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Chapter 23:
Where is Uncle Nelyo?

Curufinwë deftly scratched his pen along the oblong cut of vellum, head in hand as he stared at a spot on the table just above the material. Rather inelegant to do, leaning. As well as not sitting up straight. He could distantly feel the muscles in his wrist working, back and forth, up and down, and barely registered the numbness that was beginning to set in his left leg from being crossed for so long. Unimportant. Other things were important. Other matters, other people. Not the discomfort of his body that was now again manifesting into something very real inside his chest.

He started at the bang of a hand slapping down on the table.

He looked up only to find Canyadil glowering at him from where he sat opposite. "You are thinking about him again," he reproached, though his voice was not unkind. "Stop it. Whether it is your brother or your other brother or your father, stop it. Or do you want another headache?"

Curufinwë's brow furrowed as he gave a short shake of his head, clearing his throat and straightening the vellum so it aligned with the table's edge. "Do not exaggerate. My thoughts were not so astray."

"No? And yet you still have not noticed the ink in your plume has dried up."

Curufinwë looked down at the plume-trimmed quill still tangled in his fingers and frowned, realizing with a shaft of annoyance that Canyadil was right. He could see the shineless glob of ink inside the shank and, running his thumb along the covered tines, it was indeed dry, enough that it had hardened. Glancing at the vellum he saw that the area he had been scratching ink into was absent of ink, instead gorged with crisscrossing indentations. Irritation spiked and he tossed the pen aside, reaching over and wordlessly plucking Canyadil's own pen from his hand. He spluttered in protest and Curufinwë lifted his eyebrows at him. "Mine's the steadier hand," he pointed out. He gestured towards the abandoned pen. "I will fix it later." He paused a moment to rub his fingers against his temple. A return of awareness had awoken a weak throbbing behind his left eye.

Canyadil sighed. "And now you have another headache." He tapped the sheet. "Curvo, we need to finish this."

Curufinwë inhaled air until he felt his lungs stretch with it, holding it a moment before letting it go in a huff. "I know." He held the pen more firmly, making an effort to focus on what he was sketching. It was a diagram of a sideblast forge and its accompanying chimney flue, the lines littered with notations and various measurements. He sighed somewhat glumly. In retrospect, there was no rush or need to finish it tonight because Valar, it was not as though they could start building it tomorrow. But he would eat Canyadil's pen before he left such a relatively simple task incomplete before retiring for the evening. Or whatever else the evening had for him to do, he amended, remembering all the banners' numbers that were waiting for him. Carnistir should have gathered up the last of them by now. "The more I sketch this, the more stressed I feel. We have yet to draw so many integral components of even the simplest of forges and calculate the resources just to craft them. So much needs to be done."

"Overwhelming, yes, but pray be silent on the matter. My own head cannot take it." Canyadil tilted his head sideways as he inspected the chart upside down. He hummed in consideration. "We need not everything yet. The first task is to smelt that damaged armor for recasting, is it not? The number of tools needed for that is not too many."

Curufinwë shook his head, eyes flying across the page as he did a quick calculation of the proportions again. Something was still wrong with it. "Perhaps. But I speak not of the tools or work of a smith. Just building this forge is cause for stress. Forget smelting any material. We need first find that material. Stone quarries, veins of ore, proper wood for vats, charcoal. Iron to make just a single anvil! Valar, even brick and mortar for the foundation before that." He shook his head again, this time in absent disbelief. "It has been so long since I built a forge from scratch, and even then it was with much of the materials readily at hand."

Canyadil nodded. "Constructing it will be a lengthy task," he agreed. "Of any building. But be not hassled by the resources. This is not Eldamar, no, but I would hardly think Hísilómë so destitute. How else would those Mithirim thrive here for so long if this land were without such fundamental things?"

Curufinwë angled his eyes up to look at him critically, returning them to the vellum a moment later. "I meant that finding those resources is the stressful part, not that I doubt they exist in Endórë. We live on an expanse of broad fields ripe for tilling and shot with woodland copses. Truly believe you there is a quarry of any decent size within a league in any direction?"

Canyadil raised an eyebrow. "There might be," he challenged softly. "Who is to say there is not when these fields remain uncharted? Being skeptical is your own problem."

Curufinwë refrained from rolling his eyes. "Skeptical or not, the fact remains that we have no knowledge on where to begin looking. For quarries or otherwise. And it is Mithrim, Canyadil," he added a little more firmly. "Call them Moriquendi if you cannot say it correctly."

He waved his hand. "As if they are here to hear me. And forgive me, but I feel I have more pressing matters than mastering something they are ignorant of I should master."

Curufinwë turned a flat look on him. "You do realize we may have to inquire of those 'ignorant' Moriquendi the lay of these lands if we fail to learn it in the small time we have?"

