Ulmondil by mouse

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Art Party

Tuor and Voronwe lose themselves (figuratively) at Glorfindel's party.

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Glorfindel’s house was full of windows and greenery, with trailing plants draped around supporting columns and walls given over to mosses and succulents. Other walls were devoted to art, Voronwë found when the Lord of the Golden Flower walked him down a corridor entirely covered with paintings.

“I often go through phases of fixing on one subject for a time,” Glorfindel said, gesturing at a row of paintings that showed a birch tree passing through many seasons, followed by a very long series of nude portraits of Ecthelion. “I find that while I’m painting, my disordered thoughts, fears and doubts seem to take new forms, and find new ways of connecting with one another. And little by little they become less intrusive, and less troubling to me. I hope you will find the same.”

With a welcoming smile, Glorfindel held open a door at the end of the corridor to allow Voronwë to enter a sort of atrium, spacious and sparingly furnished, with large skylights that opened the room up to the bright evening. Glorfindel led Voronwë to a corner where one easel was set up with stretched canvas and another with paper. Tuor and Ecthelion sat nearby, facing each other from a pair of low couches. Ecthelion was strumming idly at a long-necked lute and Tuor held a small triangular harp.

“The problem is your voice is too fair,” Tuor was saying. “Truly I have never heard a voice more pleasing and musical than yours. It won’t do. You must imagine the inside of your mouth is coated in dust from breaking rock or digging earth. You are never given enough water. Your feet ache, your hands are blistered and the skin on your back is laid open from the lash. Now bring this into your voice.”

Ecthelion, who initially smiled at Tuor’s compliments, now looked pained. He cleared his throat a few times, then said, “Perhaps a drink of whiskey would help?”

“It might.”

Glorfindel gave Voronwë a wooden palette and began to line its edge with smidges of paint in a rainbow of colours. “If it gets too noisy in here, we can always move your easel outside. I tend to find the atmosphere of a party inspiring.” Glorfindel turned a thoughtful look on Tuor and Ecthelion, who were coughing and blinking back tears after quickly swallowing down glassfuls of dark brown spirits.

Ecthelion, in a voice still rough and half-choked with the burn of whiskey, sang:

“The ships are gone, the ships are gone away,
Fëanor done me wrong, and he’ll be sorry someday…”

Inspiring, thought Voronwë, and he began to paint.

 

Music, singing, laughter and the occasional clink of glasses created a cocoon of sound around Voronwë as he lost himself in strokes, dabs and swishes of paint. Every now and then he glanced at Glorfindel’s easel beside him, where a portrait of Tuor with head bowed to his harp was emerging in soft watercolours. Voronwë was hardly aware of the rest of the room until Duilin leapt on top of a low table nearby. With one hand holding a silver chalice against his chest and the other resting at the small of his back, the Lord of the Swallow began to speak, loudly enough that the others quieted their music-making to listen.

“Galdor, be not proud, though some have called thee
Valiant and brave, for thou art not so;
When thou seest another's skill with the bow
Exceeds thine, in fear wilt thou disagree.
With trembling and denial dost thou see
Not foes, but thy friend's swordmastery show
That not all valour belongs to the Tree.”

Duilin dropped down from the table amidst the approving calls and whistles of the listeners, save for Galdor. The Lord of the Tree waved a dismissive hand and drained the rest of his drink before climbing onto the table in his turn. He lifted his empty glass with one hand, clasped the lapel of his tunic with the other, and addressed himself to Duilin.

“Duilin, thy envy colours all thy words
As if they wore my household livery.
Without trees, where would swallows quivery
Find strength to stay the flight of frightened birds?”

The audience let out a long “ooh” as Galdor stepped down, but Egalmoth made a scoffing noise and declared:

“Birds and trees, though lofty, thou must agree
Heavenly arches soar o’er both of thee.”

Ecthelion whistled, while Tuor and Meril applauded. Duilin beckoned at them. “Tuor! Join us. We know you have a gift for performing. Come, let’s hear some verses.”

Voronwë, blending colours on his palette, watched Tuor take his place on the table they were using for a stage, then turn his back on his audience. Duilin, Galdor and Egalmoth shrugged at each other and topped up their drinks from a glass bottle. Voronwë’s ears could just catch the sound of Tuor talking quietly. He seemed to be giving himself a pep talk.

“Look, if you have one chance or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted in one moment, will you capture it, or just let it slip?”

Tuor turned back to face everyone. Voronwë was reminded of when he first saw Ulmo’s Messenger standing above him on the terrace at Vinyamar, a tall figure cloaked in shadow, gleaming with mail, lordly as a King of Men. Tuor took a breath, nodded, and began.

“His gait slows, knees shake, hands are froze
There’s vomit on the grey tones of his robes, dad’s potatoes
He’s nervous but on the surface composure grows
He’s not ready but inside himself he knows
The words of Ulmo pound in his heart so loud
He opens his mouth and prophecy comes out
Mist-mantled now, everybody asking, ‘how?’
The Doom’s caught up, Gondolin is over, blaow!
Snap back to reality, oh! it’s mortality
Oh! Hador’s family…”

There was a startling noise as a lute string snapped but Ecthelion was too engrossed in Tuor’s lyrics to do more than utter an apology under his breath. Meril and the lords seemed equally transfixed. Even Glorfindel stood still with his paintbrush slowly dripping.

“Is that a word, ‘blaow’?” Galdor muttered to Egalmoth, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

“Are you going to argue with the Lord of Waters?”

 

The blues gave way to more lively music when Ecthelion brought out his fiddle. A great deal of laughter and occasional leaping over furniture accompanied the music as the Elves took to dancing. Despite the noise Voronwë was aware of the sound of breathing behind him and knew that others were peering over his shoulder while he painted.

