89: Unforging a Collar

Arafinwë woke suddenly with the sound of someone knocking on the door. He blinked blearily about, not sure where he was for a moment. He must have fallen asleep over the journal. He could see the page he’d been writing on with the ink all smeared and unreadable, save for a single phrase. He grimaced as he read it and slammed the book closed. There was another knock — although it sounded more as if someone were pounding on the door now — and without thinking he called out.

"Enter!"

A third loud knock, this one more insistent than the others, brought him to his feet, snarling an oath. He flung open the door, ready to castigate whoever was standing there, but his protest was cut short when several bolts of cloth were practically shoved into his face and he was propelled backward by the motion, frantically grabbing at them.

"Thought you would never open the door," he heard someone say, sounding rather put out. "Here. Let me have those."

The bolts of cloth were taken out of his hold and Arafinwë stood there blinking in bemusement at the person who had invaded his cottage. She was not a Maia. In point of fact, she was....

"L-lady Vairë?" he whispered in disbelief.

The Valië gave him a wide smile. "Last time I looked," she said coyly.

"Wh-what are you doing here?"

She gave him a measuring look and he blushed, realizing he’d been rude. "Sorry," he apologized. "I only meant, why are you here and what’s all this?" He gestured at the bolts that were now laid out on the table (his journal seemed to have disappeared).

"You need more clothes, do you not?" Vairë asked. "Well, I’m here to see that you get them. Here, turn around." She pulled out a measuring tape from somewhere and gestured for him to face the other way. Arafinwë complied, still feeling bemused. For the next several minutes he stood there while the Valië measured him, never writing anything down, but muttering numbers to herself. When she was apparently satisfied, she went to the table and held up one of the bolts. He could see that it was heavy unbleached muslin.

"This will do for trews and a shirt," Vairë said, casting a critical eye over the other bolts. "A dark color will be suitable, I think. It’ll hide the dirt better." She glanced at Arafinwë with a knowing smile. Arafinwë glanced involuntarily at the tunic he was wearing, noticing for the first time how the grey wool looked rather dingy.

"Hmm...." the Valië continued, holding up one bolt after another. "With your coloring, this shade of brown might do." She gestured for him to approach and held up a bolt of golden-brown worsted wool next to him. It was the particular shade of brown that the Elves called varnë. "Yes, this will do nicely."

Arafinwë blinked in surprise when the other bolts simply disappeared, leaving only the muslin and the brown wool behind. Vairë began rummaging in a small basket, pulling out scissors, needles and pins and such. Without looking up she spoke. "Why don’t you make yourself useful while I cut the cloth and make us some tea. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve let the fire go out in the stove. You’ll have to make a new one."

Arafinwë remained where he was, too fascinated to move as he watched the Valië pull the most improbable items out of the basket. Where did the measuring board that had to be longer than his table come from? And were those patterns? He recalled seeing the seamstresses who worked for the royal family use such patterns made from stiffened leather themselves. He shook his head in wonder and disbelief. Vairë stopped her fussing with her supplies to give him a wry look.

"Pityahuan. Tea." She pointed at the stove.

Arafinwë blinked, realizing what was being said and stammered an apology as he went to the stove to check it. Sure enough, the fire had nearly gone out. He spent some time raking the ashes, retrieving some coals that still burned hot and set about building up the fire again, filling the tea kettle and taking down the tea paraphernalia, setting them on a low shelf beside the cupboard, for his table was presently covered with cloth and sewing items. In the time it took for him to put together the tea, Vairë had apparently gotten all the pieces cut, for when he turned around he found the table cleared off (his journal was where he’d left it) and she herself was sitting primly on the sofa, pinning some of the pieces together.

"Bring the tea over here, Pityahuan," she ordered and he complied, setting everything on a low table that had not been there previously. He had stopped being shocked by such things. He poured out the tea for her, then stepped back and waited. "Why are you standing there, child?" she asked as she continued her pinning. "Fetch another cup, and some of those ginger biscuits Marilliën made, then pull up a chair and sit," she ordered.

He did as he was bid and was soon seated across from her, nibbling on a biscuit, watching her fingers fly as she continued pinning. "I’m assuming you don’t know one end of a needle from the other," she said at one point.

"And you would be correct in your assumption, lady," Arafinwë said with a faint smile as he took a sip of his tea.