Canyadil frowned at him. "Stop fretting about it," he rebuked gently. "And stop doubting the capabilities of our people. We will not stoop to that, nor fail so uproariously. Not when we have already survived all this time trekking Hísilómë. And we have time," and added more genially. "You said yourself crops and livestock are our first priority, so from where comes this near anxiety of yours over priming smithies?"

Curufinwë sighed and dropped the pen, uncaring for the moment how its wetted calamus marked up the vellum. "Because we still must start crafting without delay," he remarked a tad impatiently. "Nails, Canyadil. Nails, frames, vices, hammers. These we must have if we hope to build even the most mediocre lodgings. Or would you rather dwell in a home built from mud?"

Canyadil opened his mouth, hesitated and then closed it with a barely concealed snort as he turned his eyes back down to the drawing. Curufinwë narrowed his eyes, ready to believe the snort had been one of derision if the corners of his friend's mouth had not quirked upward. "What?" he asked in suspicion.

Canyadil shook his head, the soft smile growing. "Nothing." He quirked an eyebrow. "It is just strange to imagine you thus, the way you speak. Hammers! Nails!" He huffed. "It was funny to hear when remembering that you are a jewelsmith, not a blacksmith."

Curufinwë frowned. "Nor are you one."

"I know. It was just funny."

Curufinwë snorted himself, shifting where he sat to finally ease the numbness in his leg. "Nonetheless, you know the craft no less than I and, for all intents and purposes, we are no more than blacksmiths for the nonce. To deal in gems or silver right now would be frivolous."

"I know. It is much like the time immediately after the Darkening, remember?"

Curufinwë threw down the quill again with a brief slap of his hand, a growl rising up in his throat as he glared at Canyadil. "I told you not to talk about that."

Canyadil raised a pointed eyebrow. "I am talking about Tirion, o brilliant one, not Formenos."

Curufinwë blinked. "Oh." He looked back down, reaching out to move the lampstone closer, which had shifted away at his slap. He picked up the quill again. "Well, do not talk about that either."

He grinned, continuing to study the diagram without really seeing it. "The lampwrights prospered amid the Darkening as they never had before, candlestick makers too. Every person practiced in that trade forewent their own to apply that craft. Many of the trades floundered for a time, yes, but all fell back into place before too long."

"Yes, I know. We struggled, we adapted, we survived, but this is not the same. It is not only the loss of Light we now struggle with."

"I know." He glanced up. "What will we have to do?"

His eyes strayed off to his left, looking at nothing in particular as he rolled the pen between the pads of his fingers. "A lot. No less than the smithies, we need the materials for everything else. We brought the tools necessary for it, but…." He could see it already, project after project unfolding one after another, the demands and supplies each will require, and all of them needing to happen in chorus. Where would they even start? "We have been so focused on canvas these past weeks, on food and pelts, on the storm…." He trailed off, sliding his hand over to curl his fingers around the edge of the table as a wave of dizziness suddenly swept over him. That they were now starting to settle, or trying to…it nearly felt like a dream. Or a delusion? Actually, finally continuing on with what they had started what felt like so long ago now. But his father, his brother, all those Noldor…they were really now just going on from where they left off?

"Curufinwë." He looked up to see Canyadil frowning at him in open concern. "What is it? You look pale."

He shook himself, retracting his hand and redirecting his gaze back to the illustration. "Nothing, just…." He gave Canyadil a weak smile. "We have much to do. Valar, Canyadil, I am a jewelsmith. A father. A prince. I ply my trade, I attend our people, attend those of my banner, but this…." He trailed off again, feeling suddenly too tired to find the words.

Canyadil snorted, humming in agreement. "This is a task for a king," he finished. He almost sounded bitter, but when he looked up his eyes were without rancor but rather clear, inquisitive, even mildly troubled again and his voice lowered to something softer. "Surely your father foresaw something of what we would face in Hísilómë's trials, of building up this encampment." He gestured uncertainly. "What did he do? In Tirion?"

"Do with what?"

"At the Darkening. When we at last came to Tirion from Formenos, Riellotë and I saw that the Noldor had come together somewhat, if still divided where they cordoned themselves off before. We were all grieving, but none were panicking at the absence of Light, as we expected to see. What did he do – or say – to make it happen?" His eyebrows came together and rose. "Could we not do the same here?"

A faint grimace passed over his face. "This time and then cannot truly be counted the same. I believe all our people were yet in shock, for one. But Atar…." He exhaled unsteadily, all of the sudden recalling that day, the memory of that first council upon Túna with neither king nor Light coming hard and clear, how his father sat in that ornate seat at the table, his voice and every word of the instructions he gave in that chamber, the cast of his face as he did. His chest tightened and he had to turn his eyes down from Canyadil. "He convoked the council, called most of the lords together with them. They restructured all the distribution of our resources, worked with the guild halls, made it so all the Noldor more or less were redirected to our foremost priorities. And candle-making was one of them, not only for illumination but to determine the passing of time." He pursed his lips. "I suppose we will have to do the same here, with those lords and guildmasters who marched with us. We have little in the way of resources to work with, but we do have many hands available to begin working. Laiquisyar will remember that council, at least. He was there. Mayhap he will recall something I do not."

