Oh, dear Lord. I am terribly sorry for the delay between chapters. Exams, working as waitress and field hand, and other bits of real life that would bore you got in the way. Next one should be out much more quickly (crosses fingers).
I have learned that the correct way of saying "female Elf" in Sindarin is bess. I will change the elleths from previous chapters as I find time.
To Elemmire, Kristin, Nina, Maggie, and Silmarien - as my first brave reviewers, you hold a special place in my heart. Thank you.
This extremely long chapter dedicated to Maggie, who knows why (or should).
Chapter Three: Meetings, Mischief, and Mêlée
Imladris, 2441, Second Age
With a jolt, Caffrawen realized that she had been drifting off into the past. Now why had she recalled that particular memory? She had been able to forget Ost-in-Edhil for the past fifty years or so, banish the memories to the deepest recesses of her mind, exist in the here-and-now.
Did Cugufain's words have such an effect on her? Caffrawen wondered if it wasn't her mind's way of seeking comfort from the insults by recalling a blissful period of her life. Perhaps it was merely an after-effect of the unsettling dream of the previous night.
The here-and-now, however, demanded that the rye flour be scrubbed out of the sheets before they crusted. Drawing a deep breath, she hefted the basket down to the sparkling waters of the Bruinen, looking for a calm alcove where she could work.
Down from the Ford a bit, the river widened, as a large rock diverted the river's flow, making it cut into the bank and create a sandy pool. The water was cool and inviting, perhaps the remedy to thoughts of times gone by.
Divesting herself of the brown overdress and kicking off her shoes, Caffrawen knelt in the pool and allowed her mind to become comfortably blank as she scrubbed at the sheets with the rough sand. In this state, it was easier for her to hear the sounds of nature, as they wove a gentle melody that spoke of the harmony of all that lived within the vale of Imladris.
The harmony of all non-speaking creatures, at least.
From the songbirds, there was only the happy contentment of well-fed beings that were nourished by summer fruits. A brook trout nearby sounded its frustration at being unable to swim up through a small but swiftly moving channel. Meadow grasses nearby were engaged in the task of growing quickly to spread their seed and propagate a new patch of ground, which was being hotly contested over by the grass and by an equally frantic patch of wild onions. Annoyed by the continued absence of her mate, a black snake flickered her tongue and followed his trail to a clearing full of sun-heated rocks.
The trees towered over all, their deep voices thrumming pleasantly, echoing the pleasure of the songbirds at the plentitude of sunlight and warmth. The song of the practice-field was distant, but not, she noted, making a sour note in the songs of nature. Altogether a pleasant day to be outdoors, instead of cooped up in the kitchens.
Cooped up...how much longer was she going to stay in Imladris? If the war with Sauron was lost, as it almost certainly was going to be...where would she and the remaining people of her kindred go? It was altogether distasteful, to Caffrawen's way of thinking, that the Elves simply leave the Second-Born and the Dwarves to whatever terrible fate awaited them, and flit blithely away to the Blessed Shores.
To her, anyway, the option was closed.
If the decree of the Valar had not restrained her from leaving Middle-Earth, she wouldn't leave anyway. She still had her own vengeance to wreck upon Sauron...blood and duplicity that she was determined to avenge.
She shifted, allowing her long legs to stretch out along the riverbed, hearing the confusion of tiny fish as they nibbled harmlessly at her toes and found nothing edible.
If, however, the war was won, the Alliance victorious, where then would she go? Imladris was stifling, Mithlond impossible. Numenor was gone, and she could not return to Ost-in-Edhil.
She had heard, however, that a Woodland Kingdom had been established in Greenwood the Great some hundreds of years ago, by some Sindarin prince...what was his name?...ah yes, King Oropher. He had wanted to establish a more natural-living realm for the Elves. Primitive by some standards, and certainly not the city life filled with building and creating that Caffrawen's Noldor blood delighted in, it nonetheless had an appeal and charm that spoke comfort to her heart. To be back in the forests, as in the days before she had come to Ost-in-Edhil, gave her a curious sense of joy. If the forces of Good won the battles to come, perhaps she would take up residence there. Only gratitude bound her to Imladris.
The song of the trees abruptly changed, though not in a foreboding way, she noted. Pausing as she sanded the sheets clean of rye flour, she listened.
Three pairs of footfalls, attempting to move with stealth but failing, issued from the copse about a hundred feet away. The trees sang of no malice from the visitors, but Caffrawen was nonetheless wary.
From one of her visitors, there was a sharp gasp, and Caffrawen caught a flash of black hair and fair features from behind a blueberry bush. There was a quiet murmur, something that sounded like "It's an elf-woman!"
There was a heavy pause, and two brown-haired heads appeared between the parted branches of a stout cypress tree.
"Are you sure? It could be Laoma - can't make out the features from here." This from the brown-haired one with doe-like eyes - a human woman, she realized.
"Why would Laoma sit in the river to do washing? 'Sides, she's on cooking duty." came the tart response from the other brown-haired girl with a large nose and lips puckered in concentration.
"Do you think she knows we're here?"
"Nah. Look, she's rinsing the sheet. Let's get a bit closer."
