Fanfic The Sculpture and the Willow

[Server Room Gremlin]

Edrahil placed the finished clay jar on the shelf full of items ready for firing. He glanced aside, noting the way the light shone upon the floor through the wide entrance of the small pottery workshop. Midday. Time for a break, he thought. He opened the tap under the cistern, enough to halfway fill the bucket beneath, and washed his hands free of clay. The new lights in the sky were not at all like the Trees had been. Yet, he would not say they were lesser. The way the Sun moved across the sky meant that one could see time passing with precision. And the Moon was... well, its waywardness was interesting. It had personality to it. And it gave them the gift of occasional lightless nights, where all the stars could be seen in all their glory.

As he mused, Edrahil sat on a bench and opened his small bag, taking out an apple, some bread and sheep’s milk cheese. He ate slowly, savouring the flavours. How good it was to no longer have only the raw meat of various sea creatures to eat, as had to be endured for the latter half of the crossing of the Helcaraxë. He shuddered slightly at the thought. ...No doubt it would be a while before he’d even be able to eat cooked meat happily again.

Just as Edrahil was about to return his bag to the cupboard where he had stored it, Enyalion the potter returned and set down the buckets of fresh clay he had been out to gather from a particular spot further along Lake Mithrim’s shore. Enyalion glanced over at the shelf of unfired pots and vessels, and gave an approving nod in Edrahil’s direction. “You’ve been working quickly today, my lad. And it looks like sound work, too. Getting the hang of it, are we?”
Edrahil smiled slightly, and nodded. “Yes, I think so.” He set his bag down, closed the cupboard and straightened up.
Enyalion paused, looking him up and down. “Should I even be calling you ‘lad’ anymore, Hravindo? It seems to me you have grown a little taller since we first met, short as that time may be. Are you at your majority?”
Edrahil clasped his hands behind his back to avoid fidgeting awkwardly. “I have a few years to go yet. I’m eighty-five years old—no actually. Eighty-six. Just today.”
Enyalion raised his eyebrows. “Oh, is it your begetting day today? Many happy returns, lad... since I can still call you that.” His eyes twinkled with humour.
“Thank you, master.” Edrahil grinned briefly, before returning to his pottery wheel.
“Oh, Hravindo,” Enyalion stopped him. “Why don’t you take the rest of today off? A little time to yourself on this occasion would not go amiss.”
“Are... you sure, master? You won’t need a hand with anything?”
“Quite sure. I expect the others will come in later this afternoon, so if I need it, I won’t be short of help.”
Edrahil nodded and thanked him again. As he retrieved his bag and slung it over his shoulder, he remembered something. “Oh, there was something I was meaning to ask today. ...Could I take a bit of clay with me? I think I want to try sculpting something out of it. And bring it back here to fire it, if it’s any good. ...Just for fun, you know.”
“By all means, take what you want.” Enyalion settled down at his own potter’s wheel with a hunk of unformed clay.

Edrahil took a cloth from his bag, dipped it in the water bucket and wrung it out so that it was damp, but no longer dripping. He went over to one of the buckets Enyalion had brought, lifted the cover, and took out a fistful of clay, which he wrapped in the cloth to keep it from drying out.
With a goodbye wave to the pottery master, he left the workshop and walked down to his favourite spot on the lake shore, about halfway between his father’s house and Enyalion’s shop. It was a quiet place, where the water was a deep dark greyish blue, the lake bed dropping down sharply beneath the surface.
Edrahil sat on a small mat of dried rushes he had left there, to avoid sitting on the somewhat damp ground. The water lapped gently at the dark grey-brown soil, and the slight breeze rustled the reeds that grew here and there on either side.

Clouds passed over the Sun, turning the light over the lake to a silvery hue. There was something in the feel of the air, too...
It was beautiful, and reminded Edrahil of something he had witnessed long ago. At least... it felt like very long ago, with everything that had happened between then and now.

He had been wandering near a wooded area outside Tirion. He was alone, simply enjoying the space and the fresh air. Letting his mind wander free too. The time of the mingling came and went, and all was lit in gentle yet stirring silver. Then he stopped, seeing a figure on a tall boulder among the trees ahead. He crouched down, observing the figure outlined against the silver sky. Taller than Elf-height, holding a great spear, gazing away southwards, the light of his eyes visible even from this distance. Oromë, the hunter.
It had been a majestic sight, one that had stayed in Edrahil’s mind even as he returned home shortly afterwards.

