor mentioned Aulendil's wife, who had been Elrond's longtime friend. There's a sore spot there, Erestor thought. Their estrangement still stings him.

 

"He spends an inordinate amount of time with the Númenóreans," said Ereinion, who seemed to forget how often he feted the visiting nobles of Númenorë since they had first reappeared on these shores. "But tell me, exactly what did you learn? Surely you gleaned something from this latest visit?"

 

"I did, and it may be of some significance. A major project has been initiated in the House of the Mírdain. Not that such projects are uncommon, but what is unusual about this one is how tight-lipped the smiths are about it."

 

"That is not so surprising," Elrond replied. "Smiths often keep their ideas to themselves."

 

"Yes, but this time, they seemed especially conscious of it. Tyelperinquar barely told me a thing, unusual for him, as he loves to discuss his work. He changed the subject when I was finally able to badger him into sharing a glass of wine."

 

"What? No grand dinner party? He's famous for those, from what I understand," said the King.

 

"No dinner party or salon. He ceased hosting those quite some time ago. Too damned busy, he claims." Erestor, too, regretted this change. He had relished those salons, where he trotted out his wit. The progressive sophisticates of Ost-in-Edhil appreciated his barbs more than the society of Mithlond did, with its odd mix of Sindarin traditionalism and Falathren mysticism, spiked with a dash of Noldorin sensibilities of a more conservative nature.

 

"What of Culinen?" Elrond asked. "Did she offer anything?"

 

"No, she is too wrapped up in her own studies to pay much attention to the inner workings of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, unless they concern her own interests."

 

"Did you ask her of Anna—," the King paused and drawled, eyeing Erestor as he did, "Did you ask her of Aulendil?"

 

"Yes, but she guards his privacy ferociously."

 

"Then from whom did you learn of this project?" Ereinion's tone took sharp edge.

 

"From Master Naryen and her colleagues."

 

"Ah, your young friend, the master smith! Do go on."

 

Once again, Erestor felt a twinge of guilt when the King remarked on his friendship with Mélamírë. When he had first met her at Tyelpo's salon ten years ago, they had gotten on well, and afterward, struck up a correspondence. At times, Erestor wondered if Mélamírë harbored a crush on him, even if she was well aware of its futility. It was possible, he supposed, but she did not seem a starry-eyed maiden who would fixate on an unrequited love. So he accepted her letters with affection and was glad to have a young friend with a lively mind – and a friend who revealed a good deal between the lines, perhaps more than she imagined.

 

From her letters, Erestor had gained at least a modicum of knowledge of what transpired among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, not to mention news of her father's activities, but much later, he came to realize she was carefully telling him of events in Ost-in-Edhil without truly revealing secrets. It seemed to him that she yearned to speak to openly with a trusted friend, but for whatever reason, she was guarded.

 

Ereinion lifted his hand and made a beckoning motion with his fingers, a reminder that Erestor ought to continue. "After she finished her day's labor in the forges," he said, "she invited me to accompany her to a popular tavern with the outlandish name of 'The Rusty Ale' where she and her colleagues often take supper and drink. Four Dwarven-smiths visiting from Casarrondo joined us."

 

Erestor had felt like an ancient among them. He bore the brunt of their laughter when he discovered one of the Dwarves, a dainty fellow with a wispy, honey-brown beard, if dainty was an appropriate word for one of their kind, was actually a young woman. He felt like an idiot, for he prided himself in his attention to details, but here, they slipped his notice. He saved himself by self-deprecation and ingratiating flattery: "I am a fool of an Elf," he had said to the Dwarf-maid. "I should have known by your silky beard and lovely eyes." Such ludicrous sentiment, but the Dwarf-woman's cheeks blushed above her beard.

 

"We had a fair enough supper," he continued, "and quite a lot of brown ale, the stuff favored by the Dwarves, and therefore also favored by the younger elvish smiths, who tend to ape the Casari."

 

"As long as none of our young folk have taken to sporting false beards, you know, chin wigs and the like, I suppose there's no harm in that."

 

Erestor chuckled, as did Elrond, their obligatory acknowledgment of the King's humor. He hoped his laughter did not sound too forced. Such hairy props were used among the mummers and entertainers of Mithlond when Dwarves and Men were depicted, often in a bawdy fashion.

 

"Not a chin wig to be seen, your Majesty. The Dwarves left early, as they planned to leave at dawn the next morning to return to their mansions beneath the mountains. Once they departed, the ale loosened the smiths' tongues.

 

"Two of the young men, Sámaril and Teretion, apprenticed to Aulendil and Tyelperinquar, are among those selected to work on the project with their mentors. They made reference to the new work, taking care to disguise the particulars, but despite these efforts, their enthusiasm was obvious. They peppered their talk with many arcane terms that they likely assumed I would not understand."

 

"And were they wrong in such assumptions?"

 

"When I was a youth in Tirion, I studied enough physical law and phenomena at the Academy of Natural Philosophy to grasp the overall gist of their talk, but I did not let on. Just bought them more pints of ale and let them prattle away.

 

"What I learned is this: the mysterious project has something to do with a means of slowing the ravages of time. The smiths aim to create an environment much like that of Valinor."

 

Elrond's composure snapped.  "Slow the ravages of time? That is not the first time I have heard this mentioned."

 

Ereinion leaned forward, resting his elbows in the desk. "Yes, that is familiar. For Erestor's benefit, refresh my memory."

 

"Recall when we first encountered Annatar? When the fishermen dragged him out of the sea?"

 

Ereinion nodded, encouraging Elrond to continue.

 

"He told me of the deep arts of Aman, those he learned under the tutelage of Aulë, how he intended to use these for the healing of the injuries inflicted on Middle-earth by Morgoth Bauglir. Among the arts he mentioned was preservation, a means of warding off decay. He said something to the effect that the River of Time cannot be halted anywhere, even in the Blessed Lands, but its currents can be slowed, even diverted. That is how he put it."

 

The king knotted his dark brows into a familiar glower.  "So those smiths are dabbling in the deep arts? What in the name of the stinking stars are they up to?"

 

With that, Ereinion launched into a familiar rant against the advanced curwë of Eregion, and once again, Erestor was tempted to rattle off the number of civic improvements he had seen — and enjoyed — during his visits to Ost-in-Edhil, all the result of the work of the smiths, and to be honest, the combined minds of Tyelpo and Istyar Aulendil.

 

The plumbing for one thing. Water flowed through the great aqueduct from the Misty Mountains to fill the fountains and wells of the city, providing water for public and private baths, to carry waste through the sewage system, and to power machines for the mills and the forges. He recalled the sweet taste of the water that came from the mountain snowmelt, quite unlike the brackish groundwater here in Lindon.

 

He was also tempted to remind Ereinion of the creature comforts he enjoyed in his palace, and that these were the result of smiths who had been educated in Ost-in-Edhil and returned to Mithlond, bringing new knowledge with them. Not least was the heating system for Ereinion's greenhouse, where he grew lettuces and other vegetables throughout the winter, not only for his own table, but also to feed his succession of pet lizards, gifted to him by the Númenórean ship-lords.

 

Erestor glanced at the lizard again. Creepy things. Like miniature versions of Glaurung, but without the fire. Ereinion was obsessed with them, just as he was obsessed with the legend of Caranthir's treasure horde, said to be hidden in a secret vault somewhere in the Ered Luin. Every few years, the King himself would set off on an expedition to search for the treasure, based on wispy clues and rumors that never bore fruit. Then there was the King's fixation on the black lobsters.

 

Erestor had to grin at the recollection of last summer's Feast of the Black Lobster when Ereinion crowned a fisherman as the Lobster King, and a fishlass as the Oyster Queen. The King was as much at ease with the common folk of the Falathrim as he was with the Sindarin and Noldorin nobility, and his subjects loved him for it. No doubt he was a fine ruler with a keen mind and an acumen for politics who was without peer, but he was nothing if not eccentric. "We Finwëans are all a little mad," as Ereinion was wont to say.

 

The King, once he gave voice to his distrust of the deep arts, became calm again. "Wipe that grin off your face, Erestor! I know what you think of my opinions on these matters. I like to think I am an educated man. Do I not study the stars and the motions of the heavenly wanderers? Have I not developed a more precise chart of tides?

 

"I admit, there is much to be said about this idea of preservation, as much as we — the Firstborn — struggle with the decay around us in this mortal world.  But I must say this curwë from Aman worries me. Perhaps it is because I was not born there. Still, it is clear that the Valar have knowledge beyond our ken, which should remain so. There are simply things we are not meant to know. What do you think, Erestor? Of the three of us, you are the only man Aman-born."

 

"Yes, I can see the benefits of preservation, great benefits actually, but I am concerned, too, your Majesty."

 

"What did Master Naryen have to say? She surely must be engaged in this secret endeavor."

 

"She is not, your Majesty."

 

"What?"

 

"She has been excluded from the project. After the evening at the Rusty Ale, I walked Master Naryen back to her home, and asked her of the project, if she could tell me more of it. She said she could not, and that she had not been among those chosen to work on it. She tried to make light of it, but it was obvious throughout the evening that this exclusion has rankled her. But she did tell me of another effort in which she is engaged, and she seemed genuinely excited about it."

 

"And this effort would be?"

 

"The Lady of Lindórinand has commissioned her to craft a scrying device."

 

"A scrying device? Stars' blood!"

 

The lizard startled at Ereinion's outburst, slashing its tail like a whip. Erestor jumped, too, but immediately regained his composure, hoping that Elrond had not noticed this aberration in the otherwise cool and calm demeanor he cultivated. Ereinion rose from his chair and went over to the lizard, scratching its dewlap. The thing calmed and closed its eyes in bliss while Erestor's skin crawled again.

 

"Don't mistake me," Ereinion said. "I dearly love my cousin and respect her, but a scrying device is just what Galadriel does not need. She's able to probe deeply enough into our affairs without it. As for Master Naryen, if Aulendil and Tyelperinquar are foolish enough to cast aside a talented smith, I am more than happy to bring her here. Write to her, tell her I will offer her a generous stipend, apprentices, a loftier title…"

 

"Very well, your Majesty," Erestor and Elrond replied in unison.

 

"Then do just that. You may both leave now."

 

The King picked up a wooden bowl filled with lettuce leaves, ambled toward the lizard, and offered a treat to his pet. The fleshy pink tongue emerged again to snatch a leaf from Ereinion's fingers. Erestor suppressed a shudder and left the study with Elrond.

 

Later, when they met in Elrond's office, Elrond reflected on Ereinion's command: "It looks like he's determined to have his own pet Fëanorian smith under his wing. He's never gotten over Tyelpo's desertion. I expect the King also assumes that as a woman, Master Naryen will be more malleable to his whims."

 

Erestor laughed aloud at that. Elrond responded, after his own laughter had died down, "Right. If she's anything like her mother, 'malleable' does not quite describe the girl."

 

"No, it does not."

 

"Go ahead and write to her as the King wishes," Elrond said, "and we'll see how this proposal is met. However, I would not offer her any encouragement of your own to come here. It would seem that you have a fair source of information in Master Naryen. Do not jeopardize it."

 

Erestor did as the King commanded and silently acknowledged Elrond's advice. His dual role as the King's Master of Accounts and as the second to Elrond, who headed the Security of the Realm often put him into such positions: one public and rather staid, and the other far more secretive, and at times, his tasks were at cross-purposes. It was a precarious balance that he found troubling and invigorating at once.

 

Nonetheless, if he were honest with himself, he knew that he was well suited to both roles. He loved analysis and order, so overseeing the accounts of the kingdom brought him no small degree of satisfaction, even if the work was dry at times. He also loved to collect information, like a jackdaw collects shiny trinkets, because one never knew when such tidbits might be useful. As a keen observer with the ability to pluck subtle clues from divergent sources, he was able to fit seemingly unrelated pieces of a puzzle to form a cohesive whole, and he knew when to keep his mouth shut, characteristics that made him eminently suitable as Elrond's second. So, as much as he enjoyed the young smith's friendship, she was, in the end, a source of information.

 

Her initial response to Ereinion's overture, which arrived about three months after Erestor drafted the first letter, indicated mild interest when she asked about increased compensation (reminding Erestor that she was indeed Caranthir's granddaughter) and how much authority she would be allowed in directing her work. After consulting with the King, Erestor responded with what Ereinion hoped was an improved offer.

 

Spring and summer passed before a short note from Tyelperinquar was delivered in early autumn, asking Ereinion why he was attempting to lure one of his best smiths away from the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and didn't he have enough with the five already in residence? Shortly thereafter, a letter from Istyar Aulendil arrived, addressed directly to Erestor, rather than the King, indicating that the great smith was well aware of Erestor's friendship with his daughter. The words were polite, even pleasant, but the message was clear: cease and desist this recruitment.

 

Ereinion's response to Aulendil's letter was emphatic. "By Bauglir the Black's cold blood! How dare he bypass me? I shall write to her myself. Find more in the accounts, Erestor! Her stipend must be increased. She has her own mind, does she not? She does not walk in lockstep with the Istyari?"

 

"Yes, she is of independent mind, your Majesty, but…"

 

Erestor had declined to remark on a small detail throughout this recruitment: the presence of Sartanor, one of the smiths in Ereinion's court, and once Mélamírë's lover. She had not elaborated, but apparently, the affair ended badly. Perhaps she did not wish to work alongside the man. No doubt the King would find a way to edge Sartanor out if it came to that, but at this point, Erestor saw no need to put the fellow out of his position.

 

"No 'but's'. I shall make her an offer she cannot refuse. See that it is sent straight away before the winter mud sullies the roads of Minhiriath."

 

The King, however, was thwarted. In the end, what stopped the efforts entirely was not a letter from Aulendil or Tyelperinquar, but from Galadriel. Her missive arrived not long after Ereinion sent the offer that was not to be refused.

 

I do not wish to see this young woman further removed from Lindórinand. She requires access to the rich minerals of Casarrondo, not to mention the skills afforded by the Dwarvish smiths who reside there, smiths who are far more skilled than the Dwarves of the Ered Luin.

 

Furthermore, I am loath to put yet more distance between her and me, not to mention the fact that Celeborn, who stubbornly remains in the city, provides me with reports on her progress and general well being, and he does so in a more timely manner than you ever could. Thus I ask you to forego what Tyelperinquar deems — accurately, I think — as 'poaching."

 

After reading his cousin's command, thinly disguised as a request, Ereinion leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk, and rubbed his eyes with the beringed fingers of his right hand, then looked up with bloodshot eyes at Erestor and Elrond. Perhaps he was feeling the effects of all the wine that flowed last night at an elaborate dinner, held in honor of Lord Erelluntë, a visiting Númenórean nobleman and owner of a profitable fleet of ships that plied their trade along the coasts of Middle-earth.

 

"Do you two have no more to tell me?"

 

Erestor had nothing more to say, and neither did Elrond.

 

"Then you may as well leave. Send in Cúronel. I have a bloody headache I cannot seem to shake and need some of her vile willow bark tea."

 

~*~

 

The sun-years turned, and the seasons passed in Mithlond: springs with the first flush of color on the budding trees that gave hope amidst the grey rains that pounded the coast; summers of sunlight, golden on the harbor's waters, and a time of festivals; autumns when the oak trees on the hills above the sea turned bronze; and the cold wet damp of winter, when storms crashed against the seawalls while the citizens of Mithlond huddled warm and snug in their homes, the fishermen repairing their nets and the gentlefolk pursuing their arts and lore.

 

During those years, reports from Erestor and Elrond's agents, Firstborn and mortal alike, trickled in from distant lands. Dark rumors increased: of raids by orcs on Mannish settlements between the Anduin and the Misty Mountains; and in the East, invading tribes encroached on the territories stretching from Rhûn south to Umbar. Villages were sacked, men killed, and women and children were taken as slaves — if they survived the attacks.

 

The reports from the Council of Eregion dwindled. The information provided in them, when they did arrive, was to the point, but never more than necessary, until one such report, all of a single page, sent the King into a tirade.

 

"Ridiculous!" Ereinion blurted. "What is that Council about? Do they forget who is High King? They are too bloody independent! I ought to tax them into obedience."

 

Erestor opened his mouth to remind the King that Eregion was an independent realm, and therefore not subject to such taxation, but Elrond's sidelong glance silenced him. Yes, best to let their liege lord get this out of his system, so he stood quietly alongside Elrond while Ereinion paced around his study, from hearth to windows and back again, expounding all the while on the many aggravations of Ost-in-Edhil's council. This was hardly the first time Erestor and Elrond had been subject to his rants about Eregion. Such was the price for being trusted counselors and confidantes. Ereinion had been appalled when Tyelperinquar pushed Galadriel out of power and was convinced that Aulendil was behind it, which, to Erestor's knowledge, was an accurate assessment.

 

"Have either of you ferreted out any more information from your contacts among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain?"

 

"Nothing definitive, my lord," Elrond said.

 

"Annatar — or Istyar Aulendil — whatever he calls himself…he has not yet returned?"

 

"No, my lord. He has not."

 

"Well, that's something at least," Ereinion said. "His influence on the Gwaith-i-Mírdain is pernicious."

 

In addition to the scant reports from the Council of Eregion, Tyelperinquar, who once wrote engaging personal notes to Erestor, recalling their friendship during the Rebellion when they were young men, really no more than boys, had gone silent. However, Mélamírë's letters still arrived on Erestor's desk, and he wrote to her in turn, although the frequency of their correspondence had diminished with each passing year.

 

Most of her letters were of minor consequence, telling him of some adventure in the Halls of the Dwarves, sharing gossip that circulated among Ost-in-Edhil' society (he especially enjoyed these tidbits, which were as entertaining as they were useful) or sharing a jape she thought he might appreciate (sometimes he did, and at other times, he rolled his eyes), but some were more personal when she expressed what troubled her. Aulendil's departure proved hard on his family, and Culinen had descended into a dark mood:

 

She gets like this at times. I can only hope she snaps out of it soon. I think a recent letter from Father caused her unease, but she would not tell me what he wrote. Not that I would expect her to do so, because there are things only a husband and wife should share. Whatever he wrote agitated her so I can only wonder what it was.

 

Nonetheless, I think this time apart will be, all in all, good for them. I have told you about their arguments. They have always been hardheaded with one another and fought over the most ridiculous things, but my father's moods became increasingly dark. He no longer rebounded from them as he had before, and this was very hard on Mother. As far as I could tell, they parted with love and with the hope that a separation would allow the wounds they have inflicted on one another to heal, but every day, I see how difficult it is for her and for whatever reason, it is worse now.

 

Mélamírë went on to write about her father, who was struck with a wanderlust that made him intent on traveling to the farthest reaches of the East and then to the South, after which he intended to return to Ost-in-Edhil with new knowledge gained from the ancient civilizations in those distant lands. Erestor felt no small degree of envy when he read of Aulendil's plans. When Fëanáro had whipped the Noldor into a frenzy, many of the younger folk, Erestor among them, latched onto the romantic notion of exploring the vast Outer Lands.

 

That had not happened. Thanks to the dreadful wars with Morgoth, such adventuring was curtailed, and now, during this time of relative peace, he found himself so entangled in bureaucracy as the Master of the Accounts and the demands as Elrond's second that he never seemed to find an excuse to pull himself away. He longed to take the place of his agents, who were sent off to the further reaches of Ereinion's kingdom and beyond its borders, but Elrond would not allow it. "Too risky," Elrond said time and time again. "I cannot afford to lose you to a calamity in a foreign land. You better serve the Realm here."

 

Erestor accepted his lot, but that did not mean he did not chafe in his dual role as master of accounts and master of spies. He supposed it was a moot point anyway, because he loathed sailing on the Sea, thanks to the horrific crossing in the stolen swan ships.

 

However, a letter from Mélamírë arrived in the summer of 1594 that alarmed him enough to call Elrond and Ereinion's attention to it immediately. In the letter, she expressed her concern over Tyelperinquar, who, in the time since Aulendil had departed, had immersed himself in a project of which he would speak to no one.

 

I am very worried about Cousin Tyelpo. He has become increasingly eccentric and reclusive. I know I told you that he holed himself up in his workshop some time ago. Whatever it is he is working on consumes him.

 

Erestor suspected she had a good idea as to the general manner of his work, but knew she would not risk rendering it in ink.

 

He locks the door so that no one may enter. He has become gaunt, and frankly, he stinks. When he does emerge from his workshop, he wanders through the countryside. Folk have said he stares at the rolling waters at the rivers' confluence, and he sings to the wind and sky, night and day. Many now call him fey, and I cannot disagree with their sentiments.

 

The most disturbing incident occurred last week. I stopped at his home to speak with his servants and inquire of his welfare, and much to my surprise, I found him there. I caught him kneeling before his hearth, where he reached into the fire, chanting some verse or other, while he immersed his hand into the flames. He jerked his hand away, as you might expect, but I had to drag him to Mother so she could tend to his injury. When I pressed him as to what he was doing, he became angry with me. Later, Mother told me that he has many scars from recent burns on his hands and arms.

 

As you see, I have no small cause for concern. I wish Father were here to help, but he is not, and Mother and I cannot seem to reach Tyelpo. You are his dear friend, Erestor. Perhaps you could come to the city and speak to him? I am sorry I did not tell you of this sooner. I hope you can forgive me.

 

"You must go to Ost-in-Edhil at once," Ereinion ordered. Yet, by the time Erestor arrived, he found Tyelperinquar in high spirits. Although he was thin and his cheeks still sunken, his color was good, and his appetite had returned with a vengeance. Whatever this project was, he had completed it.

 

"I shall reveal all in good time," Tyelpo said with a self-satisfied smile during that pleasant autumn evening at supper, served out on the colonnaded porch of his home with Mélamírë and Culinen both in attendance. "Actually, I'd like to surprise Aulendil with my results, so perhaps I'll wait for his return. Until then, you will all just have to remain in suspense. But I will say this: my devices shall be a great boon to our people."

