The Writhen Pool by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 10: In the Bright Light of Morning

Summary:  The morning after arriving in Ost-in-Edhil, Elrond and Erestor each suffer from the aches and pains of the long road from Mithlond as well as from other sources.

Acknowledgements in End Notes.

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Erestor awoke to pain. He half-raised himself with his elbows, but the screaming demon behind his eyes thrust him back. Defeated, he turned over onto his belly and buried his face in the soft pillow that cradled his head. His muscles, even his bones, were battle-sore. Whether days of hard riding at breakneck pace or last night's grappling caused his aches, he could not be sure. Probably both. He ran his left hand over the smooth fabric that covered the empty space beside him, sliding his fingers over cool, finely woven cotton from the South, such a contrast to the more commonplace linen of his bed back in Mithlond.

 

Slowly, he subdued the searing headache into a dull throb and dared to open one eye. Sunlight slashed through the gaps between the curtains surrounding the bed. It must be nearly mid-morning. Wrinkling his nose, he sniffed mingled odors, so intoxicating last night, but now fermenting into what threatened to become a reek. He ought to rise and wash, but he could not bring himself to leave his dim sanctuary just yet.

 

Not all of his pain was unpleasant. His arsehole still burned faintly, and the skin between his cheeks was sticky, crusted with Tyelpo's spunk, a reminder of last night's desperate intensity, like nothing he had ever experienced with his longtime friend and sometimes lover.

 

He and Tyelpo had never been gentle with one another, except perhaps when they were young during those first tentative encounters aboard Curufin's ship as it raced across the black northern sea to Middle-earth. Tucked away in the dark hold, they sought comfort with one another, two frightened boys, not quite men, who had run up against the harsh consequences of idealism that had torn them away from their homes, away from the familiar, and away from family and friends whom they might never see again.  Tyelpo lost his mother to what could be an irrevocable separation, but the cold sea took Erestor's mother.   It was shortly after her drowning that Erestor sought out Tyelpo and those first soft touches.  Once they became more practiced, and their bodies and minds hardened with maturity, each wrestled for dominance. It became a game for them, always thrilling, to see who would be the conqueror or the conquered.

 

Yet last night had been different than any night previous. He closed his eyes again, remembering. He and Elrond had barely passed the city gates and dismounted from their tired horses when they were separated from their party and escorted in haste to Tyelperinquar's stately home. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Tyelpo grasped his forearm so firmly that the smith's powerful hand left faint bruises on his skin, the first of the evening. He leaned over and whispered a demand in Erestor's ear: "Come to me later." Tyelpo then hustled off Elrond to his study, leaving him standing in the entryway.

 

After drinking too much brandy alone in his chambers, Erestor had crept through the narrow corridor that discreetly joined the guest quarters with the master of the house's rooms and was waiting in this bed when Tyelpo opened the door during the deepest hours of the night. He had thrown himself upon Erestor immediately.

 

Erestor had tried to match his ferocity, returning kisses that devoured, sinking his teeth into the smith's exposed neck to taste the salt of sweat and blood. He gripped those broad shoulders then seized the smith's arse with iron-force. Legs entangled and muscles straining, they wrestled until he flipped Tyelpo over on his back, then pulled his lips back to rake the edges of his teeth across the skin of his lover's cock while the smith dug his nails into his scalp. Yet he did not best Tyelperinquar, who at last pinned him prone on his belly, then took him, pummeling him, while Erestor, his hand nearly trapped, managed to jerk himself off.

 

Afterward, the tenderness came when Tyelpo, slick with sweat, lay on top of him and kissed the nape of his neck. "Thank you," he whispered. Then, a ragged breath, not quite a sob: "I am so sorry!"

 

He rolled off him, but Erestor, who turned over at last, pulled him into his arms. From the moment he had laid eyes upon Tyelpo after arriving in Ost-in-Edhil, he sensed the grief and anger churning within his friend. That fury had just spent itself on him, leaving behind the exhausted man in his embrace.

 

"It's all right, old friend." He smoothed Tyelpo's damp hair. "Tell me."

 

He did, and the black night softened to pre-dawn grey by the time Tyelpo finished.

 

"The worst of it all is how he duped me. It burns me day after day, moment by moment. I am an intelligent man, Erestor."

 

"You've never been one for false modesty."

 

Tyelpo chuckled, a grim rumble against Erestor's chest. "No point in it. I pride myself in my skepticism. And yet he fooled me. Me, of all people!"

