Author's note: Thank you to anyone who reads!
Chapter 2
...in which the miruvor is obtained, along with a bit of advise
The vast space of the main kitchen was empty and quiet, as usually during the night ‒ only scents of summer beverages lingered in the air around, creating an overwhelming composition of fruity, flowery and herbal fragrances, sweet and refreshing at the same time. The steward walked past the empty tables, sweeping his gaze over the rows of shelves and cupboards, but only briefly and more out of habit than out of any real necessity. The kitchens were managed impeccably, as they had always been ‒ but they were not his to manage.
The House kitchens were a kingdom on their own and by a custom, the steward's authority did not stretch past their doorsteps. This not-so-small dominion was taking up a large part of the north wing, from the sunny spicery and storage rooms arranged upstairs, across the main kitchen, scullery, pantries and larders to the dark cellars carved into the rocks deep underneath the building. There was almost a dozen of people responsible for running various kitchen-related offices, and they were all subordinated directly to one person.
Throughout the history of Imladris, six stewards had served in the House of Elrond so far ‒ the position being handed over to an elf of a younger generation every five yéni or so ‒ but the post of the head of the kitchen had always been held by Nordil, a venerable, soft-spoken Noldo whose hand had kindled the first fire in the House hearth thousands of years ago.
Lindir's gaze darted to the side, searching for a familiar silhouette...
'Ah, there he is.'
Apparently, Nordil was spending yet another evening on the kitchen terrace, as was his custom in summer months, gazing upon the gardens and nursing a cup of something that was probably his mysterious mint brew.
They exchanged small nods, wordlessly acknowledging each other's presence. The elder elf's pale eyes swept over the steward without so much as a hint of curiosity before returning to the garden scenery, his gaze so distant that almost unseeing.
Nordil was kind of an enigma ‒ despite his amiable personality, there was always an aura of quiet, but profound sorrow about him. He rarely spoke about his past, but it was a common knowledge that he remembered both the foundation and the destruction of Eregion, and that he had served in houses of mighty elven lords in the capital city before the Enemy had laid waste to it and to the whole realm. He was one of the few who had survived those dark days ‒ but unlike most of his kin, he had chosen to stay in Imladris instead of sailing into the West. Over thirty yéni ago, he had pledged his service to the House of Elrond on the very day it had been founded and by the lord's permission, he had claimed the House kitchens as his field of work.
Many elves were truly perplexed by the Nordil's choice.
It was clear that some part of him had never truly recovered from the horrors of war. The word was that he had been a witness of unspoken atrocities the Enemy had committed against the people of Eregion. It was truly peculiar ‒ to postpone the journey to the Grey Havens in such a condition of a spirit... One might almost think that Nordil all but refused to seek the healing light of Aman, absurd as it might sound.
No one knew the truth, though ‒ save for the Master of Imladris himself, maybe... or lord Glorfindel.
Walking past the terrace and turning towards the pantries, the steward caught a glimpse of another silhouette outside ‒ clad in white and ethereal glow. Lord Glorfindel was seated in his usual spot at the top of the stairs, just below the balustrade overgrown with moonflowers, with one knee drawn up to his chest and with a small goblet in his hand. Lindir had noticed that the elven lord had a habit of joining Nordil on the kitchen terrace on some evenings, although no one had ever heard them speaking to each other then ‒ as if Glorfindel was coming there merely to add his own quiet reverie to the Nordil's mysterious musings.
And yet, there was a strange kind of mutual understanding in their silence.
Entering the dark corridor leading to the pantry, Lindir thought briefly that there were probably depths in the elder elves' spirits where no words were allowed to wander. 'The war,' he thought, shuddering slightly. He did not presume to understand such things, though... and a part of him prayed that he would never be forced to understand them.
He could not even begin to imagine the horror of it ‒ to watch the darkness swallowing your home, your world, your everything ‒ everything you had ever held dear, along with a part of your very spirit.
'Just my luck...'
Lindir stopped abruptly just before reaching the pantry. He could hear the distinctive clank of pewter jars being opened and closed somewhere inside and when he entered the inner corridor, he spotted the faintest line of light beneath the bottom edge of one door...
The very same door he had intended to approach only a moment ago.
He heaved a frustrated sigh, lamenting inwardly his lack of good fortune. There was no chance that he would be able to sneak all the way to the back of the pantry and then into the room with travelling supplies unnoticed while someone else was inside.
