127: Table Talk

It was Vorondil, of all people, who finally broke the mood that the Valar had created in "visiting" with the elflings as the adult elves looked on in bemusement. The older elfling, his expression pained, sidled up to Finrod.

"Master," he whispered loudly, "the soup’s gone cold and I think the fish is ruined."

Námo looked up with a gleam in his eyes. "Well, we can’t have that, can we, brother?"

"Definitely not," Irmo said decisively as he lifted Eruanna off his lap and stood up. "Come, brother, we will see to the dinner. Let all the Children enjoy the repast."

Then the most amazing thing happened: the table which had comfortably seated ten seemed to expand without actually taking up any more room within the pavilion and now there were settings for sixteen. The elves just stood there open-mouthed with surprise.

Haldir turned to Finrod. "I didn’t mean it literally," he whispered, casting a worried glance at the Fëanturi, "about the Valar helping, I mean."

Finrod snorted, suddenly recalling Haldir’s rather jocular oath from earlier that evening. "Eönwë obviously has a very wicked sense of humor."

"How did you do that?" Veryandur asked suddenly, casting a suspicious look at the two Valar.

The Valar exchanged amused looks but deigned not to answer the elfling’s question. Námo gestured to Finrod instead. "Why don’t you all be seated?" he suggested. "You can put the elflings between you."

Finrod gave the Vala a curt nod, then turned to Glorfindel, who was looking as nonplused as the rest. "Will you do the honors, brother, while I have a word with the... er... chefs?"

The Balrog-slayer grinned broadly, a look of mingled amusement and mischief in his eyes. "Of course, brother," he answered with a correct bow. Then he turned towards the table. "Let’s see... Veryandur, why don’t you sit between Lady Amarië and Lord Sador and Vorondil, you can sit between Lady Gwilwileth and Lord Haldir, while...."

Finrod, in the meantime, bowed to the Fëanturi and gestured for them to follow him outside. Once away from the pavilion Finrod led them towards the cooking tent but stopped halfway there and turned on the Valar, his expression cold. "Very well, my lords. Would you like to tell me just what is going on here?"

The Fëanturi looked upon the near seething ellon with benign amusement. It was Irmo who answered. "What is going on, child, is that you are holding up dinner."

Finrod looked at the two in disbelief. "We are quite capable of feeding ourselves," he finally said between clenched teeth. "We don’t need you...."

"Peace, Findaráto," Námo interrupted soothingly. "Our reasons are our own. Go back to the pavilion and take up your role as host. Go now," he said, gently pushing Finrod back the way they had come. "You don’t want your soup to go cold a second time."

Finrod started to protest but something in the eyes of the two Valar stopped him and without another word he returned to the pavilion to find that the soup was indeed hot and the mushrooms in oyster sauce had not congealed into an unwholesome mess. His expression remained closed though and even Glorfindel eschewed trying to draw him out of his dark mood as the others quietly began to eat.

The elflings, catching Finrod’s mood, were subdued and there was no chatter among them. No one, in fact, was willing to break the silence while Finrod ate the first course with grim determination, refusing to look up from his plate.

It was into this uncomfortable atmosphere that Námo walked holding a covered platter. He took one look and tsked, shaking his head. "This won’t do," he muttered and everyone looked up, their solemn expressions turning to ones of surprise.

Námo had changed his garb. Gone was the velvet tunic of soft indigo trimmed with embroidery of stars done in mithril thread with the shirt of rose silk underneath that he had been wearing. Instead, he wore a grey ankle-length tunic over which was a black surcoat with the Sun-in-Eclipse embroidered on the front. Gone, too, was the circlet of mithril with the single pigeon-egg-sized opal that had graced his dark elf-braided locks.

Ingwion suddenly smiled. "To whom did you lose the bet this time, lord?" he asked impishly. The others just stared at Ingwion as if he’d gone mad.

Námo laughed as he set the platter on the table next to Glorfindel. "Insolent child," he said. "Just for that you may help Irmo in the kitchen."

Laughing as well, Ingwion stood up without protest and headed outside. Those in the pavilion could hear him calling out, sounding suspiciously like an elfling. "Lord Irmo, my Master says I have to help. Can I have a tabard like his too?"

