TITLE: Warg Hunt
AUTHOR: Honesty
CENSOR: PG-13
WARNINGS: Chanslash
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Borrowed. Fair use, probably.
ARCHIVE: Not just yet. Will probably be rewritten.
SUMMARY: In which Celebrimbor discovers the twin dangers of Elven politics and Dwarvish mothers.
A/N: Not much happens here as the intermediate bits took more words than they ought to have done. Chalk one up to the old 'character development.'
Far be it from me to blackmail Lynn for the next ep of Arrival...
Dwarvish food seemed to run to potato and onion soup, made with what smelled like rabbit stock - it was certain that it contained no rabbit-meat. Narvi, of course, insisted on feeding himself in spite of his bandaged hands, and Celebrimbor was relieved to see that he accomplished it with reasonable skill. Narvi's mother left him to it, moving briskly around them to clear the area around the stove, though Celebrimbor fancied that he could feel her eyes on his back, watching him closely.
Narvi managed most of the soup before he laid his bowl down, nearly spilling the remainder before Celebrimbor took it from him and laid it down on one of the flatter areas of the stone floor.
The *clink* of the bowl being set down brought Narvi's mother over to them instantly. She gave the remainder of the soup in the bowl an irked glance, annoyed, perhaps, by the wastage of good food.
"Sorry, ma," Narvi mumbled instinctively as his eyes drifted closed once more.
"No matter," she said absently. "Sleep now, if you can."
The command was unnecessary: he was almost there already as the warmth and the hot food took it toll on him, sinking down until he was huddled against the unforgiving hard rock of the walls, his breathing slowing and deepening. Narvi's mother bent over him and Celebrimbor moved out of her way as she bent down slowly to pick up her son, the rings on her mail shirt glinting softly in the half-light. He murmured something, but did not stir.
He looked younger in sleep than he did waking, his face smooth and unlined, the long eyelashes dark against the slight pallor of his face. It seemed, though, as if he had aged visibly since Celebrimbor had first met him. His hair was longer and thicker, and his face had lost some of its softness, perhaps some of its innocence.
And who was to blame for that?
Narvi's mother straightened up, seemingly unconscious of Narvi's heavy weight, and for the first time Celebrimbor saw in her eyes a glimpse of a fierce, protective love. Then she turned to carry him through to the other room, holding her son with a tenderness Celebrimbor felt sure she had never shown him waking.
He felt envious for a moment, and then angered with himself. He was hardly an orphan, after all. His own mother still lived, in the West to which he had chosen not to return. He had not been banished for ever - he could have returned to Valinor, and she would have received him gladly.
One day, he hoped, he would again, able to tell her that he had not shamed her - tell her that he had forsaken his father's obsessive quest, that he had taken no part in the shedding of blood or the making of feuds. And more - his great joy - that he had gone beyond such passive virtues, that he was here, helping to make peace between the peoples when his grandfather had sought only to destroy it, that he was helping to build a community that would unite the free peoples and further their wisdom and their skills, a community that would stand for thousands of years, creating beauty and strength in equal measure.
He wondered if she would be proud of him, when he told her. He wondered if she would welcome him back, if she would forgive him.
A woollen curtain separated the rooms beyond from the kitchen/forge, and Celebrimbor watched as Narvi's mother pushed it aside and vanished. Some change seemed to have taken place in her since he had first seen her - or perhaps some awareness had woken in him. She had looked mannish before, with her long dark beard and mail shirt, and the hatchet she wore tucked in her belt, so mannish that the long skirts she wore seemed out alien and wrong. But now, when he looked at her she could not have been mistaken for aught but a woman, aught but a mother.
[An angry mother,] some more prudent part of his mind reminded him, [with more than just cause for grievance against the Elves.] He sighed. It looked like there would be much work before him before peace between the people was truly achieved.
* * *
At least Narvi would sleep now.
Guthr had put him the bed nearest the fire, piling the furs and blankets around him carefully, and he'd not made so much as a token protest. He'd shifted in the bed, leaning his head against the rock walls, as he had in the kitchen.