He was about to turn around and leave... but then his eyes darted to the door once more, his gaze suddenly sharp. There was yet another sound, barely recognizable among series of flat, pewter clink-clanks ‒ a quiet, monotonous muttering that sounded as if someone was taking notes on components for tea blends.
"...malmeril petals, four jars and a half... to be replenished this season... malmeril hips... three jars and a quarter... the same..."
Lindir would recognize that muttering anywhere.
He cracked the door open and ‒ just as he had expected ‒ he was met with the sight of his cousin standing at the top of the pantry ladder near one of the shelves. The younger elf was indeed inspecting jars with tea components, simultaneously making notes and muttering to himself, his brows drawn together in concentration.
"Aegnor?"
Aegnor must had been completely engrossed in his work, because the steward's voice startled him quite badly ‒ and it was a rather unusual state for an elf. He jerked his head up so abruptly that he barely avoided hitting it against the ceiling beam, the sudden movement making the ladder he was standing on wobble slightly. He managed to quickly place his hand on the shelf to steady himself back, though, his silvery blue eyes widening in surprise.
"Ae," he greeted his cousin, finally turning around. "Wait...," he frowned and blinked. "Are you not supposed to be at the meeting already?"
"And are you not supposed to be at home already? What are you doing here at such late hour?," Lindir entered the pantry and closed the door.
Maybe not all was lost yet. Maybe that flask of miruvor was still within his reach...
"I have been asked to inspect our stock of tea blends and components, and to write down everything that needs to be replenished," the younger elf looked back at the shelves. "I should be finished before midnight."
"And for some reason, this task cannot wait until tomorrow?," Lindir inquired, his dark eyes narrowing in suspicion. He knew his cousin. He could recognize when he was trying to hide something.
"Ah... I want to have it done at once. Now, what are you doing here?," the younger elf changed the subject, descending the ladder. "One of the maids has already taken care about providing refreshments for the minstrels' meeting, if you are here to ask about that. Oh, and she also offered to remain at your disposal as long as the meeting shall take, should you or your guests need anything later," he added.
"Indeed?," the steward was genuinely surprised. "I should thank her, then. Silivren has already reported to me, but she has not mentioned that she plans to -," he paused, suddenly understanding. "Ah. Silivren."
Aegnor's ears flushed pink.
"Silivren," he shrugged in a very peculiar manner that actually made him look anything but unconcerned. "Stop looking at me like that, cousin... She volunteered to stay all by herself. I had nothing to do with it."
"So that is why you are still here," Lindir could not suppress an amused quirk of his lips. "Such a clever plan. To take some work after hours, only to have a perfectly believable excuse to check on her during her voluntary night shift -"
"How do you - I mean, what are you... I was not going to...," Aegnor uttered, trying to spin some kind of a lie and ‒ as usually in such situations ‒ ending up hopelessly tangled in his own words instead.
"- then to offer her your generous assistance, oh so casually... Why not?," Lindir continued, now smiling openly. "Singers use up copious amounts of beverages, you know. Our delicate throats tend to dry up pretty quickly, which is quite unfortunate, because tonight there is going to be a lot of singing and talking... Silivren would probably appreciate some help."
Aegnor tilted his head to the side and scowled at him rather adorably.
"Is there something you need, perhaps?" he asked, turning his back to the steward and making a show of checking his wax tablets with notes, obviously trying to look more busy than he really was.
"Actually, there is," Lindir replied, his expression turning to more solemn one. Teasing Aegnor was the most amusing distraction, but the rest of it could wait until the next time. "I would like to know why I have been assigned with ordering some extremely rare, customized nibs while going to the city tomorrow. In my supposedly free time," he emphasized the last part.
Aegnor blinked, but then a flash of recognition crossed his eyes.
"Goheno nin," he said, his voice full of guilt. "This may be my fault. The counsellor wanted to know if someone from the House is planning to visit the city soon and... and you have mentioned earlier that you are to...," he paused and sighed. "I suppose I completely forgot that tomorrow is your afternoon off."
"No wonder, since so many other thoughts seem to occupy your mind lately," Lindir raised an eyebrow.
Aegnor shook his head, this time refusing to acknowledge the allusion.
