A Tale of One City by Aria

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Chapter 1

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“ It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only. ”

 

 

 

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... but what does that even mean?

 

            To one Aradol, master dyer extraordinaire (even if he did say so himself) of Gondolin it meant that it was a normal day, albeit an interesting one; although when you're an aspiring revolutionary in a Noldorin Kingdom every day is an 'interesting' one. It also nearly always meant that no matter what day it was, it was going to be entertaining.

            The Gates of Summer, the largest festival in the Hidden City's packed schedule of festival's -for what else is there to do when you have to remain hidden? Visiting friends in Mithrim is definitely out- was also one of its most eagerly awaited, and not just for the festival itself. The primary reason for the festival was of course to welcome in the summer months and the longer days and shorter nights, it was also however a very good reason to get blazingly drunk; as a result, for a person of Aradol's political persuasion it was highly entertaining. Seeing Gondolin's highest and most noble souls horrifically drunk and showing themselves to be the slovenly idiots he knew they were, was always most gratifying. Indeed Aradol relished the chance to collect this evidence of their ineptitude, a 'simple' dyer by appearance he might be, or at least proclaim to be, but he was anything but 'simple'. Disliking drink for the reason that it loosens tongues he always stayed clear of it in public -privately of course our 'simple' friend liked nothing better than to indulge in the very best on offer- but plying members of Gondolin's upper echelons with drink was, not to put too finer a point on it, most enlightening.

            “So, if the grain stores stay at their current level and the harvests don't start to improve we're going to be in trouble this winter.” Araith, steward to the House of the Tree, was one of his favourite contacts; the man drank like a sponge.

            “But surely the reserves will see us through the worst?” Innocently concerned, of course he was concerned, but innocently?

            “Maybe, but Lord Galdor reckons that Lord Penlod forgot to order a complete inventory after that last bad harvest two years ago.” Another mouthful of wine, not a sip for Araith, never a sip.

            “So why doesn't he do it?” Ask questions, receive answers.

            “And make it look like old Penlod's incompetent? That would really go down well in Council. You need to stay out of politics friend.”

            A laugh, “maybe. So you reckon I should start buying in supplies?”

            “I would if I were you, Thing's'll be tight this winter make no mistake.” A shake of the head, a nod, a shout for more wine to a passing barmaid.

 

Ah, mulberries... such a wonderful crop, especially when fermented. Like all people trapped in a small place for a long time the Gondolindrim had to find things to do; and like all people who find themselves with a lot of time on their hands they had a tendency to become masters of their professions. Aradol was in this way like any other Gondolindrim; he had had a long time to hone his craft, if you were to ask him what this craft was he would inform you that it was of course the art of dying. He had learned at his father's knee in Tirion and since coming to Middle-earth he had improved upon it, with new colours and stains to meet the ever growing need. If you were a member of his family however then you would no doubt frown at him, offer a scathing rebuke and inform him that he had become almost a master of deception.

            “You need to stop doing this; it'll only get you (and us!) in trouble one of these days.”

            “Ah, sweet sister as always your voice is music to my ears.”

            “Aradol!”

            That however would only stir him to try and reach greater heights, and when one lives amongst the mountains of the Echoriath one has many heights to aspire to.

 

            “You know Master Feredir we're going to run out of cloth one of these days. Not that I know how you manage to find it in such great quantities in the first place. Not that I want to know you understand, I surely don't.” The younger Elf added hastily before Aradol, known as Feredir to this youngster, took the wrong meaning from his words. Small talk was interesting; small talk with Erthir was often times as troubling as interesting. With the cover of darkness, even in a small city that, for the most part knew all of its inhabitants, it was still possible to use the night for subterfuge.

            Hiding a smile within the confines of his cloak, it might be summer but Gondolin on a night still had a chill in the air, Aradol adds. “I doubt we'll run out of it any time soon. Unless the weavers run out of threads. Besides, we'd just have to be more inventive. Possibly ask Master Pengolodh's advice on the subject. I'm certain he would have an opinion, after all our lack of cloth would impact upon his paper and parchment provisions and we already impact enough upon them as it is.”

