The Writhen Pool by pandemonium_213

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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.

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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.

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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.