The Writhen Pool by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 5: The Laws of Eä

Meanwhile, back in Mithlond, Erestor brings reports to King Ereinion and Elrond of a mysterious and troubling new project among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.  Ereinion attempts to recruit a talented smith excluded from the project, and disturbing rumors of a powerful warlord stirring up rebellion in the South make their way North.

Thank you a thousand times over to those who provided valuable feedback in the development of this chapter (you know who you are ;^)).  More acknowledgments are provided in End Notes.  A special thanks to Russandol for allowing me to borrow her concept of the ESS*.

*Elrond's Secret Service. Heh.

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The lizard perched on an oak branch anchored to an iron plate, still as a statue, basking in the warmth of the sunlight that streamed through the arched, multi-paned windows of the King's study. Erestor's skin crawled at the sight of the creature, made all the worse when it stuck out its bulging pink tongue to taste the air. Why Ereinion was so taken with these scaly beasts was beyond him. The lizard appeared comfortable, which was more than he could claim, sitting in a hard, straight-backed chair. Elrond, on the other hand, was perfectly at ease. The King, seated at his desk, a massive thing of burled black walnut inlaid with swirls of rosewood, tapped his lips with the tip of his pen while he ruminated on Erestor's recount of his most recent visit to Ost-in Edhil.

 

Ereinion grumbled. "Very convenient that Istyar Annatar — "

 

"Aulendil." Erestor said. It was daring, to correct the King like this, but he could no more resist pointing out an inaccuracy than he could stop his heart. "He is known as Istyar Aulendil among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain."

 

Ereinion waved his hand dismissively. "Annatar. Aulendil. Why is it I suspect neither is his true name? So once again, he was away from the city the entire time you were there?"

 

I have told him that twice already. Isn't he listening?

 

"Yes, your Majesty. As I said."

 

"Off in Tharbad or Lond Daer?"

 

"Lond Daer, this time, or so said Tyelperinquar and confirmed by Lady Culinen."

 

Elrond's brows furrowed, just for a moment, when Erestor mentioned Aulendil's wife, who had been Elrond's longtime friend. There's a sore spot there, Erestor thought. Their estrangement still stings him.

 

"He spends an inordinate amount of time with the Númenóreans," said Ereinion, who seemed to forget how often he feted the visiting nobles of Númenorë since they had first reappeared on these shores. "But tell me, exactly what did you learn? Surely you gleaned something from this latest visit?"

 

"I did, and it may be of some significance. A major project has been initiated in the House of the Mírdain. Not that such projects are uncommon, but what is unusual about this one is how tight-lipped the smiths are about it."

 

"That is not so surprising," Elrond replied. "Smiths often keep their ideas to themselves."

 

"Yes, but this time, they seemed especially conscious of it. Tyelperinquar barely told me a thing, unusual for him, as he loves to discuss his work. He changed the subject when I was finally able to badger him into sharing a glass of wine."

 

"What? No grand dinner party? He's famous for those, from what I understand," said the King.

 

"No dinner party or salon. He ceased hosting those quite some time ago. Too damned busy, he claims." Erestor, too, regretted this change. He had relished those salons, where he trotted out his wit. The progressive sophisticates of Ost-in-Edhil appreciated his barbs more than the society of Mithlond did, with its odd mix of Sindarin traditionalism and Falathren mysticism, spiked with a dash of Noldorin sensibilities of a more conservative nature.

 

"What of Culinen?" Elrond asked. "Did she offer anything?"

 

"No, she is too wrapped up in her own studies to pay much attention to the inner workings of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, unless they concern her own interests."

 

"Did you ask her of Anna—," the King paused and drawled, eyeing Erestor as he did, "Did you ask her of Aulendil?"

 

"Yes, but she guards his privacy ferociously."

 

"Then from whom did you learn of this project?" Ereinion's tone took sharp edge.

 

"From Master Naryen and her colleagues."

 

"Ah, your young friend, the master smith! Do go on."

 

Once again, Erestor felt a twinge of guilt when the King remarked on his friendship with Mélamírë. When he had first met her at Tyelpo's salon ten years ago, they had gotten on well, and afterward, struck up a correspondence. At times, Erestor wondered if Mélamírë harbored a crush on him, even if she was well aware of its futility. It was possible, he supposed, but she did not seem a starry-eyed maiden who would fixate on an unrequited love. So he accepted her letters with affection and was glad to have a young friend with a lively mind – and a friend who revealed a good deal between the lines, perhaps more than she imagined.

 

From her letters, Erestor had gained at least a modicum of knowledge of what transpired among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, not to mention news of her father's activities, but much later, he came to realize she was carefully telling him of events in Ost-in-Edhil without truly revealing secrets. It seemed to him that she yearned to speak to openly with a trusted friend, but for whatever reason, she was guarded.

