The Writhen Pool by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 3: Eagle of Iron

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

Heads up for corporeal punishment of a child and bullying.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 Dance, Little Pig!  Dance!

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Polkincë, m'lady."

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

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

 

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

 

"Oh. Who is your master?"

 

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

 

"Why are there so many?"

 

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

 

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

 

"Yes! Don't you?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

"You may go home, Thorno."

 

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

  

"I can stay longer, m'lady."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Yes, m'lady."

 

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

 

"Hey there, Little Pig!"

 

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

  

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

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

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

  

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

  

"Oh, Thorno! What happened?"

 

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

 

"Thank you, m'lord..."

  

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

  

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

 

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

  

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

  

"We cannot take this, Master Sámaril."

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Why did you go there?"

 

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

 

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

 

Thorno nodded.

  

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

  

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

 

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

  

"What about Da?"

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Uh..."

 

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

  

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

 

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

  

"Thornangor. My name is Thornangor."

 

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

 

"You will not strike him again. Ever."

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

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

 

~*~

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"What's this?"

 

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

  

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

  

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

 

"That would be Thornangor."

 

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

 

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

  

Apprentice? Does he mean me?

 

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

 

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

 

"Twelve, I believe."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

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

 

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

  

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

 

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

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

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

       

 

---

Chapter End Notes

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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