The Merchant of Valinor by Tehta

Come what may, where others see trouble, I see opportunity. A sudden darkness might seem terrifying, but even unlight has a silver lining–if you’ll excuse my awful metaphor; I am a merchant, not a scribe.

“Lamps!” I cried as I walked the gloomy streets of Tirion. “Morgoth-proof, insect-repellent, all-natural oil lamps!”

And the Noldor hurried to buy my wares, jewels and trinkets in hand.

Ungoliant does not frighten me, any more than any of the Valar do; I know that I, a lowly Telerin merchant, am far below all their notice. Nevertheless, I took great care as I crept about Ezellohar, my trusty whale-bone dagger in hand, and hacked at the Spider Queen’s excretions wherever I could find them. Gathering enough of the gossamer fibres to fill my peddler’s cart took many hours, but I am certain it was worth the work! 

Webs such as these, strong and light-repelling, must surely be of interest to scholars and craftsmen alike. Eventually, when they have recovered from the shock, they will all clamour to purchase my hard-won stock of this wondrous material.

As I beheld the remains–the corpses–of the Two Trees, I was struck by the historical importance of what had just occurred. Life in Valinor will never be the same. Doubtlessly, souvenirs of the earlier, happier times will soon be in great demand. 

A second trip here was clearly in order, this time with an axe at my belt and my cousin’s timber-cart at my back.

No, no, I cannot possibly follow that madman Feanor, no matter how much trouble–and thus, how much opportunity–he seems likely to cause.

Unless… My cousin will be only too happy to take care of my new store, well-stocked as it currently is. Even if I explain that all I am handing over to her is the Western branch, while I take myself, and the main office, to the East. 

Now I just need to figure out what necessities the Noldor are least likely to pack.

“Under here!” someone shouted, seemingly from under a nearby plank. Nudging it aside, I  wriggled beneath the wood and into a hollow in the sand, joining a pair of terrified lute-players.

Questions raced through my mind, questions like “Will someone find and kill us?” and “If these Feanorians are so smart, why are they so bad at haggling?” and, of course, “Should I have tried to sell better weapons to my people?” Unfortunately, selling worse weapons to the Noldor had never been an option, for they had eschewed my copper and forged their own steel.

Eventually, the sounds of battle faded, and I climbed out, a hollow feeling in my chest.

Chapter End Notes

As I walked around on the beach, dazed by all the death and destruction and waste, I made myself a silent promise. However much effort it took, however much hardship and boredom I had to endure, I would ensure that the attackers of Alqualonde paid for this atrocity – not with their blood, but with all their precious jewels, gadgets, and other riches.

After all, we must each play to our own strengths.

“Excuse me,” said the first person I met on the Swan-ship’s deck, a grim woman with appallingly frizzy hair. “Strangers are not permitted on board, be they Vanya, Noldo, or even Manwë himself.”

“Strangers might be unwelcome, but, I, Cévandil the merchant, am no stranger, only a friend bearing gifts,” I told her as I held out one of my precious vials of hair-oil.

“Enter freely, then, friend,” she said, pocketing it.

Chapter End Notes

Big thanks to Shihali for helping me with the name! Cévandil means "friend of the new/fresh" (by which I mean something like entepreneur) and works in both Telerin and Quenya, even if the pronounciation is slightly different. (I do see Cévandil as fluently multilingual and being able to code-switch as needed.)

Everything is gone: my cart, my bulk goods, the supplies I hoped to obtain, the ships we sailed on. Spirit of fire, they call their leader, but I name him spirit of wastefulness, for we could have used most of what he burnt, if not to sail further, then to construct our first dwellings.

Still, scarcity fosters demand, I tell myself, and demand can be very good for business. Even if all I have left is this single backpack full of spices, cosmetics, and mind-altering substances, that is more than most of the others possess; I can make this work.

Parchment and quills–the Grey-elves sold such things cheaply, and I would offer them for free to the pitiful host of Fingolfin. All I asked in return was that the recipients of my charity try to write some tales worth reading, and not too full of grief, nostalgia, or other forms of sadness. Rousing tales were the best. My bored Fëanárian neighbours would barter for them eagerly, and their surplus food and clothing would delight my half-starved, bedraggled authors.

Anyway, before you accuse me of showing kindness to my sworn enemies, answer me this: what else was I supposed to do while the leaderless Fëanárians lingered at the lakeshore, trade with the Orcs in the hills?

Quills proved useful again a year later, when Findekáno Fingolfinion visited our shore, bearing our maimed ‘king’ and an unlikely tale of a heroic Manwë-assisted rescue. Unlikely, but plausible, given that he had flown in atop a giant Eagle; and so, he was believed, and an Eagle-mania soon engulfed the camp. Everyone was clamouring for eagle-themed products, such as statues and jewellery, and yes, eagle quills.

Sadly, few of the feathers I had collected at the landing site were of sufficient quality, and the ones the Orcs sometimes offered in barter were even more bedraggled. So, I had to improvise: waterbird feathers, carefully decorated with fabric-dyes, looked, if anything, more splendid than the real thing. Even Findekáno, who really should have known better, purchased three.

