Before them, Lórien

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Rhûn Darkmoon and AelKennyr Rhiano

 "In Valinor doth Irmo dwell,
 Come, refresh thyself at the fountain of Este!
 Still your soul beside, where fair Lórien resides.
 Drink deep, sit still and dream!
 Forget thou thy care, forget thy discomfort.
 Forget thou there thy mortality.
 Settle in, settle in, settle in, child of Eru.
 For in Lórien, life is but an eternity..."

Ulmo's deep voice carries the tune, rolling like the waves upon the sea, steady and sure. He ends the song and lifts his gaze toward Valinor, hearing beside him the steady tread of the Maker, heavy upon the ground. Frowning he looks over and down, watching as Aule makes each booted step. For his part, Ulmo, Lord of the Waters of the World, passes lightly above the grass created and brought into being by the Lady of all Things Growing.  He moves though the world as he moves through his seas, his hair floating upon the currents of air about his face.  The song, once sung by the fisherfolk of the second born hangs in the air and is disrupted by the call of an angry bird close by. 

"How many toes do you have?" he asks Aule suddenly.

Aule strides through the gentle twilight of Aman looking about him as though seeing the world for the first time.  It seems to him that he cannot recall a time he had been away from the chamber, let alone left Mandos, that it has not called to him, tug at him mercilessly until he craves nothing but to return there.  Now, there is only utter silence.  No call. No tug.  No craving.  Just.. silence.  In comparison the world around him seems to rush and surge with bustle and noise.  With the newfound quiet in his mind, the rustle of breeze through the pines, the scurry of living things in the forest, the melodious singing of his companion, his own footsteps, his very drawing of breath - all seemed to swirl around him, so aware was he of it all.

Aule starts a little at Ulmo's sudden question.  He turns to look at his brother Vala, his lips curling up bemusedly as he answers, "How many toes?  Why the same as you I would think, ten of course."

Ulmo's eyebrows rise, and he looks down at one of Aule's feet and then to his own bare feet.  Large and squarish, and unformed, unfinished, the toes not separate, but lumpish, as though carved from clay not yet baked.  There are no nails on them, nor instep or arch.  "Ten," he replies to himself, the word rumbling deep in his chest.  "I have five on each foot. I patterned them after the feet of the Teleri. I have seen those." He glides besides his brother Vala, his face deep in thought. "I have sometimes wondered why five upon each foot. And there is something atop each digit of the foot. Not skin. It is on their fingers, too." He stretches out his hand to show his brother his fingernails.

Like his feet, his hands are larger, the fingers thick as sausages and very long.  "Wondrous is the mind of Eru to create such things. But I marvel at this coincidence of numbers.  Fives toes, five fingers...but only two eyes, two ears. Most strange, most strange."

Aule scratches the back of his head, even more bemused that here is Ulmo, of all the Valar second in might only to Manwe himself, perplexed at the simple workings of a mortal body. "They are there for a reason.  The numbers seem right when you use such a body long enough, truly use it, rather than just don its form for a short time."  He pauses and looks down at Ulmo's feet and then nudges him lightly with his shoulder as he continues. "Of course, it helps if you shape the form right in the first place.  Then it might work properly and you would understand it better."

"Use, yes," Ulmo replies, waving his overlarge hand in further answer.  About them, birds call softly to each other, and the wind rises, bringing with it the smells from all over the whole of Eru's creation, all floating upon the air, mingling together.  Ulmo draws in a breath and savors the salty ocean that is there, among the other things.  "These bodies have their uses, I suppose, " He continues, gliding beside his brother.  "I have watched the Children, as they sail upon my waters. I have seen them as they go about ..'using' these bodies.  I still wonder though, at two hands. Some creatures of the deep ocean have many appendages, and those appear to be most useful, most efficient." He lapses into a companionable silence for a few moments, occasionally allowing a foot to stamp heavily upon the ground.  "Hmm," he said after the first time, and strikes his foot heavily against the ground again, not noticing the tremble that runs through the ground in response.  All about them birds and animals, startled, flee swiftly.  "Hmmm."

Aule smiles in amusement as he watches his brother experiment with his body.  The smile feels strange on his face, as though the muscles were unfamiliar with the action. He thinks about this for a moment and nods to himself. Yes, it seems like an Age has passed since last he smiled so; yes, it was unfamiliar.  Unfamiliar, but good, he decides and lets the smile broaden as Ulmo stomps the ground a second time. "Many more may be efficient, that is true, but then it would also be limiting.  If all living things were all like that creature of the deep ocean, how would an eagle fly, or a horse run?  There is a beauty in how diverse all the living things are, including the Children and these bodies they use. You have only to form it correctly first and then there is so much that one can experience.  Of course, it takes a little practice at first, as I told Nienna.. "

Aule's voice trails away and the smile slides from his face at the memories that name evokes.  "I.." he begins again and then falls silent, uncertain of what to say.

Ulmo had lifted his foot for another stomp but stops in mid-motion at the change of tone in Aule's voice.  He lowers his leg and turns his attention to the Smith, blue eyes narrowing as he studies the face of the Vala beside him.  The smile has faded from the lips of the Smith as it has faded from his voice.  The brow is heavy and furrowed, and there are tight lines about his eyes, which seem, to the Lord of the West to not shine as clearly as he recalls they have in ages past.  The words of the Lord of the West come back to him now, and he folds his overlarge hands behind his back as he gives a measured answer,  "Nienna," he says, softly, "the Vala of Compassion." He gives a slow nod.  "I am sure she was honored that a brother Vala spent time with her to help her understand the Children better." His words are slow and said with great deliberation, his blue eyes steady in their gaze. "For she is the only one to whom they come when they need their weariness unburdened." 

Aule lifts his eyes to look at Ulmo.  The eyes looking back at him are as blue and as unfathomable as the oceans over which his brother Vala rules.  Questions tumble through his mind as they have never done before and suddenly begin to fall from his tongue, "How is it that the Lady has been expected to ease the sorrow of the Children throughout the Ages, when she has had nothing by which to understand them by?   How.. how is it that any of us think we know what is best for them when we have not lived lives as they do, struggled and hurt, worked and rejoiced, as they do? What makes us better than they, that we should know and have that power?  Do you know what it is to work until your hands are blistered as they do? Do you know what it is weary and grow old as they do?"

He pauses and his voice softens. "Do you know the feel of a newborn babe in your arms, or the joy as you watch that babe grow to be a son to be proud of?  Do you know a lover's touch, brother?  Not the noble love we share with our spouses, but a true lover's touch.  How can you, when you cannot even shape your hands and feet right?  We are Valar, so mighty and powerful, yet.. yet so empty of life."  Again he pauses, taking in a deep breath and letting it out in a long sigh. "I... I used to think I knew who I was, and what I was doing.  Now I wonder if any of us do."

As the Lord of the Waters listens to Aule's response, he feels an emptiness, low in this physical body, uncomfortable and tight, and in response, unthinkingly, he places a hand upon his belly. Beneath his touch, his stomach churns and gurgles, and he looks down at it, an eyebrow raised, even as his mind churns, like silt on the ocean floor when stirred by turbulent currents.  So much has occurred, and so little does the Lord of the Waters understand of how such events could come to be.  When, he thinks, when did we become of this world?  And if we are, what means this for the Children of Eru.  What means it for us? In that moment, Ulmo conceives of himself as an "us," as part of an "us" that is not part of the mind of Eru.

And in that moment, the mind of Ulmo trembles. For a moment, the blue eyes close, and Ulmo reaches out, reaches out to touch the warm presence of Manwe, turning like fish do in the ocean when they find a warmer current of sea.  He reaches out for the gruff feel of Tulkas, raspy and gritty and solid. He reaches out for Yavanna... His blue eyes open, and he looks back over at Aule.  No, he has no right to reach out to Yavanna, when here stands Aule, talking like one of the Children, brown eyes cloudy as his judgment.   He turns to his brother Vala and moves towards him, bare inches between them.  "Once Melian the Maia took for husband one of the Children. She cleaved unto him, in the matter of the Firstborn and sealed his heart to hers. Children she bore, children she gave him, of Maia and Firstborn blood.  His spirit was sundered from his body, and he went to the Halls of Mandos, forever apart from her." His blue eyes glitter as he speaks. "But never think, Mahal, that she knew any better what it was like to live a Child of Eru any more than you or I. " He crosses his arms over his chest.

"Olwe of Alqualonde has given his heart, his love unto the Maia Tilion. Such is his love, that when he was nigh at Mandos' entrance, he fought and yelled for his Beloved and would not seek entrance. For he would rather wander a shade than be parted from the Maia." He draws in a deep breath as, in the mortal world, that same Olwe sails upon a swanship toward Sylvhara, in direct opposition to Ulmo's words.  "But, Smith, seek not the Steersman of the Moon for knowledge of the struggles within Olwe's heart. For he knows them not." 

He rests a huge hand upon Aule's chest. "WE are the Valar! We are not here to become fledgling gods, nor are we to become as the Children ourselves. We sung the Song of Making. We are the instruments of Creation. Empty of life, you say, yet all life sings in us, through us and will be with us so long as the world turns...and even after. " His voice softens, and he raises his hand to rest upon the shoulder of the Maker. "All the sea is my newborn, all the creatures my lovers and my children. And like children born to the Children, they have come through us, and not OF us."

Aule listens to Ulmo's words, his eyes dark and thoughtful.  He is silent for some time after his brother finishes speaking, and then he looks down at the hand upon his shoulder and back into the other eyes as he says, "You speak fine words, brother, but in truth we are no better than dried up old crones who have long ago given birth and raised her brood and now seeks to find purpose in mundane things and past joys."

His jaw set, he shrugs Ulmo's hand from his shoulder and resumes their journey, for he sees Lorien is close. He calls back over his shoulder, "You speak as you do, for you only don that form as the Children don clothing.  It means no more to you than that.  Trying living in it, brother and then speak to me again of our purpose.  Live it: don't just tell me pretty tales of what others have done. Live it and tell me then what it is YOU do."  With a snort of disgust, Aule turns the final corner in the road, and there before him lies Lorien in all its beauty.

 

  

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Home No More - Part 2

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As he moves to draw Nasi away from the dragon, to join their fellow travelers, Fafnir reaches into the pouch hanging from his father's belt. He twists his waist to dig inside and curses under his breath as the burns, pulled in the process, protest loudly.  Pulling out a small tin, he turns and pulls off the top, extending the tin toward the others. Inside a white lard based mixture of pungent herbs glisten wetly.  "While we cannot perfume yonder beast, we can dab a bit of this under our noses and make the air a little bearable. The stench will trail us for a fair bit, I thought, so I made this last night," explains Fafnir.  While I sewed bits of jewels onto the underside of father's belt, he thinks. But this they need not know.

Aztryd rocks back and forth on her feet, impatiently.  Nizl jabbers excitedly in the early morning sunshine, glad to be outdoors.  Scanning the clearing, she mentally counts heads.  All too few, but everyone is here.  Some of those hobbling determinedly now will probably be riding in the cart before the day is done, but let them start the journey on their own feet.  "Perfume for a dragon?" she asks wryly.  "I'd as soon just put a few miles between us and that carcass."

Nasi feels his face grow hot at the word "DragonsSlayer,"yet it seems that dragon slayer he is, for there the beast lies.  He turns to call after Fafnir, "I'll be along in a moment." He steps toward the dragon, swallowing hard against the stench.  There it was.  A small length of shaft and fletches protruded from a blind, unseeing eye.  Such a small thing to quench the fire of life in such a beast, and yet it had.

For a moment he is tempted to try to retrieve the arrow, to keep as a reminder of what he'd done, but then he snorts and mutters to himself, "A reminder of playing the coward too long, and acting too late."  With a small shake of his head he turns away.  Let it remain there as mute testimony that even something as mighty as a dragon can be brought low by the determination of one such as a dwarf.  Two dwarves, he corrects himself and smiles as he remembers Fafnir standing by his side, whispering courage in his ear.  His eyes are drawn instantly to the tall dwarf standing with the others as he walks towards the wagon.  Thoughts of cowardice and being too late fall from his mind as he steps next to him and slips his hand shyly into his.  "I am ready," he says simply.

Fafnir offers the contents of the tin all around to the others before extending it to Aztryd one last time, "Well, sweetling, if not for the dragon, a touch behind each ear, hmm?"  He lifts the tin up towards his own nostrils, under which the streak of lard gleams in the weak light of the new day. "Might catch a new husband in the elf port with this. They might consider it the elixir of the Valar, eh?"  His amber eyes lift to meet Eilif's as she stands by the horse, suddenly watching transfixed as a shudder runs through the beast. "Does he...does he need this?" Fafnir asks Eilif. "Or something?"

Then he feels the warmth of a hand in his, and turning to see Nasi step up beside him, the tin tumbles from his hand and lands, upside down in the dirt.  Fafnir, blushing, starts to bend down, but as he bends his knees, the weight of the belt drags at him.  "Well, " he says instead. "I suppose no one really needed it anyway?"  His cheeks flame hotly, and inwardly he curses himself for his clumsy, uncontrolled reaction to Nasi's touch.  But he holds the hand that holds his all the tighter.

 Eilif does not hear Fafnir's words as she stands at the pony's head lost in thought.  To her they are just part of the general murmur and hubbub of the preparations to leave.  She stares back at what has been her home all her life. As a child she had walked these mountains with her father, tripping along beside him as he taught her about the rocks and the lie of the land, how to look for mineral seams and spot the hidden caverns where gems gleamed dully in the light of their lanterns.   It was here that both her parents were entombed.  This is home.  For a dwarf, home, tradition, hard work, these were everything, and this is home. No. It had been home, but it is home no more.  Her eyes narrow as they rest on the dragon, and her lips become a thin line of distaste.  She has no way of knowing if it were the same one who was involved in the first attack on their home, but it does not matter.  To her it represents its kind, and its kind has destroyed her home.

Eilif casts one last look over the desolate remains of Gamilfûn before turning on her heel to look down the track.  It is time to go. To an elven port, she thinks, to meet an elven king and sail, by the Seven Fathers, SAIL, to an elven land.  Which was worse, the open and obvious danger of dragons, or the sly, invidious untrustworthiness of elves?  She snorts and spits in disgust at the ground. "Let's just hope the elves don't stink as much as the dragons," she mutters.

Adelsteinn looks on as everyone gathers around the cart. Finally everything seemed to be in order. It is time to leave this place behind. Nodding to Nasi's "I am ready." he then says, "Then let us be off. Lets start out." He then takes steps forward, and does not look back. The quicker they got to the port, the quicker he could have some more drink.

Fafnir tugs on Nasi's hand as they start off walking, pulling him closer to say, in a mock whisper, "You know, Handsome, I hear that elven males find our dwarf females irresistible...especially young, fertile widows with a gosling or two. Instant family and all. You know elves...smart and pretty, but blood a little on the thin side."

Then he matches his stride with the handsome dwarf beside him and tries to forget the pain of the burns, the pull of the belt and the stench of the dragon.

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Home No More - Part 1

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Eilif shivers a little in the chill early morning air and lifts her gaze to the sky. The sun shines a watery light upon the clearing in front of Gamilfûn; its golden rays turning the smoky haze that lingered over the settlement a sickly sepia.  She awkwardly hefts her pack upon her shoulder as she steps through the ruined entrance, her footsteps muffled by the thick layer of soot that coats the ground.  The fetid stench of the dead dragon threatens to choke her throat, but she hardly casts the rotting carcass a glance as she makes her way to the waiting cart.  Dragons aren't so scary when you have taken your knife to one. She smiles humorlessly at the thought for, ever pragmatic, she had made time in her packing to strip some scales from the creature.  It had been awkward work with her injured arm, but dragon scales were far too valuable to a weapon-smith and armorer to pass up the opportunity.

Eilif grunts as she shoulders her bag of personal belongings onto the cart, hearing the timbers creak at the added burden.   Well, if it can carry Adelstienn's casks of ale well enough, it should cope with the meager belongings of their small group of survivors, she thinks.  The cart is old and has clearly seen many years of steady service - the woodwork dented and scuffed, the metal faded - but apparently strongly built and sturdy enough even now, despite its appearance.  Pausing to catch her breath, she turns to survey the clearing.  An early morning breeze whiffles through the trees, swirling the soot into flurries around the legs of the dwarves gathered there and obliterating the footprints left by their booted feet.   Leaning there against the cart she is struck by how easily any signs of their passing disappears.

Eilif's gaze turns to the blackened forest around them.  It would recover soon enough from the wildfire the dragon had caused and not long after that, unless like Khazad-dûm it was rebuilt, a little at a time the forest would slowly recover Gamilfûn too.

Adelsteinn watches the others loading their personal belongings into his cart, avoiding looking at the dragon corpse. He had packed his own things into the cart as well, and could clearly see the last keg of ale up at the front of the cart. "The last of my brew," he thinks to himself. He also went down to the treasury and secured the Gamilfûn store of gold. He left behind many treasures in the storeroom, some recovered from the remains of Belegost and Nogrod, which fell when the world was changed long ago. Those heirlooms would have to remain. The cart could not hold bulky relics. If he ever returned, he might consider bringing them forth to the light, but since Gamilfûn is sharing the fate of those great cities of old, then they might as well remain. But now he watches the packing, making sure they have not forgotten anything. He thinks that this is not what he expected when he became an elder, to be solely responsible for the remains of their community. Putting his hand to his head, he also thinks an ale would be very helpful just now.

Once more Aztryd shoulders her pack.  It has been half a lifetime since she  left Ibirgathol; maybe half a year measured by the sun.  Little Nizl no longer fits hidden within her pack.  Indeed, Nizl and her wrappings take up most of the space in Aztryd's pack, with Elwing's forgotten cloak tucked around her.  "You've grown, magpie," she croons to Nizl.  "How are we going to keep you hidden when we get to places where there are outsiders, eh?  I don't think you will be quiet for them.  At least," she adds, judiciously, "you are in one piece, and that is more than some people can say today."

Yet, in spite of her worries, Aztryd is glad to be gone.  She said farewell to the halls of Gamilfûn once, when she was married.  These stone walls were empty when she returned with Elwing -- empty of all the people who mattered to her, all the people who knew her.  They hold nothing more for her, now.  She keeps a wary distance from the hulk of the dead dragon as she makes her way across uncleared rubble, out of the ruined gates, and joins the small company beside their single cart.

Nasi's nostrils curl as he crosses the clearing towards the loaded cart.  He wonders if he'll ever forget the stench that assails him now.  The backs of his hands burn and itch against the bandages as he raises one to shield his eyes from the low early morning sun.  The horse and cart look like children's playthings next to the monstrous bulk of the decaying dragon.  Nasi's steps falter as he draws level with it, and he stands staring, despite the stench of such close proximity, still hardly able to believe he had killed such beast.

Fafnir emerges from the entrance to Gamilfûn, one hand brushing at his newly shortened hair, eyes red-rimmed and mouth a tight line.  Beneath the shirt, the burns itch and pull at the gauze that has been soaked in honey and herbs and bound about them, to keep the scabs from healing to the linen or the shirt. In the predawn chill, he had brought out his own backpack and placed it firmly and deeply within the cart, so that none would notice him stagger a little from the weight.  He would admit no weakness, not even to the dark-skinned Nasi, and Fafnir was not yet ready for any to know what was packed away, amongst his few possessions of shirts, pants, and small clothes.

He had followed Adelsteinn this morning, hanging back, trailng behind, but when he saw in which direction the brewer was heading, Fafnir doubled back and struck his own course, where the pickings were readily to be had, easier to store, and, Fafnir, felt, more welcome at a trading post than relics of forgotten glories.  The only concession to his vanity was the sword at his side.  "Old Copperpincher won't miss it," he murmurs, patting the dwarf-sized blade at his hip. "And it has elven writing upon it," Fafnir whispers; though, in truth, that was the claim of the previous owner and not a fact proven by anyone.  Fafnir pulls up alongside Nasi, a small smile coming so easily to his lips at the sight of the face of the ernest stonemason. His eyes follow Nasi's gaze, and he places a hand upon Nasi's shoulder, leaning in, "Maker's pinkie," he swears, "but it as magnificent dead as it reeks."  He presses his lips to Nasi's ear and whispers, "Come, Handsome, DragonSlayer, let's join the others."

Eilif watches the little mother crooning to the babe and feels a strange tug at her heart. Aztryd  took such joy in the child. For a moment she wonders what it would be like to carry a babe, raise it and cherish it, but then she snorts at such foolishness.  Such isn't for the likes of her.  Tearing her gaze from the small family, she lift her eyes she again to the sky. The smoke haze persists, despite the breeze, but the sky beyond is clear.  It is a good day to travel at least, she muses until her attention is drawn by the nervous snorting of the cart pony.  Pushing herself away from the cart, she moves to the pony's head, speaking to him soothingly as she strokes his velvety neck.  The poor thing was a lather of sweat.

When they had tried to lead him outside that morning, it had needed only one whiff of the rotting corpse for him to roll his eyes and shy so badly as to nearly overturn the cart.  It was only by blindfolding the terrified beast and with Eilif cooing reassuringly to him that they had managed at last to get him beyond the entrance.  She had stood with him watching the dawn break, keeping him calm while the others had returned inside to fetch belongings.  Now, although carefully upwind from the dead dragon and standing obediently, the poor animal shudders regularly with fear.

 Adelsteinn sees Eilif struggling with the pony and moves forward to help steady the cart. He looks back to the others with a questioning eye. The stench is quite unbearable even upwind from the dead dragon. As the pony settles enough he ventures away from the cart. "So we are all packed and ready to travel to whatever fate awaits us ahead?" He never expected to say such words. He is still amazed how a couple short days brought an end to a settlement that had endured the centuries.

> Part 2    

Socks, Gems and History

Rajani Milton

With a grunt, Hjalmarr hefts the largest of the wooden boxes onto the table in the front chamber of his cousin's residence. He slings the empty pack on his shoulder down onto the table next to it, nudging aside the carefully-wrapped packet of jeweler's tools. Sighing, he begins to go through the box. He must decide what to take with him and what to leave behind to moulder in the ruins of what had once been bright Gamilfûn.

Clothing and more clothing, most of it useless to him. Too large--his cousin had been taller than him by several inches, and larger around--or too small--his cousin's sons had been but children. He takes a warm grey cloak, folding it and placing it in the bottom of the traveling pack. A pair of pants only slightly too large go in as well. How he wishes for his own closets, with his well-tailored, comfortable clothing!  But his own dwelling is cut off from the upper levels by fallen rock and a great chasm in the floor, so he has been reduced to "borrowing" what he can from the dwellings of those who no longer need their goods. Scavenging from the dead, he thinks morosely, but what else can they do? Refusing to take what he needs will not bring his loved ones back.

He works his way through the other two boxes from his cousin's storage room, saving what looks useful, packing away what does not. From his cousin's kitchen he takes a knife and two small bowls, then as an afterthought a spoon and a flask for water. In the bedroom he finds a soft blue shirt that fits only a little snugly--it had belonged to his cousin's wife, he thinks. A pair of boots with beautiful detailing in the leather work lean up against the sturdy bed, but they are too small. Socks are in one of the chests at the foot of the bed, and he takes those: one can never have too many socks.

