Nasyalossë by Lovimmy3365  

| | |

Stewing

Erestor, to his surprise, wakes up.

The Halls of Mandos smelled like stale old dust and mothballs. Erestor had not opened his eyes yet, but the dust was certain. He had not expected to have a sense of smell in the Halls. Now that he thought of it, he did not expect to have eyes either. Yet he could feel them. Now that he was feeling things, one thing struck him immediately. Intense pain shot up from his arms, and he couldn't help but clench his teeth. Surely Mandos would have fixed that? Was it not supposed to be just spiritual hurts? Perhaps his arms counted as a spiritual hurt. He had not looked at them because he was afraid, after all, he was grown enough to admit that. He reviewed his mental catalog. After the Girdle had fallen, Imladris had disappeared and left a cold wilderness. Then some tall ellon had appeared and Erestor's mouth had run ahead of his brain. Then he succumbed to his wounds and died.

Erestor opened his eyes. There was no way this was the hall of Mandos. There was no way this was any of the cities of Middle Earth either—the stone, he looked at the stone. Erestor had overseen much of the reports for when Imladris was built in the Second Age. Elrond had bemoaned the fact that they could not get stone from the quarries at Himlad. Himlad stone was strong, and it could not be penetrated by the darkness of the Enemy. It was perfect for a hidden valley even though it would have been a pain to retrieve any. They could not, of course, because Beleriand had drowned. Before it did though, Erestor remembered stone. Himlad stone. It had a distinct pattern of black and pale blue inclusions that were said to come from Nienna's tears.

The stone of the wall was gray with inclusions of black and blue.

But how? All of Himlad had sunk with the rest of Beleriand. Even the island of Himling was forbidden for the sorrow it lay upon the fëa. To steal stone from the ruins of Himring would be to incur Elrond's wrath, which was slow to wake but as fierce and burning as his brother's. Very few people remembered that. Therefore, he was somewhere in Beleriand, or Elrond would commit the fourth Kinslaying. Erestor considered it a bit more. He was most likely in Beleriand.

Then came the next question: if he was in Beleriand, how did he get there? Unless Arda had been remade, Beleriand was below the ocean. Arda remade was supposed to be without hurt, and Erestor still felt those angry sparks from his hands. He could have hit his head and the remaining peoples of Middle Earth could have retreated to Himling, but the Himring of that island was 6,000 years a ruin. Someone may have dug stone from under the water, but Círdan would have let Elrond know

Well. He had eliminated all that was impossible. The only thing remaining was the truth, however improbable. Elrond kept a number of Vainafindë Ercassion'si writings in his library, and Erestor appreciated it now. Erestor thought he may have met him when Vainafindë was merely a child. Of course, that was the way it went for most Eldar by the time Erestor met them. Erestor himself was simply too old. Practically everyone was a child to him. It was what made him so shrewd a statesman, Elrond said, because he was old even when all the kings of Middle Earth were in diapers. Erestor declined to comment upon the diapers of kings. He tried to stay far away from that sort of thing, even when Elrond's own children were babies. He simply did not know what to do with them.

One time, Celebrían had put a young Arwen in his arms. After weeks of fussing, Arwen had lain still and slept. The look on Erestor's face had made Celebrían laugh so hard she cried and woke the babe again. Erestor furrowed his brows. He could not remember what expression he made that had her laugh so. His face did not hurt, at least. He was heavy like stone, exhaustion trapping his limbs to the bed even though he had just woken. There were other beds in the room; all were empty. He tried to sit up, but his limbs would not obey him. He simply lay there inert. No matter how he strained, they seemed to slip away. It was a sensation he had never felt before, even in the grasp of the Enemy. A mad thought came to him: perhaps he was in the Halls after all? But no, aside from the exhaustion, there was no reason to think he was there. Surely there would be other fëa.

So he was somewhere in Beleriand. He would have stood to explore the room, but he could not. He was left with nothing but to think upon his last moments. A fresh wave of grief came over him. Never again would he make Celebrían laugh. Never again would he bring Elrond his shawl, forgotten for the hundredth time. Erestor would never find himself stymied by Bilbo's clever turns of phrase. Tears sprung swiftly to his eyes, but burned there in his repose. They fell when he turned his head to the side. He was not ashamed of crying, but he got sick of it quickly. It was dehydrating. Elrond had said that enough that Erestor would never be free of it. Erestor took some time to breathe through his pain. The weight of it was crushing, but he had endured. He would endure.

