The Writhen Pool by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 8: The Poisons That Lurk in the Mud

Revelations are made in the Sammath Naur and in Ost-in-Edhil. The first scene of this chapter might be considered a sequel to Till Fire Purge All Things New.

Many thanks to Drummerwench, Elfscribe, KyMahalei, Randy O, Russandol, Scarlet, and Spiced Wine for their feedback and encouragment.

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Mairon's knees buckled beneath him, and he fell to the stone floor of the forge, but he took no notice of his scraped skin or the blood that dripped from his wounds. All he saw was blinding light, all he heard was the roar of the mountain, and all he felt was agony as power surged from his mind and body into a simple gold band that encircled his left forefinger.

 

Pain consumed him. Fear threatened to choke him. Had he unleashed something beyond his control? What if the reaction could not be stopped? If the process went awry, all that he was and might ever be would become ensnared within the Ring, leaving behind a shell of a body, and he would remain trapped for eternity in a golden prison.

 

He staved off panic by calculating the differentials that predicted the transfer of his power into the Ring, thus reassuring himself that the pain would end (for surely it must end) when he and the Ring reached equilibrium. If there is any truth in this world of deceit, he thought, it is in mathematics. The exercise calmed him, and his racing heart steadied to beat in time with the sonorous thrum of the fire-mountain.

 

An age passed before the excruciating pain faded from a storm to a mist and then to nothing, save for his throbbing knees. When his vision cleared, Mairon rose to stand. His head reeled, and he reached out to steady himself against the stone pedestal that served as his worktable. Once he regained his bearings, he splayed the fingers of his left hand and examined the Ring, admiring the reflection of the mountain's fires that swirled across its golden surface. More than gold. Also glass, and a precise balance of exceedingly rare elements, the stuff that dying stars had spilled into the vast mansions of Eä billions of years ago, to be captured by the primeval earth, which now belched forth these elements, molded into this small but perfect creation.

 

What once was pain became a vibrant harmony that resonated through the entirety of his being. He shivered with pleasure as something more exquisite than mere physical sensation coursed through him. His strength had returned, but more potent than ever before. Paradoxically, by pouring so much of his power into this beautiful object, he had augmented his native strength rather than weakening it.

 

Mairon looked down at his body, nearly naked, other than a sweat-soaked breechclout wrapped around his hips and between his legs. His furnace, fueled by the mountain's fires, burned hot, more than any other furnace used by Men, Dwarves, or Elves, and he suffered the consequences of inhabiting a vulnerable corporeal form. Red patches of burns covered his chest and forearms. Blisters welled from his fingers, for he could not protect his hands with gloves when he cut the sprue, then polished and engraved the Ring. Its substance hoarded the heat of the earth and remained ferociously hot long after its molten components had solidified. The Ring demanded the intimacy of his bare flesh for these last acts of creation. It demanded sacrifice.

 

He closed his eyes and triggered the healing pathways, and within an instant, faster than ever before, new pink skin replaced burns and blisters, leaving only a perfect circle of a white scar on the palm of his right hand where he had first held the Ring.

 

A golden glow limned the band's edges, its light emitted from the verses of the binding spell he had engraved on its surface. He had begun to sing the spell when he first slipped the Ring onto his finger, but then had been interrupted when the surge of power overwhelmed him. Now that he recovered, he was ready for the final step.

 

He held his left hand aloft, and let his thought flow into his creation, opening all his senses to perceive the companion Rings of Power. One by one, like voices joining a chorus, each ring harmonized with the music of the Master Ring, weaving the thoughts and will of each Ringbearer into its song. Mairon had to calm himself again, not because he was afraid, but because he was overjoyed: after years of labor, he had at last achieved success.

 

He recalled the years of toil alone, of poring over his calculations, of burrowing deep into the mines to seek exotic ores, of the countless experiments that failed. He remained patient, heeding his former master's counsel — not that of Melkor, but of Aulë: For every successful experiment, there are thousands of failures, the Smith of the Valar often said. And now? All had come to fruition.

 

He exulted as each new voice joined the hymn of the One. Sixteen Rings of Power borne by sixteen elvish smiths and loremasters. Sixteen conduits for his will. Sixteen voices awaiting the command of the Master Ring.

