"This is not a punishment Rossthôn!"
A well suppressed shudder rippled through the elf and he turned his head aside, staring at a happy arrangement of seasonal greenery - bright sprigs of pine bound to holly with joyous ribbons of gold and crimson. When the unwelcome fluttering in his stomach had ceased the elf turned to face his lord once more, a dark haired Noldo before him sitting on a throne carven of fine redwood draped in luxurious woolen blankets against the chill that seemed ever to pervade the fortress even in the high days of summer.
It had been summer when he had first strayed into Fingons territory, worn and weary with the enemy surely on his heels. In Dor Lómin he had been fed, clothed, safe for the first time in his memory. All else that he might have remembered before the mines of Angband had been thoroughly stripped from him; the only thing that remained was his name - the name he had cherished through days of mind-numbing repetition in sunken caverns deep in the roiling earth. The name that had been with him through every slurred insult, every crack of the whip simply because it had been his - the one thing he could not let be taken away.
Standing in Fingons hall felt like a strange dream and for a moment the elf entertained the thought that he might awaken to the sound of a clanging brazen gong sounding it's alarm scarcely louder than the black curses of the orcs.
"Rossthôn..." Fingon began again, his voice far softer this time though his face was etched with weariness. "...I have thought long about this. It is for your good."
A slow panic began to build in the elf and his mind whirled over the events of the preceding days; searching desperately for anything that may have hinted that his lord was displeased. Unease settled deep in his stomach and all his will was bent on standing still instead of falling prostrate to the ground murmuring pleas of forgiveness as instinct now screamed for him to do.
"My lord..." He began, fighting the storm rising within. "...if there is anything I have done, anything at all-"
"-listen to me, you are not in trouble-"
"Surely I have done something!" The elf cried out, the outburst startling Fingon and drawing sudden, curious stares from the hall. "You're sending me away and you won't even tell me why! Tell me why you don't want me here anymore!"
Fingon stood from his throne, moving quickly forward but the elf's sudden recoil checked his speed. Still as stone the elf-lord calmed his own pounding heart, knowing full well that any over-reaction in his own emotion would be amplified in the former-thrall now staring at him with wide and cautious eyes. With a deep sigh Fingon moved - far slower this time - towards the other elf.
"I am not mad at you. And I am not displeased. I am doing this because I am concerned for you Rossthôn; I want you to be happy."
"I am happy." Came the reply, flat as a sour note in the hush of the wide hall. At the unconvincing assurance Fingon shook his head, flashes of gold glinting in the firelight.
"No. No you're not. It's...too much isn't it? I know you're brave, I know you're trying. But you can't fake happiness Rossthôn."
Now standing within arms reach Fingon set a knowing gaze upon his vassal, dark gray eyes searching for any sign of acknowledgement of the truth he spoke.
"Some things you can't force. You can't pretend to be something you're not - not forever. Dor Lómin is open to any who desire a world free of evil, however; it is filled with elves who do not truly comprehend what it is they fight. Sometimes they don't even comprehend those who do."
It was all too clear now to the elf who stood with a knot in his silent throat, listening to the declarations of his lord.
"The other day...I'm sorry. She startled me...I didn't mean to yell. Is...is this because I yelled at her? I apologized right away - surely she heard me!"
Fingon shook his head. "It's not just yesterday Rossthôn. Though; yes, that is part of why I have called you here. But Mírë is not the first elf you've had difficulties with-"
"I told her I was sorry!" The elf whispered fervently, voice rising slightly in distress. "But she grabbed me by the arm and I wasn't looking - it won't happen again so please just tell her I'm sorry!"
Misty gray eyes searched Fingon's face for some sort of clemency from the fate set before him.
"Please...don't send me away..."
Fingon worried at his lower lip, holding his words for a moment longer. If it had just been a misunderstanding he could afford to give the benefit of the doubt. But Mírë had come to him nearly hysterical. She was veritably shrieking that Rossthôn had thrown her into a wall and she swore to any who would listen that he had growled at her - that he had snarled like some feral beast. Fingon of course cooly reminded the harpist that she had in fact been warned against touching any who had been rescued from Bauglir's grasp without their permission or knowledge and that her lord would not hold them responsible for whatever befell anyone foolish enough to disobey that express command. Mirë remembered well enough. She had left his hall in a formidable wrath. And of course she had complained to any who would listen so that now intrigue echoed from every wall and darkened corridor of his fortress.
