Nasyalossë by Lovimmy3365  

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Tea

"Ah, you there," he said with nary a glance. "Pick up the other end of this table." He paused. "Please."

Erestor shook his head, his hands spasming at the thought. "I would obey you, my Lord, were I able to. As it is I may only serve as witness, though I may call some poor Elda to assist you." The tables were ornate and heavy—freshly carved, it seemed, for the arrival of Caranthir.

Tinwerúmë was quite irate when Erestor returned that night, but reluctantly released him to wander the halls as he would. He was permitted to eat in the repurposed feasting hall, to watch the weavers at work making clothes, and the craftsmen at their workshop. Maglor was inundating them with orders for the feast hall, as Caranthir, his Eldar, and the Dwarrow of Rerir were to come by the end of the month and Maglor had taken it upon himself to refurbish the whole thing. He was a terror at the head of the grindstone, but so many of his cavalry seemed to be relieved at his newly-found passion that they didn't mind. Erestor heard many whip-smart remarks and saw many sharp smiles in the days after Maglor had begun his great project. Maedhros was scarce, and Erestor only saw him from a distance. His copper-bright hair bobbed along the crenelations and was sometimes accompanied by Nieninquë and a contingent of captains.

Erestor had only come face-to-face with Maedhros once, and Maedhros seemed exceedingly stoic. Had Erestor been any less old, he would have been fooled by his stony visage. He'd had enough trouble with deconstructing the proud and noble children of Númenor—and some elves who thought they were above feeling. 'Twas true that Maedhros had more to be wary of than most. Life had not been—was not kind to his fëa. Erestor had never spoken with Maedhros in his first life. He had been there among the camps of the Union of Maedhros, but had never seen the leader from afar. He was oft sequestered away with his cousin Fingon, Maglor forming the sometimes awkward third ever since the death of Finrod. The three eldest sons of Finwë's sons did not often have cause to meet before the Nírnaeth, but Galadriel remembered their nigh inseparable bond in Aman. They still took care to meet away from their fathers' gimlet eyes. In Beleriand, the danger was too high for any one Lord to desert their post.

Even now Maedhros wandered among his walls, holding the Northernmost pass against Moringotto and his ills. He stood stoic as his Himring, frigid, so unlike his later demise. Erestor wondered if he felt that molten pull even now. His brothers scattered, his people devastated, and few allies across the land. Celegorm and Curufin offended Nagarthond by their actions against Lord Regent Orodreth and their cousin Finrod, and then Luthien in their lust for her and the jewel she carried. Caranthir was known even to the Third Age as exacting and sharp-tongued, and Amras retreated unto the wood-elves until Maedhros called him to task. Maglor, sick of the Oath even in its making, still broke bone with his shattering voice. Maedhros ended by his own hand. Amrod Umbarto burned by the hand of his father in blind rage all the way in Aman.

But they stood scattered today across Beleriand, and three of the six remaining brothers would be united. Perhaps Erestor could have saved Amrod if he were given back to the days of Aman. Alas, here he was in Beleriand in the scant few years to prevent the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. That, and he had not the use of his hands to ride a horse or to write a missive. Who should he trust to dictate a letter to? Tinwerúmë was kind and gentle, and would not partake in the politicking Erestor must do in order to create alliances and goodwill. Nieninquë would, of course, report directly to Maedhros. Maedhros did seem to wish to foster good will among the Noldor and the Elvenkin of Beleriand, but was stymied at every turn.

Erestor sighed sharply, wanting to brush his hair behind his ears. He should not risk dirtying his wounds, however. Tinwerúmë was kind enough to wash the sweat from his skin, but there was little opportunity yet for him to truly bathe. The feeling of his greasy locks set his teeth on edge. It certainly wouldn't help him find allies here in this time.

With little else to do, he spent his time wandering the halls and trying to sneak his way into the odd corners of the fortress. Erestor was sure the network of healers would report him if he strayed too close to the sparring rings and armory—he did not wish to be scolded by Tinwerúmë for being in a place where weapons were practiced while he didn't have the ability to defend himself. That, and they were subtly steering him away from being in sight of battle, no matter how simulated. Tinwerúmë would change the subject and find something else to talk about. Perhaps that was why so many people were so eager to talk about the fortress' construction.