"Yes, well, it appears that the neri of every species are ignorant of such things," she said with a snort. "My beloved is a masterful tactician, one of our greatest scientists, able to bring order to the higher dimensions with a single thought, and one of Manwë’s closest advisors, yet show him a needle and some thread and he turns white and runs as far away as he can, leaving me to repair his tunics."

Arafinwë choked on his tea, suddenly realizing that the lady was describing her own husband in tones reminiscent of Eärwen castigating him for his failings. She gave him a smirk and held up the now pinned trews. "Here, put these on. Careful of the pins. Oh, and you might as well take the rest of your clothes off so you can try the shirt and tunic once I’ve gotten them pinned."

Arafinwë sighed and took the trews, meaning to go into the bedroom to change in private, but as he started to move, Vairë just shook her head. "No sense feeling modest, my dear. I’ve seen you in naught but your loincloth and I remember when you were just an elfling running about naked because you hated wearing clothes." She gave him a wicked smile and he reddened in embarrassment, remembering his own children at that stage.

He still turned his back on her as he undressed, quickly pulling up the trews and holding them up with one hand, feeling embarrassed. In the short time he’d been wearing clothes again, he had forgotten what it felt like to walk about more or less naked before the Valar.

Lady Vairë made him stand while she adjusted some of the pins, then handed him the shirt, telling him he could put his other trews back on, which he did with relief before donning the shirt and then after that the tunic. Once Vairë was satisfied with the fit, she let him dress again and then bade him to sit beside her on the sofa while she threaded a needle.

"You can work on the trews," she told him. "They’re not as complicated as the shirt and tunic. First, though, we’ll have you practice on these scraps. Start here and make this stitch. You see? You want to keep the stitches small and even." She showed him the stitch and then had him try it. The needle felt clumsy in his hands and his first stitches were rather pathetic, but Vairë was patience personified and kept encouraging him, giving him small pointers even as she quickly stitched the seams of the shirt and it wasn’t long before he was making the proper stitch. When she was satisfied, she gave him the trews. They sat side-by-side on the sofa quietly sewing. When Arafinwë had completed sewing the legs together, Vairë then showed him how to do the cuffs and the waist. He was slow, finishing the trews in the same amount of time that Vairë took to finish both shirt and tunic but she assured him that he was doing well. He went through one more fitting and when the Valië finally left many hours later, he had a new set of clothes.

"You should plan to wash your other clothes and wear your new ones," she said before she departed. "I’ll let Nienna know and she’ll send someone to show you where you can wash them." With that she grabbed her basket and left by way of the door, leaving Arafinwë standing there feeling bemused.

****

Someone did come to show him where to wash his clothes, and he had other lessons with Tiutalion in general housekeeping, learning a few more recipes from him and Marilliën. He was kept busy enough that he did not mull over much about what was happening. A kind of rhythm to his life began to emerge and once the lessons were done, he found himself alone for the first time in a long time. At first, he reveled in the freedom of not being at anyone’s beck and call. He even spent some time just lying on the sofa and reading or idling about, only attending to chores in a cursory manner. He ventured down to the beach at one point and spent some time happily hunting for clams and crabs the way he had done when he was courting Eärwen in Alqualondë. Then the image of her rose in his mind and he suddenly wondered what she was doing and if she was well and if she missed him. He found himself retreating from the beach, no longer interested in staying there and his mood darkened. He did not want to think about his wife. He had no right to do so now. She was better off without him, sniveling coward and thrall that he was.

The dark mood stayed with him for a time and he began to neglect himself and the cottage, spending most of his time sitting in the dark. When Tiutalion came by, bringing some supplies, he clucked in dismay at the sight and gently castigated him, telling him how disappointed Lady Nienna would be to see him in this state, even as he set about lighting a couple of lamps.

"Trust me when I tell you that you do not ever want to disappoint my lady," the Maia warned him. "Even her brothers fear to get on her bad side."

Arafinwë blinked at the image the Maia’s words evoked. He suddenly saw in his mind’s eye the dread Lord of Mandos and the Lord of Lórien cowering like elflings before a most irate Nienna, shaking her fingers at them like any matron admonishing her charges. He started to laugh. It was a high giggling sound that once started could not be stopped and there was a trace of hysteria in it. Tiutalion immediately went to him and held him in his embrace, making shushing noises as if comforting an elfling, and then the hysterical laughter turned into hysterical weeping and he clung to the Maia as if to a lifeline. It was some time before he got himself under control.

When he was calmed down, Tiutalion released him, giving him a sympathetic look. "Tell me," he said gently.

