Part 9
Erestor keeps coaxing me about why, according to him, I have changed so much. And I keep denying him. There is no sense talking about my secrets with him when he does not return the favour. I only return the barrage with my own when I am finally tired of it.
And to my surprise and astonishment, he does not seem to mind it. Several Sun-settings after Erin's abrupt arrival and departure, he at last corners me in front of my dwelling and insists that we need to talk. (I retort cheekily to that, saying we have been talking since I was lucid enough for it. But he just smirks to that, and says that it is one of the topics we need to discuss now.)
It is how, at this moment, I am submerged neck-deep in the river, lodged between two giant boulders, with Erestor standing half afloat in front of me. The coming winter makes the water even more freezing than before, yet it lessens the swiftness of the currents a tiny bit. – And it distracts me, much.
"Now, what do you wish to know from me so that you will give me – right afterwards – truthful answers to my questions?"
I would say "Nothing." But Erestor looks quite stern now, and he has never been this blunt. (It should be only Fimlin's area.) He quails me at times like this, as ashamed as I am to admit it even to myself.
The space between he and I ripples slightly, although there is neither fish nor bit of wood visible as the culprit. The currents there continue to churn a little, as if a small body is treading water on its surface…
Erestor pokes my nose. I squeak. – I would swear that I am hearing a young child laugh now. Is Lómiseil here? Why is he teasing me?
I utter a small whinging noise. Erestor raises his eyebrows, undeterred. I sigh. "All right." Oh, I will regret this…
Erestor does not waste time. "Well, what do you want to know, then? I shall not answer it if I think it will endanger myself or other people, or if it is not my tale to tell. You can ask me another question, then." Perhaps noting my mutinous look, he hastily adds, "No, no, you cannot do the same."
"Why?" I grouse. Only then I realise how obvious the answer can be.
He seems to come to the same conclusion, because he smirks and says in a matter-of-fact tone, "I am your elder, and I have travelled everywhere long before you were born. Subsequently, I have more secrets than what you have gathered thus far. – Unless, you took to snooping around as a habit?"
I reach out a hand, wanting to shake his shoulder in the height of my indignation. But he is quicker. Dipping underwater for a moment, he surfaces farther away from me and resumes his monologue as if nothing has hindered him.
"I have a feeling that those secrets I have been pursuing from you are not dire or terribly personal. If not, I would do almost anything to get them out of you." A brief quirk of his lips. "I have met many people with a trading mind-set such as you, and I do it myself sometimes. You have been doing this because you have not seen any gain from answering me truthfully, have you not?"
I want to glare at him. But then he will know that he has riled me up, and I cannot afford that. I have to act more indifferently to get the best out of this hard bargain.
He dips underwater again, but does not swiftly resurface. I become restless when two twelve-counting have elapsed and his head has not yet broken the water. Where is he? Has aught happened to him?
I feel the currents parting at level with my midriff, then, – and it is too late. A pair of familiar hands slip between the boulders and my waist, and tickle my sides mercilessly. I want to kick him, but Erestor seems to have anticipated the thought and uses my feet as his anchor. I try to grab his hair or body, but the currents deflect my hands away.
Before I manage to free myself from the boulders, he has returned to his earlier position, smirking triumphantly at me. (With his eyes bright and his cheeks flushing like that, he appears yéni younger than – I suppose – he is.)
"Are you done whinging, again?" he chuckles. I glare ferociously at him, unable to hold it back any longer. I do not know how many times he has used that dratted sentence on me thus far, but I absolutely despise it.
He does not allow me to grumble overlong, though, in spite of his playful front. "Now, what do you wish to ask of me?"
I have been waiting for this moment since a season ago. And now that I am living in it, I am struck speechless by the multitude of questions I wish to ask of him. The list of questions, subconsciously but carefully made and maintained, crumbles into meaningless pieces on the face of consequence: that I have to answer a hard question from him, truthfully and immediately, for the price. It is too high a price. But I cannot worm myself out of this corner of the bargain.
There is one question that always tickles my curiosity, though…. "How old are you, exactly?"
He seems to fall deeply into thought. When he returns to himself again, an odd gleam enters his eyes. "Sixteen long-years and seventeen Sun-years," says he.
"I am not deceiving you," he adds, his voice matching his solemn countenance. "That is my exact age in the Years of the Sun. I was born during the year one-hundred-and-ten in the First Age."
My disbelief does not let up. He seems so much older. He may even have been born before the Exiled Ñoldor came to Beleriand – either from the Great Sea or the Grinding Ice. Maybe he means "sixteen Tree-years" actually, in his saying? But no, that cannot be it…
"What is it – that is too hard to understand?" Wry, slightly reproachful. "After all, you say you are forty Sun-years old, and yet you behave more like a twenty-year-old oftentimes." Firmer, now. "If you are finished doubting me… I wish to know who gave you that bedroll and those writing tools. You cannot find them in the wilderness, and yet you got them overnight."
And the dreaded moment comes also… I have tarried from relaying Erin's message to Erestor only so that I can have a big secret to keep from Erestor, while he has kept so many secrets from me. And now I am quite afraid to find out what his reaction to my petty grudge will be.
"Another question, please?" I plead. He shakes his head – as expected. I slump, virtually hanging between the two boulders. I am really doomed now.
Lómiseil – or who I think it is – is still paddling the water between us, creating small circular splashes. It is much more interesting watching him than staring at Erestor's forbidding countenance…
Erestor's hands come into my field of vision, directly over the small turbulence on the water surface, and retract as if bearing a moving burden. My eyes widen with indignation. "Release him!" I lunge away from the boulders that have been flanking me, reaching out towards him, towards his hands lifted above his head.
"Who is he, then?" The deceivingly-mild tone he often uses sounds cloying to my ears now. "Answer me, if you would not answer the other yet."
The body of a little boy materialises out of thin air between his outstretched hands. But Erestor does not look surprised by it. In fact, he seems to have expected the phenomenon to happen.
Lómiseil is weeping silently and flailing his tiny limbs in wild arcs. I spy clear liquid running down his flushed cheeks, glittering in Vása's departing light. The view stokes my anger into a level I have previously never thought I would reach. It burns my soul with heated blood, and it wants blood for the price of hurting the little boy – my little boy.
– No, not my little boy. He is not mine. He does not like it.
– No, he is mine. He is always mine. He will like it. I am much better than Erestor.
– He will despise me…
– He will not despise us.
My vision is now fully red. Grey and brown and glowing orange blind me. All my senses are on fire.
– "Begone, Sauron!"
– Who is he to command us? Weak, meek Grey. We should crush his throat with our foot. Worthless thing.
– I am worthless. He is not.
– No, he is. He is.
– "Fight it, child, fight it! Expel him!"
A baby, not yet quite a child, wails in distress.
– Another weak thing. We shall quench his fire. Let him speak no more and clod our world. The world we shall reign in…
– I do not like reigning the world. And you are not going to touch him!
– We, my dear, we…
– I am not you! Whoever you are….
– I am you, my dear, and we shall reign together. That little thing has disturbed us for too long, following us wherever we go…
– I… We… I… I…
– Yes, we, my dear, we… We shall stoke all those little people into a frenzy, then this little valley shall be ours… Quench the last of the Water and cleeve the mixbreed… We would like to take revenge on the vexing lump of dirt also, yes?
– "Fight it, child! Fight it! For me, for Fimlin, for Elrond… Fight it! Fight it for your secret friend. Fight it for Lómeseldo…"
– Ah, see? He has betrayed us, that filthy Grey. He knows who the little thing is right from the start.
– Yes, he does. He betrays me… us…
– Yes, he does. And the little thing is not worth our exulted heritage also. That name, a Usurper gave it to him. Ha! We shall not be compared with a Usurper, shall we?
– "Little one, listen to me. Listen to the water. Listen to Lómeseldo…"
– We are not little!
– No, we are not.
– The water is filthy.
– The water is… No it is not! It is swift, clear… The river…
– That stupid lump is not as great as our master.
– No, I have no master.
– We had. But now he is gone, thrown out by the wicked, stupid lumps. We shall reign until he returns. He is going to give us a great reward for our service…
Tiny limbs are latching around my torso. So pure, so white… I open my mouth. My throat burns. I can hear nothing. The white is so blinding against the darkness around me; and so, so scorching.
– Let go!
– Let go!
– I cannot stand it…
– We shall not let ourselves be defiled!
But the torture continues… Burning, burning…
Burning a path through the darkness… Lighting up…
I can hear a… thing… shriek in my mind; slimy and filthy, trying to latch onto my soul and sip from it.
A wordless song. Sweet, pure melodies. The Singer…
The cloud of dirt and ashes parts from my vision. And there I see Erestor, trembling but singing still, and his desperate eyes bore into mine. Yearning, loving.
`Let go, little one. Let go, if you can no longer bear it. We shall meet again.`
– Let go…
– No, we shall not! This is our rightful place!
The song pours into me from the path opened by the pure white light. The parasite inside my mind and soul recedes with another shriek of dismay, terror and utter loathing.
– Vengeance! We shall have vengeance!
– We shall not. And you go now.
`Go, little one, go. Listen to your new guardian… We shall meet again. We shall meet again. I love you.`
Arms envelop my fëa, big and small. And a deep voice is calling me, summoning me, promising safety and comfort from wily parasites.
I flee my broken hróa. The larger arms slip away from me, but the smaller ones never leaves me – guiding me, accompanying me.
But the parasite is chasing us eager to latch onto my spirit and drain it. Like the Trees…
`We are safe.` Small voice peeping, rejoicing, almost gleeful.
A man is standing before a gate, nearer and nearer. He opens his arms, then, and I sink into them gratefully.
The parasite does not dare near us. And then it is chased away, banished, by people in bright lights.
I smile at the action, then look up at my saviour. My new guardian; for a while, until I am reunited with Erestor again.
`Lord Námo.`