Finrod gave the Vala a penetrating stare. "Bet?" he asked, his tone one of disbelief.

Námo merely smiled. "Long story. Now, why doesn’t someone pick a topic of conversation? All this silence is unhealthy for your digestions."

"And what topic of conversation would you have us speak on, my lord?" Glorfindel asked with studied indifference.

Námo raised an eyebrow. "You’re in the middle of a tournament," he exclaimed in feigned asperity. "Pick something!"

He then walked out of the pavilion, shaking his head and muttering to himself. The elves sat there in silence for a moment, not sure how to respond. The elflings shifted nervously in their seats. Veryandur was staring down the table at the covered platter Lord Námo had left behind wondering what was hidden underneath. Glorfindel noticed the elfling’s hungry gaze and smiled to himself, lifting the cover to find several trout lightly cooked in butter and slivered almonds.

As Glorfindel started to take up one of the fish, Mithlas walked in somewhat breathlessly and stopped in surprise. "Oh! Forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt."

"What is it, mellon nîn?" Finrod asked, looking grave. "Has something happened?"

"Huh? Oh, no," Mithlas said, looking a bit embarrassed. "I... um... it’s just that Lord Elessairon was interested in taking a closer look at the way I fletch my arrows and..."

"Ah, just in time, I see."

Mithlas turned and nearly fainted at the sight of the Lord of Mandos standing there in strange garb, carrying a bowl of curried rice, with Ingwion standing right behind him holding a platter of steamed vegetables. The prince was sporting a tabard similar to Námo’s but grey with black trim. The embroidered Sun-in-Eclipse was done in black and white instead of the silver and gold thread on Námo’s tabard.

"M-my lord?" Mithlas gasped and Glorfindel stood up quickly and led the Sinda to Ingwion’s empty seat. He poured some water into a goblet and handed it to the white-faced ellon. Námo placed the rice on the table, then came around to stand beside Mithlas as Glorfindel resumed his seat.

"Take a deep breath, child," the Vala said quietly, placing a gentle hand on the ellon’s head.

Mithlas complied with the request and the color came slowly back into his cheeks.

"That’s better," Námo said. "Now, why don’t you tell everyone about the archery. I know Finrod and Haldir are especially interested in hearing about it."

"I... I only came to fetch..."

"That’s all right," Námo said soothingly. "I’ll just have one of my people tell your friends that you are going to be delayed."

To that Mithlas could not object, as much as he would have liked to. While he had gotten used to the presence of Lord Irmo and his lady, and even to that of the various Maiar in the service of the Lord of Lórien, his close proximity to the Lord of Mandos unnerved him as not even the hordes of Morgoth’s army had ever done. He swallowed nervously and nodded.

"Good," Námo said brightly. "We’ll leave you to enjoy this second remove, then. The third remove will come out later... just as soon as my brother figures out what it will be."

With that, the Vala left with Ingwion in tow, the ellon sniggering quietly. The sound of the prince's laughter seemed to break the spell they had all fallen under and Manwen, sitting at Mithlas’ left, turned to him.

"So, how did the archery go?" she asked. "I was too busy in the healer’s tent to see any of it."

At first, Mithlas felt a bit self-conscious, but when Glorfindel, Haldir and Finrod all indicated that they were curious to hear what Mithlas had to say about it, the Sinda started to describe the various archers, at least those with whom he was familiar, with greater detail.

"Lord Aldarion was quite one of the best I’ve seen, even if he’s not a Sinda," he commented at one point, idly taking a bite of the fish that Glorfindel had put on the plate in front of him. The Sinda wasn’t even aware that he was eating a second dinner in his enthusiasm in telling his tale.

Finrod chuckled. "I’m sure he’ll be interested in hearing your assessment of his skills, Mithlas. The Sindar aren’t the only ones who know one end of an arrow from the other."

Glorfindel snorted and the others laughed lightly as Mithlas blushed and muttered an apology.

"I did not mean to disparage anyone, my lord," he said. "I guess I was just surprised that... well, that anyone who had not fought in Beleriand would know anything about the proper handling of a bow."