 

Ereinion lifted his hand and made a beckoning motion with his fingers, a reminder that Erestor ought to continue. "After she finished her day's labor in the forges," he said, "she invited me to accompany her to a popular tavern with the outlandish name of 'The Rusty Ale' where she and her colleagues often take supper and drink. Four Dwarven-smiths visiting from Casarrondo joined us."

 

Erestor had felt like an ancient among them. He bore the brunt of their laughter when he discovered one of the Dwarves, a dainty fellow with a wispy, honey-brown beard, if dainty was an appropriate word for one of their kind, was actually a young woman. He felt like an idiot, for he prided himself in his attention to details, but here, they slipped his notice. He saved himself by self-deprecation and ingratiating flattery: "I am a fool of an Elf," he had said to the Dwarf-maid. "I should have known by your silky beard and lovely eyes." Such ludicrous sentiment, but the Dwarf-woman's cheeks blushed above her beard.

 

"We had a fair enough supper," he continued, "and quite a lot of brown ale, the stuff favored by the Dwarves, and therefore also favored by the younger elvish smiths, who tend to ape the Casari."

 

"As long as none of our young folk have taken to sporting false beards, you know, chin wigs and the like, I suppose there's no harm in that."

 

Erestor chuckled, as did Elrond, their obligatory acknowledgment of the King's humor. He hoped his laughter did not sound too forced. Such hairy props were used among the mummers and entertainers of Mithlond when Dwarves and Men were depicted, often in a bawdy fashion.

 

"Not a chin wig to be seen, your Majesty. The Dwarves left early, as they planned to leave at dawn the next morning to return to their mansions beneath the mountains. Once they departed, the ale loosened the smiths' tongues.

 

"Two of the young men, Sámaril and Teretion, apprenticed to Aulendil and Tyelperinquar, are among those selected to work on the project with their mentors. They made reference to the new work, taking care to disguise the particulars, but despite these efforts, their enthusiasm was obvious. They peppered their talk with many arcane terms that they likely assumed I would not understand."

 

"And were they wrong in such assumptions?"

 

"When I was a youth in Tirion, I studied enough physical law and phenomena at the Academy of Natural Philosophy to grasp the overall gist of their talk, but I did not let on. Just bought them more pints of ale and let them prattle away.

 

"What I learned is this: the mysterious project has something to do with a means of slowing the ravages of time. The smiths aim to create an environment much like that of Valinor."

 

Elrond's composure snapped.  "Slow the ravages of time? That is not the first time I have heard this mentioned."

 

Ereinion leaned forward, resting his elbows in the desk. "Yes, that is familiar. For Erestor's benefit, refresh my memory."

 

"Recall when we first encountered Annatar? When the fishermen dragged him out of the sea?"

 

Ereinion nodded, encouraging Elrond to continue.

 

"He told me of the deep arts of Aman, those he learned under the tutelage of Aulë, how he intended to use these for the healing of the injuries inflicted on Middle-earth by Morgoth Bauglir. Among the arts he mentioned was preservation, a means of warding off decay. He said something to the effect that the River of Time cannot be halted anywhere, even in the Blessed Lands, but its currents can be slowed, even diverted. That is how he put it."

 

The king knotted his dark brows into a familiar glower.  "So those smiths are dabbling in the deep arts? What in the name of the stinking stars are they up to?"

 

With that, Ereinion launched into a familiar rant against the advanced curwë of Eregion, and once again, Erestor was tempted to rattle off the number of civic improvements he had seen — and enjoyed — during his visits to Ost-in-Edhil, all the result of the work of the smiths, and to be honest, the combined minds of Tyelpo and Istyar Aulendil.

 

The plumbing for one thing. Water flowed through the great aqueduct from the Misty Mountains to fill the fountains and wells of the city, providing water for public and private baths, to carry waste through the sewage system, and to power machines for the mills and the forges. He recalled the sweet taste of the water that came from the mountain snowmelt, quite unlike the brackish groundwater here in Lindon.

 

He was also tempted to remind Ereinion of the creature comforts he enjoyed in his palace, and that these were the result of smiths who had been educated in Ost-in-Edhil and returned to Mithlond, bringing new knowledge with them. Not least was the heating system for Ereinion's greenhouse, where he grew lettuces and other vegetables throughout the winter, not only for his own table, but also to feed his succession of pet lizards, gifted to him by the Númenórean ship-lords.

 

Erestor glanced at the lizard again. Creepy things. Like miniature versions of Glaurung, but without the fire. Ereinion was obsessed with them, just as he was obsessed with the legend of Caranthir's treasure horde, said to be hidden in a secret vault somewhere in the Ered Luin. Every few years, the King himself would set off on an expedition to search for the treasure, based on wispy clues and rumors that never bore fruit. Then there was the King's fixation on the black lobsters.

