Cat's Paws by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 1: Ost-in-Edhil, Second Age, ~1250.

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Unable to restrain myself, I straightened the position of the small statue. Bad enough that the subject was so hackneyed, but its off-kilter position on the steps was more than my aesthetic sensibilities could bear. The wheat sheaves, apples and pears, all coyly placed across Yavanna's breasts and pubis, were signature elements of a conservative Noldorin sculptor. The more daring Sindarin artists, who embraced naturalism, would have chiseled Yavanna's prominent nipples and pubic hair into the stone. The priggishness of the statue made me ashamed for the artist. Adding to the trite interpretation, the imbalance of the piece’s position relative to the home’s entry deeply perturbed me.

The base of the sculpture grated loudly against the granite porch as I maneuvered it. The door opened, and the homeowner — and owner of the statue — stuck his head out to investigate the source of the jagged noise. He scowled briefly, ready to pop off a surly remark, but stayed his tongue when he recognized me.

“Ah, Istyar Tyelperinquar! How are you this evening?”

“Fine, thanks, Nalion. Just making an adjustment here.”

“Yes, I see. Please feel free to place her in the optimal position. I am honored that you have taken the time to do this. What do you think of her, Istyar?” Nalion looked at me expectantly, awaiting my judgment on what evidently was a prized possession.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and opine that the statue’s position would be best under the blows of a mallet. One more push and the statue stood at the apex of a perfect triangulation relative to the foundation wall and front garden of the row house.

“She is a classic example of Master Finalyo’s work,” I said. “Truly classic.”

Nalion smiled with a self-satisfied expression. I picked up my basket and took my leave from him, but I could not resist a backward glance at the pretentious but unintentionally silly statue. Of late, I had been focused on matters of curwë. At some point, I would need to turn my attention to the artistic issues of my city, particularly the appearance of the main streets.

Putting the image of the banal artwork out of my mind, I walked along the street. One could not have planned for a more perfect late spring evening. A soft breeze whispered from the West. The scent of roses from gardens in hidden courtyards caressed the air. I greedily inhaled the fragrance, driving away the remnants of the acrid odor of the forges that lingered in my nostrils. My shoulders and legs, which earlier were stiff from my day’s exertions, felt supple after my long soak in the caldarium. I was more than ready for comfortable socializing with my colleague who was also my friend.

I turned into the narrow side street and stopped before the row house. Although every home on the street was embellished beautifully, a refreshing sight after the more hackneyed decorations along the main street of the city, my colleague’s house stood out with its exquisite artistry. I admired the nasturtium vines that tumbled with studied carelessness from window boxes, the cobalt-blue glazed urns that flanked the entry, and the carved oak door with its gold-plated name plaque and knocker in the shape of a star.

I put my hand to that golden star and rapped briskly. Within a minute, he was at the door, smiling broadly, as if he had not seen me for weeks instead of just a matter of hours when we finished our day’s work in the House of the Mírëtanor.

“Tyelpo! Come in,” he said as he opened the door wide. “Ah! You brought wine and bread. Very kind, but you know you did not need to do so.”

I had stopped at the shops of Guilds of Corn and the Vine earlier. In spite of his insistence that I need not bring anything, I could not arrive empty-handed.

“I know,” I smiled. “But such niceties were drummed into my head long ago. It’s a habit that is not easy to break even if you’re so generous.”

He took the basket from me. “It’s no matter. I’m sure we’ll make short work of that wine. A white varietal, too! I’ll put it in the ice chest to chill.”

I glanced into his library as we passed by its open door, and saw his latest pet project, a brass telescope, that was still in a state of assembly. He led me through the hall, past the parlor and the kitchen with its adjoining dining area. If the aesthetics of the house’s exterior were admirable, they were even more so on the interior with its tapestries and comfortable furniture of simple but elegant design, a departure from the usual stiff and elaborate Noldorin ostentation. My colleague had transformed this spacious rowhouse, once the stolid, echoing home of a bachelor who had married and moved to Lindon with his bride, into a showcase of understated beauty.

“It’s just you and me tonight, Tyelpo. I thought we’d dine outside since it is such a fine evening.”