            “But M..ma....master Feredir that would mean you'd have to talk to Master Pengolodh about everything and how do you know he wouldn't-.” Gob-smacked, it was a common enough experience to feel that with Feredir and once again poor Erthir was feeling it again; in something out of his depth.

            “It would be a purely theoretical conversation of course. I'm sure Master Pengolodh would be most interested in the debate.”

            “But...”

            Of a sudden Aradol laughs, “it will be no matter, Erthir. The likelihood of it happening is almost nil. Our cloth supplies should no doubt be fine and no matter if they're not, we'll find ways around it.” And with Aradol's legitimate business being in the dying or stylising of the fabric bolts it would be a simple task to procure more. Especially due to the fact that he had made certain to invest in certain weavers businesses. He wasn't a complete fool after all. “Now, should we see if Mistress Lindoriel has managed to procure us a ladder for tonight?”

 

            Once again good people our Lords fail us. It wasn't a bad start, it certainly could have been worse, he admitted with a critical eye. Once again Lord Penlod has failed us... it was possibly over-dramatic, and the printing needed work. The letters had smudged in some places making it harder to read than usual. Printing on cloth was after all not as easy as dying the bolts to a base colour. They had strung the banner wide across one of the inner-city through-fairs heading towards the Great Marketplace, and it was, as hoped making for conversation.      

            “Oh Master Aradol, can you believe it? They've done it again.” Startled at the sound of a voice addressing him he makes a show of putting a hand over his heart as he turns.

            “Sweet Varda in a vase, Lilmareth could you make me jump more?”

            “Possibly.” The woman states with an impish grin. “I can always try. But all the same, I'd have thought they'd have learnt after last time.”

            “Last time?” Perplexed, for once Aradol doesn't even have to pretend to not have a clue as to what the herbalist is talking about.

            “You know, when the King's Guards caught that youngster up in the fountain courtyard. Surely you heard about it? Rolnar's youngest son. It was the talk of the city that week! I didn't hear a lick of anything else all week, it was quite boring.”

            “Of course I heard about it, but how can you be sure it's the same group?” Indeed it wasn't, who the youngster was even now Aradol wasn't certain, the only thing he did know is that the boy wasn't one of his; his wouldn't have been caught. Copycats were a problem.

            “Well who else could it be? That poor boy, he'll be in for it this time make no mistake.”

            “Oh please Lilmareth, it's unlikely that he'd be responsible, he's too well known.”

            “Well you didn't know him! That boy has always been a handful, make no mistake. Your problem Aradol is that you're much too trusting.”

 

 

            “Don't you lie to me! This has your mark all over it!” The tone, loud, accusing and very familiar is Lenneth, Aradol's youngest sister, both in Gondolin and in the family.

            “Alright I won't lie, but first can I know what I'm being accused of doing?” He's knelt rather precariously on a board propped atop one of his wooden vats with his hands submerged in the multihued water attempting to examine the fabric bolt.

            “You spilt the milk everywhere this morning, dropped it. Smash!” She punctuates her words with dramatic hand gestures in an attempt to mimic the fate of the erstwhile jug.

            “I did not!”

            “You said you wouldn't lie!”

            “And I'm not. Branwen spilt the milk.”

            “You always blame the cat.”

            “That's because the cat is the one always knocking the jug off the sideboard. If you could learn to replace the milk back in the pantry when you're finished with it then we wouldn't have this problem in the first place, now pass me the ochre and let me finish in here.”

            Flummoxed, she thrusts the jar into his hand and leaves the room.

            “Just make sure that you-” SLAM, “shut the door. Thank you! If I'm not being blamed for one thing, it's another. You,” he points at the cat perched safely in the window. “Feel lucky you're up there, or next time I might try experimenting with hair dyes. Dunk you in the vat!”