Now it had been brought to his mind again, stirring his imagination.
I think I will try and sculpt him, the way I saw him then. It was the closest I had ever been to one of the Valar. And it’s something nicer and more hopeful to think about than the Doom, anyway.

Edrahil shuffled a bit closer to the water’s edge, in case he needed to use some of it to moisten the clay. He took some small wooden clay-sculpting tools from his bag and laid them on his lap. Then he unwrapped the damp cloth, and started by forming a rough person-like shape.



The sculpture was coming along nicely, Edrahil thought. He turned the figure this way and that in his hand. He hadn’t added any fine details, or figured out how to depict the face yet, but Oromë’s cloak, tunic, shoes and sleek shoulder-length hair were very close to what he remembered, in the way they sat on his figure. The end of the spear rested against the side of his foot, and he held the spear out in front of himself, as though on guard, or watching for something. Edrahil thought the figure’s arm still looked rather stiff; Oromë’s posture had been much easier, and slightly relaxed. Still, it was not a bad start. He would keep working away at it, and hopefully fix that. He dipped a finger in the water and gently rubbed the arm with it, as it was starting to dry a little.

“Hey, Hravindo.”
Edrahil froze upon hearing the voice. Accompanied by several pairs of approaching footfalls, which came to a halt behind him.
The pair of feet belonging to the voice stopped beside him. “What’re you doing there?”
Edrahil scooped the tools up from his lap and carefully dropped them into his bag, trying to draw as little attention to the movement as possible.

Will today be a ‘nice’ day... or not?

“Just a bit of sculpture,” he said casually, not looking up.
The youth crouched down beside him and held out a hand. “Can I see?”
Edrahil glanced aside at him, and hesitated for a moment, before slowly handing the figure over. It was only Súrecáro, after all. He got along well with him most days. ...The only concerning thing was that he was here with the rest of them. That... often changed things.
But there was no good reason to refuse such a seemingly innocent request. Especially as there had been many such instances in the past which had indeed turned out to be genuine. ...Not to mention that refusing to engage with any of them tended to push their interactions into the ‘sour’ territory rather more quickly.

Súrecáro stood up, nodding appreciatively and holding the figure up for the rest of the group of young neri to see. Edrahil shifted to a crouching position, watching him warily.
Then, the youth glanced back at him. “Who is this supposed to be?” he asked. A mirthful smile crept over his features. “Is it you? Or is it your boyfriend?”
A couple of the others chuckled. Edrahil sighed quietly, a cold sinking feeling in his stomach.
Manyando, the tallest, scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Súrecáro.” He paused, then smirked. “...Who on earth would take Hravindo and his skinny behind?”
More laughter, from everyone this time.
“Oromë,” said Edrahil. Then repeated himself louder when no-one appeared to hear him. “It’s Oromë.” The laughter died down, and he clenched his jaw. Hopefully they would show a little more respect, knowing who he was trying to depict, and return his clay figure to him unharmed.
Manyando narrowed his eyes, quiet menace in his tone. “Oromë?”
...Or not.
...Manyando was part of the Hunt, wasn’t he.
Edrahil cursed under his breath.
The tall youth stepped forward, his eyes glimmering, and his mouth contorted with something like pain. He snatched the figure from Súrecáro’s hand. The outstretched arm holding the spear bent and folded in his grasp. “What a useless piece of filth you’ve made there. What hunter gives up the chase so easily, leaving us to deal with the runaway Vala ourselves?”
Edrahil gritted his teeth, his heart pounding. The figure was still salvageable. But perhaps not for long. Slowly, he stood up. “Give it back, numbskull.” His quiet voice was rough with anger.
Manyando glared back coldly. Then his lips twitched up mirthlessly. “Sure thing, starveling. I’ll even fix it for you.” He grasped the figure at both ends and pushed inwards, crushing it between his palms. With his strength, it easily collapsed into itself.