 

Erestor had to grin at the recollection of last summer's Feast of the Black Lobster when Ereinion crowned a fisherman as the Lobster King, and a fishlass as the Oyster Queen. The King was as much at ease with the common folk of the Falathrim as he was with the Sindarin and Noldorin nobility, and his subjects loved him for it. No doubt he was a fine ruler with a keen mind and an acumen for politics who was without peer, but he was nothing if not eccentric. "We Finwëans are all a little mad," as Ereinion was wont to say.

 

The King, once he gave voice to his distrust of the deep arts, became calm again. "Wipe that grin off your face, Erestor! I know what you think of my opinions on these matters. I like to think I am an educated man. Do I not study the stars and the motions of the heavenly wanderers? Have I not developed a more precise chart of tides?

 

"I admit, there is much to be said about this idea of preservation, as much as we — the Firstborn — struggle with the decay around us in this mortal world.  But I must say this curwë from Aman worries me. Perhaps it is because I was not born there. Still, it is clear that the Valar have knowledge beyond our ken, which should remain so. There are simply things we are not meant to know. What do you think, Erestor? Of the three of us, you are the only man Aman-born."

 

"Yes, I can see the benefits of preservation, great benefits actually, but I am concerned, too, your Majesty."

 

"What did Master Naryen have to say? She surely must be engaged in this secret endeavor."

 

"She is not, your Majesty."

 

"What?"

 

"She has been excluded from the project. After the evening at the Rusty Ale, I walked Master Naryen back to her home, and asked her of the project, if she could tell me more of it. She said she could not, and that she had not been among those chosen to work on it. She tried to make light of it, but it was obvious throughout the evening that this exclusion has rankled her. But she did tell me of another effort in which she is engaged, and she seemed genuinely excited about it."

 

"And this effort would be?"

 

"The Lady of Lindórinand has commissioned her to craft a scrying device."

 

"A scrying device? Stars' blood!"

 

The lizard startled at Ereinion's outburst, slashing its tail like a whip. Erestor jumped, too, but immediately regained his composure, hoping that Elrond had not noticed this aberration in the otherwise cool and calm demeanor he cultivated. Ereinion rose from his chair and went over to the lizard, scratching its dewlap. The thing calmed and closed its eyes in bliss while Erestor's skin crawled again.

 

"Don't mistake me," Ereinion said. "I dearly love my cousin and respect her, but a scrying device is just what Galadriel does not need. She's able to probe deeply enough into our affairs without it. As for Master Naryen, if Aulendil and Tyelperinquar are foolish enough to cast aside a talented smith, I am more than happy to bring her here. Write to her, tell her I will offer her a generous stipend, apprentices, a loftier title…"

 

"Very well, your Majesty," Erestor and Elrond replied in unison.

 

"Then do just that. You may both leave now."

 

The King picked up a wooden bowl filled with lettuce leaves, ambled toward the lizard, and offered a treat to his pet. The fleshy pink tongue emerged again to snatch a leaf from Ereinion's fingers. Erestor suppressed a shudder and left the study with Elrond.

 

Later, when they met in Elrond's office, Elrond reflected on Ereinion's command: "It looks like he's determined to have his own pet Fëanorian smith under his wing. He's never gotten over Tyelpo's desertion. I expect the King also assumes that as a woman, Master Naryen will be more malleable to his whims."

 

Erestor laughed aloud at that. Elrond responded, after his own laughter had died down, "Right. If she's anything like her mother, 'malleable' does not quite describe the girl."

 

"No, it does not."

 

"Go ahead and write to her as the King wishes," Elrond said, "and we'll see how this proposal is met. However, I would not offer her any encouragement of your own to come here. It would seem that you have a fair source of information in Master Naryen. Do not jeopardize it."

 

Erestor did as the King commanded and silently acknowledged Elrond's advice. His dual role as the King's Master of Accounts and as the second to Elrond, who headed the Security of the Realm often put him into such positions: one public and rather staid, and the other far more secretive, and at times, his tasks were at cross-purposes. It was a precarious balance that he found troubling and invigorating at once.

 

Nonetheless, if he were honest with himself, he knew that he was well suited to both roles. He loved analysis and order, so overseeing the accounts of the kingdom brought him no small degree of satisfaction, even if the work was dry at times. He also loved to collect information, like a jackdaw collects shiny trinkets, because one never knew when such tidbits might be useful. As a keen observer with the ability to pluck subtle clues from divergent sources, he was able to fit seemingly unrelated pieces of a puzzle to form a cohesive whole, and he knew when to keep his mouth shut, characteristics that made him eminently suitable as Elrond's second. So, as much as he enjoyed the young smith's friendship, she was, in the end, a source of information.