            Branwen, chief ratter of the house and shop merely flicked a lazy ear at him.

            “Stupid cat.”

 

            “I've told you once and I'll tell you again Pendol the price is what we agreed upon in the spring when I took the order from you. I'll not change it now after I've fulfilled my half of the agreement.” Exasperated, annoyed, he has said this same thing to this particular customer before.

            “But back then I didn't know we'd be in for a lean winter, please Aradol.”

            “No, if I hadn't bought the supplies in especially for this order I might change my mind but you asked for this especially so I made it to order. You're not getting out of it lean winter or no. I need to put food on my table too.”

            “But-”

            “No buts, you wanted it. If I don't get the rest of the price I'll take it up with the King's court.”

            “You wouldn't dare!”

            “Wouldn't I? I've got this agreement on parchment with your signature, Pendol. The price stands. I didn't charge you as much as I could've done because we've done good business before, don't spoil that now.”

            “You're a hard man, Aradol.”

            “No, I'm a man who worked hard, and non-paying customers make things even harder. You wanted this for your daughter’s wedding, how do you think she and her fiancé will feel if they knew you'd baulked at paying the price?”

            “A hard, hard man. Alright, you win. But don't think I'll be telling others to come here in the future.”

            “And don't think I'll forget to warn others against doing business with you! Two can play that game. Unlike you, I keep my word. I'm not the one in the wrong.”

            At least not this time.

 

            When the news comes, as all news must, that Araith, steward of the Tree has been quietly disciplined it comes as no shock to Aradol, it was merely a recurring problem with the best informants. After a time they stop being useful. Having Araith remember exactly whom he told the information to however was a bit more of a shock.

            “You've got a headache again, haven't you?”

            “If I said no would you believe me?”

            “No, but then I rarely believe a word that comes out of your mouth.” Cuilwen says with an exaggerated sigh, sitting beside him on the bed. Long used to her younger brother's attempts at humour (and his increasingly frequent headaches) she hands over a cup of willow bark tea. “It's not too hot, so drink.”

            Accepting the rough mug he smiles gratefully. “You know we really should get this place redecorated.”

            “With what time?” She asks, humouring him for the moment.

            “We can make the time, besides the whitewash is starting to peel.” It's true; the walls are starting to resemble flaky pastry.

            “That's because Branwen's last litter decided to use it as a place to scratch.” Also true.

            “True, true...”

            “Is this to do with Araith?” Digging gently, needing to know the reason for his despondency.

            Aradol shifts next to her, curled around the mug.

            “It's your own fault. Does he blame you?” Gentle, gentle, for once not blaming.

            “No, reckons we were both in our cups. Thankfully Galdor believes that as well.” A mutter around the lip of the mug.

            Chiding now. “You're going to have to be more careful.”

            “Thought you would say I'll have to stop.” Surprise registers on his face, it was her usual reaction after all.

            “Would you listen to me if I said to?” Teasing.

            A smile, slight. “Probably not.”

            “Exactly. Wait a while and then get Lenneth to help you with making the signs, variety in writing will help.” Helpful, she has no wish to have her brother (or her sister) caught.

            “Lenneth... Not you?”

            Cuilwen sniffs, “I'm quite happy with the system as it is now thank you very much. Now, get some sleep, I'll wake you up in time for supper.”

 

Time passes, some things change, most things stay the same. Especially in Gondolin the hidden.

 

 

            “Mistress Cuilwen? Is your brother home today?” It was an innocuous question, a perfectly normal, perfectly ordinary question.

            “Indeed. May I ask why? I'm afraid he's in the middle of creating a formula so he'll be evil if interrupted.”

            It was at least partially true, Aradol was in the house and he was indeed creating a new formula just not one concerning batch dying. It was also true that no matter what formula he was concocting if interrupted his nerves would be on the raw; such is life.

“It shouldn't take long. I just need to ask him a few questions.”

