Nasyalossë by Lovimmy3365  

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Beets and Lamb

Erestor feasts

Nieninquë held doors for him without asking and they made pleasant conversation on the way there. Erestor learned yet more of the castle—the pipe system was quite fascinating—until he begged Nieninquë to give him other news. It seemed every one he met was set on educating him on the fine details of the construction of the fortress. Erestor wondered how many of them had actually participated in the building—Imladris was planned by architects and built by footsoldiers. Celebrían and Elrond were among them, though, as were many nobles and people of storied lines. It was a stark contrast to the courts of Thingol and Lalwen. While Thingol's court formality was Sindar standard, Lalwen's stood in contrast to the Noldor courts of her brothers and cousins (Erestor had no way to know of Findis' court in Aman). The Noldor as a whole were too entrenched in craft and art to put on airs of formality. Lalwen, however, ran her court strictly—though that may be due to her craft instead of because of it. Erestor had never made a thing in porcelain. Then again, he was no Noldo.

Nevrast was one of the most mixed kingdoms; a relic of the first days when the Noldor arrived. Sindar and Noldor in equal measure lived there. It made Erestor's visit calmer to know he blended in—and he had found some fun in making people guess which they thought he was. Erestor was not dark of skin enough to approach the lines of Finwë, but he was certainly far too dark to be entirely of the pale Iathrimi. The people of those caves and forests rarely had to bear the full weight of the sun. They rarely had to bear anything excepting the wretched yoke of their king's idiocy.

Erestor only had occasion to meet Oropher a few times before his untimely death, but he had heard the spiel often enough to recite it in his sleep. Thraunduil, despite inheriting his dislike of Dwarrow and his kingdom from Thingol, had the same opinion as his father. Erestor snorted aloud. Really anyone with a brain did.

"What amuses you?"

"Nothing, my lady," Erestor said breezily. "Only thinking of High King Thingol's face when he finds where High King Fingon will place him at the coronation feast."

Nieninquë laughed once before slapping her hand over her mouth.

"Come now, do not hide your laughter. We will have to be grim enough as it is when High King Thingol gives his speech."

"Aye, and I know it. Tell me, have you been made to suffer his soliloquizing often?"

"Luckily I have not had cause to meet with a High King often, though I am allowed to pass the Girdle of his Lady Wife." Indeed, in the first First Age he had never been barred, though Erestor knew not if he was allowed to pass by negligence or by purpose. "High King Thingol ought to be more considerate of the elderly. I may fall asleep if I am invited to High King Fingon's coronation."

"The elderly?" Nieninquë asked, covering her smile with a hand. "Surely you are not that old."

"Ai, the folly of youth. I am indeed much older than many would guess, but I shall not say my true age."

"Very well."

In truth, Erestor was not sure of his age. He woke on Cuiviénen, true, but those indeterminable years in the dark under the Hunter's eye...It was not that Erestor hated darkness. The stars were only so beautiful because of the soft velvet sky they were suspended in. There was calm and quiet in the shadows that the light scattered with its brightness. Instead it was thoughts of confinement that stymied all logic. Needless to say, Celebrían did not send Erestor to speak with Dwarrow in their homes very often. Even now the thought of those years made the halls of Himring seem smaller. Erestor took a slow breath, imagining Elrond's voice in his ear. He had mastered this fear.

Nieninquë finally stopped and opened one last door. The room was small and deep in the castle, quite unusual for a mess hall. The heat of the kitchen was near. Various cooks ferried reams of flat bread loaves which smelled distinctly of pine nuts, plates of pickled hockenyaii with shaved ginger and sassafras root, steamed roots spiced with bee-balm and peppers, and the overarching aroma of a deeply savory mutton stew.iii Erestor and Nieninquë took a seat at a long table where a few other groups were dining. It was almost stiflingly warm, and Erestor subtly shrugged a bit of his blanket from his shoulders.

"I shall return presently," Nieninquë said. She stood and intercepted a cook, who handed her the plate of vegetables before diverting from the line and returning to the kitchen. Nieninquë sat herself and then the plate between her and Erestor on the table. Erestor tilted his head, the question unspoken. She answered. "Wistandil is fetching us two bowls of stew."

Erestor nodded and thanked her. His attention turned quickly to an obvious problem: he had no way of holding utensils, let alone manipulate them without spilling. He supposed he could try to drink the stew by cupping the bowl with both hands, but with no grip it would fall in his face. He had barely trained Elros to stop laughing at stupid mistakes before he became king of his own nation. He did not need to be treated for rather unfortunate (and delicious) burns. If Tinwerúmë were here, he would simply ask for assistance. It had become comfortable between them. Nieninquë was a different matter. She was perceptive, yes, but there was much difference in the relationship of healer-and-patient to a high-ranking soldier and someone she met in the hallway.