 

Her initial response to Ereinion's overture, which arrived about three months after Erestor drafted the first letter, indicated mild interest when she asked about increased compensation (reminding Erestor that she was indeed Caranthir's granddaughter) and how much authority she would be allowed in directing her work. After consulting with the King, Erestor responded with what Ereinion hoped was an improved offer.

 

Spring and summer passed before a short note from Tyelperinquar was delivered in early autumn, asking Ereinion why he was attempting to lure one of his best smiths away from the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and didn't he have enough with the five already in residence? Shortly thereafter, a letter from Istyar Aulendil arrived, addressed directly to Erestor, rather than the King, indicating that the great smith was well aware of Erestor's friendship with his daughter. The words were polite, even pleasant, but the message was clear: cease and desist this recruitment.

 

Ereinion's response to Aulendil's letter was emphatic. "By Bauglir the Black's cold blood! How dare he bypass me? I shall write to her myself. Find more in the accounts, Erestor! Her stipend must be increased. She has her own mind, does she not? She does not walk in lockstep with the Istyari?"

 

"Yes, she is of independent mind, your Majesty, but…"

 

Erestor had declined to remark on a small detail throughout this recruitment: the presence of Sartanor, one of the smiths in Ereinion's court, and once Mélamírë's lover. She had not elaborated, but apparently, the affair ended badly. Perhaps she did not wish to work alongside the man. No doubt the King would find a way to edge Sartanor out if it came to that, but at this point, Erestor saw no need to put the fellow out of his position.

 

"No 'but's'. I shall make her an offer she cannot refuse. See that it is sent straight away before the winter mud sullies the roads of Minhiriath."

 

The King, however, was thwarted. In the end, what stopped the efforts entirely was not a letter from Aulendil or Tyelperinquar, but from Galadriel. Her missive arrived not long after Ereinion sent the offer that was not to be refused.

 

I do not wish to see this young woman further removed from Lindórinand. She requires access to the rich minerals of Casarrondo, not to mention the skills afforded by the Dwarvish smiths who reside there, smiths who are far more skilled than the Dwarves of the Ered Luin.

 

Furthermore, I am loath to put yet more distance between her and me, not to mention the fact that Celeborn, who stubbornly remains in the city, provides me with reports on her progress and general well being, and he does so in a more timely manner than you ever could. Thus I ask you to forego what Tyelperinquar deems — accurately, I think — as 'poaching."

 

After reading his cousin's command, thinly disguised as a request, Ereinion leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk, and rubbed his eyes with the beringed fingers of his right hand, then looked up with bloodshot eyes at Erestor and Elrond. Perhaps he was feeling the effects of all the wine that flowed last night at an elaborate dinner, held in honor of Lord Erelluntë, a visiting Númenórean nobleman and owner of a profitable fleet of ships that plied their trade along the coasts of Middle-earth.

 

"Do you two have no more to tell me?"

 

Erestor had nothing more to say, and neither did Elrond.

 

"Then you may as well leave. Send in Cúronel. I have a bloody headache I cannot seem to shake and need some of her vile willow bark tea."

 

~*~

 

The sun-years turned, and the seasons passed in Mithlond: springs with the first flush of color on the budding trees that gave hope amidst the grey rains that pounded the coast; summers of sunlight, golden on the harbor's waters, and a time of festivals; autumns when the oak trees on the hills above the sea turned bronze; and the cold wet damp of winter, when storms crashed against the seawalls while the citizens of Mithlond huddled warm and snug in their homes, the fishermen repairing their nets and the gentlefolk pursuing their arts and lore.

 

During those years, reports from Erestor and Elrond's agents, Firstborn and mortal alike, trickled in from distant lands. Dark rumors increased: of raids by orcs on Mannish settlements between the Anduin and the Misty Mountains; and in the East, invading tribes encroached on the territories stretching from Rhûn south to Umbar. Villages were sacked, men killed, and women and children were taken as slaves — if they survived the attacks.

 

The reports from the Council of Eregion dwindled. The information provided in them, when they did arrive, was to the point, but never more than necessary, until one such report, all of a single page, sent the King into a tirade.

 

"Ridiculous!" Ereinion blurted. "What is that Council about? Do they forget who is High King? They are too bloody independent! I ought to tax them into obedience."

