The house being pointed out to him by a passer-by, Talkale took in its appearance. It was an ordinary house, two stories high, and nondescript in every way from the others that surrounded it, save that it was much larger, and it had many glazed windows, both indicators of the owner’s wealth. Similar to the other houses, it had a tiled roof and wooden frame, likely red cedar, though he was no whittler, he said to himself with some satisfaction. These builders had no idea of style.
As he contemplated the deficiencies of the architecture, he heard a voice exclaim, “Why, it is you!” Talkale turned. There was Parnard, former Ambassador of Imladris, standing in a sheltered nook of the garden with a nonplussed expression on his face.
Years ago, when Talkale was informed that Parnard had departed from the valley, unexpectedly and without any fanfare, he raised his eyebrows, and said, “Indeed? Well, I am not surprised. One can tie wings to a horse, but only a fool would expect it to fly.” Then he sipped his wine, pleased with his own wit, and gave the Wood-elf no further thought, that is, until recently.
“I see that my arrival has caught you unawares,” said Talkale. “Did you not receive my message?”
Parnard thought that perhaps Danel did and failed to mention it, but politely replied, “Do follow me,” and headed to the front door of the manor house. Inside was a long hall, its walls painted green and divided into spaces by clever arrangement of the furniture. At one end was a sunken pool filled with goldfish and lily pads, and at the other was a carven mantle over a glowing hearth piled with many logs. Beside it Danel sat in an armchair, watching the embers spark and fly up the chimney.
“Cousin! Look who has come to visit,” he said.
Danel stared unblinking, as if she were still seeing the embers instead of the person before her. “Make yourself comfortable, Talkale,” she said, her voice full of confusion. “We were about to break our fast. Would you like some wine?”
“It is only the morning still. Perhaps you folk have little to achieve today, but I would prefer a clear head for the task at hand.”
It was fortunate for the scholar that he moved to scan the titles of the books on a narrow bookcase, because at that moment Parnard was seized by an impulse to shove him into the fishpond. His thought did not go unnoticed, however. Danel swiftly took up a bottle of spring wine, light and clear, and three glasses. “This is a local white wine, a spring wine,” she announced.
“I think we achieve much here, very much indeed,” Parnard grumbled as he sat in his usual chair and placed his heels upon the tablecloth. “Do you not agree, Cousin?” After taking several long sips from his glass, he benignly smiled at the fat, lazy cat curled up on a cushion beside the hearth and wiggled his toes in sheer pleasure.
“Would you describe yourself as feeble-minded, Parnard?” said Talkale. “Simple, easily led?
He stopped just short of lifting the glass to his lips again. “What did you just say!” he breathed.
“This wine is more of a cordial, Master Librarian*,” Danel interjected. “We were not expecting you, although Lord Elrond wrote that he might send one of his advisors.”
“He must hold you in high regard to have asked that I come. Why that is I do not know,” said Talkale, as he continued to peer at Parnard.
“Neither do I know why he bothered you. “We thought Lord Erestor might visit? But regardless -”
“Lord Erestor?” Talkale chuckled. “You could have hoped for Lord Elrond himself, if you aimed so high.”
“He is known to us, and speaks knowledgeably.”
“Who is Lord Erestor? That is what I would like to know,” said Parnard.
“Erestor attended my betrothal to Estarfin, in Imladris. Do you recall him now?”
“Oh, him. Quiet fellow; I never can remember his name. He is…unremarkable.”
Talkale wondered how soft Parnard's mind had become if he could not even remember names anymore. “He is Elrond’s primary counselor,” Danel corrected gently. “Lord Erestor likely cannot be spared, and that is why he did not come himself.”
“Well, he is unremarkable to me, like certain other elves in Imladris.” He gave Talkale a meaningful nod. “I had almost forgotten about you, clerk.”
Danel took two gulps of wine before saying, “Talkale, we should be honest, you and I are not friends, but if Lord Elrond has deemed to send you, I shall make you as welcome as possible.” The visitor ran his tongue across his teeth, pretending not to hear her words, so she said with a tight smile, “If this wine is not to your taste, would you prefer something else? Perhaps some fruit juice?”
“Water would be welcome.”
“The pitcher is on the sideboard,” Parnard said. Much to his consternation, Danel got up to fetch it herself.
Talkale stared at the Wood-elf over the rim of his water goblet. There was no doubt that he had a very good opinion of himself: fools often do, and though the humbling would be hard, it was very necessary. “You have not answered my question, Parnard. Do you remember what I asked?”
“What was the question? I was not paying much attention.”
“Are you soft-headed? Do you forget easily, or become distracted or confused?” said Talkale. “When not drinking wine,” he added.
Parnard frowned. “I ne’er do anything of the sort, ever,” he answered.
Danel sensed stormclouds gathering. “Have you eaten anything today, Talkale?”
“I had some travelling biscuits,” he said, still looking very hard at Parnard.
“We have a few tidbits laid out, but Filignil can make a proper meal, if wanted.”
Parnard kicked his leg out with a jerk, making his dwarf-steel eating knife fly out of his boot (where it nestled between meal-times) and into his waiting hand, a trick he had perfected by long practice. Talkale made a little sound, somewhere between a startled hiss and a stifled library shush.
“‘Tis only his eating knife,” Danel said as Parnard savaged a lump of cheese.
Their guest relaxed, but moved his chair further away from the flashing knife. “I thought perhaps the brutishness of his companions may have rubbed off on him.”
“I surmise that you have come to help Parnard,” said Danel, wanting to change the subject.
“Indeed. My first concern is the state of his mind. He has never been the greatest of thinkers, but I would not have called him ‘simple’ - would you?”
They watched him devour cheese and fruit at an astonishing pace. “Parnard is…different,” said Danel at last, and seeing her friend glance up at the mention of his name, added, “He is simple in some ways, compared to those with a Noldorin tutelage. But he is wise in other matters.”
Talkale raised a perfectly arched brow, finding the proposition less than compelling. “You do not understand. I am not here to debate his lack of education or refinement, but the strength of his mind. That is important.”
“I thought you were here to protect him from enchantment.”
He could barely keep his eyeballs from rolling in their sockets. “That is a word that simpletons use to explain what they do not understand.”
The dwarf-steel knife, about to plunge into a loaf of seed cake, froze in the air. “Wait just a moment!” Parnard cried out. “Did Lord Elrond send you here to help us, or to insult us?”
“I am simply trying to understand your mind.” Talkale’s voice was calm and serene, but his gaze darted away for a fraction of a second.
“Understand this,” Danel cut in before he could stray further, “a woman of Umbar, who considers herself a 'Sorceress' - whatever that means - is trying to enter and control Parnard’s thoughts. It is forbidden. But she, thinking herself beyond all law, cares not. Her laws are not our law.”
“Ah, yes. So I have been informed. She seeks to enter and unhinge his mind. It is simply a debased form of gwanath na nauth**,” he replied, eschewing the Quenya in favor of his native Sindarin tongue, despite there being no direct translation.
“Osanwë?”
Talkale nodded primly.
“Since you are giving counsel so freely,” Parnard said, wiping his eating knife clean with a cloth, “let me return the favor and warn that if you speak in such a surly, ill-bred manner to Estarfin, he will thrust your head into the fire.”
“Oh!” cried Danel, realizing that Parnard spoke the truth. “We do not know when he will return.”
“I am no fool. He is not here, so I shall speak as I choose. I am here on behalf of Lord Elrond, not you. I have spent hours trawling the works of great lore in the library of Imladris at his behest, and I have ridden here, to this…place.”
“For your effort with study you have my thanks - but I am hoping you found more than what we already know.”
Talkale drank more water, Danel’s words of gratitude doing little to quell his frustration. It seemed a herculean effort was needed to clarify his point. “A mind cannot be reached, spoken with, invaded, or overcome against one’s will, unless the mind is soft, broken. Addled,” he said.
Parnard slipped the eating knife back into his boot, flung his dark hair back with an indignant toss, and demanded to know exactly what Talkale was insinuating. “Lord Elrond should have sent someone else,” he complained.
Danel held up a hand for him to be patient. “Parnard was held captive for some months, along with myself - although he was treated in a different manner.”
Talkale waited for her to continue. Finally, they were getting somewhere. She leaned in, her voice barely a whisper, and said, “The mortal woman was adept in the use of potions - sophorics, and other draughts.”
At this the visitor from Imladris pricked up his ears. “Indeed? There may be some residual poison or pungent fume that can fog the mind. Do you have samples of these?”
“No.”
“It matters not. Everything that I have read - everything,” he emphasized (for he prided himself upon his vast knowledge, and considered himself an expert on many subjects) “states that a mind cannot even be spoken to if the owner does not wish it, let alone controlled or invaded. There is some evidence that Morgoth himself was unable to enter the minds of unwilling mortals, but those records are unreliable. To think a mortal could do what he could not? No, not without breaking the mind first. That is why,” Talkale said slowly to Parnard, “I wish to know if your mind is broken.”
“Of course I did not want to be invaded,” he responded, his voice growing thin and high-pitched. If Talkale’s learning was doubled, he would be twice the fool he was at present!
“Hmph,” Talkale grunted, as if he had known the answer to his question all along, and ignoring Parnard, turned to Danel. “You know him well. Is he much changed by any poison? Is his mind open, unguarded?”
“In sleep it is. She seeks him in dreams, to tire him and wear down his spirit. She would have us believe she is more powerful than she is: she is but one of the Secondborn, and not the Dark Lord himself.”
“I have read records of those who sought to bolster their thoughts, their intellect. I wonder…” Talkale mused. “There are great artefacts that could achieve such things. Yet it may be perilous; a damaged mind may break under the strain.”
“Where might we find these great artefacts?”
Talkale huffed out a dismissive, exasperated sigh. He found himself, once again, contemplating the scale of the elf’s intellectual void. It was a truly remarkable thing for one to remain so blissfully ignorant.
“He speaks of the Elven Rings, Parnard.”
“Oh, a ring! Danel crafted a ring that -“
“I am no Celebrimbor,” she interrupted, before Talkale could say it.
The corners of Talkale's mouth twitched up. “No,” he said.
“Then do what Danel told you to do, and tell us something we do not already know.”
“That is a very long list.”
“What a sour-faced bookworm!”
Talkale bristled and looked down his nose at Parnard. “Like I said - such a thing is only achievable by great artefacts, beyond your reach.”
“Then why do you tell us about such things?”
“Because knowledge is power,” Talkale snapped. “Dwell forever in ignorance if you wish.”
The comment landed like a physical blow; Parnard’s neck flushed crimson with a humiliated fury. He retreated to a corner, determined to give Talkale nothing but a cold, feigned indifference, gripping the back of a chair so tightly the wicker cracked as he struggled to regain his composure.
“Knowledge is indeed power, but it alone is insufficient for wisdom,” Danel said.
“A minor essay in the craft may prove to be little more than a false hope. You will need to find a suitable balance, if you have the skill required. There are volumes of lore, saved from the ruin of Eregion, in the library of Imladris.”
“I have already read most of them.”
Talkale looked at her approvingly for the first time. “Have you consulted Lord Cirdan about the matter?”
“Yes,” Parnard blurted out, “yes, we have.” He was glad to show up this know-it-all elf for once!
“Well, what did he have to say?”
He shut his eyes to think. What did that letter say, again? “Er - I did not read his reply, Danel did.”
“Of course she did,” sighed Talkale, already picturing his blank stare as he attempted to read, the words just blurring together on the paper.
“I did read it to you,” Danel said. Unfortunately, this confirmation did nothing to help Parnard recollect the letter’s contents. It was clear as crystal, Talkale concluded. The elf was, indeed, soft-headed.
“Lord Cirdan was concerned that Parnard did not sleep without some ward upon him,” she explained. “Herbs were recommended, along with the use of gems and weapons, which are the special crafts of the Noldor.”
“Herbs, to clear the mind? Rosemary, sage, and ginger?”
“'He did not mention ginger, but that is also an herb of fire. We used other herbs to purify the air, so that no ill presence could settle. Estarfin created a dagger for Parnard, crafted from a fragment of a sword from Nargothrond. Alas! There is no more Formenos steel.”
Talkale was unimpressed. “Why would they give you a weapon?” he asked Parnard.
“Why, everyone knows the importance of holding a dagger during a time like that,” he replied. The truth was, he wondered that himself: the Noldor gave him the weapon to hold, but then kept saying that it was a battle of will only. Further explanation he was unable to recall on account of being very drunk on strong wine; then, once he and his friends returned home, he had no desire to reflect upon the unsettling events of that day, and put all thoughts of the disturbing experience out of his head.
“The dagger is a vessel of power, a weapon made from ore mined in the Blessed Realm,” explained Danel. “We also had a ring that once belonged to Caranthir.”
“Prince Caranthir, she means! Then I had the most luxurious sleep-”
“We invoked the Lady of the Stars,” she continued. “When Zairaphel, that is, the Sorceress, arrived in dream-form, she could not take hold, and we pushed her back.” Danel shook her head. “But we did not defeat her. She only withdrew.”
It all sounded a little far-fetched, thought Talkale. “Naturally, you did not defeat her,” he said.
“Talkale, she is but a woman. We can, and should, defeat her.”
“Then go and find her, and stick this vaunted dagger into her.” He was wasting his time trying to explain himself.
“But she could be anywhere,” protested Parnard, as if this was the stupidest thing he had ever heard in his life.
Danel was more diplomatic in her reply. “Talkale, you truly have been a boon to us, but you are no Noldo, and see things differently.”
“On the contrary, I see things clearly. You still see it as a battle of wills? It is not. Parnard, your mind should be closed to her. No battle should be required. But you cannot do that, for whatever reason. Though blaming a rock for being a rock is the behavior of a fool.”
“Then do not play the fool, Talkale!”
“Neither of you is a fool,” Danel said, quickly intervening again, “but there is no understanding, no meeting of minds.”
“Heed my advice, or do not. I have done what Lord Elrond asked me to do. By all means charge into battle against this woman, wave your little dagger around, and wear a horseshoe around your neck while you sleep. It is not a contest of wills. You should be able to close your mind to her, and then she will become less consequential than a summer breeze.” Talkale set down his water goblet, and gathering the hem of his voluminous robe, rose to leave.
“I recommend you stay overnight in Duillond, but not at the tavern inn,” Danel said, shaking her head slowly. “It smells of fish. I would offer you a bed here, but since you show such disdain, there is no point in that.”
“You are correct. I shall take my leave. I will visit Lord Cirdan and peruse his library. There may be something useful written there.”
“Wait! Before you go, there is one more thing,” said Parnard, drawing out from a pocket a dog-eared envelope. “This is an important letter for Sogadan. Would you see it delivered?” He screwed up his features to give the irksome Falas elf a pleasant smile, instead looking as if he had just stepped on a nail. Talkale looked doubly unimpressed, yet took the letter anyway.
“I believe we shall return to Imladris before the autumn rains, if possible,” said Danel with an incline of her head. Talkale nodded to her, then left.
“His departure brings immeasurable joy,” said Parnard as soon as the door was shut. “He told us nothing we did not know already.”
“But he has helped us.”
“Did he, really?”
Through the open window the two elves could hear Talkale berate Barahirn the stablemaster for keeping him waiting. “He does not understand us,” she sighed.
“If he dares return I shall scrub the bottom of that fishpond with his hair for implying I am an unrefined blockhead!”
“Surely you are not. Estarfin would not have gifted a mithril dagger to a simple-minded craven, would he?”
This cheered him up no end, and he embraced her in a sudden transport of brotherly affection. Laughing merrily she said, “The Woman is of no account. We shall forget her.”
“Talkale made me very tired, Cousin. It took a great deal of strength to control my temper; I might have driven him clear through the wall with my fist, had I not.”
“You did well. Now take your wine and seek rest. Nothing concerning us will suit him.”
*: Talkale was never actually appointed to this position, but assumed it after he was ejected from an Imladris scholarly society for being too difficult during symposiums.
**: literally, ‘exchange of thought’
