Sylvanlight, Book I by slflew

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Chapter 9. The City of Broken Dreams.

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Chapter 9. The City of Broken Dreams.

According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way that a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway. Because bees don't care what humans think is impossible. ~ Bee Movie

Gwen looked around Feanor's house from where she stood, not budging from the door. Feanor was stocking wood on the coals in the fireplace, which sent sparks swirling up the chimney. He then reached up and took a jar from among the various pictures on the mantelpiece. Opening it, he shook a few of what looked like clear marbles into his hand, and said something clearly in another language. Immediately, his hand filled with light. He spoke again, and four lights floated from his hand to face height. He plucked them from the air and proceeded to position them strategically throughout the room.

The house itself was small and cluttered - a sofa and two chairs covered in worn faded green were facing the fireplace, and a secretary desk and dusty bookshelves lined the walls. Over the mantle, two paintings of dark and turbulent landscapes hung, and Gwen started as a cat rubbed up against her legs. "Don't mind her," Feanor said. "Her name's Melda, and I have another, named Revion. No animals are allowed through there -" he pointed at the door to her left - "which leads to my workshop."

Gwen still gazed about the room. Also on the left wall was a hallway, beyond the fireplace. On the wall opposite her were some thin leaded glass windows, and another doorway on the right wall lead to the kitchen and dining room. All the walls were made of unpainted wood, showing much wear and tear.

"I'll get you some blankets," he said, "and you'll have to sleep on the floor next to the fire. It gets quite cold at night. I expect all your bedding to be put away before I eat breakfast in the morning. I get up just before sunrise to heat up and tend to the furnaces. You should have my breakfast made before I come back inside." He sat down on the couch, shifting to a comfortable position. "You will be, essentially, a housekeeper. I am obviously in dire need of someone to clean, but I also need someone to cook, deliver goods, and - eventually - entertain guests. You will - ‘ he eyed the remnants of her pajamas - "need a new wardrobe, and I'll see about building an addition to the house as a room for you. Tomorrow we'll go into the city and get supplies from the markets."

"What shall I call you?" she asked dryly. "Master?"

"Sir will do around others, and Feanor when we are alone will be fine." He got up and disappeared into the hallway, pulling blankets out of a chest at its end. She got up and took them from him, putting them on the floor in front of the fire. He locked and bolted the door, and called out a word to the lights, at which they went out. Then he disappeared once more down the hallway. Gwen lay down on the odd-smelling blankets, tracing the pattern of the worn carpet beneath her with her fingers. The fire cracked and popped as one of the cats lay beside her. Oh, no, she thought, her eyes stinging with tears as she thought of her cat. She stroked the cat's fur as she sobbed herself to sleep.

*

Exhausted as she was, Gwen couldn't help waking up suddenly during the night, hoping she hadn't missed Feanor's waking, worried about how to make breakfast. She had just managed to get back to sleep when she heard Feanor get up and quietly enter the workshop, letting in a blast of frigid air. She quickly got up, startling the cat, folding the blankets and putting them in the chest at the end of the hallway. Then she entered the kitchen.

Feanor was quite right about needing a housekeeper - the kitchen was absolutely filthy, with crusty dishes stacked haphazardly in and around an equally crusty sink (although, in truth, she was surprised that he had running water.) A small cooking stove occupied one corner of the room, and an icebox the other. Cupboards lined the walls, and she opened each of them, noting the fact that her owner kept very little food or supplies in the house. Some flour, unidentifiable substances in bottles, brown sugar, withered apples, stale crackers, and in the icebox: eggs, cheese, a bit of unidentified meat, milk that was a little sour, butter, and a small amount of bread.

Pancakes, she decided then and there, and, managing to find all the ingredients, mixed them together. She managed to find a clean cast iron skillet, but found that cooking on a fire stove took much longer than an electric one. For one, she had to clean out the ashes and start the fire, then wait for it to get hot enough to even melt butter. The pancakes eventually turned out more like thin bread, but they were edible and somewhat tasty. She had just finished setting the table with a chipped dish and mismatched silverware when Feanor came in, looking a bit sooty. His eyes scanned the arrangement as she stood by expectantly, and he nodded slightly in approval. He sat down at the oversized table, and she came to sit in her place. Feanor gave her a dark look and said, "You are not to eat with me. It's not proper." She quickly got up, annoyed and afraid, quickly gathering up her dishes. He began eating. "It's good," he said, "better than what I've had in a long while. When we go out, we'll go to the food markets, and I'll give you money weekly to get supplies."

"If you don't mind me asking, sir," Gwen said quietly, "I was probably expensive, and, well, where'd you get all the money?"