An elf should not escape the enemy to be assailed by his own kin.
"Rossthôn please. Give this a chance. There is a reason for me sending you to Himring; the lord there is in need of a Farrier - and a good one. I've trusted you with my own horses often enough and you're the best I have, and I only want to send him the best."
Though the painful lump in the elf's throat had not faded he allowed himself a lengthy breath. With clear gray eyes set with resolve he knew that Fingon meant to send him no matter what he might say. Resignation telegraphed in the sag of his muscles the elf nodded.
"Of course my Lord."
"Rossthôn." Fingon's voice was strong again now, yet filled with a deep compassion that was a little unnerving to one so used to heartless commands. "You have a choice in this. Once your task is done if you truly wish to return to Dor Lómin then you may and I will welcome you as I always have. If you choose to stay in Himring I will abide that decision as well and know that you are well cared for. Either staying or returning - it is for you alone to decide. Do you understand?"
With a slow nod that seemed to satisfy his lord the elf at last took his leave. Thus it was with great trepidation that he at long last came to the halls of Himring.
He'd been speechless upon first sight of the citadel towering nearly a half mile above a frozen plain bearing no plant larger than sparse brush hardly fit to cover a hare. Resting between the sawtooth peaks of two legendary ranges, upon a gently hilled expanse that stretched farther north than one could see, rose a basaltic monolith from the low valley floor. It towered into the heavens, the flat crown wreathed in snow that glimmered along it's flanks for a long way before trailing off, leaving jagged and bare volcanic rock below it that slowly faded into the monotonous green-brown of arctic vegetation. As he rode around the curve of the mountains to his left and entered the plain a blast of wind nearly knocked him from his horse - the gale screaming down from the cursed north through the gap between the two mountain ranges. The mare bucked and whinnied and it was only by walking in front of her with harness in hand that after a long day of hard toil the elf was able to make it at last to the foot of what the first guard he met affectionately called 'the hill'.
Staring up at the basaltic column rising up through even the clouds he couldn't help but smile.
Winding up the steep stair as it crawled along the jagged slopes of what the elf could now veritably call a mountain; he focused on the guard in front of him instead of on the certainly fatal fall awaiting him if he slipped. For the length of their time on the stair they walked in a silence that persisted even as they crested the tall peak and came to a massive hall carved from living stone and polished so that it gleamed a deep olivine black in the fickle light that passed through swirling clouds above. Yet for all it's austere and dark beauty the newly freed Ñoldor felt a weight lift from him. Out of the howling winter wind and into closed warm halls they walked; the guard and him now side by side. Though she spoke to him little - making no attempt at the banal small talk that he had endured at nearly every turn in Dor Lómin - he knew much about her already. Dark leather armor was heavily embossed with delicate tracery capturing the liveliness caribou on the run and this was worn over a thick woolen tunic and breeches of the richest deep blue that in the torchlit corridor seemed nearly black. Soft but sturdy boots were in good condition despite the network of scratches in the surface. An elf of the forests and woods who relied on stealth and the cover of deep night for whatever task she was set to. Upon what had surely once been an almost breathtakingly gentle face were thin arching scars that seemed deliberately set into the deep complexion - shining a clean peach against the burnished copper skin. The farrier thus knew that she had been a thrall once as well - and a nicely kept one. Perhaps she had belonged to one of the corrupted maia's in Morgoths service, pampered like a pet so long as she behaved. But he had no desire to inquire about her injurious past and she did not seem inclined to divulge it to him at any rate.
Deeper in the halls the elf noticed that the walls around him were becoming gradually wider and polished to a smoother and higher sheen. Then all at once they descended a small stair and entered a gently sloping corridor that traveled a good way both left and right. The left led downward while the right ascended. Now it was that the traveler first began to hear signs of life of Himring; for as they ascended by the much enlarged hall - one that appeared to be a remnant of a conduit of molten rock that had coursed through the extinct volcano in ancient days - he could hear bits of conversation echoing from side corridors. In the air was heavy with the spiced aroma of crackling wood and hot drinks indicative of the season though not once did the guest see an arrangement of pine or holly or any other festive garland on either wall or lintel.
