You Live Your Life in the Shadow of the Mountain by darthfingon

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The Oraistar of Oichimyaiva

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Four days later, Eäzinya and Amárië had finished the Oraistar's robes.  The outfit comprised a sleeveless, floor-length tunic of gold, belted at the waist with a white sash, and a gold mantle of a similar shape to that which he had worn as an Almatar.  Sidaizon donned it all over plain white trousers and a white shirt, keeping the hard roughness of the metallic enwizda cloth from touching his skin.  The tunic and mantle were heavier than he had anticipated.  They weighed down on his shoulders as if he were wearing an entire tent of thick canvas.

"How does it look?" he asked Eäzinya.

"Very strange," she said.  "It seems all wrong to have you dressed like that and standing in our house.  You should be in a great hall of silver and gold, not in a little tiled room with a low ceiling."

"I'll probably look just as strange in the poor Lavazati, then.  They all have small rooms with low ceilings and are made of plain stone."

"I think you look like Arafinwë," said Nautalya.

Smiling, Sidaizon gave her hair a teasing tug.  "Arafinwë wears Oraistar's robes?"

"He wears gold.  If you had long hair you'd look exactly like him."

"How lucky for me," said Sidaizon.  "Now that I'm an Oraistar, I can grow my hair however long I like.  So perhaps in two years I shall look exactly like Arafinwë, and everyone will mistake me for the King of the Noldor."

Both Nautalya and Eäzinya laughed at that.  Amárië, though, wore a strange expression, pale and tight.  She afforded Sidaizon only a brief glance out of the corner of her eye before turning away, as if she suddenly could not bear the sight of him.

"It was only a joke, Amma," he said softly.

"Sounds like nothing more than nonsense to me," she replied in a voice that struggled to remain even.

"Amma..."

She ignored him, instead stooping to gather up all the sewing supplies and fabric ends that littered the floor.  "We've made a terrible mess in here.  Nautalya, will you help me tidy?  Put the large white scraps aside for quilts, and you can use the little pieces for play.  But keep all the gold by itself.  We can unravel the weave and use even the tiniest bits for embroidery."

Shaking his head, Sidaizon let her go about her tidying.  After so many years he had grown accustomed to her abrupt changes in mood.  Sometimes she could laugh and smile in spite of her sorry fate, and sometimes the mere mention of the Noldor would set her on edge, tense as a cat.  This would be a cat-tense day.

"I should be on my way," he said to Eäzinya.  "I want to visit at least two of the Lavazati today, and do whatever it is I'm expected to do as their new Oraistar."

"What time will you be home for supper?" she asked.

"Before sundown, with any luck.  I don't want to be out late, and my introductions shouldn't take long."  Then he kissed her cheek and was out the door.

~

Of the six Lavazati Sidaizon now oversaw as Oraistar, Oichimyaiva was both the largest and the closest, though his plan for that day was to first visit Lavazat Salizérë an hour's walk away.  The road to Salizérë was an easy one: Sidaizon followed a main thoroughfare that led almost straight south-west with few curves.  It made for quick walking to avoid the narrow and frequently muddy alleys, though the disadvantage to such a clear path became obvious within minutes.  An Oraistar's robes stood out like a torch on the drab street.  People stopped in their tracks to stare as he passed, pointing and wondering aloud to one another at the spectacle.  Women stood in doorways or leaned out of upper-storey windows in the shared housing while children, shrieking and hollering, ran after him to touch his mantle.  A trio of running children soon became a pack, and then a parade as the parents abandoned what they had been doing in order to follow along.

"Where are you going, Heru Oraistar?" they asked.

Sidaizon, still marvelling at the strangeness of the title, answered, "I am going to Lavazat Salizérë."

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd.  Of course the Oraistar would go to the Lavazat, no doubt to do something fantastic, and they would all go along to see.  As they progressed down the road, the followers called out to all that they saw and bade them join the procession.  The Oraistar was going to Lavazat Salizérë, and something grand was about to happen.  By the time he had gone a third of the way, Sidaizon had dozens upon dozens of people at his back.

One man jogged up to fall into step beside him.  "Are you not Almatar Sidaizon of Oichimyaiva?"