“Well, I don't really want to disturb him if I can help it. Can I help? Or do you think it can wait an hour? I can get you some tea while you wait. Like I said, he's in the middle of writing this new formula. We've been having problems with some of the dyes lately not adhering to the fabric and if he doesn't finish this new formula, even if in a rough stage he'll be evil to live with until he does. I know that he'll be happy to answer any questions afterwards, but while doing this...” a sigh a shake of the head, slight over exaggeration the best of actresses could not compete. Act the perfect host, show whoever is interested in your family the normal crockery, no best china that would only give away unease, apologise for your brother's impoliteness. “My sister also would be delighted to help I'm sure, she's minding the shop at the minute.” A floured hand runs through messily pinned hair, embarrassed, unfeigned, “I'm afraid you've caught me baking.”

            A quick smile, understanding, it's the brother that is wanted not the sisters after all, but... one cup wouldn't hurt. Polite conversation with a polite lady, in a homely kitchen, the smell of baked bread. Nothing to see, nothing to hear, horrifically normal.

            Chatter, chatter, chatter, chatter. Talk of nothing, talk of everything.

            “Did you hear about young Turnen over on Songstress Street?” Gossip, chief trade of the Gondolindrim, there is little else to do in a hidden city after all. “He's courting Aiwe. Of course his sisters are having a field day with it but as his cousin married her cousin what did he expect really?”

            A nod, a shake of the head, is he getting bored? Possibly, but all the same it is fascinating. Women's gossip after all is different to men's gossip.

            “What about her brothers? I doubt they'll appreciate it, he doesn't even have a trade, refused to be apprenticed I heard. Not even to his parents.”

            “Oh I know; that's one worry I am thankful that I don't have. Siblings are trial enough. What did you come to ask Aradol about anyway?” A simple question, an innocent question, surely innocent, what else could it be? Sheer curiosity at work, no more no less.

            “Ah, Master Pendol brought a report to the House’s that your brother was trying to back out of a trade. We were just trying to find out that truth of the matter.

            “Oh! You should have said! I could've told you all about that little matter and then you wouldn't have needed to listen to my chatter. I am sorry.”

            “No, no! I should've told you of my errand. So, what is the truth of the matter do you know?” Perhaps this can all be solved, quickly without fuss.

            “Oh I can do better than that. I know where the paperwork is, I was the one who countersigned for Aradol after all.” A grin, pride before a fall, but it will not be her family's pride that falls.

 

 

            “You did what?!”

            “I gave him the copy.”

            “It better have been the copy.”

            “Of course it was the copy, Lenneth dearest. I've been doing paperwork for longer than you've lived. Now where's our pet idiot?”

            “You mean Branwen?”

            “Her too.”

 

            “And it was this big!”  

            “Oh, now you're lying.” Gossip, and strong alcohol rolled into one building. It was the best place and the worst place for finding out news.

            “I am not!” Indignation was a common theme.

            “Better come clean, Nasiril.”

            “Better come clean about what?” An interruption, curiosity in voice, glass in hand.

            “Aradol! My conniving friend! Heard you've got an investigation on your hands, Pendol being a pain again?”

            “Why you do business with him is beyond me, Aradol.” Sympathy, once burned, twice shy.

            “Because on occasion he does pay up.”

            “But you know he goes to the House's when he thinks there's a problem.”

            “Well he can go. It's not on my back. We signed the contract, he's not fulfilling his side. They have all the paperwork including the receipts.” Nothing to see, nothing to see, squeaky clean.

            “Oh, stop being so boring.”

            “I'm not being boring I'm being truthful there's a difference.”

            “No there isn't.”

            Squeaky clean.

 

            It was the best of times it was the... wait no it wasn't it was most certainly the worst of times. Hangovers hurt!

            “I've got no sympathy for you.”

            “I got that idea.” Muffled. There are unfortunately less covers on a bed during the summer months than during the winter to hide under, pity that.