Besides that, the dining hall was full of others. There was no privacy. Erestor had felt his fair share of shame for many things in his life, but nothing so debasing as the inability to feed himself. His lips thinned as he pressed them together. If he had voiced those thoughts aloud, Elrond would have berated him fiercely—especially had he done so in front of Celebrían. After her capture and rescue, she had been fitted with a prosthetic arm and her other arm had remained stiff. Elrond and several healers took care of feeding her, though Elladan had taken special interest in caring for his mother before she departed the shores of Middle Earth. Still, the knowledge of the thing did not make it any easier to bear.

Wistandil, to Erestor's surprise, did not return to his duties immediately. He sat by Nieninquë and passed her two of the bowls. He kept a third for himself. He bobbed his head amicably. "I am called Wistandil." He began eating in earnest, clearly savoring the food despite being one of the ones to cook it.

Erestor thanked him for bringing it and glanced at the tray of vegetables between them. The radishes and beets were flecked in red pepper flakes, the white flesh of the radishes staining slowly with the muddy red of beetroot. They certainly looked delicious. The stew in front of him was tempting as well, and was the same stuff he had been eating. Erestor guessed that the cooks of Himring kept a stew going at all times for odd patrol hours. Erestor attempted to flex his fingers in his lap. He swallowed a momentary wave of instinctual panic when they didn't respond. He supposed that if he eventually could get the meat of his right thumb working, the missing tip wouldn't matter: he could press a stick of charcoal or a fork between the sides of the stump and his palm. His awkwardly placed pinky could even be a boon for holding things. Tinwerume (and Elrond) would probably kill him for putting pressure on the still-healing wounds, but...

Nieninquë was looking at him with poorly disguised sorrow and pity. Erestor instinctively bristled, but held his tongue. To be a volatile stranger in unknown territory was dangerous, and he had already skirted that line when Maedhros had to retrieve him from his revelry outside. He didn't need to snap at Maedhros' captain of the guard in addition to the nér himself. She reached for him in an aborted movement, stopping and opening her mouth to say, "Let me—"

But Erestor did not wait for her to ask. He swiftly cupped the stew bowl with both hands and drank deeply of it. It was pleasantly hot, but perfectly fine to drink. He was sure his hands would be fine. In any case, he couldn't feel them to know if they hurt or not. The stew really was delicious, and the benefit of the bowl was that it blocked his eyes to Nieninquë's expression. Wistandil did not share her tact, however.

"Ai, Ilúvatar!" He exclaimed. Erestor put the bowl down with a clatter and raised an eyebrow at him. Wistandil colored rapidly, a flush rising to his cheeks as he realized his outburst. "Indeed," Erestor said, unsmiling. Still, there was something absurdly funny about his reaction. Perhaps it was his youth, though he was not inexperienced. Few in Beleriand could claim true innocence.

"I—I apologize. I had not realized—"

Erestor laughed quietly. "That is enough squirming for me, Wistandil, I do not mind. I would prefer your honest reaction to any platitude." Erestor did not look at Nieninquë. It would be uncharitable to do so.

Nieninquë, to her credit, gathered herself quickly and bowed her head in apology. "I did not think to your state of injury."

Erestor shook his head. "I would not expect you to care for me in this way. I must confess it is rather jarring for me as well. It has only been a few days for me. I hear I spent my first week unconscious somewhere in Himring's halls."

Wistandil was practically vibrating with the question, and Erestor was curious to see if he would ask it. If they were truly in the Winter after Fingolfin's fall, it would be strange to have such specific (balrog-related) injuries. Erestor could not begrudge him his curiosity. He would be curious in the same position—indeed he was. There was much of the past to relearn. Erestor was fairly sure he had been in Ossiriand at this point in time. Either there or somewhere among Nowë shores—or Círdan as he was called to most. After Elwe had visited Belegost, Erestor had left with him, eager to see his kin and the sun for the first time. The Dwarrow had been his refuge in those frightening first days of light, and it was they who named him Anazulzâram.iv

"May I ask, sir, how you were injured?" Wistandil said. So he had decided to express his curiosity.

Nieninquë's expression did not change, but somehow her presence sharpened.

Now how would he spin this... the injuries were too recent to have come from the Bragollach, and he certainly could not have come from Minas Tirith to Himring in time. This did not even mention how hard his injuries would have made it for him to travel. His hosts also knew his injuries were from a Balrog... Erestor smiled wryly and said, "In battle."

Wistandil squinted. He nodded and turned back to his vegetables. "Fair enough."

Erestor huffed a laugh, levity restored, and then firmly put aside his pride enough to ask, "Lady Nieninquë, would you assist me? These turnips look quite delicious."