As they neared what he could sense to be a large hall the elf felt his apprehension return a hundredfold and he used what reserves of will he possessed to keep his face impassive and his stride strong. The guard spared him only the quickest glance before she entered in through the wide-flung oaken doors.
Milling on the edges of the hall between columns of smooth hewn basalt were a variety of elves in all shapes and sizes, conditions and ages. Silvans, Sindar, Noldor, Laiquendi, Avari - nearly all of elfdom represented within the confines of the great hall. Yet for all the elves present it was surprisingly quiet - only the barest snatches of conversation could be heard and to his momentary shock the farrier realized that much of this was spoken in strangely rolling speech that often he had heard echoing through darker halls; though it was changed and it's harsher aspects carefully blunted and dulled.
It was with a lurching sense of dismay that the elf watched his guard give a curt bow to the throne and turn away, heading back to her post and leaving him terribly exposed and alone before the court. Head up and back straight, the elf unwaveringly met the gaze of the noble sitting before him.
For the lord of Himring was not easily confused with any other elf. Legends of the firstborn of Fëanor preceded him wherever he might go and yet as prepared as the newcomer thought he was all rumors had fallen utterly short of what he now beheld. Maedhros' life was written in the fine silken embroidery at this collar and etched in stark jagged lines upon the flesh of his handsome face. It called out his pedigree in the sheer bulk of a well formed and muscular body and whispered it through the somewhat disheveled state of coppery hair slowly regrowing from the slaves short-crop. Upon his right shoulder was a short-cape emblazoned with his crest and from the lay of the fabric the elf knew there could be nothing but air beneath the heavy velvet folds.
Yet for all his regality there was a strange, approachable nature to Maedhros that calmed the raw nerves of the elf before him, soothing his restless nature into a docility he hadn't known for a long time. He was no pretentious lord bedecked in jewels upon an uplifted throne, nor was he a naive warrior out to carve a name for himself from the enemies hide. To the newcomer the elf before him could be nothing less than a king among those for whom there was no respite in the world.
All at once standing in the presence of the once King of the Noldor, amid the silent throng of elves with their strong scarred limbs and quick glowing eyes the farrier felt horribly out of place. Here he stood alone swaddled in finery gifted to him in Dor Lómin. The clothes felt to him foreign - the clinging warmth of soft wool and the fake stiffness of tightly embroidered brocade. His own bearing was little better, possessed of a modest politeness that was galling.
As Maedhros spoke for the first time he was surprised by how such strange it was that a soft voice could resonate with a power befitting the foundations of the earth.
"You are the farrier from Dor Lómin?"
The elf nodded and gave a respectful bow. "Yes my Lord."
Among the crowd there were a few soft murmurs and the elf felt his ears flush. But Maedhros only gave a soft smile through scarred lips and replied. "Very well. But there is no need for formalities here. You may call me Maitimo."
The elf nodded. "Of course my- Maitimo."
The copper-haired lords eyes were understanding. "And you are?"
For a moment a strange word came to the elfs tongue but his lips refused to part for it. For a moment he stood in contemplative muteness amid the silent hall. Then he breathed deep of the warm cavern air filled with the scent of firewood and mulled wine and echoing with hushed movements and whispers in a forbidden tongue and all at once he gave a gentle, relieved laugh.
"My name is Rácathánë."
With an brow quirked in amusement Maitimo nodded. "Rácathánë. Wolf-pine. I hope you'll enjoy your stay here."
Rácathánë nodded appreciatively as the elf-lord rose from his seat and crossed the hall with a slow steady gait. Around them the crowd began to disperse, their conversations drifting away through winding caverns. Beside the smaller elf Maitimo loomed like some benevolent mountain that had decided to rise and stretch it's legs a bit.
"I'll show you around. That is, after you've changed."
"Changed?" Rácathánë questioned.
"You don't want to?"
The farrier gave a deep heaving sigh of relief that ended with a chuckle.
"More than anything if you don't mind."
Maitimo's laughter echoed warmly down the basalt halls.