 

Once again, Erestor left Ost-in-Edhil, and returned to Mithlond, more troubled than he had ever been. He prided himself in his learning, and he had always embraced the pursuit of knowledge and craft, but there was something about the mysterious project of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain that genuinely frightened him. That it took such a toll on Tyelpo was alarming. From all he had been able to piece together, it seemed that Tyelperinquar and Aulendil were tapping into the forces of Eä in some manner and linking them with the human mind to create a powerful — and potentially dangerous — kind of magic.

 

A storm from the West rolled across Eriador during the last day's ride of his journey back to Mithlond, and Erestor was cold and wet when he arrived in the city after sundown. He hoped to have a hot bath, hot food, and to fall into his warm featherbed, but almost as soon as his horse stepped through the open gates of the keep, he was summoned to report directly to Ereinion.

 

Elrond was already there in the King's private audience chamber, standing by the granite hearth, his arm resting on the edge of the great oaken mantelpiece, carved in the shapes of ships, waves, and fantastical sea creatures. By a trick of the firelight, the waves looked as though they were surging. The unintentional symbolism of Elrond — Eärendil's son — taking his ease by leaning against the motifs of the Sea was not lost on Erestor.

 

The King, on the other hand, sprawled in his favorite chair, padded with brocaded cushions. He was clad in a dressing gown of silk as deep blue as a clear midnight sky. Tiny stars of silver thread dappled the long lapels and cuffs, further lending to the heavenly effect. Ereinion wore his hair loose, brushed so thoroughly by his manservant that his locks gleamed like a black waterfall. No lizard was to be seen. Erestor wondered if it was elsewhere or if it had died. The King raised his hand and beckoned Erestor to come forward.

 

"Pour yourself some brandy and take a seat." He nodded toward the sideboard where glasses and a decanter of amber liquid rested. "I want to hear everything."

 

Erestor did as commanded, and settled himself onto the hard chair offered to him. At least the brandy's warmth was some consolation. He told his tale to the King and Elrond for a good long while. By the time he had finished, his belly growled audibly, and his back ached.

 

The King ran his forefinger up and down the right side of his jaw — a telltale sign that he was rifling through his formidable store of knowledge — while he stared into the flames of the cheerful fire. "I cannot help but think this secretive work of Gwaith-i-Mírdain is part of a greater puzzle. I suppose time will tell, and Celebrimbor will get his chance to crow over his achievement. In the meantime, there is another matter, and perhaps a more pressing one." He pulled his gaze away from the fire and looked directly at Erestor, who remained standing. "Two days ago, The Silver Stag came to port."

 

"The Númenórean merchant ship?" Erestor asked, recalling that the vessel, one of Lord Erelluntë's fleet, had docked a few times previously in the harbor of Mithlond.

 

"The same. They have come from Umbar, and Captain Falleran brought yet more disquieting information to me."

 

"What isn't disquieting about Umbar and the South?"

 

Thanks to his contacts among the Númenórean merchants and military, Erestor was aware of the hodge-podge of tiny fiefdoms, some no larger than a village and its surrounding acres, that paid tribute to Umbar, the southern haven burgeoning in influence and population since the arrival of the exiled Númenórean princesses — Quildelótë and Lornalótë — almost four hundred years ago. Beyond the coastal lands, wild tribes roamed a vast desert that acted as a barrier between the West and the far lands of the East.

 

"True enough, but Captain Falleran says yet more folk have settled in the land they call Nurn, and there are now far-ranging raids to capture slaves, who are taken there to dig trenches and lay pipes for irrigation and who work the fields of that land. Further to the north of the inland sea, our good captain says, a sleeping fire-mountain has awakened, sending forth choking fumes, and sometimes raining ash upon the fields of the South. It may be that Aulë merely flexes his muscles, but among the more superstitious, the fire-mountain's fumes are considered a portent of doom."

 

The King paused, returning his gaze to the fire. "There is wide-spread rebellion among the holdings once allied with Umbar, and now someone unites the desert tribes, a warlord of some sort, Falleran says. That this warlord rallies the desert warriors under one banner has the Judges and the oligarchs of Umbar worried. Apart, these tribes are of little threat to Umbar, but united? That is a different matter entirely."

 

Ereinion then rose from his chair and went to the window where he opened the glass panes and stared out into the cold night where clouds scudded across the face of the Moon. Erestor shivered a little at the cold air that rushed into the chamber. The wind came from the northwest tonight, a harbinger of winter. He longed even more for a hot bath and hot food. The King turned around, looking at both Elrond and Erestor in turn.

 

"You may wonder at my concern, for there has always been turmoil in those lands. The stars know that the Judges and the oligarchs have their hands full reining in those unruly folk. But of late, there seems to be a stronger sense of purpose behind the unrest, and this purpose coincides with the rumors of this warlord. It is said that he richly rewards those loyal to him, but those who speak against him? They meet terrible ends. He is said to be a master of cruelty."

 

The King then looked at Elrond for a long moment before returning those deep blue eyes, so much like Fingon's, to Erestor. "I know that you think me mad when I say that I have long foreseen an encroaching darkness, the sense that something evil again stirs in the world. But it's stronger now, and there's something about this warlord who reunites the tribes that troubles me deeply. Falleran suspects this man is behind the slave raids and the increased migrations to the land of Nurn. I cannot say exactly why I have this feeling of dread, but I don't like it. For this reason — and the security of the kingdom — we must know more. These troubles may seem distant, but a loosened pebble in one place may cause an avalanche elsewhere, especially if this warlord continues to consolidate power and turns his conquests toward the West.

 

"So, I want you to do what you must to gain more information. We must be prepared for…well, for what, I am not altogether sure, but I am hoping your agents might inform us."

 

Erestor sat forward in his chair, at attention. "I will speak to the Captain of The Silver Stag straight away and see if we might employ a few Men of his crew…"

 

"No, not Men," Ereinion interjected. "I want you to choose from your most trusted agents among our own folk, and send them South on the next ship."

 

And that was that. For all Ereinion's glad-handing of the Númenóreans and claiming them as distant kindred, he did not wish to trust this mission to the Followers, although he was more than willing to trade with them and make use of their ships. When the next Númenórean merchant ship pulled into port, Ballain and Helevair, two men who had wandered long in the company of the ever-restless Gildor — men who spoke less, listened more, and who observed keenly — boarded the vessel and set off for the South.

 

~*~

 

That had been five years ago. For all Erestor knew, Ballain and Helevair were dead by some strange fate in a distant land. He reached across his desk to lift a shiny silver ball, one of five identical spheres suspended on strings between two small metal beams, anchored in a platform of polished wood. He released it, and the ball swung in a perfect arc to strike its fellow. Unseen force shot through the spheres and was released in the fifth ball that swung out in an identical arc to the first, then returned and struck the central spheres once more, sending the ball at the opposite end out in an arc again. So it continued, this exercise in the Laws of Eä. Erestor found the rhythmic motion of the balls to be soothing — rising and striking, rising and striking — until the arcs subsided and the toy sat quiescent.

 

Once again, he lifted the silver ball and set the cradle into motion.

Fëanáro's cradle, Tyelpo called the toy, which he had crafted specifically for Erestor, given to him during his last visit to Ost-in-Edhil. How like the great smith to craft a device solely to demonstrate an abstract principle, a demonstration of the conservation of momentum and energy. Say whatever you will about Fëanáro, he thought, but he was an excellent teacher.

 

Tyelpo's replica was surely as precise as Fëanáro's original, and like his grandfather, he probed ever deeper into the inner, unseen forces of the world, until he wrestled with the fundamental Laws of Eä. And that, thought Erestor, was a very dangerous business.

 

He reached for a ceramic mug, embellished with the lozenge of Gil-galad's court. He had set it off to the side of his desk, placed such that an errant movement would not send its contents spilling over papers and scrolls. The rose hips tea that touched his lips was now tepid. He was heartily sick of the stuff. 

I would kill for an orange.

 

He could only hope that a trade ship from the South might arrive soon, bearing citrus fruits, or better yet, bearing Ballain and Helevair and the information that he — and the King — so craved. For a moment, he indulged in wistful nostalgia, as he remembered the oranges, lemons, limes, and grapefruits in the markets of Tirion, piled high in the green grocers' stalls: the bright colors of the fruit, and how he, as a child, rammed his thumbs through the rinds to get at the succulent flesh within, releasing a fresh and bitter scent, and how the sweet, tart juice of oranges ran down his chin when he bit into the fruit. An image of his mother in their kitchen came to mind: she wore her favorite linen apron, trimmed with lace and tiny purple violets embroidered along its edges; strands of her brown hair had worked loose from her braids. She smiled at him as she and Léramë, the family servant, squeezed lemons to make lemonade.

 

The memory was enough to make his mouth water and mist his eyes, just a little. He sent a silent prayer to the West, to the Halls of Mandos, telling his mother that he loved her. He gulped down the last swallow of tea. In these cold climes of Middle-earth, the Firstborn made do with concoctions made from rose hips: "A cup a day keeps fading at bay" was an old saw repeated by many mothers and healers alike. No doubt his mother would have said the same, had she survived the crossing of the sea through the punishing storms.

 

The first breath of the morning sea breeze — bracing and redolent of brine — puffed through the window facing his desk. A single piece of paper fluttered from his letter bin and took wing to sail to the floor where it landed on the wool rug. Erestor rose from his desk chair to pick up Mélamírë's most recent letter that had arrived almost a month ago. He returned to his chair, smoothing the paper flat on the surface of his desk, and re-read one paragraph in particular.

 

You asked when I thought my father might return. Unfortunately, I cannot answer you, for I do not know myself. We received a letter from him recently. When he wrote it, I cannot say exactly, but he sent it from the South. He seems to like it there a great deal, as he has been there for a good while now, and he writes how warm and sunny it is. He often tells us of lemon groves and an inland sea. It all sounds wonderful, and I must admit, it sparks a desire in me to see these distant lands for myself.

 

An inland sea. The Istyar surely would have heard of the mysterious warlord. Erestor considered for a moment if there was a remote possibility that, through his friendship with Mélamírë, he might contact the Istyar directly. No point in it though. He could guess how the Istyar would receive such an overture, and even if he did receive a response, he knew he would question the truth of anything the Istyar might tell him. Elrond's words of caution were engraved in Erestor's trove of information:

 

I do not believe Aulendil is who he says he is. He is holding back. Concealing something.

 

Erestor folded the letter and leaned forward to return it to the stack in the bin, placing a glass paperweight on top to foil the damp breeze that eddied through the window. He prepared to tally the inventories from the fishermen of the north coast when he heard the distant call of a horn from the one of the twin watchtowers that flanked the entrance to the harbor. He listened, waiting for the answering call of the harbormaster, and there it was — two peals from a silver horn, the signal that a merchant vessel approached. Setting aside the report, he pushed back from the desk, and left the inventories behind. Even if Ballain and Helevair were not on this ship, there might be oranges aboard. 

---

Chapter End Notes

One of the best things about Tolkien fandom is cross-fertilization of fanon ideas, and I am of the (strong) opinion that it is important to acknowledge these sources of inspiration whenever possible.  So, with that in mind…

A sweeping tip of the black villainous hat to Russandol for her visions of Lindon and the stirrings of trouble in the South and East during the Second Age in the amazing Chasing Mirages, a novel that I recommend highly.  I'm not a 'shipping kind of writer, but if I were to pick a OTP, it would be Eönwë/Mairon, hands down, thanks to Russa's fabulous tale.  

Likewise, a big thank you to SurgicalSteel for her vision of Umbar (reflective of ancient Carthage of our primary world). Steel gave names, faces, and fates to Tar-Ancalimë's two granddaughters (and Tar-Súrion's elder sisters). Quildelótë and Lornalótë appear in the following:  Fate and The Far Side of the World.

Ereinion's love of lizards (iguanas) and black lobsters take inspiration from the erstwhile Darth Fingon. A little nod to kimberleighe's Gil-Galad is given, i.e., his knowledge of the stars and heavenly wanderers.  The King had a good teacher in Kim's wonderful OFC, Idhreniel.

Per usual, my ficcery is interconnected.  For the benefit of those new to my insanely expanding 'verse who might be reading this (although I think it unlikely that The Writhen Pool will attract new readers), one of Celebrimbor's salons that found Erestor in attendance is in A Fragile Chalice. Elrond's misgivings about Annatar's identity are treated more fully in Driftwood.

Finally, in the interest of making these absurdly long end notes even longer, the copious ingestion of rose hips tea and craving for citrus fruits among the Firstborn have a biological basis, consistent with the strong consideration given to science (as extrapolated in a speculative sense) in my 'verse.  A component of Pandë!verse Elven physiology that contributes to their extremely long lifespan is the enhanced and efficient repair of oxidatively damaged proteins and nucleic acids.  As a result of this trait, the Firstborn require higher amounts of Vitamin C and other antioxidants in their diet compared with their mortal counterparts.

Chapter 6: Welcome Arrivals

Erestor takes a detour on his way to Uinen's Quay, where a Númenórean trade ship docks, bringing welcome arrivals.

Thanks to Scarlet, Randy O, Russa, Kymahalei, Kenaz, Drummerwench, Elfscribe, and Oshun for feedback and encouragement!  And a shout out of thanks to Elleth for giving me permission to the nod to her intriguing OFC, Estëlindë.  

Read Chapter 6: Welcome Arrivals

 Erestor ambled along the street that wound down from the King's keep to the harbor. He glanced up at the sun, just visible over the roofs of the buildings. The ship ought be passing through the harbor gates by now. From there, it would be guided to Uinen's Quay that extended into the deeper waters, where the vessel would be tied by the dockhands then any cargo unloaded. At least a good half-hour or longer would pass before the crew and its captain disembarked. So he took his time.

 

The cobblestones beneath his feet were still damp from the summer rain that passed over the city last night, but all the clouds had moved East, leaving behind a brilliant blue sky. The shops that catered to those who plied their trade on the sea and to those who supported them were quiet, save for the dressmakers' shops where a few women congregated. The glint of brass from Master Galadben's windows caught his eye. He slowed to admire the astrolabes and telescopes on display, waved through the glass at the shop's proprietor, who admirably paid his taxes on time, and then Erestor was on his way again.

 

The odors and noise of the market assaulted him before he even emerged from the shadows of the buildings. He blinked against the bright morning sunlight to see the familiar sight of stalls crammed nearly on top of one another, their colorful banners that advertised their wares waving lazily in the sea breeze. The crowd would have thinned since earlier in the morning, when many of the workers and servants of the nobility teemed through the market, the latter arriving in hopes of selecting the best fruits, meats, and fish, and the former by necessity before they began their day's labors.

 

His belly grumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten since yesterday's luncheon, so he made his way through the clusters of shoppers to a vendor whose wares he especially favored. There were several customers clustered around the stall, a popular spot. The owner — a baker — waved and called out:

 

"Master Erestor! I have one left. I have been saving it for you."

 

Stars' blood, but I am such a creature of habit! He had been dining on old Agorfain's pastries nearly every morning for the past three long-years, ever since the baker moved to Mithlond from a village near Forlindon and set up shop. Although all the breads and rolls he baked were delicious, one roll in particular had earned Erestor's love.

 

The other patrons moved aside and good morn'd him courteously, recognizing the Master of Accounts. That he merited such deference never failed to amuse him. Probably afraid that if they are not respectful, I will look into their taxes. They might not be wrong. He gave two coppers to Agorfain, who then plucked the object of Erestor's desire from a shelf near a small brazier, and laid the roll, wrapped in parchment and still hot, on his outstretched hand.

 

Erestor peeled back the paper and brought the roll to his nose, inhaling the sharp scent of cinnamon mellowed by hot butter, and was about to bite into the confection when he felt that he was being watched. He looked down to see wide grey eyes staring up at him. A child's eyes. It was rare to see a child out and about these days, when it seemed that so many in Mithlond had moved beyond the years of bearing children, a stark contrast to Ost-in-Edhil that fairly teemed with youngsters. The little girl's face was heart-shaped and pink-cheeked. Doriathren blood there, he thought as he assessed her features and the hint of silver highlights in her dark curls, although her mother, a small, willowy woman, had the look of the Falathrim.

 

Ah, Radgol's wife. That's who this is! The old Doriathren Sinda, once a minor bureaucrat in Thingol's court (and lucky enough to escape the fall of Doriath with his life), had done well for himself with a marriage to this lissome young thing. Erestor heard they had a child, but had not yet seen her. Until now.

 

He examined the yearning in those young eyes, edged with dark lashes, gazing up at him and his roll. Without saying a word, the little girl, who otherwise looked rather well-fed, pleaded with him.

 

He hesitated. He had eaten a cinnamon bun baked by Agorfain nearly every morning for years, more than many lifetimes of mortal Men, and longer than this child had been alive. Surely he could spare…

 

The bun was still hot and so fragrant. He returned his attention to the child, who still was looking at him and the roll, and batting her lashes while smiling so sweetly, and...too perfectly.

 

The first bite of the hot cinnamon bun was exquisite, just as it always was. The little girl's face fell, and rather than disappointment, he saw anger. Just as he suspected. The child was indulged, using her pretty youth to manipulate, and he had thwarted her. He leaned down, and took another bite out of the roll, chewed slowly, smacked his lips, and swallowed.

 

"I'm sorry, my dear girl, but you cannot always get what you want. Best you learn that now."

 

Radgol's wife bleated a protest, apparently accustomed to one and all accommodating her darling, but Erestor gave the baker another copper, saying, "Here, give this sweet child a rye roll."

 

The baker's smile was a bit sly, and Erestor caught Agorfain's wink. "Yes, m'lord," he said. "You are very generous, m'lord."

 

As he walked away, disciplining himself to savor the roll rather than wolf it down in a few bites, he heard the little girl's whine: "But Mother! I hate rye bread!"

 

Erestor swallowed the last bite of roll and sucked the honey from his fingers. Ahead were the fishmongers' stalls. Having no choice but to pass them, he gulped in a chest full of air and held his breath while he quickened his pace and strode past the piles of scaled creatures, their slime glistening in the morning sun. Despite his attempt to prevent smelling the reek, he felt the stench seep into his skin and clothing.

 

He wholeheartedly despised fish and reluctantly ate lobster and shrimps, only by social necessity. Several patrons clustered around a stall where they noisily slurped down freshly shucked oysters for their mid-morning snack. His belly clenched at the sight, and the cinnamon roll threatened to re-emerge. He willed back his disgust and moved along, releasing the trapped air in his chest once he was well past the fish market.

 

The guards gave him a sharp nod when he stepped out from the south gates of the city to the harbor front where a few fishermen were unloading their morning catches at small piers. Gulls wheeled and screeched overhead, vying for any offal that the fishermen might fling from their boats. Cormorants dove into the water among the glass floats that marked the locations of lobster traps out in the harbor.

 

Most of the dock's human activity was clustered around Uinen's Quay. A battered carrack, its dingy sails furled, lumbered toward the wharf where dockhands waited to catch the ropes thrown by the crew. With the strength of the Firstborn in their wiry limbs, the dockworkers pulled the ropes, bringing the ship its moorings. By Númenórean standards, it was an old vessel, chunky and worn. A carved figurehead – a winged Suril — jutted from the bow, and faded letters named the vessel as The West Wind, a sleek name, he thought, for such a hulk.

 

Several elven-merchants also stood at the docks, waiting for the crew to unload their cargo. Among them were two green grocers. Erestor grinned. Without a doubt, they, too, hoped there might be oranges, lemons, or limes aboard. They would make a killing on the fruits in the market. The Númenórean sailors always carried some citrus fruits on board, having learned that during long voyages, their teeth would drop out otherwise, but whether or not this ship had brought enough for trade was another question.

 

A head of slick, silver hair rose above many of the others on the dock. Círdan. Now that was something of a surprise. This carrack did not appear to be a ship of enough importance to draw the Shipwright here. Then again, Círdan was known to step outside his huge warehouse, where ships and boats were built, to enjoy laboring with the dockhands. "Keeps my old bones strong and my heart fresh," he claimed.

 

However, the Lord of the Falathrim was not at work this morning, but standing off to the side and out of the way of the dockhands, his keen eyes focused on the ship. As Erestor edged past barrels and coils of thick rope, Círdan spotted him and waved.

 

"Good morning, Lord Moneybags!" the Shipwright called out. "I thought you might be along soon. Trawling for harbor taxes as usual?" Círdan's words rolled like pebbles tumbled by the surf; he had lived among the Falathrim long enough to affect their distinctive brogue. No one else called Erestor by that ludicrous nickname, at least not to his face, but Círdan tended toward irreverence, as did many of the more ancient Firstborn, a trait that Erestor appreciated.

 

"Good morning to you, too, old man. What brings you here?"

 

"Gossip, my lad. I could do with a dose of it."

 

Erestor grunted in agreement. Although not an articulate response, he agreed with Círdan, who mingled with the mariners to gather information from far-reaching lands. Some of the best news was to be had among the common folk, both mortal and Firstborn.

 

Side-by-side, Erestor and Círdan watched the ship's crew extend a wide gangplank from the vessel to the dock where it was secured. Three Faledhil maneuvered a crane to swing over the ship's deck where a few Men hooked chains to a large crate that was raised from the ship and carefully guided over the dock. Meanwhile, the crew unloaded smaller crates and boxes by way of the gangplank.