 

He cleared his throat, preparing to sing the spell that would bind all the Rings of Power to his will when another theme joined the One Ring's hymn: a voice like that of a cataract rushing down the mountainside. Then he perceived a second voice that roared like a great fire. And last: the howling of the wind, the strongest of all.

 

Mairon was stunned to silence and dropped his arm to his side, staring blankly at the fiery chasm before him. Three new Rings! Who…?

 

He reached out and touched a familiar mind, that of the man whom he had called friend, the brother-of-his-heart. Tyelpo is the Ringmaker! And he is the Ringbearer!

 

Mairon listened intently to each of his colleague's creations — embedded with the eternal forces of fire, water, and air — and he was filled with wonder. These three new Rings were incredibly potent, more so than the rest, and best embodied the arts of preservation that they had all hoped to capture in these artifacts. It was a feat only a Maia of Aulë should have been able to accomplish, yet Tyelpo had managed to do it. He should have expected that his colleague would try it on his own. The curwë of the Rings was just too sweet to resist, and true to form, Tyelpo must have plunged into the task to satisfy his relentless need for invention.

 

Despite himself, Mairon felt a grudging admiration. As a fellow smith, how could he not? Tyelpo's application of the deep arts was nothing less than elegant. Yet when the themes of the Three swelled within the One and overshadowed the other Ring-voices, which retreated to become a dark and unsettled background chorus, jealousy swiftly replaced Mairon's wonder.

 

How dare Tyelperinquar create Rings of Power in his absence, using his methods, his curwë? Had he not taught the elvish smith, assisting him, guiding him in so much? If it weren't for his knowledge, his colleague would never have been able to create the Three Rings. This was nothing less than a betrayal. The mountain's fires surged along with Mairon's growing anger, and the Ring burned against his skin. But a simple realization cut through his rage, and cool, calculating rationality returned.

 

The same curwë. Tyelperinquar's Three are tied to my One.

 

So it was with triumph that he lifted his hand once more and sang the verses of binding. Light blazed from the Ring to illuminate him while the high vaults of the mountain forge retreated into black shadow, and the mountain trembled as he called upon the great harmonies that had been born when Eä winked into existence. Mairon gathered the themes of all the Rings of Power to create a new song within the One, a song of strange beauty but marred by the bitter dissonance of malice and revenge.

 

~*~

 

The numbers and symbols blurred into a grey mass on the wide blackboard. Mélamírë let her arm drop to her side, chalk still clutched in her fingers. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her left hand, but the blurriness remained. She had been working on these calculations since before dawn, so perhaps her eyes were strained. Yes, that must be it. Looking off into the distance might help. She turned away from the blackboard to stare at the pair of windows behind her desk and beyond, to the summer sky, its haziness foreboding thunderstorms to come. She blinked once, twice, then a third time, hard. She rubbed her eyes again. Why was her office so bright? True, the morning had slipped away, and it must be almost noon by now. Perhaps that was why she was having trouble adjusting to the glare, but when the light abruptly swallowed her vision, a spasm of fear shook her body. Her head swam. She ought to sit down and let this spell pass.

 

The straight-backed visitor's chair was closest to her, but she had only taken a single step forward when she crumpled to the floor in agony. Searing pain radiated from the center of her body. Her heart raced, thudding wildly in her chest, and she could not catch her breath. Panic gripped her, but she could not call out for help, for something strangled her.

 

Yet, as quickly as it had come, the awful pain disappeared, and her vision cleared, leaving her shaky and damp with cold, sick sweat. She remained on the floor for a long time, taking deep breaths until she had steadied her heartbeat and cleared all the dizziness from her head. Using the chair for support, she rose to her feet and went to her desk, where she sat down and gulped the rest of the tepid black tea she had poured hours earlier. Perhaps more tea would help her recover from the seizure, for she could not think what else it might be. Such maladies were rare among the Firstborn, but were not unknown. She would tell Mother, who would know how to address it.

 

Mélamírë contemplated her empty mug, its interior stained brown from countless cups of black tea, and decided a brisk walk and fresh air might offer a better solution. She had been sequestered in her office for several days now, wrestling with the mathematics she hoped would predict the behavior of her latest mix of materials. The results of the last experiment — yet another prototype about the size of a berry bowl — yielded a glimmer of hope when cloudy images appeared on the water's surface for a few moments, then evaporated like wisps of steam. At least she knew she was on the right track, but she had yet to solve the problem of instability, hence it was "back to the drawing board," as her father so often said. That entailed more study of the obscure theories behind the Threads of Vairë and the equations that attempted to describe their behavior. Mélamírë had a flair for mathematics, but this work proved to be daunting, and she had yet to find a satisfactory solution. She even resorted to violating Galadriel's conditions by asking her cousin for help, but Tyelpo's eyes widened when he looked at the lacework of equations scrawled across her blackboard. He had shrugged and said, "This is not my purview. You're on your own here."

