I own nothing.
On days like this, when a storm is raging outside of the hall and even the massive trees of Nan Elmoth shake under the force of the wind and the thunder, Aredhel is left to seek the shelter of the hall, and not venture about outside. On days like this, she spends much of her time standing at the mouth of the halls, leaning against the cool walls that seem to soak up all of her warmth. She stares out into the rainy gloom, into the ever-dusk, and sees the rain as one more barrier. The rain is a barrier to something, though Aredhel knows not what. There's something she's supposed to be looking for, but she can't do that when it's storming.
The only bright spot to rain is the possibility that, when the storm is over, the blustering winds will have knocked down one of the massive trees. Deadfall is all Eöl will use for firewood, and Aredhel can stand in the spot the tree left behind and soak up the strange, alien warmth. The light will set her skin ablaze, it feels like—it's already done so to her white dress—but she still soaks up the warmth and the light the way a sponge soaks up water. In those moments, she feels as though she needs it, as though she'll die without it. But once she returns to the hall, she can never quite remember why she felt that way in the first place, and she never can find the place in the forest where the light shone through again after that first time.
Aredhel stands there, framed by flickering green light, staring into the watery gloom. She imagines shapes in the darkness, resolving themselves into the shape of Elves, calling for her, and she does not know who they are, though increasingly, she's starting to see something familiar in the forms of their faces, and it sends a tensing down the muscles in her back.
She tears her eyes away, and retreats back into the green-lit halls of Nan Elmoth.
With each time she lays eyes on them, her husband's wraithlike servants seem more substantial and life-like than before, but still, they will not speak to her, except to answer questions, and even then, they say what they think she needs to hear and no more than that. Aredhel grows tired of that, grows tired of silence, but finding the servants to grow more close-mouthed the more she tries to press them into speech, she has since decided that all she can do on days like this, when the rain pounds on the stones overhead and the silence threatens to swallow her whole, is to go seek out the only person at all wiling to hold a conversation with her.
There's none of the clanging of metal on metal that normally rises like some savage song from the shut doors of her husband's forge. That doesn't mean a whole lot, though, as Aredhel knows that the forging of metal tools and objects is hardly all that Eöl does in that room, and she can hear him moving about inside through the heavy door. She can also hear him cursing in Dwarvish. Undaunted, Aredhel pushes the door open quietly and slips inside.
The forge is more dimly lit (if that's possible) than the hall outside. There's a faint fire burning in the grate, throwing dim red shadows along the wall, the stark antithesis of the green light of the torches in the hall. Eöl sits hunched over a table nearly out of sight, a massive, broad-shouldered black shape in the gloom. His head snaps up sharply at the shaft of (only slightly brighter) light falling over his face, blinking furiously and scowling, but when he sees Aredhel standing by the door, a tired smile comes over his face and he nods. "Shut the door behind you, Aredhel."
"How can you see in here?" Aredhel asks curiously, trying not to trip on chairs or tables or tools left scattered about on the floor.
A soft, hoarse sound that might be a chuckle escapes Eöl's lips. "You'll find that my eyes are very sharp. At times, the halls outside seem nearly too bright." He strikes a match and lights a lantern sitting on the table with him, and the room is left awash in a dim, flickering glow. "Is that better?"
Aredhel nods, and casts her eyes down on the table at which her husband sits. There is an array of tools there, a hammer, chisel, tongs, a screw, reflecting the dancing light of the lantern and seeming to smolder, though Aredhel feels no heat. For some reason…
"Uncle?" the little girl asks. "Can I learn to be a smith too?"
"I doubt your father would approve, child, and weren't you saying just now that you prefer the outdoors?"
…For some reason, they seem familiar.
An odd pang goes through her when she sees what Eöl was working on. A javelin, it looks like, only it's broken and splintered not far from the head. A gleaming metal tip sits abandoned on the table. I… I've held one of these before. I remember the way the wood felt in my hands. I remember blood dripping down my arms, but it wasn't mind. It was black, black as night, more like sludge than blood. Her heart barely seems to beat as Aredhel reaches towards the broken shaft. I remember the way the blood felt…
Eöl catches her wrist in a painfully tight grip, guiding it away from the broken shaft of the javelin. A twisting of panic flashes over his face before he draws a deep breath, forehead creasing. "I would not do that, my love, not if I was wise."
Aredhel looks down at her wrist, still caught tight in his grasp. She can't quite feel her fingers to their tips. "That hurts," she says, tension rising in her voice and pounding in the blood in her veins.
At that, he relinquishes his grasp upon her wrist, and as Aredhel rubs her throbbing skin, he tells her, "The javelin is poisoned." With one gloved hand, he picks up the tip and waves it about irritably. "I'd meant to fit this on but underestimated how thick the shaft of the javelin was." When he sees her staring at him, brow furrowed in a lack of understanding, Eöl goes on, "It's not just the tip that's poisoned; the shaft is as well. All it would take from that—" he nods to the broken shaft "—to kill you would be one splinter burrowing in your skin."
Some of that, at least, makes sense to Aredhel. He has made mention to her of occasionally needing to repel orcs from the borders of Nan Elmoth. But poisoning the shaft doesn't make nearly so much sense. "Eöl… I understand poisoning the tip, but why would you poison the shaft as well?"
His eyes glitter oddly as he responds, "Insurance."