 

"He fooled many others."

 

"Not Elrond. Not Ereinion."

 

"You must be fair to yourself. They did not know. No one did."

 

"You're wrong."

 

Despite the combined heat from their bodies, a chill ran through Erestor, and he tensed. "What? Who knew?"

 

"Culinen. She has known for years, even before Mélamírë was born."

 

"Manwë's rod! And she never said anything this whole time? Why?"

 

"She was protecting him. My fool of a cousin thought she had tamed Ñorthus."

 

Erestor's mind raced as he tried to fit this new piece to the puzzle. Culinen's loyalty to her own people must be questioned now, and that would entail an uncomfortable conversation, but one he knew he must undertake.

 

Yes, foolish. How might things have changed had Culinen revealed her husband's dangerous secret? And yet, who was he to judge her? He had once done foolish things for love, like following a scion of the House of Fëanáro over docks drenched in Telerin and Noldorin blood, including that of his father, to board a ship lurching in a wave-tossed harbor.

 

"You should be more charitable. Love makes brilliant people do stupid things."

 

"Not just love. Pride, too. She took pride in her delusion that she thought she had reformed him. That's as much of a curse for my family as the blasted Oath. It's a curse that has manifested in Aulendil's — no, Sauron's — betrayal of us, and it is a curse that is now killing that poor girl."

 

"How is she?"

 

"On death's doorstep, barely holding on."

 

"But she still lives. She must be grasping at life for a reason."

 

"Maybe." Tyelpo rolled away and raised his head above Erestor to look down on him. "You know that I will never have a child of my own."

 

Erestor ran his fingers along Tyelpo's jaw, its angles inherited from Curufin but softened by the round chin from Térenel, his mother. "You're not the marrying kind."

 

"You're right, but it's not just that. Even if I were, I would not wish the Oath visited on any child of mine, but Culinen? Women harbor desires that overshadow any oath. Mélamírë is as close to a daughter as I will ever know. I do not want to lose her to Mandos."

 

"If anyone can reach her, Elrond can."

 

"I hope you are right. Now let's try to catch a little sleep. I will be gone when you awaken, but I will summon you later. Good night, old friend." He rolled over on his side, inviting Erestor to nestle his body against him.

 

Tyelpo, as he had said, was gone when he awoke, but the memories of last night, both somber and passionate, made Erestor's morning erection painfully hard. He stroked himself, but his skin was still chapped from rough play, so he sat up and pushed aside the draperies. The bright light of morning made him wince, and half-blinded, he groped for the bottle of almond oil that Tyelpo kept on the bedside table, which, thankfully, his friend had the presence of mind to use last night, or his ass would have been in real pain this morning. When Erestor grasped the bottle, its flared bottom nudged the crystal paperweight beside it, knocking it off the edge of the table.

 

"Bloody stars!"

 

However, the sound of shattering glass did not follow, just a dull thud when the crystal smacked the carpet covering the wooden floor.

 

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and bent down to pick up the crystal, about the size of a goose egg. He turned it over in his hands, searching for the smallest chip, but could find none in the glass that encased an infinity loop of braided hair.

 

Erestor held the crystal steady and examined the coarse intermingled grey and brown hair, then raised his eyes to stare at the stoppered bottle of oil with its robust lines and the swirling patterns of red and gold enamel: Dwarvish art, not Elvish. He carefully replaced the crystal that held Tyelpo's keepsake — the braided hairs of his long-dead friend's beard. Not only his friend. His lover.

 

Erestor fixed his gaze on the open door of the small corridor that led back to the guest quarters. How many times had Narvi crept through that passage? How many times had he grappled with Tyelpo? Had the great Dwarven-smith been in love with him? No doubt, but Narvi's time on this earth was finite, so he might not have truly comprehended Tyelpo's predilections, mistaking the Elven-smith's intense curiosity for love. Erestor learned that painful lesson long ago: Tyelpo was more inclined to be interested in another rather than loving him or her. Even his cow-eyed mooning over Artanis had been driven by sheer inquisitiveness and the desire to pick her formidable brain, that is, until a brilliant and by all accounts handsome (if the Casari could be called such) Dwarf-man had stepped into the sunlight from beneath the shadows of the Misty Mountains, shortly after the city of Ost-in-Edhil was founded.