We walked out onto the terrace. It was an expansive space, bordered by a stone half-wall. Its centerpiece was a long chestnut-wood table with a slate-tiled top, flanked by benches and chairs, all crafted by the wrights of the Guild of Wood. A bouquet of fragrant red roses in a blue glass vase sat in the center of the table.

Other chairs were scattered around the terrace. A fire pit was incorporated into the stone walls on one side. There coals already smoldered in anticipation of the evening meal. A small fountain stood opposite in a protected corner against the side of the house. The water sang as it cascaded over copper plates into a ceramic basin. The fountain was surrounded by pots of greenery, concealing the clever pump that made use of the pressure generated by the great aqueduct that supplied the city’s water. The terrace, and indeed the row house as a whole, was my colleague’s retreat from the intensity of the House of the Mírëtanor. I spent more and more of my free time there, too, savoring the pleasant surroundings of his home.

“It’s perfection, Aulendil. I swear the terrace is why you purchased this house. The view is spectacular.”

“You could be right,” he replied with a grin. He turned to the West where the lowering sun burnished the rolling hills and sparkled red-gold off the waters of the Glanduin. “It really is beautiful, isn’t it? I never tire of the view.”

He paused, silent as he looked toward the West. I wondered if his thoughts, like mine, flew back to Aman, which was lost to me, and that he had voluntarily left to come here for his mission. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, the dying sunlight glinting fire and steel from his dark hair, and he returned to the present from wherever he wandered. He clasped my shoulder companionably.

“Come, Tyelpo. Your empty hands are most unbecoming. Let’s get them to work on some wine and food.”

We entered the kitchen, hot from the fire in the hearth, where he opened the lid of the wooden ice chest and carefully placed the bottle of white wine against a melting block of last winter’s ice, sawdust still clinging to it, The fragrance of soup that simmered in a small pot in the hearth hit my nostrils, and my stomach growled audibly. Aulendil chuckled when he heard my gut's rumblings.

“It’s probably best that the wine doesn’t hit your empty stomach,” he said as he opened a bottle of a light red wine, pouring the ruby fluid into two glasses. “I don’t want you careening around here too quickly. Maybe later, but not now. Here, take this cheese outside, and I’ll slice your bread.” He handed me a crystal plate with a clear dome that protected a pillow of sheep’s milk cheese.

We chatted amiably about minor events and gossip among the Otornassë while he grilled the boned leg of lamb, its aroma combining with the fragrance of rosemary that he had thrown on the coals. I told him about Nalion’s statue. He shook his head and flipped the chunk of lamb, its fat raising the aromatic smoke of sacrifice as it hit the smoldering coals.

“Tyelpo, you just can’t help yourself, can you? I agree that the Yavanna piece is ludicrous. Finalyo’s churned out plenty of similar travesties. Still, that's ballsy, adjusting another man’s treasure. What a typical Fëanárian maneuver!”

I grunted with mock exasperation, my mouth full of the cheese and bread that took the edge off my hunger and kept the wine from going to my head too quickly. I traced the edge of the plate that I had brought out earlier, my finger sweeping across the astronomical motifs of gold and silver stars and stylized mathematical symbols. I had flanked the plate and its matching soup bowl with finely turned silver cutlery, all of which Aulendil had crafted himself.

My friend declared the lamb done in very short order since he maintained this was a meat best eaten rare: “As long as it doesn’t bleat, it’s edible.” We brought out the soup and a bowl of greens tossed with vinegar and precious olive oil imported from the far south. It was a simple meal but satisfying as we both set to eating silently, both of us hungry from the day’s vigorous work on the gears for a new mill, a large project that had demanded more from our muscles than from our brains.

After we cleaned the dishes, cutlery and other utensils, we returned to the terrace with the bottle of chilled white wine and settled ourselves into the low wooden chairs in a corner of the terrace. Cool blue light from the lamps in the interior of the house spilled out from the windows, but Aulendil lit a few candles in lanterns and set them on the stone half-wall. The stars sparkled in the darkening sky with Eärendil sailing low in the West. The moon in the eastern sky would soon rise over the city.

Aulendil sighed as he sat back in the chair and stretched his long legs. He kicked off his sandals, and wriggled his toes. I did the same. We both wore heavy smith’s boots to protect our feet for hours or even days, depending on the demands of our work. Even sandals were constraining when the freedom of bare feet was permissible.

