CHAPTER XXVII


Tyelpe—

"Have you seen Annatar?" he asked Églanim.

The Sinda shook his head. "Not since yesterday. You could check his chambers." He had bending over something small and glinting in the forge, but had looked up when Tyelpe spoke.

"Ah. Thank you for the suggestion. . .how are the rings playing out?" Tyelpe asked, walking over.

"They are unlike anything I have ever seen," Églanim said. "With the sairina that Annatar has taught us, they are something extraordinary that I think will be a lasting impact in our history."

"He says that they are not yet at the full extent of the power that we can extract from them," Tyelpe said as he admired the ring. "There is much more to learn."

"That I do not doubt." Églanim dusted his hands off as Telemaitë and Angamaitë entered the room.

"I will leave you to your tinkering then," Tyelpe said, and departed with an inclination of his head as Églanim did likewise.

Taking Églanim's suggestion, he headed down the corridor to Annatar's chambers. He passed through the cloister above the meres of Glanduin shadowed by the mountains of Hithaeglir, then over a stone bridge which connected the east side of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain's headquarters to the west side. There were guards posted here and there, but watching for what he did not know. Gil-galad in the west claimed that some shadow was brooding in the east, and Ost-in-Edhil was in the east. Someone like his grandfather Fëanáro would have taken it for some jape although he knew quite clearly that Gil-galad was not the person for such quips.

Annatar's quarters were near those of the new recruits though it had fairly been some time since they had come. The entrance was shadowed by a column of holly trees, Tyelpe noticed, as he raised his hand to knock. The place seemed to be somewhat abandoned; perhaps Annatar had retired for the day, as he had seemed to be exhausted lately. With the thought Tyelpe stayed his hand for a moment. If Annatar was in fact resting, it might hardly be the most beneficial thing to disturb it. Tyelpe was about to return to the forges when he heard the sound of glass shattering inside, so he turned back to the door and knocked.

Annatar appeared in the doorway reasonably unkempt and looking more wearied than usual. His customarily flawless hair was tousled and unbound and his garb was rumpled as if he had just thrown it on after returning from a trip to the Sea of Núrnen. He had one hand braced upon the doorway, as though he was fighting the urge to wheeze, and looking up, he gave Tyelpe an apologetic smile.

"Just come from somewhere?" Tyelpe asked.

"Precisely so." Annatar, realizing his impertinence, straightened much as he could manage and beckoned Tyelpe in. "Come in and have some tea."

Annatar vanished from the doorway and Tyelpe entered the room after him. The place was hardly furnished even after all the time he had stayed here, as if he had scarcely any time to dedicate to his own leisurely things—the walls were blank and unpainted, the lounge room empty, and the cot unslept in. The kitchen had to be the most inhabited out of them all, yet only because the patterns of the stone wall made it seem less bare. The counters where the baskets and kettles were supposed to be were as empty as the rest of the place had been, save a few bottles of the fiery Sindarin wine.

"It is the fermented kind," Annatar explained of the tea as he slid it across the table to Tyelpe. Yet as he made to grasp the cup, he seemed to be thinking of other things and knocked it over instead, the tea spilling all over the table.

"I'm sorry—pardon me," Tyelpe said, but Annatar was already cleaning the mess up.

"No matter," Annatar was saying. "You must be exhausted from all the work the Gwaith is putting into you."

Tyelpe almost laughed; it was the appearance of Annatar himself that reflected sleepless nights. "Yet not so much as you, Artano."

This time it was Annatar that laughed. "I've had a lot of scheming to do."

"Scheming?"

"Plan-making."

"I know what scheming means," Tyelpe said, not all too irritably.

"Scheming on formulas for the rings." Annatar sounded so sinister when he said the word scheming; it was an odd choice of diction to use the word anyhow. His tone leaked of some sardonic jape that only he would understand.

"You needn't worry of them so much," Tyelpe told him. "What is so pressing that you must finish the task now?"

"Intuition," Annatar drawled in a voice that had Tyelpe wondering if he had overheard his conversation with Artanis. He handed Tyelpe a fresh cup of tea, but the latter did not touch it.

"Where did you come from just now?" Tyelpe inquired as an attempt to unwind the tension.

"A sleepless night," Annatar said. "And you?"

"Something like that," Tyelpe admitted. "Artanis seems to be troubled of late."

An interesting smile played at Annatar's lips. "Ah, the Lady of Eregion."

"Yes," Tyelpe said, hesitating to say more.

Annatar caught the notion and leaned forward. "What troubles you, dear Tyelpe?"

Tyelpe found no purpose to concealing it from him. "Artanis seems not to. . .trust you."

"Trust me on what?" Annatar was either oblivious or playing innocent. Tyelpe didn't know which.

"She said you had gone to Mithlond before this."

"I did." Annatar turned from where he had been busying in the kitchen and moved to sit before Tyelpe at the table. "I was looking for somewhere to spread the arts of forging and craftsmanship, and I thought the capital of Lindon would be a good place to begin. Then I heard of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and came thus to Ost-in-Edhil."

"Oh," Tyelpe said, unsure of what to think. "I see."

Annatar smiled and offered the tea to Tyelpe again. "Like any of this?"

"All right." Tyelpe sipped some of the tea and frowned at it. "Fermented tea, you said?"

Annatar nodded. "You don't like it?"

"I've just never had it before," Tyelpe said, setting the cup down. "Artanis has been awfully fiery as of late."

"So I've been told," Annatar said. "Perhaps it was the commotion of birthing the child."

A smirk played at Tyelpe's face. "You would call Celebrían a commotion?"

Annatar shrugged, deaf to the jape. "Children are like that."

Tyelpe went back to the subject of Artanis. "I hope it is not her husband. . ."

"Do you suspect anything?" Annatar asked, suddenly interested.

Tyelpe was taken aback. "Of what?"

Annatar immediately abandoned the topic. "Disregard that, if you will. But it does seem as if she has other plans not so favorable to the people of Eregion."

Tyelpe remembered Lord Nestadren of Rhaendach and considered Annatar's words. "Not many like that Gil-galad is working with the Númenóreans."

"Yet Lady Alatáriel approves of it. And people are still angry of those they had lost in Hithaeglir when the Easterlings ambushed the Eldalië camp. What does she do to accommodate their desires? Their losses? Nothing."

"She told me that she could not feel your fëa when she reached for it through ósanwë," Tyelpe said suddenly.

"Does she, now?" Annatar's eyes were vicariously bright. "Why do you not try?"

"I don't have the gift," Tyelpe said. "It is inherited."

"I could teach you." Annatar leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You can do it, with the rings, when they are completed."

"Really?" Tyelpe was more than surprised; he had always wanted the ability of ósanwë.

"Many of your kin can, why can't you?" Annatar had a look of intense passion upon his face. "Do you not remember your coz Findaráto? He nearly overcame the great necromancer Thû, known as Sauron to you, before he fucked and killed him."

Tyelpe rose to his feet. "What did you say?"

Annatar bowed his head, hiding his face. "Forgive me for my rash words. I was not thinking." He opened his mouth as if to say more, but no words came out.

Tyelpe looked at him coldly. "Mind your tongue, or Thû the necromancer is like to tear it off in your sleep."

"Tyelpe—"

"I know everyone knows the tale of his death," Tyelpe said stiffly, "but I would prefer not to be reminded of it."

Annatar looked down. "I'm sorry for what I said. I—I don't know why. . ." He trailed off, and the sentence was never finished.

"Or perhaps you do," Tyelpe said softly, and left the room.


Atharys—

The sight of Phanaikelūth hovering in the sky was somehow unnerving tonight, as if something was watching over him and everything he did. It was said that Manwë Súlimo, Lord of the Winds, heard and saw all, but Atharys could scarcely detect his presence. Phanaikelūth seemed much more omnipotent, lingering in the firmament with her wan, cold face.

He had never been in Aman; he had been born late in the First Age, apparently during the War of Wrath or something of the sort. He didn't remember any of it, if it was true. Once he had dared to ask his father who his mother was—then he had been green and insolent, yet as Atharys said this, Lord Hestáren happened to pass by the hall with an impertinent smirk. Some whore who died birthing you because the fire in your blood consumed the light of her hröa, Hestáren had said. Then as if he had spoken no rash words, Lord Hestáren turned to Mairon and bowed.