 

Erestor opened his mouth to remind the King that Eregion was an independent realm, and therefore not subject to such taxation, but Elrond's sidelong glance silenced him. Yes, best to let their liege lord get this out of his system, so he stood quietly alongside Elrond while Ereinion paced around his study, from hearth to windows and back again, expounding all the while on the many aggravations of Ost-in-Edhil's council. This was hardly the first time Erestor and Elrond had been subject to his rants about Eregion. Such was the price for being trusted counselors and confidantes. Ereinion had been appalled when Tyelperinquar pushed Galadriel out of power and was convinced that Aulendil was behind it, which, to Erestor's knowledge, was an accurate assessment.

 

"Have either of you ferreted out any more information from your contacts among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain?"

 

"Nothing definitive, my lord," Elrond said.

 

"Annatar — or Istyar Aulendil — whatever he calls himself…he has not yet returned?"

 

"No, my lord. He has not."

 

"Well, that's something at least," Ereinion said. "His influence on the Gwaith-i-Mírdain is pernicious."

 

In addition to the scant reports from the Council of Eregion, Tyelperinquar, who once wrote engaging personal notes to Erestor, recalling their friendship during the Rebellion when they were young men, really no more than boys, had gone silent. However, Mélamírë's letters still arrived on Erestor's desk, and he wrote to her in turn, although the frequency of their correspondence had diminished with each passing year.

 

Most of her letters were of minor consequence, telling him of some adventure in the Halls of the Dwarves, sharing gossip that circulated among Ost-in-Edhil' society (he especially enjoyed these tidbits, which were as entertaining as they were useful) or sharing a jape she thought he might appreciate (sometimes he did, and at other times, he rolled his eyes), but some were more personal when she expressed what troubled her. Aulendil's departure proved hard on his family, and Culinen had descended into a dark mood:

 

She gets like this at times. I can only hope she snaps out of it soon. I think a recent letter from Father caused her unease, but she would not tell me what he wrote. Not that I would expect her to do so, because there are things only a husband and wife should share. Whatever he wrote agitated her so I can only wonder what it was.

 

Nonetheless, I think this time apart will be, all in all, good for them. I have told you about their arguments. They have always been hardheaded with one another and fought over the most ridiculous things, but my father's moods became increasingly dark. He no longer rebounded from them as he had before, and this was very hard on Mother. As far as I could tell, they parted with love and with the hope that a separation would allow the wounds they have inflicted on one another to heal, but every day, I see how difficult it is for her and for whatever reason, it is worse now.

 

Mélamírë went on to write about her father, who was struck with a wanderlust that made him intent on traveling to the farthest reaches of the East and then to the South, after which he intended to return to Ost-in-Edhil with new knowledge gained from the ancient civilizations in those distant lands. Erestor felt no small degree of envy when he read of Aulendil's plans. When Fëanáro had whipped the Noldor into a frenzy, many of the younger folk, Erestor among them, latched onto the romantic notion of exploring the vast Outer Lands.

 

That had not happened. Thanks to the dreadful wars with Morgoth, such adventuring was curtailed, and now, during this time of relative peace, he found himself so entangled in bureaucracy as the Master of the Accounts and the demands as Elrond's second that he never seemed to find an excuse to pull himself away. He longed to take the place of his agents, who were sent off to the further reaches of Ereinion's kingdom and beyond its borders, but Elrond would not allow it. "Too risky," Elrond said time and time again. "I cannot afford to lose you to a calamity in a foreign land. You better serve the Realm here."

 

Erestor accepted his lot, but that did not mean he did not chafe in his dual role as master of accounts and master of spies. He supposed it was a moot point anyway, because he loathed sailing on the Sea, thanks to the horrific crossing in the stolen swan ships.

 

However, a letter from Mélamírë arrived in the summer of 1594 that alarmed him enough to call Elrond and Ereinion's attention to it immediately. In the letter, she expressed her concern over Tyelperinquar, who, in the time since Aulendil had departed, had immersed himself in a project of which he would speak to no one.

 

I am very worried about Cousin Tyelpo. He has become increasingly eccentric and reclusive. I know I told you that he holed himself up in his workshop some time ago. Whatever it is he is working on consumes him.

 

Erestor suspected she had a good idea as to the general manner of his work, but knew she would not risk rendering it in ink.

 

He locks the door so that no one may enter. He has become gaunt, and frankly, he stinks. When he does emerge from his workshop, he wanders through the countryside. Folk have said he stares at the rolling waters at the rivers' confluence, and he sings to the wind and sky, night and day. Many now call him fey, and I cannot disagree with their sentiments.

 

The most disturbing incident occurred last week. I stopped at his home to speak with his servants and inquire of his welfare, and much to my surprise, I found him there. I caught him kneeling before his hearth, where he reached into the fire, chanting some verse or other, while he immersed his hand into the flames. He jerked his hand away, as you might expect, but I had to drag him to Mother so she could tend to his injury. When I pressed him as to what he was doing, he became angry with me. Later, Mother told me that he has many scars from recent burns on his hands and arms.