 

Erestor had never met the Dwarf. He found plenty of reasons not to visit the Elven city during the two hundred years after Narvi and Tyelpo met and became fast friends while the Dwarves and the Elves enriched one another, raising Ost-in-Edhil to new heights and creating mansions of wonder beneath the mountains.

 

After Narvi died, Tyelpo had cut these hairs from his friend's beard, braided them, and then entombed the loop in this crystal. When Erestor first held it, he could not bring himself to ask about its contents, now trapped forever in glass, but that did not keep Tyelpo from volunteering.

 

"Reminds me of how good his beard felt against me. Very interesting, you know, the texture of a Dwarf-beard. You really ought to try a Dwarf some time."

 

Thus Narvi had been reduced to a fascinating novelty, one of Tyelpo's many interests. Erestor placed the crystal next to the bottle, a gift from the Dwarf to the elven-smith. He looked down at himself, wilted to flaccidity. He may as well go bathe now and face whatever this day would bring.

 

 

~*~

 

Elrond traced the whorls and striations in the grain of the ceiling panels, summoning his will to sit up in this comfortable bed, upon which, by all rights, he should have slept soundly after the hard journey from Lindon to Eregion. Instead, he had tossed and turned all night, kept awake by his body's aches and his mind's turmoil. Not that he would have slept long. The disturbing conversation with Celebrimbor had not ended until late last night.

 

He rolled over on his side and stared at the open window, where lacework curtains billowed in the early morning breeze, crisp with the approach of autumn. Songbirds, whose sleepy chirps began during the grey hour before sunrise, were in full chorus now.

 

May as well get up.

 

He threw off the quilts and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The chilly air raised gooseflesh on his naked skin as he padded across the rug to the water closet where he relieved himself in the stone latrine, then poured water from a ceramic pitcher into the basin on the washstand. Sucking his breath, he plunged his face into the water. He held his face under as long as he was able, splashing cold water over his neck, and then emerged, shaking his head. He plucked the woolen dressing gown from its hook and wrapped it around himself before he returning to the bedchamber.

 

These bright and airy quarters must have belonged to Culinen, who had lived here with her cousin until she married. He saw her taste everywhere, from the creamy marble counters of the bird's eye maple furniture to the bed with its headboard and posts carved in eccentric designs of vining flowers, grasses, bees, butterflies and beetles. His eyes were drawn to a large painting that hung above the fireplace, its somber style contrasting sharply with the rest of the large room.

 

A brooding sky glowered above a dark lake with a gloomy forest of pines and firs lining its shore. A single column of sunlight broke through the clouds to illuminate a castle that stood proud by the water. Beyond, Mount Rerir, rising high among the peaks of the Ered Luin, watched over all. The artist had rendered a grand vision of Culinen's ancestral home in the manner favored by those painters who survived the cataclysm of Beleriand and the years of privation afterward, a style that exaggerated the darkness and sorrow of the First Age while it glorified the great deeds and realms of the Noldorin Exiles.

 

The castle and its lands around it must not have been entirely dreary, based on Culinen's tales of her childhood, when she and her brother, Mornilin, who had been slain along with Carnistir in Doriath, played by the shores of Lake Helevorn, collecting rocks, bugs, and clamshells. Culinen had not been present to greet him last night when they arrived, but Celebrimbor extended a curt welcome on her behalf before he pulled him away for what the smith deemed the greater matter at hand.

 

He went to a window to look out over the neighborhood around Celebrimbor's home. The morning sun burnished the red-tiled roofs of houses and shops, their jumble of angles balanced by rounded domes of tin, copper, bronze, and glass. Towers jutted skywards amidst the other buildings. To his left, the tallest of these, the Elemminas, reached high, as if striving to stroke morning's pink-edged clouds, but to his right, the sun set aflame towers of a type far more ancient than any built by Elves or Men: a cluster of tree-tops shimmered green and gold in the breeze, their leaves just starting to change as the turning of the seasons approached. In their midst, a single beech rose above all to challenge the Elemminas. Celeborn's garden grove had grown considerably since Elrond last visited Ost-in-Edhil, back in the years when Galadriel ruled the city, and long before Annatar had arrived. In the distance, the snowfields of the Hithaeglir gleamed.

 

Below him, folk on the streets called "good morning" to one another. Most voices belonged to the Firstborn, speaking in the rolling cadence characteristic of Eregion, but he also heard the stone timbre of Dwarves along with their bulky footsteps. Then the rapid patter of small feet and the lilt of children singing on their way to school nearly made his heart break. He rarely heard the few children who dwelt in Mithlond, but in Ost-in-Edhil, there were many families with youngsters. Wheels rumbled on cobblestones, dogs barked, and cocks crowed. The city was fully awake, and it was time for him to set about preparing for today's work.