Edrahil sprang at Manyando, but before he could so much as touch him, let alone land a blow, his arms were caught by Súrecáro and his cousin, who had closed in from either side. Edrahil grunted, his shoulders having been painfully yanked from the sudden stop. Manyando stepped back, smirking. “You can’t just go attacking people like that, Hravindo. The punishment should fit the crime!”
“Teach him a lesson!” someone else shouted gleefully from behind.
Edrahil tried to struggle, but the pair’s vice-like grips held him fast. Then all of a sudden, they pushed him forward and kicked his feet from under him, dumping him on the ground. Edrahil let out an involuntary whimper as he lifted his face from the damp soil. His cheek had struck a small, sharp pebble. He raised himself up on his elbows, but someone’s foot on his back stopped him from rising any further.
Manyando crouched down in front of him, looking serious and almost contrite. “Ah, did they hurt you? I’m sorry. You didn’t draw any of my blood, so I suppose that was unfair of them.” He looked down at the lumpy clay ball in his hand, then back at Edrahil. “Here. Let me help.”
He broke off a piece of clay and began smearing it over Edrahil’s cheek. The small wound felt like it was being scraped raw. Edrahil’s breath came faster, but he pressed his lips together and did not make a sound, not wanting to give them the reaction they were seeking. There were a few quiet snickers from the others gathered around. The giggling increased as Manyando continued smearing trails of clay over the rest of Edrahil’s face, with insulting gentleness.
“There.” Manyando stopped. “Better now.” He rose and stepped back, before appearing to remember something. “Oh. And of course, you wanted this back.” He bent down, took hold of one of Edrahil’s hands, turned it palm upwards, and placed the remainder of the clay lump in it.
Manyando turned away, beckoning to the others with a lazy wave of his hand. “Let’s go now. He’ll probably start crying soon. Got no stomach for fun.”
The foot on Edrahil’s back gave him a last painful shove, and the group began to talk amongst themselves, jostling and teasing each other as they trudged back up the slope.

Edrahil shifted to his knees and sat up slowly. He sat there for a moment, looking at his clenched fists on his knees, suppressing the shudders in each breath and blinking away the prickling in his eyes. I am not going to shed any tears over those fools. I am not. In his right hand, the mangled lump of clay stared out sadly from the cage of his fingers.
Edrahil hiccupped out a dry sob and tore his gaze away. He stood up, picked up his bag and the cloth that lay near it, and wet the cloth in the lake. He wrapped his ball of clay up again, shoved it in his bag and left the lake shore, heading back home.

===​

The house of Vórimindo was a slightly larger building at the end of a row of houses. Edrahil walked down the small muddy lane running behind the houses. He did not want to be noticed by any of his relatives or the followers of his father who lived here. If they stepped out the door, or glanced out the window, they’d ask him what happened... and no. He couldn’t answer that. The same repetitive line of reasoning echoed in his thoughts once again. My word against that of several others. ...It would be enough to start a feud between families, depending on who believes me. I just cannot trust it would turn out well. Not worth it. Not for my sake alone.

Edrahil set his bag down on a bench at the back of the house. He drew up water from the well, had a drink, then poured the rest into the washbasin on the bench. He looked at his faint reflection in the water, and brushed off some of the dried clay on his cheek with a wince. It’s not even that bad. The wound beneath was merely a small graze.
What happened to my sculpture was worse. He frowned down at his reflection, a sour feeling settling in his stomach. Then he sighed and began to wash his face clean of clay and dirt.

Once finished, Edrahil crept around to the front of the house, and opened the door carefully, peering in. No-one in the main room. He stepped in and shut the door behind him, before removing his shoes and hurrying up the narrow wooden staircase to the upper floor, where the bedrooms were.
Once in his room, he removed his tunic and trousers, which were soiled with the dark dirt from the lake shore, and dropped them into a small hole in one corner of the floor, a chute which emptied into the laundry room below.
He muttered a curse as he noticed the bruises beginning to form on his arms and shins. Moving to the chest of drawers, he chose a fresh pair of trousers, and a loose and comfortable old shirt. He certainly didn’t feel like going out anywhere for the rest of the day.

Edrahil picked up a piece of charcoal and a small notebook half-filled with sketches from his desk, and headed back downstairs to the main room. He settled in his favourite seat by the window and doodled plants and strange creatures of his own imagining, all while letting his mind wander here and there.



Edrahil gazed out the window, the last rays of the setting sun illuminating the room. His notebook lay beside him on the seat, and he had drawn his knees up so that he was comfortably curled up in the well-cushioned chair. He could hear faint clattering noises coming from the kitchen, likely the housemaid making preparations for dinner. While Lord Vórimindo often preferred to do the cooking himself, on days like today, where he was out all day, he would be too wearied to do so upon his return.
Edrahil started thinking about his sculpture again. I won’t abandon the idea that easily. It was a good one. I still want to make it. But... maybe somewhere out of sight.
Where, though? Manyando and the rest like wandering around and exploring. They probably know their way around our settlement and the lake shore better than I do, and I don’t want to have to be on guard all the time. And I will not be reduced to hiding away at home all day! Just because of them!
Then an idea came to him. Perhaps... at night?
Tonight, even. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep easily after the frustrations of the day. Perhaps he could wait until everyone else was in bed, and sneak out...