"I was," Sidaizon replied.  "But now..."  Holding out his arms, he looked down at the golden robes.

"We thought you looked familiar.  And you've been made an Oraistar!"

"Yes.  And this will be my first visit to Lavazat Salizérë as its Oraistar."

The man nodded, his excitement growing.  "I will tell the others!"  And with that he fell back, disappearing into the crowd.

Another man came forward to take his place within seconds, and two more appeared at the same time on Sidaizon's other side.  "Heru Oraistar," said the first.  "I need your guidance.  I am trying to organise a marriage for my daughter, but she refuses to accept any of the matches I-"

"My son is a worse state!" interrupted one of the men on the other side.  "Heru Oraistar, he claims he is in love with a Yaranénon girl and threatens to marry her!"

"I want my son to go to the Academy on the Mountain!" someone shouted from behind.  "But he says he wants to go east to the sea, Heru Oraistar!"

"My daughter-" called another, and yet another, "My wife is unhappy,' and then the entire street rang with dozens of voice clamouring louder and louder as each fought to be heard above the others.  Caught in the storm of noise, Sidaizon could make out nothing more than a constant theme of Heru Oraistar!  Heru Oraistar!  Heru Oraistar! over and over, until the words ceased to have any meaning at all.

He stopped, turned, and held up his hands.  In an instant, all of the people fell miraculously silent.  "This is not the place for me to hear your troubles," he said to them.  "Wait until we reach the Lavazat.  There, I will sit and listen to all of you in an orderly fashion, and give such advice as I can."

Some grumbled at being so dismissed, but most nodded in quiet agreement.  The procession started again down the road, and though the excitable chatter quickly rose once more, no-one approached Sidaizon with any more questions.  The crowd fell back to keep a more respectful distance.  Only children continued to run along close enough to dart in and out of his shadow, squealing and yelling to each other as they invented a new game.  The first rule of this game seemed to be that nobody was allowed to step on the Oraistar's shadow-head.  The second rule must have been that the purpose of the game was to make another child break the first rule.

Sidaizon had been to Salizérë no more than a handful of times, with his most recent visit being before Nautalya was born.  It had not changed since then in any way that he could see.  The building was small, just over half the size of Oichimyaiva, but everything about it was impeccably tended, from the stone facade to the flowering courtyard out front.  A flash of memory triggered in the back of his mind.  There was something odd about Salizérë, though he could not remember exactly what.  It was not until he had passed through the courtyard gate that it returned to him.  The Almatar of Salizérë, drawn by the noise of the approaching crowd, had opened the front door to peer out.

He was the tallest man Sidaizon had ever met, and thin as a pole, with a long neck and a long nose and short, black hair cropped off at his shoulders in a haphazard way.  As far as Sidaizon knew, he was the only Noldorin Almatar in the entire city, and a large part of the reason why Lavazat Salizérë had grown so popular.  People flocked to the gates to see the spectacle of this strange-looking foreigner in white robes.

"Almatar Anarthámo," Sidaizon called up to him.

Anarthámo raised his hand in greeting.  "Alla Oraistar..."  He paused, creasing his brow.  "Sidaizon?"

"Indeed," said Sidaizon, climbing the steps.  "The King has newly appointed me Oraistar of Oichimyaiva."

Anarthámo seemed to accept this news more easily than Auzëar had.  Perhaps, having been born and raised in Tirion, he saw nothing out of the ordinary in a Mótarin Oraistar.  He nodded as if it were perfectly reasonable that there should even be such thing as an Oraistar of Oichimyaiva, and stepped back with a bow to invite Sidaizon into the Lavazat.

"Wait where you are," Sidaizon said to the people in the courtyard.  "I must speak first with Almatar Anarthámo, but this will be brief, and then I will return to listen to your concerns."

The inside of Lavazat Salizérë was no different from Oichimyaiva, save in size.  A row of small windows set near the ceiling lined all walls, some with tree branches or creeping vines growing through them.  Birds flitted from one window to another over the head of a shirtless boy, who held a rag in one hand and a bucket in the other while his eyes tracked the birds.  Even in the dim light, it was clear that the boy's hair was a strange red colour, like a fox.  He would be Anarthámo's son by a Minyarin wife.