 

That memory made her smile. She still was not sure whether her cousin actually did not know how to approach the problem or whether he continued to honor Galadriel's stipulation and did not want to step on Mélamírë's toes. To his credit, Tyelpo had been conscious of respecting Mélamírë's need for independent work, yet had been willing to be a sounding board for her. She appreciated him for that, and not for the first time, was relieved that Father was away, for he certainly would have horned in on her work.

 

While she made an attempt to straighten up the papers on her desk, a firm hand rapped sharply at her closed door, not to be ignored.  Before she reached the door, it swung open, and she found herself looking up at her cousin's drawn face. A bolt of alarm shot through her. The ordeal of crafting the Three Rings was well behind him, and he had completely recovered from the toll it took on his mind and body. Or so she thought. Now, his expression recalled the madness she had glimpsed in his eyes during that time. He reached to grasp her upper arm with his right hand.

 

"Come with me," he rasped. "At once."

 

"What? Why 'at once'? What has happened?"

 

His grip on her arm tightened like a vise. "Just do as I say!" He released her when he saw her wince, and she rubbed the sore spot on her arm. She expected to see a bruise there later. He turned to look out into the hallway and called out, "Here, girl! Go to the House of the Heart and summon the Lady Culinen. Tell her she must return to her home immediately."

 

Lárasel, the newest assistant in the House of the Mírëtanor, appeared in the corridor, her green eyes wide from having been commanded by the great Istyar. Mélamírë felt sorry for the child as she stood before Tyelpo, who towered over her.

 

"Yes, my lord," Lárasel said, her voice small, "But what if the Lady says 'No'?"

 

"Oh, stars' blood! Just tell her there has been a fire in her house's kitchen, and she is needed there."

 

Like a scared rabbit, Lárasel scurried down the hall, nearly running into Sámaril who had just turned the corner. As the young smith approached them, Mélamírë saw that his grim face was as pale as Tyelpo's.

 

"Are they all accounted for?" Tyelpo asked.

 

"Yes, but," replied Sámaril. He rolled his eyes like a spooked horse when he glanced at Mélamírë, "Ellendo and Teretion are visiting Casarrondo, and Hrísilmë is on her way to Gwathló Province. We have sent urgent messages to them. They should return soon."

 

"Blast it! Would that we could have them all locked away. And the rest?"

 

"Already secure in the treasury, Istyar."

 

"I suppose that's as good as we can do for now," said Tyelpo. "You may go home then."

 

"If it is permissible, my lord, I'd just as soon stay here and work. It seems more normal somehow."

 

"Very well. But remember! It is imperative that we all keep our own counsel."

 

Before Sámaril could rush away, Mélamírë stayed him with her hand on his arm. "What is wrong? What are you locking in the treasury?"

 

A mix of pity and horror twisted Sámaril's face. "I am sorry, Mélamírë...Master Naryen. I cannot…I just cannot say." He looked to Tyelpo who rescued him with a curt nod. Sámaril fled, while Tyelpo grasped Mélamírë's arm again.

 

"Stop manhandling me!" She slapped away his hand. His bare hand. She did not see the ghostly glimmer of the Three on the fingers of his left hand, where he always wore them, nor on his right. "Where are your Rings? Why have you taken them off?"

 

Her cousin's face contorted with anger and something else…fear. She flinched, for she had never seen him in such a state, but then his expression softened. " I think it is best that you and your mother hear what I must tell you in the privacy of your own home."

 

At once, Mélamírë had a terrible thought. "Is it Father? Has something happened to Father? Please, cousin, you must tell me!" But Tyelperinquar said nothing, so all she could do was match her stride with his as they hurried to the tall rowhouse on Goldsmith Street.

 

Culinen had already arrived and was waiting for them in the parlor, sitting on her favorite chair with the thick wine-colored cushions, and petting Tiberth, the black and white cat, who had taken her accustomed spot on Culinen's lap.