He attempted to sit up in newfound determination. His arms responded slowly, but hung loose below the elbow. He tried to flex his fingers. Nothing. He bent his elbow. It was tiring and slow, but fine. His wrists would not move either. Erestor's heart began to pound in his throat. The acid spike of panic left him breathless, staring at nothing. He looked down at his hands at last.

They were bandaged, at least.

That was all he could think. Erestor focused on nothing but his breathing. Slow and deep like he had been taught long ago. The Hunter would pass. This panic would not rule him. He closed his eyes. Erestor would master himself, and let the shrieking animal within him calm. Slowly, his heartbeat ebbed away. He made note of the softly crackling fire and the sound of his breathing echoing back to him from the stone walls. The darkness behind his lids. Then he opened his eyes again.

His hands were bandaged, this was true, but he could tell by the shape of them that they were mangled. His pinky and ring fingers seemed to be fused on his left hand, and he was missing the thumb there too. There was a deep notch in his left index finger from where he had wrapped the whip around it for better grip. His right hand was no better: his index finger was missing, and his middle and ring fingers stood stiff and immobile next to each other. They had to be fused into each other at the base. His pinky stuck out at an odd angle, the tip gone. He still had a thumb on the right side, though the tip of that was gone as well. He could not get a good sense of his palms, bandaged as they were, and the burns traveled up his arm to the elbow. His right elbow tingled uncomfortably, not quite pain but bordering on it. Everything below the elbow was numb. When he tried to rotate his wrists, pain shot through his upper arms. His healthy flesh could feel, at least. His hands. He could not use his hands.

How was he to write a missive? To draw a sword? To open a door? He could not even write a note, or elaborate his thoughts to himself on a page. If he could ever move his hands again, he certainly could never feel them again. He was no healer, but he knew enough of healing for that. Elrond had treated plenty of burn victims in the time Erestor had known him. Losing feeling in any part of his body was a terrible sign. There were those that died of a balrog's whip; in fact, most did. That Erestor had survived at all was miraculous. To live another day—that was what Elrond said often. To die is to lose the chance to change, he said, and so I live. Erestor lived. He always would. He would survive this, he would endure.

As he looked at his hands, however, the dark gray of grief poured through him. He would live. He would live changed.

Erestor spent a few hours recalling what he knew of Beleriand. He had been around 60 when Oromë had found the Quendi and named them Eldar, which was counted differently in the days after the sunii. The Hunter came again after Oromë had come to Cuiviénen. Many years later, Erestor escaped to the wilds of Beleriand and could not find Cuiviénen again for as long as he lived. He found himself North in what would later be called Angband, and traveled down along the Sirion, passing quietly through Doriath and reaching its mouth. His route brought him to Taur-im-Duniath, where he dwelt among the Laiquendi for a time. He fled in fear when the Sun rose, and wandered the wilds until he came across the Dwarrow, who were exceedingly delightful in their ways. He could have stayed there for another age, but he had not realized how quickly mortals died. He remained in their keeping for only a little longer before Elwë—called Thingol—showed in a visit to the Dwarf King's court. Of course, Erestor was called something else back in those days too. That was many years before relations between the kingdoms were soured.

Then came the Noldor in all their hosts to Doriath and the various other kingdoms, and Erestor slipped away in the confusion. He traveled where he could and fought against the Enemy in turn, knowing many Eldar, Men, and Dwarrow over the years. He could speak of so much of those times and yet they amounted to very little when he tried to put them to words. Years of great joy and great sorrow. Then the Long Peace shattered and all was thrown into dirt and blood.