Erestor had wandered close enough to the feasting hall to hear the tell-tale sound of furniture rearrangement. It was a song oft heard recently. Maglor's orders carried through the stone halls of Himring like the ring of a bell. Now, however, there was no voice to be heard. Curious, Erestor followed the familiar path and entered the room.

Maglor was indeed there, though he was the only one. He gave no orders because there was no one to give them to.

"Ah, you there," he said with nary a glance. "Pick up the other end of this table." He paused. "Please."

Erestor shook his head, his hands spasming at the thought. "I would obey you, my Lord, were I able to. As it is I may only serve as witness, though I may call some poor Elda to assist you." The tables were ornate and heavy—freshly carved, it seemed, for the arrival of Caranthir.

Maglor looked up. "Ah, Erestor, I did not realize—my apologies."

"It can be harder when one does not look at he who has entered."

Maglor snorted, and then began to giggle. Erestor idly wondered if he had slept. Maglor caught his breath and placed his hands on the underside of the table. He tested it briefly, then nodded to himself. He shifted it with a deep grunt. "It is mostly that it is unwieldy. My strength remains."

"I do not doubt that, my Lord. But may I ask something?"

Maglor nodded, though gave him that look that Elrond reserved for when he thought Erestor was acting too formally. Erestor averted his eyes. A pang of loss rippled through him

"Why do you continue to work so late? Your people have gone to bed."

Maglor tilted his head. His hair fell into his face, and Erestor could not read his expression. His voice remained the same, but Erestor had plenty of practice deciphering the moods of all kindred of Children. Besides, Elrond and Elros both shared that habit of obscuring their faces—that was until Celebrían called Elrond on it and he was so embarrassed he braided his hair for a decade. Maglor recovered more quickly than young Elrond, however. He looked at Erestor. Seeing treelight again after so many years was still strange. "I must confess I have trouble sleeping as of late."

Erestor clicked his tongue. "Put that table down. Come with me," he said. He turned swiftly and hid his hands in his sleeves. It was a move that was quickly becoming a habit. He heard Maglor drop the table as he rushed to follow. Maglor caught up and opened the door, though Erestor could have done it (thank you very much)! Erestor had to prevent himself from exchanging a sly glance with Bilbo Baggins, who was not there. It seemed he was all caught in the past today.

Erestor led Maglor to the kitchens by the temporary meal hall and ushered him in. Maglor looked as though he may try protesting, but Erestor learned how to bustle and boss from the best. Oh yes, there was Bilbo, but Bilbo didn't hold a candle to his father, Bungo. Erestor had visited once on one of the very, very, very few occasions when he had left the borders of Imladris. Erestor swiftly found a kettle and grimaced. He passed one of his hands through the handle and lifted it with the back of his wrist where the skin was mostly intact under the bandages. He shook out his sleeve so the cloth would provide some extra protection. Luckily the kettle was half full from some partially aborted tea attempt earlier that day. Erestor placed it swiftly on the bed of crackling embers and snatched his hand back out from the heat within a mortal's blink.

Erestor turned to Maglor, who stood there, shocked. Erestor raised an eyebrow. He wanted to shudder at the feeling of his hair against his forehead. He would have to ask Tinwerúmë when he would be able to wash. Even then, it would take a few rounds of soap. He had always had extraordinarily thick hair. When he was able to bathe regularly, his hair still took a second round of soaping before it was truly free of grease. He was sure he looked as though he was pulled from a pit of pond scum.