This was followed by more stealthy steps - stealth lessened by curiosity and anticipation. Caffrawen bit her lip to keep from smiling, and continued to watch the women creep closer. As they passed from tree to bush, she could see that the two brown-haired girls wore coarse linen dresses, dyed a light brown. The black-haired girl wore, oddly enough, a red sash around the waist of her own brown dress. Not, Caffrawen decided, the best color choice for attempting to sneak up on an Elf.
They had come to rest about twenty feet away from her, behind a fallen tree. She could hear every soft breath, every rustle as the girls sought more comfortable positions. Though "girls" might not be the appropriate word.
Caffrawen had lived most of her life with her Elven kindred, and though she had seen members of the Second-born* before, she still was at a bit of a loss when it came to guessing age. Children and the very old were obvious, but the ages betwixt them kept her guessing. The black-haired one, she guessed, was into maturity, while the two brown-haired girls were somewhere between youth and adulthood.
"Look at that stuff she's rinsing out. Looks like vomit."
"Silly. Elves don't get sick."
"No, they don't. They can get rather angry, however, and start throwing food at you." Caffrawen had decided to end the charade.
There was a repressed squeal from one of the girls. Sheepishly, they poked their heads above the log.
"We're sorry to have spied upon you, my lady," said the black-haired woman with great dignity, "and I hope you are not angry with our childish behavior." She drew herself up to her full height and bowed her head. Red-faced, the two other women stood up and bowed their heads.
Caffrawen stood up, half-amused and half-horrified at their behavior. They didn't bow their heads out of apology, they bowed their heads to her because she was an Elf!
"Oh, I'm not angry." she said, standing up with her wet chemise clinging to her body. "The bess who threw the rye flour at me, now she was angry." With that, she pointed to the slimy stuff that had yet to be sanded off. "Come, sit, the water's wonderfully cool."
The two brown-haired girls glanced at each other, betraying their nervousness. The black-haired woman gazed at her steadily, a hint of confusion in her eyes. Warily, she stepped forward, and at her action, the others followed her lead. Now that they were closer, Caffrawen could discern other things about them, things that puzzled her. Why did the black-haired woman wear traces of perfume, when the others did not?
"My name is Caffrawen," she went on, in the same reassuring voice, proffering a hand in a gesture of welcome, "and I am no lady. Who might you be?"
The women glanced at each other, and again, the black-haired woman took the initiative, speaking in dulcet tones.
"My name is Romera. This one here," and she indicated the brown-haired girl with the large nose, "is-"
"Thank you, Romera, but I've recovered my tongue." the girl spoke sharply, and rather loudly. "My name is Seatra, very glad to meet you." She took the proffered hand and clasped it, briefly but firmly, the young skin of her hands prematurely roughened by hours spent working with wash-tubs. She looked pointedly at the brown-haired girl with doe eyes.
"I am Naimi." the girl said simply, her voice hardly more than a whisper. Caffrawen tilted her head slightly to regard Naimi, but Naimi refused to look anywhere but her at her shoes.
" Well met then, Lady Naimi, Lady Seatra, and Lady Romera. You work at King Elendil's camp, I assume?" Once the words had spilled out, Caffrawen instantly regretted them, afraid they would mistake her meaning.
At her statement, Naimi blushed furiously, but remained fascinated with the worn leather of her shoes. Seatra and Romera, however, brightened at this bit of repartee in response to Romera's earlier addresses.
"Aye, that we do. Be they warriors, farmers, smiths, or kings, there are three things that men cannot live without, and cannot seem to do for themselves." She paused shooting a knowing grin at her companions, and extending it to Caffrawen. "Someone to cook their supper, someone to wash their clothes, and someone to warm their b...breakfast." Seatra had rambled on quite contentedly, glad for an untried ear to complain to, to quote what must have been the standard mantra for most of the women workers in the camp. Her slip had obviously embarrassed her, and she glanced almost apologetically at Romera.
Romera, however, gave no indication that she had heard the slight slip in Seatra's speech, composure settling over her face like a mask. Naimi, moving her eyes for the first time, darted her gaze to the pair, then took the opportunity to sneak a more lingering glance at the soaking bess.
To say that Caffrawen was perplexed was an understatement. Breaking the rather uncomfortable pause, she gestured for them to sit on the riverbank, a feat that they did so with only a hint of trepidation on the part of Naimi.
"If you don't mind me asking...Caffrawen...why are you sitting in the Bruinen to wash clothing? Is it a custom among your people?" Romera asked, with the serenity and ease of one who is able to start a conversation with anyone.
"No, no customs of my people require us to wade while cleaning, it's just that...I have felt a bit unsettled this day, and I thought that perhaps a dip in the stream might help."
"How?" boldly questioned Seatra. Caffrawen found herself taking a liking to this forthright young woman.
"Have you ever been splashed by ice cold water? Makes you forget what you were thinking about, doesn't it?"
"Or pulls you out of a deep sleep!" This rather fervent exclamation came from Naimi, who had finally found the courage to speak, only to become shocked by the sound of her own voice, and blushed a deep red. She was saved by a snicker from Seatra.