            “Well, if you will decide to drink that dreadful swill on Tanner's Lane what do you expect?”

            “To be bright and happy.”

            “Oh don't be an idiot.”

            “Thought you said I already was.”

            “Alright, more of an idiot. Now get up.”

            A swirl of skirts, a slamming door, a rattling headboard.

            “This is all your fault you know.”

            A half-hearted swipe of a paw was the only reply that was dignified upon him as he burrowed deeper beneath the covers. She might come back in five minutes, but that was five minutes away.

 

 

            “So we need: flour, eggs, sugar, meat of some variety-” Taking a list was always the best way to go shopping, especially if you are sending your brother to the market.

            “Why don't we just start keeping chickens?” Especially when he comes up with strange ideas that involve live poultry.

            “Because.”

            “That's not a reason.” 

            “Because we'd have to pay for the feed, upkeep, and where exactly would we keep them?” Lenneth singsongs. “Besides which the cat would eat them.”

            “True, but they'd save us trying to get the eggs home every time without breaking them; and if we were really short we could eat them.”

            “And you'd be willing to kill and then pluck something that you'd raised from an egg or a chick? Don't be daft.”

            “Could work.”

            “Don't be daft; go and bring the tea water over instead.”

 

            “Have you tried that new bakery over at spinner's end?”

            “No. Why? Are they any good?”

            “Good? She's brilliant. It's Alphros' daughter, you know from the King's Guard?”

            “No! Little Lothíriel? But she's barely an adult!”

            “Barely? Hardly. No she's set up there on her own with some friends. I must say she would have been wasted if she'd stayed within the King's Household. Best decision she ever made to leave it, certainly.”

            “I might pop over there then. Any recommendations?”

            “If you can, she had walnut bread and cherry tarts in a week ago. If she still does, any chance you could pick me up a loaf? Along with a date one, I fancied trying it but didn't have enough change with me. Found her by mistake.”

            “She is a bit off the beaten track, that's true. But of course, Targon. I'll see what I can get. Thank you for this,” a small satchel is lifted for emphasis.

            “Oh no problems. Just make sure you try and bring me that loaf, Feredir and we'll say we're even.”

 

            “So, what did you get?” Lenneth asks, standing by the table, dye pattern in one hand, chipped mug in the other. Branwen pauses in her run across the kitchen floor only long enough to dash beneath the windowsill. Brown eyes stare, watchful.

            “Why do you care?” He pauses in mid-stride, knee catching against the sideboard.

            “Because I love my dear elder brother? Isn't that reason enough?”

            “No. It's not.” Suspicion, long cultivated suspicion. Living with two of your three sisters for an extended period of time will do that to you.

            “Aradol, you're horrible.” She puts down the pattern, and then the mug, smoothing down the creases in the parchment against the surface of the table. Tugs at the leather satchel that still hangs from her brother's shoulder.

            “No I'm not. You're just nosy.” He pulls it back.

            “I live here too, now give! You only ever put things away in the wrong spots.”

            “Rude too. Just be careful with it, dearest baby sister who currently goes by the name of Lenneth.” Is the reply, slipping the bag from his shoulder, gently.

            “You managed to get the new inks?” Eyes bright, interested. She ignores his earlier mischief making instead focusing on the contents of the bag she has just opened and begun to inspect.

            “Of course, Targon gave them with his usual wishes. He also says that we need to be more careful with this batch. Last time the print was too sloppy, you couldn't always read the letters.”

            Nodding, “yes, yes. Did you manage to get the butter though?”

            “Why we don't just buy a cow I don't know. Would save trying to get the stuff back through the streets before it melts.” Half-joking. Only half though.

            “Aradol!” Irritated, exasperated, annoyed.

            “We'd get more than just butter from it as well, milk and cream! You'd like that wouldn't you, Branwen. Maybe then you'd stop knocking over the wretched jug every morning and getting me in trouble.” Amused, exasperated, annoyed.