The Enemy had ever haunted Erestor and the entirety of Arda. His pain was no more than any other. He had learned to bear it well, and he did. People called him wise and knowing, but of course they had never seen him and Bilbo discussing the merits of eating mud. Bilbo himself was sequestered away somewhere when the battle began. He was probably fussing about nothing in particular while the battle raged above, soothing children and adults alike with the mundanity of wondering at the invention of the tea bag. What Erestor wouldn't give to wonder about a tea bag now. Though nothing stopped him—he was still weak and wounded. A mighty thirst crept up on him during his hours in wait. Hunger, too, assailed him. He thought of warm meat pies and lembas, sharp wildberry tarts, and of picking grass by the tops and eating the part of the stem just above the knot where the leaves joined with the rest. Ai, but for a bite to eat!

Erestor did not have to wait long after his hunger was realized. An Elda of middling height opened the door and entered. They walked quickly to his bedside with a tray in their hands and set it down with a decisiveness that spoke of familiarity. They must have been there many times before. As they wet a cloth, they turned with a hand outstretched to wipe Erestor's face. They froze.

"You have woken! How do you feel?"

Erestor blinked, cleared his throat, and then spoke. "Which part of Beleriand is this?"

"You are in Himring, stranger. I have heard you called Erestor, is this true?"

"Yes, I am."

"I am Tinwerúmë." The Elda, Tinwerúmë, dipped their head in greeting. They sat at his bedside, still holding the wet cloth they had brought. "How come you by these injuries?"

"I do not wish to speak of it," Erestor said. Somehow that simple question made him feel like he was a bubble of ice.

Tinwerúmë searched his face for a moment and acquiesced with a nod. "Then I shall tell you: you have been abed for nigh a week. Lord Maedhros brought you to us and bade us to treat you, and so we have. Your hands are burned beyond anything I have seen, even after the first fires of Glaurung." They pursed their lips. "They will never recover."

It was an arrow to the lung, and Erestor could do nothing to block it. He turned his head back to the ceiling. "I had thought they would not." Despite that fragile hope straining, he could not help but ask: "Will I ever be able to move them?"

Tinwerúmë hummed thoughtfully. "It could be they heal somewhat with time, but they shall remain for ever stiff. Do not expect to be able to write, though you may hold some objects loosely eventually. I am afraid fine control is lost to you. I am truly sorry."

"You cannot change what is done," Erestor murmured. But it was a worthy wound, was it not? To die in defense of what he loved. No, not to die, to live on in some strange time and place. Himring in Beleriand. Would the wonders ever cease? That meant also Elrond would live—though Erestor must confess he did not know the date of his birth. "What is it you came to do?"

"I thought to wash your face and see if you would drink from a cloth, but I think you may benefit instead from having company. Do you wish to eat?"

"I would be much obliged," Erestor said, though he wanted to jump in joy. What he wouldn't give for a meal.

"Let me call for one to be made and you shall sup." Tinwerúmë stood and went to the door, speaking quickly with someone stood outside before returning. They smiled mischievously. "It shall be done."

Erestor raised an eyebrow. "You have my most sincere gratitude."

They continued chatting pleasantly for a while until someone brought the meal. To Erestor astonishment, it was Lord Maedhros himself. Tinwerúmë stood upon his entrance and bowed. Maedhros gave Tinwerúmë leave to sit.

"Good day, my Lord Himring," Erestor greeted. "Forgive my lack of decorum, for I cannot stand to greet you as well."

"I would prefer if you did not. My role is guardian here, and it would be poor of me to expect you to stand when you are so injured." Maedhros set down a tray with a bowl and some bread on it. Erestor would guess it was some kind of stew. He had called for enough of those to be made when he had need to fill a large amount of bellies. Given that Maedhros had asked of the Bragollach, Erestor could only imagine the confusion the retreat would have thrown the staff into. It was hard to feed a fortress in peacetime, let alone when dragons menaced the trade routes. A mad impulse seized him to ask about the ledgers. He did not—it was not his place, and certainly not his time—but he wondered if Lord Maedhros would allow it. He certainly seemed generous enough. Erestor squinted. Surely Maedhros would not have the time to both rescue and tend to a complete stranger such as himself.