“Manwë’s stiff rod, but it’s good to be off my feet.” He took a long drink of wine then laid his head back and closed his eyes.

I smiled to myself. Aulendil blasphemed as colorfully as my uncles Nelyo and Cáno had, and I always thought they had elevated it to an art form. This was just one of my friend’s characteristics that made him feel more like a brother with a shared past than just a friend and colleague.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “The gear system has been hard work, but I think it will be well worth it in the end. That new ratio is innovative, Aulendil. I hope the Guild of Corn appreciates your work. They should be able to produce much finer flour once the mill is up and running and more quickly at that.”

“Thank you, Tyelpo. It’s just a minor change, but yes, the efficiency is increased significantly.” He sipped the wine again. “So has our beloved guardian of nature squawked much about the mill’s installation?”

“You mean Celeborn?” I asked. Aulendil snorted in response. I confirmed his assumption. “You know he has. He complains to anyone who will listen. Fortunately, most of the Guild of Corn are Sindar, and they are unanimously in favor of damming the stream for the new mill. He’ll be hard pressed to go against them, particularly since his wife is the massanië. It would look very odd for her to oppose the Guild of Corn.”

“Celeborn is such a bloody reactionary when it comes to practical curwë,” Aulendil said with exasperation. “One hopes that the Lady’s Noldorin sensibilities might come into play here, but he influences her unduly. Many of her decisions as regent smack of conflict of interest because of their personal relationship. This may prove to be a significant problem for us as we move ahead, Tyelpo.”

I sipped my wine and didn’t answer immediately. I was conflicted. Aulendil’s assessment was all too accurate, but I respected Galadriel tremendously. I felt affection toward her, even if I was none too keen on her Sindarin spouse, hardly more elevated than a Silvan in my estimation. “Affection” honestly wasn’t the word. Love. I was still in love with her, even if I knew it would be forever unrequited.

“You really should just let it go,” Aulendil said, astutely guessing my thoughts. “Do you realize how many women of this city would be ecstatic to cleave to you? These are intelligent, vital women, too. Surely, there is one among them who can capture your attention and is worthy of joining the family.” He paused for effect, arched his left brow, and said sardonically, “Or are you enamored of male Dwarves?”

I snorted wine into my nasal passages, my tender tissues burning from the alcohol.

“Námo’s cold bone, no!” I laughed, sputtering a bit. “Really, Aulendil. Can’t I be a confirmed bachelor and not have my sexuality questioned? The Dwarves are a fascinating people, but I am not attracted to them like that.”

“I know that. I’m just twitting you, lad. But in all seriousness, you should not let your feelings for Galadriel get in the way of your life or in the way of your work.”

“I take your point on the former, but I do not see that she is a problem with regard to the latter.”

“Oh, but she is a problem. Or rather she could be. I still have much to teach you, Tyelpo, but these are deep arts that must remain in our confidence. As we apply them, only those of the Otornassë Mírëtanoron may have knowledge of them.”

“You keep alluding to these deep arts, Aulendil. When do you plan to reveal them to me?”

“When I can be assured that you will not reveal them in turn to the Lady. These can be perilous in the wrong hands, even if very few can wield them. I will teach you when I can trust you,” he said, tipping the glass to sip the last few drops of wine. He then refilled it and my near-empty glass as well.

“When you can trust me?" I said as I watched the churning wine in my glass catch the blue light of the lamps within the house. I turned to him when he pulled the bottle away. "Aulendil, you and I are not only colleagues. We are friends. If I give you my word that I will keep your confidence, then you can trust me. I would think you’d know that from these past fifty years…” My words trailed off. My emotions welled to the surface, and I was ashamed of myself for sounding pitiable.

Aulendil did not respond with humored derision as I feared he might. Instead he reached over and placed his hand on my forearm.

“And I consider you my friend, too. More than a friend really. You’ve become like a brother to me, or at least how I imagine a beloved brother should be since I am an only child like you. A man may have brothers-by-blood, but then there are brothers-of-the-heart. I would wish you to be my brother-of-the-heart, Tyelpo.”

I looked at him then and saw that his eyes glistened with tears in the candlelight. My own eyes welled up as my heart opened to what he offered. My loved ones had been torn from me time and time again: my mother, my grandfather, and my uncles. Finrod was lost to me, and his sister rejected my love.

My own father had descended into treachery from the accursed Oath and paid for it with his life.  I had always felt my father had squandered many opportunities in Beleriand by succumbing to internecine warfare and his blind allegiance to the Oath. I had strived to compensate for his failures and to fully realize the talents that I knew I harbored. I remembered some of the arts we had applied in Aman, all brought forth by my grandfather, but I had been unable to reproduce them in Middle-earth, a primitive land wracked by war and decay. I had encountered frustration after frustration as I tried to replicate or re-invent the comforts and wonders of Aman here in the mortal lands.

Then this man had entered my life. I had read the letter from the King, advising us to be cautious because of some ill-founded and vague notions that his herald and advisor — that perelda — had regarding Annatar’s identity. Then Annatar’s letter had arrived shortly after that. It was for my eyes only.  What Annatar offered was astounding. This Noldorin smith, a prodigy of the Aulënossë, offered the advanced arts of Aman — of Fëanáro — to us, and he described these expertly in the letter.

His background story contradicted Elrond’s warnings, and he had sufficient evidence to validate his claim of crossing the northern ocean and suffering the loss of the small ship and its crew in a fierce winter storm. I quickly wrote a letter in response to Annatar, sending it to the western coast. I wrote that he was most welcome to join the Otornassë Mírëtanoron.

He came to us as Annatar, a lord of gifts, but became Aulendil, the friend of Aulë, to the Otornassë. With his instruction, I encountered success where previously there had been failure. Together, we had already accomplished a great deal and had brought creature comforts to the citizens of Ost-in-Edhil. First, we had upgraded the forges and the laboratories. We then improved plumbing and heating systems for the city and the region. We had created superior farming implements and tools for construction. We had formulated refined soaps and other cleaning agents for the fullers. We had expanded the production of the Noldorin lamps that now shed their blue light in the streets and in homes. Aulendil emphasized that we needed to have the basics in place before we reached for the stars.

He had revitalized the language of my mother and father, at first speaking it only with a few of us Exiles and favoring the old pronunciation. But its daily use rapidly spread among the Noldorin artisans of the city, an act of pride and even defiance against the old edict of Thingol.

Aulendil and I were the same equation derived in different laboratories. He was intensely inquisitive, boundlessly creative and loved nothing better than the process of discovery. He was a man of strong emotion: as quick to laughter as to anger and capable of love and smoldering animosity both, although he openly disliked only a few, Celeborn, Ereinion and Elrond among them. He was self-assured, arrogant, and had no use for intellectual pretenders, whom he systematically stripped of all conceit. Yet more than once I had seen him squatted down on his heels, holding a flower or a rock or an insect and explaining their intricacies to a child in a way that the little one could understand, his voice and eyes as filled with wonder as the little girl or boy who listened to him. He acutely reminded me of the man I had lost so long ago: my grandfather.

Tears filled my eyes as I placed my hand over his. “I would be honored to be your brother-of-the-heart, Aulendil. What a lovely way to put it.”

We sat for some minutes like that, and then Aulendil began to chuckle, dispelling our wine-laden maudlin emotions.

“Varda’s tits! Aren’t we weeping like a couple of maidens?” he said, rising from the chair. He walked over to the table and reached for one of the red roses. He deliberately pricked his finger on a thorn. He handed the rose to me and sat down again.

“Now prick your finger. The same one as mine.” He held out his right index finger where a bead of blood formed.

“Ah, the ritual of otornor," I said. "I suppose the blood drawn from a rose’s thorn is more civilized and poetic than slitting our palms with a knife.”

“Indeed. Better to preserve our manual dexterity, too.”

With a quick intake of breath, I gouged my finger with a thorn. A droplet of blood turned red as the rose as it oozed into the air from the small wound. Aulendil held out his finger, now dripping with his own blood, and I pressed my finger against his.

An electric sensation shot up my arm. It swept across my chest, paralyzing me, and then lodged in my skull where the sensation expanded like silver fire. The world went black for a moment. Then my sight returned and all was normal, the fountain still singing and the soft breeze ruffling the roses in the vase. Aulendil sat beside me, the candlelight reflecting from his eyes. Whatever had just occurred was over in a matter of seconds.