 

The Men of The West Wind's crew were a motley bunch, as typical for a merchant ship. A few true-born Númenóreans were aboard (and judging by their smart, blue livery of Lord Erelluntë's fleet, they were officers of various rank), most claiming descent from the folk of Hador by virtue of their sun-bleached blond hair, although Sea and Sun had weathered their otherwise pale skin to brown. Others of the crew hailed from more distant lands, their hair black and their complexions swart. Many Men sported outlandish tattoos on their skin. Most were in good spirits as they stepped off the gangway, greeting the elvish dockhands, who in turn clasped hands with them in the spirit of camaraderie among mariners.

 

However, the socializing between Men and the Sea-Elves did not extend to much more than this display of rough courtesy (for all these sailors and dockworkers, mortal and Firstborn alike, were rough men). Once the Mannish crew disembarked, most of the Men would not be allowed to pass through the city gates. The King quickly instituted that order some ten years after the Númenóreans first visited Mithlond when a brawl broke out at a popular pub, Osse's Goblet, which erupted into a full-scale riot, leaving a dozen Men and three Firstborn dead. For the sake of continued diplomatic harmony, Ereinion and Tar-Aldarion agreed that separation of Men and Elves in Mithlond would be prudent.

 

Instead, the mortal crew would go off to Tidebottom, a settlement, practically a small village, squeezed between the walls of the elven-king's city and the harbor. There the crews found food and drink at The Jolly Clam, a boisterous tavern of questionable repute where elvish sailors, boat builders, and dockworkers were also known to hoist a few pints with the mortals.

 

Even more disreputable entertainment was to be had at The House of the Sea Flower, or, as the sailors called it with predictable vulgarity, "The Sea Quim," often shortened to simply "The Quim," in the interest of expediency. There, mortal women and a few pretty boys plied a trade abhorrent to the Firstborn, although the rare elf-man would make his way there out of curiosity. The consequences, almost always a raging case of the clap or worse — the Umbarin pox — would knock back these more adventurous (and less fastidious, to Erestor's mind) Firstborn for a week or more while they linked fëar to hröar to stem the infection. The suffering involved during the healing process was usually enough to deter further adventures for a time, or at least until another drunken dare was made.

 

The ships' captains and first officers, on the other hand, were welcomed past the gates into the elven-city, where they must forego the pleasure-house, but have the privilege of rubbing elbows with the Elves. Erestor dealt with the first officers most frequently, collecting the harbor tax from them.

 

By the time the Sun reached her zenith, most of the crates and barrels had been unloaded from The West Wind. As custom, the captain was the last to disembark, leaving behind a skeleton crew to watch over the vessel. Three figures stepped onto the gangway. The captain, judging by the fine sword at his side and the silver trim on his uniform, waited for two men to step onto the gangway ahead of him. One of the men was stooped, his gait uneasy, perhaps ill or injured in some way, not particularly surprising, given Men's vulnerability to ailment and injury. The other man, short and stocky with a balding pate ringed by silver hair, walked just ahead of the ailing fellow, holding the stooped man's hand to steady him. When they reached the stability of the dock, the sickly man looked up toward Círdan and Erestor and gave them a weak wave with his left hand.

 

It was with horrified shock that Erestor recognized Ballain. The skin of his agent's face stretched tight against his bones, and his eyes were sunken with dark circles under them, giving him a skeletal appearance. His sun-ravaged hair hung thin and lank. However, there was no denying the familiar spark in his dark grey eyes or his expression of relief when he saw Erestor and the Shipwright.

 

Erestor did not make Ballain wait, but made his way among the crew and dockworkers, who milled about on the quay, planning to meet at the Clam to share drink and to exchange news.

 

"Ballain! It is good to see you at last!" Erestor reached out to shake his agent's right hand, a gesture of welcome appropriate between their stations, but Ballain withheld his hand. Erestor, annoyed at first by what he thought was discourtesy, glanced down at a wrinkled appendage, its curled, bony fingers covered with blackened hide.

 

"Bloody stars! What has happened to you, man? Sir!" He addressed the man who supported Ballain, recognizing the simple broach of the guild of ship's surgeons pinned to his tunic. "What is wrong with him?"

 

Before the surgeon could answer, Círdan, who now stood beside Erestor, spoke up. "Ballain is in need of one of our own healers, I should think." For a moment, Erestor wondered why Círdan was so concerned but remembered that Ballain's mother, a woman of the Falas, was of Círdan's house, and so Ballain was his kinsman.

 

Ballain shook head. "Master Dúnhir has taken good care of me, never fear, and I look worse than I feel." Indeed, his voice sounded stronger than he appeared. "At any rate, I do not think there is a leech among mortals or our own people who could have done better than he who saved my life."

 

"My apologies, Master Dúnhir," Erestor said. "I did not mean to call your skill into question. Obviously, you have done our friend Ballain here a good turn."

 

"No need to apologize. It was not I who saved him. Another did that, although Master Ballain does not speak of this talented healer. No, I have merely helped him recover aboard our ship, as best I might. But I do agree. He ought to see one of your healers."

 

"So he shall." Erestor turned to Ballain. "Now tell me, where is Helevair?"

 

Ballain's expression darkened. "Helevair is dead. We ran into trouble down South. It is a long tale, one best told elsewhere."

 

"Then tell it in my home," said Círdan. "After Cúronel sees you, that is."

 

"Cúronel? Estelindë's student?" Ballain smiled to hear a familiar name.

 

"The same," replied Erestor. "Just as learned and filled with almost as much vinegar as her mentor. Ereinion summoned her here two years ago. I shall ask that she see you as soon as possible once you arrive at Círdan's home."

 

"Erestor, might you also send word to the king and Elrond?" Círdan said. "Ask them to join me this evening. I daresay they will wish to hear Ballain's tale."

 

As they prepared to leave the quay, Erestor heard a commotion behind him. He turned to see the green grocers haggling with one of the officers, and eyeing one another balefully. He excused himself, telling Cirdan and Ballain he would see them later, and returned to the stack of crates. The grocers ceased their bickering as soon as he stood among them. He pulled out the small knife he always carried on his belt, and pried open a crate. He reached in, and pulled out an orange, surprisingly plump, and inhaled its sweet, sharp perfume.

 

"Good sir, are these oranges for sale?" he asked the officer.

 

"Yes, my lord, but we can only spare three crates."

 

"Ah. Well, then, have two crates sent to the King's keep, and yes, I know you can spare at least one more from your ship. You may then consider your harbor taxes paid in full. And you two? You each may have a crate." The grocers stared at him, their mouths hanging open. "Please don't gouge your customers too badly." He walked away, digging his thumbs into the peel of the fruit.

 

~*~

 

 

 

By the time Erestor, Ereinion, and Elrond arrived at Círdan's expansive house the evening had settled in and night approached from the East. The main house and its two long wings clung to the hillside, affording a magnificent view of the Gulf of Lhûn, where the Sun hovered above the Western Sea, burning a sword of fire to the horizon. The tall ship lord led them to an open porch that overlooked the harbor.

 

Cúronel had come and gone, pronouncing her charge on the mend, but alarmed, Círdan whispered, by the nature of the wound. "There are sure signs of necrosis, she told me. Decay and death of the flesh," he added.

 

"I know what necrosis is," Elrond replied gently.

 

Ballain, now bathed, dressed in a loose, long-sleeved linen shirt over trim blue trousers, and his thin hair plaited neatly, rose when they stepped out onto the porch. He bowed deeply to the king. "Your Excellency…"

 

Erestor saw the king's eyes brush over the gnarled, blackened fingers of Ballain's right hand, curled at his chest. Through the thin cloth of the shirt, his right arm looked notably smaller in girth than the left.

 

"Please sit, Ballain," Ereinion said. "From what I hear, you are in need of rest."

 

Ballain did as the king said, and Erestor, too, sat on a chair of silver wood, its curves flowing like waves and its cushions thick and comfortable. In contrast to Ereinion's keep, which was built of stone and followed the preferred architecture of the Noldor with its strong walls, soaring arches, and bold domes, Círdan's home, although resting on foundations of stone, was primarily constructed from oak, cedar, and cypress wood. Motifs of scallops and fish were carved into the capitals of the house's columns. Beams arching overhead resembled the ribs of a ship's hull, and the smooth plank floors were like a ship's deck. Tapestries with scenes of life by the sea decorated the walls, and iridescent abalone shell formed the shades of the sconces and lamps. The nautical effect gave the impression of being on a large, graceful ship, but thankfully, a stable one.

 

Servants delivered platters of food and decanters of pale wine and set them on side tables. To Erestor's disgust, seafood formed the greater part of the evening's repast, including a massive silver plate of shucked oysters lying on a bed of seaweed. He had to contain his nausea while the rest eagerly sucked down the vile things. Círdan and Elrond in particular were exceptionally noisy, no doubt for his benefit. He made do with ripe strawberries and brown bread slathered with sweet butter, as his belly sang a silent lament for beefsteak, seared on the outside and pink in the middle. Small talk was made, but Ballain's presence — and his obvious injury — weighed upon them all, so that it was not an especially merry gathering.

 

After the plates were cleared and each man had a filled glass of wine in hand, the servants left them alone. The Sun had set, and the first of Varda's stars glittered above the hills in the East.

 

"Well, then, Ballain," the king said. "This tale of yours. Are you prepared to tell it?"

 

"I am, my king, but I advise that it is a long tale in the telling."

 

"We are not going anywhere, are we?" Ereinion looked around at the rest of them. Erestor merely shrugged in response. "Very well. Proceed, Ballain. Tell us of your journey, your travails..."

 

"How Helevair met his end," Elrond added quietly.

 

Ballain, after taking a long drink of cool wine, spoke.

 

Chapter 7: Ballain's Tale

Erestor, Elrond, Ereinion, and Círdan listen to Ballain recount his adventures in the South:  how he and Helevair disguised themselves and traveled to Umbar, their journey to Mordor, and the horror they encountered in the Nameless Pass.  Ballain tells of his brush with death, his rescue by an extraordinary people from Far Harad, and his healing by an even more extraordinary being.  Astute guesses are made, thanks to what Ballain's healer tells him, and Ballain gives a name, a single word that Elrond recognizes, causing him to make a dreadful connection. 

Warning for the arachnophobic:  here be spiders.  Big ones.  Evil ones.  But a good spider, too.

Thanks to my keen-eyed pals (see Chapter 6) for nitpicking.  Special thanks to to Surgical Steel for the use of "conjure-women" and her vision of Umbar (a Middle-earth nod to ancient Carthage), to Russandol for the name Brûn Hobas, and a big, huge, massive thanks to Elleth for her assistance with speculative Primitive Elvish. 

Read Chapter 7: Ballain's Tale

Ballain had gulped down his wine to the last drop.  Erestor quickly rose from his chair to take the decanter from the sideboard and refilled his friend's glass.  He had a feeling that Ballain might be in need of fortification to tell his story.   Ballain thanked him, while Erestor took his seat again, and along with Elrond, the Shipwright, and the King, listened to Ballain as a remarkable tale unfolded.

 

"Our journey began without event. We booked passage on The Gull's Wing first to Lond Daer, where we gathered as much information as we could from the portreeve and from those who frequent the docks and taverns, as well. We followed the rumors of unrest South to Brûn Hobas, that town by the sea where mortals from the South and the Firstborn of Edhellond mingle. There we sought a conjure-woman…"

 

"A conjure-woman?" the King interrupted.

 

"A witch, by another name," Círdan said darkly. "They are known to me. They often call upon the Houseless as their familiars."

 

Erestor suppressed a shudder. He had encountered a houseless fëa once, and once was enough.

 

"Yes, a witch," Ballain confirmed. "A mortal woman, though of mixed blood, we thought, as she had an air of the Firstborn about her, however diminished. Her shop was tucked away in a filthy alley of the town. From her, we procured a potion that would dull our eyes, roughen our hair, and allow us to sprout whiskers, so that we might appear to be mortal Men and therefore pass as northern tradesmen when we arrived in the South. The stuff made us sick as dogs for a few days, but it worked."

 

"Once we recovered and had whiskers — I grew a full beard, in fact." Here Erestor noted that Círdan, who boasted a short, silver beard, grinned indulgently with what appeared to be approval. "We booked passage to Umbar. Fair winds brought us there in short order, and we beheld the City of the Sisters."

 

Ballain turned to gaze at the harbor where the rippling water splintered the light shining from the twin lighthouses that rose on either side of the harbor gates. "Ah, Umbar! So beautiful, its red towers and golden spires rising high on the hills above the turquoise sea, the climate so mild and warm! Lairelossë trees grow there, and they were in flower when we arrived, like drifts of snow under the hot sun. Little red birds, called kirinki, beloved by the Númenóreans, sing sweetly in the courtyards. Palm trees grow along the strand, their fronds waving in the wind.

 

"And the people! They come from so many places! There are highborn Númenóreans, as you might expect, but many swarthy folk of Harad and Far Harad dwell in the city, too. We saw folk from even farther East: from Bharat, Kitai, and the Lands of the Dawn.

 

"We lingered in Umbar where we rented a flat and came to know those who live in the city and those who come and go. There is a great library with scrolls and books beyond count, and anyone may use it. We often studied there to learn more of Umbar and the lands beyond. From the people we came to know, we learned yet more of the disturbances. We heard of the desert tribes who raided villages, and of provinces that turned away from Umbar, refusing to pay taxes, and we heard of the warlord who led the uprisings. That he rewards those loyal to him, providing for them, even making some rich, but those who spurn him? They are rewarded with torment and death. A man capable of terrible cruelty, it is said. The folk of Umbar call him 'The Zigûr.'"

 

"Zigûr?" Ereinion interrupted. "That has a distasteful sound. What does that mean?"

 

"Wizard," answered Elrond, "in the Mannish tongue."

 

"Yes," Ballain replied. "A mortal man, they said, with the ability to style himself as a sorcerer. That was what we thought at first. But then we heard rumors that whispered the Zigûr was no mortal, but something more. But you know how Men are, easily fooled by feints of mind and sleights of hand, and they are prone to exaggeration. And yet…" Ballain paused and took another gulp of wine. "And yet, we met a few who had narrowly escaped capture in the raids, and their fear spoke of horrors that are forever engraved in their minds.

 

"So it was that once we felt we had unearthed enough information (and I shall tell you those details later), we set aside our comfortable life in Umbar and made our way north toward the land where the inland sea lay, where this warlord forced his slaves taken in raids to work the fields, and beyond that, the barren plains and plateaus where a fire-mountain awoke one hundred sun-years ago. Umbar has named that land 'Mordor.'

 

"Mordor…" repeated Ereinion. "The Black Land."

 

Ballain rubbed his right shoulder. Erestor wondered how much pain he still suffered. Necrosis. What kind of malady would eat away at one's entire arm?

 

"Yes, the Black Land, named such because it has an evil reputation. It was with that caution that we came to the foothills of the Mountains of Shadow, where we fell silent, and our hearts became heavy, as if a dreadful will pushed against us. We met a ragged patrol of soldiers from Umbar in those hills, on their way back to the city, and told them we were agents of a northern chieftain, sent to spy on Mordor. They thought us fools, but they shared their food and drink with us, and told us there were no passes along its southern walls, and that the roads entering Mordor from the East were watched, day and night.

 

"Turn west then north, they told us. Follow the mountains on their western side. You shall come to a river. Turn East and follow it into the high vale. There is the pass that will take you into the Dark Land. But beware! It is said this nameless pass is guarded, and the mountains are full of horrors.

 

"We took their advice and followed the western walls of the mountains. We came upon a fair land where firs, cedars, and cypress grew, where the mingled fragrance of wild lavender, sage, thyme, and rosemary lifted our mood, and our pace quickened. Soon, we found the river the soldiers spoke of, and we turned East, following it up into the high pass.

 

"Each step toward Mordor became wearisome, yet still we continued, climbing higher. The sky was overcast from the reek of the fire mountain, and the air was filled with the stench of brimstone. Finally, we reached the height of the pass, exhausted. We thought it must be the conjure-woman's potion that had weakened us, making us tire like mortal Men. We stopped to camp for the evening in a small hollow where scrub pines and wild roses grew, their fragrance driving back the stench of the fire-mountain, and where a small, clear stream flowed, its music pleasant to the ear. It was as good as any garden. We were dreadfully thirsty and drank deep of the water, sweet and cold.

 

"Our habit was for one to take watch while the other slept, but the water of that stream must have been ensorcelled, for on that night, we both fell into a swoon."

 

Ballain was then silent. He looked at each of them in turn, and Erestor saw dreadful memory emerge in his agent's eyes. He took a long, shuddering breath and continued:

 

"I awoke to a horrible sound — a gurgling scream. There, in the moonlight, I saw a bulbous shape and many legs, struggling with Helevair, who tried to fight it off. It was he who screamed. Barely thinking, I reached for my sword, but felt sharp pain strike my hand. In the moonlight, I saw fangs embedded in my flesh, and then I knew what attacked us: spiders, a pack of them, maybe six, and all about the size of large dogs. The creature released me, poised to leap and strike a more deadly blow, but not before I sliced it open, spilling its slime onto the rocks, and then I slew the spider on Helevair. The rest of the spiders fled before my sword, for its blade was forged by Curufin himself to deal death to the spawn of Ungoliant in Nan Dungortheb.

 

"I went to Helevair's side, but it was too late. The spider had bitten him on the neck, and the poison rushed to his brain and heart. I cradled him as he struggled to breathe, until at last, Mandos called him.

 

"I am not sure how long I sat there, holding his body, which by morning had already begun sinking in on itself from the withering of death and perhaps from the spider's venom, too.  My own wound burned, and I felt the poison creeping up my arm. Using what little strength of will I still had, I fought back, pushing it away from its march toward my heart. When I tried to stand, thinking to gather stones for a crude cairn to protect Helevair's body from further defilement, the world spun, and I fell. Stars swam before my eyes, but through my muddled vision, I saw that my right hand was now swollen and inflamed red with purple splotches. The poison was relentless in its assault up my arm, but I kept driving it back. However, I was weakened. I knew I had to leave the pass, for the spiders might come back to finish me off, so I am sorry to say that I left Helevair's body to…to..."

 

Ballain, who had been recounting his tale calmly up to this point, choked on a sob. Pity swelled in Erestor, for the necrosis was now explained. He recalled the patrol with Maglor when they stumbled upon three bodies claimed by spider venom. It had been horrible.

 

"It is all right, Ballain." He leaned across the space between them and laid his hand on his agent's withered arm. "Helevair had already been summoned. What happened to his dead body does not matter. What matters is that you are here, and alive to tell your tale."

 

Ballain swallowed hard, and wrested his grief into place. He gave Erestor a look of gratitude.

 

"You are right. I know this. Still, it was hard to leave him there to be devoured. I stumbled down out of the pass. I am not even sure which direction I went, east or west, it did not matter. I thought no more clearly than a wounded beast as a fever swiftly took me. I walked and walked, lurching along, tripping over stones to fall again and again, until I felt blood run down my face. My entire arm was red and swollen with black patches where the venom attacked me, eating my flesh from within.

 

"At last, I fell and did not have the strength to rise. I lay there, straining to see the stars through my blurred sight, and I prayed to Nienna for mercy and that her dark brother would call me soon. Then I knew no more.

 

"Yet here you are," said Ereinion. "Obviously, you did not answer Námo's call."

 

"Yes, here I am, and if the Doomsman called, I did not hear him," said Ballain. "Instead, I awoke to hear the sound of voices, the babble of a stream, of wind sighing in the trees, and once more, I smelled the sweet scent of firs and herbs in the sun. They were balms to my fëa. Was this a lovely dream of death? That place between life and the Halls of Mandos? I opened my eyes to see a black face with hair like dark ropes hanging about it. I yelled, or more likely, croaked, and struggled, for I was sure I had been captured by an orc.

 

"The orc spoke to me in a tongue I did not recognize, but the voice was not that of those cruel folk.  Rather, the voice was melodious, fluid, and so very soothing. A woman's voice. My vision cleared, and I calmed when looked into a beautiful woman's eyes: amber-brown, shining with golden stars, and the most lovely, curved lashes I have ever seen.

 

"Gold-flecked eyes?" Erestor said, remembering a black man with light brown eyes, almost golden, who had been a first officer aboard a Númenórean explorer. "Unusual for a mortal, but not unheard of, I suppose, perhaps in these dark races…"

 

"You misunderstand me. The stars in her eyes were that of our people. She was — is — Firstborn."

 

"What?" blurted Ereinion. "You mean to say she is…a swarthy Elf?"

 

"Yes, she is swarthy. Very swarthy, in fact."

 

"One of the Lost Tribes," Círdan murmured.

 

They all jerked their heads to stare at him. "The Lost Tribes?" said Elrond. "I thought that was merely a myth. That only the Minyar, the Tatyar, and Nelyar awoke by the waters."

 

Círdan, one of the few remaining Unbegotten in Middle-earth, shook his head slowly, and his gaze retreated inward as he pulled forth memories from the deep past. "No, there were others. Six tribes all told.   There were words said, things done, so much we came to regret…" His voice trailed away, and he looked both pained and remote as he beheld the most ancient of his memories, but focus returned to his eyes and voice once more.  "While we turned West with Oromë and his scouts, the other three tribes — the Cantjâi, Lepenjâi, and Enekjâi — went South and East. We believed we had parted forever, and they had all perished. The Cantjâi were dark-skinned, so your rescuer must be one of them."

 

"Cantjâi, Lepenjâi, and Enekjâi," repeated Elrond. "The ancient tongue, the mother of all languages. So we might name them the Fourths, Fifths, and Sixths?"

 

Erestor listened with fascination. To him and most Firstborn, the shrouded rumors of the Lost Tribes were no more than faerie tales, some quite horrible, serving as lessons to the children of Aman that the Avari who remained behind in Middle-earth fell prey to Morgoth and became orcs.