"Tinwerúmë, forgive me, but I must avail upon your kindness. I do not think I could sit unassisted, and my hands are..." Erestor's brows furrowed. "Given no manners, I would say they are destroyed." Tinwerúmë winced, but nodded and helped him to sit upright in his bed. "I would ask to hold the bowl but I do not think you would allow it. I have been assailed by many healers." He instinctively covered his mouth with his hand. "Forgive me, I do not mean to be rude. Only the healers I have known have always carried a hidden steel in them. It is often sharp when it cuts!" Luckily, Tinwerúmë laughed. Maedhros did not, but his severe countenance softened somewhat.

Maedhros dipped his head and spoke. "I shall leave you to your meal. You are a guest of this house now, Erestor."

"Thank you, my Lord," Erestor replied. He could not help but wonder at Maedhros' motive, and watched him leave the chamber warily. Tinwerume stirred the stew and looked to Erestor.

"Let me assist you," said Tinwerúmë, "It is no burden."

Erestor pursed his lips, but acquiesced. He had not had someone feed him since the Second Age. He leaned forward to meet the spoon Tinwerúmë offered him. He would be tempted to laugh at the situation if it weren't so harrowing. To not even be able to feed himself. It was an indignity he never thought he would suffer. But he had to scold himself—would he call it an indignity if it was Celebrían? No, for she had overcome her torment as much as she could in Middle Earth and was still unable to lift a utensil. Some were born without the ability to move unassisted, would he condemn them too? Erestor could only imagine the blistering tirade Elrond would set upon him if he dared to voice his complaints aloud. Surely Tinwerúmë had done the best they could. It was not as if Erestor was blameless either.

Yet the feeling couldn't help but creep up on him. What was he to do for the rest of his life? His value lay in his hands. He could not run a household without the ability to write. He had a household no longer, but he could not even serve as a scribe. He could not even act as a common foot soldier, for he could not hold a sword. To ask someone to house and feed him in Beleriand with nothing in return would be an unthinkable imposition. Not to mention he would have no idea how to explain his presence. He could not mention knowing Elrond, Celebrían, or Glorfindel, let alone Imladris or any of the places from beyond the Second Age. He could not pretend to serve a noble family when half of the nobles of the First Age were related! He would have to be resigned to marking his own path.

In a way, his landing at Himring was a blessing. When he was well enough, he could slip beyond Maglor's Gap and up to Angband, taking as many of the Enemy's servants with him as he could. Chances were that there was already another Erestor running around, though he had no idea where his younger self would be at this point in time. Erestor had seen the end of the world. He had no desire to set foot on Aman, for he had never been. If he could exact some measure of hurt on the enemy—

"Erestor?" Tinwerúmë asked. Erestor looked up abruptly. "You have stopped eating."

"My apologies. I was lost in thought."

"I had only wondered if you were tired. Injuries such as these sap the strength as the body tries to repair itself. It would not be surprising for you to sleep often and deeply for the next few days."

"Aye. Though I am sick of rest already. Is there much food left?"

"Only a few mouthfuls."

"Then I shall finish and leave you to look after other patients. I thank you deeply, Tinwerúmë, for I am a stranger not of your house and you have treated me as though I was your kin."

Tinwerúmë snorted. "Never have I been thanked by anyone so prettily, even my own kin." They smiled peacefully, unbothered. Erestor was struck by how similar they seemed to Elrond in that moment. Elrond was kind and patient too, focused on his work with the dedication of a Noldo prince. Erestor could see his mark in every one of his students. Tinwerúmë was much older than Elrond was, and much more quiet, yet he saw the echo of that discipline in them.

"Truly? Well, perhaps they should be more grateful."

i Vainafindë Ercassion translates to "fair-haired son of holly," which comes from scir/shir (fair) + loc (lock of hair) holm (holly). By complete coincidence this name in English would be Sherlock Holmes :).

ii I was debating for a while for how this would actually work because the elves of Middle Earth would never have experienced the trees of Valinor and only actually seen true light once the Sun rose. I've decided to count pre-sun years as YT (years of the trees) regardless of if Erestor had seen them or not. 1 sun year = 9.582 tree years, so when Erestor says he's "about 60" that means he would be about 574 years old when Oromë comes to pick up his kids. He's the dad who stepped up. Except all the kids who got Got by The Enemy.

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment