The Writhen Pool by pandemonium_213

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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.

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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.