"Come with me this way," Anarthámo beckoned; "we can sit in the back room.  Lanquillo – the assistant here – just made some tea if you'd like a cup."

"That's very kind, but I only need a quick word," Sidaizon answered.  The name Lanquillo sounded vaguely familiar, and as soon as he followed Anarthámo into the back room he remembered why.

Assistant Almatar Lanquillo was the second half of the strangeness of Salizérë, and almost as much of a curiosity as Anarthámo.  He was as oddly short as Anarthámo was tall, and just as thin, though his hair was a dark, coppery shade and his skin even redder.  He looked up at Anarthámo with blue-black eyes and spoke in a voice that did not fully manage to hide what had once been the lilting accent of the Yaranénor who lived on the other side of the river: "What's all the noise outside?  Is there more fighting?"

"No, no," Anarthámo answered.  "They came with the Oraistar."

This time, Lanquillo's blue-black eyes turned to Sidaizon, and he slowly nodded in recognition.  "Heru Oraistar, were you at Oichimyaiva?  Almatar Sidaizon?"

"Yes," said Sidaizon.  He paused, filled with the certainty that he ought to say more, though his mind was as blank as the sandstone wall behind Lanquillo.

"When were you named Oraistar?"

"Only a few days ago."  Again, he stopped, filled suddenly with a crushing sense of self-doubt.  What in the world was he meant to say?  That he had come from Taniquetil, appointed by the King as yet another ruling voice to tell the Almatar what to do in his own Lavazat?

Both Anarthámo and Lanquillo stared at him with an expectant openness, waiting for the explanation of why he had come.

"The King..." he began, faltering.  "The King appointed me Oraistar of Oichimyaiva.  I report to both him and the Oraistar of Valmar.  Specifically, they... the King... requests that I keep him informed on the lives of common people.  Their lives and needs and thoughts.  I will be overseeing six Lavazati: Oichimyaiva, Salizérë, and Aikilumar on this side of the river, Thoronyámë and Vallúlo in the west, and Santaya in the north.  These are the six most commonly visited by the merchants, farmers, and labourers, and the ones where the Oraistari have previously spent little time and offered little help.  I am here to change that.  My duty is to listen to the people and also the Almatardi, and to report back to the King.  If you have any concerns that require the King's attention, you may relate them to me and I will speak to him on your behalf."

Both of the men nodded at this and, to Sidaizon's great relief, looked nothing less than agreeable to everything he had told them.

"How often will you be here?" asked Anarthámo.

"I would think no more than one day per month," said Sidaizon.  "Though if you have pressing matters that cannot wait for my visit, you may always send me a letter.  I shall be keeping an office at Oichimyaiva."

Anarthámo nodded.  "Good.  That sounds very good.  I know there are things I would like to report to the King.  I've tried speaking to the Oraistar of Valmar, but he's such a..."  He stopped suddenly, and a wave of uncertainty passed over his face.  "He's so busy all the time," Anarthámo corrected himself.

"Yes," Sidaizon agreed, trying not to smile.  'Busy' was not the word he would have used to describe the Oraistar of Valmar, especially when it came to the complaints of some insignificant, peasant Almatar.  "Our Salistina Heru Oraistar is very busy.  And that is why I have been appointed.  To... er... relieve him of some of that burden of responsibility."

"I understand," said Anarthámo.  He and Lanquillo exchanged a look, sharing some faint hint of amusement.

"Now I apologise for my brief introduction," Sidaizon continued, changing the subject, "but I have limited time here today and there is a crowd outside demanding my attention."

"Of course."  With a bow, Anarthámo gestured to the door.  "I will draft up a list of any concerns that Lanquillo and I have, or that people might bring forth, and discuss them with you on your next visit.  Are there... er..."  He paused, hissing in a long breath.  "Are there any items we should not discuss with you?  Anything that must be managed by Lanquillo and me only?"

There was no need to guess what he meant.  "You speak of money," said Sidaizon.

Anarthámo remained motionless in uncertainty, neither confirming nor denying Sidaizon's statement.

