Chapter VII: Where Dwells the Dwelf, Now that He's Beside Himself?
Elves, much like their counterparts the doughty Dwarves ('doughty' being the required adjective for the Naugrim), are beings that never let sleeping dogs lie. They are always rummaging about for obscure truths and arcanum, always searching for secrets in the shadows, always kicking a hornets' nest and then innocently disavowing the furor they have caused while someone else mops up the mess in the wretched aftermath. Naturally, Adurant felt compelled to continue his questioning of Amarthanuin, or as the Dwelf preferred to be called, Nyrath son of Nyr.
"Amarthanuin," Adurant said forcefully as he walked up to the small band of Dwarves grieving over their fallen comrade, "I would have words with you."
The Dwelf's shoulders sagged in resignation. There was nowhere he could hide now. What were the chances that he would blunder upon a Sinda from Menegroth in this latter age of Middle-earth? Nyrath (for that is now who he chose to be in his own mind) sadly motioned Adurant away from his Dwarvish brethren, and then when they were out of earshot, he replied in an angry whisper, "What is it you would have of me, Sinda? You and your haughty kindred reviled me and cast me out! I received naught but sneers and mockery in Menegroth, but among the Dwarves I am accepted for whom I am – not for who I am not!"
The ever-inquisitive Ossian, who had accompanied Adurant, was going to mention the unwieldy nature of the double negative in Nyrath's last phrase, but thought better of it; instead, it was Adurant who answered, "Your recollection is clouded, Amarth. You were not 'cast out' of Doriath as you imply. We Elves…bore the burden of your presence. We accepted that what was done could not be undone."
Nyrath's face became twisted with rage. "You - you bore the burden?" he spat. "Would you listen to yourself – even now your chosen words cannot hide the scorn! I was ever an abomination in your eyes. And if I was not met with outright hostility by the Sindar, then I was ignored with grave silence!"
"He does have a point, dear Adurant," Ossian said, trying vainly for amelioration. "Your own words seem the bear that out."
Adurant shot an angry glance at the bard, not so much because Ossian was perhaps right, but more so because an Elf had been upbraided by a mortal. Yet Adurant was not as haughty as all that. He was actually a very sensitive soul who was also fiercely protective of his Sindarin lineage and their legacy. He would suffer no one to speak ill of his kindred. However, he attempted to look at things in the way Amarthanuin might see them, and his long Elvish memory recalled some rather unsavory incidences from the dim past that may be construed as being detrimental to the Dwelf.
"It was a difficult time," Adurant mumbled in stumbling apologetics, more to himself than to Nyrath, "and the Dwarves murdered Elu Thingol, our king. Our cities were sacked and destroyed. There was so much death. So much…hatred."
"And your queen, Melian the Maia, fled Doriath forever, thus releasing the Elvish enclave from the protective girdle of her power, and dooming the fenced land to eventual destruction!" Ossian said, quite pleased with himself for remembering a pertinent piece of Sindarin history. But the stony stares of both Adurant and Nyrath led the bard to believe that his timely bit of trivia was perhaps not wanted at this juncture. "Well, at least, that is what I have read," the bard added with chagrin.
Adurant sighed in annoyance, but he finally met the gaze of Nyrath (the Elf suddenly realized he had not looked directly at the Dwelf during the whole conversation). "Come, Amarth – I mean, Nyrath," Adurant said finally, "we should attend to your fallen comrade. We have pack animals just outside these woods. If you would accompany us to Imladris, we can assure your friend a proper burial."
"He shall be buried here, on the spot he was slain," Nyrath replied bluntly. "No Dwarf would deign to be buried in Elvish lands." Then, considering that he might have spoken a bit harshly, the Dwelf softened his stance and said, "But your offer is appreciated. We shall accompany you to Imladris, if we may, as that is where we were heading before losing our way in the rain."
Ossian, realizing that this was about as close to apologizing as Adurant would get, and that Nyrath had also made some accommodation for the Elf, quickly seconded the motion. "Then prithee, let us bury the noble dead with all due honor!" Ossian cried in a fit of minstrelsy. Then the bard thought of the toil and dirty digging involved and wisely continued, "But let us haste, my friends, for this dark wood holds much ill will. Whilst you dig the mournful grave and raise the burial mound, I shall go hence, prepare the horses, and speak to Malvegil and Hob of all that has befallen here. I am sure they are beyond worry at this point."
Nyrath bowed to Ossian and thanked him for his kind consideration.
"It is the least I can do," Ossian replied while bowing in turn.