"It was an accident, I promise, Naimi!" the grinning girl said. She in turn was interrupted by a snort from Romera, a noise that was at odds with her tranquil demeanor.
"Indeed, an accident that involved you tipping over the washbasin that somehow found its way across the tent, and you running away before apologizing for this accident. As I recall, the Fifth Battalion of Swordsmen had their clothes stolen and let to freeze in a barrel of water that same night, didn't they, Seatra?"
Seatra smirked, her cobalt eyes glittering with satisfaction. "Serves them right for tramping through that red clay and expecting us to wash it out."
Attempting to break into the ring of close confidence the three shared, and feeling rather awkward at doing so, Caffrawen spoke. "Sounds like our soldiers. Have to chase them out of the kitchens, or we'd have naught to eat ourselves." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt a fool for saying them, as they possessed little of humor or wit, only a hideous ineptness.
"There's a trick to that. Add something like tree bark or twigs into the batter of a few sacrifice loaves. Stick them in plain sight, and you'll never have trouble again." Both this speech of Seatra's and her subsequent removal of shoes and stockings to soak her feet in the Bruinen did much to alleviate Caffrawen's discomfiture. It also brought a devilish grin to her face.
"Aye - or perhaps breech-bush?* That'd send them running in the opposite direction!" she rejoined.
There was an appreciative intake of air from Seatra and Naimi. From Romera, however, there came a second snort. "Aye and for good reason!" She descended into a fit of giggles that was eventually shared by the other three females. The laugh had relaxed them, and a circle of amiability was fast encompassing them.
Taking a chance on losing their newly gained friendliness, Caffrawen decided to ask a question that was niggling at the back of her mind. "If you don't mind me asking - and I'm not mad at all - why were you here watching me wash clothes? I would think that you'd have seen enough of it back at your camp."
She was grateful to note that instead of becoming guarded and reserved, they only became sheepish and a bit embarrassed.
"We've never seen a she-Elf before. We wondered if you were similar to us, or if you were wondrous beautiful to look upon. The he-Elves are very fair, and the tales of Luthien are still remembered by us. Did you know her?" Naimi spoke boldly, surprising everyone there, herself included. Caffrawen flinched inwardly at the mention of Luthien*, but absorbed the rest of the statement with interest.
"In that case, I am sorry to disappoint you. I am not 'wondrous beautiful', nor accounted among the fairest of my race at all. Luthien died before I was born. Come now, what's the other reason? Whatever it is, tell me, and I will see if I can satisfy your curiosity." She softened the speech with a self-ridiculing grin.
The women looked at one another. Seatra, ever the bold, spoke up first.
"We wished to see if your ears were truly pointy, if your skin truly shone in the dark. We've seen the he-Elves, but their ears were always covered by helmets, and always in the day time. Is that offensive to you?"
Caffrawen considered the question. "No, I can't understand how I would take offense from such a question. I don't suppose I've ever considered my ears as pointy, but I suppose in comparison to your rounded ones, they are." She paused to pointedly push back the hair shrouding her ears, feeling three pairs of eyes instantly move to the pronounced tips. Watching their reactions, she noted with amusement that Naimi, in an unconscious gesture, touched her own ears to compare.
"We also call female Elves bess, and male Elves benn, to distinguish the two." There, she decided, was an inter-species impasse that had better be corrected before someone's toes were trodden upon.
"We have always heard that you were called she-Elves, is it not the same?" Seatra obviously did not like to be contradicted or corrected, that much was clear.
"Nay. It would be the same as my calling you a she-Man." Seatra shifted uncomfortably at Caffrawen's words, and the other two were amused to no small end at the girl's discomfiture.
"And the glowing skin?" Romera pressed, intrigued by the information such a candid disclosure offered.
"Only faintly in the dark. No more than yours does, I suppose." Caffrawen was beginning to grow a bit uneasy about this impromptu interrogation.
The women shot a look at each other. Romera spoke up. "Our skin doesn't glow, Caffrawen."
Now it was Caffrawen's turn to be surprised, not only by the revelation, but by the casual use of her name, which pleased her. "Your skin doesn't reflect starlight? I thought that was a trait of all the Children of Illuvatar."
"I suppose not. But you've probably been around for a lot longer than we have. Have you never seen our kind at night?" Seatra was pushing her way back into the dialogue, looking for a manner in which to contribute. Naimi looked at her amusedly, and Caffrawen realized the girl had made the same conclusion.
"I have seen men at night," Caffrawen stated slowly, forcing back down painful memories that were better left unrecalled, "But my mind was on other things at the time."
Females of all species recognize a diplomatic silence and topic change when they hear it, so it came as no surprise to the women to hear Caffrawen doing so. The particulars of what she said next caught their full attention.
"I have heard that the race of Men sleeps with their eyes closed. Is this true?"
"You don't?"
"You do?"