 

"Yes. Yes!" Ballain said, sitting forward in his chair. "Those are the words they used. Except they call themselves the Minjâi – the Firsts."

 

"They?" said Ereinion. "So there are more?"

 

Ballain nodded. "Yes, along with my rescuer — Thema is her name — were three of her brothers: Road-builder, River-drinker, and Stone-thrower. All black as she is, but whom you would recognize them as kin if you could see them! They are tall, strong men who move and speak with the grace gifted to our people, and elven-starlight shines in their eyes."

 

"How remarkable!" said Ereinion. Moriquendi in every sense of the word."

 

"Not in every sense," protested Ballain. "Certainly no darkness touches their hearts. They had come to Mordor to free mortal slaves — their kin — who had been taken in raids. Road-builder, River-drinker, and Stone-thrower alone slew thirty orcs and freed their people. They were all returning to Far Harad when they found me.

 

"Thema and I could not understand one another well at first, until we touched our minds, and she then spoke the First Speech of the Quendi. I recognized many words, even if they were strange to the ear.

 

"'Who are you?' she asked.

 

"I gave her the Mannish name I had assumed in Umbar, but she smiled and shook her head.

 

"'You may have the beard of a Man, but you are not mortal. I see more than you might guess. It is not just the spider's venom that afflicts you.  You have taken another poison that has changed you. I believe we are kin from afar.'

 

"I looked into those amber eyes, felt her healing touch, and I trusted her. I told her my true name, that I had taken a potion to make me appear Mannish, and that I came from the North, but I did not tell her my full purpose.

 

"'I can see from your pale skin that you are of the North,' she said, stroking my fevered brow with a cool, damp cloth. 'Yes, from the North where the Sun never shines, where the Speakers dwell in darkness, feeding only on the foul slime and toadstools that grow in the lingering Shadow."

 

"Well!" exclaimed Ereinion, laughing. "Imagine that! A barbarian of the Moriquendi thinks we Northerners still live under the clouds of Morgoth and live on mushrooms!

 

Have a care, my king, thought Erestor, although he did not dare voice it aloud. For you are Moriquendi yourself. You never saw the light of the Trees.

 

Ballain shrugged. "I was in no condition to tell her of the bounty of our fields and orchards and the long summer sunlight on the sea. 'Your wound is beyond my skill to heal,' she explained. 'But I can keep you alive, long enough to find my father so that he can heal you.'

 

"She gave me bitter medicine that drove the conjure-woman's poison from my body, then drugged me into a stupor so that I would not be so pained when I was dragged on a litter as we journeyed to the South.

 

"I do not know how many days passed. They traveled in silence until they were well away from Mordor. When they came to the northern borders of their own lands, they sang, and that gave me comfort.

 

"At last, we stopped in a village of thatched huts, where I heard the lowing of kine, the bleating of goats and the voices of people, even the laughter of children.  Thema no longer gave me the medicine that dulled pain and brought sleep. 'You must be awake for this,' she told me.

 

"It was evening, and the sun was setting when they laid me down beside a fire.  The villagers, all mortal, but some with the hints of the stars in their eyes, formed a circle around us.  Thema sang — so beautiful and strange, so enchanting — while her brothers pounded drums. Then all was silent. Thema said, 'He comes.'

 

"I looked about for their shaman, for surely they had summoned him, but no one approached. Then I saw it crawling across the sand and pebbles, not more than three feet away: a brown spider. After my experience, even a tiny spider would have sent me into a frenzy, but this one was the size of my hand, and it approached me.

 

"I shrieked, and tried to stand, but Stone-thrower and River-drinker grabbed me and held me fast, pinning my arms to the ground. The pain in my injured arm was terrible, because River-drinker had to squeeze it tight. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'But you must remain still.'

 

"To my horror, the spider crawled onto my hand and stopped, precisely where the spider of Mordor had bitten me. Then it sank its fangs into my skin. I screamed when I felt the stab of pain, but then, a sweet warmth spread into my hand and fingers, and it gained strength, becoming a fire that blazed up my arm. It was not a foul fire, but one that cleanses, burning away the venom and the pain.  Tears of relief flowed down my cheeks. The brown spider tapped its legs on the wound, as if inspecting its work, and I could feel – I could see — my flesh healing. Then it crawled off my hand and scuttled a few feet away. River-drinker and Stone-thrower released me, and I sat up to stare at the spider.

 

"It changed before my eyes. The air around it wavered, and its legs joined and lengthened to become the arms and legs of a man, growing, growing.  It was sickening to watch, and yet I could not look away.

 

"Soon enough, a long-limbed black man crouched on his hands and knees before me. Silver nubs of hair covered his scalp, and his amber eyes were much like Thema's. He was naked, but Road-builder brought a cloth woven of many-colored threads that he wrapped around himself, and he sat down beside me. He ran his hands over my injured arm, where the warmth of the brown spider's bite — his bite — still lingered, healing my wound.

 

"'Very good,' he said. To my amazement, he spoke Quenya perfectly. 'The healing will take time, and your flesh will remain withered for many years to come, but you will have the use of your arm again.'

 

I stared at him, and knew what he must be. "You are a shape-shifter…a Maia!"

 

"'Yes, that I am. My sons and daughter did well bringing you to me, and just in time, too. The venom of my sister's spawn was making its way to your head and heart. You would have been dead in another week.'

 

"I shuddered at my near brush with death. 'You say, your sister. Do you mean to say you are a child of Ungoliantë?'

 

"'No! I do not mean sister-by-blood. Sister-by-form, rather. You saw the shape I take when I am not a man. No, I am not of Ungoliantë's get. I am of the House of Vairë the Weaver, and I came with the Shining Ones — the Valar — when they opened the Gates of Arda. Ungoliantë came from the Dark behind the stars.

 

"'But I am much more clever than Ungoliantë's daughter and her spawn who dwell in the Mountains of Shadow,' he said. 'I trick them at every turn with my webs!  I confound them with my stories!  No, they shall never catch me!' He laughed, pleased with himself, it seemed.

 

"'You call Thema 'daughter', I said, 'and River-drinker, Road-builder, and Stone-thrower your sons. Are they…'

 

"'Are they truly my children?' He smiled, his teeth flashing. 'Yes. They are of my blood, made by this form.' He patted his bare chest, and pride was in his deep voice. 'Six sons and two daughters. I married one of your people long ago, when the man who awoke beside her at Cuiviénen was taken by he who you name Morgoth. My wife dwells farther south where she rules over many tribes.'

 

"You mean you are not the king?"

 

He laughed. "Me? No!  I have too many other things to do, too many stories to tell, and besides, it is not fitting for one of my kind to rule over yours. We have too much power to do so.'

 

"I had to wonder at that," said Ballain. "Was it not appropriate that Melian was at Thingol's side?"

 

Elrond made a choking sound, which ended in a feigned cough. Erestor tore his eyes away from Ballain to look at him.

 

"You mean to say, Ballain, that this black Maia – this, this…spider-thing has fathered children? With an elf-woman?"

 

Ballain nodded. Elrond gripped with arms of his chair, his expression a mix of shock and wonder. "So the line of Lúthien is not the only one that carries the blood of the Fays!"

 

"It would appear not," said Círdan, who, Erestor thought, did not sound surprised. "There were Maiar among us at the beginning. Many of the Unbegotten were slain after we awoke, by wild beasts and by Morgoth's monsters. We were so innocent and unwary. The Valar sent the Maiar to protect and teach us. There were remarriages of a few Firstborn who lost their spouses, for the Valar had not yet taught us their Laws.  Some remarriages were to the Maiar who guided us. This must have been one of those unions. I wonder if I know his wife? But then, we didn't mix much with the other tribes."

 

"How amazing!" Elrond said. "How I should like to meet this spider-Maia, however strange he may be! And moreover, to meet his sons and daughter. They would understand how it is to be…how it is…Ah, never mind me. I shall never take such a journey. Go on then, Ballain!"

 

The agent shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable now, and anxious. "He asked me next what I was doing, trying to get into Mordor.

 

"To gather information on behalf of my king, I said. I told him about you, your Excellency. I could not lie to him."

 

"Of course not. Go on, Ballain." Ereinion sat forward in his chair, attentive.

 

"He was quiet for a time, and asked, 'What have you learned?'

 

"I told him of the warlord who rallied the desert tribes, who took slaves, and was even rumored to command orcs.

 

"The Fay's face hardened. 'Yes, that warlord, as you call him is well known to us, unfortunately, but he cannot capture me, although he would like to! I am far too tricky for him. But when he enslaves my people? I fight back with my stories and my webs. My sons and daughters know how to fight back with my stories, too. I have taught them.'

 

"'You say you know this warlord?'

 

'"Yes, from long, long ago, before we passed through the Gates of Arda. He is of my kind. We came from the same place, although from different lands. You know him, too.'

 

"By the Valar!" Ereinion practically leapt from his chair. "So this warlord is a Fay!"

 

"And a sorcerer," added Elrond. He, too, rose, but more deliberately than the King had. He walked to the edge of the porch where he gazed toward the stars and the Sirë Elenion that arced across the heavens. Then he turned to Ballain. "And your spider-Fay said you know him. Then we should know him, too. But who could it be?"

 

"I will hazard a guess." Although Círdan's remark was dry, his voice was grim. "Did we not know all too well of a sorcerer who spread terror through Beleriand? Who sat at the right hand of Morgoth and rebuilt Angband while the Black Foe was imprisoned in Aman? Who wrested Tol Sirion from poor Orodreth and turned it into a fell place until Lúthien laid waste to it?"

 

A heavy silence fell among the men. All Erestor heard was the rhythmic rush of the waves against the distant shingle strand and the pounding of his heart.

 

Ereinion broke the silence first. "Do you think this sorcerer is Ñorthus?  Wasn't he taken to Aman to face the Valar after the War?"

 

"No," replied Elrond. "Eönwë said that although Ñorthus sued for pardon, he did not have the authority to give it to him. So Ñorthus turned away, and simply…disappeared."

 

"Only to turn up now in the South, and apparently in pursuit of his own empire," Erestor added.

 

"Gorthaur!  That would explain this feeling of dread I have felt for so long," said Ereinion. "The lieutenant of Morgoth! Ballain! What else did this Fay tell you? Please, go on with your tale." The King and Elrond both returned to their chairs and sat.

 

Ballain, hunched and brooding with the look of one sifting through dark memories, jerked his head to attention. "As you wish, your Excellency. I pleaded with the Fay to tell me the name of the warlord, but he would not. I think we have guessed it correctly though. I felt the same sense of fear pressing down on me any time our patrols passed near Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

 

"The Fay left me to be tended by Thema and the others of the village. The next morning, I found my strength had returned, and I was ravenous. The tribe fed me well, and Thema even cooked for me herself. Such a lovely woman! She spent the next few days with me, telling me many stories of her people, singing to me, never leaving my side, even when her brothers teased her.

 

"'Sister, why do you coddle this white wraith of the North? There are men of our own folk who would marry you!'

 

"Thema rounded on them. 'Who says I wish to marry anyone, let alone a man with skin pale as fungus? Now be away with you rascals!' They just laughed when she threw a gourd at them, but let her be after that.

 

"Soon she deemed me fit to travel. Her brothers would escort me as far as the eastern villages of Umbar province, and messages had been sent ahead to let those friendly to their tribe that I was coming. I had not seen her father since the night when he healed me, but at dawn, he was there to bid me farewell. He inspected my arm and was satisfied.

 

"'Here, I will tell you a little story so that you may remember me.' He leaned over and sang a song in a language unfamiliar to me, but even if I do not understand the words, I will never forget them. 'Travel swiftly," he said, "for I am sure your king will wish to see you soon. May the stars shine at the end of your road.'

 

"I thanked him for his gift of a story, but before I turned away, I said, 'Master, you have not told me your name. What are you called?'

 

"He smiled, the enigmatic smile of one who spins webs that ensnare secrets, and who tells stories to enchant and confound. He said, 'I have many names, and I have forgotten the one I was born with, but you may call me Anansi.' 

 

"Then he left me, walking into the bush, and this noble man changed back into a brown spider that disappeared among the rocks.  I shall always remember him, the Fay who saved my life.

 

"We did travel swiftly, for Anansi's sons have a brisk pace. We passed though other villages before we reached the realm of Umbar, and along the way, I did learn another name for the Zigûr. The folk of the desert name him 'Shai.'

 

"Shai." All eyes turned to Elrond, who was fond of studying obscure languages. "Curious. I believe I have heard that before. It's a word from one of the Haradric dialects, and…" He paused as he searched for the translation of word. "'Gift.' It means 'gift.'" Then the color drained from his face. "Gift…Annatar."

 

Erestor thought his heart surely stopped beating, but the King, ever a man who preferred action, leapt from his chair again.

 

"What? Do you mean to say you believe Annatar is Ñorthus? That is quite a leap, Elrond!"

 

"Am I certain?" Elrond said, lowering his voice. "Not completely, but it would explain much: his formidable knowledge, what I felt when I shook hands with him, his scent…"

 

"His scent? What in the blazing stars do you…" Ereinion said incredulously, but Cirdan interrupted any further explanation of that oddity.

 

"If your guess is correct, Elrond, and the Istyar is indeed Gorthaur the Abhorred, this is far worse than we ever could have imagined."

 

Much worse, thought Erestor. Aulendil had been so deeply enmeshed in the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. What did they learn from him? What had he learned from them?  And the mysterious project?   A terrible sense of cold dread took hold of him.  The full ramifications were too overwhelming to contemplate just now.

 

"I have little hope that I am wrong," Elrond said bleakly.

 

"We must send word to Celebrimbor at once!" Ereinion declared. "Blast it! Would that I could summon an Eagle like Father did!"

 

Erestor remained frozen where he sat, his muscles paralyzed, his blood cold, but his thoughts a storm. In the midst of the horrible realization that the Enemy had been in their midst this entire time, Elrond's words suddenly chimed within his increasingly panicked thoughts: The line of Luthien is not the only one who carries the blood of the Fays.

 

Nienna's tears! Mélamírë…that poor girl!

 

"Well?" snapped Ereinion. "What in stars' dung are you waiting for, Erestor? See to it!  And Elrond, Círdan, all of you. Keep this to yourselves for the time being. We might be at an advantage if we do not tip our hand to…"

 

"…Sauron." Elrond finished the king's sentence. Elrond looked as sick as Erestor felt.

 

"Yes, your Excellency, at once." Erestor rose and strode from the chamber, trying to get a grip on his growing fear and confusion, to regain that steady place of cool calculation, but failing. He returned to the keep and went straight to his apartments where he sat at his desk to compose a letter for Celebrimbor's eyes only.

 

The rider left that night for the first leg of the relay, driving his horse hard out of the city gates. As it turned out, the King needn't have bothered, for two days later, a rider arrived, his horse lathered and blown, to deliver the worst news possible from Eregion.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Cobas Haven is mentioned in The History of Middle-earth VII, The Treason of Isengard, "The First Map," page 312. From note 10: In the Etymologies (364 - 365) Quenya kopa 'harbour, bay' was given under the stem KOP, but this entry was replaced by a stem KHOP, whence Quenya hopa, Noldorin hobas, as in Alfobas = Alqualonde. Thus, in the Pandë!verse, Brûn Hobas = Enduring Harborage. Thanks to Russandol for nattering about this!

 

Círdan's recollection of the Six Tribes finds its roots in Saltation, my fic that addresses an alternative take on the Origin Tale of Cuiviénen and provides a foundation for the concept of "Elves of Color" (EOC), not to mention giving a nod to Darwinian evolution (and the Firstborn as a deviation from this natural process).  This also acknowledges the many pan-cultural myths and tales in our primary world of immortal or near-immortal humans.

 

The Primitive Elvish names of the tribes (and their Quenya equivalents) are as follows:

 

Minjâi = Minyar (Vanyar)

Tatjâi = Tatyar (Noldor)

Neljâi = Nelyar (Teleri)

Cantjâi = The Fourths (although they consider themselves "Firsts,"  and accurately, too)

Lepenjâi = The Fifths

Enekjâi = The Sixths

 

Again, many thanks to Elleth for linguistic assistance and for lively discussion!

 

Here is my crude, speculative map of the migrations of The Six Tribes from Cuiviénen, based on Sampsa Rydman's map of Third Age Middle-earth.  One must simply imagine the sunken land mass of Beleriand.

 

This is a desecration of Sampa Rydman's marvelous map, shown below.

 

And another.  I love his work.  Do check out his website: Lindëfirion.

 

 

The pack of spiders that attacked Ballain and Helevair (and apparently possess dual venoms with necrotic and neurotoxic properties) are no doubt spawn of Shelob, who dwells in the Mountains of Shadow in the tunnel that many years hence, Frodo and Sam will enter.  From The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers, Chapter 9, Shelob's Lair:

There agelong she had dwelt, an evil thing in spider-form, even such as once of old had lived in the Land of the Elves in the West that is now under the Sea, such as Beren fought in the Mountains of Terror in Doriath, and so came to Lúthien upon the green sward amid the hemlocks in the moonlight long ago. How Shelob came there, flying from ruin, no tale tells, for out of the Dark Years few tales have come. But still she was there, who was there before Sauron, and before the first stone of Barad-dûr; and she served none but herself, drinking the blood of Elves and Men, bloated and grown fat with endless brooding on her feasts, weaving webs of shadow; for all living things were her food, and her vomit darkness. Far and wide her lesser broods, bastards of the miserable mates, her own offspring, that she slew, spread from glen to glen, from the Ephel Dúath to the eastern hills, to Dol Guldur and the fastnesses of Mirkwood. But none could rival her, Shelob the Great, last child of Ungoliant to trouble the unhappy world.

 

Many readers will recognize Anansi, a god of West Africa, and a stark counterpoint here to Shelob.   There are a tremendous number of wonderful folktales of Anansi, who is the god of all stories and a trickster.  I could not resist bringing him into the Pandë!verse.  His sons' names come from folklore, and I have used the Akan name (the language of the Ashanti people) 'Thema' (queen) for his daughter.

 

With regard to Elrond's remark about Annatar's scent, please see Driftwood for further elaboration.

 

Of course, thanks to Anansi, more pesky plot bunnies have winked into being. I think Anansi could give old Tom Bombadil a run for his money. ;^)

Chapter 8: The Poisons That Lurk in the Mud

Revelations are made in the Sammath Naur and in Ost-in-Edhil. The first scene of this chapter might be considered a sequel to Till Fire Purge All Things New.

Many thanks to Drummerwench, Elfscribe, KyMahalei, Randy O, Russandol, Scarlet, and Spiced Wine for their feedback and encouragment.

Read Chapter 8: The Poisons That Lurk in the Mud

Mairon's knees buckled beneath him, and he fell to the stone floor of the forge, but he took no notice of his scraped skin or the blood that dripped from his wounds. All he saw was blinding light, all he heard was the roar of the mountain, and all he felt was agony as power surged from his mind and body into a simple gold band that encircled his left forefinger.

 

Pain consumed him. Fear threatened to choke him. Had he unleashed something beyond his control? What if the reaction could not be stopped? If the process went awry, all that he was and might ever be would become ensnared within the Ring, leaving behind a shell of a body, and he would remain trapped for eternity in a golden prison.

 

He staved off panic by calculating the differentials that predicted the transfer of his power into the Ring, thus reassuring himself that the pain would end (for surely it must end) when he and the Ring reached equilibrium. If there is any truth in this world of deceit, he thought, it is in mathematics. The exercise calmed him, and his racing heart steadied to beat in time with the sonorous thrum of the fire-mountain.

 

An age passed before the excruciating pain faded from a storm to a mist and then to nothing, save for his throbbing knees. When his vision cleared, Mairon rose to stand. His head reeled, and he reached out to steady himself against the stone pedestal that served as his worktable. Once he regained his bearings, he splayed the fingers of his left hand and examined the Ring, admiring the reflection of the mountain's fires that swirled across its golden surface. More than gold. Also glass, and a precise balance of exceedingly rare elements, the stuff that dying stars had spilled into the vast mansions of Eä billions of years ago, to be captured by the primeval earth, which now belched forth these elements, molded into this small but perfect creation.

 

What once was pain became a vibrant harmony that resonated through the entirety of his being. He shivered with pleasure as something more exquisite than mere physical sensation coursed through him. His strength had returned, but more potent than ever before. Paradoxically, by pouring so much of his power into this beautiful object, he had augmented his native strength rather than weakening it.

 

Mairon looked down at his body, nearly naked, other than a sweat-soaked breechclout wrapped around his hips and between his legs. His furnace, fueled by the mountain's fires, burned hot, more than any other furnace used by Men, Dwarves, or Elves, and he suffered the consequences of inhabiting a vulnerable corporeal form. Red patches of burns covered his chest and forearms. Blisters welled from his fingers, for he could not protect his hands with gloves when he cut the sprue, then polished and engraved the Ring. Its substance hoarded the heat of the earth and remained ferociously hot long after its molten components had solidified. The Ring demanded the intimacy of his bare flesh for these last acts of creation. It demanded sacrifice.

 

He closed his eyes and triggered the healing pathways, and within an instant, faster than ever before, new pink skin replaced burns and blisters, leaving only a perfect circle of a white scar on the palm of his right hand where he had first held the Ring.

 

A golden glow limned the band's edges, its light emitted from the verses of the binding spell he had engraved on its surface. He had begun to sing the spell when he first slipped the Ring onto his finger, but then had been interrupted when the surge of power overwhelmed him. Now that he recovered, he was ready for the final step.

 

He held his left hand aloft, and let his thought flow into his creation, opening all his senses to perceive the companion Rings of Power. One by one, like voices joining a chorus, each ring harmonized with the music of the Master Ring, weaving the thoughts and will of each Ringbearer into its song. Mairon had to calm himself again, not because he was afraid, but because he was overjoyed: after years of labor, he had at last achieved success.