“What in the blazes was that?” I gasped.

“What in the blazes was what?” Aulendil replied, wiping his finger off on an immaculate kerchief, which he offered to me, a rose of blood now imprinted in the ivory fabric.

“I don’t know,” I said as I wiped our co-mingled blood from my finger. I felt something - like my nerves were on fire when we touched.”

“Tyelpo, you’ve had a bit to drink. Perhaps you perceived something of your mind’s own devising and not what really exists.”

I sighed and leaned back in the chair. “Maybe. It was odd all the same. I’m surprised you felt nothing. Maybe it is the wine, but it is damn good wine, you must admit.”

“No coercion is necessary to get me to admit that,” he said as he took another long drink of the cool white wine. “So. With that act of barbarity, we are now otornor, yes?” He held up his finger, the blood now clotted.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Then I can trust you to keep what I am about to tell you to yourself?”

“Yes! Of course.”

“But just as importantly, do you trust me?” His silver eyes locked into mine.

I knew that I was about to learn something of potent significance, something that would have a profound impact on me. His caution was unusual, given that he typically shared his knowledge so freely. My curiosity was more than piqued. It was hungry, an inquisitive beast that churned in my brain and would not be sated until Aulendil unveiled this secret to me.

“I trust you, Aulendil.”

“How much do you trust me? With your heart? With your life?”

I answered without hesitation. “Yes, I trust you with my mind, my heart, and my life...my brother.” I held up my pricked finger, raised my glass to him and drank.

He exhaled audibly, a soft sound of relief.

“Good. Then I will show you something tonight. Here, take the rose. Be careful. I think we’re done with bloodletting for the evening.”

“I should hope so,” I said, clasping the rose's stem carefully between my thumb and forefinger. A shiver of anticipation ran up my spine.

“Very well. Keep your eyes on the rose,” he said and closed his eyes. He breathed in deeply, slowly exhaling. I did as he instructed and focused on the blossom.

Citrine streaks began to snake through the red petals. Within moments, I held a pale yellow rose in my hand. I chuckled and placed the rose on the table.

“Impressive. What manner of parlor trick is that?”

“A parlor trick?” Aulendil arched his brow. “That is no illusion, Tyelpo. Examine the rose.”

I picked up the flower again, and pulled off a few petals, crushing them between my fingers. The yellow pigmentation remained intact.

“So it is not an illusion?” I said skeptically. “What did you do?”

“Molecular manipulation. You understand the concept of molecules, correct? I believe you may be the only person now living in Middle-earth besides myself who does.”

“Yes, I understand. My grandfather explained this to me.” I thought back to my conversations with Fëanáro, and his explanation of the composition of matter, both living and inorganic, that reduced to smaller and smaller units until they were no longer visible to the eye. “But how did you accomplish this?” I waved the yellow rose.

“I have the ability to reach into matter and reconfigure its molecular structure.”

I snorted. “Yes, of course, you can! And I can sprout wings, breathe fire and call myself a fire-drake!”

He laughed, a bit forced. “I admire your skepticism. Apparently, you need another demonstration. Let me think...ah, the wine!”

“You’re going to play tricks with the wine? Seems like a waste of a decent vintage to me.”

“Ha! I’ll just open up another bottle. Serce valaron to finish our night.”

He leapt up from the chair and disappeared into the house, returning quickly with an opened bottle of red wine and two clean crystal glasses. One of his pair of housecats, the old grey and black striped tabby, Tifil, trundled after him. He poured the red wine, setting the full glasses aside, and took my glass of white wine, placing it on the table. He sat again and picked up Tifil, whose joints were too stiff with age to jump onto his lap. She promptly curled up, purring loudly as he petted her.

“Right then.” He focused his attention on glass of white wine sitting on the table, and once again, he closed his eyes in concentration. After a short time, he opened them, grinned, and directed me to take the glass.

I held the glass up against the candlelight. The wine looked no different, but the glass was warm, almost hot. I sniffed the wine and recoiled from the astringent odor that slammed into my nostrils.

“Vinegar!” I exclaimed. “You soured the wine.”

“More precisely, I converted most of the alcohol to acetic acid.”