The women and the bess gaped at each other a moment before subsiding again into easy laughter. The laughter continued for some time, moving once again into easy conversation, as they sunned themselves in a nearby glade. Many things were spoken of in that first meeting; the antics of the soldiers, the intractable mistresses they served, the latest news of the movements of the enemy and of rumors of what action their Alliance would take. By unspoken agreement, no one spoke of their families, or where they had come from, and no one was unhappy with this arrangement. Romera dozed off, and Seatra took great amusement in tickling her face with a fern leaf, Naimi and Caffrawen giggling at Romera's sleepy oaths. Finally, Caffrawen realized that she'd better tend to her duties before someone noticed her absence.
"I am sorry to have to leave you, but I have work to attend to back in the halls." She heaved a great sigh, beginning to pull the overdress upon her sun-dried chemise. "And, like as not, someone's reported my absence to the head-bess, and she'll feed my innards to the chickens." Inwardly, she was pleased to see that her new companions looked a bit sorry to see her go. "Do you...er...wash clothes here often?" she continued, hoping to encounter her new acquaintances again.
"We generally wash them in the tubs in camp." Seatra offered, idly twisting a small yellow flower in her hand.
"Tubs? Oh, we occasionally wash ours in hot water as well - we boil them over campfires." Caffrawen drawled inanely, unwilling to leave the peacefulness of the glade.
Naimi, who generally parceled out words like rations of water over a long, hot desert, surprised them all in that moment. "You know, I never quite understood why we had to haul buckets of water to the tubs when all we were doing was scrubbing in cold water. Would it not be more reasonable to take the scrub-boards up here? Soiled laundry is not so heavy, and could be dried out here without growing fusty."
Though Naimi spoke less often than her two human companions, it was clear that she thought little of the effect it had on others. Seatra openly gaped at her, but whether it was in amazement at her speech or her logic, none could tell. Romera was equally affected. Caffrawen cast her eyes to the side and puckered her lips in thought, half so that she could consider Naimi's suggestion, half so that she did not see Naimi's irascible expression.
To prevent Naimi from spitting out more words that would shock the other girls (because of their meaning, not their existence), Caffrawen spoke up.
"That sounds like an excellent method of conserving energy. How often do you wash?"
"Every morning, about this time. Today was our day off." Romera said interestedly, looking up at the bess from where she lay drowsing on the grass.
"Then, if my presence is not offensive or unwanted, might I consolidate strength and wash with you here? I often wash alone." Caffrawen ended on a plaintive note.
"The sympathy ploy doesn't work on us, Caffrawen. We've turned away soldiers begging us to wash their tunics before inspection. They didn't get it in on time, their loss." Seatra said, with heavy irony. "Oh, don't get fussed," she continued, seeing the expression on the Elf's face, "I was only teasing! Sympathy doesn't work, but your pleasant company does."
"Tomorrow, then?" Caffrawen said, hoisting the linens back into her basket.
"Oh, you'll be lucky if we don't beat you to it!"
* * *
"I want eight minutes of kneading time per loaf, my dears, and no cheating on the time!"
Riselwen clucked at the bess clustered round the baking table. The head of domestic affairs at Imladris was an efficient, if formidable leader. The neatly bundled and labeled sacks of supplies lining shelves in the storage room, the lack of orders being called in shrill voices, the full stomachs of Gil-galad's army, all were testament to the skill of the bess, Riselwen in particular.
Currently, Caffrawen stood next to five other bess, all busily muscling mounds of creamy brown dough that would bake to become rye bread. Two bess that were friendly with Caffrawen had positioned themselves nearby, content to share with her the space of table sprinkled with rye flour. The other three had pointedly created a second floury spot separate from Caffrawen's offensive presence. Thankfully, although the three refrained from speaking to the Feanorian, they did not disdain to speak to her friends. Caffrawen greatly feared becoming a wedge and a dividing point for the Elves of Imladris. So she let the others natter on while she sought an opportunity to speak to the head-bess. Observing that she was involved in criticizing another cook's preparation of potato soup, she sidled off. This earned her a curious glance from her friend Giliath, who was rewarded with a wink for her observant eyes.
"Lady Risielwen, could I make a suggestion?"
The bess whirled around. Caffrawen had the briefest impression of a lion - large, curly hair standing out from Risielwen's face, wary eyes, and a firmly bridged nose over an equally firm jaw.
"And your suggestion would be?" The wary predatory gaze on Caffrawen hardened into outright suspicion.
"We have a problem with soldiers filching food from the kitchens. Perhaps if we mixed something, say, breech-bush root into the mix of a few sacrifice loaves of sweetbread, we'd make them think twice about stealing." Caffrawen kept her demeanor bright, her tone upbeat. It would not do to invoke the bess's suspicion. It was to her sense of poetic justice and humor that she was appealing to.
Risielwen's eyelids became half-lidded, completing the image of a sleepy lion. Behind her, Caffrawen heard the other bess slow and soften their conversation, obviously eavesdropping.
The sleepy lion's eyes snapped open. "A devious idea it is, and quite possibly very useful. Devious, yes."
Caffrawen stiffened at the insinuation. Just because she was of the House of Feanor...but perhaps Risielwen meant it as a compliment. She held herself in check, realizing that perhaps she'd grown a bit oversensitive in her years at Imladris.
"However, this was your idea, and it must be your doing. I'll send for some breech-bush root." She raised her voice over the din of the kitchens. "Now hear this! Upon great pain and discomfort, do not eat of the sweetbread inside the red-striped tins. They will be in plain sight, but do not give in to temptation, nor discourage a famished soldier for partaking of them." Her pronouncement was met with confused eyes, but compliant nods.
Risielwen turned on Caffrawen. "Get to it then, gwenn."
With a grin born of triumph of wit, mischief of heart, and thrill of manipulation, Caffrawen set about gathering materials for ten loaves of tainted sweetbread. No one need know that more than the required amount of ingredients were taken from the supply room, and no one need even guess that one of the loaves made would be innocent of the touch of breech-bush.
The monotony of kneading the first loaf allowed her time to reflect on the day's events. Had she Second-Born friends? Such a thing was fairly rare nowadays, despite the camaraderie between the armies of Gil-galad and Elendil, and the common goal that united the two races. They seemed to like her well enough, and she in turn was intrigued by them.
Seatra, she mused, was a very open person. Her thoughts were not private, they were plastered across her face and poured from her chattering lips. Despite the occasionally annoying instances that this trait created, this candid behavior made her the easiest to trust. Any distrust or lies would blare readily across her face should they ever exist. Besides that, the girl seemed to be possessed of a friendly, careless nature whose charm was impossible to resist.
Naimi, the unobtrusive girl with the apparently quick and roving mind, proved to Caffrawen the truth of the old adage - still waters run deep. There had been flashes of gaiety and giddiness on the surface, as well as irritation, but in general it was difficult to divine her emotions. While she said little, Caffrawen had noted her eyes roving from person to person, missing no word, inflection, or gesture. She knew enough to realize that there was much more to the doe-eyed brunette than could be determined in one meeting.
Romera, the woman who defined serenity and dignity, had puzzled Caffrawen the most. Though the tranquil exterior was belied to some point by a few caustic remarks, and some rather intriguing oaths that Caffrawen committed to memory, she gave the Elf the impression that there was a good deal of self-control that went into this facade. What was she truly like? Had it anything to do with the differences she had noted earlier? She dressed differently, smelled differently, and behaved differently. But what did such things mean when put together?
Her eyes widened as she came to a conclusion. Romera was a Lady of Elendil's camp! Perhaps she was the wife of one of the generals, or perhaps married to one of Isildur's sons. Yes, that would explain the gaudier clothing, heavy scent, formal manners, and why Seatra had moderated the punchline of a formerly raucous jest in front of the woman.
It did not, however, explain why such a highborn lady would be washing soiled uniforms with the lower-born washer-girls. But then, she was unfamiliar with the customs of Men. Perhaps it strengthened the hearts of the soldiers and the washer-girls to see Romera pitching in. In any case, it made the most sense out of the conclusions she had come to...her reverie was interrupted by a chin resting on her shoulder.
"Have you found a comfortable place to perch, Giliath*?"
"No. This perch obviously has something devious going on that it has neglected to tell me about." The chin moved off her shoulder to allow the flaxen-haired bess a closer look at the apparently innocent lumps of dough. Another Noldorian exile, and also of Ost-in-Edhil, Giliath and Caffrawen had met shortly after Caffrawen had arrived at the Elven fortress. Fast friends ever since then, they had supported each other in their individual struggles. Caffrawen had once admitted to herself that, without Giliath, she could never have borne the empty stares and angry glances from other Elves.
"Indeed it does. See this?" Caffrawen lifted a sample of grainy yellow powder up to the other bess's nose, amused at the way the long nose crinkled and the brown eyes widened in realization.
"Caffrawen, that's breech-bush root! What do you think you're doing...oh, I see now." The look of shock was replaced by one of sly amusement.
"Best part is, they don't tell each other about stealing from the kitchens. They're afraid that others will ask them to steal for them. So they won't connect the ill-health to the sweetbreads left so conveniently in easy reach. This could go on for some time." Both bess started snickering. The snickers turned to snorts, the snorts to whooping gales of laughter.
"Where did you get that idea? Pure genius, it was!" Giliath managed to get out, struggling for breath and wiping her eyes clear of moisture.
"Not mine."
"Whose, then?" Giliath tipped her head to meet the eyes of the shorter Elf.
Caffrawen felt herself retract, briefly debating whether to confide in Giliath about her new acquaintances. In Ost-in-Edhil, Caffrawen had never insinuated one word to Giliath of the existence of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain...but then, where had that gotten them?
"I met some very friendly women this morning near the Ford. They work in Elendil's camp, and gave me some very interesting ideas."
"You've met human women? What were they like? Other than wickedly devious, that is." Giliath crossed her arms in front of her chest, patently intrigued.
"Mostly like us. A gamut of every emotion and temperament, and different levels to which they express them."
"No, I meant about their eyes. Do they truly close their eyes to sleep?"
"Aye - and they were quite surprised by the fact that we don't."
"Pleasant? Friendly?"
"Aye...other things too. It's simply astounding how different we are from them...and yet so similar." Caffrawen trailed off, lost in thought. She was pulled by her thoughts, however, as Giliath voiced a question.
"Why do you think it is, Caffrawen, that we've lived beside them for millennia, and yet we're still not certain if they close their eyes to rest?" The bess's mouth twitched. "Rather disconcerting, isn't it? The fact that there's still so little we know about each other?"
"Perhaps," Caffrawen began, speaking slowly, "Perhaps the fact that they are mortal and we are not plays a factor. Why befriend someone if you know without a doubt that they will die in a short span of time? Yet Dwarves are befriended by our kindred, and they live not much longer than a Numenorian*."
"Were befriended." Giliath pointed out. "No longer."
"The leaders of today may scorn the friendship of the Dwarves, but I still claim them as my friends."
Giliath regarded Caffrawen closely for a moment. "You are unexpectedly vehement today." Caffrawen opened her mouth to deliver an apology, only to have it stilled by Giliath's finger. "No apologies. I heard about Cugufain*."
Caffrawen snorted. "What a misnomer, eh?"
Giliath smiled faintly. "Take it up with Lord Elrond. I am certain he'd be only too glad to..."
"Too glad to encourage them on."
Giliath stopped, not knowing how to respond. Then, as always, she found some way to brighten the conversation. "I wonder if Lord Elrond is one of the bread-thieves. Would that not be amusing?"
Knowing what her friend was doing, Caffrawen decided to play along. "It would be such a shame if he had to run out of one of those Councils." she said with a false gaiety. Too false.
Giliath fixed her with a concerned stare. "Caffrawen, what has been going on lately that you aren't telling me about? You're always distracted, and those shadows under your eyes speak of little sleep."
Giliath's words caught unexpectedly at a lump in Caffrawen's throat. With some great effort, she pushed it down, and focused on responding while the other Elf waited patiently.
"It's...dreams...I've been having very vivid dreams of...Ost-in-Edhil." The admission instantly deflated the lump in her throat, and Caffrawen watched her friend process the information.
"Well, I can see why that would rob you of sleep...do you want to speak of them?"
"Not particularly. I relive them enough as it is."
"Perhaps Elrond could prescribe a sleep aid..."
"If that's so, I'd rather stay awake. I will take nothing offered by him again."
Giliath nodded understanding. "See you at the evening meal?"
"Aye. Tonight's meal, and the next night's...every night until I can find a way out of this cursed valley." Caffrawen said bitterly.
To her surprise, Giliath looked at her without sympathy. "Indeed? You know, I could be mistaken, but I seem to remember there being two very distinct pathways out of the valley. Clearly marked, with signs, too. If you were going to leave, you'd have done it already."
The words cut. Feeling her ears burn with embarrassment, Caffrawen attempted to rally a defense. "Do not tell me that you feel no desire to be gone from here, to be out from under Elrond's thumb?"
The hardness melted from Giliath's features. "Of course I wish to be gone from here. Most of the others have gone to that 'Golden Wood' of Lady Galadriel's and Lord Celeborn's - or overseas. Obligation keeps me here, as it does you."
"I thought the word was gratitude or perhaps indebtedness."
Giliath shrugged laconically. "At what point does gratitude become obligation? At what point is the obligation fulfilled? If I knew the answers, Caffrawen, I'd be counting the days till I could leave."
"Good point. See you at dinner?"
Giliath's mouth quirked. "The only other place I could be would be the road leading out of Imladris. I'll be there."
Caffrawen cocked her head to regard her friend. "There meaning the Hall of Fire, or there meaning the road out of Imladris?"
"Don't you like surprises?"
* * *
After a quick word with Elimani*, the two arranged to meet at sunset in an unkempt courtyard, one that reminded Caffrawen unnervingly of the illicit 'fighting pits' used by Men in competitions that she had heard of. If she had cared, Caffrawen would have been dismayed at the weed growth shifting the flagstones, the unchecked ivy growth that spilled over the high walls of the courtyard, the dark moss that clumped in the shadows and reached up to the balconies of some of the rooms above.
If she had cared about Imladris.
Elimani stood hipshot in the very center of the courtyard, two wooden practice swords leaning carelessly against his side.
"Sweetbread?"
Caffrawen glanced down at the covered basket she was holding. "As promised."
He gave her a quizzical look. "So just where did you get the supplies on such short notice?"
She gave him an arch look. "Traded them for my scruples." she said, eliciting a laugh from Elimani. "Shall we begin?"
Elimani swept his gaze over her skirted figure. "Once you change into trousers. Do you really expect to train in a skirt?"
"I didn't have time."
"You have even less time now. Go change."
Grinding her teeth at being ordered - by Elimani, of all people - Caffrawen dropped the basket at her side. Bending down and seizing the hems of her skirt and chemise, she folded them up, tucking them into her belt as she worked the circumference of the fabric, creating a ludicrous-looking skirt that fell to her knees. Caffrawen was hard-pressed not to laugh when she turned to see her friend's expression.
Elimani's face had turned beet red from embarrassment, and his sides were shaking rather noticeably, giving one the impression that he was close to exploding. Giving him a moment to compose himself, Caffrawen picked the basket back up and moved it to a corner. Turning around, she saw that he had settled the placid mask back on to his face, and following his example, faced him with her hands.
"I have changed."
