Siege Mentality
Chapter Four
Once again, thanks to everyone who reviewed.
Incurelf: Sorry there's no Legolas in this, but I swear that he'll be in the next chapter.
A/N: Curumo is Saruman. He was chosen by Aulë to go to Middle-earth, according to the Unfinished Tales. Sauron was a Maia of Aulë before he became evil and followed Morgoth. It occurred to me that poor Aulë seemed to have very bad luck and this grew out of that. The story will return to Middle-earth in the next chapter.
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A howl of pure, unadulterated rage swept through the dwelling places of the Valar, shattering their accustomed peace and echoing in Aman beyond. Vairë, lifting her head from her loom, dropped a single stitch, and something extremely nasty happened in Far Harad. The fear in the Halls of Awaiting cowered even more, and Fëanor, recognising the voice, began to suck his thumb. Only one being appeared undisturbed, all his attention bent on his work. This was, of course, destined not to last.
"Aulë!" the voice growled again, this time coming from the workshop doorway. The Vala barely acknowledge it.
"Why do you bother me, Manwë? I am rather busy."
The Lord of the Breath of Arda sighed.
"Surely 'tis not so important."
At this, the other finally raised his eyes.
"Not important? Not important? If I do not finish this, Yavanna will never speak to me again," he snapped.
"You have argued." It was a statement, not a question.
"Yes. Now will you let me return to my task?"
"No." Manwë's unearthly face shone eerily. "Yet another of your servants has gone astray."
"What?" the Smith asked.
"Do not strain my patience, friend." The Vala hefted a chunk of iron ore casually. "Curumo has turned to the darkness."
"That is indeed a stroke of ill fortune."
"Ill fortune?" I would rather say it was an act of carelessness on the part of one who should have known better. Why do you always choose such hapless minions?"
Aulë grew agitated at this, waving his fine tool backwards and forwards in one great hand.
"I do not always choose thus. It has merely been two, yet you always hold it as a fault on my part."
"And what a pair!" Manwe snorted. "Sauron and Curumo. What is their fascination with frippery jewellery? Perhaps you might explain?"
"Again, I say I know naught…"
The greatest of the Valar murmured something under his breath which might have been 'the Dwarves'.
"What did you say, my brother before Time began?"
"Nothing, I was just wondering at such an unlucky coincidence," the Vala's voice was as smooth as silk and as sickly-sweet as too much honey. "Now the fate of Middle-earth rests with Olórin."
"Ah yes," Aule said haughtily. "I see where this leads. Varda always preferred Olórin and you follow her."
"I do not."
"Yes, you do."
"I do not."
"Yes, you do."
"What does it matter anyway?" the beautiful voice was petulant, heavy with dignity. "Now because the second of your Maiar friends could not restrain himself in his greed for sparkly things, like some overgrown magpie, the fate of Arda Sahta now rests with my servant."
"There are a few others … the son of Eärendil, for instance."
They paused for a few moments, considering the current unfortunate fate of that beleaguered individual.
"'Tis best that Olórin is strengthened then," Aulë responded.
"Indeed." Manwë left him to his metalwork. That evening, Yavanna would receive a stunning necklace, wrought in the likeness of entwined oak leaves. It was fortunate that she did not look closely enough to see the imprecations against the Lord of the Valar engraved on the underside of one of them.
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Eärendil slapped his gloves against his thigh. He pondered the fact that it was all very well to be a light in the Outer Lands, and that it was a great honour, and all that, but it was still damn cold out between the stars. But here … he grinned at the prospect of his wife as he paused in the doorway to the chamber.
"But did you here what Amarië said of Finrod Felagund … well, I shall never look at the Re-embodied in the same way again…"
Two shrieks of female laughter greeted this, and Eärendil girded himself to face Elwing's friend.
"Good day to you." He stooped to kiss his wife's cheek, nodding to the other occupant of the room. "Elwing, I fear I must tell you of trouble which has befallen our son."
"Really? Which one?" the other elf broke in. Even the daughter of Dior shot her a scathing look for this particularly inane comment.
"I told you, Luinen," she said gently. "Elros chose to be counted among the Edain and has passed beyond the Circles of Arda."
"Oh yes," the fair elf laughed. "Now you mention it, I remember. So it is not him?"
"No." Earendil's legendary patience – just try sailing a ship in the heavens for long enough, and you, too, will develop this – was wearing thin indeed. "May I speak to my wife alone?"
Luinen pouted, flipping her golden hair over one shoulder in a coquettish gesture, but complied.
"I shall visit again soon, my friend."
Once the last flounces of her trailing dress had disappeared around the doorframe, the Mariner collapsed gracelessly into the vacated chair.
"Why do you talk to her?" he asked wearily. "She is so … so vapid. I cannot imagine how you can bear her presence."
Elwing's face hardened.
"No, you cannot." She rose and walked to the window. "Do you know how boring it is to talk to seagulls for hours upon end. And the sparrows … 'twitter … twitter … did you see that branch … twitter … twitter…"
"That sounds remarkably like Luinen."
"At least she tells me interesting gossip."
"What was that I heard about the eldest son of Finarfin?" He moved cautiously to wrap his arms around her waist, knowing full well that the action might cost him parts of his anatomy he had prized for millennia. However, Elwing was in an ebullient mood under her flash of fiery temper, and turned into his embrace, whispering in his ear. At the words, his grey eyes widened.
"Really … I had not thought that possible."
"Does my lord need a demonstration?"
He assented eagerly.
It was only much later that he remembered the news he bore.
"Elwing?"
"Umm?" she murmured lazily.
"I have to tell you something…"
"Oh yes … What is it, meleth-nin?" She shifted and suddenly winced in pain.
"What ails you?"
She reached beneath her back, searching for the source of her discomfort, and finally produced an empty inkpot.
"Tis the penalty for so misusing my desk…"
"And the floor…" Earendil propped himself up on one elbow on the tiled surface and kissed her. "But I was speaking of Elrond. From on high, I saw terrible creatures crawling all over Imladris."
"Orcs?" Her face contorted with worry.
"Nay. They were strange indeed. Like elves or Men, but not…"
He recounted the whole hideous tale, describing every last detail. When he had finished, he waited for his wife's reply. Unexpectedly, she began to giggle, then to rock with hysterical laughter.
"Oh aye, I know these creatures," she choked. "My parents told me how one of them once came after Beren."
"What happened?"
"My grandmother hit her – for they are indeed female – over the head with a chair and chased her to the borders at sword-point." She could now barely speak, and tears of mirth were running down her face.
"So no harm will befall our son?"
"Would you believe that any child of Galadriel's would be able to be daunted by anything? Nay, my love, with her aid, he will survive well enough." He thought for a moment, and then he laughed aloud at the image, joining in her merriment.
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