The front door opened, and Edrahil straightened up in his seat. His father had returned.
Vórimindo removed his boots, and unpinned his cloak, hanging the heavy garment up on the wall next to the others.
“Welcome home, Atya,” said Edrahil in a small voice. He looks exhausted.
Vórimindo nodded at him and sat down heavily on the couch opposite, with a sigh. Then his gaze focused itself on Edrahil’s face, and he frowned. “Your cheek, Hravindo. What happened?”

Edrahil looked down. He certainly wasn’t about to tell the whole truth to his father either. Lord Vórimindo had enough problems to deal with as it was, managing their people in this new land, and looking out for their interests in meetings with other chieftains and heads of families. Edrahil would deal with this on his own. “I was at the lake shore. I fell and hit my face against a stone.”
Vórimindo raised an eyebrow. “That sort of thing seems to be happening rather a lot, of late. I would have thought you were past the age where such clumsy mishaps most commonly occur.”
Edrahil’s eyes prickled, his vision blurring. The wound, the true one at his heart, was still raw. Despite his decision, such cold, matter-of-fact words were hard to accept on top of everything else, and he could no longer hold back his tears.

“Ah, Hravo...” There was a tinge of regret in his father’s voice. “I did not mean it like that. Every individual’s growth happens differently, of course, and it is no failing on your part. Come here, son.”
Vórimindo’s arms were outstretched towards him. Edrahil got up from his seat, sniffling faintly, and went to sit beside his father on the couch. He nestled into his embrace, and wrapped his arms around him in turn. Vórimindo’s arms tightened about him, and Edrahil began to sob, tears provoked afresh by the warmth of the embrace and the desire for some form of comfort.
His father spoke again, more softly. “If my remark hit a sore spot, then I am sorry, Hravindo. Has this been troubling you long?”
Edrahil raised his head slightly from his father’s chest. “It’s... it’s not that, Atya. It’s just...” He paused. “...I miss them.” His voice cracked.
Vórimindo lightly placed a hand on Edrahil’s head. “As do I,” he murmured.

The two of them sat together in silence until the evening meal was ready.

And although Edrahil had not told his father all that was acutely troubling him in that moment, he had not lied. He indeed missed them greatly. His mother, left behind in Tirion. His grandparents, and his two dearest friends, all lost on the Helcaraxë. Each grievous absence made his current hardships that much more difficult to bear.

===​

Edrahil lay in bed, listening. All was quiet. And had been for some time now. Slowly, he sat up. The light of the full Moon shone through his small window and onto the opposite wall.
All the better. He had considered bringing his father’s blue crystal lamp with him, so he could see properly as he worked on his sculpture. But with this moon and the cloudless sky, he would be able to see clearly wherever he chose to go, and he wouldn’t risk waking his father.


Wrapped in his dark cloak and carrying his small bag, Edrahil quietly closed the door of the house behind him, and set off down the cold and silent street.

He lengthened his stride, and raised his head, looking up at the sky, at the dark buildings, and at the silvery moonlight reflecting off the lake ahead. He smiled, breathing deeply in the cool night air. The streets were all his own now. He quite enjoyed it.

===​

In the great house, the fortress of Fingolfin, the lamps still burned. Not all were asleep. There was Fingon, at his tired but watchful vigil by the bed of Maedhros, who had been freed from torment, but not from suffering. And there was Nethien, returning to her chamber to ‘get some rest’.

But no, she thought, as she gazed out the window of her bedchamber. It would take her long to find rest tonight. Again, and as usual. Her breath caught in her tight throat, and her eyes shimmered with anger, grief and pain. Beneath her gaze, the moonlit lakeshore stretched onwards, the water almost still as a pool.

Clad in a deep green cloak and hood, large enough to completely cover her white clothing and pale hair, Nethien slipped out of the fortress, and soon was lost in the shadows of the streets.

===​

Caught up in the quiet thrill of his night-time adventure, Edrahil did not stop at his favourite spot. Instead, he continued along the lakeshore, marvelling at the eerie beauty of the deep shadows and the silver darts of moonlight which cut through them, sharply outlining the rocks, reeds and shrubs.

Edrahil stopped as he came to an area where trees grew right by the water, gnarled willows dipping their trailing branches into the shadowy ripples below. A large log lay half in the water, a fallen grey tree trunk with most of its branches rotted away.
Alright, here’s far enough. I still want to have some time to sleep tonight.
Edrahil sat down upon the log, laid his clay-working tools out upon the smooth wood, shifted his posture to ensure he had as much moonlight as possible, and began reshaping his piece of clay. The figure would be slightly smaller than before, but that was no matter.



Over to the left, the shrubs near a gathering of small boulders rustled. Edrahil froze. Not again, was his first thought, as he instinctively hid his nearly-complete sculpture under a fold of his cloak. Then he realised he had not heard any approaching footfalls. Who would be out here at this time, anyway?
Carefully, he risked a subtle glance to the side.
There, standing among the trees, was a fairly slim figure of medium height. Though they were shrouded in a hood and cloak, they appeared to be gazing at the lake. Edrahil remained completely still, looking and listening.
The figure bowed its head and... sniffled? Then it moved closer to the water, and sat upon one of the boulders, drawing its knees up to its chest. The lower end of the cloak parted as it did so, revealing white skirts.
Edrahil relaxed slightly, frowning in confusion. A nís?

A minute or so passed, and the mysterious lady did not move, nor did she look in his direction. Perhaps she simply wanted some unbothered time to herself, the same as him?
Cautiously, Edrahil returned his attention to his sculpture, resuming his work on its face with slow, careful movements.

Then, he heard another faint sniffle, and a sob. He looked up. The lady’s head and shoulders were bowed and trembling, and she was... weeping. ...Those were sobs of frustration and despair, if ever he heard them...

Edrahil continued working. He finished the face, and started adding more texture to the hair. His movements slowed, his mind occupied with the quiet outpouring of grief a few paces away. A tear fell onto the moist clay. Edrahil stopped, and wiped his damp cheek with his sleeve.
He wondered if she was also feeling the same as he had been earlier in the day.
But why... why would she cry out here? He thought, remembering the comfort of his father’s embrace. Does she have no close family with which to grieve? Or... does the grief lie on them just as heavily, so that she feels she must not add to their burden?
Edrahil pressed his lips together. That, he could understand. And he was not the only one who kept things to himself. His father, too, carried many burdens alone. And Edrahil was not sure whether he should be grateful for this evidence of his father’s love and care for him, or saddened that he could not help him with those burdens, for lack of knowledge.

The small sculpture of Oromë was finished. It was very close in appearance to the image from his memory. Yet Edrahil looked sad as he gently traced his finger along the delicate details of the cloak and tunic. From the occasional sniffling breaths he could hear, it sounded as though the lady was still weeping, though more silently.

For a moment, he considered going up to her and offering some form of comfort. Then almost immediately winced at the thought of what might ensue. If she was here alone, wanting to avoid people she knew, how much less would she want to be approached by a stranger? Especially in a vulnerable moment when she was not expecting it.
And if, for some reason, she welcomed it... what sort of comfort could I even give her?
The only thing he could think of was to sit beside her, or offer her a hug. He grimaced and buried his face in his palm. No, he was decidedly not going to hug a strange nís. How awkward.
Still, he thought, as he glanced over at the huddled figure on the rock. It is sad. I hope she has someone at home who can embrace her, wherever she lives.

Edrahil remained sitting there, wondering if he would be able to get up and leave without drawing her attention. He wasn’t exactly sleepy yet, but he did not wish to sleep too long into the morning and leave Enyalion waiting.
He did not have to wonder for too long, in the end. The lady had been sitting in complete silence for a while now, and she soon slipped off the rock and returned the way she came, disappearing behind the shrubs.

Edrahil slowly and thoughtfully put his tools away, and gently laid his completed sculpture in his bag. He was satisfied with it, and he would have it fired at the pottery workshop in the morning.

His mind was quiet as he returned back home. Something about the situation had calmed him, strangely enough. Perhaps it was the reassurance that he was not so alone as he sometimes felt.

===​

The place by the willows became another favourite haunt of Edrahil’s. On the few occasions he went there at night, he always saw the lady in the dark green cloak. It was a favourite spot of hers, too, it seemed. But not a happy one. For every time, she was only there to cry.

Edrahil never did gather the courage to approach her. And eventually, she stopped coming. Still, every time he spent time in that place, he would spare her a thought, and wonder if she was doing better.

But more than likely, just as was the case for him, the days held good and bad in equal measure.


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