"There is nothing you may do tonight that cannot be done tomorrow, onya. Therefore we shall take tea and find our rest there. You may be a Lord and a Prince, but you are yet of the Eldar." Erestor sat and stared into the flame, his heart half in his throat from the boldness of his words. It was one thing to scold Celebrían, who stayed up many hours to trace the roots of whatever Mannish language captivated her that week. It was entirely another to scold a Prince of Aman—though of Aman he did not remain. Still, Maglor sat down obediently and they waited in a soft near-silence interrupted only by the crackling of the fire. The room was of that same-thick stone, almost stiflingly warm, and made clandestine by the howling snow outside. Morgoth's flame could scorch any plain, mountain, or tree, but it could not strip the need of fire from Eru's children. Maglor stared at Erestor for a few moments before turning his head to the fire, seemingly lost in thought. Erestor moved a sheaf of his hair behind his shoulder and glanced at him through the corner of his eye.

Maglor looked more hale than before, yes, but that did not say much. When he had come in his enthusiastic joy to Erestor's bedside, it had been with an air of desperation around him. Maglor suffered dearly for many years even before the Dagor Bragollach. In songs, he had been sick at heart from the oath, whatever that may mean to a healer. Erestor wished Elrond would shed some light on that phrase. He would not dare to ask, however, while Maglor wandered as a figment on the shore. Elrond's birth father was a distant memory to him. Erestor could not say for certain how close Maglor's memory lay, but Elrond had always bid Erestor keep an eye on the shore. Erestor pursed his lips. He had found Maglor now, Elrond. He had found him.

The kettle whistled on the embers and Erestor flinched. He reflexively put a hand to the hilt of his sword and his chest, as if both to kill and to imitate Bilbo. He sighed, irritated, and stood. He nearly reached for a poker, but he faltered, looking at his hands. Perhaps if he steadied it with his left hand and gripped with the remaining thumb on his right—

Maglor snatched the poker quickly and picked up the kettle with the end. Erestor sighed and turned to the counter to pick up a pair of cups, but Maglor hastily put the kettle down and rushed over to intercept Erestor. "Sit, I beg of you!"

"I am not an invalid," Erestor said, exasperated. He studiously ignored the way his hands would not respond to him. He stopped and sighed again. He shook his head and went to sit down. "I beg your pardon, Lord Maglor." He worried at his lip and looked askance. There were very few people he wished to admit any vulnerability to, especially in harsh Beleriand, but— "My injury is somewhat distressing to me."

Erestor watched intently as Maglor poured them both a cup of tea. To never write again, never complete a sum, to never pen a secret note or a bold letter to some young Mortal lord. To never take in hand an instrument and play. To never draw a picture, no matter his poor skill. To never take up arms to defend his loved ones...But Erestor would not weep. He could not. Elrond was dead and all of Imladris, were he truly in Beleriand. And he had not the right to grieve.

"I cannot imagine it."

"I would not wish it upon you," Erestor said, "Though I can only assume you are much fairer of a musician than I. It is no great loss to the world of musicians, to be sure."

"Though to be the steward of a house is not a handless task either."

"I say steward, but in truth it was more ambiguous a role. My Lord would roll his eyes to hear me say it, assuming I am dodging pride, but it was never so simple a role as steward. I scribed with the scribes, and penned letters for my Lord, and oversaw many domestic trades. It was only by necessity that I took arms. Though in the end it seemed for naught. My House was destroyed. I must confess, I find myself at a loss. I am deprived of all my usefulness. I cannot even serve as a window washer."

Maglor smiled. "We could use one, perhaps. Let me think upon this, Erestor. I would not have you waste away. Perhaps I could offer you a job in supervising something? Someone may come by to write your orders and disperse them, and then you would not have to tax your hands overly."

Erestor's eyes widened. "My Lord, you have nothing but my word as to who I am. Besides that, your people do not know me, and I do not know this land well. I do not even know the state of your finances, let alone what your people desire. Have you not people enough already to govern your needs? Do not open up a spot for some stranger, Lord Maglor!"

"Aye, all of that, and yet I wish to!" Maglor said, a sly grin opening his face to further mischief. "Who is to say that it shall be a disaster? Yes, good could come from this. I find myself most ardently attached. But what would we call you?"

"Erestor is fine enough, Lord Maglor, and—"

"Ah, well, we may come up with something later. I must tell Maedhros!" Maglor picked up his tea and drank it in one shot, intending to stand and do just that.