            “You, dearest elder but not eldest brother, are an idiot. Now did you or didn't you manage to get the bacon? I've clearly gone blind from your idiocy.”

 

 

            “More wretched ink in the larder!” A shout, a cry, a frequent refrain.

            “Just feel lucky it's not in the soup.” A shout, a cry, a frequent answer.

 

 

            “Always on the watch. Watch this, watch that. Always on the watch.” Mutter, mutter, grumble, grumble, moan. The life of a revolutionary is exceedingly dull, don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise. This is especially true for those poor souls who find themselves running a dual apprenticeship, a bookkeep by day, a revolutionary by night. It's boring, boring work, both of them.

 

            It was the season of life but a time of darkness; night doesn't just go away because the summer season is under way after all.

            “Ouch! Watch where you're going!” A shout, a cry in the dark.

            “Me look where I'm going? You're the one who walked in front of me!”

            “Precisely, and last I checked you have eyes.” Tight and sullen. “Now where do you want these?”

            “Oh, over by the back wall I think. Should stop a high wind knocking the bags over.”

 

 

            “Prince of Thorns. Thorny prince... hmm the first one I think. Insulting but not too insulting, yes definitely the first one. That'll do for now.” A smile of satisfaction from the direction of the writing desk.

            “What are you muttering about, layabout?” She looks up from her knitting, briefly, knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, cast off. Contentment. Nothing beats knitting, especially when you span and dyed the yarn yourself.

            “Nothing to bother you.” He leans back on his chair, two legs up, two legs down. “What are you doing?”

            “Have Lenneth look through it before you get much further.” Cast on again, start a new row. Hold the needles up slightly, frown in concentration. “Gloves and scarves for just about everyone we know.”

            A wrinkled nose. “But we don't know that many people.”

            “Good, it shouldn't take too long then.”

            “And you call me strange.” A wobble, a shudder, a shout, a crash.

            “What else am I supposed to call you? The idiot who has yet to learn the reason chairs are usually constructed with more than two legs?” She states without looking up from her knitting, more than accustomed to this spectacle.

            “Haha. You're hilarious. I love you too, Cuilwen.” Deadpan, is there any other way?

            “Of course I am, I am the eldest of this brood after all. Now go and do something useful: block up the gap under the front door. Manwe's blowing a gale through it.”

            “Clearly Elbereth is playing hard to get tonight.” Is the amused reply, although he does as asked and moves.

            Cuilwen rolled her eyes. “Don’t be rude, just get on with it.”

 

            “If people talked more the world would be a far more interesting place.”

            “If the world talked more we'd never get anything done.”

            “Maybe not, but it'd still be more interesting.”

 

            “Oh ye of little faith.”

 

 

            “Surely there was a better way to go about it than this?”

            “A better way than what?” Genuine confusion.

            “Than stringing a banner across the middle of the street. It's... it's-”

            “Tacky?” Offers Cuilwen from where she's perched next to the fireplace stroking the cat.           The fire isn't on of course, the summer heat doing more than enough to heat the room what with the setting sun beating down, casting shadows.

            “No.” Lenneth says slowly before snapping. “Expensive! That amount of cloth being used can be traced!”

            “No, it can't.” Nonchalant Aradol states this with little more than a shrug, picking at a small piece of blue cloth. “Do you think we should try doing this with a different mordant? It doesn't seem right to me.”

            “Don't change the subject! And yes dear sweet brother it can. All they need do is speak to the cloth merchants examine the weave-type, speak to the weavers....It's too easy to trace and-”

            “No it's not. Last week we botched two dye batches; those sheets were sent back to the weavers to be recycled as best they could. This is known, it's on the records and you can go ask Elbrennil she'll agree.”

            “But-!”

            “The cut-offs,” Cuilwen whispers. “You used the cut-offs and then had them rewoven. When did Elbrennil start working for you?”

            “Who said she did?”