Canyadil stared at him for a long moment, so obviously hesitant, but he gestured again, more doubtfully. "So, your father never spoke of our circumstances in Endórë, even after our landing?"

Curufinwë looked back up. "Not to me," he said in a clipped tone. He looked back down. "He did much, was doing more than even I stood aware of." The frown returned to his expression, a bit darker than before. "His silence on the matter says not he was thoughtless on it. There were none more ready than he, none more attentive for any journey. He knew, he always did, just as he knew what would await us in those long years in Formenos. I know not if he planned to speak, but he did not plan to fall in that battle. Do not accuse him of paying no heed to any plights he was well aware we might face."

"I do not accuse him of anything," he retorted a little too adamantly, the words gentle even if stiffly spoken. He had even leaned forward but relented just as quickly, the tension easing from his shoulders. "But I am sorry for prompting you to think on him again." He leaned back, seeming contrite, letting out a self-deprecating huff. "I am sorry for all of my questions. It is just all overwhelming. As I said, I know we have a little time yet, but unto me it still seems we are too slow with this. You are right that forges are among the first of things we require. We have time but there is no time, it feels."

Curufinwë shook his head. "No forge will sing until the shields of the fallen are honored. But we should be prepared when comes the time to light their fires, so shall we continue with this? I know not who will be assigned their construction, but this is a model for several to be made and it must be rightly drafted. I am thinking to have you oversee their building, anyway, since you are here for their conception."

Canyadil now shook himself, leaning forward on his elbows as he proceeded again to inspect it upside down. "You said something is yet missing. What? Everything is accounted for, everything figured, even the leather for the valves." He angled his head to the right. "Ah. Have we any that is treated? Is that what is missing?"

"No, we have none treated yet and no, it is not. There is something else." He stared at the black scratches outlining the firepot, read over the scribbled calculations next to them again. He tapped at that part of the diagram with his pen. "I want to make the walls less steep. It will take less time to build then."

Canyadil tapped at another number off to the side. "We will be burning more fuel, though, if you do. Can we afford that?"

He sighed. "No, not yet. Valar, I want to just build the one I had in Formenos."

"Why do you not? I have been wondering."

"Because –"

It almost went unheard in the soft din of their conversation and the insects chirring outside, the now all too familiar rustling of canvas, but he heard it and he twisted around in his seat even as Canyadil looked to peer over his shoulder, both to find the flap of the tent falling back into place. Even if the customary tailoring of his tunic did not identify him, Curufinwë recognized the frame of Telperinquar just as he darted behind the vat immediately to the right of the entrance. The light of the lampstone reached only so far from where it rested atop the table, the rest of the interior as dark as ever, but it illuminated his small figure just as he scuttled out of sight. He and his son were now sharing this tent with Tyelkormo, their beddings having been rolled up to make room for the table, so why his child was hiding in its shadows he could not guess. He almost felt the desire to chuckle at the absurdity of it, but it passed and he tossed the quill on the table.

"Yonya." He turned fully on his seat, leaning forward to coax him out from behind the barrel. He came readily, brushing off his knees and swatting away the few stray hairs that slipped from their hold, and Curufinwë was reminded of the growing lateness of the day at seeing the drowsiness in Telperinquar's eyes. "Where is Mistress Riellotë? Why are you not with her?"

Telperinquar glanced at Canyadil, who looked on in mild interest, followed by a glance at his father's hands. "She left to get more twine for the canvas. We ran out."

"Ah. Then why are you here and not there?" He lifted his eyebrows. "I said I would come when you finished up."

He shifted his feet for a moment, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve, while not quite so unobtrusively avoiding his father's gaze. Curufinwë quirked an eyebrow at the odd behavior, now wondering if some manner of trouble was afoot. "Yonya?"

Telperinquar looked up at the sharp tone, his face one of confusion and a little apprehension. "Atto, where is Uncle Nelyo?"

Curufinwë stilled. "What?"

He gave an uneasy roll of his shoulders, looking less certain. "Where is he?"

He looked at him, at his child, his son. Unblinking, each breath carefully in and out even as he felt his heart do that flutter he hated it did, the telltale sign it would soon start to race in that quivering way. He knew Telperinquar watched his face, waiting now for it to give something as he stared up at him, wondering. Confused. Curufinwë angled his gaze back around to Canyadil, face devoid of expression but eyes…pleading? Bright? Desperate? What did he look to him for?

But Canyadil did not look back. As quickly as their gazes aligned he immediately dropped his own down to the table, brow slightly creased as he scratched a fingernail along the vellum. It was as if he could feel Curufinwë's stare, the intensity or the question behind it, for he gave a minute shake of his head, eyes dropping further into his lap. Curufinwë swallowed, twisting back around.

"Yonya…" He sighed, cutting it off when he heard its slight shake. He grabbed both of his son's hands. His son's small hands that were already becoming strong. "He…" He sighed again, brow crinkling. "He had to leave for a little while."

Telperinquar blinked. "But…" He shuffled his feet. "When will he come home?"

Curufinwë lowered his eyes, watching as he ran his thumb over the back of the small hand. He looked up, giving him a weak smile that came and went all too fast. "I do not know, Telepitya. He did not say."

Telperinquar frowned slightly, traces of worry clear in his face. "Did he go to be with his atto, too?"

Curufinwë stared, words escaping him and he closed his eyes, clenching his jaw as he swallowed forcibly. He peered again at Canyadil but the Elf's gaze was still firmly fixed back on the table, his expression grim even in its blankness. Curufinwë's jaw ticked but he made an effort to relax his expression as he gently ran his fingers through Telperinquar's hair. His soft hair, as dark as his and his father's. He swept it behind his ear, moving his hand down to massage at his neck. "No, yonya," he said quietly. "But…he went to do something for your annatar and…as I said, it will take a while." He gave him another ghost of a smile. "You know he is sorry he forewent bidding you farewell, do you not? He was hurrying and could not return before leaving."

Telperinquar nodded, still frowning. "But how long will it take?"

"I do not know, I said." He forced his lips up into a tight grin, still working his fingers against his neck. "But you know your Uncle Nelyo. He hates being away from his family for too long but will if he must." Telperinquar did not speak. No one did and Curufinwë struggled to stay seated and still, all the while ignoring the immense discomfort he could feel radiating from Canyadil. His son was watching him, clearly waiting or possibly expecting for him to say something more and Curufinwë patted his neck, leaning back. "Now, return you to Mistress Riellotë before she comes looking for you and finish up your canvasing. Then you can come back and help us. We are drawing up a sideblast forge, so let us see all the teachings of mine you have or have not remembered." Telperinquar began leaning to peer around Curufinwë, eyes searching out what lay on the table, but Curufinwë shuffled him back, forcing his eyes up. "But first, go and tender your apologies to Mistress Riellotë. Leaving as you did was ill done. Are you hungry?"

"No, Atar."

"Then complete whatever she has you working on and we can eat when you come to me. I am sure Canyadil will be famished come that hour too. Go on now." He gave him a small push and Telperinquar went, looking back to flash a brief smile at him as he did and a silent wave to Canyadil, who apparently failed to see it since his gaze was still downcast, Curufinwë saw. But his son left anyway, using both hands to push back the flap, and Curufinwë could hear the pitter patter of his feet running as soon as he disappeared from sight.

He waited a few moments, until he could no longer hear Telperinquar's feet before nearly collapsing forward, leaning on his knees and burying his face in his hands. One hand climbed up higher until he could clasp strands of his hair, willing his heart to cease its fierce beating against his ribs. It beat harder, the tension in his shoulders creeping up into his neck.

The silence was so heavy he heard Canyadil swallow, heard his intake of breath to speak. "He must have overheard someone say something of your lord brother for him to come to you so all of the sudden."

He grunted. Another brief time passed before he made himself uncurl, running his hands roughly over his face. Inhaling a lung full of air was more difficult than it should have been. He again leaned on his knees, staring listlessly at the grass between his feet. A few strands of hair fell from behind his shoulder, as dark as his son's and his father's.

"What do I tell him?" He blinked several times and squeezed his eyes shut when they suddenly began to burn, covering them with a hand. "Sweet Elentári, what do I tell him?"

He heard Canyadil sigh and his voice was quiet, tender even. "Naught more than you just did. It was enough."

"For now." He shook his head, pressing his lips. "He has ears, has a mind worthy of our House. He hears the people now talk and will again. Again and again. What do I tell him?"

"I am sorry, meldonya." Another silence, lasting and loud, broken only when Canyadil shifted in his seat. "Curvo."

Curufinwë looked up and over, unable to push back the distraught creases to his face, and was unsurprised to see Canyadil's sympathetic look towards him, which then morphed into something a little apologetic as he tapped at the vellum again. "We need to finish this. Please, do not start thinking on Makalaurë again. It is growing late."

Curufinwë straightened, brushing back the loose hair with stiff swipes of his hand and twisting back around, eyes falling to the diagram and all its scrawls as he tried to recall everything they already discussed. He picked up the pen, gripping it a little harder to compensate for the minor tremble in his fingers. "Yes, it is."

meldonya: "my friend", from Quenya s. mas. meldo (S. mellon)