Moonshiners by Robinka
Mar. 7th, 2015 07:00 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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lignota's prompt: Celebrimbor and Túrin have a conversation in Nargothrond on such topics as swords, Doom, family, and the (im)possibility of rescuing someone from Angband.
Format: short story.
Genre: general, with a dash of (grim) humor.
Rating: teens.
Warnings: alcohol; cursing; mature themes.
Characters: Túrin (Mormegil); Celebrimbor (Tyelpo).
Pairings: Túrin/doom; Celebrimbor/booze ;^)
Creator's Notes: See the bottom of the story for details, and don't forget to leave a comment, pretty please :^)
Summary: One evening, Celebrimbor receives an unexpected visitor, whom he engages in an alcohol-colored conversation.
Tyelpo slowly sipped his drink. With his eyes closed, he leaned backward in his chair, having put his legs, crossed at the ankles, onto the tabletop. He tasted the stinging amount of alcohol on his tongue, then he swallowed it. The liquid no longer burned his throat, but the taste wasn't all that satisfying yet.
“I need to polish it,” he mumbled, then sighed.
Whether or not his newest creation was tasteful, he was going to get wasted tonight. He raised his mug to his lips again, his eyes still closed, but his pupils registered the merry dancing of the flames in the huge, open hearth. Here, below the ground level, the temperature was higher than in the outside world, but Tyelpo liked having a fire in his chambers, even if it was of no real use and in return used a lot of firewood itself.
Tyelpo leaned backward even further. His chair stood only on its two legs now, and he was shifting back and forth with it as if in a cradle. The fire cracked; the liquor flowed down his throat; moonshine, he used to call it. It was the strongest kind of beverage he had ever distilled. It went to the head quickly and sometimes caused a lot of grief next day. He preferred it even to dwarvish ale – that tasty, dark, sweet and smoky stuff fitting for a cold, winter night. This one, Tyelpo moved forward in his chair, was fast and efficient in desensitizing him.
He was drifting off on the wave of alcohol-induced haze, with his head spiralling into the pits of darkness, when something, out of the blue, prompted him to open his eyes. Tyelpo stopped moving abruptly and forced his mind to stop merry-go-rounding as well.
There was a figure in the doorway.
No, there was none... Tyelpo shook his head, then again, and again, until his focus was seemingly back. He perused his chamber; everything was in place, with the exception of that damned figure at the door.
“D-d-do I k-k-know you?” Tyelpo slurred.
None of the figures graced him with a response, still one of them stepped inside. Who, in the flame out of Gothmog's arse, was he?
Of that, of the gender of the figure to be specific, Tyelpo was somehow sure. The womenfolk of the Firstborn and Secondborn alike, couldn't grow beards. The creature was tall, hairy, and bearded, clad in dark garb.
Tyelpo decided that he should be a little bit more straightforward.
“What do you want?” Tyelpo placed his now empty mug onto the tabletop and crossed his arms over his chest. He sat up straight and ruffled up his feathers, figuratively speaking.
“I'm looking for the master smith,” the figure said quietly. “I was told I could find him here.”
Perfect timing, Tyelpo sighed, pondering whether he should introduce himself as his own apprentice. He reached for a carafe with water and poured some of it into his mug, wincing at the lack of taste when he swallowed it. Then, he scrutinized the visitor with a fresher gaze.
“You have found him,” Tyelpo announced and went on, having recalled his lordly manners. “How can I be of service to you, kind Sir?”
The man frowned. Perhaps, he wasn't kind at all, Tyelpo concluded, but kept the conclusion to himself because he noticed a sword in the man's grasp. The probable reason of the visit, he concluded yet again, and in the back of his mind he was glad that he could still conclude after drinking such a horrid amount of the moonshine; moonshine that in general hardly anyone could hold, except Felagund. But since he had been dead...
“Greetings, Master Celebrimbor,” the man offered as he walked in further. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“I'm all ears,” Tyelpo replied.
“This,” the man lifted his hand with the sword, “needs a bit of work.”
Tyelpo knew that his eyes lit up when he saw the sword. The stranger must have noticed that and his shoulders sagged a little.
“I can see that,” Tyelpo reached out for the weapon after he had staggered out from his place at the table. He straightened, swaying a little, and stood rigid even though his legs felt as if made of wool. “Where did you get it?”
“Hrrrmpf.”
Tyelpo tilted his head. He closed his fingers around the hilt of the sword presented to him and picked it up, rotating in the air, so that the point of the sword aimed at the ceiling. The weapon felt heavy, too heavy, but Tyelpo blamed it on the moonshine. He could feel his wrist getting wobbly under the weight of the sword.
“You were saying?” Tyelpo asked, lowering the sword and propping himself on it when he had stuck the point into the hardwood of the floor.
“Doom crossed our paths.”
Tyelpo snorted inwardly as he looked at the visitor, who appeared completely serious.
“And you can say a lot about doom?” Tyelpo ventured.
“This is a fine sword,” the stranger disregarded his question. “I should keep it and use to further bother the Dark...”