"Anarthámo, I was Almatar of Oichimyaiva for nearly one hundred and twenty years.  I know how it is to struggle to find money for candles and paper when your main source of income is donations from the city's poorest folk, especially after Taniquetil takes most of that to 'redistribute'.  If you find yourself constantly short, report the shortfall to me.  I will petition the King to increase your expense allowance."

Touching his hand to his forehead, Anarthámo bowed as low as his great height would allow.  "Thank you, Heru Oraistar."

"The King appointed me to help him understand the common people of Valmar," said Sidaizon.  "I will ensure he understands fully, whether it pleases him or not."

He passed back through the entrance hall with its windows and birds, where the fox-haired boy now knelt on the floor scrubbing at a white smudge.  In the few moments he had taken to speak to Anarthámo, the noise of the crowd had grown.  Voices echoed through the walls and windows in a crash of excited sound.  When he opened the door, he saw why.

Vedezir stood on the front stairs, patiently waiting.  Just outside the gate, Sidaizon could see a carriage identical to the one Oraistar Tayóron had used on the day of the burial.

"Ah," said Vedezir.  "You actually walked all the way over here.  I had thought you might have the sense to come to Oichimyaiva first, where I was waiting with my carriage."

"How did you know-" Sidaizon began.

"You should know that an Oraistar walking through the streets of Valmar attracts almost as much attention as a Vala doing the same.  With all the shouting, I think everyone on this side of the river now knows you're here.  That's why we use carriages: faster, more efficient, less sensational.  Now come with me.  I can drive you wherever you need to go."

Sidaizon glanced down at the mass of people gathered in the courtyard.  If one Oraistar attracted a crowd, the presence of two was enough to summon what looked like everyone within walking distance.  Hundreds of bodies covered every available inch of grass, with more surrounding Vedezir's carriage and trying to elbow their way in through the gate.  "But what about all these people?  They've come for advice."

"It will take us over an hour to walk back to the carriage," Vedezir answered.  "Dispense advice on the way."

Sidaizon did not bother to say anything to that.  One thing about Vedezir, he now remembered from his days at the Academy, was an inclination toward ridiculous and nonsensical statements coupled with a complete disinterest in ever telling the whole truth.  "Fine," he sighed.  He followed Vedezir down the stairs.

Once on the grass, though, he understood what Vedezir had meant.  The throng of followers had pressed themselves so tightly into the small courtyard that there was no space to move.  Vedezir took one step forward, but five men blocked his way, shouting Heru Oraistar! Heru Oraistar! and reaching out to touch his mantle.  Two collapsed to their knees to grasp his feet.  At this rate, it would indeed take at least an hour to reach the carriage.

"Heru Oraistar!" another voice cried, and Sidaizon felt hands on his arm.  "My son, Heru Oraistar, is disrespectful and refuses to pray with me!" 

"Oh..." said Sidaizon.  "Well..."

"How old is he?" asked Vedezir.

"Thirty-one, but-"

"Then he is not old enough to have to learn his prayers.  He's still a boy.  Let him play outside."

The hands fell away, replaced by a more insistent tug.

"My daughter refuses to marry!  She is fifty-two years old and does not want a husband!"

"I suppose... I suppose that's her choice," Sidaizon began, "and-"

"And you cannot force her to marry," interrupted Vedezir.  "A marriage without her consent is against the will of Manwë.  If you want her out of your house, send her to the Quindesta."

"That's somewhat abrupt," said Sidaizon.

"Abruptness is necessary if you want to be out of here anytime soon."

A distraught boy pushed his way forward to clasp Vedezir's sleeve.  "Heru Oraistar, a bird flew into my house and my cat killed it!"

"Give the bird a proper and respectful burial in a garden," came Vedezir's quick reply.  He stepped forward into the sea of people, parting them with his outstretched arm.  Sidaizon followed quickly at his back before the space between them could fill in with grasping hands.

"Heru Oraistar!"