He did that, whenever he slept, whenever he was even weary. It was something he'd done from an infant, when he'd been ill of the wasting sickness, and thought likely to die, and the habit had lingered on, almost unnoticed. It almost was as if he was listening for some sound, deep in the walls of Khazad-Dûm.
There were rumours among the stone-wrights that there were some who could hear the sounds of the mountains themselves, the very bones of the earth, and Norin had even joked that maybe Narvi would someday be such a one.
But that was superstition, and nonsense, and there were things to be done. Guthr walked briskly back into the kitchen area, and began to clear away the things that Narvi had used, watching the two Elves covertly as she did so.
The one who had spoken so unwisely was sitting on the bench by the door, with his head in his hands. He had not moved for many minutes, not even when Lord Khalebrimbur had moved over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, bidding him be strong.
Khalebrimbur had gone to sit beside him then, his posture relaxed, but Guthr could not help but notice that his eyes were alert and very watchful. [My son speaks of you,] she thought, as she bent to pick Narvi's wet clothes from the floor, [far more than is seemly.] Not to mention the way his eyes had kept straying to the Elf-Lord, as though fearful he would leave.
Were it not for his youth she might almost have thought it the onset of the love-longing.
An unlikely notion! Narvi was 38 - not even battle-ready - and was she to think him ready to court? The love-longing was uncommon before the ninetieth year, and almost unheard-of before the sixtieth.
But not impossible. It was the way of Dwarves that some aged early and some late, and some lived far longer than their span or came to maturity far earlier than others of their years. And Narvi never had been quite the normal child.
But an Elf-! That *was* unknown, in all the annals of their fathers. And the Elf a great lord by birth, whatever he said about the shame of his family. Guthr had heard some tales of the Elves, and they seemed to expect that high birth brought with it virtue and wisdom, to an impossible extent. Why, every family had its share of knaves and fools, whether they be King or vassal.
No Dwarf chose the direction of his heart - but she could not help but think Narvi's leanings strange and foolish.
She was just clearing away the remains of Narvi's soup when the door opened and Norin entered, with their sons Nár and Nóri behind him, muffled in cloaks and hoods. Nóin had been left at the workshop, she supposed, with the two girls.
"Guthr? Is Narvi here?"
His words were in Khuzdul. "Here and sleeping," she answered in the Elven-tongue, to let him know there were strangers present. She saw him glance around, and his eyes darkened with suspicion when he saw the two Elves.
"Oh? And who are our guests?"
"Elves," Guthr said shortly, shooing Nár and Nóri away to take their boots off. "This is Lord Khalebrimbur, of the Elven-town. He brought Narvi back here."
Khalebrimbur rose and bowed. "At your service," he said with impeccable Dwarven courtesy. Guthr nodded in unspoken approval. Gracious, for an Elf, and mannerly.
"At yours and your family's," Norin answered dubiously. As well he might. It was the master of a house's privilege to welcome guests to his home, and there were some who thought that no other of his family should do so. Not that Norin would want to be at home for every one of Sigdís's playmates or Nár's drinking companions. Like all males he ignored the rules until it suited him. Guthr crossed over to the fireplace and stirred the soup. Norin followed her, but she ignored him.
"What is this?" Norin said in her ear, speaking in low-voiced Khuzdul, "A bawdy-house, where even Elves come paying court?"
We have had this conversation before, Guthr thought angrily. How my cousins can feel flattered by their husbands' jealousy-
"Have you no eyes?" she said irritably. "Is there no mind behind that beard? Our guests are hardly giving me covetous glances."
"What, then?"
Guthr gave an ill-tempered sigh, wondering anew at the stupidity of the male. She contemplated briefly telling him of what had happened, and then thought not. This was not the time, nor was it the place. "Khalebrimbur is Narvi's friend. He saved our son from the Wargs."
"It was he who saved Narvi-? Why, then he is our honour-guest! Why have you not-?"
To Norin, everything was simple. The prospect of explaining did not fill Guthr with joy. "I've been busy," she said shortly, passing a bowl of the soup across to him, and dipped the ladle in again to fill bowls for Nár and Nóri. "Now sit down and eat before your soup gets cold."
Norin sat down meekly, and dipped his spoon into his bowl.
TBC...
Okay, so next ep is when we get to 'meet the firebeards' stage. Things can only get better...!
