I so rarely encounter disobedience in my servants, I’m afraid I may be of no use to you. Perhaps if you were more specific…?
“….. Well…..” he growled clearly attempting to force himself to calm down. “…. I have tried punishments for those who disobey and rewards for those who don’t, and yet they are still convinced that I am an unjust lord, and even those who are rewarded for their good work speak ill of me”
“Punishing disobedience and rewarding adherence has nothing to do with being just, dear brother. What, might I ask, are the policies you are failing to uphold with this disciplinarian method? I am simply bursting with curiosity,” he inquired smoothly.
“HAH! You devil! Let us hope her curiosity is a stronger force then resentment, or you will be out an apprentice!”
The brief mingling of their Songs sent an agreeable shiver through his spine; the little Maia’s song was subtle and harmonious, the perfect accompaniment. The quicksilver cured in seconds aided by the heat of an extra note, and the reversed panes of glass now reflected the pleased face of their maker. Sauron handed Mitsa the finished products, stacked carefully in his gloved hands.
“Diatoms ought to be a treat for her. I’ve always found natural geometry to be especially fascinating, I suspect she will as well. You’d better be certain your device is waterproof! I have a suspicion I know your apprentice after all.”
Mitsanár raised an eyebrow as he took the mirrors carefully, briefly catching a glimpse of his own dark skin and freckles as they tilted. “Thank you. I should be surprised that you’ve met the little raindrop, but I find I’m not,” he mused. “Her father most assuredly will be. Among other things.”
He moved back to his device, sliding one mirror underneath the bottom lens and adjusting its height before he began softly singing to the crystals. A bit of coaxing and they began to glow, shedding a faint, out of focus beam of light on the mirror. He scowled at it and tapped a crystal. “As long as neither of them are hurt I see no harm. I think I need that steel now.”
He straightened, giving up on the quartz before his song took on notes of annoyance. Perhaps a different stone would work better. …But he’d had yet to come across one that held his song as well as clear quartz did. A problem with the facets then?
“… I may need some lapidary advice as well,” he sighed. “As for keeping my apprentice, I am her parent; I know her curiosity better than most. So long as I don’t have her re-tile the floor and replace the kilns brick by brick I think we’ll manage.”
“It was Laumë who contacted me, actually,” Sauron said, scratched his beard idly. “I was quite as surprised as anyone. She wished for my help restoring a rare artifact she’d found. Very precocious!” He laughed, then sobered quickly.
“Mitsa, I understand this puts you in a precarious position, but I must ask you to keep our correspondence to yourself. She wrote to me in confidence; Ossë does not know, and I expect she would be mortified if he found out.”
Noting the difficulty his guest was having with the quartz, he went unbidden to a wall of small, catalogued drawers set into the back of his workroom. He plucked a few specimens from their containers carefully while Mitsa spoke, and something he said made Sauron startle mid-turn.
“Parent?” he exclaimed, nearly fumbling his armful of crystals. “I– Oh! Forgive me, I assumed– but, Uinen, surely…?” He shook his head rapidly to clear it, blinking. “Pardon my ignorance, friend. I am clearly not as informed about this situation as I thought! …Here, try fluorite. Should hold and emit a stronger light when Sung to,” he finished as an aside.
From the source: The lion was sacred to Ishtar, the Babylonian goddess of love and war. This striding beast is one of more than a hundred that once lined the lower portion of the walls of a processional way that passed through the Ishtar Gate in ancient Babylon. During the New Year festival, images of the gods were carried down this street, named ‘the enemy shall never pass’ (aibur-shabu in Babylonian). The lions provided a dramatic, heraldic approach to the gate and served as symbolic protectors and guides for those participating in the ritual.
He smiled at this last line, setting the letter down to unfold its accompanying parcel, bound in waxed paper.
In his reply, he sketched a quick illustration of his gift, as it might look fully restored with its partner:
“Dearest Laumë, Your gift delights me. I do indeed have a fondness for jewelry and its crafting. This poor earring has lost its companion, but I have recreated it here together with its mate. It appears to be Telerin in origin; cast in silver and electrum. I don’t doubt it has quite a story to tell; how it was separated from its twin, whether it was dropped by accident, or if its wearer met a grisly end at sea… I will find some use for it, single or no. Perhaps it can be remade as a clasp.”