"Indeed." Elimani held out a wooden sword for her to take. She gripped the hilt with her right hand, nearly overbalancing, but correcting with her left hand, not missing Elimani's approving nod.
"That is correct. When you pull the sword from its sheath, grip it first with your strong hand - your right, I believe - then slide your left above it till you feel the blade is balanced and you can wield it with ease."
"I know that."
He gave Caffrawen an irritated look. "It is better that you allow your mind to divorce itself from instinct, at least a slight bit. In combat situations you may face a feint from an opponent and, acting on instinct, end up on their blade."
Caffrawen's jaw tightened. "Noted."
Elimani moved to face her, drawing and holding his own practice sword in a combative posture. "Now we test the strength of your grip. It is not in how hard you hold the blade, how tense your arm muscles are. It deals more with how much ground you are willing to give the opponent. I'm going to make several swings at your blade. Deflect them as you see fit."
Caffrawen repositioned her stance, spreading her legs to have a firmer purchase on the courtyard floor. With a lunge forward, Elimani made a sweeping lateral cut that might have rent her midsection, had it been steel rather than pine. She turned her blade, pointing it down at a vertical angle, and felt the impact of Elimani's attack. Using her left hand to pull the sword up, she successfully parried his attack, allowing their swords to slide against one another, letting Elimani escape backwards.
"Excellent! Very good for a first defense, very good."
"I'm simply blushing, Elimani." Yet she could not help but feel a small bit of triumph at the success of her defense.
"Don't get puffed yet. Next time you make a parry like that, use your right hand to exert pressure down, rather than pull up with your weaker left, and use the left to keep it pushing me back, as you let the blades glide across one another as he retreats. You want to pull up rather quickly, too. Your opponent may be feinting, and draw back only to slice you across your unprotected area, while your sword is still down."
Caffrawen nodded, attempting to process the information and apply it to her movements, .
"Ready?"
"Ready."
This time, he attacked her by first swinging the blade round his head, making an apparent attack to her left side. As she moved to guard her left, he deftly slid under her defense, poking her in her right midsection.
"Where did I go wrong?"
"You watched your own blade instead of mine. Once you saw me feinting to your left, you watched your own blade to ensure that your blade would deflect my own. Put your trust in your own blade, because it is my blade that is trying to attack you. Keep your attention on your opponent's movement, and see your own blade react in your peripheral vision."
Caffrawen admitted to herself at that moment that Elimani was a very good teacher. He doled out praise and criticism in equal amounts. For every movement, there was an explanation, for every improvement there was room for more improvement. For the next two hours, Elimani hewed at her defense, and Caffrawen blocked him with growing skill.
As he was refining her attack technique, already developed to some degree due to past experience - she let out an earsplitting war-cry as she feinted from left to right. Caffrawen was duly rewarded with the sensation of her wooden blade touching Elimani's chest - the sensation of victory.
"Where in Mordor did you pick that up?"
"Not in Mordor. In Ost-in-Edhil...the Dwarves had their 'Khazad! Khazad id'...something or other. Frightened the orcs right off their feet."
Elimani tipped his head, brushing the sweat from his brow. "You are not a Dwarf."
Caffrawen grinned, a bit flushed with her success at getting through his defenses. "No, given my distinct lack of a beard, that should be obvious. But perhaps we should imitate the Dwarves in this."
"It's not a reliable tactic. Orcs are often in noisy environments."
"It worked on you."
His eyes darkened from amusement. "Aye. But I have lived among peacefully quiet Elven cities and abodes. If you used that war-cry, you'd probably startle the Elven-soldiers into getting killed. Then the orcs would laugh and welcome you into their ranks as one of their own."
Caffrawen chose to ignore the challenge to her playful insult. "Then perhaps we should toughen up our own soldiers. We could create a daily din in Imladris - beat cooking pans, bang hammers, pinch you..."
A low and sonorous voice interrupted her litany. "Or perhaps we could import some more Feanorians. Two or three per army camp should do the trick."
Elimani froze. Caffrawen tensed.
Slowly they turned their heads up to the source of the voice. Leaning on a balcony rail, hawk-like noble features arranged in a placid gaze, stood an Elven benn. Silken hair of a shade even deeper and darker than Elimani's cascaded down to rest about his shoulders, which were encased in fine armor befitting his standing and stature. A purple cape, like a rivulet of wine, fell to his feet. Grey eyes mocked, molded lips quirked upward at one side of his mouth in an expression of bemusement.
Elrond, Lord of Imladris, one who had suffered mightily at the hands of her family, stood looking down at the rebel-blooded daughter of the House of Feanor.
He inclined his head with the gesture of a king. "Good evening, Elimani and Lady Caffrawen."
Gritting her teeth against the sting, Caffrawen bowed her head to him, parroting back his greetings. Dimly, she was aware of Elimani doing the same.
Raising her head to glare back up at him, she saw his gaze still fixed on her, with all the air of a cat stalking its prey.
"Lady Caffrawen, an issue has arisen that I feel requires some of your...erhem...counsel." Beside her, Caffrawen saw Elimani still his features and tighten his jaw, glaring up at the Lord who sheltered himself and his friend.