 

"Well, then. No kitchen fire to be seen. The servants were as surprised as I was. I suppose you two have an explanation for this? What are you up to?" Her mother's lips angled into a half-grin, partly annoyed, but partly amused as if she expected to hear of a mischievous jape that pulled her away from her studies. However, her amusement fled when she looked at Tyelpo. "What is wrong?"

 

Tyelpo shut the door then went to each tall window to draw the draperies, shutting out the diffuse summer sunlight.  A single golden lamp on a small side table illuminated the room, and shadows lurked in every corner. Tyelpo made to sit in what had been her father's favored chair, but stopped, and pulled up a smaller, less comfortable chair to sit in front of them.

 

"I am not even sure how to begin, how to say this. I know you do not speak of these freely, but you are both well aware our great work, the Rings of Power."

 

"Of course, and we have always been discreet," said Culinen. Mélamírë simply nodded, but stared at Tyelpo's bare hands, clasped in front of his knees.

 

Tyelpo took a deep breath. "So you know of the sixteen Rings of Power that were created under Aulendil's guidance, and of the Three, which I alone crafted. But today, I have discovered that another Ring of Power has been made."

 

"Another?" Mélamírë said. "Who made it? Sámaril?" Her father's former apprentice, now one of her closest friends, was the most logical guess, although she thought he had ceased his studies in Ringcraft when Father left Ost-in-Edhil.

 

"No," Tyelpo responded, his bloodshot eyes haunted with fear and uncertainty. "This new Ring was not made here. Somewhere else, although I am not sure exactly where, but I heard the words he sang. They are burned into my memory forever."

 

"What words?" Mélamírë said.

 

It was then her cousin uttered the fateful verses that would resonate for years to come and that would affect the lives of so many. The syntax was oddly familiar, similar to the notes she had discovered tucked away in a drawer of Father's desk. But there was a dark potency in these words, and the shadows deepened in the parlor. Tiberth yowled and leapt from Mother's lap to disappear under the settle.

 

"One Ring to bind them all…" Mélamírë whispered.

 

"Yes. A binding spell. This Master Ring brings the sixteen Rings of Power under his control, and thus if we wield them, all of our intentions, our actions, our thoughts are revealed to him."

 

And who is the Maker of the Master Ring?  That was what she wanted to know, but the prospect of asking that filled Mélamírë with inexplicable dread.  Instead she asked, "What of your Three?"

 

"I made them using the same curwë. They may not be subject to the Master Ring, but I fear they are tied to it."

 

She was not sure how long the silence stretched before she was at last able to pry apart the vise grip of reluctance that kept her from asking the question, as if she did not want to know the answer, "Who is this new Ringmaker?"  She noticed that Mother remained quiet, her eyes focused on her folded hands.

 

"The Ringmaker is no one less than Sauron."

 

"Sauron!" Mélamírë exclaimed. Despite being born long after the War of Wrath, she, like others of her generation, had learned much of Melkor's lieutenant from Istyar Pengolodh's lessons, taught to her when she was a schoolgirl, and more from Lord Celeborn's recounts, which were weightier and more horrifying. "Do you mean to say that he has returned? But how could he know of the Rings of Power? Did he have a spy among the Brotherhood? Have you sent word to Father of this threat?" She realized she was babbling.

 

"May Nienna have mercy on you, child!" Tyelpo cried. "Do I have to spell it out? Aulendil is Sauron!"

 

When Mélamírë was half-grown, "old enough to know better," as Father had put it, she and a few friends had ventured out into the winter countryside where they found a frozen pond. Its glassy surface invited them to glide across it. She remembered skidding across the ice, exuberant, laughing and relishing the sensation of speed, until the ice abruptly gave way beneath her. She had plunged into frigid water to be completely immersed in the black winter pond where she stopped breathing, and her heartbeat hovered at the threshold of death. Time itself slowed to a crawl, until Faronel and Indilwen at last managed to drag her out of the water, her chest burning as she sucked in cold air. Now, just as it had then, a wall of ice separated her from the rest of the world. Her heart beat sluggishly, and her thoughts thickened into a fog of denial and disbelief.

 

Aulendil is Sauron!

 

Like a rose blooming in the Sun, memories of her childhood unfolded in her mind's eye. How Father taught her to tie a fishing fly, gave her miniature versions of a smith's hammer and tongs, his enthusiasm when he taught her about the stately dance of the constellations or of the ancient origins of a fossil embedded in stone. She remembered his comfort when she had frightening dreams, and his lullabies that soothed her back to sleep. She remembered him cajoling her to toddle toward him when she took her first steps.

 

Yet there was rot in the core of the rose. Other memories surfaced, memories that mocked her: You should have known. You should have known. When he Changed into a wolf and Changed back again. His insistence that she keep his strange abilities a secret. The way he struck fear into a band of orcs. His profound distaste for the tales of Lúthien. The white scars on his neck, curved as if fangs — a hound's fangs — had torn his flesh.  The elusive but persistent darkness she perceived in his thoughts.  The way he spoke of Morgoth — with dread, but also with admiration.

 

Then she felt herself being lifted up toward the stars that glittered in a vast midnight sky. She cried, recognizing her own mewling as a newborn. She squirmed against the swaddling blanket, fearful that she would fall. Below her, she heard a familiar voice: "Do you see, Master?" she heard the voice say. "Do you see what I have done? I have accomplished what you never could: I have created life." Then the stars retreated when she was drawn against solid warmth where the steady beat of a heart calmed her cries. Silver-grey eyes gazed at her, and long, callused fingers stroked her cheek. "My little jewel. I will teach you, I will mold you. I promise. When the time is right, you shall sit at my right hand, just as I sat at Melkor's, but you shall serve me out of love, not fear."

 

She had known. From only hours after her birth, she had known, for he told her who he was, when she was a tiny baby whose mind had yet to reach full coherence and truly grasp what he revealed. The memory had been there all along, but buried so deeply that it had never emerged until now.

 

She wanted to sink deeper into the cold water until her heart stopped, to end the pain of this awful realization, but her cousin's words shattered the wall of ice.

 

"You knew. You knew who he was." But he did not look at her, but at Culinen, who twisted her hands in her lap.

 

"Yes, I knew," Mother replied, quiet but firm.

 

"How long?"

 

"Soon after we married. I knew he was a Fay. He told me as much when he asked me to marry him, but I only knew then that he was one of Aulë's servants, or so he said. It was later that I perceived the darkness within his true being. When he dreamed, he muttered in his sleep, and he said things that led to my guess. When I asked him, he did not deny it. Indeed, he confirmed it."

 

"By the stars, why, Culinen? Why didn't you say anything?"

 

Mother's voice wavered. "Because I loved him, Tyelpo. May Eru help me, I still do. I wanted to protect him. I thought I could change him, and I thought he had changed, for me, for Mélamírë."

 

Her cousin cried out again, leaping from his chair. "Aulë save me from the foolishness of women! How could you be so blind? If you had only…"

 

Mother's retort was full of fire. "As if you did not guess he was a Maia of Aulë? I do not think you are as naïve as you claim, cousin!"

 

Their recriminations flared into a conflagration as only those of the House of Fëanáro could set ablaze. Mélamírë might as well have been a chair or the settle for as much attention they paid her. That did not matter because all she could hear were Mother's words, repeating over and over:

 

Yes, I knew…I thought I could change him…

 

There it was. The truth. Her mother had known who her husband was, almost from the beginning of their marriage and nonetheless remained with this monster who had wrecked havoc among the Firstborn and the Followers, who, as Morgoth's henchman, had slain so many of their people. She had even willingly let him beget a child on her. Mélamírë stared at her hands. A child who is half a monster. Father's deceit of the smiths, of the people of Eregion, and of his friends was bad enough, but he had deceived her, too. His love had been a lie. She was no more nor less an instrument to him than his smith's tools or a Ring of Power. And now she knew Mother had lied, too.

 

The lies emerged like poisons hatched from the mud at the bottom of a stagnant pool, and before her yawned the black pit of truth.  All she needed to do was step over the edge to end all the lies, to end the terrible pain.

 

She left the cries of dismay behind her when she fled from the house, out into the street, and beyond, past the gates of the city.

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

The title and the line in the next to last paragraph are a nod to the Emperor Claudius' words in BBC's rendition of Robert Graves' classic — I, Claudius, "Old King Log": "Let all the poisons that lurk in the mud...hatch out!"

A few professional artists and any number of fan artists have interpreted Sauron's forging of the One Ring, but my hands-down favorite is "The Forging of the One Ring" by Alan Lee.  This provided a bit of inspiration.