He paused, sliding open a chest of glittering artifacts he’d kept on hand. He tapped his lips, walking his fingers through the selection of ornaments until he alighted on a piece that met with his approval.
“I have a gift for you in return. Regrettably, I was unable to attend your presentation, and thus could not deliver a naming gift in person. But now that you are older, I have the pleasure of offering this bracelet to you directly. I feared you might be oversupplied with pearls and abalone, and therefore something with gemstones might interest you more.
It is a simple, elegant little thing; if you were to, say, drop it by mistake into the ocean and then retrieve it again, I doubt it would come to any harm. You might then be able to say in perfect honesty that you’d found it in the sea, if anyone were to question where you’d gotten it.
And, as you may have heard some unflattering accounts of my history that might make you wary, I give you my word as a smith that it is entirely unenchanted and harmless. You needn’t ever fear that from your godfather.
Ever at your service, ~S. “
Fastening his reply and its treasure to the foot of a waiting courier (a frigate bird, for travel over seas), he sent the message on its way.
“Ouh? How wonderful. Whoever she is, I sense she has a fine teacher,” he smiled. He’d forgotten how pleasant it was to have a fellow Aulendur in the forge to talk to; it reminded him of far gone, simpler days.
A pool of mercury bubbled lethargically in its ceramic beaker, digesting the shavings of tin and silver he’d stirred in. As a natural process it would take more time than his urgent friend had to spare, so he urged the amalgamation on with a deep, resonating hum that made the glassware buzz and dance on the table.
When the mixture was finished, be brushed it patiently and evenly across the back of the glass circles.
“You must tell me what your apprentice thinks of this magnifier you’ve built. I’d be delighted to know what she discovers.”
“I doubt she’ll think the same of me when I make her clean the workshop by herself for the first time,”
Mitsanár shot back sweetly. “I specifically let the fume hood go to show her what happens when the vent clogs up. She’s going to hate me for weeks.”
He snorted as his hands worked, straightening a lens here, adjusting a dial there, but his eyes kept straying to Sauron’s song-sped work. Subconsciously a song of his own warmed the back of his throat, reaching for the first one’s frequency and cancelling it out, just loud enough to protect the microscope but nothing else.
Oh he’d missed this.
The professionalism was a breath of fresh air, but it was the feeling of multiple Musics creating at once that made him pause and relax, closing his eyes just to take it all in. Mitsanár was almost reluctant to pull himself out of it and return his attention to attaching tiny quartz crystals to his device.
“Of course.” He smiled. “Odds are she’ll be discovering any and everything she can shove under the lens. Sand grains, iron filings, fish scales… Perhaps I should make a more durable model and let her have fun with it.”
“HAH! You devil! Let us hope her curiosity is a stronger force then resentment, or you will be out an apprentice!”
The brief mingling of their Songs sent an agreeable shiver through his spine; the little Maia’s song was subtle and harmonious, the perfect accompaniment. The quicksilver cured in seconds aided by the heat of an extra note, and the reversed panes of glass now reflected the pleased face of their maker. Sauron handed Mitsa the finished products, stacked carefully in his gloved hands.
“Diatoms ought to be a treat for her. I’ve always found natural geometry to be especially fascinating, I suspect she will as well. You’d better be certain your device is waterproof! I have a suspicion I know your apprentice after all.”
I don’t even know how to respond to this properly; having a place in someone else’s imagination seems like an honor I don’t deserve. Thank you friend :’) This is inexpressibly lifting. ❤
He raised the letter to his face, inhaling deeply and exhaling with a hum of curiosity at the subtle, marine fragrance. The handwriting was blocky, yet confident; a child’s penmanship. “Fairy” was an odd way of describing a Maia, but not unheard of, and there was only one person who he could reasonably assume to be his distant ward– if only in a ceremonial sense.