Arafinwë stood there, feeling drained of all emotion, and did not speak.

"Pityahuan," the Maia said, brushing a hand through Arafinwë’s hair, "tell me."

And as gently as the Maia spoke, yet was there an echo of a command to his tone and Arafinwë found himself complying. "I was on the beach," he said softly, his eyes cast down. "I was reminded of Eärwen."

"And?"

The ellon shrugged, looking up. "And nothing," he replied somewhat angrily. "I was just... upset."

"A little more than upset, I would say," Tiutalion retorted, giving him a jaundiced look. "Look at you and this cottage. When was the last time you ate or even bathed?"

Arafinwë shrugged again, not really caring. Tiutalion gave him a shrewd look and nodded to himself. "Well, we had best remedy the situation. We can start with you sweeping the floor while I put these supplies away." When Arafinwë just stood there, Tiutalion gave him a slight push. "Pityahuan, move."

The force of the Maia’s words propelled Arafinwë to the corner where the besom stood and before he knew it he was sweeping the floor and then dusting what little furniture there was. Tiutalion kept him busy with washing down the table, removing the dead ash from the stove, chopping wood, changing the bedding and washing the soiled linen and a host of other chores that he had neglected. As he went about his tasks, Arafinwë’s mood lightened somewhat and by the time he was hauling water to heat on the stove for his bath, which Tiutalionn allowed him after he was done with his work, he was almost cheerful, looking forward to feeling clean again. He had ended up stripping down to his loincloth while working so he could wash his clothes when he did the bed linens, refusing to put on clean clothes until after his bath. Now he stood before the tub, mixing the hot water with cool until the temperature was just right. Tiutalion watched him, for the Maia had insisted on remaining. Arafinwë had not protested too much for he’d long since gotten used to bathing in the presence of the Maiar. Instead, he yanked on the chain attached to his collar.

"Would you remove this for me, please?" he asked. "They always removed it whenever I bathed in Ilmarin."

Tiutalion studied him for a moment or two and Arafinwë schooled his expression to one of indifference, as if it did not matter to him if the collar was removed or not.

"And how do I know that once it is removed, you will not put it back on?" the Maia asked in a reasonable tone.

Arafinwë resisted a sigh. "Why wouldn’t I put it back on?" he asked with just the right amount of puzzlement in his tone as if the Maia had asked a rather pointless question.

Tiutalion just shook his head, his expression somewhat amused. "You’re letting the water get cold, Pityahuan," he said. "I’ll go put some dinner together for you while you bathe." With that he left, closing the door behind him. For a moment Arafinwë just stood there and then with a half-muttered curse, he doffed his loincloth and stepped into the tub.

****

All during the meal Arafinwë refused to speak to the Maia except in monosyllables that were more like grunts. If Tiutalion was upset by his surliness, he gave no sign, merely admonishing him to keep himself and the cottage clean from now on as he prepared to leave. "Otherwise, I will be forced to tell Lady Nienna and you do not want that." With that, he gave the ellon a cheery wave and went his way. Arafinwë stood at the door and watched him for a bit, going back inside only when the Maia disappeared around a bend. He closed the door and leaned against it, wondering what he should do. He had no desire to go to the beach. He was half tempted to disobey Lady Nienna’s injunction against going to the woods, but dismissed that thought immediately. No sense courting disaster. Nor did he desire to go to the manse to seek out company.

He sighed as he went over to the sofa and sat. He was beginning to appreciate the difference between ‘being alone’ and ‘being on one’s own’. He had been alone before, yet he always had someone nearby at his beck and call if he was in need of anything, and, of course, he was surrounded by his family and could always find companionship if he so desired. This, though, was different. There was no one, neither to do for him nor to keep him company. He supposed he could have asked Tiutalion to stay for a time, but he was still angry over the Maia’s refusal to remove the collar.

He wrapped the chain around his hand and pulled on it, but the collar remained closed. He idly wondered if he could find something with which to saw the collar off, but he doubted he could go to Lady Nienna asking for a rasp. She would want to know why he needed it and what would he tell her? Sighing, he made himself more comfortable on the sofa, removing his boots and propping his feet on the arm as he lay back staring up at the ceiling. How was he going to get the blasted collar off so he could return to Tirion?

He frowned at that thought.