 

As you see, I have no small cause for concern. I wish Father were here to help, but he is not, and Mother and I cannot seem to reach Tyelpo. You are his dear friend, Erestor. Perhaps you could come to the city and speak to him? I am sorry I did not tell you of this sooner. I hope you can forgive me.

 

"You must go to Ost-in-Edhil at once," Ereinion ordered. Yet, by the time Erestor arrived, he found Tyelperinquar in high spirits. Although he was thin and his cheeks still sunken, his color was good, and his appetite had returned with a vengeance. Whatever this project was, he had completed it.

 

"I shall reveal all in good time," Tyelpo said with a self-satisfied smile during that pleasant autumn evening at supper, served out on the colonnaded porch of his home with Mélamírë and Culinen both in attendance. "Actually, I'd like to surprise Aulendil with my results, so perhaps I'll wait for his return. Until then, you will all just have to remain in suspense. But I will say this: my devices shall be a great boon to our people."

 

Once again, Erestor left Ost-in-Edhil, and returned to Mithlond, more troubled than he had ever been. He prided himself in his learning, and he had always embraced the pursuit of knowledge and craft, but there was something about the mysterious project of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain that genuinely frightened him. That it took such a toll on Tyelpo was alarming. From all he had been able to piece together, it seemed that Tyelperinquar and Aulendil were tapping into the forces of Eä in some manner and linking them with the human mind to create a powerful — and potentially dangerous — kind of magic.

 

A storm from the West rolled across Eriador during the last day's ride of his journey back to Mithlond, and Erestor was cold and wet when he arrived in the city after sundown. He hoped to have a hot bath, hot food, and to fall into his warm featherbed, but almost as soon as his horse stepped through the open gates of the keep, he was summoned to report directly to Ereinion.

 

Elrond was already there in the King's private audience chamber, standing by the granite hearth, his arm resting on the edge of the great oaken mantelpiece, carved in the shapes of ships, waves, and fantastical sea creatures. By a trick of the firelight, the waves looked as though they were surging. The unintentional symbolism of Elrond — Eärendil's son — taking his ease by leaning against the motifs of the Sea was not lost on Erestor.

 

The King, on the other hand, sprawled in his favorite chair, padded with brocaded cushions. He was clad in a dressing gown of silk as deep blue as a clear midnight sky. Tiny stars of silver thread dappled the long lapels and cuffs, further lending to the heavenly effect. Ereinion wore his hair loose, brushed so thoroughly by his manservant that his locks gleamed like a black waterfall. No lizard was to be seen. Erestor wondered if it was elsewhere or if it had died. The King raised his hand and beckoned Erestor to come forward.

 

"Pour yourself some brandy and take a seat." He nodded toward the sideboard where glasses and a decanter of amber liquid rested. "I want to hear everything."

 

Erestor did as commanded, and settled himself onto the hard chair offered to him. At least the brandy's warmth was some consolation. He told his tale to the King and Elrond for a good long while. By the time he had finished, his belly growled audibly, and his back ached.

 

The King ran his forefinger up and down the right side of his jaw — a telltale sign that he was rifling through his formidable store of knowledge — while he stared into the flames of the cheerful fire. "I cannot help but think this secretive work of Gwaith-i-Mírdain is part of a greater puzzle. I suppose time will tell, and Celebrimbor will get his chance to crow over his achievement. In the meantime, there is another matter, and perhaps a more pressing one." He pulled his gaze away from the fire and looked directly at Erestor, who remained standing. "Two days ago, The Silver Stag came to port."

 

"The Númenórean merchant ship?" Erestor asked, recalling that the vessel, one of Lord Erelluntë's fleet, had docked a few times previously in the harbor of Mithlond.

 

"The same. They have come from Umbar, and Captain Falleran brought yet more disquieting information to me."

 

"What isn't disquieting about Umbar and the South?"

 

Thanks to his contacts among the Númenórean merchants and military, Erestor was aware of the hodge-podge of tiny fiefdoms, some no larger than a village and its surrounding acres, that paid tribute to Umbar, the southern haven burgeoning in influence and population since the arrival of the exiled Númenórean princesses — Quildelótë and Lornalótë — almost four hundred years ago. Beyond the coastal lands, wild tribes roamed a vast desert that acted as a barrier between the West and the far lands of the East.

 

"True enough, but Captain Falleran says yet more folk have settled in the land they call Nurn, and there are now far-ranging raids to capture slaves, who are taken there to dig trenches and lay pipes for irrigation and who work the fields of that land. Further to the north of the inland sea, our good captain says, a sleeping fire-mountain has awakened, sending forth choking fumes, and sometimes raining ash upon the fields of the South. It may be that Aulë merely flexes his muscles, but among the more superstitious, the fire-mountain's fumes are considered a portent of doom."

 

The King paused, returning his gaze to the fire. "There is wide-spread rebellion among the holdings once allied with Umbar, and now someone unites the desert tribes, a warlord of some sort, Falleran says. That this warlord rallies the desert warriors under one banner has the Judges and the oligarchs of Umbar worried. Apart, these tribes are of little threat to Umbar, but united? That is a different matter entirely."

 

Ereinion then rose from his chair and went to the window where he opened the glass panes and stared out into the cold night where clouds scudded across the face of the Moon. Erestor shivered a little at the cold air that rushed into the chamber. The wind came from the northwest tonight, a harbinger of winter. He longed even more for a hot bath and hot food. The King turned around, looking at both Elrond and Erestor in turn.

 

"You may wonder at my concern, for there has always been turmoil in those lands. The stars know that the Judges and the oligarchs have their hands full reining in those unruly folk. But of late, there seems to be a stronger sense of purpose behind the unrest, and this purpose coincides with the rumors of this warlord. It is said that he richly rewards those loyal to him, but those who speak against him? They meet terrible ends. He is said to be a master of cruelty."

 

The King then looked at Elrond for a long moment before returning those deep blue eyes, so much like Fingon's, to Erestor. "I know that you think me mad when I say that I have long foreseen an encroaching darkness, the sense that something evil again stirs in the world. But it's stronger now, and there's something about this warlord who reunites the tribes that troubles me deeply. Falleran suspects this man is behind the slave raids and the increased migrations to the land of Nurn. I cannot say exactly why I have this feeling of dread, but I don't like it. For this reason — and the security of the kingdom — we must know more. These troubles may seem distant, but a loosened pebble in one place may cause an avalanche elsewhere, especially if this warlord continues to consolidate power and turns his conquests toward the West.

 

"So, I want you to do what you must to gain more information. We must be prepared for…well, for what, I am not altogether sure, but I am hoping your agents might inform us."

 

Erestor sat forward in his chair, at attention. "I will speak to the Captain of The Silver Stag straight away and see if we might employ a few Men of his crew…"

 

"No, not Men," Ereinion interjected. "I want you to choose from your most trusted agents among our own folk, and send them South on the next ship."

 

And that was that. For all Ereinion's glad-handing of the Númenóreans and claiming them as distant kindred, he did not wish to trust this mission to the Followers, although he was more than willing to trade with them and make use of their ships. When the next Númenórean merchant ship pulled into port, Ballain and Helevair, two men who had wandered long in the company of the ever-restless Gildor — men who spoke less, listened more, and who observed keenly — boarded the vessel and set off for the South.

 

~*~

 

That had been five years ago. For all Erestor knew, Ballain and Helevair were dead by some strange fate in a distant land. He reached across his desk to lift a shiny silver ball, one of five identical spheres suspended on strings between two small metal beams, anchored in a platform of polished wood. He released it, and the ball swung in a perfect arc to strike its fellow. Unseen force shot through the spheres and was released in the fifth ball that swung out in an identical arc to the first, then returned and struck the central spheres once more, sending the ball at the opposite end out in an arc again. So it continued, this exercise in the Laws of Eä. Erestor found the rhythmic motion of the balls to be soothing — rising and striking, rising and striking — until the arcs subsided and the toy sat quiescent.

 

Once again, he lifted the silver ball and set the cradle into motion.

Fëanáro's cradle, Tyelpo called the toy, which he had crafted specifically for Erestor, given to him during his last visit to Ost-in-Edhil. How like the great smith to craft a device solely to demonstrate an abstract principle, a demonstration of the conservation of momentum and energy. Say whatever you will about Fëanáro, he thought, but he was an excellent teacher.

 

Tyelpo's replica was surely as precise as Fëanáro's original, and like his grandfather, he probed ever deeper into the inner, unseen forces of the world, until he wrestled with the fundamental Laws of Eä. And that, thought Erestor, was a very dangerous business.

 

He reached for a ceramic mug, embellished with the lozenge of Gil-galad's court. He had set it off to the side of his desk, placed such that an errant movement would not send its contents spilling over papers and scrolls. The rose hips tea that touched his lips was now tepid. He was heartily sick of the stuff. 

I would kill for an orange.

 

He could only hope that a trade ship from the South might arrive soon, bearing citrus fruits, or better yet, bearing Ballain and Helevair and the information that he — and the King — so craved. For a moment, he indulged in wistful nostalgia, as he remembered the oranges, lemons, limes, and grapefruits in the markets of Tirion, piled high in the green grocers' stalls: the bright colors of the fruit, and how he, as a child, rammed his thumbs through the rinds to get at the succulent flesh within, releasing a fresh and bitter scent, and how the sweet, tart juice of oranges ran down his chin when he bit into the fruit. An image of his mother in their kitchen came to mind: she wore her favorite linen apron, trimmed with lace and tiny purple violets embroidered along its edges; strands of her brown hair had worked loose from her braids. She smiled at him as she and Léramë, the family servant, squeezed lemons to make lemonade.