 

He recalled the years of toil alone, of poring over his calculations, of burrowing deep into the mines to seek exotic ores, of the countless experiments that failed. He remained patient, heeding his former master's counsel — not that of Melkor, but of Aulë: For every successful experiment, there are thousands of failures, the Smith of the Valar often said. And now? All had come to fruition.

 

He exulted as each new voice joined the hymn of the One. Sixteen Rings of Power borne by sixteen elvish smiths and loremasters. Sixteen conduits for his will. Sixteen voices awaiting the command of the Master Ring.

 

He cleared his throat, preparing to sing the spell that would bind all the Rings of Power to his will when another theme joined the One Ring's hymn: a voice like that of a cataract rushing down the mountainside. Then he perceived a second voice that roared like a great fire. And last: the howling of the wind, the strongest of all.

 

Mairon was stunned to silence and dropped his arm to his side, staring blankly at the fiery chasm before him. Three new Rings! Who…?

 

He reached out and touched a familiar mind, that of the man whom he had called friend, the brother-of-his-heart. Tyelpo is the Ringmaker! And he is the Ringbearer!

 

Mairon listened intently to each of his colleague's creations — embedded with the eternal forces of fire, water, and air — and he was filled with wonder. These three new Rings were incredibly potent, more so than the rest, and best embodied the arts of preservation that they had all hoped to capture in these artifacts. It was a feat only a Maia of Aulë should have been able to accomplish, yet Tyelpo had managed to do it. He should have expected that his colleague would try it on his own. The curwë of the Rings was just too sweet to resist, and true to form, Tyelpo must have plunged into the task to satisfy his relentless need for invention.

 

Despite himself, Mairon felt a grudging admiration. As a fellow smith, how could he not? Tyelpo's application of the deep arts was nothing less than elegant. Yet when the themes of the Three swelled within the One and overshadowed the other Ring-voices, which retreated to become a dark and unsettled background chorus, jealousy swiftly replaced Mairon's wonder.

 

How dare Tyelperinquar create Rings of Power in his absence, using his methods, his curwë? Had he not taught the elvish smith, assisting him, guiding him in so much? If it weren't for his knowledge, his colleague would never have been able to create the Three Rings. This was nothing less than a betrayal. The mountain's fires surged along with Mairon's growing anger, and the Ring burned against his skin. But a simple realization cut through his rage, and cool, calculating rationality returned.

 

The same curwë. Tyelperinquar's Three are tied to my One.

 

So it was with triumph that he lifted his hand once more and sang the verses of binding. Light blazed from the Ring to illuminate him while the high vaults of the mountain forge retreated into black shadow, and the mountain trembled as he called upon the great harmonies that had been born when Eä winked into existence. Mairon gathered the themes of all the Rings of Power to create a new song within the One, a song of strange beauty but marred by the bitter dissonance of malice and revenge.

 

~*~

 

The numbers and symbols blurred into a grey mass on the wide blackboard. Mélamírë let her arm drop to her side, chalk still clutched in her fingers. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her left hand, but the blurriness remained. She had been working on these calculations since before dawn, so perhaps her eyes were strained. Yes, that must be it. Looking off into the distance might help. She turned away from the blackboard to stare at the pair of windows behind her desk and beyond, to the summer sky, its haziness foreboding thunderstorms to come. She blinked once, twice, then a third time, hard. She rubbed her eyes again. Why was her office so bright? True, the morning had slipped away, and it must be almost noon by now. Perhaps that was why she was having trouble adjusting to the glare, but when the light abruptly swallowed her vision, a spasm of fear shook her body. Her head swam. She ought to sit down and let this spell pass.

 

The straight-backed visitor's chair was closest to her, but she had only taken a single step forward when she crumpled to the floor in agony. Searing pain radiated from the center of her body. Her heart raced, thudding wildly in her chest, and she could not catch her breath. Panic gripped her, but she could not call out for help, for something strangled her.

 

Yet, as quickly as it had come, the awful pain disappeared, and her vision cleared, leaving her shaky and damp with cold, sick sweat. She remained on the floor for a long time, taking deep breaths until she had steadied her heartbeat and cleared all the dizziness from her head. Using the chair for support, she rose to her feet and went to her desk, where she sat down and gulped the rest of the tepid black tea she had poured hours earlier. Perhaps more tea would help her recover from the seizure, for she could not think what else it might be. Such maladies were rare among the Firstborn, but were not unknown. She would tell Mother, who would know how to address it.

 

Mélamírë contemplated her empty mug, its interior stained brown from countless cups of black tea, and decided a brisk walk and fresh air might offer a better solution. She had been sequestered in her office for several days now, wrestling with the mathematics she hoped would predict the behavior of her latest mix of materials. The results of the last experiment — yet another prototype about the size of a berry bowl — yielded a glimmer of hope when cloudy images appeared on the water's surface for a few moments, then evaporated like wisps of steam. At least she knew she was on the right track, but she had yet to solve the problem of instability, hence it was "back to the drawing board," as her father so often said. That entailed more study of the obscure theories behind the Threads of Vairë and the equations that attempted to describe their behavior. Mélamírë had a flair for mathematics, but this work proved to be daunting, and she had yet to find a satisfactory solution. She even resorted to violating Galadriel's conditions by asking her cousin for help, but Tyelpo's eyes widened when he looked at the lacework of equations scrawled across her blackboard. He had shrugged and said, "This is not my purview. You're on your own here."

 

That memory made her smile. She still was not sure whether her cousin actually did not know how to approach the problem or whether he continued to honor Galadriel's stipulation and did not want to step on Mélamírë's toes. To his credit, Tyelpo had been conscious of respecting Mélamírë's need for independent work, yet had been willing to be a sounding board for her. She appreciated him for that, and not for the first time, was relieved that Father was away, for he certainly would have horned in on her work.

 

While she made an attempt to straighten up the papers on her desk, a firm hand rapped sharply at her closed door, not to be ignored.  Before she reached the door, it swung open, and she found herself looking up at her cousin's drawn face. A bolt of alarm shot through her. The ordeal of crafting the Three Rings was well behind him, and he had completely recovered from the toll it took on his mind and body. Or so she thought. Now, his expression recalled the madness she had glimpsed in his eyes during that time. He reached to grasp her upper arm with his right hand.

 

"Come with me," he rasped. "At once."

 

"What? Why 'at once'? What has happened?"

 

His grip on her arm tightened like a vise. "Just do as I say!" He released her when he saw her wince, and she rubbed the sore spot on her arm. She expected to see a bruise there later. He turned to look out into the hallway and called out, "Here, girl! Go to the House of the Heart and summon the Lady Culinen. Tell her she must return to her home immediately."

 

Lárasel, the newest assistant in the House of the Mírëtanor, appeared in the corridor, her green eyes wide from having been commanded by the great Istyar. Mélamírë felt sorry for the child as she stood before Tyelpo, who towered over her.

 

"Yes, my lord," Lárasel said, her voice small, "But what if the Lady says 'No'?"

 

"Oh, stars' blood! Just tell her there has been a fire in her house's kitchen, and she is needed there."

 

Like a scared rabbit, Lárasel scurried down the hall, nearly running into Sámaril who had just turned the corner. As the young smith approached them, Mélamírë saw that his grim face was as pale as Tyelpo's.

 

"Are they all accounted for?" Tyelpo asked.

 

"Yes, but," replied Sámaril. He rolled his eyes like a spooked horse when he glanced at Mélamírë, "Ellendo and Teretion are visiting Casarrondo, and Hrísilmë is on her way to Gwathló Province. We have sent urgent messages to them. They should return soon."

 

"Blast it! Would that we could have them all locked away. And the rest?"

 

"Already secure in the treasury, Istyar."

 

"I suppose that's as good as we can do for now," said Tyelpo. "You may go home then."

 

"If it is permissible, my lord, I'd just as soon stay here and work. It seems more normal somehow."

 

"Very well. But remember! It is imperative that we all keep our own counsel."

 

Before Sámaril could rush away, Mélamírë stayed him with her hand on his arm. "What is wrong? What are you locking in the treasury?"

 

A mix of pity and horror twisted Sámaril's face. "I am sorry, Mélamírë...Master Naryen. I cannot…I just cannot say." He looked to Tyelpo who rescued him with a curt nod. Sámaril fled, while Tyelpo grasped Mélamírë's arm again.

 

"Stop manhandling me!" She slapped away his hand. His bare hand. She did not see the ghostly glimmer of the Three on the fingers of his left hand, where he always wore them, nor on his right. "Where are your Rings? Why have you taken them off?"

 

Her cousin's face contorted with anger and something else…fear. She flinched, for she had never seen him in such a state, but then his expression softened. " I think it is best that you and your mother hear what I must tell you in the privacy of your own home."

 

At once, Mélamírë had a terrible thought. "Is it Father? Has something happened to Father? Please, cousin, you must tell me!" But Tyelperinquar said nothing, so all she could do was match her stride with his as they hurried to the tall rowhouse on Goldsmith Street.

 

Culinen had already arrived and was waiting for them in the parlor, sitting on her favorite chair with the thick wine-colored cushions, and petting Tiberth, the black and white cat, who had taken her accustomed spot on Culinen's lap.

 

"Well, then. No kitchen fire to be seen. The servants were as surprised as I was. I suppose you two have an explanation for this? What are you up to?" Her mother's lips angled into a half-grin, partly annoyed, but partly amused as if she expected to hear of a mischievous jape that pulled her away from her studies. However, her amusement fled when she looked at Tyelpo. "What is wrong?"

 

Tyelpo shut the door then went to each tall window to draw the draperies, shutting out the diffuse summer sunlight.  A single golden lamp on a small side table illuminated the room, and shadows lurked in every corner. Tyelpo made to sit in what had been her father's favored chair, but stopped, and pulled up a smaller, less comfortable chair to sit in front of them.

 

"I am not even sure how to begin, how to say this. I know you do not speak of these freely, but you are both well aware our great work, the Rings of Power."

 

"Of course, and we have always been discreet," said Culinen. Mélamírë simply nodded, but stared at Tyelpo's bare hands, clasped in front of his knees.

 

Tyelpo took a deep breath. "So you know of the sixteen Rings of Power that were created under Aulendil's guidance, and of the Three, which I alone crafted. But today, I have discovered that another Ring of Power has been made."

 

"Another?" Mélamírë said. "Who made it? Sámaril?" Her father's former apprentice, now one of her closest friends, was the most logical guess, although she thought he had ceased his studies in Ringcraft when Father left Ost-in-Edhil.

 

"No," Tyelpo responded, his bloodshot eyes haunted with fear and uncertainty. "This new Ring was not made here. Somewhere else, although I am not sure exactly where, but I heard the words he sang. They are burned into my memory forever."

 

"What words?" Mélamírë said.

 

It was then her cousin uttered the fateful verses that would resonate for years to come and that would affect the lives of so many. The syntax was oddly familiar, similar to the notes she had discovered tucked away in a drawer of Father's desk. But there was a dark potency in these words, and the shadows deepened in the parlor. Tiberth yowled and leapt from Mother's lap to disappear under the settle.

 

"One Ring to bind them all…" Mélamírë whispered.

 

"Yes. A binding spell. This Master Ring brings the sixteen Rings of Power under his control, and thus if we wield them, all of our intentions, our actions, our thoughts are revealed to him."

 

And who is the Maker of the Master Ring?  That was what she wanted to know, but the prospect of asking that filled Mélamírë with inexplicable dread.  Instead she asked, "What of your Three?"

 

"I made them using the same curwë. They may not be subject to the Master Ring, but I fear they are tied to it."

 

She was not sure how long the silence stretched before she was at last able to pry apart the vise grip of reluctance that kept her from asking the question, as if she did not want to know the answer, "Who is this new Ringmaker?"  She noticed that Mother remained quiet, her eyes focused on her folded hands.

 

"The Ringmaker is no one less than Sauron."

 

"Sauron!" Mélamírë exclaimed. Despite being born long after the War of Wrath, she, like others of her generation, had learned much of Melkor's lieutenant from Istyar Pengolodh's lessons, taught to her when she was a schoolgirl, and more from Lord Celeborn's recounts, which were weightier and more horrifying. "Do you mean to say that he has returned? But how could he know of the Rings of Power? Did he have a spy among the Brotherhood? Have you sent word to Father of this threat?" She realized she was babbling.

 

"May Nienna have mercy on you, child!" Tyelpo cried. "Do I have to spell it out? Aulendil is Sauron!"

 

When Mélamírë was half-grown, "old enough to know better," as Father had put it, she and a few friends had ventured out into the winter countryside where they found a frozen pond. Its glassy surface invited them to glide across it. She remembered skidding across the ice, exuberant, laughing and relishing the sensation of speed, until the ice abruptly gave way beneath her. She had plunged into frigid water to be completely immersed in the black winter pond where she stopped breathing, and her heartbeat hovered at the threshold of death. Time itself slowed to a crawl, until Faronel and Indilwen at last managed to drag her out of the water, her chest burning as she sucked in cold air. Now, just as it had then, a wall of ice separated her from the rest of the world. Her heart beat sluggishly, and her thoughts thickened into a fog of denial and disbelief.

 

Aulendil is Sauron!

 

Like a rose blooming in the Sun, memories of her childhood unfolded in her mind's eye. How Father taught her to tie a fishing fly, gave her miniature versions of a smith's hammer and tongs, his enthusiasm when he taught her about the stately dance of the constellations or of the ancient origins of a fossil embedded in stone. She remembered his comfort when she had frightening dreams, and his lullabies that soothed her back to sleep. She remembered him cajoling her to toddle toward him when she took her first steps.

 

Yet there was rot in the core of the rose. Other memories surfaced, memories that mocked her: You should have known. You should have known. When he Changed into a wolf and Changed back again. His insistence that she keep his strange abilities a secret. The way he struck fear into a band of orcs. His profound distaste for the tales of Lúthien. The white scars on his neck, curved as if fangs — a hound's fangs — had torn his flesh.  The elusive but persistent darkness she perceived in his thoughts.  The way he spoke of Morgoth — with dread, but also with admiration.

 

Then she felt herself being lifted up toward the stars that glittered in a vast midnight sky. She cried, recognizing her own mewling as a newborn. She squirmed against the swaddling blanket, fearful that she would fall. Below her, she heard a familiar voice: "Do you see, Master?" she heard the voice say. "Do you see what I have done? I have accomplished what you never could: I have created life." Then the stars retreated when she was drawn against solid warmth where the steady beat of a heart calmed her cries. Silver-grey eyes gazed at her, and long, callused fingers stroked her cheek. "My little jewel. I will teach you, I will mold you. I promise. When the time is right, you shall sit at my right hand, just as I sat at Melkor's, but you shall serve me out of love, not fear."

 

She had known. From only hours after her birth, she had known, for he told her who he was, when she was a tiny baby whose mind had yet to reach full coherence and truly grasp what he revealed. The memory had been there all along, but buried so deeply that it had never emerged until now.

 

She wanted to sink deeper into the cold water until her heart stopped, to end the pain of this awful realization, but her cousin's words shattered the wall of ice.

 

"You knew. You knew who he was." But he did not look at her, but at Culinen, who twisted her hands in her lap.

 

"Yes, I knew," Mother replied, quiet but firm.

 

"How long?"

 

"Soon after we married. I knew he was a Fay. He told me as much when he asked me to marry him, but I only knew then that he was one of Aulë's servants, or so he said. It was later that I perceived the darkness within his true being. When he dreamed, he muttered in his sleep, and he said things that led to my guess. When I asked him, he did not deny it. Indeed, he confirmed it."

 

"By the stars, why, Culinen? Why didn't you say anything?"

 

Mother's voice wavered. "Because I loved him, Tyelpo. May Eru help me, I still do. I wanted to protect him. I thought I could change him, and I thought he had changed, for me, for Mélamírë."

 

Her cousin cried out again, leaping from his chair. "Aulë save me from the foolishness of women! How could you be so blind? If you had only…"

 

Mother's retort was full of fire. "As if you did not guess he was a Maia of Aulë? I do not think you are as naïve as you claim, cousin!"

 

Their recriminations flared into a conflagration as only those of the House of Fëanáro could set ablaze. Mélamírë might as well have been a chair or the settle for as much attention they paid her. That did not matter because all she could hear were Mother's words, repeating over and over:

 

Yes, I knew…I thought I could change him…

 

There it was. The truth. Her mother had known who her husband was, almost from the beginning of their marriage and nonetheless remained with this monster who had wrecked havoc among the Firstborn and the Followers, who, as Morgoth's henchman, had slain so many of their people. She had even willingly let him beget a child on her. Mélamírë stared at her hands. A child who is half a monster. Father's deceit of the smiths, of the people of Eregion, and of his friends was bad enough, but he had deceived her, too. His love had been a lie. She was no more nor less an instrument to him than his smith's tools or a Ring of Power. And now she knew Mother had lied, too.

 

The lies emerged like poisons hatched from the mud at the bottom of a stagnant pool, and before her yawned the black pit of truth.  All she needed to do was step over the edge to end all the lies, to end the terrible pain.

 

She left the cries of dismay behind her when she fled from the house, out into the street, and beyond, past the gates of the city.

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

The title and the line in the next to last paragraph are a nod to the Emperor Claudius' words in BBC's rendition of Robert Graves' classic — I, Claudius, "Old King Log": "Let all the poisons that lurk in the mud...hatch out!"

A few professional artists and any number of fan artists have interpreted Sauron's forging of the One Ring, but my hands-down favorite is "The Forging of the One Ring" by Alan Lee.  This provided a bit of inspiration.

Chapter 9: To the Brink

Mélamirë seeks an end to her pain and a means to prevent the risk that she might turn to evil herself.

Warning: Heads up for graphic suicidal ideation.

Acknowledgments in End Notes.

Read Chapter 9: To the Brink

No more than the breadth of a single stride lay between the tips of her bare toes and the edge of the precipice. Mélamírë tightened her shoulders as she prepared her body for the fateful moment of decision. One stride and she would take flight, plummeting down to obliterate the anguish that consumed her. Yet she hesitated, cautiously leaning forward to peer at the jumble of boulders some sixty feet below while her feet pressed hard against rough stone, and with a will of their own, her toes curled, as if trying to dig into the rock to root her on the cliff's edge.

 

A gust of wind cut through the heavy air, heralding the swift approach of the thunderstorm from the West. The wind raked claw-like across her naked skin. For a moment, she regretted the impulse that made her discard her clothing and boots, now piled against the boulder where she had so often sat when she came here alone to collect her thoughts, to this place that no one else knew she visited. No, it was fitting that she had stripped off her garments.

 

Naked I came into this world, and naked I shall leave it.

 

She shivered when the wind struck her again, and she struggled to suppress her heightened senses, but the stones still sang their sonorous dirge, with voices so deep and slow that they were beyond the edge of hearing. Instead, their song found expression as a vibration in her gut, augmented by her pounding heart.

 

She fixed her sight on roiling clouds of the storm that churned over the valley of the Gwathló, rushing toward where she stood in the foothills of the Hithaeglir. Lightning forked across the western sky, and thunder rumbled.

 

Manwë Súlimo knows, she thought. He knows what Sauron has done. He knows who I am. At the same time, she imagined the exasperated voice of her father contradicting her, as he always did when she voiced fear or wonder of the gods: Such superstitious nonsense!

 

The storm likely was nothing more than a natural phenomenon, she thought, worthy of itself in its power and splendor, and believing that it was anything else was probably a trick of her mind. Yet, it was hard not to think that the Elder King was angered as the wind found its strength. It blew forcefully around the rocks and rattled the leaves of oak and mountain ash. It hissed through the fir trees until the hissing became a snake's voice that whispered in her ear — a silky and horribly familiar voice. She had heard its cold sibilance once before, at the beginning of her life, when Mother nearly bled to death while giving birth to her, when she nearly died herself, if it had not been for Father...

 

You never should have existed, the snake-voice intoned, frigid with judgment.

 

I know.

 

Come to me then. Come to me and find peace. Be free of your pain. You can harm no one in my halls.

 

Inch by inch, she edged closer to the brink of the precipice. A half-stride now and it all would be over. Then a grisly thought occurred to her: if she jumped, she might only break her legs and arms or damage an inner organ that would bleed out within her body, and she might then linger before death took her. A broken neck and a cracked skull, on the other hand, would be swift and sure. She thought of the huge red rock by the swimming hole that she and Father so often visited after they went fishing, how she would dive from that rock into the amber water.

 

Yes, I must dive rather than jump.

 

The snake-voice whispered again: it promised oblivion and respite from the anguish that seared her now. She steeled her resolve to forsake the agony of all the lies, to quench her overwhelming fear that she harbored something within that gave her the power to become like him. She must see this through and seek the hard truth on the stones below.

 

Still, she hesitated. She wondered what it was like for the dead in the Halls of Mandos. Did the fëar of Firstborn flutter about in the gloom like butterflies or bats? Or did they rest in the silent halls, brooding upon their past, lamenting their choices? No matter. Whatever happened, she would remove herself from the potential of furthering evil in the world.

 

Her legs tensed, ready to spring forward and propel her body head first over the cliff's edge. Take the leap, just take it, she told herself, and it will be done. Yet her muscles refused to obey, somehow disconnected from her will, as if her body denied her intent to leap from the cliff.

 

She struggled to lift her heel, but the wind slammed against her with such fury that she was forced to take a step backward. At the same instant, lightning struck a dead tree nearby, sending a fountain of white sparks showering down over the hill; the clap of thunder deafened her, and flames leapt from the dead wood. Something hard and cold stung her face, then another sting and another. Hail.