The moment the tea his lips he spat it out. Erestor blinked at the sudden moisture and sat frozen. Maglor froze as well. It was all too ridiculous. Erestor broke down in laughter, loud in a way he rarely was. He went to cover his mouth with his hands, only to find they couldn't form a seal. He sat helplessly, unable to stop his own amusement, his hands hovering in front of his face. "I—I apologize my lord, it's just—"

Maglor laughed as well, though Erestor would guess it was out of shock. "I am so sorry, Erestor, the tea was—"

"Who made this? No wonder they abandoned it!"

"Perhaps it was an experiment gone wrong?"

"Perhaps you should report them to your brother, Lord Maedhros."

"And what? Have them made to do discipline laps?"

"Yes!"

The noise of their laughter was so great that one of the cooks from the chamber over woke and opened the door to the kitchens. By coincidence it was Wistandil, the very same cook who had served Erestor and Nieninquë a few days ago. "What are you doing in here?"

By that time, Erestor had calmed himself enough to answer steadily. "Drinking tea."

Maglor burst out laughing again.


And so it was that Erestor found himself with summons to the new Great Hall in the morning. Maglor stood there, eyes glittering with excitement and that edge of mania, and several lightly armored warriors too. The doors remained wide open so furniture and tapestries could be moved about. Erestor chose to creep along the wall rather than disturb the warriors who were clearly trying to avoid crashing the tables against each other. The room was being arranged for a great feast, two large ornate tables at the back of the room upon a dais perhaps a hands-breadth tall and the rest of the tables being arranged in a large oval. Erestor was pleased to see that Maglor did not awake in the middle of the night to continue his table-moving alone. The warriors would complete it swiftly. What Erestor did not know was what work there was left to do.

"Lord Erestor!" Maglor called, much to Erestor's chagrin.

"I am no Lord, my lord, and I would not have you misname me as such," Erestor said firmly. It was true, he was of no noble line. Erestor had no idea why Maglor drew such amusement from that, but he hoped that a reputation of his being a noble scion would not spread. Erestor was from a time before that nobility existed and he would have no part of it, thank you. It was all well and good for Princes but never for him. "If you were to call me anything, call me Master Erestor, for that was the title of my old House, little though it means here."

"Very well then, Master Erestor," Maglor said, still amused.

"What would you have me do, then? The arrangement of the hall is almost complete, and you are doing fine work."

"Ah, I have called you here only to give you an excuse to leave your sickbed. Has a room still not been arranged?"

If Erestor were light enough to flush, he would have done so. "I am afraid Tinwerúmë has not permitted it. I have an unfortunate habit of sleepwalking, newly acquired. I may do harm to myself on accident were I to think a sleeping friend an enemy." Or to do harm to others, Erestor did not say aloud. It was truly an embarrassing habit, and one that plainly frightened him. Even with all the battles he had fought he had never been subjected to this.

"Then I shall see what arrangements I can make. I am fortunate to have my own chambers, I do not see why it cannot be so for you."

Erestor looked to the stars, hidden though they were. "Of all things, Lord Maglor. You cannot simply give me private chambers because you feel like it! You have many people to think about, all of whom deserve your consideration, whereas I am merely some fortunate ruffian to be picked up by your Lord Brother. Think of your own people before you accept the aid and elevate some stranger! I am sure Lady Nieninquë or some other captain would accept your gifts, but I shall not. The lack of propriety alone—" He cut himself off and sighed. "I shall be content to be given a room where there is yet room for me. A stranger whom you do not know."

"Yes, Master Erestor," Maglor said, an amused smile playing about his mouth. "Were you perhaps quartermaster as well as steward?"

"Nay, I merely organized some histories," Erestor said, turning his nose up. The quartermaster was indeed a dear friend of his in Imladris, always timely in her work. She was once an Elda of Gil-Galad, but had found service in following Elrond. When she fell ill, naturally Erestor took over her work. The majority of Erestor's time was truly taken up by memorizing and organizing history as communications became more and more scarce as the light in Middle Earth dwindled. Erestor was sure that most of the House of Elrond would disagree, but he would rather not exaggerate his own qualities. It was truly Elrond, Arwen, Laurefindelëi, and the twins who did much of the work in the household. Not only that, but Imladris was held up by the hands of so many folk of all lines and standings that it would be foolish to claim Erestor would be able to do anything without them.