It was no longer possible to distinguish one voice from the next.  Dozens blended together from all directions, flowing into a constant stream of words: a problem with a neighbour, a fight with a father, an accusation of witchcraft, a desire for revenge.  Sidaizon answered each as best he could, as quickly as he could, fighting all the while to keep the crush of people from separating him from Vedezir.  He had been in crowds like this before, crowds so dense the people could hardly move, but never as the focus of the attention.  Hands that seemed to come out of nowhere, detached from any discernable bodies, touched his hair and clothes as if he were some lucky amulet.  Their fingertips hovered like flies.

If one could drown in water, then one could just as easily drown in people.  The heat of the sun bore down from above and the smell of trampled grass and dirt rose up from below, and all around the people pushed in.  There was no fresh air.  Closer they pressed, bodies upon bodies, squeezing and crushing.  The heat of the sun filled every tiny gap between them, adding its weight, and the roaring noise of voices bound them all tighter together.  Trapped at the core, Sidaizon stumbled.  He could not breathe.  There was no air.

A pace ahead, Vedezir turned sharply.  His eyes met Sidaizon's, and he held out his arm.

"Stand back and be quiet!"

The words echoed like thunder through the courtyard.  As Vedezir swept his arm in a circle, the people shoved their way back away from him as eagerly as they had pushed forward a moment earlier.  Vedezir was left standing in the middle of a perfectly clear circle an armspan wide.  He frowned at Sidaizon.  "Not you."

Sidaizon looked at the tightly packed bodies on either side of him.  Somehow, he had managed to push his way back along with the others until he stood at the edge of the circle.  It had seemed like the right thing to do; he had not even questioned himself in obeying Vedezir's command.  Trying not to feel too foolish, he stepped forward to take his place in the cleared circle.  All of the people had fallen strangely silent.

"Is there anyone here with a question so complex it cannot be answered by Almatar Anarthámo?" Vedezir asked the crowd.

No-one spoke.  No-one moved.

"All concerns should be addressed to the Almatar," Vedezir continued.  "In the event he finds himself facing a problem he cannot solve, he will bring it forward to Oraistar Sidaizon.  We must follow the correct procedure."

Heads nodded and glanced to one another, but still no-one spoke.

"Now let's be on our way," he said to Sidaizon.  

~

The carriage lurched forward and Vedezir dropped his head back against the cushioned bench, closing his eyes.  "And that," he said, "is why we do not walk."

Sidaizon nodded.  In the safety of the carriage, away from the heat and noise and relentless bodies, he was able to breathe.  His speeding heart rate, which he had not even noticed, began to slow, and the sweat he had not felt form on his face and neck began to cool.  He wiped his hands over his brow.  "Are the crowds always like that?  When you visit a Lavazat?  Do they always have so many questions?"

"I've never seen a crowd that size, because I've never walked through the streets gathering followers as I went, but yes.  They always behave in the same way.  You'll find that your wisdom has magically tripled now that you're an Oraistar, and nobody can make even the simplest of decisions without your guidance.  As Almatar, I think I'm correct in assuming that people would have asked your advice on important matters that required interpretation of the law, but otherwise they used their own good judgement.  You were a well respected man, but still within reach: still one of them.  Now you are one of us.  Something separate and even a little dazzling.  People will find any excuse to hear what you have to say just for the sake of hearing it.  If you're there to ask, it will become impossible for anyone to even make a pillow without first consulting you for a holy declaration on what makes the best stuffing."

"But why?" asked Sidaizon.

Staring out the window, Vedezir shrugged.  "Because people are happiest when they don't have to think for themselves.   Responsibility and decision-making are such burdens.  Why do you think we invented kings?  Why do you think the ancient Eldar looked up at the stars and prayed to Varda before they even knew her name?  Everyone wants guidance.  Everyone wants to know that, in their hour of need, they will have somebody to turn to who will protect them and tell them what to do.  The people have the Almatardi, the Almatardi have the Oraistari, the Oraistari have the King, the King has Manwë, and even Manwë has Eru, who knows all and can pass His wisdom down through the chain."

"I suppose," Sidaizon agreed.  It made sense, considering what he had seen, and on some basic level he knew it to be true, though the notion still chafed at his sense of pride.   "But I think some people would rather make their own choices and decisions."

Vedezir grinned.  "And that's why you're now an Oraistar.  You think like a leader, Sidaizon.  Most people don't."

"And you?"

"No," Vedezir laughed, "I'm in this mess because of what I can do, not because of how I think.  Or because I was drunk enough to speak candidly to a King who's so distanced from reality he literally cannot fathom the concept of being poor."

Quickly, Sidaizon shut his mouth and looked down at his knees.  He and Vedezir had not spoken of what had happened at the council and how the wine may have played a role.  He had no intention of changing that. 

Vedezir, to his relief, made no further mention of it.  "Listen," he said instead.  "I need to talk to you about something.  Absurd as it may sound, I'm not acting as your personal carriage service out of the goodness of my heart.  I may have ulterior motives."

"Such as?" Sidaizon asked.

"I'm pleased to announce that you have taken over my previously-held title of 'Oraistar Ingwírion Hates Most'.  I would like to keep it that way.  The more he rages and stews over you, the less time he has to dedicate to being in my way and crossing everything I do.  Therefore, it is in my best interest to ensure that Ingwírion has no reason to judge you unfit to hold your title and have you demoted back to Almatar."

"Judge me..." Sidaizon began, but stopped with a frown.  "What do you mean?"

"I note he did not explain to you the meaning of the white sash before sending you home.   I doubt it was an honest oversight." 

Sidaizon had considered the white sash only briefly.  The others wore colours, he knew, and he had known at one time during his studies what those colours meant.  The hierarchy of the sashes had long ago been discarded as a piece of trivia not worth remembering.  Now, in the confines of the carriage, it was impossible not to notice that Vedezir's sash was indigo with gold trim, and looked rather more important than his own.  "No," he said.  "Ingwírion told me nothing at all." 

"A white sash means that your position and your competence therein are subject to review in one year's time.  That's what worries me.  When Ingwë named you Oraistar of Oichimyaiva he did not take the time to give you the gold-trimmed green sash to which you were entitled.  Ingwírion saw this opportunity and stepped in to give you white, which is usually reserved for newcomers elected by the council, not those appointed by the King.  Anyone can see that this is nothing more than an excuse to call you up before the council next year in order to convince them you're not fit to be an Oraistar."

An unpleasant feeling of light-headedness, as if he had stood up to quickly, began to bloom at the base of Sidaizon's skull.  "Oh," was all he found he could say.  He should have suspected that all of this was too good to be true, foolish as he was in believing he had any business wearing gold like a nobleman and dispensing advice as if he had the authority to do so.  For a handful of days, he had let himself believe that such a miraculous change in fortune could happen.  And now Vedezir's revelation brought him back down to where he belonged.

"Don't look like that," Vedezir said softly.  "I'm only telling you what Ingwírion will try.  I'm not saying he'll succeed.  And for my part, I plan to do everything I can think of to see that he doesn't."

The words helped somewhat.  "How?"

"Well, I know that Voroman's uncompromising adherence to procedure will be in your favour.  Ingwírion can summon you before the council, but if he questions your capability, Voroman will force him to follow the same method used to try any novice Oraistar.  He will be limited to questioning your knowledge of history and the law, and testing your judgement in given situations.  I can help you prepare for that.  He will be hoping to catch you unaware, but if we spend this next year learning answers to all the obscure questions he might throw at you, there should be no reason you can't pass the trial."

"Right," said Sidaizon.  He stared down at his hands, fingers clenched and creasing the fabric of his white sash.  He took a long, slow breath, closed his eyes, and exhaled.  Once again, there were too many anxious thoughts clattering through his head, vying for dominance.

"Sidaizon, everything will turn out well in the end.  I promise.  Both precedence and procedure are on your side.  Ingwírion will fail.  Do you understand?"

"Yes," he answered, and the small act of speaking the word aloud made him feel a little more confident.  He faced a daunting challenge and trial ahead, but neither of those things was new to him.  His knowledge had been tested by the Oraistari before at the Academy.  This would be nothing more than the next step along the same road, and Vedezir, ulterior motives or not, was there as a guide to show him the way.  Ingwírion would fail.  "I understand.  And I can do this."

 

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Chapter End Notes

Quindesta - Convent