He sat down to write:
“Dear Mitsalaumë, You’re very clever to have restored these as fully as you have. I imagine they have been submerged for quite some time. Do you know what they are for?
These are prayer beads; carved of boxwood, they feature scenes from the Ainulindalë, the First Music. I have only seen them referenced in texts, since they are almost exclusively made and used by the Vanyar of Aman. However they came to be at the bottom of the sea is a mystery to me.
I can see the difficulty you must be facing: the final bead is glued shut by some sort of mollusk’s secretions, and the wood has swollen with water, rendering the hinge useless.
I have done my best to coax the wood fibers back to their original shape, and used a solvent to remove the encrusting material. Woodworking is not my usual métier, but I have learned a few tricks here and there.
(If you can pardon the blasphemy, you might call Yavanna my “godmother”, as spouse of Aulë. Her retinue and Aulë’s sometimes mingled, and I did not close my ears to their Music.)
As you can see, the final bead now opens, revealing an intricate scene of the birth of Manwë. (I note Melkor is omitted in this revision of history. Typical.)
You’ve found something very rare and extremely beautiful. Craftsmanship like this is something to be treasured, however distasteful I may find the subject matter. Keep it safe, and DRY if you can.
By the by, does your father know you’re writing me? We can keep this our little secret, if you wish.
He tilts his head, eyes sparking at the hint of intrigue.
“…An elf apprentice, you say? How interesting. Finding elves of a smithing persuasion these days is a rare thing. Do I know her?”
While he speaks he sets about with a compass and a glass cutter, turning a sheet of clear glass into circles small enough to fit inside Mitsanár’s palm.
“I myself have a weakness for teaching… Whoever your student is, I’m sure they will benefit greatly from your experiment. At the very least, it will be a pleasure for you; I know first hand that it is one of the keenest joys to watch the Eruhini discover what is beyond their physical sight– like the matrix of cementite and carbon fibers in this steel, or the formation of oxide crystals.”
“You do not. She is more the tinkering type than smithing, I think, but to repair something it helps to know how it works, no? At the very least she will have the means of answering her own endless questions.”
Mitsanár pauses, fiddling with a few dials and gears as he sets up the microscope proper. One of the biggest problems he’s noticed so far is the lighting; while his apprentice can see in the dark, proper illumination is better for minute details. And his microscope casts an awkward shadow.
“Honestly it was more an issue of trust at first,” he admits. “My apprentice is, well, a child. Calling her curious is like calling a volcano warm. I’d hoped we would have an easier time of things if we were on the same page, if she could see the same things I do in something as mundane as a leaf.”
“Ouh? How wonderful. Whoever she is, I sense she has a fine teacher,” he smiled. He’d forgotten how pleasant it was to have a fellow Aulendur in the forge to talk to; it reminded him of far gone, simpler days.
A pool of mercury bubbled lethargically in its ceramic beaker, digesting the shavings of tin and silver he’d stirred in. As a natural process it would take more time than his urgent friend had to spare, so he urged the amalgamation on with a deep, resonating hum that made the glassware buzz and dance on the table.
When the mixture was finished, be brushed it patiently and evenly across the back of the glass circles.
“You must tell me what your apprentice thinks of this magnifier you’ve built. I’d be delighted to know what she discovers.”
There was a cost to great efforts in Song, and there was a cost to setting your will against Power. Salgant couldn’t have sung a note even if he’d tried. Dignity was a foreign land – he was on the verge of collapsing again, half-blind with exhaustion and shaking. He made no protest at shackles or gag, and no more than grunts of pain as he stumbled after the guard. Sometimes the Balrog dragged him up the steps; sometimes he crawled. It was some shred of fortune that he made it to the offered chair on both feet, but Salgant had no mind to appreciate it.
Just keeping his eyes open was a struggle; Salgant blinked heavily at the opulent room and his interrogator. He should be terrified, and somewhere deep inside he was. But that was far away right now. Defiance – for the sake of Gondolin, and his dead, he should be spitting bile. But he was too exhausted. Even the figure of the Abhorred could not bring his nerves back to life. “I…” he began in a rasping whisper, then coughed. “It was no secret.”