"And what histories have you gathered, Master Erestor?" Maglor asked.

"Stories of—" the First Age. But alas it was not yet known as the First Age! He could give no detail of any age beyond that which they were in, especially if the details may not come to pass. Some Eldar had foresight, it was true, but Erestor was no Laurefindelë. Any prophecy he gave would be proven wrong. Erestor looked to his feet, attempting to buy himself some time. Perhaps Maglor would assume he was grief-stricken and leave it alone. Erestor glanced quickly at Maglor. Damn these curious Fëanorions. "Stories of our people on the Great Journey, and how they had been divided."

"I imagine you and our scholars would have much to speak of, for those of Aman do not know what has happened after the Moriquendi remained behind. Naturally, we may tell you of Aman as well."

"I find the tales of Aman spread far and wide, as Elwë was much greived of Finwë, no matter how ardently he may protest. They went together on the initial journey. It is a shame that Finwë could not be here to greet him."

"Know you much of Thingol, then?"

"Only as much as I wish to," Erestor said, hoping Maglor would drop the matter.

"And how much do you wish?"

"I am no Nelyar or Teleri, and so I only wish as much as one who is not does."

Maglor looked stumped for a moment. "You have said you are not Noldor, and you are not Teler, but I would be shocked if you were Vanyar. From which tribe are you?"

"That would be telling, young Maglor."

Maglor gave an exceedingly put-upon sigh. "That is how I know you tell the truth of your great age. Only one so old as you would delight so in riddles and confusion!"

"Ah, but how else am I to make my fun?" Erestor asked airily. He tapped his foot a few times, watching as the tables were put into place. "What have you come up with for me to do?"

Maglor gave a cursory glance over the progress of the hall and then made his way to an alcove in the back wall. Erestor followed. The Noldor of Himring were glancing at them curiously, eyes wide and eyebrows perked. Some of them even whispered among each other. That was how Erestor was sure they were Noldor, in fact. Their tongues were quicker than their minds, and then their minds were rather quick as well. A Noldo could not go a whole day without putting their foot in their mouth. Their princes proved it; Caranthir most ardently. Maglor leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and giving Erestor an appraising look. He looked settled for the first time since Erestor had seen him in this strange second past.

"You have spoken much with Dwarves?"

"Dwarrow, yes," Erestor said.

"Caranthir tells me that there has been some conflict between members of their host and the dwa—the Dwarrow. They all come together from Rerir, of course, the Enemy stakes his claim still over the Gap." Maglor paused and quickly blinked away tears.

"You wish for me to secure allyship?"

"If you can."

Erestor pursed his lips. He still felt it was inappropriate for him, an outsider, to be given such a task. He still did not know the inner workings of Himring or what they could offer to the Dwarrow of Rerir, but almost anything was better than being left to wander without a purpose. He had done that before and was not keen to begin again. Besides, this was Elrond's foster father. Even if Elrond were not here to see it, Erestor wished to honor his memory. Maglor read the doubt on his face and stood upright, mirroring Erestor's formal pose. unlike Erestor, he was able to clasp his hands in front of him and bow. Erestor startled, holding his hands up uselessly. A Prince of Aman bowing to some nameless, houseless—

"I would be honored to have your help in this task, Master Erestor."

Erestor's mouth felt dry. He felt inadequate to the task. He felt that Maglor was being idiotic, of all the things, to bring an outsider into his House and have him perform diplomacy, his own brother's famed craft—Erestor sighed.

"I thank you for your trust, Lord Maglor."

After all, it would be nearly impossible to have it go worse than last time.ii


i Glorfindel's Quenya equivalent. I'm using it here because Erestor knew of Glorfindel as Laurefindelë when he originally came over with Turgon's host.

ii The war of wrath was not great for anyone, shockingly :P

Chapter End Notes

hehe long time no see. Enjoy!

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