"Forgive me for intruding, my lord," he said. "I was coming to report the news on Harlond."

"Ah." Mairon gave a brisk nod to Atharys. "We will speak later, Aþarithir yondonya." Then he waved him aside as if none of it had ever happened nor mattered.

Atharys could remember the moment fairly clearly. It was the first time he had realized how insignificant he was, even if he was the child of the second mortal Quendë that managed to birth a child of Mairon. All the others had been stillborns or miscarriages. When he was a mere child, he liked to think that perhaps one of the handmaids was secretly his true mother and she was hiding close, just out of his reach—but she was there. Nonetheless, as he grew older and listened upon the words of Lord Hestáren, all the reveries he had dreamed of as a child dwindled away. Mairon always told him he learned quickly, yet now as Atharys looked back upon the years he thought otherwise. Perhaps Mairon only thought so because of the utter obedience he had received after he whipped the boy that had done some unrecorded misdemeanor. Certainly he must have been deaf to the boy's lonely solitude and silent pain throbbing in his sleepless nights.

Now it was a few hours after midnight and Mairon was still working at the forges in Orodruin. It seemed now that he did not sleep, for all the work he was putting himself into. He had not yet told Atharys what he was crafting within its fires, but Atharys could guess well enough; perhaps with this device he would be able to thoroughly revive his sister's fëa into a more perceptible hröa. Atharys at least hoped for that, although he still felt odd calling this dead elleth Mairon had brought back one day his sister.

Atharys went now to the temple in the heart of the bone forest, yet he did not know he was going there and let his feet carry him far and wandering. He sensed the ravens watching, perched atop the white-leeched branches, and called for them. They came like the swirl of ashes in a dust storm, a cloud in themselves. He watched the swirl for a moment, then at his command the cloud dissipated into a thousand leaves of beating wings into the air. When he looked up again, he realized that he was before the temple where his dead sister lay before the tree. One of the ravens was perched atop the crumbling stone roof, cocking its head and staring at him. Atharys glanced at it, and the raven cawed. Everything seemed to be sullenly still now without the beating of the ravens' wings, and there was not even a breezing wind to stir the air.

When Atharys entered, he found that Mairon had put some sort of an enchantment to preserve the body; it looked the same as it had the first day he had brought her back to Morinórë. He was glad that someone had closed her eyes, for they unnerved him to be open and unseeing. Sometimes he had thought that she in fact could see him even if she was dead. . .perhaps her fëa was drifting near, sensing his presence. He wondered who she had been even though Mairon had told him much of her story. Híthriel, he said her name was, but had renamed her as Hrysívë, child of winter. Whoever she had been before was gone now—dead and gone, like all the others.

"Hrysívë," he whispered. He wanted to hear the sound of the name aloud.

With a sudden jolt, he thought she shifted in expiry, and he jerked backwards, tearing part of his right arm on the bone tree. He withdrew backwards, shakily, feeling blood trickling down his arm. Subtly he felt a drop of scarlet slither down his hand and linger upon his fingertips, then blooming like a flower, dripped to the ground. It sounded almost like rain, but tainted with sort of an unnameable curse.

Atharys suddenly found it necessary to ask for forgiveness to the lifeless elleth before him, and hastily dipping his head in apology, he spoke in the Quenya tongue.

"Nanyë nyérinqua. . ." The words could be translated to I'm sorry, but they meant literally I am sorrowful, a feeling of deep regret that Atharys did not yet know how to express. He did not know precisely why he was apologizing to her, but there was some intuition within him that spoke and insisted on being heard.

He repeated the words again and opened his mouth to say more, yet he did not know what would be right to say.

"I'm wondering if you can hear me, in Mandos," Atharys murmured at last. He paused then, considering. "I'm wondering if this—if this is what you wanted." He tilted his chin up to the moonlit sky and closed his eyes, breathing in the night air. When he opened his eyes again, there was dolor in them indescribable to him; it was a certain sentiment that he had not realized was in him before although he had always been a lonely child.

"Nanyë nyérinqua," he said again, turning away. "Nanyë nyérinqua."