It must have been Maeglin. When he’d gone on that long prospecting trip, and come back different. He had been desperate to bury himself in pleasure as though to escape something chasing at his heels. He hadn’t been surprised to see the red glow on the horizon. He’d had some sort of plan already. Salgant had found him weeping once and Maeglin had refused to say what troubled him. It must have been Maeglin. And yet Salgant’s heart cried out that it could not be so. Maeglin had been dour and grim, yes, but he had loved Turgon, loved Idril in whatever misguided form, loved the city that was now fallen. But there was no one else. Maeglin had always suspected Tuor of some treachery, had railed that Hurin’s cries would bring the hunters down on them all. But it had been Maeglin himself who brought Angband to their doorstep.
“No secret inside Gondolin, perhaps,” Sauron paced before the fire, “but for a master of Song nigh equal to Finrod, who Sang a whole battalion into rubble and required no fewer than three Balrogs to subdue– I’d say you were kept very well hidden.”
The maia pulled the stopper from a crystal decanter, pouring clear, iced water into a glass for his guest– the only refreshment he would have seen since his capture. He beckoned for Salgant to drink.
“You are not of the Noldor.” An observation, not a question. Sauron dipped his head in appraisal. “Reports say you Sang in a form of Telerin not heard on the continent since the first rising of the moon.”
A faint smile quirked the corner of his lips. “A rare pearl, then, from the far frozen north. How unexpected.”
Looming somewhat over the seated company, Sauron leaned nearer the elf’s face, inspecting his starlight-limned eyes with a soft grunt of confirmed suspicion.
“I rather wish I’d seen it. It’s been almost fifty years since I last had a proper Song battle.” He clucked his tongue. “Pity. But perhaps I’ll hear you Sing in another capacity soon. The war is won, after all. If you prove amenable to our cause, there is no need for talented individuals such as yourself to remain in irons. My Master affords many opportunities to those who cooperate.”
The implied offer lay open before him, like the glinting rim of the water glass.
Defiance would have had Salgant refuse the water. Practicality and need insisted that he drain the glass, and they won without much struggle. Salgant took the glass with both hands; leaving smears of dirt and soot on the pristine surface. This, he knew, would likely be the last clean water he’d have for some time after he stopped cooperating. It was almost impossible to drink slowly. The chill helped, as did the ice, which Salgant crunched between his teeth and swallowed. He did not speak until the glass was empty.
There did not seem to be much point in arguing about the Power’s observations, or even in panicking as that bigger, stronger form loomed and stared into his eyes. Salgant simply could not muster the energy for fear. Had it been Maeglin who hid Salgant from Angband? It must have been, but he could not dwell on that thought for long. Much good it had done either of them!
“No,” Salgant said at last. His voice was hoarse, would be ruined for days, but no longer clicked and broke in the back of his throat from thirst. “For the pleasure of a more comfortable chain? No.” He should be infuriated at the insult, and somewhere in his heart he was, but he could not reach it.
“Why, that answer was positively Fëanorian!” Sauron laughed, his expression sly as he sat himself across from his guest. “You have been spending too much time with Noldor… Such a typically stubborn and short-sighted response. You served one king by choice, and another before that by no more virtue than being born into their kingdom. This would be little different.”
He refilled the elf’s glass to the brim, but put his hand gently over the top before Salgant could retrieve it, forcing eye contact.
“I will not press you into service. I have no use for an unwilling ambassador who must be kept in check at all hours; you are genuinely free to accept or refuse without fear of retribution. But I urge you to consider this offer– at least, do not refuse until you have heard what it entails!”
He slid a finger around the rim of the glass, and the single, pure note it emitted filled the room like siren song. Then he slid it closer to his guest, and leaned back in his own seat.
“Will you hear me out? Or would you prefer to return to your cell to rest?” He gave a quick snort with a wry twist of his lips; “I’d happily offer you a room on the upper floor, but alas, I fear it is only a more ‘comfortable’ prison.”
It was truly a sign of Salgant’s exhaustion that even a comparison to Feanorions earned little more than a curled lip. The spark of anger was there, as it was for the offer at all, but there was simply no tinder to sustain it.