 

Denying the storm, she lowered her face to shield her eyes, and once again, edged her right foot forward, willing her reluctant legs to be ready to spring, but the rains came, pummeling her body, forcing her to take two steps back. The snake-voice hissed with urgency, Come! Come! But the rain's chorus drowned out that of the snake: Stay, stay!

 

Her arms and legs trembled, from the cold or out of frustration, she could not be sure. She tasted the salt of her tears on her lips, diluted by the rain. No! I must do this! She had to flee from what she might become, and she had to end her agony.

 

The rain and wind joined to swirl around her when she stepped to the very edge of the cliff. The rocks below were veiled in mist, but she knew they lay there, humming their dolorous song. Then from behind, she heard something else: a human voice.

 

"Master! Please, come back...Please!"

 

Thornangor! How had he known that she was here?

 

Then another voice, deeper, steady, but tinged with desperation. "Mélamírë! Do not do this!"

 

She turned, enough that she could see Sámaril and her apprentice, but not so much that she could not make her leap in an instant.

 

"You are both clever to have found me." She had to yell over the roar of rain and wind. "But are you clever enough to answer me this? Do you think, should I step over the edge, that Ulmo shall change me into a bird and bear me away? Or do you think that he will let me, who does not bear a holy jewel, but instead the blood of a monster, dash my life to pieces on the stones below?"

 

Thorno stood mute, his hair plastered against his neck and face, clothes drenched and visibly shaking, but Sámaril remained composed and took two slow strides forward through the driving rain.

 

"I think that Ulmo would want neither," he said. "I think that he would wish you to remain here in the world with those who admire you, who respect you, with those who love you."

 

"Love me? How can anyone in their right mind risk loving me?"

 

"Your mother..."

 

"Mother?" Mélamírë laughed, a bitter, humorless sound, as she recalled her shock when Culinen confessed that she had known who her husband was. "She loves him more than she does me."

 

"No!" Sámaril shouted against the rain. "She loves you. She loves you more than her own life. Istyar Tyelperinquar loves you. Thornangor loves you. I love you. We are all worried sick. Please come back with us."

 

"I cannot. His blood flows in my veins. You know how evil he is. I must spare you from this." Lightning flashed again, whitening the curtain of rain.

 

"Spare us from what?" He shouted over the thunder. "You are not evil! Do not say such things of yourself!" His face softened with sorrow and empathy as he held out his hand to her in supplication. "He betrayed me, too. We share the pain of that betrayal, Mélamírë. Please come to me, and we may talk about how he wronged us."

 

"No...I cannot bear to face you, to face anyone. I must leave." She closed her eyes against the onslaught of the rain and wind that lashed at her.

 

"Please come to me," Sámaril said, his voice closer. "You are not alone."

 

"I cannot!" She spun around quickly, her foot leaving the rock to take that last stride when a strong hand grabbed her arm, yanking her backward, and pulled her tightly against him. She crumpled in Sámaril's embrace.  He stroked her soaked hair and murmured, "You are not alone," while the wind dwindled to a soft breeze, and the rain gentled to weep with them.

 

~*~

 

She remembered only scraps of what happened after that, some memories clear, others blurred: Thornangor's cloak thrown around her; Sámaril leading her down the trail, half-carrying her as she stumbled; being lifted into a dim, dry place — the back of a covered wain, she guessed — and wrapped in a dry wool blanket. She heard Tyelpo's barked commands, the patter of raindrops on the canvas above, and the neighing of restive horses. The wagon lurched forward over the rough road, every bump jolting her chilled bones. She remembered hearing her mother's voice, the gentle touch of those familiar hands, then the rough scrape of Tyelpo's fingers against her cheek, and his kiss on her forehead before she fell into a black swoon.

 

Awaking now, she lay still on something soft, enveloped by warmth. She was in her own bed. Opening her eyes, she saw sunlight streaming through the crack between the draperies, and beyond, a streak of clear blue sky. A savory odor tickled her nose, making her mouth water: porridge with milk, still warm, growing cold. Rolling over, she stared at a tray with a bowl, a glass, and a carafe of water on a small table that had been set up near her bed, and closer yet, a chair, right by her bedside. No one was there, but Mother's fragrance lingered in the room. She must have sat in that chair all night, but had stepped out. Mélamírë strained her ears and heard worried whispers — Mother and Tyelpo — on the other side of the door.

 

Her belly rumbled again, and for a moment, she considered pushing herself up to sit and call out for Culinen. Before she could muster what little strength she had to do this, the reason for her precarious state flooded into her awareness, and anguish weighed upon her like a cairn of iron, pushing her back into the bed. The light in the room dimmed as all her fear and sorrow returned. They might have thwarted her at the cliff, but they could not stop her here. She closed her eyes, silenced her rebellious stomach, and began the descent into a silent, grey place deep within herself, where no one could hurt her and where she could harm no one.

 

~*~

 

It took every bit of her will to hold her hand steady and keep her voice measured while she held the spoon to her daughter's lips.

 

"Just a sip, my dear. A little sip, that is all I ask. Please try."

 

Just as it had been every day for the past month and a half, Mélamírë's eyes remained shut and her lips closed. Culinen withdrew the spoon and placed it back in the bowl of broth, and gently lowered her daughter's head and shoulders back on the pillows. She reached to take the young woman's pallid hand, cold and clammy to the touch.

 

She was losing her. For all her healing arts, for all her understanding of how the human body functioned, and for all her deep knowledge of the intricacies of life, she could not reach her own child. The elvish body could survive without food for as long as three months, sometimes longer, before death came creeping. The clysters of beef broth and egg yolks that Culinen mixed for the nurse to administer might extend Mélamírë's life further, but such measures might also be a cruelty. Culinen crushed that thought whenever it nagged at her.

 

The sole consolation was that her child, even in her stupor, could still be persuaded to drink water, and that gave Culinen a measure of hope. So she persisted in her attempts to feed her every day, but Mélamírë's already slender body became gaunter by the week, and the bones of her skull pressed against the thin skin of her face.

 

Day after day, Culinen affected a mask of calm affection and efficient concern, as she gave the nurses instructions to see to her daughter's care, and sat by her bedside, but within, she howled with rage and grief, berating the husband who had deserted her and betrayed them all. She wanted to pick up Mélamírë and shake her back to life, to scream at her and drown out the seductive call of the Doomsman, but the most severe castigations she reserved for herself and the choices she made that led to this.

 

As clear as the spring morning when it had happened, she remembered opening the door to greet the lanky dark-haired man standing at the threshold, asking for Tyelperinquar. How startled he had been, even confused, to find her answering, and then the way his face changed, that charming smile, how he looked her over with naked appreciation, so much so that she had put her hand to her chest to clasp her dressing gown over her breasts, and he moved his cloak in front of his belt to hide his response to her, and how her heart had raced. She should have shut the door on him then and there or called to a servant to escort him to the House of the Mírdain. But no. She had chosen to invite him inside, while she, giddy as a moon-struck maiden, threw on a dress so that she could take him to Tyelperinquar herself.

 

What a fool she was, to allow this man, no, this creature, into her life, to let him woo her with his fine mind, his marvelous gifts, with his kisses and caresses. How vain and stupid she was to have tossed aside Elrond's letter of warning, dismissing it as the words of one spurned in favor of another. How callow she had been to allow her pride to swell when she discovered that a Fay of Aulë had taken her to wife, how she too quickly accepted his reason for not wishing others to know that he was of the Ainur. How weak she had been, succumbing to his love-making that made her crave him with a hunger that could never quite be sated. How reprehensible it was, after he revealed his true nature to her, that she did not warn Tyelperinquar, but instead convinced herself, in her folly and her pride, that she had tamed Gorthaur, that she had reformed him.

 

She wanted to scream. I hate him. I love him.

 

And yet, would she have made any other choice? If she wished Aulendil had never manifested in her life, then she wished her daughter away. Her beloved little girl, who was seeking the path toward death, and now walked in its borderlands. Culinen stroked her child's forehead, and felt the last bit of her stubborn pride slip away. She could not heal Mélamírë, but she knew who might.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to Ignoble Bard, Oshun, Randy O, Russandol, and Scarlet for their exacting critique and encouragement.

Chapter 10: In the Bright Light of Morning

Summary:  The morning after arriving in Ost-in-Edhil, Elrond and Erestor each suffer from the aches and pains of the long road from Mithlond as well as from other sources.

Acknowledgements in End Notes.

Read Chapter 10: In the Bright Light of Morning

Erestor awoke to pain. He half-raised himself with his elbows, but the screaming demon behind his eyes thrust him back. Defeated, he turned over onto his belly and buried his face in the soft pillow that cradled his head. His muscles, even his bones, were battle-sore. Whether days of hard riding at breakneck pace or last night's grappling caused his aches, he could not be sure. Probably both. He ran his left hand over the smooth fabric that covered the empty space beside him, sliding his fingers over cool, finely woven cotton from the South, such a contrast to the more commonplace linen of his bed back in Mithlond.

 

Slowly, he subdued the searing headache into a dull throb and dared to open one eye. Sunlight slashed through the gaps between the curtains surrounding the bed. It must be nearly mid-morning. Wrinkling his nose, he sniffed mingled odors, so intoxicating last night, but now fermenting into what threatened to become a reek. He ought to rise and wash, but he could not bring himself to leave his dim sanctuary just yet.

 

Not all of his pain was unpleasant. His arsehole still burned faintly, and the skin between his cheeks was sticky, crusted with Tyelpo's spunk, a reminder of last night's desperate intensity, like nothing he had ever experienced with his longtime friend and sometimes lover.

 

He and Tyelpo had never been gentle with one another, except perhaps when they were young during those first tentative encounters aboard Curufin's ship as it raced across the black northern sea to Middle-earth. Tucked away in the dark hold, they sought comfort with one another, two frightened boys, not quite men, who had run up against the harsh consequences of idealism that had torn them away from their homes, away from the familiar, and away from family and friends whom they might never see again.  Tyelpo lost his mother to what could be an irrevocable separation, but the cold sea took Erestor's mother.   It was shortly after her drowning that Erestor sought out Tyelpo and those first soft touches.  Once they became more practiced, and their bodies and minds hardened with maturity, each wrestled for dominance. It became a game for them, always thrilling, to see who would be the conqueror or the conquered.

 

Yet last night had been different than any night previous. He closed his eyes again, remembering. He and Elrond had barely passed the city gates and dismounted from their tired horses when they were separated from their party and escorted in haste to Tyelperinquar's stately home. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Tyelpo grasped his forearm so firmly that the smith's powerful hand left faint bruises on his skin, the first of the evening. He leaned over and whispered a demand in Erestor's ear: "Come to me later." Tyelpo then hustled off Elrond to his study, leaving him standing in the entryway.

 

After drinking too much brandy alone in his chambers, Erestor had crept through the narrow corridor that discreetly joined the guest quarters with the master of the house's rooms and was waiting in this bed when Tyelpo opened the door during the deepest hours of the night. He had thrown himself upon Erestor immediately.

 

Erestor had tried to match his ferocity, returning kisses that devoured, sinking his teeth into the smith's exposed neck to taste the salt of sweat and blood. He gripped those broad shoulders then seized the smith's arse with iron-force. Legs entangled and muscles straining, they wrestled until he flipped Tyelpo over on his back, then pulled his lips back to rake the edges of his teeth across the skin of his lover's cock while the smith dug his nails into his scalp. Yet he did not best Tyelperinquar, who at last pinned him prone on his belly, then took him, pummeling him, while Erestor, his hand nearly trapped, managed to jerk himself off.

 

Afterward, the tenderness came when Tyelpo, slick with sweat, lay on top of him and kissed the nape of his neck. "Thank you," he whispered. Then, a ragged breath, not quite a sob: "I am so sorry!"

 

He rolled off him, but Erestor, who turned over at last, pulled him into his arms. From the moment he had laid eyes upon Tyelpo after arriving in Ost-in-Edhil, he sensed the grief and anger churning within his friend. That fury had just spent itself on him, leaving behind the exhausted man in his embrace.

 

"It's all right, old friend." He smoothed Tyelpo's damp hair. "Tell me."

 

He did, and the black night softened to pre-dawn grey by the time Tyelpo finished.

 

"The worst of it all is how he duped me. It burns me day after day, moment by moment. I am an intelligent man, Erestor."

 

"You've never been one for false modesty."

 

Tyelpo chuckled, a grim rumble against Erestor's chest. "No point in it. I pride myself in my skepticism. And yet he fooled me. Me, of all people!"

 

"He fooled many others."

 

"Not Elrond. Not Ereinion."

 

"You must be fair to yourself. They did not know. No one did."

 

"You're wrong."

 

Despite the combined heat from their bodies, a chill ran through Erestor, and he tensed. "What? Who knew?"

 

"Culinen. She has known for years, even before Mélamírë was born."

 

"Manwë's rod! And she never said anything this whole time? Why?"

 

"She was protecting him. My fool of a cousin thought she had tamed Ñorthus."

 

Erestor's mind raced as he tried to fit this new piece to the puzzle. Culinen's loyalty to her own people must be questioned now, and that would entail an uncomfortable conversation, but one he knew he must undertake.

 

Yes, foolish. How might things have changed had Culinen revealed her husband's dangerous secret? And yet, who was he to judge her? He had once done foolish things for love, like following a scion of the House of Fëanáro over docks drenched in Telerin and Noldorin blood, including that of his father, to board a ship lurching in a wave-tossed harbor.

 

"You should be more charitable. Love makes brilliant people do stupid things."

 

"Not just love. Pride, too. She took pride in her delusion that she thought she had reformed him. That's as much of a curse for my family as the blasted Oath. It's a curse that has manifested in Aulendil's — no, Sauron's — betrayal of us, and it is a curse that is now killing that poor girl."

 

"How is she?"

 

"On death's doorstep, barely holding on."

 

"But she still lives. She must be grasping at life for a reason."

 

"Maybe." Tyelpo rolled away and raised his head above Erestor to look down on him. "You know that I will never have a child of my own."

 

Erestor ran his fingers along Tyelpo's jaw, its angles inherited from Curufin but softened by the round chin from Térenel, his mother. "You're not the marrying kind."

 

"You're right, but it's not just that. Even if I were, I would not wish the Oath visited on any child of mine, but Culinen? Women harbor desires that overshadow any oath. Mélamírë is as close to a daughter as I will ever know. I do not want to lose her to Mandos."

 

"If anyone can reach her, Elrond can."

 

"I hope you are right. Now let's try to catch a little sleep. I will be gone when you awaken, but I will summon you later. Good night, old friend." He rolled over on his side, inviting Erestor to nestle his body against him.

 

Tyelpo, as he had said, was gone when he awoke, but the memories of last night, both somber and passionate, made Erestor's morning erection painfully hard. He stroked himself, but his skin was still chapped from rough play, so he sat up and pushed aside the draperies. The bright light of morning made him wince, and half-blinded, he groped for the bottle of almond oil that Tyelpo kept on the bedside table, which, thankfully, his friend had the presence of mind to use last night, or his ass would have been in real pain this morning. When Erestor grasped the bottle, its flared bottom nudged the crystal paperweight beside it, knocking it off the edge of the table.

 

"Bloody stars!"

 

However, the sound of shattering glass did not follow, just a dull thud when the crystal smacked the carpet covering the wooden floor.

 

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and bent down to pick up the crystal, about the size of a goose egg. He turned it over in his hands, searching for the smallest chip, but could find none in the glass that encased an infinity loop of braided hair.

 

Erestor held the crystal steady and examined the coarse intermingled grey and brown hair, then raised his eyes to stare at the stoppered bottle of oil with its robust lines and the swirling patterns of red and gold enamel: Dwarvish art, not Elvish. He carefully replaced the crystal that held Tyelpo's keepsake — the braided hairs of his long-dead friend's beard. Not only his friend. His lover.

 

Erestor fixed his gaze on the open door of the small corridor that led back to the guest quarters. How many times had Narvi crept through that passage? How many times had he grappled with Tyelpo? Had the great Dwarven-smith been in love with him? No doubt, but Narvi's time on this earth was finite, so he might not have truly comprehended Tyelpo's predilections, mistaking the Elven-smith's intense curiosity for love. Erestor learned that painful lesson long ago: Tyelpo was more inclined to be interested in another rather than loving him or her. Even his cow-eyed mooning over Artanis had been driven by sheer inquisitiveness and the desire to pick her formidable brain, that is, until a brilliant and by all accounts handsome (if the Casari could be called such) Dwarf-man had stepped into the sunlight from beneath the shadows of the Misty Mountains, shortly after the city of Ost-in-Edhil was founded.

 

Erestor had never met the Dwarf. He found plenty of reasons not to visit the Elven city during the two hundred years after Narvi and Tyelpo met and became fast friends while the Dwarves and the Elves enriched one another, raising Ost-in-Edhil to new heights and creating mansions of wonder beneath the mountains.

 

After Narvi died, Tyelpo had cut these hairs from his friend's beard, braided them, and then entombed the loop in this crystal. When Erestor first held it, he could not bring himself to ask about its contents, now trapped forever in glass, but that did not keep Tyelpo from volunteering.

 

"Reminds me of how good his beard felt against me. Very interesting, you know, the texture of a Dwarf-beard. You really ought to try a Dwarf some time."

 

Thus Narvi had been reduced to a fascinating novelty, one of Tyelpo's many interests. Erestor placed the crystal next to the bottle, a gift from the Dwarf to the elven-smith. He looked down at himself, wilted to flaccidity. He may as well go bathe now and face whatever this day would bring.

 

 

~*~

 

Elrond traced the whorls and striations in the grain of the ceiling panels, summoning his will to sit up in this comfortable bed, upon which, by all rights, he should have slept soundly after the hard journey from Lindon to Eregion. Instead, he had tossed and turned all night, kept awake by his body's aches and his mind's turmoil. Not that he would have slept long. The disturbing conversation with Celebrimbor had not ended until late last night.

 

He rolled over on his side and stared at the open window, where lacework curtains billowed in the early morning breeze, crisp with the approach of autumn. Songbirds, whose sleepy chirps began during the grey hour before sunrise, were in full chorus now.

 

May as well get up.

 

He threw off the quilts and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The chilly air raised gooseflesh on his naked skin as he padded across the rug to the water closet where he relieved himself in the stone latrine, then poured water from a ceramic pitcher into the basin on the washstand. Sucking his breath, he plunged his face into the water. He held his face under as long as he was able, splashing cold water over his neck, and then emerged, shaking his head. He plucked the woolen dressing gown from its hook and wrapped it around himself before he returning to the bedchamber.

 

These bright and airy quarters must have belonged to Culinen, who had lived here with her cousin until she married. He saw her taste everywhere, from the creamy marble counters of the bird's eye maple furniture to the bed with its headboard and posts carved in eccentric designs of vining flowers, grasses, bees, butterflies and beetles. His eyes were drawn to a large painting that hung above the fireplace, its somber style contrasting sharply with the rest of the large room.

 

A brooding sky glowered above a dark lake with a gloomy forest of pines and firs lining its shore. A single column of sunlight broke through the clouds to illuminate a castle that stood proud by the water. Beyond, Mount Rerir, rising high among the peaks of the Ered Luin, watched over all. The artist had rendered a grand vision of Culinen's ancestral home in the manner favored by those painters who survived the cataclysm of Beleriand and the years of privation afterward, a style that exaggerated the darkness and sorrow of the First Age while it glorified the great deeds and realms of the Noldorin Exiles.

 

The castle and its lands around it must not have been entirely dreary, based on Culinen's tales of her childhood, when she and her brother, Mornilin, who had been slain along with Carnistir in Doriath, played by the shores of Lake Helevorn, collecting rocks, bugs, and clamshells. Culinen had not been present to greet him last night when they arrived, but Celebrimbor extended a curt welcome on her behalf before he pulled him away for what the smith deemed the greater matter at hand.

 

He went to a window to look out over the neighborhood around Celebrimbor's home. The morning sun burnished the red-tiled roofs of houses and shops, their jumble of angles balanced by rounded domes of tin, copper, bronze, and glass. Towers jutted skywards amidst the other buildings. To his left, the tallest of these, the Elemminas, reached high, as if striving to stroke morning's pink-edged clouds, but to his right, the sun set aflame towers of a type far more ancient than any built by Elves or Men: a cluster of tree-tops shimmered green and gold in the breeze, their leaves just starting to change as the turning of the seasons approached. In their midst, a single beech rose above all to challenge the Elemminas. Celeborn's garden grove had grown considerably since Elrond last visited Ost-in-Edhil, back in the years when Galadriel ruled the city, and long before Annatar had arrived. In the distance, the snowfields of the Hithaeglir gleamed.

 

Below him, folk on the streets called "good morning" to one another. Most voices belonged to the Firstborn, speaking in the rolling cadence characteristic of Eregion, but he also heard the stone timbre of Dwarves along with their bulky footsteps. Then the rapid patter of small feet and the lilt of children singing on their way to school nearly made his heart break. He rarely heard the few children who dwelt in Mithlond, but in Ost-in-Edhil, there were many families with youngsters. Wheels rumbled on cobblestones, dogs barked, and cocks crowed. The city was fully awake, and it was time for him to set about preparing for today's work.

 

He stooped to pick up the hinged leather bag he had carried with him from Mithlond, opened it, and inspected the collection of vials, jars, bottles, and sacks within. He must have bought a good third of the inventory from that apothecary in Tharbad. He had to smile, recalling the surprised look on the chymist's face when he and Erestor walked past the threshold. Some of the medicines he procured would be useful, but others were not much better than quackery. No matter. He already had what he thought he would need for treatment of Culinen's daughter. However, he well knew that those who watched him and his party would report of his purchases, and that information would make its way through a tangled web of spies to Sauron. All the better to inform the Enemy that the Herald of Gil-galad's sole purpose in Ost-in-Edhil was that of a healer.