When his pack is nearly full, he walks slowly through the rooms, touching small items and remembering other visits to these chambers in better days. Truth be told, he had not been very close with this cousin. They passed each other in the halls and supped together at feasts, but they did not share confidences. Hjalmarr spent far more time with his sister and her sons: the elder, a bit dim in Hjalmarr's estimation and not at all interested in jewel-craft, and the younger, who followed Hjalmarr everywhere and would be apprenticed to him in a year or two when he was old enough. Already his younger nephew had been developing a clear eye for quality gems. But sister and nephews alike have fallen to the dragon, whether burned in fire or fallen into some dark pit, or crushed beneath stone, Hjalmarr knows not. In the last terrible days since the first dragon attack, Hjalmarr and his cousin had depended on one another: they were all that was left of their kin. And now the old jeweler is alone.

He runs his fingers along the spines of a small collection of books on a high shelf. He picks up a small leather-bound tome and flips through the pages. Ah, yes. His cousin, the historian in the family. Here are all the names of his clan, his great-grandfather and his great-grandfather's great-grandfather many times removed. Hjalmarr reads the names one by one, from the most recent--his nephew, the one who would have been his apprentice--back through the centuries to the first dwarf of his line to settle in Gamilfûn. There will not be room in his pack to take items of sentimental value; Hjalmarr is spry for an old man, but he will still have to carry on his own back everything he choses to bring. But he cannot bear for all his folk to disappear without so much as a whispered name. He pockets the book.

He packs away his cousin's storage boxes, sealing them carefully so that rats and other vermin will have trouble climbing in and nesting amongst the valuables. Then he sits at the table, wishing for a mug of Adelsteinn's best ale, and draws from inside his vest a sizable leather bag.

Along with the packet of tools, this is the fruit of his journey to his workshop the day of the second dragon attack. He lights a lamp and lays a soft cloth upon the table, and carefully spills the contents of the bag across it. He picks up a ring and tries it on his smallest finger: this was a piece commissioned by one of the now-lost elders for his grandchild. He had not liked that elder much, but it is excellent work, and may fetch a fair price among Elves.

He sorts carefully through the precious stones and metals, and sort them into several smaller bags. One bag goes in his vest pocket, another is tucked inside a pair of socks, a third nestles with his tools. He hopes he will not be robbed, but if he is it will be good not to have all his valuables together.

Hjalmarr fastens the buckles on his pack and slips his arms into the straps. With a grunt, he shoulders the pack and casts one last look around his cousin's home. Then he blows out the lamp and shuts the door behind him. He does not look back as he makes his way along the corridor and up the stairs to the main level to meet the others and begin their journey.

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Nolë's Concern

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 Shawn Daysleeper

"Maybe Lord Ulmo has relented,"

Nole remembers his king telling him that some hours ago, and still it bothers him. He looks around at the wide blue sea now surrounding them. "I hope he has relented. It is wise not to anger the Lord of the Seas," Nole thinks to himself. He remembers how much effect Ulmo had on their tiny harbour when the invaders arrived. He could not imagine what mayhem the Master of Water could create out here.

Alqualonde had long slipped over the western horizon. Ahead to the northeast are the fir-lined shores of Harlindon, and to the southeast the shoreline of Old Enedwaith and the rocky forgotten cape of Eryn Vorn, where the green trees of Sylvhara dip their roots beside the sea. Rising, Nole could see neither place from their current location. Calming himself, Nole knew they were a fair distance from both. He knows where they are and knows how far from land they are, but in his uneasiness he wishes for the sight of any land.

The current they had been riding out away from the Isle of Alqualonde began to die, and their voyage slowed. Nole has been out here enough to know there is a change in the conditions of both sea and air. Here in this region changes of this sort always seem to turn to favorable winds and speedy tides. Still he grips the steering, feeling anxious and looking for the first sign of change.

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Estelin's Problem

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Shawn Daysleeper

Estelin, sick with the motion of the ship even as he boarded, braces himself against one of the walls of the cabin below deck. The barrel beside him already contains a quantity of ... stuff... tossed up by him. He tries to calm himself. This experience aboard a ship is new to him. When he and his sister arrived before, they did so by willing their forms to appear on the docks, making it seem to the Teleri that they arrived by ship. Now, however, it is hard covering up his disguise of "traveling musician."

Despite his current situation, he is quite happy. He has heard from the Breath of Arda. His sister should be alright. So it was not his lack of ability or incompetence after all. His sister really was affected by something. Moreover, Manwe's words to him gave him strength and renewed vigour of his mission. This voyage is quite unsettiling to him in more ways than one though. He has a feeling that they should not be going to Sylvhara. But his mental concern is far overshadowed by his physical plight. He is not doing too well as a "seafaring elf," either. He has a renewed image of the endurance of the Children.

Leaning back to the wall, the disguised Irmo tries to settle back into his happier thoughts. Just now, though, he hopes that the King of the Teleri and sailor Nole do not come down into the cabin.

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Arriving at Lórien

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Rajani Miltion, Lihan Taifun, and Sakura Easterwood

"Let us go on."

Ilmare looks up from admiring her new skin tone (it is a pretty good job, if she says so herself--she has not often tried to look this much like the Children of Eru, but she thinks she looks pretty convincing today, now that she is not blue) and follows after Nienna.  The waterfall on their left splashes and roars as if delighted with the day.  Ilmare smiles.  Well, they are on their way now.  It is not so very far to Lorien: Lord Namo of Mandos and Lord Irmo of Lorien are close in residence as they are in heart.  She wonders what they are to do once they reach the Gardens of Lorien.  It is sure that the Lord of the West has a plan, but he has not told her any details.  She does not think Nienna understands any more of the plan, but she asks politely anyway.  "Has Lord Manwe said what we will do in Lorien? It will be very restful, I think, whatever it is.  Much more relaxing than spending so much time with the dead.  At least, so it seems to me."

Nienna is concentrating on walking: on the muscles in her feet and legs, and how the balance of her body changes with each step, on the textures of the path, sand and grass and rock.   Walking is much easier than it was for her on her first journey, to Mandos with Aulė, but she has not walked any distance since that time.   Only a few steps around the comfortable and sheltering rooms they shared, deep in beneath the Halls of Mandos.   Now, walking, under the sky and the trees and the sun, amid wind and waterfall spray and flowering plants, with beetles in the grass and birds overhead, she is again facing the overwhelming range of physical sensations, all at once, and without the help of her sweet guide, Aulė.   Where is Aulė?  The thought still circles in her mind, though she can spare it little attention while watching for rocks and twigs in the way of her feet.

She looks up at Ilmarė's question.   In that moment of inattention, the hem of her skirt catches on the edge of a plum bush, bravely beginning to flower in the early warmth of spring.   Nienna stops, untangles her skirt, and then makes an effort to walk more quickly to catch up to Ilmarė.   "No," she says thoughtfully, rationing her breath so she can speak and walk at the same time.   "Lord Manwė told me very little.  'Rest', he said.   'Rest and heal'.   Whatever he means by that.   But Lórien is the perfect place for 'resting' and 'healing.'"  She smiles wistfully, remembering many pleasant visits to Irmo and Estė's gardens.  As her attention moves into the realm of memory, her foot steps onto the edge of a protruding stone, fouling her balance, and she quickly adjusts her muscles to correct her stance lest she fall.   The Children make it look so easy to walk and converse at the same time!

------

It is a beautiful day at Lorien, with the sun shining down on the mystical garden and all that resided in it.  Not that it is unusual to have such days here.  Down at a stream, Este is sitting on a rock in midst of several animals that live in the garden, enjoying the sun.  She sits up a bit when a white dove flies down and lands on her hand.  Este can be found here a lot.  Often as mythical as the garden itself, she likes to keep to her own, and  to her husband, and in his absence she has been sitting especially here many times.  Absent-mindedly she caresses the dove as she wonders what had been going on outside of the garden, though she knows something has occurred...a change.

------

Ilmarë nods.  She steps quickly over a rock in the pathway as Nienna catches back up to her.  "I have not often been to Lorien," she says.  "My duties keep me elsewhere.  Rarely in Arda at all, in fact."

When she thinks about it, she misses her stars and planets, but this is no time to be wishing she were somewhere else.  This journey is obviously important to Lord Manwë, and she will see Eonwë again in Lorien.  She is still concerned for him, and with the concern comes unease with the Lady Nienna again.  "But the Maiar in service there have always reported themselves very happy.  They say it is very satisfying work, and the Lord and Lady are good to them."

In the upper airs, Arien's ship is dipping into the west, below a ridge of trees.   Already the day is losing its heat.   Soon it will be evening.   Nienna smiles to herself, remembering long silver twilights beneath the silver leaves of the willows of Lórien.   To Ilmarë she says absently, "No doubt the Lord and Lady are good to them because they serve well.   Maiar are pleased to serve."  Yet, she remembers, that is not always true.   The Maiar who served Aulë and herself in Mandos seemed sullen.   And Eönwë had sided with them, he whose dearest wish was to serve his own lord, Manwë.   How strange.   With a sharper sidewise look to Ilmarë, she asks, "Do you get these questions from your brother?"

Ilmare bites her tongue.  Even in this changeable body, that hurts enough to keep her from blurting out something rude.  How is it that the Lady of Compassion can get under her skin so easily? She would not have thought it possible.  "My brother and I speak our own minds, Lady," she says.  "I do not order his thoughts, nor he mine." She looks up at the sunset, thinking of Arien,  of Tilion, of all the Maiar under her care.  "But think you, Lady, that the Valar have no duty to those who serve them? I have not heard such things from my Lady." The thought that the Valar could even contemplate using them merely for their service, with no care to their needs, galls and angers her.  It is not what she has known in all her long years.  "Perhaps the Maiar of Lorien serve well because their Lord and Lady are good to them."

Nienna walks on.   What would a Maia to know of Vala matters?

The land here is soft, carpeted in grasses and many flowers.   The light is gentle.   Perhaps they are already within the gardens of Lórien.   Certainly Irmo and Estë's influence hovers over this land.   Nienna does not recognize this area, but sometimes Lórien can be quite changeable -- like Irmo's dreams.   At the center is always the Lake, Lórellin, Estë's home.   Yet even the shoreline of that lake has been known to shift, dreamlike.   It is easiest to come to Lórien without expectation, relax, and find whatever you find.   That old habit of relaxing here, and taking whatever comes, begins to steal into Nienna's mind, and she is content to follow the path.   It seems, as near as she can tell, to be leading inward, toward the lake.   The lake is most likely where Manwë meant that they would meet again.   Yet even the thought of meeting Aulë is less urgent, under the silvery shadows and scented breezes of Lórien.   It will happen soon enough, and for now the walking is pleasant.

Nienna ignores Ilmare's last words, and Ilmare feels her irritation building again.  Yet it is hard to keep such feelings alive when walking in this land.  In this place of healing, some are drawn to look inward, and others are drawn to cease to focus on themselves and to look instead at the world around them.  Ilmare finds that she cares less and less what the Vala beside her thinks--indeed, she cares less and less for the worries that have been encroaching on her mind ever since she saw Eonwe fall under the shadow.  She does not consciously think that all will be well, and she need not worry about the other Maiar under her care, but slowly she finds a sense of peace stealing over her.  And slowly she begins to know where she needs to be: a certain point along the lake up ahead.  She walks now with no great urgency but with a sense of purpose, a small smile on her face.

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Do Not Trust Them

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Belenos

The murmur of voices wakes her.  Eilif lifts her hand to rub at her eyes groggily.  How long has she slept?  It was impossible to tell.  Awkwardly, still having to favor her broken arm, she sits up on her pallet and looks around.  The voices were coming from the kitchens.  She drags her blankets up around her shoulders to stay warm as she sits blinking sleepily at the group gathered there. 

Others have found their way back, it seems.  There is the Elder sitting at one of the tables. Also she sees Hjalmarr and the stranger, Aztryd, among the scant group of survivors sitting with Nazi and Fafnir.  From where she sits, Eilif could only make out the occasional raised word in the conversation, but the panicky tones were apparent even from here.  Who could blame them, she thinks.  Twice now their ancient home has been attacked by unearthly creatures, decimating their beautiful city and its people.  Who knew when it might happen again, and this time they may not be so lucky. 

Lucky?  She thinks as her eyes roam the group.  With their home destroyed, their food running low and many with such grievous injuries? Yes, lucky, for they were alive.  They had survived.  But if they are to live, then it is clear to her they had to .. "Leave!" The word reaches her clearly as Fafnir lunges to his feet and lurches from the room, quickly followed by Nasi. 

Her eyes move from the doorway though which they'd both disappeared back to the group still seated at the table, and she plays thoughtfully with the braids of her beard.  Eilif's practical nature begins to assert itself as she contemplates the reality of leaving.  Where would they go?  The Maker knew there were few enough settlements of their kind, and none close at hand.  This Aztryd has been full of tales of how kind and good the elf king Olwe had been to her.  He had even written to the clan offering them a home in their hour of need.  Eilif scowls darkly at the thought of putting herself beholding to an elf, no matter how well-spoken of he was.  "Do not trust them!" Her whisper is low and meant for her ears alone as she remembers again the rotten wood of the timber mine.

What else is she to do, though?  It is clear the others are going to take up the elf's offer.  She turns her dark eyes again to the door through which Nasi and Fafnir has disappeared.  They will go to the elf king too, she knew. Fafnir will follow the Elder, and Nasi will follow Fafnir.  The thought of striking out alone away from her clan, even to seek another Naugrim settlement, leaves her feeling cold and hollow inside.  Well, she will go to this elf's land too.  At the least her clan can find succor and shelter in which to recover.  She will go, but she would not trust them.  No, she certainly will not trust this Olwe at all.

The decision made, Eilif turns her thoughts to what to take.  The Seven Father's knew that their small group has pitifully few possessions remaining.  Food and medical supplies were essential, as was gold and any other wealth they had.  They was much that would need to be replaced and only good gold would buy it.  Thank the Maker they had recovered one of the ponies after the first attack and had the sense to bring the beast to be stabled inside.  She doubted any fence would have held it if it had been left outside where normally the livestock were sheltered, for the poor thing's eyes had still been rolling with fear when a patrol had brought it in. 

She knew too the Elder had a cart he'd used to transport his ale when he sold to outsiders.  She nods as she thinks of this.  Although not a long journey when one is healthy and well-fed, in their current state and carrying all that remains of their worldly possessions, the pony and cart would be necessary if they were to make it to Mithlond at all, let alone be able to begin a new life in a distant elven land. 

Her stomach rumbles noisily, bringing her back from her thoughts of the future to a more pressing present need.   At least there would be no smells of cooking meat tonight, she thinks, as she puts her blanket aside and scrambles awkwardly to her feet.  Would she ever be able to stomach the smell again? She tugs her clothing straight and begins to wander out to the kitchen.  Her mouth twists as a thought comes unbidden to her mind.  Would she be able to stomach anything living in an elven land?  She doubts it strongly.  But what choice did she have?   What choice did any of them have?

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The Decision to Leave

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Slowly Fafnir raises the tankard of lukewarm beer to his lips, the foam nestling in his mustache as he takes a deep long drink, his throat bobbing.  The blisters across his back itch and burn and throb, and the pain has left him bad tempered, and slightly sick to his stomach.  Moving hurts. Sitting hurts. Being still on the thin mattress, a cold mixture of yogurt and honey, a healing mixture, on his back, hurts. Breathing hurts.  His amber eyes travel from face to face, from Adelsteinn beside him, to finally Nasi.  He shifts his body weight as he brings down the tankard and hisses at the pain. 

"So," he says, turning his attention to the Elder. He tries to remember what Nasi said before. It was no one's fault, what happened. It is no use to blame people for running and hiding. Or burying themselves in drink, but inwardly his heart feels like a hard, rock, and it takes great skill not to curl his lip up in a sneer.  He wants to yell, scream, but he does not. Instead his voice is calm, measured, the soul of concern, the voice of seasoned council, although he is young among his kind. "Tell us, Elder. Give us your account of where you were when the dragon attacked.  We are most fortunate to recover both you...and your fine brew." It is all he can do to keep his smile plastered on his face.

Adelsteinn looks towards Fafnir, wincing as he sees his wounds. "I was in the cellar when it started and was safe during the attack. I returned here after a time with my last keg of brew. I do not intend to return to the cellar either. I think our time here is short." He looks around the table.

"I am surprised there are any of us left alive at all," Hjalmarr says grimly. He clenches his hand around his beer stein but does not drink. "I was making my way back from my workshop when I heard the rumblings. By the time I returned..." His knuckles whiten on the mug. "My cousin is no longer with us. I found his boots, singed. I should have made him stay in the pantry to recover. But no, his arm was better, he said." Hjalmarr downs a large swallow of his beer. "Better the dragon had burnt an old man who can do you little good, than all the young ones with strength left."

Aztryd looks wearily around the table.  Her stomach is hollow, and she reaches for a crust of dry bread.   Nizl, fed and wiped clean, dozes on her lap.    The Elder's words sound ominous to her.  Time has indeed run out for too many of them -- as can be seen by the many empty seats.  Her eyes linger on Fafnir and Nasi, who met the dragon face to face, and lived.  That was amazing and heroic of them, but not something she would want to do herself. 

"Aye, far too few of us are left, now.  I tried to check the water in the upper reservoirs, but I doubt those passages are even accessible now."

Nasi quietly listens as each tell their tale. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and keeping his head down, his eyes focused on the rough wood of the tabletop rather than meeting their eyes.  He should have done something sooner! If he had, who knows what lives he might have saved?  But no, he had to skulk in the forest until it was too late.  He bites his lip and sighs.

Adelsteinn looks around as all the concerns of the remaining clan are revealed. It is time. He still holds Olwe's letter. Within it is a path to salvation. Clearing his throat, he speaks. "I fear this is the end of our home as we know it. We are a proud race, and there is a way we can go on being proud. There is a way we can pursue so that we can continue." He holds the note. "The elf king Olwe will provide us assistance. We have only to meet him at the elf port below at the foot of the mountains. I have already decided to take my chances abroad, but all of you are to choose as you will. Everyone has fought bravely, but for me, it is now time to seek our future elsewhere and live on."

Hjalmarr shrugs bitterly. "What have I left here? All that I love is dead. My sister and her kin, my cousin, everyone I have worked beside, are gone. I am too old to start over, but what else is there? I shall go, and remember the old songs of Gamilfûn for young Nizl, if she comes."

Aztryd catches her breath at the Elder's announcement, and clutches Nizl to her breast.  She bites her lip, to keep from betraying her eagerness.  Of course, she would never think it was a mistake to have come back here.  Of course not.  Here, where everything has gone wrong.  "Yes," she says carefully.  "We will come."

Nasi nods thoughtfully.  The Elder was right.  There was no future here in Gamilfun for any of them.   So he wanted to throw in his lot with the Elven King?  He said they could all choose as they wished.  He risks a glance at Fafnir, and his question is shy and hesitant. "What do you want to do?"

Nasi's words hang about his head, but so does Hjalmarr's. The singed boot. The singed boot.  He could see in his mind; the smoke wisping up from it.  He could smell it in his nostrils.  He looks up and to the stove, and his stomach heaves and turns.  He is again with Nasi, in the forest, with the hideous winged death nosing its muzzle in the entrance of the settlement. Its open maw, the smell of decay, of ash, of destruction.  And another smell, the Maker help him, another smell; sweet, savory, mouth watering.  A smell that has many times caused his stomach to rumble in anticipation.  The smell is not real, but it again is in his nostrils, evoked by Hjalmarr's words....

Pork or beef...or dwarf.  Roasted meat smells the same.  Maker help him, it smells the same. 

He pushes himself up out of his seat and stumbles back, his back laced with a fire of its own, the blisters biting, burning, chewing his flesh. He reaches out a hand blindly and catches the shoulder of the Master Brewer.  "Leave, " he says hoarsely.  "LEAVE!" He turns and lurches away from them, moving on unsteady legs toward the entrance of the kitchens, stumbling, weaving, bouncing from table to table, the beer sour and rising to his throat.  He tries to make it to the hallway, to the privy.  "Leave," he whispers.

Adelsteinn nods approvingly to all around him and watches Fafnir rise. Fafnir's response reminds him of how felt in the cellar. He wanted to leave, now, but as Elder he had to remain calm and guiding. "Then let us be off. It is a long road down the Blue Mountains into the valley of the Lûne where the elf boats moor. Take only what you need, for we who are able must help the wounded arrive there safely.  We should depart very soon while we have strength and supplies left. I wish to be out of these dragon-smelly halls." He looks at the last filled keg of ale. "When we get to the end of the road, we will share the last of the Gamilfûn ale with he who will help our future." He hopes they all agree to set out without delay.

Aztryd nods at the Elder's words.  She owns only what is in her pack.  Her eyes track Fafnir staggering out of the hall.  "Yes, the sooner we are on our way, the better."

Nasi is startled by the abruptness of Fafnir's departure.  For a moment he sits stunned, his head -- thankfully much less inclined to make his stomach lurch since he woke -- turns, and his eyes follow the tall dwarf as he lurches from the room.  The words the Elder speaks are just a dull buzz in his ears as he watches Fafnir.  Leave, he said?  Yes, by the Maker, yes, they must leave, but.. "Not without me," he mutters, suddenly sure of what he has to do.  He lunges to his feet. "I leave," he declares, "but I leave with him." And with that he turns to follow Fafnir.

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Reflections

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Belenos

Everchanging shadows dance upon the silent rock.  In the depths of Gamilfûn, there is no sunshine or starlight to indicate the passing of time.  The community kitchens are normally a place of light and warmth, rich aromas of roasting meats and baking bread, loud conversation and laughter.  As Eilif lies on her pallet, her blankets are tucked snug around her against the cold.  Wood, like so many other necessities that she had previously taken for granted, was now in short supply.  One small fire was all she dares keep banked on the hearth, pitifully small against the great cavernous expanse of the kitchens that once fed scores of dwarves.  Woefully insufficient to warm such a space.  She lies and watches the shadows flickering on the walls and ceiling.

Unseen in the dark, a smile plays upon her lips.  When she woke after the first attack, her face a blaze of pain and her vision nothing but a fuzzy blur, she had thought never to see the ceiling clearly again.  Her relief as her vision slowly cleared with the passing days had been intense.  The first thing her father had taught her about weaponry was the need to have a good eye.  A good eye for line, for style, for quality of ore and gems and even a good eye for the heat of the forge.  In the end Eilif had been able to tell just by the colour of the coals and flames if the fire was right for the work she intended.  Her skill, her craft, was the most precious thing her father had given her.  To lose her sight would have meant losing that gift.

Her eyes on the shadows, her thoughts drift to those days with her father.  There had been just he and Eilif for as long as she could remember.  Her mother had died when she herself was still a toddler in baby clothes, surrendering her life as she struggled to give birth to the boy-child they had both so longed for.  Her father had come from a long line of weapon-smiths, and he had hoped to pass his craft onto his son, as had his father, and his father's father before that, stretching back many generations.  Robbed of both his son and his beloved wife, Eilif's father had thrown himself into his work, for a long time mostly indifferent to the silent adoration of the little girl who traipsed along behind him wherever he went. 

Faithfully Eilif had mimicked everything her father did, his walk, his stance, his dour manner of talking, and in the end, his work.  Her dark eyes were sharp and missed nothing that he did as she silently sat or stood nearby, watching him, always watching him.  She could not remember when she had first snuck to old Erkle's forge and bargained with him to do chores in return for being able to use his forge and anvil so she could try her hand at what she learned from watching her father.  She did remember well, though, the day her father had found her there when he had dropped by to share a flagon of ale with the old smith.  Her father had said not a word as he examined the blade she had been working on, nor had he spoken as he hauled her home.  It was only when they stood together in the middle of his smithy that he had uttered the sweetest words she had ever heard. "I'll not have you learning from that half blind old goat, nor will I have you using that junk he calls ore.  If you learn, you learn it right."

Thus had begun the hardest and happiest years of Eilif's life.  Her father gave her no slack for being his daughter. If anything he worked her harder than he would any other apprentice.  She would carry on the family tradition so her work must be perfect.  There were many family secrets to their craft she had to learn and practice.  In addition she must learn to figure and tally so she could bargain shrewdly for the best prices.  He insisted she study the various forms of writing and language, so she would understand the written orders that came from the elven or human settlements, and come they did, such was the renown of their forge.  On top of all this, she still had to run their domestic affairs.  Many nights the young Eilif would fall asleep over a parchment, ink splattering the page from the fallen quill, and smudging her cheek. In time she grew to maturity, stoic and dour like her sire, clever and knowledgeable, strong and well muscled from long years at forge and anvil.  She developed her own flare and style with her blades, and in time customers came asking for work to be done by "the young 'un." 

It was been ten years now since her father had been killed in a cave-in at the silver mines.  It had been all anyone could do to stop Eilif, mad with grief, from personally slitting the throat of the wood elf  who had sold worm-riddled wood to shore up the shafts.  After that she was no longer called the "young 'un," nor did she trust elves.  The loss of her father left an ache in her heart and a hole in her life that she had sought to fill with work.  This time since the dragon first came to Gamilfûn had been the longest she had not known the heat of the forge or the oblivion of exhausted sleep.  Perhaps it was the sense of loss suffered by so many around her, but as she lies here this night Eilif feels more alone now than she has done in years.

Disturbed at the turn her thoughts were taking, she turns on the hard mattress, cursing softly under her breath as she tries to find a comfortable way to lie with the bindings on her arm.  On cold nights like tonight, it aches abominably, but like with so much else, the painkilling herbs are in short supply, and she needed them so much less than others.  Her eyes were drawn to the two sleeping forms huddled together on the other side of the room.  The herbs she had given them, combined with the need of a healing body for rest had dragged them both reluctantly back into sleep. 

Again she smiles a little as she lies watching them sleep.  An unlikely couple, she thinks, going on what she knows of them both in the short time she has known them.  But then, there was much unlikely about life at the moment.  If asked, she would have said a month ago it was highly unlikely she would ever leave Gamilfûn, but here she was, wanting to with all her heart.  Well, let them find happiness if that is the Maker's will.

"Which is more than you'll ever know." The words are whispered in the dark before she realizes they are even on her tongue.  Unbidden her hand lifts to trace along the line of the wound on her face.  Her fingers find a broad, rough scab that stretches from her forehead, down across the bridge of her nose, and onto her cheek.  She needs no mirror to show her how hideous she must look.  Nor does she ever lean over a bowl of water to wash without first ruffling the surface with her fingertips so she does not inadvertently catch sight of herself.   "Coward." Again the word escapes without thought. 

Impatiently Eilif turns again, this time rolling to face the other way, turning her back on Nasi and Fafnir, unable now to see them sleeping so peacefully together without a sharp pang of regret.  "Fool as well as coward," she mutters to herself as she settles in the new position. "You had no use for a husband before you were.. before you were ugly." She spat the word out defiantly. "So what foolishness is this that now you pine that one will not want you?" Because just once, I would like someone to look at me as they looked at each other, a small voice inside answers her spoken question.  Of all the men who had ever pursued her for his wife, none had ever looked at her that way.

She heaves a sigh, ruthlessly pushing down the sentimental thought.  Lying there, she thinks of the valor she had witnessed from Nasi and Fafnir.  They had been courageous beyond belief, and each so incredibly selfless; yet here she was, not only a coward and fool, but selfish as well.  When so many have lost so much, when their whole city had been destroyed, here she was thinking like a foolish, vain and selfish girl.  Feeling small and very ashamed she lies miserably in the cold and silent dark until finally she slips, exhausted, into sleep.

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Rest

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Belenos, Rhûn Darkmoon, and AelKennyr Rhiano

Eilif rises from where she had been kneeling and moves to sit on the edge of Fafnir's pallet, careful not to jostle him as she does so. She places a hand gently on his forearm to restrain further efforts at movement and takes care to keep her voice brisk and reassuring. "Take it easy, Fafnir.  Don't try and move just yet, or you'll upset the dressing I have on your back.  Give yourself time to wake.  The herbs will make you feel a bit groggy, so just lie quiet and take your time."

Her voice comes as from a great distance away, and Fafnir squints his eyes as she rest her hand on his forearm, his vision narrowing to focus on the wide hand, the squarish, close trim nails, the creases in the skin at the each joint.  He exhales and watches as the breath stirs the hair along his own arm.  He draws in a breath and stirs again.  This time the gasp that escapes him is loud, ending in a hiss as searing pain rips across his shoulder blades and upper back. "Damn the forge of the Maker," he tries to curse, but his tongue is thick, and his mouth dry, and the words spill out in a mumble of vowels and consonants. He shifts a bit, and the pain flows through his body like a wild fire.  Fire. Maker! Fire. "Nasi," he mumbles.  "Nasi," he says louder.

Nasi's eyes are liquid pools of anguish as he sees Fafnir's pain and hears it in his voice.  Again he attempts to move closer, to go to him, and again the room tilts alarmingly, forcing him to fall back against the pillow.  "I am here," he whispers, "I am here, Fafnir."

Eilif tightens her touch on Fafnir's arm as he tries to move again, and her voice is gruff as she admonishes. "Now there, I said to take it easy.  Your handsome one is right here," she pause to shoot a disapproving frown at Nasi as he collapses back against the pillows,"although no better behaved either." 

She turns again to Fafnir. "Now, if you wish to live to enjoy his company, I suggest you do as I say, or it won't be your wounds you'll be needing to worry about.  I'm not giving my time nursing you both, heroes or not, only to have you waste it all by doing what you should not.  Now, lie still, and let me look at your back." 

With that, Eilif turns to gently lift the dressing from Fafnir's back.  Now that her face is averted from the others, she lets a small smile play around her lips, touched by the concern each is showing for the other.

"I am here, Fafnir." Those words. Those wonderful words. Those Fafnir hears clearly, and he relaxes back on the bed, as Elif's voice floats about his thoughts.  He feels the cloth lift and bites his bottom lip to keep back a curse. The blisters along his shoulder area bite and throb,   His hand curls into a fist, and he swallows several times before he croaks out, "What does a hero have to do get a spot of ale besides sweeten Adelsteinn's ear? " He chokes out the last words as he coughs,  and then roars out a curse he learned from drinking swill little better than swamp water with toughened miners as they crowd into the kitchens to sup and drink and wench.

 Nasi feels torn as he has never felt in his life before. His world has consisted of a simple life of work and routine. Without really understanding why, he has kept himself uninvolved and distant from others.  What they did or did not do has not mattered to him.  So the feelings washing through him now are alien and new.  Now as he sits and watches Eilif minister to Fafnir's wounds the shy stonemason of few words finds them tumbling from his lips unbidden. "By the Maker, am I to sit here like a helpless babe while he suffers?" he blurts.

Eilif does not blush at Fafnir's cursing.  She has heard worse in her life. Dwarves, after all, are not known for their gentle tongues. Nor can it be anything but excruciating for him as she lifts the dressing from his back.  The fabric clings wetly and must drag and pull on the raw flesh underneath.  Let him curse if it helps. She does not take her eyes from her task, though, as she snaps at Nasi. "Yes, you are!  Do you think it would help him if I must stop what I am doing to pick you up from the floor?  Nor would I, for I would let you lie there for your foolishness.   Now be still, and if you do as I say, IF you do, then I will help you move closer once I am done here.  Now be quiet and let me help him."