Fortunately, it had stopped raining and the saturated ground was forgiving. Adurant left Nyrath and his brethren, Dolgthrasir, Skirfir and Skafith, to perform their strange Dwarvish rites over the body of the dead Eikinskjaldi. Besides, the Elf cared little for naming conventions drawn from the Völuspá, which was more of a Dwarven affectation.
Backtracking through the forest and out again to the sodden road, Adurant came upon his traveling companions and found them doing what mortals do most regularly: eating. Halfviss had his hand (and most of his beard) in a great bowl of stew, and Hob the Hobbit sat next to the Beorning devouring a similar bowl of the savory concoction, save that he used a spoon in place of his hands (if anything, Adurant found that Hob had acceptable table manners). Ossian and the young ranger, Mavelgil, stood with the horses, but they, too, were busily sopping up gravy with great hunks of bread. They offered Adurant a bowl as well, but he politely refused, having lost his appetite.
Soon, the somber Dwarves exited the wood and they declined dinner as well, more interested now in reaching their destination than eating. And so, without further ado, the now veritable horde of characters stomped, trotted or rode off to the hidden vale of Imladris.
~~oo~~OO~~oo~~OO~~o~~
"Arien Gwilwileth, you simply cannot use the statuary for archery practice!" The older Elf was furious. "Erestor has complained to me that you chipped the nose right off the head of Isildur the Numenorean!"
Arien knew her father was angry because he had used her full name, but she couldn't help herself. "Oh ada, that was a magnificent shot!" the young Elf proclaimed proudly. "I was at least a hundred paces away on the far side of the garden, and I got him right through the nostrils!"
Arien's father, Angwedh, chief smith of the Armory of Imladris, was not at all proud, or amused. He did not take kindly to the other smiths jokingly referring to his youngest daughter as Emeldîr, or 'man-hearted', nor did he particularly care to meet Erestor in his administrative capacity. "Arien," he growled through clenched teeth, "I know I promised your mother that I would allow you space to grow in whatever direction your inclinations took you. She knew that you would be different from the others..."
Angwedh paused as he recalled Merilin's voice. For good reason she was named after the nightingale. It wasn't the words she said that pleased him so; rather it was the sound of her spoken word. She would often sing him to sleep.
"You were saying, ada?" Arien interrupted impatiently.
Angwedh glared at his daughter. Just as Merilin was a nightingale, so too was Arien like her namesake, with a sunny disposition and warm smile on the long, summer days when she could frolic along the forest paths or amid the rushes along the river; but she was also hot and stubborn, unrelenting in her willfulness and quick to anger. One day, she would make any Elf that married her miserable.
Knowing he was in for an argument, Angwedh plunged forward anyway. "Arien, between the library and the forest, you uselessly fritter away time that would be better served here. At home. Where you belong."
Arien stood silently, almost dutifully before her father. It is an act, he thought. This only made him angrier.
"You are not of the Faradrim, the hunter's guild, and neither will you be a loremaster..."
"But, ada, it is said that Galadriel could hurl a spear further than any other elf in Valinor, and her knowledge is deep and her wisdom unsurpassed, save perhaps for Master Elrond."
Angwedh raised his finger to quiet his daughter, and continued, "…therefore, I forbid you to use bow and arrow any further. You are to be a handmaiden of the Lady Arwen, which is a high honor for our house. It would do well for you to put aside hunting, and your other studies as well, for something more…ladylike."
Arien remained silent, but Angwedh knew that this was just the calm before the storm. He could see the fury stirring in her dark eyes. "Be more ladylike?" she asked with uncharacteristic calm. "Like Lady Arwen, perhaps?"
Angwedh could sense that he was stepping into a trap, but he could not stop the ambush. "Yes," he blurted as he felt the noose lower over his head, "like Lady Arwen."
"Ah, very well then," she replied with a shrug and began to walk away.
Angwedh was flummoxed at this unexpected turn of events. "Then you will forego hunting?" he said in confusion. "And you will put aside your books and scrolls and not spend countless hours studying in the archives?"
"Certainly father," Arien said as she opened the door.
She called me 'father' and not 'ada' - this was not good, Angwedh thought. "And just where are you going, Arien?"
"It is said a mortal bard from Gondor is newly arrived in Imladris today. I am going to meet him."
"A mortal bard?" Angwedh grumbled. "Why the interest in a mortal?"
"Well, you did say I should be more like Arwen," Arien said with a sly smirk, and then closed the door behind her.
Angwedh sat there for a moment, perplexed. Then a sudden shock of realization caused him to bolt upright from his chair, and he ran out the door after his petulant daughter.