Almost unconsciously, in a split moment Tyelpo stepped back and removed the sword, swinging it in an arc and stopping the blade in mid-motion in front of the stranger's face. The visitor flinched. Tyelpo was aware of his taking a step backward, but there seemed to be no fear in him. Only his drawn eyebrows and an ill-boding gleam in his eyes, and his right hand that was rapidly feeling his left hip seeking for a sword that should have been there, but was not. Tyelpo's lips curved in a smile.
“An adept swordsman,” he said. “Would you care for a drink, Sir?”
This time round, the strange man looked confused.
“This is indeed a fine piece of metalwork,” Tyelpo added, looking closely at the blade. It was odd, black, the alloy of which wasn't a total enigma to him. It was also stained with what apparently was blood, and tarnished. The recent wielder hadn't taken proper care of it; Tyelpo glanced at his visitor, then he was back to inspecting the sword. The hilt was exceptionally shapely, without decoration on the pommel and the short cross-guard. The blade's fuller seemed shallow, and when Tyelpo glided his palm over the flat of the sword, he felt a light stinging in his skin. He removed his hand and brushed his fingertips along the heel of his thumb. The stinging feeling vanished.
“Can you repair it?” The stranger pointed at the sword with his chin when Tyelpo looked at him.
“I can.” Tyelpo trailed his hand along the flat of the blade again and he felt a sort of spark between his palm and the metal. “I will.”
The stranger nodded and turned as if to leave.
“Tell me, Sir,” Tyelpo stopped him in mid-turn, “where did you get it? This is an unusual alloy, I'm sure you know it. There must be a story behind it.”
“That's why I asked for the master of the forge,” the visitor revealed in a calm voice. Tyelpo had a sneaking impression that the man wouldn't have told him anything on his own. Mysterious one, he thought. “For it is told to have been forged from a flaming star that fell from the skies.”
“Hah!” Tyelpo laughed. The stranger's face displayed a look of disbelief. “It is nothing unheard of. My kin wrought iron out of the pieces of fallen stars, so to speak. Solid pieces of alien rock, more likely. Very nice,” he then muttered as he dragged a fingertip along the edge of the weapon, “but blunt. You would do more damage with a carrot, my friend.”
The stranger shrugged, but Tyelpo noticed the shadow of a smile on his face.
“Come on, let us seal the deal,” Tyelpo encouraged him with a broad gesture of his sword-less hand.
“Very well.”
The stranger walked over to the table and placed himself in the chair across from Tyelpo.
“What should I call you?” Tyelpo asked while he dropped the black sword onto the tabletop making the mugs and flasks jump and rattle.
The visitor was silent for a moment, then he said, “Mormegil.”
“Fit for a wielder of this...” Tyelpo indicated the sword. “Does it have a name?”
“Anglachel.”
Tyelpo paused before he started pouring liquor to his mug and then the mug that he offered to Mormegil.
“Iron flame?” he wondered. “I politely disagree. It doesn't shine.”
“It never has as far as I know.”
“I should remedy that.”
“Could you?”
“I think so.”
“I will be in your debt, Master Smith,” Mormegil said and bowed his head lightly.
“Drop the title,” Tyelpo replied, helping himself to the alcohol. “You may call me Celebrimbor.”
Mormegil nodded and lifted his mug to his mouth, took a generous swig, swallowed it, and the air left him with a swish. His eyes bulged, his throat emitted a harsh cough. He had tears in his eyes soon, and was coughing like a madman. Tyelpo laughed.
“Boy, unused to strong beverage? Where have you been? In the pits of Angband?”
“Almost.”
His laughter dead in a split moment, Tyelpo eyed Mormegil closely.
“It's damn fortunate then that you are drinking my moonshine here with me,” he asked, “isn't it?”
“I am going there sooner or later anyway.”
“We all are.” Tyelpo drained his mug. “I need something to eat else I am going to fucking pass out on you, and that would be rude. You could use a bite as well.”
“Thank you,” Mormegil only said.
Tyelpo rubbed his hands together. He stumbled from his seat and waddled over to the door, calling for one of the sentinels who should stand guard in the corridor.
“Be so kind and alert the kitchens that I'm hungry,” Tyelpo asked the young guard and turned on his heel back to his chamber.
He sat down in his chair at the table. Mormegil was looking at the sword, and there was something indescribable in this look. Something wistful; Tyelpo couldn't really define it. His brain was too occupied with waltzing around his skull. He kept glancing at the face of Mormegil and the black sword on the table. Perhaps, the answer to this riddle was in the blood that had covered the blade, he wondered.
“Tell me, Mormegil,” he intoned after a while of silence. “Where do you hail from? Your manner of speaking rings a specific tone to me.”
“Dor-lómin,” Mormegil answered. “My folk live there.”
“It is always nice to be acquainted with someone from the House of Hador Lórindol,” Tyelpo said.
In that moment, their supper arrived carried by one of the kitchens staff. Tyelpo's nose caught the delicious scent of the soup in the large pot on the tray.
The plates arranged on the tabletop, Tyelpo and Mormegil commenced eating, each of them equipped with a spoon and a good slice of bread.
“This is,” Mormegil slurped a gulp with apparent surprise and joy, “sour rye soup! One of my favorites.”
“How?” Tyelpo asked, nearly dropping his spoon and arching his brow almost up to the ceiling. “Felagund brought this recipe from Doriath. Have you been there?”