            “But you just said-”

            “No, I said that the wrecked cloth was sent to the weavers and that she'd signed off on it, and if they look that's where it's gone, along with a number of cut-offs.”

            “But then who re-spun it? I know it was bleached but they'll track the spinner and weaver. So who did it?”

            Aradol allows himself a small smile. “Let me have one secret Cuilwen, please.”

            Lenneth smirks, “no matter how it was done he's going to be furious.”

 

            A shadow in the night, a shadow in the day; or so they say. Who precisely they are or were is still unknown, but it's common knowledge (if you give it even a bit of thought) that there will be shadows during the night and day. Where there is light there is shadow and where there is shadow there is light, and if there is light there is life.

            “Will you get the ruddy cat in, please?!” Comes the shout from the upstairs window, a lantern hanging down illuminating the backyard.

            “I'm trying!” Comes the reply from the back step below.

            “Where in Mandos' name is she?”

            “Out by the sacks.”

            “Well shove a cloak on and get her.”

            “Ulmo's pissing himself; I'm not going out there!”

            “Well you're the one who can bathe her then when the brick dust streaks her grey.”

            “She's a grey tabby! She's as streaked as she's ever going to get!”

            “Just get her in!” A bang, a crash, a puff of dust out into the air, the dried paint drifts gently to the floor.

 

Lenneth was quite right, he was not happy at having had a banner besmirching his name strewn across the streets, and although he couldn't prove that Aradol was responsible for the act, Aradol could not prove above all suspicion that he had not orchestrated it, even if no-one could lay the blame firmly at his doorstep. 

            Instead the two parties involved were brought before the Lords, well three Lords, three very bored Lords, none of whom much wished to be settling a trade dispute that the Law-master's pretty much agreed was an open and shut case if not for the fact that one of those involved could invoke his Lord’s protection in order to settle the debt. Even if the aforementioned Lord had no particular wish to settle the debt.

            The paperwork was read, all parties were asked for their opinions and points of view upon the matter, and it was then debated.

            It was resolved within an hour.

            Open, shut, and then everyone went home. Not all happy with the resultant outcome.

            “It was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous! What was the point of that, we all knew what would happen. The debt was reduced! It's ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. How it can be allowed I just don't know. That man owes me money!” Ranting, raving, hands thrown up in despair at the injustice.

            “Well it's done now. Nothing we can do.” Matter of fact from Cuilwen, the issue has been resolved, unfortunately.

            “We could take him back through that farce!”

            “And risk losing the lot? Don't be stupid. You're just bitter that they ruled interest couldn't accrue.”

            “And you're not?” Lenneth enquired with an incredulous look.

            “Of course I am, but unlike him, I know better than to expect any different.” Knit one, purl one. Knitting is very therapeutic.

            “Naturally I expect things to be different. Otherwise why did we bother coming here anyway?”

            “Ignoring the fact that those who rule us came specifically to wage a war against Morgoth to avenge the death of the Noldóran?” Bemusement, knit two, purl one.

            Aradol waves his hands, as though to bat away the notion, no matter how true it might be. “That might be why they came, but it's not why we all came.”

            “But it is why they came, and unfortunately in this world what they think is all that matters.” The matter of fact answer, with little enough emotion filtering through to give it a description infuriated the noticeably already infuriated Aradol who for once snaps at his sister.

            “Well good for them, but without us they're nothing. What wool could they shear? What dye could they mix? What cattle could they slaughter? What grain could they mill without us to do it for them? They would lead an army, but no army can run without basic supplies, no civilisation no matter how uncivilised can run without the basic necessities that we and others like us provide. They sit there in debate, in council and do nothing. They give orders and then we do it how we see fit, and do it better; and I still say we should run Pendol back through the system and take him for everything the runt is worth.”

            Stunned into silence by her younger brother, a situation that is almost unprecedented, almost, it is Lenneth that answers on her behalf attempting to cool heads. “At the moment dearest, he has too much backing. There will come a time when Pendol will slip again, and when that happens whomever he has filched from will find the Trades united against him. Work around the problem, brother. Don't create another one. Find a new way to enforce contracts. If we can talk to everyone else within the marketplace, from the largest of the craftsmen to the smallest of the tradesmen, if we can agree to a set contract amongst all of us, that benefits all of us it'll stop the farce of having to go through the Law again.”

            “And get the House trades to agree to something that is not in their favour? Don't be silly, Lenneth.” Cuilwen scoffed, Aradol however dropped into his chair, his chin propped thoughtfully on laced fingers, his voice musing.

            “No, Lenneth has a point. If we can work out an agreement with the other trades, not that I relish that discussion, it could be of mutual benefit to all of us. Getting the House's to agree with the proposals is trickier but not without possibility. The House’s, like ourselves, are in the habit of generating business, yes they could undercut us all by using a different contract, but it would be in their interests not to. As of yet, few of us can be forced into trading with partners we don't want to trade with; even the coal seller's. Though most trade comes through the Mole's, they cannot be forced, in the loosest sense, to do business with someone they have no wish to. In reality if they were to do so the King could argue that coal is a vital resource, the other metals that come through the Mole's hands however, unless iron or limestone, can be bought and sold above market price easily since the main supply is under their control. But, even that would benefit from a base contract agreement, an agreement that, I don't know, enforces certain limitations on buyers and sellers. Oh don't look at me like that Cuilwen; I'm talking on the fly.

            But Lenneth's point is a real one. If we can all agree to enforce certain guides within buying and selling, if just agreed good practice ones that we can put into writing it could stop the farce that we just had to go through. Losing us business as others became worried that we were reneging on a contract when in fact we weren't, he was.” Aradol smiles, a slight smile, the happiest he's looked all day.

            “I still think it's a straw hope.” Cuilwen sighs, drawing her legs up and underneath her where she sits on an overstuffed chair knitting abandoned, for the moment, in her lap.

            “Well, I'd rather have a straw hope than no hope.” Lenneth quips, her lips quirking up in delight at having resolved the tensions in the room, at least for now. “You know we still need to resolve that whole issue with the red dye.”

            A heavily pitched pillow was the answer to that problem, a suitably red one. 

 

            It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, so says Pengolodh master of the Lambengolmor and chronicler of Gondolin. But what does that even mean? It was a time of joy and freedom from Morgoth but also a time of secrecy and deceit. A time for the best to work together, a time for the worst to be remembered and a time for new plans to be made.

 

“ It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only. ”

---

Chapter End Notes

The prompts were:

Defiance is defined as the willingness to contend or fight. Write a story or poem or create artwork where the characters defy authority in some way. -day 2 Losgar
Write a story or poem or create artwork that will illustrate the consequences of isolation. 6th Menegroth
Write a story or poem or create artwork where the characters have to decide between loyalty or betrayal. 9th Nargothrond
Start a story or poem with Charles Dickens' famous opening line from A Tale of Two Cities: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." (If you're creating a piece of artwork for this challenge, use this line as your theme or title.) 10th Gondolin
"Pride is still aiming at the best houses: Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell; aspiring to be angels men rebel."--Alexander Pope
How would a character not allowed to express his or her thoughts, creativity, or opinion act out? Capture this in a story, poem or piece of art. 26th March

Aradol, Cuilwen and Lenneth are all characters taken from the Gondolin rpg over on LJ as are some of the background characters, all of the "events" if you can call them that are entirely invented for this story.

Aradol was an established "revolutionary" of the trade unionist kind whose works were both known and unknown within the game, this fic delves into the slightly murkier side of that what with his alias Feredir happily allowing other people to take the blame.

This fic was first written back in I think 2013/2014 (although if anyone recognises the prompts feel free to correct me) but I gave up editing after creating multiple copies by accident. The style is a little bit more experimental than my usual and I've left it well alone when I've gone through editing.