“You speak the language of the Orcs?” the red-faced Fëanárion asked me, and I answered honestly, “Only poorly, but I understand a great deal.” 

And that is how I ended up sitting by ‘king’ Nelyafinwë’s sickbed and (judiciously) translating his Orc-speech as he complained of torments past, present, and imagined, and cursed his captors and his kin. Not all his words required translation, however, for as he healed he began to lecture his brothers in the poetic Quenya of his old home–and of his brother Makalaurë. “To have the material for the walls we need to raise against our Enemy, we must first build bridges,” he told them, “and we must start by bridging this lake.” 

Afterwards, he swapped a bothersome, useless crown for the military alliance he needed, and I was intrigued by the idea that captivity had finally taught our ‘king’ the basics of trade.

Finally! Our period of inaction is at an end; the Noldor are splitting into multiple hosts, led by their various princelings. Relocating will not be easy, as my stock of wealth has grown beyond what can be carried in a single cart, but that should set me up nicely in whatever place I choose as my new base of operations.

My first thought was to follow Morifinwë since, while he is too short-tempered to negotiate well, he understands trade–but then I changed my mind, for his understanding of trade includes a concept he calls ‘taxation’. Each of his brothers has flaws I am tired of (all the Fëanárions are some combination of too violent, too crafty, and too miserable) and, besides, they all plan to remain in the cold North.

No, I shall join Lord Findaráto, who has riches but no business sense, and who has leave to enter Doriath,  Telerin merchant.a kingdom closed to low-born Telerin merchants.

Starlight was a perpetual delight to the Elves of Menegroth, and I quickly turned this to my advantage by developing a new product, a bright mirrored globe that cast dappled, star-like reflections upon the dark walls.

I had expected to enjoy trading with these distant kinsmen of mine, but it proved a strange, unsatisfying business, since they were far too willing to part with their treasures for a song. Literally, in many cases: those who had no use for sparkling globes often requested payment in the form of a novel melody, until I ran out of both the sea-shanties of my youth and the sad, throaty laments I had learnt from the Orcs, and was forced to resort to singing the compositions of Makalaure Fëanárion – after altering their terrifying lyrics, of course.

Most of his ballads I turned into paeans to the local princess, who was deservedly beloved by all. Even I spent many hours contemplating her beauty and grace, and wondering whether there was some aspect of her presence – the starlit hue of her eyes, the fall of her hair, the cut of her clothing – that could be replicated and sold to those seeking to increase their own attractions.

Eventually, I heard of a Sinda of sense who lived nearby, a master craftsman and trader by the name of Eol. Mablung, a local huntsman, agreed to guide me to him in return for my last tune, a rather racy drinking song I had not dared sing in Luthien’s presence, for fear of intensifying her enchantment.

Light struggled to pierce the dense canopy of Eol’s woods, lending them a gloom that reminded me of Menegroth’s caves with their fake starlight, and yet my encounter with that strange, rude man proved most illuminating. In his workshop, I saw many wonders, such as lightweight armour fashioned of metal and unlight-webbing (truly, it is a most useful substance!), but it is the introduction to his Dwarven visitors that truly changed my life. Such a practical people, and so inventive with their economics; several quickly became my close friends and, even better, business partners.

Lying to the Queen of Doriath, even by omission, is unwise, so when she began to ask me pointed questions about my departure from Valinor, I revealed all: the Oath, the murder, the wanton destruction of property, even my plans for the Kinslayers. Although the Queen is hard to read, or even to gaze upon, I somehow got the impression that she approved.

Moments later, the King summoned his Noldorin visitors, and a few hours of kingly (and lordly) shouting were followed by a language ban and  a temporary banishment–but I did not mind either, for I felt ready for a change of both name and venue.

Before my time in those caves, I had been merely Cévandil the enterprising peddler; but now I became Gwindil Glilam, friend to all, who once sold a dozen rabbit skins to Mablung the Hunter. Even the nature of my business had evolved, for I no longer kept my wealth in carts, but in the great banks of the Blue Mountains. and in the enterprises I had founded, such as the construction company carving out my new home in Nargothrond, and the trading company keeping the builders supplied with axes, picks, and beard oil.

Chapter End Notes

Cévandil gets a new, cool alliterative name! Gwindil is the Sindarin version of his Telerin name (both mean new-lover, which I translate for myself as “enterpreneur”) and Glilam means honey-tongue, which makes sense for a man obviously gifted at languages, even for an Elf, as well at negotiation.

I got the whole thing from https://store.realelvish.net/custom-translations/

Among the leaders of the Noldor, money is always an issue, as they need it to finance their war and their endless construction projects, and yet even the wealthiest among them (like my jewel-bedecked Lord Felagund) baulk at letting go of the treasures of Valinor, brought here at such great cost.

Now, the Dwarves have come up with a wide variety of rational solutions to cash-flow problems, such as loans and bonds, but the Lords I have spoken to see such business arrangements as mercenary, and regard them with suspicion. 

No matter; I know just how to proceed! Aristocrats seem to enjoy the idea of regular gift exchanges, so my current plan is to simply offer Lord Felagund the funds he needs, and to hint that the gift I would wish for in return is… let me think, perhaps a share of the trade profits of his new, well-situated city?