"Or a sword," Glorfindel added with a nod as he helped himself to more rice. "Yet, we were not all lying about writing odes to the Valar and basking in the glow of the Two Trees."

"We weren’t?" Finrod asked in feigned shock. "But I wrote some of my best poetry while basking under the Light of the Two Trees. Didn’t I, my dear?" he asked as he grinned mischievously at his betrothed.

Amarië, getting into the spirit of the exchange, evinced an innocent air. "Oh, was that supposed to be poetry?"

The others all broke up in laughter, Finrod laughing the loudest and longest. The elflings, however, were more interested in eating and weren’t paying too much attention to the conversation. Vorondil, being older though, hung onto every word his elders spoke.

"I... I would’ve liked to have competed in the archery," he said hesitantly, "but of course, I couldn’t." This last was said with some self-directed bitterness, his eyes fixed firmly on his plate. He pushed his food around, no longer hungry. The other adults gave him sympathetic looks, though he did not see them.

"Are you any good?" Haldir asked him solicitously.

Vorondil looked up and nodded. "Atar says I have a natural talent for it."

Finrod gave him an understanding smile. "We’ll have to see that you continue to practice then," he said. "It wouldn’t do for you to lose what skill you have."

The ellon gave him a grateful look and nodded.

Finrod turned back to Mithlas. "So, are there any favorites yet, or is it too early to tell?"

Mithlas shook his head. "Too early, though once the next round is over with I suspect there will be heavy betting going on." He gave them all a wry grin.

There was chuckling all around. Then, Mithlas’ expression sobered. "There was one ellon though...." He paused, hesitating, and the others, even the elflings, picked up on his mood.

"What about him?" Sador asked.

"He was in the opal team," the Sinda stated. "I admit I wasn’t paying too much attention because there was no one in that group whom I knew well, but when he stepped up to the target...." He stopped and gave a grimace of frustration.

"What?" Glorfindel asked. "I have to admit I wasn't paying too much attention as to who was competing. I... I had too many other things on my mind," he ended somewhat quietly and the others gave him sympathetic looks.

Mithlas shook his head as he answered. "For a moment, the way he stood, he reminded me of someone, but I could not remember who." His gaze was unfocused as if he were searching his memory, then he gave himself a shake. "It was only for a moment and then the feeling of familiarity was gone."

"Could it have been someone you met in Beleriand, perhaps during the War of Wrath?" Finrod asked. "You must have met many warriors during that time whom you never saw again."

"Yes, that’s certainly true," Mithlas said, "but I don’t think so. I can’t put my finger on it."

"What about on Tol Eressëa?" Haldir suggested.

Mithlas merely shrugged.

"Does this mysterious ellon have a name?" Alassiel asked. "I confess I wasn’t paying much attention to the competition either, not with trying to keep track of five elflings, so I can’t say as I remember seeing anyone from that particular group standing out."

"I did not think to ask," Mithlas confessed with some embarrassment.

Finrod nodded. "Well, perhaps we can find out when we watch him compete tomorrow. In the meantime..." He gave them all a wicked grin and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I wonder what’s keeping the... er... servants with the third remove?"

"I heard that," came Námo’s voice echoing among them though he was not in evidence. "Just for that, insolent child, you can help wash the dishes."

Finrod laughed and the rest joined him.

Five minutes later, a smug looking Námo and an equally amused looking Ingwion entered with the next remove: a pheasant roast accompanied by candied sweet potatoes and baked onions. This was later followed by a syllabub of thickened sweet cream mixed with fruit juice rather than the usual wine in deference to the elflings. A plate of shortbread and gingerbread came with the sweet dessert.

Afterwards, all agreed that it was a most delicious meal as they stood to go outside to sit about the fire and enjoy the mild spring evening. Finrod remained behind to help Ingwion stack the dishes. Glorfindel and Sador offered to help but Finrod sent them off, saying that Ingwion and he could deal with the dishes well enough.

Soon, the others were rewarded with the sight of two Valar and two princes of Eldamar happily washing and drying the dinner dishes. Rumor of this spread throughout the encampment and it wasn’t long before the compound was surrounded by curious elves who decided that no one who hadn’t seen it with their own eyes would ever believe it.