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Elf, Interrupted: Book One: Glorfindel Redux  by Fiondil

85: The Joy of Serving

When Ingwion entered Nienna’s house, he was surprised to find Lord Námo there. The Lord of Mandos was in the cloister tending the garden. Ingwion noticed he was still dressed in the grey tunic with the emblem of the fountain embroidered on it. The sight of this particular Vala on his knees pulling weeds was so incongruous that Ingwion just stood there in shock. The sense of shock increased when Nienna came from her workshop to see what her brother was doing and began criticizing him.

"Hmm. I don’t know why I let you do this, brother. You’re as hopeless as Glorfindel in the garden. You’ve just pulled up the nieninqui."

Námo looked at his sister with a combination of humor and dismay. "Is that what these are? I thought they were weeds." His voice sounded suspiciously like Glorfindel’s to Ingwion’s ear and that was even more shocking.

Nienna laughed at that and playfully swatted Námo on the head. "Just for that, it’s kitchen duty for you tonight."

"Yes, Lady," the Lord of Mandos said, speaking in his own voice, his eyes twinkling with merriment, but Ingwion had the most uncomfortable feeling that Námo had spoken those words with all sincerity.

"And put the nieninqui back where you found them," was Nienna’s parting shot, as she returned to her workshop to oversee Niélë’s project (Ingwion still hadn’t figured out what it was).

"Yes, Lady," Námo said with a fond smile for his sister and returned to replanting the nieninqui. Without looking up he said, "Close your mouth Ingwion and come over here and give me a hand."

The ellon gave a start and then realized that Tiutalion was no longer with him. He was alone with the Lord of Mandos, who was still kneeling in the dirt and replacing the flowers he had dug up. Ingwion walked into the garden and reluctantly knelt beside Námo who pointed to one of the plants lying on the ground.

"Put it here, will you?" the Vala requested.

Ingwion complied, feeling stunned. This was the last thing he thought he would be doing, helping the Lord of Mandos in Lady Nienna’s garden. "Lord, why are you here?" he asked, his tone one of complete confusion.

Námo gave the ellon an odd smile and said. "I lost a bet with my sister."

Ingwion could feel his universe tipping precariously sideways. "A... a bet?"

Námo nodded with equanimity as he continued replacing the nieninqui.

"Er... do you... lose often?" Ingwion asked in a slightly strangled voice.

The Vala laughed. "Almost never, but when I do...."

Just then one of the Maiar came along the covered walk from the kitchen and approached them, smiling at the sight of Námo and Ingwion together. Námo noticed the Maia’s amused look and smiled. "Yes, Aiwendilmë, is there something you wish to tell me?"

"Only to remind you, Námo, that when you’re peeling the potatoes, not to make them into ... er... inappropriate shapes."

"I will be the soul of propriety," Námo said virtuously.

Aiwendilmë merely laughed as she continued along the covered walk. "That’s what you said the last time."

The Lord of Mandos gave Ingwion a smirk and winked. Ingwion just stared at him. "You... you’ve done this before?"

"Hmm, yes," the Vala said with a distracted air as he made sure all the nieninqui were properly replanted.

"But... but.. it’s so menial... and you’re... I mean..."

Námo gave the ellon a grave look. "Child, nothing done with love is ever menial." He stood up and brushed the dirt from his hands and tunic. "Now come. Those potatoes won’t peel themselves, you know."

Ingwion had to almost run to catch up with the Vala’s longer strides. "What did she mean... er.. about inappropriate shapes, Lord?"

Námo gave the elf a rueful look as they walked along one side of the covered walk towards the kitchens that looked east and south. "The last time I peeled the potatoes I got a little... bored."

Ingwion stopped and found himself sniggering at the sudden image those words evoked and then he was laughing. "You didn’t?" he asked in shocked surprise.

Námo put a finger to Ingwion’s lips. His expression went dark but his eyes were still bright with merriment. "If you tell anyone outside this house, I will personally acquaint you with the Doom of Mandos."

Ingwion gulped, but before he could respond to Námo’s threat, Tiutalion came across the garden towards where they were standing. He held a pile of table linens in his arms. "Ah, Námo, you’re on your way to the kitchen, aren’t you?"

Námo nodded. "Yes, we are."

"Good," Tiutalion said as he proffered the pile of linens to the Vala. "Would you put these in the linen cupboard on your way there?"

Námo accepted the linens. "Of course, Tiutalion. That’s the cupboard to the left, isn’t it?"

"Yes, thank you," the Maia started to turn away, then stopped. "Oh, and Námo, see that Ingwion’s hands are clean before he starts peeling the potatoes."