Much to his curiosity, Tyelpo recognized something akin to a flash of panic that ran across Mormegil's face.
“I knew some of the folk of Doriath once,” Mormegil admitted after a while. “The sword,” he added, “belonged to the armory in the Thousand Caves. I also heard it was forged by the Dark Elf named Eöl.”
“I see.” Tyelpo narrowed his eyes. Then, he dropped his head and resumed eating.
This stuff was delicious, he pondered as he chewed a rough piece of roast sausage that had floated in the soup. There were chunks of roast venison, boiled mushroom, hard-boiled eggs, bacon, and turnip in it. The soup had a sour, sobering taste to it, and was heavenly. The Sindar of Doriath had come up with the recipe, he knew, because he had heard that story from Felagund himself.
Therefore Mormegil, Tyelpo kept on eating and pondering the identity of his visitor, had a lot more in common with the Folk of the Thousand Caves that he cared to admit. Tyelpo simply felt it in his gut. And Mormegil's name certainly hadn't been Mormegil until a few moments ago. Tyelpo raised his head sharply because a kind of illumination graced his foggy mind.
“Aren't you that man who came down here with Gwindor?” Tyelpo asked, putting his spoon aside and dunking a bit of bread in the soup.
“Yes.”
“I should come out of the dungeons of my forge more often,” Tyelpo concluded. “So where did you two meet?”
“Orcs were dragging me in chains to Angband, and Gwindor,” Mormegil paused to swallow another spoonful of the soup, “helped me during his escape.”
“He's insanely brave at times,” Tyelpo muttered. “How did he manage to flee is beyond me. Or maybe not so much, on the other hand.” He kept on muttering and slurping the soup and finally he earned a look of curiosity from Mormegil.
“My uncle Maitimo,” Tyelpo received another glance of curiosity blended with a dash of ignorance from his visitor, “Maedhros,” he explained, “was taken captive and after enduring seemingly endless tortures he was hung by his wrist on the wall of Thangorodrim.”
Mormegil was nodding, his spoon immobilized in the air between the plate and Mormegil's mouth.
“Of course, you heard the story, I take it.”
“Yes.”
“So you probably know that it was a stroke of plain, insane genius of Maedhros' mate that he managed to save him. My half-uncle Fingon...”
Tyelpo noticed Mormegil's eyes becoming the size of mill-wheels, then Mormegil uttered a not-so-coherent, “Oh.” Then, with the bliss of realization descending on him, the next “oh” became lower, quieter, and finally Mormegil nodded. It had taken a moment for him to assess the complicated family relations among the Finwëans, apparently. Tyelpo chuckled.
“We can't forget about the eagles,” he added and reached out for his mug, sending Mormegil a silent question – in the form of a raised brow – whether he wanted more alcohol. Mormegil, yet again, nodded.
“Yes, they can be helpful like that,” Mormegil commented. He lifted his full mug and drained it in one go. Tyelpo filled the mug again. Mormegil continued, “So your uncles are... soulmates, right?”
“Yes, but for the time being, they can't be together,” Tyelpo explained. “Since Fingon died during the Nirnaeth.”
“Ah, yes, I see.” Mormegil looked thoughtful. He wrapped his fingers around the mug on the tabletop and presented a look of being so lost that Tyelpo had to ask.
“What?”
“You, Firstborn, seem so... liberated to me,” Mormegil said without looking at Tyelpo. His eyes were fixed on the bottom of his mug, it seemed.
Tyelpo laughed.
He bent backward and roared with laughter until tears streamed down his face and his ribcage hurt from the contractions around his midriff. Even then, he kept chuckling.
“Where do you happen to draw such conclusions from?” he asked, amused to no end.
“I happen to know that Maedhros has a daughter,” Mormegil explained, sounding offended, “who is married to one of the captains of Doriath.”
“That's certainly news. I only knew about Caranthir's children: Culinen and her brother.” Tyelpo raised his mug. “To my new-to-me cousin! What's her name?”
“Súllinn.”
“Still,” Tyelpo continued over the empty mug, “Greymantle wouldn't let me meet her there. You know, it’s the case of collective responsibility, even though I took no part in the murdering of kin and the abduction his daughter. Oh well, it runs in the family anyway, so perhaps he is right. Doomed, we all are. So is Elwë Singollo.”
“And you know everything about doom, right?” Mormegil sneered suddenly. Tyelpo raised a brow.
“My family suffered a fucking insane amount of torture due to it, so shut your filthy mouth, would you please?”
“I think you're about as doomed to suffering as much pain you can endure. And I am doomed.” Mormegil sighed, unaffected by Tyelpo's outburst. “Even this sword hates me.”
Tyelpo looked down at the sword that lay between them on the tabletop. For a split moment, he once again wondered about the blood that had stained this iron of death. He looked back at Mormegil.
“One of my close kin is too a thrall in Morgoth's hands,” Mormegil continued. “I have no tidings of my family, of my cousin, of my people. I am an outlaw, wanderer, with blood of the innocent on my hands, so yes, I know a lot about doom as well. Wherever I go it hovers over me. So I'd better leave you be. Two dooms combined may not be the best of atmospheres for the occasion. By the way, why have you been drinking so heavily?”
“It's the anniversary of my begetting day,” Tyelpo said.