 

He stooped to pick up the hinged leather bag he had carried with him from Mithlond, opened it, and inspected the collection of vials, jars, bottles, and sacks within. He must have bought a good third of the inventory from that apothecary in Tharbad. He had to smile, recalling the surprised look on the chymist's face when he and Erestor walked past the threshold. Some of the medicines he procured would be useful, but others were not much better than quackery. No matter. He already had what he thought he would need for treatment of Culinen's daughter. However, he well knew that those who watched him and his party would report of his purchases, and that information would make its way through a tangled web of spies to Sauron. All the better to inform the Enemy that the Herald of Gil-galad's sole purpose in Ost-in-Edhil was that of a healer.

 

From a side pocket of the satchel, he pulled out a letter, its seal long broken. The writing was in Culinen's hand, a plea for his help in healing her ailing daughter, who, she wrote, had fallen into a deep melancholia and seemed bent on starving herself to death. His heart ached for his friend.

 

He would have heeded Culinen's request, regardless of the second letter delivered by the same exhausted courier, who had spoken a password that opened a hidden compartment of the steel cylinder bearing his messages. The second letter was from Tyelperinquar and addressed to the King. Elrond delivered the message to Ereinion, whom he found in his study, fussing over that ridiculous lizard on its oak-branch perch. After reading the letter, the king thrust the paper toward him.

 

"You and Erestor are to leave at once for Ost-in-Edhil."

 

"That is my plan, your Excellency. The Lady Culinen writes that her daughter is in a dire state."

 

"Yes, well, there is that, but there is another matter of import at hand, one that Celebrimbor has requested. Read it."

 

Elrond scanned past the lengthy greeting to the king demanded by protocol and read the first of the smith's dark words:

 

If you are reading this, then my courier has arrived safely and had no need to destroy this message to you, had he been captured.

 

I have been in counsel with the Lady Galadriel, who believes you might benefit from artifacts I have created and that I shall pass to you for safekeeping. She advises that you must keep the knowledge of these gifts to yourself and those whom we can trust, namely Círdan, Elrond, and Erestor. I am in complete agreement with her suggestion. We know his eyes have turned to Ost-in-Edhil, and we feel it is imperative that my creations are kept out of his grasp.

 

To that end, I request that you send Masters Elrond and Erestor to collect these gifts. You must not come here yourself. I am certain he has spies watching the comings and goings from Eregion, perhaps even spies within the city, whom I am hoping Erestor might ferret out. Your kingly presence would only serve to arouse his suspicion that something is afoot. Mélamírë's illness is as plausible an excuse as any to send Elrond and Erestor for this mission and should provide an excellent cover. Ensure that Elrond makes a show of this, for I believe rumor of her illness will trouble Gorthaur, and he will thus be distracted from the more critical matter at hand.

 

Those last words galled Elrond. Whatever these gifts were, Celebrimbor appeared to put them above his own kinswoman's life.

 

He refolded the master smith's letter and handed it back to the king, who then tossed it into the hearth where the paper blackened and curled in upon itself, reduced to ash in moments.

 

"We can be off at morning's first light," Elrond had said, knowing he would not sleep that night.

 

"Very good."

 

"Do we have any inkling of what these gifts actually are? And if they are dangerous?"

 

"Not their exact nature, no, just what Erestor has told us so far, that they are a means for preservation and that Celebrimbor believes they will be a boon for our people. As for their danger? I think they are powerful, whatever they are, and power always has the potential to be perilous. However, if Galadriel counsels Celebrimbor to give these things to us, then I think we should heed their request. I may not trust him, but I do trust her. As for the other matter, do you think you can do it? Cure that poor girl?"

 

"I shall have to examine her, but based on what Culinen has said, I have a measure of hope that I can."

 

"I am confident you will. After all, you've also a bit of the Fay in you, so no doubt you'll use some of that Maiarin witchcraft to reach her."

 

"It's hardly witchcraft…your Grace."

 

Gil-galad sniffed. "Tomato, to-mah-to," he said, affecting what he deemed to be a clever Númenórean expression he had acquired recently. "You and Erestor may as well stay through the winter. Returning here at breakneck speed would also arouse Sauron's suspicions."

 

"All winter?"

 

"Sorry to make you stay there for so long. The winters are ghastly in Eregion, but I hear the food is good, the wine is fine, and the boys are pretty. Erestor ought to enjoy himself. At any rate, find out what Celebrimbor is up to and receive these gifts, whatever they are, and whenever he is ready to give them to you. In the meantime, see to it that the girl's healed and well on her way to recovery, then return in the spring."

 

It had taken more than a month of hard travel from Mithlond to reach Ost-in-Edhil, and the aches and pains of the road gnawed at his bones.  "Nothing that a long soak in a hot bath won't cure," Erestor had said the night before last, when they caught sight of the white beacon of the Elemminas.   Such a soak would have been welcome, but Elrond did not have a chance.  Celebrimbor had whisked him away before he had any hope of bathing.  He refolded Culinen's letter and tucked it away in the satchel.

 

After last night's converse with Celebrimbor, he now knew of the Rings of Power, and how, with his intimate knowledge of the Rings' curwë, Sauron had forged a Master Ring to bind them all to his will, all except the Three. The master smith, usually in possession of a disarmingly affable kind of hubris, was plainly worried and spoke with humility, or perhaps humiliation. Elrond learned of the Rings' purpose: tools for the best and brightest of the Eregion Firstborn to create an immortal land like Valinor and to further elevate themselves among the peoples of Middle-earth.

 

On the one hand, the arrogance of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and their desire to set themselves above and apart from the Avorrim and mortals, particularly Men, repulsed him in a deeply personal way, but on the other, he, like many of the Firstborn, grieved at the swift passing of years and longed for a means to slow the ravages of time and decay. Apparently, Celebrimbor's three rings would allow this. How precisely the Ruling Ring would affect the Three was anyone's guess, and so due caution must be exercised. As for the full nature and capabilities of the Three, Celebrimbor counseled Elrond to be patient, although he gave no reason for his delaying their revelation to him.  The master smith had, however, advised him of discretion.

 

"The Lady Culinen knows nothing of our plans for the disposition of the Three," Celebrimbor said, "And it should remain so. Nor should her daughter become aware of them, if she revives."

 

"You do not trust her? I cannot think that she would…"

 

Frowning, Celebrimbor interrupted him. "I do trust her, yet I do not. Elrond, she has known the truth about Aulendil for years now and said nothing."

 

It was a stunning revelation, and taken at face value, he had to allow that her silence seemed to make her complicit with Annatar's scheming, but Elrond knew there was more to it. He withheld his judgment, and just listened to Celebrimbor.

 

"She is devastated that he has betrayed us — betrayed her — but I think you can understand why we cannot take the risk of revealing too much. You are here to heal her daughter. She needn't know more than that."

 

He made a few more adjustments to the contents of his bag, ensuring that the many jars and vials were secure, and closed it. The sooner he examined the ailing young woman the better. He had been ready to examine her last night, but Celebrimbor conveyed Culinen's wish that he should rest first. It was not only a considerate gesture on her part, but also pragmatic, showing a fellow healer's awareness of the strength required for tending to grave injuries or illness. Unfortunately, he had been unable to take that rest, although he felt fit enough on nervous energy alone.

 

He dressed quickly, sliding his feet into slim, leather shoes that felt wonderfully light after wearing boots for many days of travel. After adjusting the strap of his medicine bag on his shoulder, he stepped out onto the gallery. The faint voices of the household servants carried up from the interior courtyard below, but here on the fourth floor, all was silent. Elrond looked across the space toward the opposite gallery to see that the guest quarters' door was shut. Erestor, no doubt, was still asleep.

 

Good for him, thought Elrond. I wish I had been so fortunate.

 

He took no time to admire the paintings and tapestries that lined each gallery nor the statuary placed at each landing as he made his way down the stone stairs. His hand had just touched the lever of the front door when a voice stayed him.

 

"My lord Elrond!"

 

Elrond stopped at the call of Celebrimbor's chief manservant. He vaguely remembered the butler, once a boy from a village in North Lindon, who had lofty aspirations to become a smith and who followed Celebrimbor here. Apparently, his ambitions in the smithy did not materialize, but he had found a place of more domestic importance here.

 

"Good morning..." Elrond searched for the man's name.

 

"Thamlad at your service," he said, aping Dwarvish custom as many Elves here in Ost-in-Edhil did. "You did not ring for your breakfast, my lord."

 

"No, I did not. I am in a bit of a rush."

 

"Lord Celebrimbor expressly instructed us to see that you took refreshment before you left this morning, and he said you would need directions to Istyar Aulendil's home."

 

The servant's respectful reference to the Enemy's abode startled Elrond, who reminded himself that there was no reason for Thamlad — or many others — to know any different, and that it was best that he did not know. "The directions I could use, yes, but I must forego breakfast."

 

Thamlad's agreeable expression became determined. "Lord Celebrimbor was very specific that you should eat. He said you would protest, but I am to remind you that you had a long, hard journey."

 

Elrond resisted clenching his jaw. How like Celebrimbor to insist on what he felt others should do. "The Lady Culinen awaits me."

 

"Yes, my lord. I know. It will not take long. The food is already prepared. My lord said to remind you that you shall need your strength and should take sustenance."

 

"It seems that your master knows my needs better than I do."

 

Then the beguiling odor of bacon wafted from the kitchen, and Elrond's angry badger of a belly betrayed him when it growled audibly.  Thamlad's thin lips curled into a smug smile. "It would seem so."

 

Resigned both to the butler and his appetite, Elrond set his bag on the side table in the entryway and followed Thamlad to the dining hall where he was seated alone. In short order, a maid brought out a plate of eggs, rashers of bacon, toasted bread, and a pot of steaming black tea with a small pitcher of hot milk.

 

Elrond dug into the hot food, thoroughly welcome after the sparse fare of the road, relieved only twice: once at a cozy inn near Sarn Ford and again at a guesthouse in Tharbad. He was halfway through the eggs when he heard footsteps slowly descending the stairs. The footsteps, as Elrond quickly surmised, belonged to Erestor, clad in clean grey leggings and a pine-green tunic, his damp hair drawn back into a single plait. He entered the dining hall, walking as if on eggshells. When he pulled the chair opposite Elrond away from the table, he winced at the grating noise it made as it scraped across the wooden floor. He lowered himself carefully into the chair and pressed his fingers against his temples, his eyes squeezed shut.

 

The maid came into the dining room and chirped, "Would my lord like eggs and bacon?"

 

Elrond could have sworn that Erestor's pallor took on a greenish tinge. Without opening his eyes, he croaked, "Just coffee with cream, thank you."

 

"Rough night?"

 

Erestor opened one eye to glare balefully at Elrond. "You might say that."

 

The last that Elrond had seen of Erestor last night was when Celebrimbor grabbed his arm and leaned over to whisper in his ear. It then occurred to Elrond that Erestor likely did not sleep in the guest quarters last night. He was aware that Celebrimbor and Erestor had known one another for a long time, since they were boys in Aman before the Darkening. However, Erestor, as expected of a man of his station, was discreet about his predilections, and Elrond, also as befitting his standing, knew that one did not pry into another man's private activities.

 

The maid returned with the coffee for Erestor, poured it into a fine porcelain cup, embellished in gold leaf with the Star of Fëanor, as were the plates. After gulping down the first cup, Erestor visibly brightened. He replenished the coffee, sipping it more slowly this time, and after placing the cup back on its saucer, he reached across the table to snitch a thick slice of toast from Elrond's bread plate.

 

"You could ask for your own," Elrond said while Erestor crunched into the still warm bread.

 

"You weren't eating it. Besides, I expect you will want to be on your way soon."

 

"I shall."

 

"Give me half a moment, and I will take you there." Erestor lifted another piece of toast, and this time slathered butter and raspberry jam on it.

 

"You know where their home is?"

 

"Yes, I have been there on a number of occasions when I visited the city," he said between bites and swallows. "Before we knew."

 

While Elrond considered that the revelation of the Ruling Ring and the identity of its maker had already become a historical milestone — before we knew and after — Erestor shoved the remainder of the toast in his mouth, pushed himself back from the table, and stood. "Are you ready?"

 

Elrond drained the remaining tea from the cup. "As ready as I shall ever be. Lead on."

 

He and Erestor stepped outside into the bright morning and went on their way to the tall house on Goldsmith Street.

 

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Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to Scarlet, Russandol, Drummerwench, Ignoble Bard, Elfscribe, Chaotic Binky, Oshun, and Randy O for comments and feedback.

There's some fannish cross-pollination here with Oshun's Ulmo's Palace inspiring the idea of Erestor's being on the same ship as Celebrimbor (and some sparks there) and Dawn Felagund's By the Light of Roses , which inspired the name of Curufin's wife.