The Dyer's Vat by Himring

The Dyer's Vat

Read The Dyer's Vat

Elrond was treating a severely wounded patient under a hawthorn bush with inadequate equipment, because he had no other options, when the patient began to laugh. Elrond feared that the patient was having a hysterical fit or was even losing his mind—sadly, neither was uncommon among the pitifully few inhabitants of sacked Ost-in-Edhil that Elrond’s forces had been able to gather up on their retreat. This patient was one of those who had somehow managed to flee a sheer unbelievable distance from the city walls before the effects of shock wore off, the damage of internal bleeding caught up, and they collapsed in a heap.

But his laugh seemed to be a genuine one, a hearty chuckle that faded into a grin. Grateful, but puzzled, Elrond sat back on his heels, swiping the back of his wrist tiredly across his sweaty forehead.

‘Don’t move,’ he said, almost automatically, to be on the safe side. ‘Save your strength.’

‘I have not much strength left to save,’ the patient answered, composedly. ‘You are Lord Elrond. I must tell you a story before it runs out.’

‘It would be better for you to rest,’ Elrond admonished him, but he could already see that the need to speak was going to prove stronger and, besides, he could not honestly promise that the story could wait until later. So, instead, he concentrated on easing the patient into a position in which speaking would place less strain on him.

*

I am Merengrui, the patient began, speaking softly and occasionally stopping for breath. You do not know me, but I think you did meet my guild master, Quiletirme, head of the Dyer’s Guild? Once we knew of the danger Sauron posed, everyone encouraged her to evacuate and, when we knew he was approaching with his army, we all pleaded with her again to flee. But she was stubborn and would not budge.

A woman with only one foot should not attempt to run for her life, she said.

And I… She was my guild master and I loved her. I did not join the evacuation, and I also did not join Celeborn’s sortie, as I had been tempted to do. Instead, we made plans as best we could. In the end, nothing really went to plan, of course. I hope that at least one or two of the apprentices who insisted on staying and helping us got away alive.

Most of the city’s resistance must have been brought low already by the time our Enemy got around to paying attention to the Dyers’ Hall. There was only Quiletirme and myself and one other guild member still there. We managed to hold off the first onslaught of the orcs, first with the catapults that we had set up and, after that, Quiletirme firing her crossbow and us other two shooting at a faster pace with our longbows.

Then Sauron himself advanced on us. He came by himself, towering imposingly in the doorway, and I imagine he thought he would cow and crush us in a moment, one Noldo on crutches and two young Sindar. But Quiletirme had a trick up her sleeve that she had kept just for him. She pulled a lever, just as Sauron was passing under the lintel, and a cauldron of scalding hot dye emptied itself over him and then fell on top of him.

Unfortunately, the Abhorred One had warded himself well. The boiling hot liquid just sizzled off him harmlessly, and the heavy cauldron hit his craggy helmet with an almighty clang and bounced away. But what he had not thought to ward himself against was pigment. The dye was a lurid pink and it had drenched him from head to foot.

You would not think that a monstrous killer could be so vain. After all, he had practically been wading through blood and body parts before he got to us and was liberally stained with soot. But even though his face was now bright pink, you could tell that Quiletirme had hit a mark.

She had not discussed it with us, but I do not doubt her choice of colour had been quite deliberate. She was very close with a couple of the Jewel-smiths who had worn lesser rings, you see, and had experienced their pain and horror intimately. She also remembered Sauron from the past, in Tol Sirion, I think. And I suppose she must have had an inkling how he might react to such an affront.

He threw a tantrum, there and then, and it blew up the building. I hope that Quiletirme died instantly. My own memory, from that moment on, is hazy, but I think Sauron’s fit of temper blew me straight through the wall and quite some distance away…

You see why I had to tell you the story, Lord Elrond? I will follow my guild master soon enough, with few regrets.

But this one thing must not be forgotten: Sauron inflicted unimaginable suffering on us all. Quiletirme did not manage to do him any physical harm. But she did manage to dye him pink. And so that joke, at least, was on him. I remember the stunned expression on his face, as he realized…

*

A gust of wind shook the hawthorn bush and scattered a few dry leaves across Merengrui. He fell silent, smiling, and did not speak again. Despite anything Elrond could do, he died that night.

---

Chapter End Notes

The video involves people spraying each other with water and throwing brightly coloured powder at each other so that they come out purple, blue or pink. (The scene is set during the festival of Holi.) The lyrics emphasize the pink colour in particular. In one translation of the lyrics (the one in the video) the reference to the spraying comes out as "when you colored me with a water gun". I've obviously removed the element of flirtation and celebration  from this interaction! And I displaced the love between the protagonists onto the love the narrator has for Quiletirme.

The names are from Chestnut's great name list, which they have generously shared:

Quenya: Quiletirmë, color-guardian; Sindarin: Merengrui, joyous color.

Yes, these may be names they acquired as part of their role in the guild, especially in Quiletirmë's case.