 Eilif deftly lifts the cloth clear of Fafnir's back at last, stifling a gasp as the full extent of his injuries are revealed again.  Balling the dressing carefully so the residual balm of honey and herbs does not leak onto the bedding, she puts it to the side and inspects the burn, nodding in satisfaction.  It was clean, and there was no sign of the red angry flesh and suppuration that sometimes happens with wounds.  With luck he would heal.  Pleased with how the wound looks, she turns her attention to his other needs. "Here," she says gently, "I need to help you rise a little so you can drink.  It's going to hurt as though you've spent the night sleeping in the Maker's forge, but it has to be done."

Fafnir grits his teeth as she takes off the bandage. It feels for all the world as though it is flesh she is removing and not linen.  His words, directed at Nasi come from clinched jaws. "You...could..." He pauses, sucking in a sharp breath..." turn just....a little....Damn me, woman, what have I ever done to you to be peeling me like a grape?" He shudders from the pain and pants, uncurling his fist and reaching out to pat at her awkwardly, "Sorry, sweetling, sorry."  He draws in a breath and holds it until she is finished. "As I was saying, Handsome, " He cranes his head up to look over at Nasi. "You could turn around a little more this way, Handsome, and show off that splendid chest of yours. Bare as a babe in a bath, but not nearly as innocent."

He does not wait for an answer from Nasi, but with a grunt, he slides both arms under him and heaves with a mighty effort, managing to rolls slightly to one side. There he pauses, panting, his brow damp with sweat from the effort. Then he struggles to pull himself up into a sitting position.

Nasi feels his face flush hotly but finds himself smiling for the first time since the attack.  He struggles for a moment with the urge to reach for the bedding and cover himself, but instead, his face growing hotter by the moment, he carefully eases his body around so he faces where Fafnir lies.  He tries to think of something witty and glib to say, but his tongue threatens to cleave to the roof of his mouth.  His body itches to move closer, to help, as he watches Fafnir struggle to rise.  His hands stay folded in his lap when they burn to support him as he finally manages to sit upright.  In the end, all he manages to do is watch and wait, as Eilif commanded, and risk a shy smile at the other dwarf.

 Eilif gives a small satisfied nod as she watches Fafnir struggle to sit up.  Yes, he has grit, this one, although she suspects few see it.  It had taken courage to stand as she had seen him stand by Nasi as together they faced the dragon.  It takes courage now for him to fight the pain she knows is flowing through him; courage and determination.  She casts a glance over at Nasi as she bends to lift a cup to Fafnir's lips and again feels a small smile curving her lips for she knew who inspires that determination at the moment.  "Drink," she encourages Fafnir softly, helping to hold the cup steady. "It will ease the pain and help you heal." She pauses and smiles before adding, "But it does not have the sleeping herb in it, so you'll be able to talk to the handsome one for a little while at least."

 Fafnir sniffs at the cup offered him by Eilif.  Eyes the color of amber look up in hers, and he manages a wry grin, the edges of it a little ragged for the pain lacing his back.  He slowly gives a wink, but then a grimace follows hard on its heels.  So he lowers his head, wraps a hand around her wrist and downs the drink offered him, greedily sucking it down.  He then releases her wrist and waits for the potion to numb the pain.  "Ease the pain is good," he says, but then the humor drains from his voice.  "We three survived.  What of the others?" His voice grows softer as he sees all the empty beds. "I remember these filled."

Nasi feels the smile slip from his face as he follows Fafnir's glance around the room.  He vaguely remembers some shadowy faces as he was placed on a litter and brought inside.  What of the Elder, the old jeweler and the newcomer and her babe? He has yet to see them.  Had he been too late?  By the Maker, why hadn't he done something sooner instead of hiding like a coward in the forest?  The shame in his thoughts echoes in his voice as he looks to Eilif for answers, "I.. I have not seen any others. Did anyone else survive?  By Aule's anvil, please tell me I was not too late?"

Eilif cannot help but let her eyes flick to the empty pallets that line the room.  For a moment her face is grim as she takes in their neatly made emptiness, but despair is not what these two need.  She carefully rearranges her expression and tucks her own worries away until something practical can be done about them. "It is never too late to kill one of those loathsome creatures, Nasi. Never.  There are others who survived, those who helped me bring you both inside, and I think you will find more will find their way back soon.  I suspect a second attack would have driven most to run and hide as far away and deep as they could, but hunger and thirst will bring them back soon enough." She gives him a half smile and a wink. "Besides, you saved this one, didn't you?"  Lightly she nudges Fafnir's arm. "How can you be too late if you managed that?  Now then, as you've been patient, let me help you move."

The draught spreads through him, and the pain dulls, though it does not leave.  Fafnir takes in a deeper breath into his lungs and lets it out slowly.  His belly becomes warm from the inside out as he looks from Nasi to Eilif and back again, following the conversation, noting what she did not say and how carefully she did not say it. Now that pain has taken its seat  at a distance instead of at his elbow, Fafrnir pushes himself into a sitting position.  "Where is Aidelsteinn, Eilif?  Drunk amongst his casks, or tucked away inside one, his bowels as watery as his drink? And what about the little mother who seems to forget a child does not like to stew in its own offal."  From some dark place deep inside, anger and resentment rose like twin specters, and the words that pour from him feel like they come from someone else.  "Perhaps the jeweler took his cousin, and they left for...for..." he swallows and pushes the words out.  "We have to go. Now. We cannot remain here.  Not now, especially."

He looks over at where Nasi sits, Nasi with two injured hands and bandaged head.  "Thought we were going to join our ancestors, but we didn't, Handsome. And I do not know if that is a blessing or a curse.  But those who are left have you to thank for their lives such as it is." He pulls his knees up and locks his hand around his legs, pulling in his anger, hard, and the pain, hard too.  " We all owe you our lives." He looks pointedly at Nasi's hands and back up.

Nasi is silent as Eilif comes to help him move, thinking on the words both she and Fafnir have spoken as he rides the wave of nausea and dizziness that washes over him, despite how carefully he moves.  Here was Eilif, her face so grievously wounded and her arm broken, yet still she unstintingly reaches out to help.  As he settles next to Fafnir with a relieved grunt that his vision has stopped spinning, he looks at him thoughtfully.  Bravery comes in many guises, he thinks.  He  lifts a bandaged hand and lays it lightly atop Fafnir's arm, grateful that his palms at least could bear the pressure of touch. "Do not be harsh with them, my brave Fafnir."

Nasi pauses a moment, feeling his face grow hot at his audacity, the endearment feeling strange upon his tongue, "A creature such as that would turn the bowels of the bravest to water, and what is a mother with a babe to do but hide them both, nor could an old fellow like the jeweler do much against such a creature.  No, be gentle with them, for they did not have you standing at their shoulder, giving them heart, as did I." Gingerly, even this small movement pulling the bandages against his wounds, he gives Fafnir's arm a gentle squeeze. "You are right, though, we must leave, or soon there will be no one left to leave."

"You, you called me 'brave,'" Fafnir says carefully, looking at the bandaged hand on his arm.  Careless, he thinks, I'm careless. The draught has me saying anything, everything. He purses his lips, knowing his thoughts spill into words right now without measuring them, their effect, without forethought, afterthought...without thought.  Tomorrow, I'll think, Fafnir promises himself.  Tomorrow, the pain can come back. He reaches out and as carefully as touching spun glass, he touches the side of Nasi's neck, resting his hand there.  "If I were brave," Fafnir whispers huskily, "I would do this."

 He pulls Nasi's face towards his own, and his lips finds the stonemason's, finds them and captures them in a long, hard kiss, his other hand resting on the mattress between them, arm trembling. A small tremor runs through his body, and a sound that was loss, need, want, pain, fear starts in his throat and rumbles up.  He kisses, and releases only to kiss again, finally breaking the kiss, to bow his head and rest his brow against Nasi's shoulder. From deep inside him a broken cry rises up, then another, and another, and heedless of his injured back, he leans against Nasi's shoulder. "If we stay here, we will become cattle, not dwarves," he says, " But for tonight, let two bulls rest together.  In the morn, we can be grumpy and  malcontented dwarves, but tonight...tonight," he rests his head against Nasi's shoulder and sags, as the pain thuds dully, "tonight, let the cattle low and rest.  Rest."

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