"Forgive me, but sometimes it is not easy to remember when you are doing what, since your schedule changes faster than the face of the moon," he met the steward's gaze, his silvery blue eyes still apologetic, but at the same time firm. "I know that it is my duty to keep up with you, and I am doing my best, but you are not making it easy recently... and not only for me," he pointed out.
Somehow, Lindir could not find a suitable reply to that.
"I suppose I should be... grateful for your insight. And for your sincerity, mellonen," he said at length, resting his head against the door frame and letting out a sigh, suddenly feeling simply tired. "You are right, of course. I shall be more careful with changing my schedule in the future."
"Erestor gives you a hard time this year, does he not?," Aegnor smiled with sympathy. "You are doing well, though."
Lindir only winced at that.
"I can take care of those nibs for you," the younger elf suggested. "Tomorrow afternoon, it is my turn to look after little Glassel. I could take her to the city and visit the scriveners' workshops with her. I am sure that her parents would not mind, and she would be delighted."
"Thank you," Lindir nodded, considering the offer for a moment. "I would really appreciate that. But now, since we have this settled...," the steward glanced towards the corridor and lowered his voice, just in case. "...I would like to ask a favour of you, even though you have only offered me one. I need something from the pantry."
"Oh?" Aegnor raised an eyebrow, his suspicion softened with amusement. "Do continue, dear cousin. This may be interesting. The steward asking a favour of a humble kitchen servant?"
"I would like to take something from the room with travelling supplies," Lindir said carefully. "Nothing important or expensive enough to put anyone in trouble... although I really, really count on your discretion in this matter," he added.
It might not be uncommon for some elves to occasionally help themselves to the stocks of miruvor, even without anyone's knowledge ‒ actually, it was kind of a tradition among the most avid scholars who tended to postpone their rest for longer than it was healthy ‒ but such practices were frowned upon among the attendants, especially the higher ranked ones.
And Lindir was taking his responsibilities and reputation very seriously.
And Aegnor, of course, knew about that very well.
"I did not see this coming from such a paragon of propriety as you," he chided the steward half-heartedly, his eyes glinting with mirth ‒ finally, it was his turn to taunt. "And what would our noble chief counsellor think about this...?"
He paused, though, noticing the steward's deadpan look.
"You need not worry. You can consider my lips sealed and my memory of this conversation... vague, although do remember that I am even less convincing liar than you," he reminded him gently. "What do you need?"
"The smallest flask of miruvor in the whole stock."
"Miruvor?," this time Aegnor's eyes flickered with worry. "Are you feeling unwell, or is it just - ?"
"I am feeling perfectly well, thank you," Lindir interrupted him quickly, perhaps too quickly. His cousin might not be a healer like his mother, but he had certainly taken her habit of worrying about others' well-being at any given occasion. "I simply need something to clear my mind before the meeting. I am only... a bit weary," he admitted reluctantly.
Aegnor frowned and shook his head, approaching the door in the far corner of the pantry. "When was your last full day off, or a week, for that matter? You should think about taking one."
"Perhaps," the steward muttered non-committally.
'Probably not in this decade, though.'
A moment later, he took a small, silvery flask from his cousin's hand and swiftly hid it in his inner pocket. "You have my sincerest thanks, Aegnor," he nodded, placing his hand upon his heart in a half-formal bow.
"Do not mention it," the younger elf hopped back onto the ladder, returning to his previous task, but suddenly, his hand stopped mid-air over the pewter jar. "Ah... Are there any news about that position of a cupbearer?," he asked hesitantly. "The word is that there is going to be a vacancy soon."
Lindir barely restrained a smile.
'Oh, you sly, little -'
"I am afraid that we have already found a very promising candidate for a replacement," he replied smoothly, turning around and hearing a small, resigned sigh. He needed not to look at his cousin to know that his face fell slightly.
Before leaving the pantry, Lindir paused and looked over his shoulder.
"Elder attendants shall give their opinions on the matter in ten days, during the morning meeting," he said casually. "Be sure not to forget. You are expected to be on time. Also, be prepared to answer a few questions."
Closing the door, he caught a glimpse of Aegnor's face breaking into a wide, triumphant smile.
yén (quen. sing.), yéni (quen. pl.) - a long year, 144 solar years
*malmeril (sind.) - golden rose, a flower
ae (sind.) - hello / hey
Goheno nin (sind.) - Forgive me.
mellonen (sind.) - my friend