 

The memory was enough to make his mouth water and mist his eyes, just a little. He sent a silent prayer to the West, to the Halls of Mandos, telling his mother that he loved her. He gulped down the last swallow of tea. In these cold climes of Middle-earth, the Firstborn made do with concoctions made from rose hips: "A cup a day keeps fading at bay" was an old saw repeated by many mothers and healers alike. No doubt his mother would have said the same, had she survived the crossing of the sea through the punishing storms.

 

The first breath of the morning sea breeze — bracing and redolent of brine — puffed through the window facing his desk. A single piece of paper fluttered from his letter bin and took wing to sail to the floor where it landed on the wool rug. Erestor rose from his desk chair to pick up Mélamírë's most recent letter that had arrived almost a month ago. He returned to his chair, smoothing the paper flat on the surface of his desk, and re-read one paragraph in particular.

 

You asked when I thought my father might return. Unfortunately, I cannot answer you, for I do not know myself. We received a letter from him recently. When he wrote it, I cannot say exactly, but he sent it from the South. He seems to like it there a great deal, as he has been there for a good while now, and he writes how warm and sunny it is. He often tells us of lemon groves and an inland sea. It all sounds wonderful, and I must admit, it sparks a desire in me to see these distant lands for myself.

 

An inland sea. The Istyar surely would have heard of the mysterious warlord. Erestor considered for a moment if there was a remote possibility that, through his friendship with Mélamírë, he might contact the Istyar directly. No point in it though. He could guess how the Istyar would receive such an overture, and even if he did receive a response, he knew he would question the truth of anything the Istyar might tell him. Elrond's words of caution were engraved in Erestor's trove of information:

 

I do not believe Aulendil is who he says he is. He is holding back. Concealing something.

 

Erestor folded the letter and leaned forward to return it to the stack in the bin, placing a glass paperweight on top to foil the damp breeze that eddied through the window. He prepared to tally the inventories from the fishermen of the north coast when he heard the distant call of a horn from the one of the twin watchtowers that flanked the entrance to the harbor. He listened, waiting for the answering call of the harbormaster, and there it was — two peals from a silver horn, the signal that a merchant vessel approached. Setting aside the report, he pushed back from the desk, and left the inventories behind. Even if Ballain and Helevair were not on this ship, there might be oranges aboard. 

---

Chapter End Notes

One of the best things about Tolkien fandom is cross-fertilization of fanon ideas, and I am of the (strong) opinion that it is important to acknowledge these sources of inspiration whenever possible.  So, with that in mind…

A sweeping tip of the black villainous hat to Russandol for her visions of Lindon and the stirrings of trouble in the South and East during the Second Age in the amazing Chasing Mirages, a novel that I recommend highly.  I'm not a 'shipping kind of writer, but if I were to pick a OTP, it would be Eönwë/Mairon, hands down, thanks to Russa's fabulous tale.  

Likewise, a big thank you to SurgicalSteel for her vision of Umbar (reflective of ancient Carthage of our primary world). Steel gave names, faces, and fates to Tar-Ancalimë's two granddaughters (and Tar-Súrion's elder sisters). Quildelótë and Lornalótë appear in the following:  Fate and The Far Side of the World.

Ereinion's love of lizards (iguanas) and black lobsters take inspiration from the erstwhile Darth Fingon. A little nod to kimberleighe's Gil-Galad is given, i.e., his knowledge of the stars and heavenly wanderers.  The King had a good teacher in Kim's wonderful OFC, Idhreniel.

Per usual, my ficcery is interconnected.  For the benefit of those new to my insanely expanding 'verse who might be reading this (although I think it unlikely that The Writhen Pool will attract new readers), one of Celebrimbor's salons that found Erestor in attendance is in A Fragile Chalice. Elrond's misgivings about Annatar's identity are treated more fully in Driftwood.

Finally, in the interest of making these absurdly long end notes even longer, the copious ingestion of rose hips tea and craving for citrus fruits among the Firstborn have a biological basis, consistent with the strong consideration given to science (as extrapolated in a speculative sense) in my 'verse.  A component of Pandë!verse Elven physiology that contributes to their extremely long lifespan is the enhanced and efficient repair of oxidatively damaged proteins and nucleic acids.  As a result of this trait, the Firstborn require higher amounts of Vitamin C and other antioxidants in their diet compared with their mortal counterparts.