But he watched the glass, and Sauron’s face, and he took the water when offered. And again Salgant drank without stopping; the smoke of Gondolin burning was still caught in his throat.
“I suspect you don’t understand the hearts of elves,” Salgant suggested, once the glass was empty again. His voice was flat and inflectionless. “If you think I am so eager to serve the destroyers of my city. If you think I will forsake my kin laboring in chains below.”
“I’ve been accused of as much before,” the maia conceded, steepling his fingers beneath his beard, “but you are wrong. Do you think the Quendi are the only speaking people who know loyalty, or a soldier’s grief? The war is over, “ he repeated, “and with our many losses comes the foundation of something new; you need no longer be our enemy, but rather subjects. I would have you– or if not you, then someone else more willing– ease the transition of your people into this new era. You could save many lives, help many of your countrymen earn their freedom. I certainly do not intend to keep half of elfindom enthralled as prisoners of a war that is now concluded; that would be a colossal drain of resources and energy. Why not use your powers to help us, and in doing so, preserve what is precious to you? Surely, you did not have much stake in a war fought over Fëanorian property and a theological dispute between Valar!“
The great smith let out an explosive sigh, belying the frustration of a second-in-command who has suddenly been made to shoulder a whole empire. The fire in the hearth flared in crackling sympathy.
“…I try to be reasonable with you. I try to be accommodating…. why did Eru see fit to build a race out of pride and entitlement alone? Are none of you capable of bending even an inch to save your own damned hides?”
He rubbed the bridge of his elegant nose, brow creased in deliberation as he drew a slow, calming breath.
“Your unusual gift for Song made me curious to meet you Lord Salgant, and I would not have such talent nor beauty lost to menial labors. I had hoped you would prove more cooperative.”
Salgant took a deep breath and released it, trying to cudgel his mind into functioning at something like its normal capacity. This… no, nothing like hope, he was too drained for hope, but maybe… maybe potential. A path, a way out. Not for him, but for others. Turgon might not have understood – but Rog would have. Besides, they were both dead. Salgant had ever put the living before the dead, however beloved.
“If you know loyalty and grief, then you must also understand my reluctance,” he said, much more measured now. “Only a day or two after my city is destroyed and my king is killed, and you ask for my service? It’s been said I was cold-hearted and I admit that it’s so, but there is still blood in my veins, not ice.”
The lines of his face softened; it was not a concession, not yet, but it was nearer to one.
“Of course. You need time. We all do– this will be a difficult period for us all.”
He refilled the glass a third time, the crystal decanter emptying to its last sparkling drops. Melted snow water from beyond the peaks of Thangorodrim, clearer and less sulfurous than the stuff brought up from around the fortress; he’d had it retrieved specially. It was not what prisoners drank.
“Perhaps you are correct after all that I do not understand the hearts of the Quendi. We have lived under the same sky for centuries, yet I am not familiar with your needs, your wants. How could I know better than you what motivates your kind? It is my earnest wish to learn more, to see with your eyes. I will need assistance if I am ever to build a realm for my Master that accommodates us all.”
…If such a thing is even possible, he thought, once again feeling the enormity of the task ahead, salvaging order from the bloody wreckage of an entire Age. It was a strange thing for an immortal Maia, sprung into existence already knowing all he needed for the task intended for him, to realize how much there was still to learn of the world he helped create. Certainly it would be a shame if an entire species had to be eradicated simply to make Melkor’s dream a reality. He hoped to avoid that. It seemed wasteful.
“As you know, it wasn’t very long ago that we were under prolonged siege ourselves. Our supplies are what you’d expect for the end of a 500 year long campaign… Alas, for the moment I cannot tempt you with more marvelous food and drink than what my captains take, and what is indulgent to an orc may not be at all appetizing to an elf,” he chuckled. “Still, I beg you to accept my accommodations while you consider your answer. Your wounds will do better for resting in a proper bed, with a warm fire and bath… And my lieutenant would not be given a second opportunity to make you take the stairs.”
MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive 