.

"Am I asking for the moon? Is it really so implausible?"
/ Sting /

XV. A Practical Arrangement

Gate I. of Cleanwater Alley in the Hidden City of Ondolindë, FA 467, the ides of Víressë

It was the sharp whistle coming from the kettle that shook Anardil from his reverie. For a few seconds, he could only blink and wonder if the sound meant that the whole house was on fire, and about to collapse onto his head; but nothing of the sort happened. The kettle merely went on whistling, and began to shake, ever so slightly, as if it was trying to get away from the heat of his furnace. Of course. He must have forgot about it – again – and fallen back to sleep.

Anardil watched it jolting for a few seconds, silently appreciating the mere fact that he once again owned a furnace and a kettle. At times, the sudden turn of his luck felt somewhat overwhelming.

Slowly, he sat up, a stormy sea of soft, clean blankets extruding around his waist, still far too thin to match the strong build of his shoulders. He flexed his fingers, traced the outlines of fading scars where Sauron's shackles had clawed on his skin, and observed that they were no longer ravaging his wrists. Around him was a light, spacious room that opened out to a small terrace. It faced the snowy Echoriath and the green-green meadows of Tumladen, several hundred feet above its sea of grass. Below him was a soft mattress, caressing his gratefully stretching back. His hands, feet and hair were warm and clean and they smelled of soap, safety and a good night's sleep.

Anardil climbed out of the bed and took the still protesting kettle, pouring himself a cup of tea. It was a concoction of dense, sweet-smelling camomile: the cheapest he could find in the Lesser Market. He knew from hearsay already that the City had another market, one that was as big as the King's Gardens; but he knew he would need a companion to wander that far from his new home, lest he'd get lost.

That was the only thing he lacked indeed: a companion. The King had fulfilled his promise and gave him a small house to dwell in, with a garden and large windows opening out to a breath-taking landscape; he filled his rooms with fine furniture, pillows and sheets, robes and shoes and trousers and everything he could need for house-keeping (even a couple of lanterns included), and he also found a bag of coins on the dining table when he'd first entered the house; yet no one, not even King Turukáno had the power to give him company. Anardil knew the latter was something he was supposed to find on his own, yet he did not have the slightest idea how to start. Owning the first house in the street meant that he had but one neighbour; moreover, the next house seemed empty, which cut him off from the easiest and most evident practice of befriending the person who lived closest to him. Then again, Anardil could not be sure if anyone from around there would be willing to befriend him at all. The Way of Running Waters ran not entirely two corners away from his dwelling: almost all the folk who lived there belonged to the House of the Fountain, and Anardil had not forgotten the way Lord Ecthelion treated him at the Council. When an opinion or belief was well and truly stuck in such a leader's head, the same prejudices could swiftly extend to his household just as well as his circle of friends: Anardil had learned that lesson long ago, in fair Tirion.

Yet the thing he missed the most from his life was definitely Voronwë. In the past days, he had gone to great lengths to be able at least to thank him for his unexpected request on the King's judgement. When he finally succeeded, the tears that filled his eyes upon seeing the stern Elf were perhaps more honest and real than any emotion he'd ever expressed to anyone; yet Voronwë remained collected, courteous, and cold as an iceberg. He assured him that he'd acted out of mere nostalgia for the sake of times they'd spent together, although he wouldn't wish to indulge in Anardil's friendship or company any more. This decision may have had to do something with the fact that since he refused to open the door for him all day, Anardil had climbed down his roof a few minutes past midnight, sliding through his open window…

Anardil was sure he would appreciate if he had a friend this dedicated to him. Then again, the Ñoldor were the most bizarre creatures he had ever met.

~ § ~

The Sun was already high in the skies, and Anardil concluded that the day was too beautiful to waste with lying idly inside. Once it was sufficiently cooled, he refilled his kettle with water instead of tea, and stepped out into the garden to observe the state of spice and vegetable seedlings he'd planted a few days ago. He wanted to grow them on his own.

Anor's glow was so warm he did not even feel the need to dress; he had no more than a thin white sheet wrapped around his waist to cover his nakedness. At one point, he even considered to drop that, but the scars around his thighs were still swollen and ugly, and he did not want to see them. He watered his plants instead, humming softly to himself; then, seeing that one lavender was growing very promising fresh leaves in a sunny corner, he burst into a song out of joy.

Now there, now there,
now there, good friend
why would you smile so bright?
Why would your laughter
fill my dark halls
at such an early hour?

The moon is gone
the stars asleep
not even Anor shines
Why would you be
so happy now
at the silent dead of night?

Thus spoke to me
the landlord's son
upon the midnight hour
when I was dancing
all around
new hope shy in my heart

Good landlord's son,
where I begin?
- I laughed as if I'd burst
Have you 'ver heard
water running
when you were mad with thirst?

Such things I feel
wildly, I reel
for my dear wish came true:
in Anor's light
I gently bathe
with my Lady to woo;

Her heart I took
my lute I plucked
or the other way a-round?
I cannot say;
I'll tell you true -
By honour I am bound!

Anardil shook the last drops of water out of the kettle, running his fingers idly over the leaves of a rosebush – and was quite taken aback when brushing the leaves aside, he found himself staring into a curious face. As they eyed each other, the intruder gave a low cry, and made a frantic move, as if to cover himself with the same twigs Anardil was holding aside with his free hand.

"Spying on people is a wise thing, if you ask me," the Teler said cheerfully, once he'd overcome his general bewilderment. "For instance, if they don't know you're watching them, they might show their true colours. As it happens, I am exactly what I now must seem to you – a bad-mannered idiot who makes up songs on the spot and talks to his plants. Otherwise, I am quite harmless, I promise you. Fancy a cup of tea? …or a piece of bread and jam, perhaps? They're from yesterday, but the bread is still soft."

The intruder swallowed nervously, though it was not hard to notice that his eyes gleamed with low-key amusement.

"I am…," he managed. "I am very sorry."

"Good morn, Very Sorry," the Teler nodded ceremonially, and extended his hand. "I am Anardil." Before he could savour his joke, though, a sudden realisation dawned on him. "Hey, I know you, don't I? I saw you in the Council – you're the King's scribe with those marvellously swift hands!"

"It might have been someone else you saw, Lord Anardil," said the Elf. His voice suddenly seemed much more confident, though a tinge of pink crept up his neck to reach his cheeks. "King Turukáno has many scribes."

"You cannot fool me," Anardil declared. "I remember you fully well. What a fortunate meeting! Now come on, climb out of those bushes and break your fast with me! You must wait, of course, until I change my flaunting stage of undress."

To his great delight, the intruder followed him after a few moments of hesitation, and Anardil could have sung and danced around out of sheer joy. He was finally about to have company!

Rushing back into the house, he dressed, he filled his kettle for the third time that day, then he loaded the table with two loaves of bread, rich, yellow butter, vegetables and fruits, honey, several jars of jam and spices, salt and sugar, and even a bowl of cold stew. Now that his purse was heavy, having a guest was a thousand times worth emptying his pantry.

"There is no way I could be worthy of your hospitality, my lord," the Elf protested, but suddenly, his eyes went wide. "…by the Valar – is that blueberry jam? It's very rare and precious this far up in the mountains…"

"It's my favourite," Anardil said cheerfully. "I mentioned it to the King, just in case he has a good memory, you know. Come, share it with me!"

"You honour me, my lord," said the Elf smoothly. "It would be horrendously rude of me to turn down such a kind offer."

"Indeed," Anardil gave a grave nod, and held out the jar with a flourish. "I would be deeply wounded."

That earned him a startled, ringing laugh: its sound was fresh and pleasant.

"You are one curious elf," his guest admitted.

"True enough," Anardil nodded, and proceeded to fill a bowl with salad. "I am curious, in the sense that my eyes and ears (and sometimes hands) wander everywhere they should not. Then, usually, they get burned, but the whole process is terribly amusing." Unabashedly, he winked. "But to your well-mannered Noldo eyes, I may also seem a little… well, odd. And just a tiny bit mad."