“This is terrifying, Voronwë,” Galdor said. “Is that a baby Orc sitting on your dead body?”

“My sleeping body,” Voronwë said. “It’s not an Orc. Just an imaginary creature that represents a nightmare.”

“I like how you’ve painted the Sea at the top of the picture and the night sky at the bottom,” Glorfindel said. “It’s interesting to challenge our perceptions with an inversion like that.”

“No, it’s all the Sea,” Voronwë said. “It’s just very dark in places.”

Tuor pointed at a small figure in the upper left corner of the painting. “Is that me?”

“No.”

“It looks like me. Am I feeding that giant black dragon?”

“No! You— I mean, the golden figure is driving back the figure of darkness with his or her primeval goodness, expressed as a glowing jewel. It’s symbolic.”

“This part reminds me of Nevrast.”

“Yes. That’s meant to be the shore where Ulmo’s wave left me. Where you found me.”

“You captured it well.”

Hearing the change in Tuor’s voice, Voronwë stopped painting and turned his head to look at him. Tuor was standing close by his shoulder, gazing at the painted shoreline with a wistful expression. He touched it, picking up a bit of ultramarine paint on his finger, and said, “Maybe you could add a little boat there, with the two of us in it.”

“I’ll think about it,” Voronwë said. “Shouldn’t you be dancing?”

“Will you join us?”

“Maybe in a little while.” Voronwë was mixing colours again. “I’m not quite finished.”

 

“Voronwë? Voronwë …”

Eventually Tuor’s voice broke through his concentration, and Voronwë stepped back from his easel, right into Tuor. “Sorry,” he said. “What is it?”

“You’ve been painting the entire night.” Tuor’s eyes were drowsy, and though he was obviously trying to keep them focused on Voronwë’s face they seemed ever drawn back to his painting. “Everyone else has gone to the balcony to watch the sunrise.”

Voronwë blinked and looked around. The room was bathed in a soft grey pre-dawn light, and it appeared empty but for him and Tuor.

“How do you feel?” Tuor asked.

Voronwë considered this as he put down his paintbrush and palette. He felt … light. Almost buoyant. He felt spent, and relaxed. He felt what was surely a foolish smile spreading across his mouth as he watched Tuor’s face shift from a concerned frown to an answering smile.

“I’ve never seen you look so at peace.” Tuor clasped Voronwë’s upper arms and squeezed, his smile softening to an expression that was almost shy. “Voronwë, there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time, but I suppose I have been waiting until … well, until I felt that your heart was lightened, and ready to hear it.”

Voronwë clasped Tuor’s arms in return and sighed. He could see exactly where this was going. He had long known it was only a matter of time until Tuor suggested they attempt partner acrobatics. “Tuor, look. We both know how this is going to end.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re going to get me into some kind of compromising position and then someone will walk in on us. Can this wait until we’re at home alone?”

“Of course. Are you saying that you’re willing…?”

“Well, perhaps you’d better tell me exactly what you want of me.”

“I will,” Tuor answered, squeezing Voronwë’s arms again in excitement. “I want you to lie down on your back, but with your knees up.”

“All right.”

“I’ll be between your legs, holding your ankles. Does this sound all right so far?”

“Yes. Go on.”

“I’m going to lean down, and you’ll put your hands on my shoulders—”

There was a loud throat-clearing noise and Duilin sat up from where he had been lying on a high-backed sofa that faced away from them. Without making eye contact with either Tuor or Voronwë, he got to his feet and walked out of the room.

 

In Voronwë’s cottage, Tuor’s giant harp was pushed into one corner of the front sitting room and Voronwë’s painting leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the room. Tuor and Voronwë lay in the middle of the floor and panted like tired foxes.

“We should sleep,” Voronwë said. “It’s light out already, and we go to see the King this evening.”

Tuor groaned a little and laid his arm over his eyes. “I won’t be able to sleep. I am filled with dread.”

Alarmed, Voronwë sat up. “Why? Will we be imprisoned? Sent to the mines? Thrown from the Caragdur?”

“No, nothing like that. At least, I don’t think so. But if the King tells me he will refuse Ulmo’s counsel, what shall I do? How can I change his mind? I don’t want to burn Salgant’s harp and Maeglin broke my yoke and it will take months for my hair to grow long again.”

Voronwë lay back down. “I’m sure Lord Ulmo will speak to you, if it is needed."

“Ulmo said that after I had fulfilled my task, I should do as my heart and valour lead me. What if my heart and valour don’t know what to do?”

“I think you’re just tired. You’ll feel better after sleeping. Close your eyes and count to ten. In Quenya.”

“I can only count to seven in Quenya.”

“Count to seven and then count down to one and then back to seven. In your head,” Voronwë added as Tuor started to chant in his ear. Voronwë watched the young Mortal’s face relax into sleep, then looked again at the small golden figure in the top corner of his painting.

Doesn’t look a thing like him, Voronwë thought, and fell asleep.

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Chapter End Notes

1. The spoof is strong with this one. Ecthelion’s blues are a spin on B.B. King’s “The Thrill is Gone”, the Elf-lords’ sonnet is inspired by John Donne’s “Death, Be Not Proud”, Tuor’s rap is based off the first verse of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” and Voronwe’s painting drew a bit of inspo from Henry Fuseli’s “The Nightmare.”

2. The partner acro move Tuor wants to try would end with him in a shoulder stand on Voronwe’s hands. See here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H1Ld3S7RtcY

3. Voronwe’s art therapy came out of a beta comment from tehta on chapter 2, plus reading her fic “The (He)art Recalls”. Thank you, tehta, for being a source of inspiration and helpful critique. I hope Prophet Tuor is awakening something in you.