“We celebrate birthdays,” Mormegil replied by way of explaining, standing up.
“I prefer begetting days,” Tyelpo stood up as well, “because I'd rather celebrate something that was pleasurable, at least to my father, than something that brought pain to my mother. Come back in a handful of days. I will have your sword reforged and then we can find a suitable sheath for it since you seem to have lost it somewhere.”
“My thanks,” Mormegil muttered, looking all dark and broody. With that, he left Tyelpo's chambers, leaving Tyelpo to his almost drained bottle of the strong stuff and his lonely thoughts.
Perhaps he was right, Tyelpo pondered, perhaps people were indeed doomed solely to suffer as much pain as they could endure, and that wasn't a pleasant idea at all. In fact, he felt a shiver down his backbone. He waved his hand dismissively and staggered over to his bedchamber. Once there, he threw himself onto the bed, fully clothed and with his booted feet hanging over the edge of the bed. He forced himself to sleep and ease his mind that was still swimming in whirls fueled by the blessed moonshine.
----------
A/N:
1. The title is borrowed from a documentary series aired on Discovery Channel.
2. There are two nods in the story toward my fellow writers’ works: Pandëmonium’s – Culinen and her brother are Caranthir’s children in Pandë!verse; Oshun’s Maitimo & Findekáno series. I know other fans ship Maedhros/Fingon as well, but here, I thought about Oshun’s works in particular. Thank you, Pandë and Oshun, for letting me use your head-canon.
3. Súllinn is my OC who features my stories: Carmina Brethilia and Once Upon a Springtime in Doriath.
4. Mormegil is the name that was given to Túrin in Nargothrond, but we don’t know who gave him this name. I just toyed with the idea of Túrin naming himself as such, because – as we know – he was partial to changing his name whenever he f****d something up ;^).
5. Tyelpo – short for Telperinquar, Celebrimbor’s Quenyan name.
6. After reforging, Anglachel (in Sindarin: Iron of the Flaming Star) was renamed Gurthang (in Sindarin: Iron of Death). Tyelpo kind of anticipates this name in the story.
7. Sour rye soup is one of of the best Polish national dishes and is absolutely delicious. I know it from experience – I’m Polish :^).
8. Last but not least, thank yous go to:lignota for coming up with this prompt and to ladyelleth for her beta help!
lignota's prompt: Celebrimbor and Túrin have a conversation in Nargothrond on such topics as swords, Doom, family, and the (im)possibility of rescuing someone from Angband.Format: short story.
Genre: general, with a dash of (grim) humor.
Rating: teens.
Warnings: alcohol; cursing; mature themes.
Characters: Túrin (Mormegil); Celebrimbor (Tyelpo).
Pairings: Túrin/doom; Celebrimbor/booze ;^)
Creator's Notes: See the bottom of the story for details, and don't forget to leave a comment, pretty please :^)
Summary: One evening, Celebrimbor receives an unexpected visitor, whom he engages in an alcohol-colored conversation.
Tyelpo slowly sipped his drink. With his eyes closed, he leaned backward in his chair, having put his legs, crossed at the ankles, onto the tabletop. He tasted the stinging amount of alcohol on his tongue, then he swallowed it. The liquid no longer burned his throat, but the taste wasn't all that satisfying yet.
“I need to polish it,” he mumbled, then sighed.
Whether or not his newest creation was tasteful, he was going to get wasted tonight. He raised his mug to his lips again, his eyes still closed, but his pupils registered the merry dancing of the flames in the huge, open hearth. Here, below the ground level, the temperature was higher than in the outside world, but Tyelpo liked having a fire in his chambers, even if it was of no real use and in return used a lot of firewood itself.
Tyelpo leaned backward even further. His chair stood only on its two legs now, and he was shifting back and forth with it as if in a cradle. The fire cracked; the liquor flowed down his throat; moonshine, he used to call it. It was the strongest kind of beverage he had ever distilled. It went to the head quickly and sometimes caused a lot of grief next day. He preferred it even to dwarvish ale – that tasty, dark, sweet and smoky stuff fitting for a cold, winter night. This one, Tyelpo moved forward in his chair, was fast and efficient in desensitizing him.
He was drifting off on the wave of alcohol-induced haze, with his head spiralling into the pits of darkness, when something, out of the blue, prompted him to open his eyes. Tyelpo stopped moving abruptly and forced his mind to stop merry-go-rounding as well.
There was a figure in the doorway.
No, there was none... Tyelpo shook his head, then again, and again, until his focus was seemingly back. He perused his chamber; everything was in place, with the exception of that damned figure at the door.
“D-d-do I k-k-know you?” Tyelpo slurred.
None of the figures graced him with a response, still one of them stepped inside. Who, in the flame out of Gothmog's arse, was he?
Of that, of the gender of the figure to be specific, Tyelpo was somehow sure. The womenfolk of the Firstborn and Secondborn alike, couldn't grow beards. The creature was tall, hairy, and bearded, clad in dark garb.
Tyelpo decided that he should be a little bit more straightforward.
“What do you want?” Tyelpo placed his now empty mug onto the tabletop and crossed his arms over his chest. He sat up straight and ruffled up his feathers, figuratively speaking.