"Why am I peeling potatoes?" Ingwion asked, feeling a bit put-upon. "I’m not the one who lost the bet. Couldn’t I just... watch?"

Námo and Tiutalion shared a look that the ellon could not interpret. Námo regarded Ingwion in such a way that the elf felt as if he hadn’t any clothes on. "Child, you’re not listening."

Now Ingwion paled at that and when Námo placed the linens in his arms, he did not object. Námo pointed down the walk. "The cupboard on the left. I’ll meet you in the kitchen."

Ingwion nodded and made his way to the cupboard without another word, embarrassment written all over him. He put the linens away and then continued to the kitchen where Námo was waiting for him, peeler in hand. He pointed to a sink that was against one wall and Ingwion went and washed his hands, drying them on a scrap of cloth before joining Námo at the table where a pile of potatoes awaited them. Námo handed him the peeler.

"Ever use one of these before?" the Vala asked in a conversational tone as he picked up a second peeler. Ingwion shook his head. Námo nodded as he took a potato and began to expertly peel it. "It’s really not too hard. Hold the potato like this and peel in this direction." He demonstrated and then encouraged Ingwion to give it a try.

The elf was clumsy at first, but soon he was peeling the potatoes almost as fast as Námo. They sat there in silence, Ingwion too shocked by everything to venture a conversation. Námo, for his part, ignored the ellon and concentrated on his task. As they sat there peeling away, the head cook approached them.

"Ah, Námo, I see you have a helper this time. Not teaching him any bad habits are we?"

The cook laughed and Námo joined in. "He has enough bad habits as it is, Marilliën, without my teaching him mine."

Marilliën nodded. "You’ll be serving as well?"

Námo smiled. "That’s the bargain. I think Ingwion would like to help as well, wouldn’t you?" The Vala gave the ellon an enquiring look.

Ingwion could only nod, looking nonplused, afraid to actually say anything. The cook smiled at him and told them to carry on. "I’ll see if I can find appropriate livery for you, Ingwion," she said as she continued on to another part of the kitchen.

For a while Ingwion and Námo sat in silence until the ellon found the courage to make an observation. "They don’t give you your proper title, Lord," he said quietly, almost hesitantly, as if he might be treading on dangerous ground with his words.

Námo gave Ingwion a brief smile. "All part of the game, child. The Maiar are joyfully obeying my sister’s orders not to treat me as anything but the newest member of the staff."

Ingwion wrinkled his brow in concentration even as he picked up another potato and began peeling it without conscious thought. "So... you’re just pretending to be one of Lady Nienna’s servants?"

Námo shook his head. "No, child. This is no pretense and I’ll tell you something else." He bent his head closer to Ingwion and whispered, "Sometimes I let myself lose a bet just so I can have the pleasure of submitting myself to one of my fellow Valar in this manner."

Ingwion just stared at him in shock. Pleasure? In peeling potatoes!?

"And washing dishes, cleaning out horse stalls, working the bellows in the smithy, pulling weeds, and a host of other so-called menial tasks."

"But... but why?"

"Because I love them, child, and this is one way that I show them the depth of my love: by joyfully serving them." Námo pointed his peeler at the potato in Ingwion’s hand. "You missed a spot."

****

It turned out that Nienna had guests for dinner. One of them was Olwë of Alqualondë come to view Niélë’s progress on her project. What exactly the project was, Ingwion could never figure out, nor did anyone bother to enlighten him. It was frustrating, to say the least, but obviously it was something to which he was not to be privy, at least for the moment, so he tried his best to ignore the conversation at the table as he was serving.

The other guest was none other than Lord Aulë, who apparently would oversee the next phase of the mysterious project.

When it came time to serve, Marilliën brought Ingwion a tabard, dark grey with the fountain embroidered on it. It felt strange to be wearing it at first, and Ingwion was a bit self-conscious as he entered the dining room behind Námo, bearing a tray. He was afraid Niélë might laugh, and certainly Olwë would find it amusing.

He needn’t have worried. Niélë never looked up from her plate, shy before King and Valar; Olwë never blinked an eye, not even at Námo passing out bread, but continued his conversation with Lord Aulë and Lady Nienna as if he were used to seeing one of the Aratar serving him dinner every day of the week.

It was a new experience for the ellon, though he remembered doing something similar as a page in his atar’s court when he was an elfling, but that had been so long ago, he had quite forgotten about it. He vaguely recalled how proud he had felt to have successfully served his beloved atar and king and the joy he had experienced. Perhaps if he kept that in mind, he told himself, then the evening would pass more pleasantly for him. His nervousness and general embarrassment, though, proved his undoing.