He smiled, seemingly amused. "Since I live in the Desolate District and only here by decree, I don't pay much for this house. I live frugally not just because it's prudent, but also because it's how I wish to appear to my customers, and to those thieves who are more desperate than I in these hard times. I'm a smith and inventor by trade, and craft many things, from jewels to swords, or make things like the trains that run throughout the city, or the ship that brought you here."

"That's...incredible, to say the least."

"Indeed. So my invaluable services to society are well paid, but I keep it in the bank, so I have a substantial fortune saved up over hundreds of years."

"If your services are so valuable, why can't you live somewhere nicer?"

He hesitated, taking a sip of water before continuing. "I...committed very great transgressions when I was younger. This is part of my punishment. That's why we'll be attending social functions, so that I might gain friends who will join me when I petition the Valar once more." He finished his meal, licking his fingers, then got up. "Leave the dishes," he said. "We should go." He went to the coat rack next to the door, taking a coat and putting it on, along with his top hat. Then he eyed her, took another coat off the rack, and handed it to her. "Cover up with this," he stated, and she put it on. The musty coat swallowed her up - it was much too big, sleeves hanging off her hands and the hem puddling a bit around her feet.

As they went out, Gwen scrutinized her surroundings. Directly beyond a cobblestone road was not another row of houses, as she expected, but rather a canal, with turbid dark water that slowly swirled by. Feanor's house was on a crossroads, and just beyond it was a great factory, the morning light barely reflecting off its smudged windows. Dark smoke poured out of the tall smokestacks, and she realized why no one wanted to live here. More factories obscured her view of the rest of the city, and the morning whistle of the work shift blasted and echoed through the alleys.

They walked right, along the canal towards the factory, then took a right once more, onto another narrow road, which was more akin to an alley, tall shacks of houses pressing in on both sides. Laundry hung above them, crisscrossing lines and shirts. Everywhere she looked was rotting wood and rust, moldering thatched roofs, missing shingles, and an awful smell. As they went on, the alley became a street with single-story houses more akin to Feanor's, an odd mixture of East and West. She noted Japanese-style post construction, and leaded glass or arched windows.

They eventually reached a train station, where Feanor paid for tickets and they stood waiting in the bitter cold. Gwen clutched her ticket with numb fingers, holding the coat more closely around her as she looked up and down the tracks expectantly. There was a decent crowd waiting as well, a hodge-podge group of people whose breaths formed white clouds. She noted a pinched man with round spectacles and a full head of hair that was vibrantly green and thick as grass, complete with frost. Another woman swathed in woolen coat and scarf reached up and fed a large bird that was sitting on her shoulder. A more fancily dressed woman held a young boy with golden curls closely to her side. He stared at her blankly with big brown eyes, playing with a ball. Another man stood next to a real live dinosaur, which she recognized as a parasaurolophus, loaded with bags. He was whispering to it, soothing it, and rubbing it with a blanket to warm it. Then came a great whistle and roar, and the heaving, clanking train came to rest before them.

She boarded, following the lead of her master as she gave the ticket to the conductor, then entered the only slightly warmer car. She looked out the grimy window as the train lurched forward, grinding its way along the tracks. Gwen glanced at Feanor, who was looking out the window, deep in thought, and then stared out at the sights passing by - great towers and domes, markets full of people, stores, grand houses, all eclipsed by the great white wall and mountain beyond.

"Feanor?" she asked, and the elf started in his seat, bring his dark gaze to bear on her. Then his eyes creased in a smile, the first she had seen on him. "You look utterly ridiculous," he said, then looked out the window.

 "The Blessed District," he said, almost mournfully. She waited for him to explain, and he looked back at her, eyes colored with a dark emotion she couldn't recognize.

"When the Elves come to Valinor from Middle-Earth, our birthplace," he said at last, "They sail into the harbors of the Blessed District. There they are joyfully received and taken to see the Valar. They're brainwashed into being content and to think that everything they've expected the Undying Lands to be is here - not noticing that something's wrong. Then, it happens."

"What does?"

"The horror that's happened to every elf here. ‘Blooded' elves start to notice that something's happening to them - a few skin imperfections, a rounding of their ears, a change in hair color or voice, and they begin to suffer from the cold. After a while, even one's memory becomes impaired."

"So, you essentially become like Men."

"In nearly every sense of the word, yes, but we're still inexplicably immortal." He shifted in his seat and continued. "I know that you'll ask about immortality. We don't age, or get sick. When we're killed, our fea - sorry, soul, I think you call it - separates from our body, or hroar. It goes to the mountain - the one you see out there. There we can choose (or, more than likely, be forced) to have another body. But we can never leave this world. Human mortality is quite the mystery to us, and it's been debated to its finer points by the scholars among us."

Gwen frowned. "Have you ever died, then?"

His eyes smoldered. "Yes. Several times."

