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Chapter 3 - Elven Mischief
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Livid: that was the best way to describe his current mood.
He was to meet up with his brother in a seven-day, but he and his small band had yet to meet but half the quota that he himself had set for this outing. It was not that the quota was unreasonable, and it was not that the creatures they hunted were in short supply. The sole cause, in his opinion, for their lack of success was the Elven mischief that had befallen them.
His brother's voice echoed in his mind as he approached yet another empty snare -- empty because someone or some elf had sprung the trap before it could ensnare its intended quarry. He kicked viciously at a nearby tree, knocking a large hunk of bark free to scrabble noisily to ground.
"Please, stay away from the Elven Wood. Setting traps in or near their territory is not wise. The elves here are not your average 'happy-go-lucky' wild elves but the much more dangerous 'shoot first and don't even bother to ask questions later' warrior elves. You would be wise to continue on for another day's travel before you encamp."
He had snorted in response, and his brother, worried that he would ignore the warning, reached out and grabbed his arm, whipping him around to face him.
"Those woods are protected and you'll be lucky if you're able to walk away with just an arrow in your stubborn arse. Heed my words -- the prize is not worth the risk."
However, those few words had only served to strengthen his resolve. The creatures that he and his men trapped and snared for pelts were drawn to those woods and the presence of the elves within. This one thing in itself was enough to cause him to defy his brother, and his dislike of elves in general made the adventure that much more inviting.
He regarded his brother spitefully as he moved, much loved, amongst the men who traveled with him on his trips back and forth to Rohan. Dear, sweet, kind Daris, it was enough to make him want to retch.
They were complete opposites in both appearance and nature. At first glance, the brothers looked very similar, but as one got closer, the differences between the two became clearer.
Daris was the older of the two but many mistook him as the younger, his easy smile and gentle nature belying his years. He was handsome, standing tall and straight, his bright, hazel eyes dancing with mirth and the joy of life; heads turned whenever he passed.
Callin on the other hand had a tendency to walk with a skulking gate. His hazel eyes most often were darkened to a lackluster brown, reflecting both his disdain and malice in almost everything around him, and while he could be charming when pressed, he was avoided by most.
Daris had opted out of the family business, much to their father's distress, to deal in horses, uncomfortable with the bloody work of a furrier. Callin thought him soft, and Daris thought him heartless.
After their father's death, everything had come to Daris. Others thought his brother generous when he, without hesitation, handed half of everything to Callin. Callin just thought him weak. He would not have done the same, but still, he did not hesitate to accept what was offered.
Moreover, Callin easily conceded that Daris was the more responsible of them, taking care of the little details that he could not or would not be bothered with. He was more than happy to relinquish those responsibilities.
Now, sharing resources but carrying out their business separately, they came together, the bonds of kinship but loosely knit, when their seasonal tasks were completed.
Thin, dry lips curled into an ugly sneer as his thoughts once again drifted to the Elves.
'They think themselves above me, better than me. Who are they to deny me my trade?'
His father had expounded often to anyone who would listen on the vanity of the Elves. Through his father, he learned that Elves referred to Men as the Secondborn, Followers – Usurpers. That Elves felt a need to coddle and care for Men like one would care for an aging family hound.
'Elves,' he thought with disgust. They claim the best lands then dare to lay down impassable borders, setting themselves above Men only to then look down in disdain, expecting homage and reverence.
'Well, I am servile to no one!'
Callin let go his mental ranting and growled as he approached yet another sprung trap. He stopped abruptly when he noticed a small object lying within the now limp snare. His face coloring red with new found rage, he reached down and grabbed the little carving and squeezed the piece of wood tightly in his hand, ignoring its delicate but detailed beauty.
'Now they mock me!'
Scanning the deep shadows of the surrounding wood, he could neither see nor hear any sign of elves, but he knew they were close, watching him, laughing at him. He threw the carving down onto the grass with enough force to send it bouncing against a tree only to have it tumble back to land at his feet. Slamming the heel of his boot down on the little piece of wood, he ground it into the soil, each twist punctuating his angry thoughts.
'I will just… have to see… if I can… come up… with a gift… of my… OWN!'
He was still raging silently as he turned to stare into the distant hills, picturing the small camp beyond and the tools and supplies that it contained. Slowly, a grin began to form on his face as a new determination set in. Giving one last kick to the carving that was now deeply imbedded in the soil, he walked back toward the camp, whistling on the way as a plan began to blossom in his mind.
'Yes indeed, a gift of my own.'
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In the thick, golden canopy of the trees high above, the two elves watched in mock horror, their mouths agape, as the man destroyed the little carving.
"I do not think he liked our gift, meldir."
"I have told you many times that your skill in carving leaves much to be desired."
"I believe 'twas the creature portrayed and *not* the carving itself. You are the one that suggested a hare."
"Hmm, perhaps you are right. Maybe the adan would prefer a fox instead?"
"Perhaps, but this time you do the carving. I still have a splinter in my finger from the last one."
The suffering elf gave an overly exaggerated wince as the other grabbed his hand to more closely inspect the offending finger.
"You are such a hen tithen."
"'Tis the size of a troll's spear! If I was not an elf, 'twould surely be a mortal wound!"
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~* To Be Continued *~
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Adan = Man
Feredir = Hunter
Hen Tithen = Little Child (baby)
Meldir = Friend
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