I set the acidified white wine back on the table and took the glass of the smooth red wine that Aulendil most favored. I drank most of it down.

“Still, Aulendil, I have heard of magicians - charlatans - who play such tricks. I am not convinced.”

“I am no charlatan, Tyelpo,” he hissed. The change in his tone was sudden, transforming from collegial playfulness to a menacing chill, and his eyes were veiled and cold. I quailed at this shift in demeanor and was ready to apologize for my poor choice of words, but then he smiled, breaking the tension. He refilled my glass with the red wine, hanging on to Tifil as he rose from the chair.

“I’ll try something more complex this time. Here - take Tifil,” he said.

I reached for the old cat. She happily rubbed her head against my hand as I scratched behind her ear.

“Now show me your hands,” he said.

I held both hands up, turning them, until he nodded, satisfied. He shut his eyes and began to breathe in a deep controlled manner. All was silent around us. Then he opened his eyes again, reflecting gold and silver in the candlelight.

Tifil, who had been content and purring in my lap, stirred and sat up. She began kneading my thighs, as cats will sometimes do when happy. The sensation of her kneading was odd as I felt no claw pricks through the cloth of my trousers. Bile rose in my throat when I looked at her front paws. In their place were small human hands. My hands.

With disgust yet with morbid fascination, I examined the incongruous forms at the ends of the cat’s front legs. My heart raced, and my breathing became short and as I was unable to suck in a good lungful of air in my distress. Despite my revulsion, I was compelled to touch one of the little hands to ascertain its reality. It grasped my finger with its perfectly formed fingers and opposable thumb.

Dizziness overwhelmed me, and my stomach lurched. Tifil turned and looked at me with confusion in her green-golden eyes. She mewed, a ragged, raw sound, as if she were in pain. The grotesque sight of the hands in place of the cat’s paws, coupled with my spinning head, accelerated my nausea. I leapt up from my chair, dislodging the cat from my lap, and stumbled to the stone half-wall where I leaned over it and vomited.

I was not sure how long I leaned against the wall. I was damp with the cold sweat of panic, and my muscles trembled as if they had been overworked for many days. I stared off into the darkness as I tried to stop the sensation of vertigo that clawed at me, spinning and trying to suck me into its maw. I felt Aulendil beside me, and he placed his hand on my shoulder.

“Tyelpo, I’m sorry. That may have been too much for you to process, but I felt a more robust demonstration was in order given your skepticism. That was my misjudgment, and I apologize for it. Just relax.” He stroked my back, and the vertigo dissipated. I ceased shaking, and warmth returned to my body.

“Eru’s holy fire, but that was bizarre!” I said as I straightened, wiping sweat off my brow with the hem of my tunic. “Tifil...is she...?”

“She’s fine. Here, Tifil! Puss, puss...”

Tifil ambled over to us, her front paws now of perfect feline form. She rubbed against my legs, purring loudly.

I stumbled back to the chair, the sensation of vertigo still lingering. Aulendil supported me as I sat back down. I reached for the glass of red wine and polished it off.

“That was amazing. Disconcerting but amazing,” I said, looking up at Aulendil who had picked up the old cat and now held her, stroking her as she purred in his arms. “The implications of those manipulations...well, my brain is too wine-addled to contemplate them fully now, but by the stars' blood! The things that could be accomplished with that...”

“Then you have an inkling of the power this confers,” Aulendil said smoothly. “I believe that you have the gift, Tyelpo. I have observed your work and the marvelous results you have achieved. No other smith comes close. Few of the Eldar have this ability to affect molecular structure so profoundly or even really comprehend its underpinnings, but your grandfather had it, and so do I. I am convinced that you harbor the gift, too, but you will need to be taught to use it, to harness it effectively.”

“You believe that I can...” I looked at Tifil’s paws and back at him.

“Yes, but it need not so aberrant as that. I resorted to such a freakish demonstration to convince you, but be assured that this art has far more useful applications. Just think of what you can accomplish, Tyelpo, once you have mastered the art: you can use your mind to strengthen metals, enhance the beauty of jewelry, and even imbue them with special powers. Do you know that one with such a gift can graft the molecular configurations of the mind into metal alloys?”