 

From a side pocket of the satchel, he pulled out a letter, its seal long broken. The writing was in Culinen's hand, a plea for his help in healing her ailing daughter, who, she wrote, had fallen into a deep melancholia and seemed bent on starving herself to death. His heart ached for his friend.

 

He would have heeded Culinen's request, regardless of the second letter delivered by the same exhausted courier, who had spoken a password that opened a hidden compartment of the steel cylinder bearing his messages. The second letter was from Tyelperinquar and addressed to the King. Elrond delivered the message to Ereinion, whom he found in his study, fussing over that ridiculous lizard on its oak-branch perch. After reading the letter, the king thrust the paper toward him.

 

"You and Erestor are to leave at once for Ost-in-Edhil."

 

"That is my plan, your Excellency. The Lady Culinen writes that her daughter is in a dire state."

 

"Yes, well, there is that, but there is another matter of import at hand, one that Celebrimbor has requested. Read it."

 

Elrond scanned past the lengthy greeting to the king demanded by protocol and read the first of the smith's dark words:

 

If you are reading this, then my courier has arrived safely and had no need to destroy this message to you, had he been captured.

 

I have been in counsel with the Lady Galadriel, who believes you might benefit from artifacts I have created and that I shall pass to you for safekeeping. She advises that you must keep the knowledge of these gifts to yourself and those whom we can trust, namely Círdan, Elrond, and Erestor. I am in complete agreement with her suggestion. We know his eyes have turned to Ost-in-Edhil, and we feel it is imperative that my creations are kept out of his grasp.

 

To that end, I request that you send Masters Elrond and Erestor to collect these gifts. You must not come here yourself. I am certain he has spies watching the comings and goings from Eregion, perhaps even spies within the city, whom I am hoping Erestor might ferret out. Your kingly presence would only serve to arouse his suspicion that something is afoot. Mélamírë's illness is as plausible an excuse as any to send Elrond and Erestor for this mission and should provide an excellent cover. Ensure that Elrond makes a show of this, for I believe rumor of her illness will trouble Gorthaur, and he will thus be distracted from the more critical matter at hand.

 

Those last words galled Elrond. Whatever these gifts were, Celebrimbor appeared to put them above his own kinswoman's life.

 

He refolded the master smith's letter and handed it back to the king, who then tossed it into the hearth where the paper blackened and curled in upon itself, reduced to ash in moments.

 

"We can be off at morning's first light," Elrond had said, knowing he would not sleep that night.

 

"Very good."

 

"Do we have any inkling of what these gifts actually are? And if they are dangerous?"

 

"Not their exact nature, no, just what Erestor has told us so far, that they are a means for preservation and that Celebrimbor believes they will be a boon for our people. As for their danger? I think they are powerful, whatever they are, and power always has the potential to be perilous. However, if Galadriel counsels Celebrimbor to give these things to us, then I think we should heed their request. I may not trust him, but I do trust her. As for the other matter, do you think you can do it? Cure that poor girl?"

 

"I shall have to examine her, but based on what Culinen has said, I have a measure of hope that I can."

 

"I am confident you will. After all, you've also a bit of the Fay in you, so no doubt you'll use some of that Maiarin witchcraft to reach her."

 

"It's hardly witchcraft…your Grace."

 

Gil-galad sniffed. "Tomato, to-mah-to," he said, affecting what he deemed to be a clever Númenórean expression he had acquired recently. "You and Erestor may as well stay through the winter. Returning here at breakneck speed would also arouse Sauron's suspicions."

 

"All winter?"

 

"Sorry to make you stay there for so long. The winters are ghastly in Eregion, but I hear the food is good, the wine is fine, and the boys are pretty. Erestor ought to enjoy himself. At any rate, find out what Celebrimbor is up to and receive these gifts, whatever they are, and whenever he is ready to give them to you. In the meantime, see to it that the girl's healed and well on her way to recovery, then return in the spring."

 

It had taken more than a month of hard travel from Mithlond to reach Ost-in-Edhil, and the aches and pains of the road gnawed at his bones.  "Nothing that a long soak in a hot bath won't cure," Erestor had said the night before last, when they caught sight of the white beacon of the Elemminas.   Such a soak would have been welcome, but Elrond did not have a chance.  Celebrimbor had whisked him away before he had any hope of bathing.  He refolded Culinen's letter and tucked it away in the satchel.

 

After last night's converse with Celebrimbor, he now knew of the Rings of Power, and how, with his intimate knowledge of the Rings' curwë, Sauron had forged a Master Ring to bind them all to his will, all except the Three. The master smith, usually in possession of a disarmingly affable kind of hubris, was plainly worried and spoke with humility, or perhaps humiliation. Elrond learned of the Rings' purpose: tools for the best and brightest of the Eregion Firstborn to create an immortal land like Valinor and to further elevate themselves among the peoples of Middle-earth.

 

On the one hand, the arrogance of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and their desire to set themselves above and apart from the Avorrim and mortals, particularly Men, repulsed him in a deeply personal way, but on the other, he, like many of the Firstborn, grieved at the swift passing of years and longed for a means to slow the ravages of time and decay. Apparently, Celebrimbor's three rings would allow this. How precisely the Ruling Ring would affect the Three was anyone's guess, and so due caution must be exercised. As for the full nature and capabilities of the Three, Celebrimbor counseled Elrond to be patient, although he gave no reason for his delaying their revelation to him.  The master smith had, however, advised him of discretion.

 

"The Lady Culinen knows nothing of our plans for the disposition of the Three," Celebrimbor said, "And it should remain so. Nor should her daughter become aware of them, if she revives."

 

"You do not trust her? I cannot think that she would…"

 

Frowning, Celebrimbor interrupted him. "I do trust her, yet I do not. Elrond, she has known the truth about Aulendil for years now and said nothing."

 

It was a stunning revelation, and taken at face value, he had to allow that her silence seemed to make her complicit with Annatar's scheming, but Elrond knew there was more to it. He withheld his judgment, and just listened to Celebrimbor.

 

"She is devastated that he has betrayed us — betrayed her — but I think you can understand why we cannot take the risk of revealing too much. You are here to heal her daughter. She needn't know more than that."

 

He made a few more adjustments to the contents of his bag, ensuring that the many jars and vials were secure, and closed it. The sooner he examined the ailing young woman the better. He had been ready to examine her last night, but Celebrimbor conveyed Culinen's wish that he should rest first. It was not only a considerate gesture on her part, but also pragmatic, showing a fellow healer's awareness of the strength required for tending to grave injuries or illness. Unfortunately, he had been unable to take that rest, although he felt fit enough on nervous energy alone.

 

He dressed quickly, sliding his feet into slim, leather shoes that felt wonderfully light after wearing boots for many days of travel. After adjusting the strap of his medicine bag on his shoulder, he stepped out onto the gallery. The faint voices of the household servants carried up from the interior courtyard below, but here on the fourth floor, all was silent. Elrond looked across the space toward the opposite gallery to see that the guest quarters' door was shut. Erestor, no doubt, was still asleep.

 

Good for him, thought Elrond. I wish I had been so fortunate.

 

He took no time to admire the paintings and tapestries that lined each gallery nor the statuary placed at each landing as he made his way down the stone stairs. His hand had just touched the lever of the front door when a voice stayed him.

 

"My lord Elrond!"

 

Elrond stopped at the call of Celebrimbor's chief manservant. He vaguely remembered the butler, once a boy from a village in North Lindon, who had lofty aspirations to become a smith and who followed Celebrimbor here. Apparently, his ambitions in the smithy did not materialize, but he had found a place of more domestic importance here.

 

"Good morning..." Elrond searched for the man's name.

 

"Thamlad at your service," he said, aping Dwarvish custom as many Elves here in Ost-in-Edhil did. "You did not ring for your breakfast, my lord."

 

"No, I did not. I am in a bit of a rush."

 

"Lord Celebrimbor expressly instructed us to see that you took refreshment before you left this morning, and he said you would need directions to Istyar Aulendil's home."

 

The servant's respectful reference to the Enemy's abode startled Elrond, who reminded himself that there was no reason for Thamlad — or many others — to know any different, and that it was best that he did not know. "The directions I could use, yes, but I must forego breakfast."

 

Thamlad's agreeable expression became determined. "Lord Celebrimbor was very specific that you should eat. He said you would protest, but I am to remind you that you had a long, hard journey."

 

Elrond resisted clenching his jaw. How like Celebrimbor to insist on what he felt others should do. "The Lady Culinen awaits me."

 

"Yes, my lord. I know. It will not take long. The food is already prepared. My lord said to remind you that you shall need your strength and should take sustenance."

 

"It seems that your master knows my needs better than I do."

 

Then the beguiling odor of bacon wafted from the kitchen, and Elrond's angry badger of a belly betrayed him when it growled audibly.  Thamlad's thin lips curled into a smug smile. "It would seem so."

 

Resigned both to the butler and his appetite, Elrond set his bag on the side table in the entryway and followed Thamlad to the dining hall where he was seated alone. In short order, a maid brought out a plate of eggs, rashers of bacon, toasted bread, and a pot of steaming black tea with a small pitcher of hot milk.

 

Elrond dug into the hot food, thoroughly welcome after the sparse fare of the road, relieved only twice: once at a cozy inn near Sarn Ford and again at a guesthouse in Tharbad. He was halfway through the eggs when he heard footsteps slowly descending the stairs. The footsteps, as Elrond quickly surmised, belonged to Erestor, clad in clean grey leggings and a pine-green tunic, his damp hair drawn back into a single plait. He entered the dining hall, walking as if on eggshells. When he pulled the chair opposite Elrond away from the table, he winced at the grating noise it made as it scraped across the wooden floor. He lowered himself carefully into the chair and pressed his fingers against his temples, his eyes squeezed shut.

 

The maid came into the dining room and chirped, "Would my lord like eggs and bacon?"

 

Elrond could have sworn that Erestor's pallor took on a greenish tinge. Without opening his eyes, he croaked, "Just coffee with cream, thank you."

 

"Rough night?"

 

Erestor opened one eye to glare balefully at Elrond. "You might say that."

 

The last that Elrond had seen of Erestor last night was when Celebrimbor grabbed his arm and leaned over to whisper in his ear. It then occurred to Elrond that Erestor likely did not sleep in the guest quarters last night. He was aware that Celebrimbor and Erestor had known one another for a long time, since they were boys in Aman before the Darkening. However, Erestor, as expected of a man of his station, was discreet about his predilections, and Elrond, also as befitting his standing, knew that one did not pry into another man's private activities.

 

The maid returned with the coffee for Erestor, poured it into a fine porcelain cup, embellished in gold leaf with the Star of Fëanor, as were the plates. After gulping down the first cup, Erestor visibly brightened. He replenished the coffee, sipping it more slowly this time, and after placing the cup back on its saucer, he reached across the table to snitch a thick slice of toast from Elrond's bread plate.

 

"You could ask for your own," Elrond said while Erestor crunched into the still warm bread.

 

"You weren't eating it. Besides, I expect you will want to be on your way soon."

 

"I shall."

 

"Give me half a moment, and I will take you there." Erestor lifted another piece of toast, and this time slathered butter and raspberry jam on it.

 

"You know where their home is?"

 

"Yes, I have been there on a number of occasions when I visited the city," he said between bites and swallows. "Before we knew."

 

While Elrond considered that the revelation of the Ruling Ring and the identity of its maker had already become a historical milestone — before we knew and after — Erestor shoved the remainder of the toast in his mouth, pushed himself back from the table, and stood. "Are you ready?"

 

Elrond drained the remaining tea from the cup. "As ready as I shall ever be. Lead on."

 

He and Erestor stepped outside into the bright morning and went on their way to the tall house on Goldsmith Street.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to Scarlet, Russandol, Drummerwench, Ignoble Bard, Elfscribe, Chaotic Binky, Oshun, and Randy O for comments and feedback.

There's some fannish cross-pollination here with Oshun's Ulmo's Palace inspiring the idea of Erestor's being on the same ship as Celebrimbor (and some sparks there) and Dawn Felagund's By the Light of Roses , which inspired the name of Curufin's wife.

 

 

Chapter 11: The Path's Heart

Elrond finds a nearly comatose Mélamírë in dire straits.  She resists his attempts to reach her through sanwe-latya, until, with her permission, he gives her a bitter medicine that allows them to share a dream, called the lugnolossê by an ancient shaman of the Unbegotten.

Warning for potential triggers of self-harm and suicidality.

Extra thanks to Elfscribe for excellent critique that resulted in a minor "post-publication" revision of the opening bit of this chapter.

Read Chapter 11: The Path's Heart

Elrond and Erestor stopped on the end of the street before at tall stone house, its front garden in bloom with late season asters and a few struggling roses.

"I'm off to the market square," Erestor said. "I could do with a sweet roll and more coffee."

Elrond knew that Erestor not only would seek the pastry he so craved, but also information at the market. "Very well. I'll send word whenever I am finished here."

Erestor nodded. "No matter the outcome."

Elrond tried to be optimistic, but he had no idea what he would encounter in the house he was about to enter. He reminded himself that Erestor had struck up a friendship with the ailing young woman, and despite the affectation of jaded nonchalance, was deeply worried about Mélamírë.

"Yes, no matter the outcome."

Elrond watched Erestor walk away, his gait considerably more energetic than it had been when he had entered Celebrimbor's dining hall. When he disappeared around the corner, Elrond walked up the steps to the entry, flanked by blue glazed urns. He lifted the brass knocker and rapped on the carved oaken door.

A wiry woman, her sharp features suggesting Silvan blood, answered.

"I am Elrond of Mithlond. The Lady Culinen is expecting me."

"Yes, m'lord. Please, come in. I shall take you to her."

Elrond entered the house that, until recently, had been the abode of the great lieutenant of Melkor. The servant, who gave her name as Lygnel, led him through a residence, nearly identical to Celebrimbor's home, that comprised four stories with an interior courtyard ringed by a colonnaded gallery on each floor with the main stairway linking them all. As he ascended, he passed murals, paintings, tapestries, and sculptures that graced the galleries and the landings. Nothing in this grand but comfortable home suggested the horrors of Tol-in-Gaurhoth or fallen Angband. The incongruity unnerved him.

With each flight of stairs, the nagging worry that he might be unable to help his friend's daughter grew. Reconstructing the events as he understood them, Mélamírë had slipped into a profound melancholia and refused food by mouth nearly two and a half months ago. Although some mortals were known to have survived that long without food, he knew that the Firstborn were far more resilient. However, this was less of a question of physical healing than it was of healing of the mind. If she was determined to die, then there was little he could do to stop her.

 

"Here we are, m'lord. The Lady Culinen is within." Elrond raised his hand to knock on the door, but Lygnel plucked his sleeve, her feral green eyes large and imploring. "I hear you are a great healer, m'lord. I hope…I hope you can cure Mistress Mélamírë. You see, I have known her since she was a little child. Taught her how to string berries for the Tree of the Houseless and make holly wreaths for the Lady in the Sun. If she should..." Tears choked off the rest of her words.

 

Elrond laid his hand over hers. "I shall do my best, Mistress Lygnel." Then he entered the bedchamber.

 

When he crossed the threshold, his nostrils immediately flared, sniffing the astringent tang of witch hazel, and beneath it, the faint putrescence of illness. He took in the room and its occupants. Thick draperies were drawn across tall, narrow windows; a small settle and a writing desk with a chair sat off in the shadows of a corner; against the far wall, a jumble of scrolls and books packed every inch of two wide bookcases; and rich carpets woven with designs of purple grapes and twining green and grey vines covered the floor. A burled walnut wardrobe stood stately against the near wall, bracketed by a matching washstand on one side and a long sideboard cluttered with bottles, jars, and small lidded boxes on the other. In the granite hearth, a low fire burned, and a wisp of steam curled from the black iron kettle hanging above the coals. In the middle of the chamber was a large bed, its carven posts also of dark walnut, and its damasked wine-red curtains drawn back to reveal a shrunken form beneath an opulent coverlet.

 

Two servants — or perhaps other healers — hovered in the background. Yes, they were healers, judging by the insignia of the House of the Heart on their crimson robes. They glanced at Elrond and bowed their heads politely to him, but returned their focus to the bed beside which a woman sat on a stool, holding the invalid's pale hand in her own.

 

Culinen released her daughter's hand and gently placed it by the young woman's side before she arose from her vigil, hesitating a moment before pushing the stool aside to come to him. She looked little different since their last meeting in Mithlond, when she still visited him to collaborate on their studies and before Annatar had reappeared in the world. What heady days those had been! Both of them had found some measure of healing from the catastrophe of Beleriand by immersion in their work. She was one of the few who had a genuine interest in his research of inheritance in roses, and likewise, she claimed he was the only other with whom she could discuss her cataloguing of fruit flies. By turns, each encouraged the other, then tried to poke holes in their pet theories of the assortment and dominance of discrete particles passed from one generation to the next, often arguing with heated vehemence over subtle differences in their observations and the interpretation thereof. Then off they would go with a small group of other loremasters to eat fried fish and get drunk on cheap wine at one of the little inns near the wharfs.

 

However, the woman who faced him on this early autumn morning was somber. The contours of her face still reminded him more of Maedhros than Caranthir, her own father, but her blue eyes were dulled, and there were lines in their corners and around her mouth that had not been there before.

 

"Thank you, Master Elrond, for responding so quickly. If you wish, we might retire to the parlor to discuss the case," she said stiffly, her chin held high.

 

He knew that façade all too well and had no use for her pride, but this was not the time for cold counsel. He took her hands in his. "There is no need for such formality, my dear friend. I could do nothing but come here as fast as I was able."

 

Her hands trembled in his, but she remained composed even while she struggled to rein in her tears. "I am so sorry, Elrond. What have I done?"

 

There were a hundred responses he might have given her, not least among them that had she and Celebrimbor heeded the warnings sent to Ost-in-Edhil three yéni ago — that Annatar, newly arrived on the shores of Middle-earth, was concealing something — perhaps none of this would have transpired. However, the scolding words should have, would have, could have, particularly coming from a trusted old friend, were nothing short of cruelty.

 

After all, could he blame her for succumbing to Annatar's charms? He had nearly done so himself, wanting to believe the claims of the charismatic man who nearly drowned in the cold northern sea, the man who professed allegiance to the Aulënossë and who so obviously possessed a wealth of knowledge. Even until the moment when Annatar's identity was revealed in all its horrible truth, Elrond harbored the hope that he was wrong, that Istyar Aulendil was truly whom he represented himself to be, if only for the sake of the woman whose hands he held and for her daughter. And that was why he was here: to try to bring this young woman back to the world of the living, one way or another.

 

"You have kept her alive for one thing."

 

Culinen lowered her face, and when she raised her eyes again, they brimmed with tears. "But not much longer if..." She choked back a sob and turned away from him, returning her gaze to her stricken daughter.

 

"Look at me, Culinen. Do you trust me?"

 

She swallowed hard and squeezed his hands. "You know I do. You know how much I respect your skill."

 

"Then let me examine her straight away, and I will see what I can do."

 

After digging out his prized ambaróma from his medicine bag, he slipped the leather strap over his head and handed the bag to one of the young healers, who placed it at the ready on a side table.   Gesturing to the other woman, he asked her to bring the lamp closer so that he might better examine his patient. Before he touched Culinen's daughter, he sat silent and gazed upon her, trying to get the measure of the young woman, and truth be told, to indulge his curiosity.

 

So this was a half-Fay. She looked no different than any other woman who might find herself in such dire straits. He did not know what he expected to see. A flawless sylph, as his legendary foremother was reputed to be, an inhuman creature not prone to the vagaries of the flesh? He knew such thoughts were only the stuff of poetry. He would not even exist had his Fay ancestress not embraced humanity, or if her daughter had not chosen mortality for the sake of the man who became her husband and fathered his grandsire. For all her otherworldly powers, no doubt Lúthien was also vulnerable in her own way.

 

Had it not been for her illness, he might have called Culinen's daughter attractive.  Elements of her face recalled her mother's side of the family, which was more familiar to him, but he also recognized the features of the elf-man he found in that fisherman's hut many years ago. However, her melancholy had consumed whatever beauty she had. He knew all too well that the Firstborn who succumbed to grief often took their own lives. The image of Maedhros dropping into the fiery chasm was forever engraved in his memory. Others might walk into the cold northern Sea, never to emerge, or fling themselves from a height, but withering away from self-inflicted starvation was an excruciatingly slow way to seek the peace of Mandos. He took her hand, bony and fragile as a half-dead nestling thrown to the ground.

 

"Hello, Mélamírë. I am Elrond, your mother's friend. I am going to examine you now."

 

There was no response, not even the flutter of eyelids.

 

He bent forward and inhaled. As a healer, Elrond had learned to notice many things about a patient to better treat his or her ailment, and he found that his keen sense of smell served him well. It had plagued him as a youngster, his sensitivity causing him headaches and even nausea on many occasions, but he learned to harness his talent and could often diagnose a patient from their odor. Mélamírë's breath reeked of rotting fruit, the stench of a body gnawing at itself.

 

Yet there was another scent, so subtle that another might not discern it. He leaned closer. Yes! There it was: the fragrance of the air after a lightning storm mixed with the sharp metallic scent of a forge's fires. It was a fresh, even healthy, odor that seeped from her pores. His brother, his mother, Eönwë, and Annatar all had that underlying lightning smell. It was an odor of power and resilience, a hopeful sign to him that she had not given up altogether.

 

He turned to the young woman holding the lamp behind him. "Mistress?"

 

The healer stepped forward. "Mistress Eithel. Guildmaster Culinen's apprentice."

 

"And you?"

 

"I am Master Asëavendë."

 

"Thank you. Eithel, bring the light closer, if you would."

 

The yellow light of the lamp made Mélamírë's face even more sallow, a sign that her liver struggled. Her cheekbones threatened to slice through her skin, and her closed eyes sank deep into their sockets, the skin around them darkened as if bruised. When he raised her eyelids, he saw their elven-light was nearly extinguished. He ran his hand over her forehead, feeling her paper-thin skin and brittle hair. Glancing up at Culinen, he made a silent request. She said nothing, knowing exactly what he required, and untied the ribbons that closed the front of her daughter's gauzy gown. Quietly and as efficiently as possible, he continued his examination, and finished by pressing the ambaróma against her bony chest to listen to a heart that beat far too slowly.

 

"It could be worse, but it could be better," he said to Culinen. "Tell me of her treatments."

 

"Clysters of beef broth, egg yolks, and wine, three times daily."

 

"She is taking water, too?"

 

"Yes. About a liter or so daily."

 

"That is most encouraging. I take it that you have been unable to reach her in thought?"

 

"I have tried sanwe-latya many times. She will not let me in."

 

"Maybe she will talk to me, someone more distant from her plight."

 

"Yes. Someone who has not betrayed her trust."

 

"Blaming yourself will not help. I shall try…"

 

"Be careful," Culinen interrupted. "Her defenses are formidable."

 

"Understood."

 

Taking his patient's hand in his, he closed his eyes and called to her.

 

Mélamírë...

 

A smooth grey wall rose before him. With his mind's eye, he looked left then right. The featureless wall extended as far as he could see in either direction. Stone, he thought. He reached out to touch its substance, expecting to feel clammy dampness.

 

Fire engulfed his hand. Reflexively, he jerked it back, and the wall sucked the flames into its substance, leaving only seamless stone. Startled, he regrouped, reminding himself that many of the Firstborn, particularly those strong of will, created defenses against unwanted intrusions of the mind, but that these were all illusions, simply a kind of enchantment to confuse and ward off an intruder.

 

Mélamírë, he called, reaching out to touch the wall. Again, flames exploded and ran up his arm, up to the elbow, and this time, he felt pain. It is an illusion, only an illusion, he chanted silently, and continued to push against the impenetrable wall, his entire arm now on fire, his nerves screaming. Flames writhed over his hand until the skin blistered and blackened, peeling back to reveal tendon and bone. Instinct at last overruled rational thought, and he yanked his hand out of the illusory fire that felt all too real.

 

His heart racing, he took several deep, deliberate breaths to quell his fear before he opened his eyes, half-expecting to see the fabric of his shirt burnt to a crisp, but it was intact. His right hand, however, throbbed with pain, the skin reddened. Three small blisters bubbled from his palm.

 

He stared at Mélamírë. The young woman, wasted to nearly skin and bones, sustained a powerful barrier around her fëa, so strong that she created defenses that were more than an illusion. Somehow, she had injured him physically.

 

Culinen took his hand, examining it. "I am so sorry, Elrond! Asëavendë, prepare a poultice..."

 

"No need," he said. " It's only a minor burn. Just a bowl of cold water will do. And do not apologize. You did warn me, after all."

 

Asëavendë poured water from a pitcher into the porcelain basin on the washstand. "I collected the water from the Fountain of Estë this morning. It should sooth the pain."

 

The young healer was right. The redness and pain faded, and the blisters disappeared as he laved the healing water over his insulted skin.

 

He patted his hands dry with a soft white towel. "How did she manage that, I wonder?"

 

Culinen took his hand once more, inspecting the healed skin. "I don't know. This has not happened before."

 

"I will need to make her more amenable to conversation."

 

"How so?"

 

He rose from the bedside stool and went to his bag, where he rummaged through the many jar and bottles until he found what he needed.

 

"Mistress Eithel, please heat some of that water to a simmer."

 

"The same water heats in the kettle at the hearth," Culinen said. "And it is the same water that she drinks."

 

He made a note to himself to ask more about this Fountain of Estë later. "Very good. Do you have honey and brandy?"

 

"Yes. There on the sideboard."

 

Elrond placed two eggshell-colored jars amid the clutter of Culinen's medicines. A white ceramic mortar and pestle, exactly what he needed, were set off to the side. Culinen and the other healers were immediately at his side, watching him.

 

After wiping the mortar and pestle clean, he popped open the cork of one of his jars, releasing a musty smell. He shook out two shriveled mushrooms onto his palm. Their blue gills had blackened since he plucked them from the meadow in Lindon some weeks ago, but their potency ought to be intact.

 

Culinen's hand clamped down on his wrist before he could drop the mushrooms into the bowl of the mortar.

 

"No! I forbid it! Fly agaric is too dangerous. Master Estelindë said…"

 

"I am well aware of Estelindë's opinions on the use of Alcantarwa-hwan píron, whether for medicine or ritual. Besides, this is not fly agaric. It is Parnacar luinincë, called lugnolossê by the Avorrim."

 

"The blue dream."

 

"Yes. The mushroom harbors a very different substance than fly agaric, quite potent, but not poisonous in the amount I shall use. The effects are remarkable, pleasant even, under the right circumstances. It will make her more open to speaking to me. And I to her."

 

"You will take it also?"

 

"Yes."

 

She released his wrist. "Very well. I trust you, Elrond." Yet there was a subtle undertone of reluctance that lingered in her voice, telling him this was not altogether true. He could not blame her for protecting her child.

 

"This will not harm her. I promise. If she is willing to take it, that is."

 

He placed the mushrooms in the mortar and ground them to a paste with the pestle. Then he added a splash of brandy and ground the paste again. He scraped it all into a goblet, and mixed it with a dollop of honey and cool water.

 

Next, he shook out a few dried leaves from the other jar and rubbed them between his fingers. The crushed leaves immediately released a sweet, refreshing scent.

 

"Athelas?"

 

"Correct."

 

"I recall Estëlindë's treatise on the herb and its virtues, but have not managed to procure any since the drowning of our old lands. How ever did you manage?"

 

"It comes from Númenor. Ereinion's arrangements with the trade guilds have their advantages."

 

He cast the crushed leaves into the bowl of steaming water, and their fragrance filled the room, driving away all odors of sickness and decay. His patient inhaled deeply, as if she savored the scent of the herb.

 

Good, thought Elrond. She's aware at least.

 

With Culinen's help, he propped Mélamírë up with the pillows, and brought the bowl of athelas closer to her face. She breathed in again and again, eyes now moving rapidly beneath closed lids. He smoothed back her hair.

 

"Mélamírë, I wish to speak with you."

 

She made no response.

 

"I have prepared a potion that may help you. It is your choice to take it or not. It contains a substance from a mushroom, not a poison, but a medicine that opens up the mind's inner sight. It will not hurt you, and I shall be with you, for I shall take it as well. It allows for most remarkable experiences by..." he searched for the words that might catch her attention, "...by stimulating the most minute substances of the brain. Perhaps you would understand this better than I."

 

It was a bit cheap on his part, trying to spark her curiosity and stroke her vanity when she was so far removed from the world, but he'd happily toss aside such qualms if these appeals worked. Her face remained still as a death mask, save for her eyes darting beneath her lids. The only sounds in the bedchamber were the soft rustle of the healers' robes and the deep breaths of his patient. Then he heard a faint voice deep within his mind.

 

Yes. I will take it.

 

He raised the cup to her lips, and she swallowed several times, her eyes still shut and her brows furrowing, until she drank half the concoction. He downed the remainder, the honey and brandy unable to mask the mushrooms' bitterness. Then he took her hand, and waited.

 

The fluttering at the edges of his vision were the first signs that the medicine was taking hold. He closed his eyes and marveled at the spiraling pattern of vibrant colors that expanded and contracted behind his lids. The words of the ancient Nandorin shaman, who had led him on his first journey within the lugnolossê, came back to him, advising him of the strange paths that would open before him. He must help her find the path back to life. Time slowed to a crawl, and it was then that he called to her.

 

Mélamírë...

 

The pulsing rainbows behind his eyes shattered and fluttered away into the dusk. Once again he faced the wall. Extending his arm, his fingers stretched out and out, like old vines that twined and twisted, seeking purchase on the barrier. He braced himself for the consuming fire, but this time, his fingertips grazed cool stone. He pressed his palm against the wall, and the outlines of a door formed, its edges glowing red and gold. He pushed, and the door slowly swung open to reveal the vast expanse of an arid plain, dotted with low, scrubby bushes. Mountains, some with flattened tops, rose to his left and right, and blue flames flickered over their heights. Ahead, the plain stretched to disappear into a featureless grey mist.

 

In the middle of the expanse, a tower loomed. Not a tower of stone, but of metal, its supports crisscrossed in a foreign design. At its top was the bowl of a brazier where a rose-hued fire burned, and from which a thick column of smoke ascended into the sky, swelling to become a roiling violet cloud that recalled the shape of a massive mushroom. It was an utterly alien vision, dreadful yet compelling, and the vertigo and nausea that heralded foresight paralyzed him. He shook it off and tore his gaze away from the ominous cloud, allowing himself to fully enter the shared dream, far more vivid than any he had experienced yet with the lugnolossê.

 

He walked toward the brazier, briskly at first, but then slower and slower, as if he stepped in deep snow or mud. Looking down, he saw his feet sinking into the earth, Mélamírë's reluctance to speak dragging him down into a mire. Still, he pressed on.

 

The blue flames on the mountains, now shot through with streaks of gold and green, slid down the slopes and flowed over the plain, tempting him to stop and stare at them, but that was the drug at work. He disciplined himself to move forward. Overhead the violet cloud billowed ominously while the pale sky behind it darkened, then became light again, cycling over and over as he journeyed for days and nights, years upon long-years, toward the brazier. The overwhelming scent of lightning flashed in hues of azure and sapphire all around him while he dragged his feet through the soil until he was close enough to touch the brazier. He placed his hand against one of the steel supports and felt the warmth of another human.

 

"I am here," he said.

 

"Don't stop," the brazier answered, her voice vibrating through the bones of his body. "Please sing again for me!"

 

"Am I singing? Is that what you hear?"

 

"Yes," she said. "I hear a nightingale's song. That is what I see, a nightingale. You smell so...so green, like ferns in the forest, and so silver, like the spray of a waterfall. You will not fly away, will you?"

 

"No, I will not fly away, but I should like to walk with you. Maybe it would be better if I were not a bird and if you were not made of steel?"

 

The rosy flames above him guttered in the sea-scented wind that suddenly swept over the plain and blew away the ominous violet cloud. Then the brazier melted, pooling in front of him to become the form of a young woman, clad in a thin nightgown, the waves of her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. Her silver-grey eyes widened to black pools.

 

"You are Elrond."

 

"Yes."

 

"You have come to lead me back."

 

"I have."

 

"I do not think that I want to return to my life."

 

"Because it hurts too much?"

 

"Yes."

 

"I understand. I understand what it is like for you."

 

Her eyes narrowed. "How can you possibly understand?"

 

And there it was, the question he asked himself again and again since the nagging sense of unease that he felt toward Annatar became a terrible reality.  The best he could do was to delve into his sense of empathy and extrapolate from his own experience, which might then open the door to understanding.

 

"Because I understand that we do not choose our parents."

 

"Your parents gave hope to Middle-earth. If you are here, then you must know who my father is, and you know that he has given nothing but tyranny, despair, and death to the world. And my mother? She allowed him to..." She bit off what ever she intended to say next and pressed her lips together.

 

"Yes, my parents gave hope, but at great sacrifice. It took me years to forgive them."

 

"To forgive them?"

 

"Yes. Come, let us walk together, and I shall tell you."

 

"Where?"

 

"To the sea." He pointed toward the mists in the distance. "Can't you hear it? Can't you smell it?"

 

She stood still, listening to the crash of distant surf, and took a deep breath. "Yes, I can."

 

Unlike his long journey to the brazier, the walk to the sea was short. The path ahead ran straight and true between dunes that unfolded before them, the sand glittering gold in the light of a setting sun. Reeds sighed in the wind, and there stretched a dark sea. The light swiftly faded, and uncountable stars sparkled overhead while the surf's edge glowed blue with the cool light of tiny living stars caught in the waves.

 

"On nights like this, my mother would take my brother and me to the shore, where she would tell us that our father, far away on his ship, looked up at the same stars and thought of us, that he loved us. It was a sweet thing to say, but the fact remained that he was not there with his family. Something more important than us drew him away."

 

"Do you remember much about him?"

 

"I remember that he seemed huge to me. He had golden hair that was always mussed, probably from the sea-wind, and his skin was burnt brown by the sun. What I remember most about him was his big, bluff laugh. Elros and I would giggle like mad little monkeys when he laughed. We were only two years old when he left us."

 

"So he was a stranger to you."

 

"That he was — and is. Your kinsman was more of a father to me."

 

"Macalaurë?"

 

"Yes."

 

"But your mother was with you, for a time, at least."

 

"For a time. Do you know what my most vivid memory of my mother is?"

 

Mélamírë waited for his answer.

 

"It was when she stepped over the edge of the cliff at the Havens of the Sirion."

 

The land and sea changed then.  The strand below their feet fell away until they stood at the edge of a cliff that rose high above waves that lashed the jagged rocks below. An angry sky churned overhead, and a cold wind buffeted them. Mélamírë leaned forward to peer down at the rocks. She wrapped her arms around herself, stepped back, and shuddered.

 

"She used to tell us to stay away from the edge, that if we fell, we'd turn into fishes. But she went over, disappearing from my sight. She abandoned us to your kinsmen, their swords red with the blood of my people."

 

She looked at him then, her eyes hard with judgment. "What was she thinking to abandon her children like that? Why didn't she just give up the Silmaril? Was that bloody jewel so precious that she valued it more than you?"

 

"Those are questions I asked myself for a long time, but as the years passed, the reason for her choice became clear to me: had she handed over the jewel, Maedhros, consumed by the bloodlust of that terrible battle at the Havens of the Sirion, would not only have slain her, but my brother and me as well. Many years after that dreadful day, Maedhros confirmed this. A kind of madness had taken him, he told us, as it does many men in battle, and that he was prepared to kill her to obliterate any claim to the Silmaril by an heir of Thingol. When Elros asked if he would have killed us, for we, too, were of Thingol's bloodline, Maedhros could not answer. He just covered his eyes with his hand and tried not to weep. It was hard for him to confess these things, for we had come to love him and he us, but he wanted to be honest.  Nevertheless, that did not make my mother's choice to fling herself from the cliff any easier to bear.  For many years, I lived with the torment that my parents had abandoned us, leaving us to the mercies of our enemies, and for a time, I hated them for it."

 

"You hated them? Elwing and Eärendil?"

 

"Hate is too strong a word for me to allow now. 'Resented' would be more accurate, but when I was a boy, yes, 'hate' was the word I best knew. Later, when I no longer allowed my anger to rule my heart, memories long suppressed from that day of carnage returned, and I heard my mother's voice clearly in my thoughts, the words she had sent to us when she fell over the cliff: that she and my father loved us, that they would never leave us, that they would come back for us."

 

"None of that was true. They never came back for you. They betrayed you."

 

"No, I do not see it as a betrayal. Those were the anguished and very human words of desperation. Her words rang absolutely sure and true in their love, and my hate — my resentment — faded when I came to understand this and the enormity of the wrenching — and courageous — choices she and my father made at such great cost to themselves."

 

"It is not the same for me. None of it."

 

"You are right. It is not the same, but what you and I have in common is the reality that our parents are complicated people, entirely separate from us and with their own motives."

 

She groaned in response. "You have no idea!" But he persisted.

 

"They would be no less complicated had they been peasants, rather than an exiled princess and a great mariner or a loremaster and a powerful sorcerer.  What we must always remember is that we exist as our own persons, that we follow our own fates."

 

She said nothing, just stared out over the stormy sea.

 

"You had a terrible truth withheld from you," he said, "and I expect you were asked to keep secrets."

 

She nodded.

 

"That is an awful burden to place on one's child, but I must ask you this: how can you know that there was not some part of your father who loved you?"

 

"How can a creature like that be capable of love?"

 

"I do not know the answer to that, but a similar creature was my great-great-grandmother. I believe she loved Thingol, and I believe she loved Lúthien. I cannot speak to your father's feelings, but you may be certain that, whatever her flaws and whatever her reasons for allowing your father into her life, your mother loves you."

 

"Yes. I know this."

 

"She does not wish for you to seek the Halls of Mandos."

 

"It is not her choice to make."

 

"No, it is not. It is yours. I think you fear something else. I think you fear that you are fated to become like him."

 

"I do not believe in fate."

 

"Embrace your free will then. I say to you: believe with all your heart that you have the choice to follow your own path."

 

The wind calmed, and blades of sunlight sliced through the mass of storm clouds, breaking them apart, while the sea gentled, and the waves' roar became a sighing song.

 

"I know you are right, Master Elrond, but I can do...things. Things that frighten me. I have a power within that scares me shitless at times."

 

He laughed at her vulgarity, so like a smith, and returned in kind. "My power scares me shitless, too, but I have learned to harness it."

 

"You have? What is your power like? What can you do with it?"

 

"I'll happily answer those questions and many more, but I'd prefer to do so over a glass of wine in your beautiful city, not here."

 

Her hand nudged against his, and he took it.

 

"I am so frightened that I will stray and follow in my father's footsteps." Her voice trailed away in the sea breeze.

 

"Mélamírë, I do not know you well, but even now, I cannot see how you would ever do that. You are unique, just as I am unique. I know you are frightened, and I have no doubt you have a long journey ahead, but I have something to tell you. Before I called to you, before you opened the door and allowed me to join you, I heard the words of the ancient shaman of the Unbegotten, who taught me how to use the medicine. He says the same thing to me every time I enter the blue dream and am ready to follow its strange paths."

 

"What does he say?"

 

"'Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good; if it doesn't, it is of no use. One makes for a joyful journey; as long as you follow it, you are one with it. The other will make you curse your life. One makes you strong; the other weakens you.'

 

"Will you return with me and follow your heart's path, Mélamírë?"

 

She held his hand tightly. "Yes, I shall return with you."

 

The sea and sky dissolved and became a thousand white birds.

 

~*~

 

It took every bit of her strength to open her eyes. Those odd colors still vibrated at the edges of her vision, and she breathed in the marvelous scent that burst into a tapestry of green, silver, and gold leaves. The illusion gradually cleared to allow her to focus on the man who sat beside her bed, holding her hand.

 

She stared at his face, indistinct in their shared dream, but now sharpened to reality. Dark brows called attention to grey eyes flecked with bits of brown and green, edged by brown lashes. A straight nose, large enough to be called strong, balanced a squared jaw line and high cheekbones. And his mouth! The curves of his lips were so sensual, almost feminine, a pleasing contrast with the masculinity of his face. She wondered what those lips would feel like to kiss, and immediately her cheeks felt hot. It must be the medicine giving her these thoughts. Aghast, she could only hope that her illness would quell her blush and that no parts of their minds were still joined, but his smile, with even white teeth, and the fact that she felt that smile, revealed otherwise.

 

"Hello, Mélamírë," he said, squeezing her hand.

 

She returned the squeeze. "Master Elrond." It was all she could do to keep from turning away in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, but I did not expect you to be so...so beautiful!" There. She had blurted it out.

 

His laughter became diamond drops that sparkled across the field of her vision, then evaporated as the world became a little more normal. "Why, thank you! It's not a word I'd apply to myself."

 

"He may not use the word to describe himself, but it's true. It is said he resembles his grandfather, Dior the Fair."

 

Mélamírë mustered a smile and tried to turn her head to the familiar — and beloved — voice. The world swam again. "Mother?"

 

"I am right here, dearheart!" Arms gently encircled her shoulders, cradling her. "I have been so worried."

 

Mélamírë stiffened at Culinen's touch, her resentment not so easily cast aside, but Elrond's words, or rather the words of the ancient shaman, came back to her: to follow the path's heart, and that path meant forgiveness. She sank into her mother's embrace, finding no strength for everything she wished to say to her, but instead, let tears run down her face to dampen her mother's blouse.

---

Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to Ignoble Bard, Drummerwench, Randy O, Scarlet, Oshun, and Russandol for comments and feedback!

The smell of rotting fruit on Mél's breath alludes to the physiological phenomenon of ketosis.

 

Elrond's recollections of his mother flinging herself from the cliff are taken directly from Darth Fingon's fantastic and moving Blood as Warm as a Bird; this is canon as far as I am concerned.

 

Elleth graciously lent me the use of her OC, Estelindë, the healer of the House of Féanáro, and provided the "Elven-Latin" (Quenya) taxonomic classification of fly agaric and Psilocybe cyanescens, e.g. Alcantarwa-hwan píron ("shapeless-mushroom of Flies") and Parnacar luinincë (bare-headed" and "blueish"), respectively, as well as the Primitive Elvish lugnolossê for "blue dream," referring to the bluish spores of the psilocybe mushroom.  Apparently, Elrond's experience with the spider in Flame of the Desert was not the only time he was trippin' balls. Among the effects of psilocybin, aside from the amazing heightened colors, is a sense of time dilation and synaesthesia.  It is known.  ;^)

 

Ambaróma is my best guess for "chest" and "horn" = an early stethoscope, probably similar to that designed by Rene Theophile Hyacinthe Laënnec.

 

Elleth (In the Bleak and Early Morn)  and Randy O (King Stag) have both made use of the hallucinogenic properties of fly agaric in rituals of the Avorrim.

 The italicized text is from The Teachings of Don Danel: A Nandorin Way of Knowledge, a.k.a., The Teachings of Don Juan:  A Yaqui Way of Knowledge by Carlos Castaneda.  Couldn't resist throwing that in there, what with Elrond's applied use of ethnobotany.