What emotions leapt between the space of Caffrawen and Elrond's eyes could have been felt by the most oblivious Elf watching. Admitting defeat in the war of wills, before the pause between his question and her response could grow awkward, Caffrawen inclined her head forward, breaking the heated gaze.
"As my lord wishes."
He seemed pleased. "My study then, as soon as you are presentable. A pleasant evening, Elimani." He swiveled with unmatchable grace, and retreated through the balcony opening.
The dark shadow that had descended on the silent courtyard lifted with the exit of the Lord of Imladris. Caffrawen let loose a breath that she had not been aware of holding. Beside her, she heard Elimani's giddy laughter.
"What's so funny about me going to get my ears ripped off by Elrond?" she demanded.
"It...just hit me...out of all the possible places I could have chosen for us to...to practice...I had to pick the one right outside Elrond's study! And then you let out that war-cry..." he dissolved into chuckles again.
She growled at him mockingly, then tossed him her sword. He caught it deftly, and she began untucking the chemise and skirt from her belt, allowing them to return to their previous employment of hanging about her legs.
"I'm going to take a wild guess and wager that you aren't changing." Elimani said flippantly.
Caffrawen was quite aware of the fact that sweat stains were evident underneath her arms, spattered across her belly and underneath her breasts, and forming a bird's wing of wetness on her back. She smelled rank, her hair was unkempt, her face splattered with a liberal dousing of sweat and flour from the day's previous employment. Elimani was in a similar state. Caffrawen mused the possibilities of lighter clothing, if they were to continue practicing in the hottest hours of the summer days.
"You would be correct, my friend."
"You're just incurring his wrath. What's the harm of a few extra minutes spent cleaning up?"
"He has already set the tone for this meeting. You saw the way he looked at us."
Elimani shook his dark head, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "At you, rather. You know, people say that he is as kind as summer to all, that his heart knows few boundaries."
"I would suppose that, given the circumstances, I am one of those boundaries." Caffrawen paused a moment, gathering her thoughts. "He was actually rather civil to me when the Lothlorien contingent was visiting."
"I think that had more to do with the fact that he was distracted by a certain silver-haired maiden - what was her name? Oh, right, Celebrian. Shame we can't have them ship her up here. A lovesick lord, now that would ease the tension considerably, wouldn't it?"
Caffrawen threw her head back and laughed, tossing the sweetbread basket to him. Catching it, he gave her a mocking salute. "You who are about to die, we salute you!"
Grinning, she made her way out of the courtyard, when a thought turned her around.
"Elimani?"
"Aye?"
"If you value your immortal life, don't eat the sweetbread that has been laid out on the tables. Trust me on this."
* * *
*In the Silmarillion, the beings created by Illuvatar in the Tolkien version of Genesis. The First-Born (those first to arrive on the scene) were the Elves. The Second-born were the race of Men.
*breech-bush - Where I live, there is a small bush that bears flowers that resemble pairs of white pants - called Dutchman's Breeches - used in past times by the Cherokee in the area as a fast-acting laxative. As there are no Dutchmen in Middle-Earth, the plant has had to be renamed a bit.
*Caffrawen's uncles Curufin (who is Celebrimbor's father) and Celegorm attempted to kidnap and/or kill Luthien Tinuviel, fairest of all the beings of Arda on multiple occasions. Celegorm, enamored with Luthien's beauty, attempted to wed her by force, and, failing that, attempted to kill her beloved Man, Beren. Beren got the upper hand, but Luthien forbid Celegorm's death. In gratitude, he attempted to shoot her and Beren as they rode away. Not a pleasant subject for a daughter of the House of Feanor.
*Numenorians, are, without dredging up a long bit of history, very long-lived humans who can average around 200 years on Arda. Aragorn was one, which explains why his hair was mysteriously free of grey hair on the Quest of the Ring, when his was eighty-odd years old.
*Giliath - "host of stars"
* Cugufain - literally, "white dove" and representative of peace. A misnomer if there ever was one.
*Elimani - "star-handed" - referencing his smith-skills.
Canon Deviation
- Not certain if this is a deviation or not, but Elrond's aversion to the House of Feanor stems from the attack in which Caffrawen's own father and the remaining members of the House of Feanor attacked the Exiles of Gondolin, of which the child Elrond, his twin brother Elros, and their mother Elwing were a part of. Elwing jumped into the sea bearing one of the long-sought Silmarils (though she did not die, she was parted from her sons till Elrond came to join her many years later in Valinor. Elros died.) Elrond and Elros were taken captive by the remaining sons of Feanor, Maedhros and Maglor. Since no timeline for the amount of time between Elrond and Elros's birth, and the flight of their mother, I am taking an artistic leap and assuming that they are extremely young - eight years - which would translate to four years' development for a child of Men. Though love of a fatherly nature sprang up between Maglor and the twins, I would assume that when they found out that Maglor had indeed driven their mother into the sea, parting them from her, they wouldn't be happy about that revelation. Though Elrond is indeed "as kind as summer", I can't imagine him reacting well to Feanorians after that. Marriage to Celebrian should straighten Elrond out.