“I'm looking for the master smith,” the figure said quietly. “I was told I could find him here.”
Perfect timing, Tyelpo sighed, pondering whether he should introduce himself as his own apprentice. He reached for a carafe with water and poured some of it into his mug, wincing at the lack of taste when he swallowed it. Then, he scrutinized the visitor with a fresher gaze.
“You have found him,” Tyelpo announced and went on, having recalled his lordly manners. “How can I be of service to you, kind Sir?”
The man frowned. Perhaps, he wasn't kind at all, Tyelpo concluded, but kept the conclusion to himself because he noticed a sword in the man's grasp. The probable reason of the visit, he concluded yet again, and in the back of his mind he was glad that he could still conclude after drinking such a horrid amount of the moonshine; moonshine that in general hardly anyone could hold, except Felagund. But since he had been dead...
“Greetings, Master Celebrimbor,” the man offered as he walked in further. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“I'm all ears,” Tyelpo replied.
“This,” the man lifted his hand with the sword, “needs a bit of work.”
Tyelpo knew that his eyes lit up when he saw the sword. The stranger must have noticed that and his shoulders sagged a little.
“I can see that,” Tyelpo reached out for the weapon after he had staggered out from his place at the table. He straightened, swaying a little, and stood rigid even though his legs felt as if made of wool. “Where did you get it?”
“Hrrrmpf.”
Tyelpo tilted his head. He closed his fingers around the hilt of the sword presented to him and picked it up, rotating in the air, so that the point of the sword aimed at the ceiling. The weapon felt heavy, too heavy, but Tyelpo blamed it on the moonshine. He could feel his wrist getting wobbly under the weight of the sword.
“You were saying?” Tyelpo asked, lowering the sword and propping himself on it when he had stuck the point into the hardwood of the floor.
“Doom crossed our paths.”
Tyelpo snorted inwardly as he looked at the visitor, who appeared completely serious.
“And you can say a lot about doom?” Tyelpo ventured.
“This is a fine sword,” the stranger disregarded his question. “I should keep it and use to further bother the Dark...”
Almost unconsciously, in a split moment Tyelpo stepped back and removed the sword, swinging it in an arc and stopping the blade in mid-motion in front of the stranger's face. The visitor flinched. Tyelpo was aware of his taking a step backward, but there seemed to be no fear in him. Only his drawn eyebrows and an ill-boding gleam in his eyes, and his right hand that was rapidly feeling his left hip seeking for a sword that should have been there, but was not. Tyelpo's lips curved in a smile.
“An adept swordsman,” he said. “Would you care for a drink, Sir?”
This time round, the strange man looked confused.
“This is indeed a fine piece of metalwork,” Tyelpo added, looking closely at the blade. It was odd, black, the alloy of which wasn't a total enigma to him. It was also stained with what apparently was blood, and tarnished. The recent wielder hadn't taken proper care of it; Tyelpo glanced at his visitor, then he was back to inspecting the sword. The hilt was exceptionally shapely, without decoration on the pommel and the short cross-guard. The blade's fuller seemed shallow, and when Tyelpo glided his palm over the flat of the sword, he felt a light stinging in his skin. He removed his hand and brushed his fingertips along the heel of his thumb. The stinging feeling vanished.
“Can you repair it?” The stranger pointed at the sword with his chin when Tyelpo looked at him.
“I can.” Tyelpo trailed his hand along the flat of the blade again and he felt a sort of spark between his palm and the metal. “I will.”
The stranger nodded and turned as if to leave.
“Tell me, Sir,” Tyelpo stopped him in mid-turn, “where did you get it? This is an unusual alloy, I'm sure you know it. There must be a story behind it.”
“That's why I asked for the master of the forge,” the visitor revealed in a calm voice. Tyelpo had a sneaking impression that the man wouldn't have told him anything on his own. Mysterious one, he thought. “For it is told to have been forged from a flaming star that fell from the skies.”
“Hah!” Tyelpo laughed. The stranger's face displayed a look of disbelief. “It is nothing unheard of. My kin wrought iron out of the pieces of fallen stars, so to speak. Solid pieces of alien rock, more likely. Very nice,” he then muttered as he dragged a fingertip along the edge of the weapon, “but blunt. You would do more damage with a carrot, my friend.”
The stranger shrugged, but Tyelpo noticed the shadow of a smile on his face.
“Come on, let us seal the deal,” Tyelpo encouraged him with a broad gesture of his sword-less hand.
“Very well.”
The stranger walked over to the table and placed himself in the chair across from Tyelpo.
“What should I call you?” Tyelpo asked while he dropped the black sword onto the tabletop making the mugs and flasks jump and rattle.
The visitor was silent for a moment, then he said, “Mormegil.”
“Fit for a wielder of this...” Tyelpo indicated the sword. “Does it have a name?”
“Anglachel.”
Tyelpo paused before he started pouring liquor to his mug and then the mug that he offered to Mormegil.
“Iron flame?” he wondered. “I politely disagree. It doesn't shine.”
“It never has as far as I know.”
“I should remedy that.”
“Could you?”
“I think so.”
“I will be in your debt, Master Smith,” Mormegil said and bowed his head lightly.
“Drop the title,” Tyelpo replied, helping himself to the alcohol. “You may call me Celebrimbor.”
Mormegil nodded and lifted his mug to his mouth, took a generous swig, swallowed it, and the air left him with a swish. His eyes bulged, his throat emitted a harsh cough. He had tears in his eyes soon, and was coughing like a madman. Tyelpo laughed.
“Boy, unused to strong beverage? Where have you been? In the pits of Angband?”
“Almost.”
His laughter dead in a split moment, Tyelpo eyed Mormegil closely.
“It's damn fortunate then that you are drinking my moonshine here with me,” he asked, “isn't it?”
“I am going there sooner or later anyway.”
“We all are.” Tyelpo drained his mug. “I need something to eat else I am going to fucking pass out on you, and that would be rude. You could use a bite as well.”
“Thank you,” Mormegil only said.
Tyelpo rubbed his hands together. He stumbled from his seat and waddled over to the door, calling for one of the sentinels who should stand guard in the corridor.
“Be so kind and alert the kitchens that I'm hungry,” Tyelpo asked the young guard and turned on his heel back to his chamber.
He sat down in his chair at the table. Mormegil was looking at the sword, and there was something indescribable in this look. Something wistful; Tyelpo couldn't really define it. His brain was too occupied with waltzing around his skull. He kept glancing at the face of Mormegil and the black sword on the table. Perhaps, the answer to this riddle was in the blood that had covered the blade, he wondered.
“Tell me, Mormegil,” he intoned after a while of silence. “Where do you hail from? Your manner of speaking rings a specific tone to me.”
“Dor-lómin,” Mormegil answered. “My folk live there.”
“It is always nice to be acquainted with someone from the House of Hador Lórindol,” Tyelpo said.
In that moment, their supper arrived carried by one of the kitchens staff. Tyelpo's nose caught the delicious scent of the soup in the large pot on the tray.
The plates arranged on the tabletop, Tyelpo and Mormegil commenced eating, each of them equipped with a spoon and a good slice of bread.
“This is,” Mormegil slurped a gulp with apparent surprise and joy, “sour rye soup! One of my favorites.”
“How?” Tyelpo asked, nearly dropping his spoon and arching his brow almost up to the ceiling. “Felagund brought this recipe from Doriath. Have you been there?”
Much to his curiosity, Tyelpo recognized something akin to a flash of panic that ran across Mormegil's face.
“I knew some of the folk of Doriath once,” Mormegil admitted after a while. “The sword,” he added, “belonged to the armory in the Thousand Caves. I also heard it was forged by the Dark Elf named Eöl.”
“I see.” Tyelpo narrowed his eyes. Then, he dropped his head and resumed eating.
This stuff was delicious, he pondered as he chewed a rough piece of roast sausage that had floated in the soup. There were chunks of roast venison, boiled mushroom, hard-boiled eggs, bacon, and turnip in it. The soup had a sour, sobering taste to it, and was heavenly. The Sindar of Doriath had come up with the recipe, he knew, because he had heard that story from Felagund himself.
Therefore Mormegil, Tyelpo kept on eating and pondering the identity of his visitor, had a lot more in common with the Folk of the Thousand Caves that he cared to admit. Tyelpo simply felt it in his gut. And Mormegil's name certainly hadn't been Mormegil until a few moments ago. Tyelpo raised his head sharply because a kind of illumination graced his foggy mind.
“Aren't you that man who came down here with Gwindor?” Tyelpo asked, putting his spoon aside and dunking a bit of bread in the soup.
“Yes.”
“I should come out of the dungeons of my forge more often,” Tyelpo concluded. “So where did you two meet?”
“Orcs were dragging me in chains to Angband, and Gwindor,” Mormegil paused to swallow another spoonful of the soup, “helped me during his escape.”
“He's insanely brave at times,” Tyelpo muttered. “How did he manage to flee is beyond me. Or maybe not so much, on the other hand.” He kept on muttering and slurping the soup and finally he earned a look of curiosity from Mormegil.
“My uncle Maitimo,” Tyelpo received another glance of curiosity blended with a dash of ignorance from his visitor, “Maedhros,” he explained, “was taken captive and after enduring seemingly endless tortures he was hung by his wrist on the wall of Thangorodrim.”
Mormegil was nodding, his spoon immobilized in the air between the plate and Mormegil's mouth.
“Of course, you heard the story, I take it.”
“Yes.”
“So you probably know that it was a stroke of plain, insane genius of Maedhros' mate that he managed to save him. My half-uncle Fingon...”
Tyelpo noticed Mormegil's eyes becoming the size of mill-wheels, then Mormegil uttered a not-so-coherent, “Oh.” Then, with the bliss of realization descending on him, the next “oh” became lower, quieter, and finally Mormegil nodded. It had taken a moment for him to assess the complicated family relations among the Finwëans, apparently. Tyelpo chuckled.
“We can't forget about the eagles,” he added and reached out for his mug, sending Mormegil a silent question – in the form of a raised brow – whether he wanted more alcohol. Mormegil, yet again, nodded.
“Yes, they can be helpful like that,” Mormegil commented. He lifted his full mug and drained it in one go. Tyelpo filled the mug again. Mormegil continued, “So your uncles are... soulmates, right?”
“Yes, but for the time being, they can't be together,” Tyelpo explained. “Since Fingon died during the Nirnaeth.”
“Ah, yes, I see.” Mormegil looked thoughtful. He wrapped his fingers around the mug on the tabletop and presented a look of being so lost that Tyelpo had to ask.
“What?”
“You, Firstborn, seem so... liberated to me,” Mormegil said without looking at Tyelpo. His eyes were fixed on the bottom of his mug, it seemed.
Tyelpo laughed.
He bent backward and roared with laughter until tears streamed down his face and his ribcage hurt from the contractions around his midriff. Even then, he kept chuckling.
“Where do you happen to draw such conclusions from?” he asked, amused to no end.
“I happen to know that Maedhros has a daughter,” Mormegil explained, sounding offended, “who is married to one of the captains of Doriath.”
“That's certainly news. I only knew about Caranthir's children: Culinen and her brother.” Tyelpo raised his mug. “To my new-to-me cousin! What's her name?”
“Súllinn.”
“Still,” Tyelpo continued over the empty mug, “Greymantle wouldn't let me meet her there. You know, it’s the case of collective responsibility, even though I took no part in the murdering of kin and the abduction his daughter. Oh well, it runs in the family anyway, so perhaps he is right. Doomed, we all are. So is Elwë Singollo.”
“And you know everything about doom, right?” Mormegil sneered suddenly. Tyelpo raised a brow.
“My family suffered a fucking insane amount of torture due to it, so shut your filthy mouth, would you please?”
“I think you're about as doomed to suffering as much pain you can endure. And I am doomed.” Mormegil sighed, unaffected by Tyelpo's outburst. “Even this sword hates me.”
Tyelpo looked down at the sword that lay between them on the tabletop. For a split moment, he once again wondered about the blood that had stained this iron of death. He looked back at Mormegil.
“One of my close kin is too a thrall in Morgoth's hands,” Mormegil continued. “I have no tidings of my family, of my cousin, of my people. I am an outlaw, wanderer, with blood of the innocent on my hands, so yes, I know a lot about doom as well. Wherever I go it hovers over me. So I'd better leave you be. Two dooms combined may not be the best of atmospheres for the occasion. By the way, why have you been drinking so heavily?”
“It's the anniversary of my begetting day,” Tyelpo said.
“We celebrate birthdays,” Mormegil replied by way of explaining, standing up.
“I prefer begetting days,” Tyelpo stood up as well, “because I'd rather celebrate something that was pleasurable, at least to my father, than something that brought pain to my mother. Come back in a handful of days. I will have your sword reforged and then we can find a suitable sheath for it since you seem to have lost it somewhere.”
“My thanks,” Mormegil muttered, looking all dark and broody. With that, he left Tyelpo's chambers, leaving Tyelpo to his almost drained bottle of the strong stuff and his lonely thoughts.
Perhaps he was right, Tyelpo pondered, perhaps people were indeed doomed solely to suffer as much pain as they could endure, and that wasn't a pleasant idea at all. In fact, he felt a shiver down his backbone. He waved his hand dismissively and staggered over to his bedchamber. Once there, he threw himself onto the bed, fully clothed and with his booted feet hanging over the edge of the bed. He forced himself to sleep and ease his mind that was still swimming in whirls fueled by the blessed moonshine.
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A/N:
1. The title is borrowed from a documentary series aired on Discovery Channel.
2. There are two nods in the story toward my fellow writers’ works: Pandëmonium’s – Culinen and her brother are Caranthir’s children in Pandë!verse; Oshun’s Maitimo & Findekáno series. I know other fans ship Maedhros/Fingon as well, but here, I thought about Oshun’s works in particular. Thank you, Pandë and Oshun, for letting me use your head-canon.
3. Súllinn is my OC who features my stories: Carmina Brethilia and Once Upon a Springtime in Doriath.
4. Mormegil is the name that was given to Túrin in Nargothrond, but we don’t know who gave him this name. I just toyed with the idea of Túrin naming himself as such, because – as we know – he was partial to changing his name whenever he f****d something up ;^).
5. Tyelpo – short for Telperinquar, Celebrimbor’s Quenyan name.
6. After reforging, Anglachel (in Sindarin: Iron of the Flaming Star) was renamed Gurthang (in Sindarin: Iron of Death). Tyelpo kind of anticipates this name in the story.
7. Sour rye soup is one of of the best Polish national dishes and is absolutely delicious. I know it from experience – I’m Polish :^).
8. Last but not least, thank yous go to:
lignota for coming up with this prompt and to ladyelleth for her beta help!
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Date: 2015-03-07 07:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-07 08:10 pm (UTC)Thank you!
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Date: 2015-03-07 08:12 pm (UTC)Poor Tyelpo - he was doomed to suffering more pain than he could endure in the end....
And I loved the reason he gives for celebrating begetting days rather than birthdays!
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Date: 2015-03-07 08:37 pm (UTC):D
(((hugs)))
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Date: 2015-03-07 08:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-07 08:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-07 09:03 pm (UTC)I love how Celebrimbor is still confident and competent when it comes to metalwork even when so drunk he can barely stand. Poor Tyelpo! He's kind of a mess in this, but I love him anyway. And poor Turin, appropriately doom-filled and giving himself yet another ominous name. I like the dark humor in this piece, in places like this: "And I am doomed.” Mormegil sighed, unaffected by Tyelpo's outburst. “Even this sword hates me.”
Slightly off-topic, I don't think I've ever had sour rye soup, but it does sound really delicious.
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Date: 2015-03-09 07:52 am (UTC)Thank you!
PS. Sour rye soup is heavenly :D
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Date: 2015-03-07 10:27 pm (UTC)I was relieved that Tyelpo managed not to fall off that precariously tilted chair while very drunk! On that note, the "pairings" you gave in the story header amused me a lot. =D
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Date: 2015-03-09 08:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-07 11:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-09 08:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-08 12:04 am (UTC)Loved the Fingon/Maedhros reference and Turin trying to figure out exactly how that worked!
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Date: 2015-03-09 08:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-09 12:11 pm (UTC)“Of that, of the gender of the figure to be specific, Tyelpo was somehow sure. The womenfolk of the Firstborn and Secondborn alike, couldn't grow beards.” Oh Celebrimbor, you’ve forgotten the Dwarves. (Although the height probably covered that *grins*)
And the—ahem—discussion of whose family is the more Doomed had me snorting as well :D.
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Date: 2015-03-12 07:50 am (UTC)Thank you!
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Date: 2015-03-09 05:01 pm (UTC)I also love the dark humor and the discussion of doom. For some silly reason it made me think of this song: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=bXysRO11Xi8
Which I could imagine these two singing together after a few more rounds of moonshine.
It seems like it could be the theme song for the Silm.
Also, I loved the description of the soup. I wish you'd included the recipe.
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Date: 2015-03-12 08:02 am (UTC)Thank you for your lovely review :) I'm happy that you liked the story. I need to yet translate the recipe of the soup, but I may update the story.
Thanks!
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Date: 2015-03-10 09:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-12 08:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-12 06:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-13 08:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-12 07:31 am (UTC)I enjoyed Celebrimbor and his point of view on Anglachel and Turin.
He's quite the observer--even with his head full of moonshine--and very much a smith, even if he can't stand straight!
There are so many details I liked in here!
Including that reference to Gwindor...
(Sorry it took me so long to get back to this!)
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Date: 2015-03-12 08:18 am (UTC)Thank you very much for reading and leaving a review. I'm happy that you liked so many things about the story. I had a blast writing it :D I'm glad so many readers like it. And yes, I wouldn't be myself if I didn't include Gwindor, poor lad.
Thank you!
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Date: 2015-03-12 12:50 pm (UTC)I especially liked this...
when Tyelpo glided his palm over the flat of the sword, he felt a light stinging in his skin. He removed his hand and brushed his fingertips along the heel of his thumb. The stinging feeling vanished.
A subtle way of showing the dark "magic" of Anglachel, an eerie contrast to Tyelpo's quite rational comment that the iron is derived from "alien rock" vs. Mormengil's poetic assessment of a fallen star. In fact, I read a lot of subtlety in this fic - Tyelpo's drinking himself numb on his begetting day, the way Túrin and Tyelpo skirt the elephant in the room, the pervasive sense of foreboding. The latter never becomes heavy-handed, though, as that touch of dark humor continues. This is a tone that is not easy to achieve, and you did it well!
Pairing: Túrin/doom; Celebrimbor/booze
AH HAHAHAHAHA!
Thanks for the nod to the Pandë!verse. :^) That finally prompted me to give Culinen's little brother a name (scurried off to the erstwhile Darth Fingon's site last night and came up with "Mornilin".)
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Date: 2015-03-13 09:00 pm (UTC)The doom, OMG, these two knew exactly what it tasted like, and I'm glad that I managed to show it here. Do I have to mention whose !verse influenced me so that I had to ponder the dark magic and the 'alien rocks' of certain swords? No? There :D
Thank you so, so very much for your review :::bows deeply::: I'm a happy gal.
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Date: 2015-10-03 07:35 pm (UTC)2) Tyelpo had me at "I'm all ears." I love it when elves say that. It tickles me in the part of my brain that's obsessed with puns.
3) Turin had me at "doom." But then you knew that about me already. ;) Seriously, this guy. Doom doom doom de doomy doomy doom. Always with the doom. I love it. I especially like that he's a bit twitchy and standoffish - he would be that way around new people, wouldn't he? I'm that way and I haven't even killed anyone. :P
4) "partial to changing his name whenever he f****d something up" - perfect! You are absolutely right! I think the idea of him just coming up with Mormegil on the fly is spot-on.
5) I want to be at this party they're having. I mean, I'd probably pass out from the elvish moonshine within minutes, but it would be worth it.
6) I have never had sour rye soup! I'll have to ask my grandmother about it next time I see her. Maybe she has a recipe I can try.
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Date: 2015-10-05 06:09 pm (UTC)Let's celebrate! :D
I'm so glad you visited here and that you read my story. I have to say the prompt was really awesome, and I simply had to write it -- as you know, some muses are more demanding and taking no "no" for an answer ;) We both know Turin is such a muse. Who knew Celebrimbor would be, plus a bottle of homemade booze ;) An explosive mix.
Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Please, ask your gran about sour rye soup -- it's worth a try :D
(((hugs)))