AUTHOR: Honesty
CENSOR: PG-13
WARNINGS: Chanslash
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Borrowed. Fair use, probably.
ARCHIVE: Not just yet. Will probably be rewritten.
SUMMARY: In which Celebrimbor discovers the twin dangers of Elven politics and Dwarvish mothers.
A/N: Not much happens here as the intermediate bits took more words than they ought to have done. Chalk one up to the old 'character development.'
Far be it from me to blackmail Lynn for the next ep of Arrival...
Dwarvish food seemed to run to potato and onion soup, made with what smelled like rabbit stock - it was certain that it contained no rabbit-meat. Narvi, of course, insisted on feeding himself in spite of his bandaged hands, and Celebrimbor was relieved to see that he accomplished it with reasonable skill. Narvi's mother left him to it, moving briskly around them to clear the area around the stove, though Celebrimbor fancied that he could feel her eyes on his back, watching him closely.
Narvi managed most of the soup before he laid his bowl down, nearly spilling the remainder before Celebrimbor took it from him and laid it down on one of the flatter areas of the stone floor.
The *clink* of the bowl being set down brought Narvi's mother over to them instantly. She gave the remainder of the soup in the bowl an irked glance, annoyed, perhaps, by the wastage of good food.
"Sorry, ma," Narvi mumbled instinctively as his eyes drifted closed once more.
"No matter," she said absently. "Sleep now, if you can."
The command was unnecessary: he was almost there already as the warmth and the hot food took it toll on him, sinking down until he was huddled against the unforgiving hard rock of the walls, his breathing slowing and deepening. Narvi's mother bent over him and Celebrimbor moved out of her way as she bent down slowly to pick up her son, the rings on her mail shirt glinting softly in the half-light. He murmured something, but did not stir.
He looked younger in sleep than he did waking, his face smooth and unlined, the long eyelashes dark against the slight pallor of his face. It seemed, though, as if he had aged visibly since Celebrimbor had first met him. His hair was longer and thicker, and his face had lost some of its softness, perhaps some of its innocence.
And who was to blame for that?
Narvi's mother straightened up, seemingly unconscious of Narvi's heavy weight, and for the first time Celebrimbor saw in her eyes a glimpse of a fierce, protective love. Then she turned to carry him through to the other room, holding her son with a tenderness Celebrimbor felt sure she had never shown him waking.
He felt envious for a moment, and then angered with himself. He was hardly an orphan, after all. His own mother still lived, in the West to which he had chosen not to return. He had not been banished for ever - he could have returned to Valinor, and she would have received him gladly.
One day, he hoped, he would again, able to tell her that he had not shamed her - tell her that he had forsaken his father's obsessive quest, that he had taken no part in the shedding of blood or the making of feuds. And more - his great joy - that he had gone beyond such passive virtues, that he was here, helping to make peace between the peoples when his grandfather had sought only to destroy it, that he was helping to build a community that would unite the free peoples and further their wisdom and their skills, a community that would stand for thousands of years, creating beauty and strength in equal measure.
He wondered if she would be proud of him, when he told her. He wondered if she would welcome him back, if she would forgive him.
A woollen curtain separated the rooms beyond from the kitchen/forge, and Celebrimbor watched as Narvi's mother pushed it aside and vanished. Some change seemed to have taken place in her since he had first seen her - or perhaps some awareness had woken in him. She had looked mannish before, with her long dark beard and mail shirt, and the hatchet she wore tucked in her belt, so mannish that the long skirts she wore seemed out alien and wrong. But now, when he looked at her she could not have been mistaken for aught but a woman, aught but a mother.
[An angry mother,] some more prudent part of his mind reminded him, [with more than just cause for grievance against the Elves.] He sighed. It looked like there would be much work before him before peace between the people was truly achieved.
* * *
At least Narvi would sleep now.
Guthr had put him the bed nearest the fire, piling the furs and blankets around him carefully, and he'd not made so much as a token protest. He'd shifted in the bed, leaning his head against the rock walls, as he had in the kitchen.
He did that, whenever he slept, whenever he was even weary. It was something he'd done from an infant, when he'd been ill of the wasting sickness, and thought likely to die, and the habit had lingered on, almost unnoticed. It almost was as if he was listening for some sound, deep in the walls of Khazad-Dûm.