"Considering all meanings of the word curious, I find that they all have a chance to prove appropriate," said his guest, the mazy words of Quenya springing fair and free from his lips. "But I do not think you're mad. You're just… well, different. But that is a good thing. I can't imagine Lord Ecthelion, for one, offering me such a splendid meal if he caught me eavesdropping through his fence."

"So you admit you were eavesdropping," Anardil grinned. "I like that."

"What choice do I have?" The Elf took a measured bite of his bread-and-jam, an expression of utter contentment rushing through his face. "It is the truth. I was eavesdropping, because I cared to hear the song that woke me from my best dreams – and having found out who the singer was, I took my chance. For I am curious about you, Lord Anardil of the Falmari; curious as a scribe, a historian and a collector of tellings and tales."

Surely, your sweet tooth has nothing to do with it, Anardil thought, but all he said was,

"Do you have another name then Very Sorry?"

That earned him another soft laugh.

"I am called Pengolodh," the Elf fell silent for a few seconds, as if waiting for some kind of recognition, then – as he earned none – he pressed on, "and I am told to be a lore-master, yet I do not claim that name. I have collected, noted and tidied the history of Ondolindë in the last few decades. I wrote the lay of our coming here, and various others of battles and other remarkable events. You could say that I am the King's chronicler… one who likes to pick up the role of a scribe from time to time. You see, the last council meeting seemed very promising to me. Grave news arrived to the City and I was almost certain that something interesting would happen." Pengolodh made a vague gesture with his butter-coated knife. "Something that would be worth writing down. And I am so glad I've attended the Great Council in person – seldom do I have an opportunity to witness such a heated debate! And then there were you, Lord Anardil – the highlight of the whole session! You made my afternoon amusing, and for that, I am forever grateful. If you only knew the rarity of eventful meetings…" Absentmindedly, he shook his head and his voice trailed off.

"You, like many others, seem to remain under the false belief that I am some kind of wayward lord," Anardil could not help but grin. "And that is flattering, really. I could live with that reputation. But King Turukáno made me quite clear what he thought of lying and deceiving people… and from now on, I share his views. I must tell you the truth, Lore-master, as it is: I've made an honest confession at the Council. I am no lord, and never was. I'm a simple, lowly Elf from Tirion or Alqualondë, as you please – well-travelled for sure, experienced, perhaps a little bit eccentric and in certain things, doubtlessly precocious; but a simple Elf nonetheless."

"But that is exactly what I'm talking about!" Pengolodh clapped his hands excitedly. "Yours is a unique perspective, one I've never researched, one I've only dreamed to work with! Your perception and understanding of events shall be new to me as much as to anyone who may later read my accounts. You are a historian's dream, Anardil of the Falmari, rushing into our quiet city like a wave of storm, shaking us all from our winter sleep. The King granted you a great privilege with the treatment you received, and now everyone, everyone is talking about you in the City! Everyone is wandering who you are, where you came from, what your intentions are… some even claim you are a wizard, who possesses Fëanáro's talent of speaking and deceiving."

"…so you came here, determined to get my story out of me before anyone else does," Anardil laughed. "Smart!"

"I would have tried to if I had any idea where to find you," Pengolodh shook his head. "The King was very secretive about that; it is true, though, that rumours are already starting to spread through the streets about your location. But if you care to know the entire truth, we happen to be neighbours. I've spent the last few weeks with a friend of mine, discussing his new research and I came home yestereve – or maybe I should rather call it this morning, for it almost dawned. I know that 'tis almost midday, but I was weary and my mind needed rest; thus, it was your song that woke me."

"Oh, sorry about that," said Anardil. "I was fairly certain that no one lived in the next house! So… my neighbour is a historian. That's…unexpected; and I must confess, you're not how I imagined such a lore-master."

"You were convinced we were all sour, collected, dry dunderheads," Pengolodh nodded. "A common mistake."

"I shall know better from now on," Anardil promised. "Now listen to me, lord – I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."

"And that of which sort?"