The train slowed and ground to a halt. They got up out of the hard wooden seats and stepped out into the smoky air; ahead of them were bustling streets. She shyly followed Feanor into the throng, where he strode with purpose towards a brick building. Gwen nervously rubbed the metal that had been seared into her skin. It still throbbed uncomfortably to the touch, but had gotten better with sleep.

The door to the clothing shop jingled as they opened it, and they entered the space filled with racks of clothes and the vague scent of spices. The room seemed empty until Feanor coughed surreptitiously. There was a bump under the sales counter, then a small woman appeared, smiling, quickly tying up short curly brown hair. "Sorry, I was cleaning up some pins." She eyed Gwen in her voluminous coat. "I assume you're here for her?"

He nodded. She continued as she came around the counter, "I'm frankly amazed you even bought an Only, but no matter. What sorts of things does she need?"

Feanor started ticking off his fingers. "For winter - a warm long coat that actually fits, scarf, woolen hose, boots, warm tunic..." the list continued to some length, including a formal dress. Gwen realized with a sinking heart that she was going to be there a while. Even when she was young, she had loathed trying on clothes. Feanor stopped, then looked at Gwen with some sympathy. "I'm not one for this sort of thing, so I'll be back in -" he pulled out and looked at a delicate pocketwatch. "-three hours." He then turned abruptly and left. The shopgirl came up beside her. "He's never been good with people," she said. "My name's Lariath."

She took Gwen to the dressing room, rolling her eyes at the night gown, pursing her lips as she measured Gwen's dimensions. The hours that followed were a blur of questions and colored fabric. Fortunately, Feanor frequented the shop often, and Lariath knew his tastes. While modest in color, the items tended to be of good quality fabrics, more lush than at first glance. When he returned, he nodded in approval at the choices, which would be shipped later so as not to burden the buyers.

Feanor looked over Gwen, who was now dressed in a simple dress, with kirtle and cloak. A faint smile flitted over his face. " A good choice in colors. They suit you," he said, as he escorted her out of the comfortably warm shop back into the chilly air. "Stay close to me."

He turned left and crossed three blocks before turning once more, onto a cold hard street populated mostly by finely dressed Elves. The building fronts were tall, made of streaked grey stone instead of brick, ornately decorated with gold." Pay attention," he said, as he stopped in front of one of the more modest buildings. "This is the bank I frequent. It is small and trustworthy, and since you are registered as mine, they will recognize you as able to access my account in limited ways. But I must fill out some forms, and you must give your fingerprint."

Then they stepped inside, adding to the queue of patrons. Polished stone shone beneath their feet, and the room was filled with the sounds of typing - clicks and dings as balances were accrued. Desk after desk filled the small room, pillared but lined with file drawers. Feanor tapped her to get her attention, with a gleam in his eye, pointed upwards. She followed his gaze and was astonished - not by the floating lights, which were Feanor's trademark, but the sight above her. Whenever a banker was done with a customer's papers, he put them into a folder, and then in a box, which was lifted by a pulley system up to the ceiling, where a suited monkey quickly picked it up and climbed along pipes on the ceiling, down pipes on the wall and onto the drawers, where it found the suitable location and placed the folder in. This explained why the drawers were stacked impossibly high. A number of monkeys waited for a name to be called by one of the bankers below, then retrieved the file and placed it in the appropriate box, which was lowered down to the desk below.

 Intimidated by the tall imposing people around her in line, she inched closer to Feanor, carefully hovering just centimeters away from his clothes. Even though she liked to hug friends, Gwen hesitated to touch people she didn't know very well, even on the hands. She treated physical contact as though it was a form of intimacy, only reserved for those she knew best. Feanor, she thought, might be the same way. For some reason, though, she felt protected around him, as one might feel around their father. An odd sensation, to be sure, but it made sense, since he was the only person she knew who understood this strange world that used monkeys for clerks.

Since they were still waiting in line, she whispered at his back, barely audible over the clacking of machines and chirrup of monkeys, "Sir, where is my family?" Feanor stirred slightly and turned towards her. "I don't know," he murmured. They stood in silence until a banker could take them at his desk.

Feanor bowed slightly and shook the banker's hand. "Mae govannen," he said, and the banker, with short golden hair, repeated it back to him. They spoke rapidly in their foreign tongue, and then the banker shouted at the ceiling, "FEANOR!" as a monkey started and skittered over to the files. The banker opened a drawer and licked his thumb as he began to flip through forms. He pulled out a long sheet covered in alien writing (although, she reflected, she was the alien here) and Feanor, after giving it a cursory glance, took a feather pen from the inkwell on the desk and signed. The box from the pulley clunked on the desk as the banker pulled out a much smaller form and placed a dish holding an ink-soaked sponge in front of her. Feanor handed and pointed. "Sign here." She did so, then dabbed her fingers in the sponge and carefully laid down her prints, after which they pricked her finger and put a drop of her blood. Gwen winced, sucking her finger for the second time in two days. The banker put both forms into the box, which was whisked into the air.

After they left the bank, Feanor decided to take her to the nearest food market, which also happened to be close to the banks, "for convenience," Feanor said, although some products were best bought in other parts of the city. "The rapscallions here would rob you blind, then ask for more because of taxes," he said, ‘but here can be found the best meats and cheeses in the city. Produce is better found at the Duntstan Market, near the wall." They crossed a couple canals and a river on which, Feanor explained, when frozen, people would skate on as an easy method of transportation, but until then, boats were used.

The market wasn't as crowded as it would have been earlier in the day. "Slaves get here earlier to buy the best products for their masters, some of whom work for restaurants," Feanor said as they moved along the street. Once more they were caught in a throng of people. Suddenly, Feanor turned and grabbed a skinny grimy boy by the scruff of the neck, plucking his wallet back from dirty fingers. "Watch out for pickpockets," he said over his shoulder, "when you have money to be picked."

"I personally like this vendor," he said as they stopped in front of a stall that looked as though it had languished there for a long time. Nonetheless, the smell of bread was mouth-watering. Gwen had seen that back home, different cultures had their own kinds of bread. Aside from the usual kinds of baguettes and loaves, there was a kind of shortbread that was in the shape of a six-pointed star. There were some flatbreads and a smaller square biscuit-like bread that Feanor pointed out. "Lembas bread," he said. "It's authentic - hand-made - and therefore expensive, because nowadays more machines than Elves make them. Machines always make things inferior."

He showed her how to haggle over prices - "Never buy at the first price offered." - how to tell of meat or bread is fresh, and the different values of coins. Eventually Gwen's arms were filled with groceries. The sun was at its apex, and Gwen's stomach was growling. They left the market and, under a spontaneous idea, Feanor suddenly sat down by a canal, legs dangling over the water as he motioned for Gwen to sit beside him. He took out one of the long loaves of bread and broke it in half, giving one to her. She smiled and sat down beside him on the grimy walk, tearing off pieces and relishing their taste. A haze obscured the farthest parts of the city as the sun gleamed off bits of metal.

People and carriages hustled by on the street across the canal -the epitome of diverse folk and dress. People were as tall as horses or as short as three feet. Animals of all sorts were walking, carrying bags or people - panthers, elephants, hounds, horses - even creatures she didn't realize existed, triceratops, centaurs, fauns, even the occasional griffon. She gawked at a brachiosaurus as it plodded along, towering over buildings. Dress ranged from the ever-present top hats to women in full skirts and straw bonnets, to men in breeches or robes, women in wraparound skirts, and even veils. There were turbans, tricorn hats, merchants hawking their wares from tall sticks, and even the occasional kimono. A woman even walked by with a cloak made entirely of brightly fluttering ribbons.

 

Suddenly she spotted in the sky something long and dark, but quite obviously flying. She turned to Feanor - "Sir, what's that?" as she pointed. His eyes scanned the sky and he smiled a little.

"A dragon," he said, "they're very rare this far south. They're more prevalent up North, but even there it's considered good luck to spot them." The dragon twisted, then flew out of sight beyond the mountain. "They help deliver mail up there, and sometimes they come south with important mail."

She looked down again at the shiny metal on her hand, then looked once more at her master. "There was some sort of meteor that fell, the night I got here. Have you heard anything about it?"

He shifted uncomfortably, still looking at the sky. "It wasn't a meteor," he said, "It was a ship."

"Like the one I came on?"

"No, indeed not. It's much better, more splendid. It's the ship of Earendil, the Mariner, which I built an Age ago."

"Who's he?"

"Earendil? He was a half-elf that sailed here from Middle-Earth to petition the Valar to help the humans and remnants of the Elves fight against Morgoth."

"Morgoth?"

"The most evil of the Valar, one could say. Earendil was banished for his efforts, doomed to sail the sky as a star, and the Valar wreaked absolute havoc over Middle-Earth."

"Why make Earendil a star?"

Feanor's black eyes flicked away from her gaze abruptly, putting the rest of the bread back in the bag. "I don't want to talk about it anymore," he said under his breath as he stood. "Come along. We're going home. I've business to attend to." He was silent the entire ride home, lost in thought.

When they reached the house and opened the door, the cats greeted them with a great chorus of meows. "Why didn't you feed the cats this morning?" Feanor snapped, and in a burst of anger threw his bag onto the floor. "Put this stuff away," he spat, "I've got work to do." He spun on his heel and strode angrily through the workshop door, slamming it behind him.

Gwen stooped to pick up what had been scattered, trembling. She took a few shaky breaths as the cats purred and rubbed her legs. He was so unpredictable - what had she done? Asked too many questions? She put the food away and fed the cats as the cold autumn sun bore down on the City of Broken Dreams.