There were rumours among the stone-wrights that there were some who could hear the sounds of the mountains themselves, the very bones of the earth, and Norin had even joked that maybe Narvi would someday be such a one.
But that was superstition, and nonsense, and there were things to be done. Guthr walked briskly back into the kitchen area, and began to clear away the things that Narvi had used, watching the two Elves covertly as she did so.
The one who had spoken so unwisely was sitting on the bench by the door, with his head in his hands. He had not moved for many minutes, not even when Lord Khalebrimbur had moved over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, bidding him be strong.
Khalebrimbur had gone to sit beside him then, his posture relaxed, but Guthr could not help but notice that his eyes were alert and very watchful. [My son speaks of you,] she thought, as she bent to pick Narvi's wet clothes from the floor, [far more than is seemly.] Not to mention the way his eyes had kept straying to the Elf-Lord, as though fearful he would leave.
Were it not for his youth she might almost have thought it the onset of the love-longing.
An unlikely notion! Narvi was 38 - not even battle-ready - and was she to think him ready to court? The love-longing was uncommon before the ninetieth year, and almost unheard-of before the sixtieth.
But not impossible. It was the way of Dwarves that some aged early and some late, and some lived far longer than their span or came to maturity far earlier than others of their years. And Narvi never had been quite the normal child.
But an Elf-! That *was* unknown, in all the annals of their fathers. And the Elf a great lord by birth, whatever he said about the shame of his family. Guthr had heard some tales of the Elves, and they seemed to expect that high birth brought with it virtue and wisdom, to an impossible extent. Why, every family had its share of knaves and fools, whether they be King or vassal.
No Dwarf chose the direction of his heart - but she could not help but think Narvi's leanings strange and foolish.
She was just clearing away the remains of Narvi's soup when the door opened and Norin entered, with their sons Nár and Nóri behind him, muffled in cloaks and hoods. Nóin had been left at the workshop, she supposed, with the two girls.
"Guthr? Is Narvi here?"
His words were in Khuzdul. "Here and sleeping," she answered in the Elven-tongue, to let him know there were strangers present. She saw him glance around, and his eyes darkened with suspicion when he saw the two Elves.
"Oh? And who are our guests?"
"Elves," Guthr said shortly, shooing Nár and Nóri away to take their boots off. "This is Lord Khalebrimbur, of the Elven-town. He brought Narvi back here."
Khalebrimbur rose and bowed. "At your service," he said with impeccable Dwarven courtesy. Guthr nodded in unspoken approval. Gracious, for an Elf, and mannerly.
"At yours and your family's," Norin answered dubiously. As well he might. It was the master of a house's privilege to welcome guests to his home, and there were some who thought that no other of his family should do so. Not that Norin would want to be at home for every one of Sigdís's playmates or Nár's drinking companions. Like all males he ignored the rules until it suited him. Guthr crossed over to the fireplace and stirred the soup. Norin followed her, but she ignored him.
"What is this?" Norin said in her ear, speaking in low-voiced Khuzdul, "A bawdy-house, where even Elves come paying court?"
We have had this conversation before, Guthr thought angrily. How my cousins can feel flattered by their husbands' jealousy-
"Have you no eyes?" she said irritably. "Is there no mind behind that beard? Our guests are hardly giving me covetous glances."
"What, then?"
Guthr gave an ill-tempered sigh, wondering anew at the stupidity of the male. She contemplated briefly telling him of what had happened, and then thought not. This was not the time, nor was it the place. "Khalebrimbur is Narvi's friend. He saved our son from the Wargs."
"It was he who saved Narvi-? Why, then he is our honour-guest! Why have you not-?"
To Norin, everything was simple. The prospect of explaining did not fill Guthr with joy. "I've been busy," she said shortly, passing a bowl of the soup across to him, and dipped the ladle in again to fill bowls for Nár and Nóri. "Now sit down and eat before your soup gets cold."
Norin sat down meekly, and dipped his spoon into his bowl.
TBC...
Okay, so next ep is when we get to 'meet the firebeards' stage. Things can only get better...!