The Writhen Pool by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 4: A Scent of Distant Lands

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"May I ask you something?"

 

"Of course."

 

"It is very bold."

 

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

 

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

 

"What? Kiss you?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

I will give her something to remember.

 

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

 

"What do you think now?"

 

"That was nice, but. . ."

 

"But?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

~*~

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"How is your dear mother?"

 

"She is well and sends her warmest regards."

 

"Is she still making her forays into Minhiriath?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"When do you expect him to return?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

~*~

 

 

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

 

My dearest Culinen,

 

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

 

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

 

"Half-a-moment, Khamîr!"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Good. I want their full attention for this.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Bring her to me."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Yes, sir."

 

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

 

---

Chapter End Notes

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

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

Éothéod - horse-people

 

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

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