The Writhen Pool by pandemonium_213

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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.  

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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.

 

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Chapter End Notes

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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.