“Molecular configurations of the mind? What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“You know that your brain is made up of smaller units called nerves,” he said, and I nodded in vague understanding. He continued, “These are connected by intricate networks. I cannot really explain this adequately now, so just take that for fact. Every intelligent being has distinctive networks. These can be...how do I put this? Their key elements can be integrated into the sub-structure of alloys, thus linking the mind to the alloy. This approach ties organic thought — the dynamic imprint of neurotransmitters, if you will — to inorganic substance. It is very complex, extremely difficult to achieve, but the results are extraordinary. Aulë refined this technique after your grandfather went into exile. But I would like to teach you, if you are willing.”

“Neurotransmitters?” I attempted to translate the grating, Valarin word to an equivalent in my mother tongue but could find none. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but believe me, I am willing to learn. More than willing.”

In spite of my still spinning head, the ramifications of this deep art opened up before me: crystals for embellishment and practical use, exotic alloys and machines, all infused with my very thought. If I could apply this ability under Aulendil’s tutelage, I could match my grandfather’s achievements, and maybe even surpass them. I considered the rampant decay of these mortal lands. Perhaps I might craft artifacts using Aulendil’s methods to slow the erosion of time. With my arts — our arts — the Noldor could reach for the heavens again. We could redeem ourselves here in Middle-earth, our true and beloved homeland, by recapturing what we had lost and preserving it.

I pulled myself out of my reverie and met his eyes, warm with affection. I held up my right index finger, the mark of brotherhood still angry red. The moment was marred when sharp pain shot through my temples. I rubbed my head, wincing. “Ai, what an awful headache!”

Aulendil put the cat down and took my arm, lifting me from the chair.

“Come, Tyelpo. You’ll stay here tonight.”

“I don’t wish to intrude.”

“Oh, don’t fret. A spare bedroom’s always ready for you.”

We walked slowly into the house and up the stairs, our arms around one another. He settled me on the bed and left me. I managed to strip off my clothing and tucked myself under the coverlet, my head still throbbing. He returned, bearing a tray with a small cup and a larger mug on it.

“Here.” He handed the small cup to me. “Extract of willow bark. It’s vile, but it will relieve your headache. And that’s chamomile tea to help you sleep. The chamber pot is over there. Ah, and here’s Tifil.” He picked up the cat and placed her on the bed where she promptly curled up into a furry lump. I drank down all the willow bark extract, grimacing at its bitterness. Then I washed the flavor out of my mouth with the honey-sweetened chamomile tea. I lay back down on the bed. I looked up at him, my vision foggy from the headache and drowsiness, and took his hand.

“I could not ask for a better brother, Aulendil. Thank you for taking care of me and for teaching me.”

He leaned down and kissed my brow. “It is my pleasure. . .brother. You and I, we are going to accomplish great things together. Sleep well.”

He left, closing the heavy oak door softly. I stroked the cat that now pressed herself against me. The softness of her fur and her rumbling purr were soothing. She allowed me to massage her front paws gently in atonement for had been done to her earlier, and assurance for myself that she was intact as she should be. I wondered if Aulendil had experimented with her before, but the disturbing thought slid away as the onset of sleep began to diffuse conscious thought in my brain.

“Yes, Tifil,” I whispered to the cat. “Your master and I. . .we will accomplish great things together.” Then the tides of sleep bore me away.

---

Chapter End Notes

curwë (Q.) technical skill or invention, a.k.a., technology.  See note 30, "The Shibboleth of Fëanor," HoMe XII.

Otornassë Mírëtanoron - Brotherhood of the Jewel-smiths (Gwaith-i-Mírdain in Sindarin). My non-canonical and self-indulgent use of Quenya in Ost-in-Edhil is explained in the intro of The Apprentice.

otornor (Q.) - sworn brothers.

serce valaron (Q., Pandë) - "blood of the Valar."  A kind of red wine, with a nod to sangiovese, the "blood of Jupiter."

Cáno (Macalaurë) and Nelyo’s (Maitimo) colorful blasphemies are a friendly nod to Dawn's Another Man's Cage.

Tifil is one of Tevildo's (feline predecessor of Sauron) alternate names. It's buried in the notes of the early version of Luthien and Beren’s tale (Book of Lost Tales 2).

As one might observe from this and Samaril's experience in The Apprentice, dining with Sauron carries the risk of emesis.