"You need a story, right?" Anardil asked, his voice as innocent as it could get. "And I, I need someone who shows me around here, providing me company and some sort of amusement. We could call it a trade – stories for evenings out. Since you're a master of lore, you can surely teach me how to behave myself. I, on return, can teach you as many bawdy songs as you'd like. I can tell you of my adventures and you may put them through hammer and anvil, exaggerate them, arrange them into a heroic lay for all I care, you just… you just don't let me drown in boredom, right? Will you accept that?"

There was a moment of silence.

"That seems like a fair deal," Pengolodh nodded with a small, satisfied smile, and extended his hand. Anardil reached out to clasp it, then hesitated.

"One last thing," he said. "Of my story… you must respect that I'm not quite ready to talk about the Sauron-part yet. Which is… being imprisoned and all. It still perturbs me a little bit."

"I hear you," said Pengolodh. "We shall proceed with such speed you deem comfortable. I shall never push you."

"Thanks," Anardil smiled earnestly, and squeezed the hand that was offered to him. "That means more to me than you might imagine."

~ § ~

The next few days passed in a rush, and the two neighbours' new routine was swiftly and effortlessly established. Anardil woke each day at Anor's first light, prepared himself a tea, took care of his beloved plants, took a short walk in the nearby streets (sometimes, he made it as far as the Lesser Market where he gathered a few things for his pantry). Near midday, Pengolodh knocked on his door and they broke their fast together, exchanging news and the newest bunch of rumours that spread through the King's Palace. Pengolodh was the source of all the nonsense, insisting that Anardil should be well-versed in such matters if he ever wanted to become involved with the court; and the Teler did not protest, since some of the stories made him shed tears of laughter.

After their meal, they settled down in Pengolodh's spacious study, and Anardil spoke of his adventures. Pengolodh was adamant about maintaining chronological order, so his first days were spent with vast and rambling accounts on his childhood. Yet no matter how detailed Pengolodh's questions were, no matter howlivingly Anardil remembered his journeys on stormy seas, his adventures at distant lands, his neat escapes, his many losses and few gains, he ran out of stories far sooner than he would have liked.

Then came a night they passed in Pengolodh's study, sinking in soft cushions and sipping wine, when Anardil recounted the story of his capture and imprisonment in such detail he'd never done before. By the end, he was shaking with anguish and tears of shock, and Pengolodh had gave up scribbling. He sat tight next to him instead, and held his shoulder in such a vice-like grasp it almost hurt; and unwillingly, unconsciously, Anardil accepted his comfort.

There was a curious change to their companionship after that day; they spoke no more of their agreement, and merely wandered the streets of Ondolindë together instead; and Anardil spent long evenings in his neighbour's study, watching him work through some historic or linguistic delving. Later still, he accidentally discovered that Pengolodh wrote poetry from time to time, and offered to turn some of those into songs.

The moon went full, then new again; and unexpected, uncalled-for, unnoticed for long by their own selves, the neighbours became friends.

Author's Notes

On plagiarism: 'Practical Arrangement' (as the source of the chapter title and starting quote) is one of my favourite Sting songs. I find it deeply plausible and true, not only for those who seek romantic feelings, but friendship as well. Friendship perhaps even more.

On story-building: Chapter 16 will be a direct continuation of this instalment. Also, the story has now entirely passed its 'setup' phase: by now, you have encountered each of the central characters (Pengolodh being the last in line), you know their situation and their motivations, so – finally – it is time to move on and set things in motion. I hope to publish the next chapter relatively soon, but I can't promise anything.

On Anardil's song: If you manage to find out where I've "stolen" its rhythm from, you're one smart fellow, and you're allowed a good laugh.

On Pengolodh: I insist on my theory that he is not a dry historian, just an eccentric bibliophile of high intellect, an innocent sense of humour and a knack for storytelling. And he's relatively young. I admit that I really like my take on him, but I admit as well that I'd very much like to know what you've thought.

Special Thanks for Crackers and everyone else who commented on, liked, followed, bookmarked this story or promoted it any other way. I hope your numbers shall only grow.