"Please, call me Nieninquë," she said, but nodded. She hid her nervousness well, but Erestor had not survived so long because he was unobservant.

The meal proceeded quickly from that, Wistandil regaling them of a new birth among the goat flocks—an old nanny had unexpectedly brought a new kid into the world. More, it was a doeling and so they could be expecting more cheese in the next season. Conversation quickly meandered to trade routes and supply chains: Wistandil was dreaming of Nargothrondian smoke-caps, a mushroom that was as dusky as a smoked cut of meat; and Nieninquë made some small comments about patrol schedules. Most caravans went with a guard escort. All of them did now after the Bragollach, but the routes were being re-established and reinforced. They would need the supplies to eradicate the forces of Angband. Erestor learned that Wistandil was somewhat of a rogue in the kitchen. Apparently there were some controversies about his idea of proper field rations. Those field rations would be the siege rations if it came down to it, and the pinched look that came over the faces of anyone nearby had Erestor struggling not to laugh.

He did not speak much for these conversations, knowing little of the trade routes of Beleriand in this life or the last. At length, however, his questions grew. Surely a people so proud of their fortress could answer him. "Why do we dine here and not in some great hall? Is there not one in Himring?"

It was a stranger who answered from further down the table, "Aye, we do have a great feasting hall, but Lord Maglor has ordered it be refurbished. He is up there now, drawing plans."

"Lord Maglor has?" Erestor asked. He wouldn't have thought Maglor was up to anything.

"He anticipates Lord Caranthir and his contingent will have much negotiating to do."

Nieninquë sharpened. "They have heard word, then?"

"Aye, Captain," the nís nodded. "I have only heard because I was with Lord Maedhros when he received the letter. Lord Caranthir comes with his surviving forces and the Dwarven people come to Mount Rerir."

"Dwarrow, onya,v"

Erestor absentmindedly corrected.

"Yes, the Dwarrow of Mount Rerir." The nís paused. "onya?"

Erestor covered his mouth with his hand as best he could. The habit was too ingrained to ever stop, he thought. "My apologies, my Lady. It is a habit of mine, for so many people I know are much younger than I."

"How old are you?" Wistandil asked, his curiosity still unabashed.

"Now that would be telling," Erestor said and smirked. It seemed rather last minute to begin work on the hall now, especially because of how long it had been since the Bragollach: it was typically marked from the first outpouring of forces from Angband in winter to the lessening of that flow in the spring—a full season straddled over the new year. Fingolfin rode out and dueled on the anniversary of the Bragollach. It didn't make sense to wait months on end to begin renovating the feasting hall unless... "Where is High King Fingon's coronation being held?"

"In Lalwen's Nevrast; a ground thought to be more neutral than the rest of Fingolfin's lands," the other nís said. "Though Lords Maedhros and Maglor intend to travel together with Lord Caranthir."

"And I suppose the Dwarrow and their Lords appreciate the value of a finely crafted feasting hall?" Erestor asked. "To have Dwarf-Lords at the coronation of a Noldor High King...it could be very fortuitous."

Wistandil and the as-yet unnamed nis considered that for a moment, and Nieninquë smiled, showing all of her white teeth. "And Thingol will be there."

Erestor wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, knowing Thingol's fate in the end.

i Iathrim refers to the people of Doriath.

ii Ignore the fact that "Hockenya" is named after a German scientist.

iii Only a preliminary amount of research went into this arrangements of food, because naturally as a fantasy author (and a Redwall fan as I'm sure everyone can tell) I wanted it to be grounded in at least some real-world dishes and not fall into the tomato-potato trap. I imagine that in heavily wooded areas, farming would turn to trees instead of grains because wheat and barley can be delicate. I imagine there are vinyard-like collections of pine trees that aim to produce as many cones as possible because they're great for long term storage and do indeed make a delicious nut. Hockenya is more commonly known as seawort, and can be eaten raw or pickled like sauerkraut, and ginger and sassafras are common roots that would add some flavor to that (although in modern times we don't eat sassafras very often because it contains potential carcinogens). The various roots and tubers are probably carrots, turnips, radishes, etc.; Lastly, the stew would be mutton or goat because cows and pigs don't do well in mountainous terrain and Glaurung ate all of the pigs when he broke Maglor's Gap. They do NOT eat truffles in Himring.

iv Azanulzâram is a Khudzul name that comes from Azan "dim/dark" + ul "of" + zâram "pool/lake." This is notably not the word for 'black,' which in tolkienverse is often shorthand for things of Morgoth. The dwarves of Belegost named Erestor this due to his chill vibes and aversion to sunlight.

v onya is a Quenya endearment that means "my child."

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