It was his duty to serve the soup. As he started to set the tray of bowls on the table he inadvertently caught Lord Aulë’s eye and sudden shyness took him and without realizing it he tried to bow to the Vala at the same time as he was putting down the tray and watched in horror as the steaming bowls slid gracefully off the tray right into Lord Aulë’s lap.

The Vala never moved. Nienna rolled her eyes. Niélë finally looked up from her plate long enough to take in what was happening before looking down again, but this time Ingwion had the feeling she was trying not to laugh. Olwë stared at Ingwion as if the ellon had suddenly sprouted a second head and Námo stood there laughing.

Ingwion let the now empty tray drop from nerveless fingers, the blood rushing from his head, and, feeling very sick, he fled the room, heedless in his shock as to his direction. He half expected someone to call him back but no one did and so he ran.

Aulë still hadn’t moved, but stared at the wet, steaming mess in his lap for another minute before looking up and giving Nienna a wry grin. "And I was so looking forward to the soup, too."

Now Námo slid to the floor in helpless laughter and Niélë held her napkin to her mouth as she suffered a coughing fit trying not to laugh before her betters. Nienna merely sighed and Olwë finally came out of his shock to make his own wry observation.

"Just as well," he said with a dry tone. "I never cared for mushrooms anyway."

"Oh for the love of Eru," Nienna protested with some exasperation. "Námo, get off the floor and make sure Ingwion is all right. Niélë, dear, stop trying to stuff that napkin down your throat and go find something to clean this mess up. And you two," here she glared at Aulë and Olwë, "I’ll deal with you two later. Now someone pass me the salt."

****

Ingwion ran through the cloister, mortified to the bone. How could he have done such a thing? Ever since coming here he had lost all confidence in himself. His atar would be sorely disappointed in him. He was rounding a corner when he ran into someone who grabbed him just in time to stop him from crashing to the ground. It was Tiutalion.

"Whoa there, youngster. Where are you going in such a rush?" the Maia asked as he took hold of the ellon’s shoulders to steady him.

"Let me go, let me go!" Ingwion struggled in Tiutalion’s hold but to no avail.

"Oh, good," Námo said as he came upon them. "You’ve saved me the trouble of looking for him. Here, let me have him, Tiutalion." The Maia handed the still struggling ellon over to Námo with some relief. The Vala placed a gentle hand on Ingwion’s head. "Hush, child, be still."

Ingwion ceased struggling, giving a sigh as he sagged bonelessly against Námo. Tiutalion looked on with a grin. "I take it dinner didn’t go as planned?"

"Not really," Námo said, returning the Maia’s grin. Then he turned his attention to Ingwion. "Let’s go back to the dining room. You left poor Niélë to clean up your mess."

Ingwion stifled a sob, shaking his head. "Hush now," Námo said. "No one thinks the less of you, least of all Lord Aulë." He released the ellon from his hold and made the elf face him. "Come along now. We still have three more courses to serve."

Ingwion looked at Námo in horror. How could he possibly.... He wasn’t even aware of being sick until he felt a cool cloth on his neck. Someone had conveniently placed a basin under him as he heaved, taking it away when the last of the spasms came to an end. Then a goblet was pushed under his nose.

"Drink this, Ingwion," Námo commanded softly and the ellon complied. The clear cool water brought him all the way back to himself and he was able to focus on his surroundings once again.

"I... I’m sorry..." he stuttered, still feeling weak. Námo helped him to stand, keeping a solicitous hand on his elbow.

"No need to apologize, child," the Vala said kindly. "I think the day’s events are finally catching up with you." He started back down the walk towards the dining room. Ingwion had no choice but to come with him. "I think we’ll keep you away from liquids for now and have you keep the table supplied with bread and cheese and such."

They entered the dining room where all seemed normal. Ingwion refused to look at anyone.

"I see you didn’t have to go too far, brother," Nienna said.

"Ingwion... er... ran into Tiutalion."

"Ah, such a helpful Maia," Nienna said in a rather dry tone. "I’ll have to think of a suitable reward. Now, why don’t we carry on? My guests haven’t come all this way just to sit at an empty table."

Námo gave Nienna the most respectful bow Ingwion had ever seen anyone give. "Yes, Lady. I’ve decided Ingwion will be in charge of the bread and cheese boards, if that meets with your approval."

"Please," Nienna said with a relieved nod. "I think we’ve all had enough excitement for the nonce.... Niélë, if you don’t wipe that smirk off your face I will teach you the true meaning of the word contrition from the inside out."

Nienna’s tone had turned so cold that Ingwion looked up from the shock of it to see Niélë turning dead white. Nienna gave the elleth a hard stare and, satisfied that she had gotten through, nodded and turned back to Námo. "You may serve the next course, brother."

Námo bowed again. "Of course, Lady. Come Ingwion, you can bring in the potatoes."

The rest of the evening passed in a fog for Ingwion as he continued helping Námo serve the table. He was given little opportunity to brood but he refused to look at anyone directly. Sometime between serving the pheasant and the salmon, Olwë stopped Ingwion from returning to the kitchen by pushing his chair back and taking hold of the ellon’s arm.

"Now you listen to me, elfling," the King of the Teleri said without preamble. "You act as if nothing like this has ever happened to you."

"It hasn’t," Ingwion muttered, still refusing to look anyone in the eye.

Olwë raised an eyebrow. "Well in that case, I’d say it’s long overdue."

Ingwion looked at the Telerin king in surprise. "What do you mean, sir?"

Olwë smiled. "Next time you see my grandson, you ask Findaráto to tell you about the time he was serving me at table and managed — the Valar only know how — to trip over his own feet, drop an entire tray of roast hens and then pull the tablecloth down over his head, along with everything else on the table. And he wasn’t an awkward elfling at the time, either. He was several yéni old by then."

"Wh-why was he serving at table?" Ingwion did not recall ever hearing this story about his cousin.

"His atar had banished him to Alqualondë for a season after he’d committed some minor infraction and acting as a page in my court was his punishment." Olwë smiled. "The other pages were absolutely merciless towards him. I think he cried for a week, but it taught him humility, if nothing else."

"And is that what this is all about, teaching me humility?" Ingwion asked in dismay, remembering the events that had occurred earlier in the day on the beach.

Olwë gave the ellon a surprised look, releasing his hold on Ingwion’s arm. "That’s for you to decide, youngster. I think that the only lesson this evening should teach you is not to bow while holding a tray full of soup."

Ingwion blushed at the implied reprimand, then bowed to Olwë before returning to the kitchen to get the next dish to be served. When the interminable dinner was finally over, Nienna led her guests and Niélë to the workshop while Námo and Ingwion cleared the table and then helped with the washing up. Neither spoke the whole time except for Námo’s quiet instructions to the elf.

When the last dish had been washed, dried and put away, Námo took Ingwion by the shoulders and forced the ellon to look at him. "You’ve been sulking all evening, child," Námo said gently. "I don’t like my people sulking. If you are to be my apprentice..."

"YOUR WHAT!?"

"Calm down, Ingwion," Námo commanded with a hint of annoyance and Ingwion stood there, shock written all over him. "Yes, my apprentice. What do you think all this has been about, anyway?"

"But... but... I don’t want to be your apprentice!" Ingwion went white and put a hand on his mouth as soon as he spoke the words, wishing he could call them back. He stared at the Vala in horror, waiting for something terrible to happen. It did, but not the way he expected: Námo grinned.

He felt himself trembling uncontrollably at the sight of the Lord of Mandos smiling. "Child, what you want does not enter into it. What you need does."

"Wh-what do I need?" Ingwion asked in a small voice.

Námo reached over and kissed the ellon gently on the forehead. "For the moment... you need to feel secure. Nienna will see to that for the nonce. Beyond that..." Námo shook his head and gave the ellon a rueful smile. "It’s been a long day, child. I think you should go to sleep. Tomorrow will give you a different perspective on things." He reached over and gave Ingwion another kiss on the forehead.

Suddenly, the elf felt incredibly tired and stifled a yawn. Námo hid a grin. "Go to bed, child. When you are ready to listen, I will be here to speak to you. Until then, good night."

Ingwion could never afterwards remember how he got to his bedroom but within minutes he was undressed and snuggling into his bed. The idea of being Lord Námo’s apprentice... and what would he be doing, anyway? Ushering the dead into Mandos?

He had trouble coming up with any suitable answers and before long he had drifted onto the Path of Dreams where he spent the night welcoming the fëar of dead elves while Lord Námo stood by beaming and saying, "He’s my apprentice, he’s my apprentice," over and over again. By the time Ingwion struggled awake the next morning he was ready to kill the damn Vala and send him to his own Halls.

****

Nieninqui: Plural of nieninquë: snowdrop; the Quenya equivalent of the Sindarin niphredil.

Aratar: The Supreme; a translation of the foreign word Máhani adopted and adapted from Valarin. Refers to the eight most powerful Valar, of which Námo is one. The others are: Manwë, Varda, Aulë, Yavanna, Ulmo, Oromë and Nienna.

Yéni: Plural of yén, an elvish century of 144 solar years.

Linguistic note: The word contrition comes from the Latin contritus, past participle of conterere, to crush, to wear down: com- + terere, to grind together.





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