When had he decided he would return to Tirion? He was not a king, so what purpose would he have there? He tried to dismiss the thought, but it would not leave him. He glanced at the table where his journal lay at one end, remembering the page he’d smeared with his tears and the single phrase that remained. He was tempted to get up, go over to the journal, and rip out the offending page, but was reluctant to do so for some reason. Instead, he lay there contemplating his options.

He could either remain a thrall to Lord Manwë for all the ages of Arda, or he could demand his freedom. Yet, would it be granted him? Somehow he thought the Elder King would be willing enough to do so, but he was not going to if Arafinwë did not prove that he was worthy to be released from his thralldom. And that was the rub, wasn’t it? Did he want to be free? What conditions would be placed on him if he sought his freedom? What price would he have to pay?

He shied away from that thought. He was sure he knew what the price was but he wasn’t sure he was ready to pay it. He shifted his thoughts to Eärwen, wondering how she was faring, and his hröa suddenly ached with need for her, surprising him with its intensity, and he spent a while fantasizing about their reunion, eventually slipping onto the Path of Dreams without conscious intent....

****

He was dreaming of Eärwen. They were together, though he had no idea where they were, for the landscape was blurry and indistinct. She was standing before him, speaking to him. "If you want to be king, you have to remove the collar."

"But I do not wish to be king," he protested.

"Then you may keep the collar," she said with disdain and she began to walk away into the fog that surrounded them.

"Wait!" he cried out and she turned to face him. "Can I remove the collar and not be king?"

She shook her head. "Collar or crown, my love. The choice is yours, but only with the crown can you have me."

"But I cannot remove the collar on my own," he said. "How can I remove it?"

"The collar was made in Lord Aulë’s forge," she reminded him, and some part of him vaguely wondered how she even knew that. "Only there can it be unmade," she added and then she faded from view.

"No!" he shouted, reaching out to her, but she was gone.

Then the scene shifted and he was standing before a forge. Whether it was Lord Aulë’s forge, he did not know, only that it was a forge. No one was about. Arafinwë stared at the forge, vacillating. Did he truly want to rid himself of the collar? Was accepting the crown worth it? Yet, in the end, it was the thought of never being with Eärwen again that set him moving, stoking up the fire, adding more wood to the furnace and pumping the bellows for all he was worth, the sweat dripping from him, soaking his clothes. He hunted around for a poker, thinking he could use it to burn through the metal. He shoved it into the heart of the coals and let it heat up, taking care to don a glove before handling it. When he deemed it was hot enough, he picked it up and, letting it cool a little, he gingerly touched the collar with it, hissing with pain at the heat that scorched him.

When he could stand it no longer, he drew the poker away and at the same time pulled on the collar hoping it would break apart. He felt a wave of disappointment when the metal loosened slightly around his neck but did not break, the mithril already cooling. Frantically, he made the fire hotter, determined to get the collar off. He thrust the poker into the coals, leaving it in the flames longer until the metal was radiating blue. Wiping the sweat from his eyes he grabbed the poker and, without letting it cool, thrust it onto the collar, screaming as his flesh began to burn....

****

He woke with a start, a hand instinctively going to his throat and feeling the cool metal of the collar beneath his questing fingers. There was no breach to the collar. He couldn’t believe it had just been a dream. It had been so real: the forge, the heat, the scorching of metal and flesh....

He shook his head to clear it of that last memory and struggled to his feet, wondering how long he had slept. He stepped outside the cottage and glanced up to see the stars, trying to remember where they had been when Tiutalion left him, but he could not remember, and really, it did not matter. He went back inside, closing the door and decided to make some tea, thinking it would settle him. He stoked the coals, adding some more tinder, and the very act of doing so caught his attention and he crouched there mesmerized by the flames. If he could just make the flames hotter, perhaps he would be able to get the collar off him. He added more kindling and as the flames greedily ate at them, burning higher, he added more and more, unable to stop himself, only knowing that he needed to make the fire hotter or the collar would never come off.

When he ran out of kindling, still not satisfied that the fire was hot enough, he ran outside for more wood, leaving the stove door open. He was returning from the wood pile loaded down with kindling when he saw smoke coming out of the open doorway. He dropped the kindling and ran inside, choking on the smoke. Somehow the fire had gotten loose and flames were climbing the woodwork above the stove. He stared at the fire, coughing from the smoke, thinking he needed to get some water and put it out, but then he saw his journal sitting on the table, and without thinking about it, he grabbed it and walked unhurriedly out the door and headed around the house towards the forbidden woods, leaving the cottage burning behind him.

****

Neri: Plural of nér: Male of any speaking species.