The People
The Sabrae were the first people you met when you arrived here. They aided you when they did not have to, despite the reputation of the Dalish for hostility towards outsiders. You acknowledge that this was largely Merrill's doing, and you have long repaid any perceived debt their care might have engendered. That does not mean you should simply ignore them, though.
Further, you have always been taught that friendship between kindred should go far beyond mere repaying of debts.
You whistle a cheery tune as you ride through the forest. Merrill was far too deep into research to accompany you, which is a shame, but it is not as though she cannot travel back to her clan alone.
There is something calming about riding alone through the forest. The beauty of these places far from the touch of humanity stirs something within you. You also appreciate the time alone with your thoughts, far from your responsibilities.
You wipe spider blood from your blade as Orundómë's kick shatters the carapace of the last living arachnid. You had almost forgotten how unpleasant these journeys could get away from your roads. This forest is dangerous, and it would not do to forget that fact.
Late into the second day of travel, you arrive at the Dalish camp significantly more annoyed than when you had departed home. You find yourself welcomed surprisingly warmly for the late hour. The guards wave you past without a word of challenge, and there are far more smiles than glares among those you pass.
Since it has been some time since last you visited, you decide to check in with the warriors you trained. Fortunately, they are still maintaining the schedule you helped work out. Even better, you still remember it well enough to predict their movements.
The first person you see is Junar. You vaguely recall he was elected leader of the third warband. He meets your gaze when you arrive at the training grounds. He nods at you, you nod back. The Elf turns back to his warband and continues to train without paying you any further heed.
You like Junar. He is sensible.
Later, as the sun sets, you walk to the central fire pit. There you see Tamlen again.
"What are you doing here?" He exclaims, half annoyed and half astonished.
"I thought I would come and aid you as I did in the early days of the year," You note idly, hoping to annoy him with your calm, "Why do you ask?"
"I had hoped to never see you again, Shemlen," The elf sneers.
"It is strange to be called quickling by one with so short a life," You note, relishing the flash of rage that passes across his face.
"Why you…" He snarls.
"What is going on here!?" Marethari's voice rings across the central clearing.
"A discussion on the nature of time and language," You state, turning to face the keeper.
The old Dalish gives you an unimpressed look, "Of course you were. Perhaps you could instead go talk to Auriel, she has been eager to see you again."
For a moment, you consider making a point of disobeying. She has no authority over you, and you dislike being told what to do at the best of times. In the end, you decide that nothing will be gained by making a scene and return to the training grounds.
Auriel is waiting there. She grins at you as you approach and holds up two bows.
"I hope you've been keeping up your practice, because I've improved by leaps and bounds, and I'm ready to teach you a lesson," The Elf boasts.
You glace at the bows and then to the sun, "In this light? Are you certain this is wise?"
"Not up for the challenge?" 'Sunny' asks innocently.
"Do you think me a child to be so easily manipulated?" You ask pointedly, "Because I am not. Now give me a bow, for reasons entirely unrelated to what you just said."
She giggles as she hands a bow over, believing wholeheartedly that she managed to convince you. Such things matter little to you, your question was directed towards aiding her. Of the pair of you, she is the one who will struggle to see in the fading light.
Still unused to the motions after so long away from the weapon, you draw and loose slowly. Each arrow hits the centre ring of the targets, and you would call your performance acceptable. Easily accurate enough to kill an Orc, though not enough for a dragon on high.
Auriel meanwhile performs significantly worse. Despite the clear improvement in skill she lacks the instinctive sight-picture you developed over centuries of practice. The only thing holding you back is muscle unfamiliar with the requisite motions. She has to deal with the struggle to consciously track all the variables of an arrow's flight.
She still only loses by about ten points.
Having a meal at a roaring fire is not usually the best time to address business proposals - most leaders do not appreciate work intruding on their personal time. In this case, you suspect Marethari will forgive you, since she is busy, and you arrived unannounced.
Sitting beside the Keeper, you ask, "Have you reconsidered my proposal to build a road in this direction?"
Marethari glances at you, swallows her food, and sighs, "My concerns haven't gone anywhere. We're nomadic by nature and setting down roots like that won't be as useful as it is to you."
"Surely you have heard from your merchants how much more convenient the road is, when they reach it? It would speed travel greatly and allow me to come to your aid in times of trouble," You point out.
"And guide a human army straight to us," Marethari counters.
You raise an eyebrow, "Surely you cannot say that knowing for a fact which direction the enemy will approach is a disadvantage? Even if it were, there is no need to build it to the camp itself. We can build an outpost a short distance away."
The keeper stares into the fire, "You've given this a great deal of thought."
"I am a prince of the Noldor," You reply, "Such considerations are only natural."
"We are not the Noldor," Marethari says quietly, "Do you understand that? Do you know what that means?"
"Of course I know you are not the Noldor," You reply, reminding yourself that it is an understandable question, however insulting it is, "You are not even the Laiquendi1. Your faces would remind me of that, even if your culture did not. I am not asking you to become Noldor, I am asking you to let me build a road to a nearby spot so that my merchants do not get eaten by spiders."
Marethari laughs quietly, "I'm sorry. There are many things on my mind of late. Leave it with me, I'll talk to the Hahren and the traders and tell you tomorrow."
You nod and return to the meal before you. The rest of the evening is passed in quiet companionship. Softly spoken stories of elder days traded for quiet tales of wandering elves.
The next day, sometime after noon, Marethari meets you once more.
"The traders think it would be beneficial. They complain about the impossibility of moving carts through the undergrowth. The elders think it's a terrible idea, but they trust you enough to hear you out. Surprisingly the warriors want the road too - they say it is too dangerous for the caravans without them," The old Keeper informs you.
"I appreciate the trust you are showing me," You reply humbly, "I will do all that I can to ensure it is not betrayed."
"Always so dramatic," Marethari faux sighs, eyes sparkling with mirth, "Shall we get started on the planning? I'm interested in what you think will work."
You came prepared. You have a rough sketch of the area with probable road placements marked. You spread it out over a nearby stump and begin your explanation.
"There are only so many designs that work for a road. I intend to use stone because it is the most durable material," You explain, gesturing at the markings, "The details do not matter, as I will oversee construction myself."
"Really? You're going to build our road for us?" Marethari asks teasingly.
"I certainly plan to, though if you think your people should be involved, the plan can be reworked to include them," You reply.
"Included how?" Marethari asks cautiously.
"That would depend on you. I am more than happy to explain the construction process, or you could acquire the stone. If nothing else they can provide the labour; it is tiring but rewarding work," You explain, "Even a combination if that is what you want."
The keeper is silent, considering her options.
"I think our best chance is if we get the materials for you," Marethari decides, "We've got the purchasing capacity and manpower to get the stone shaped. Not the labour though; there's too long a history of slavery to have anyone happy with working on someone else's project."
"Understandable," You reply, "The stone is likely to be the largest single investment, and it would leave me free to oversee as I deem fit. It is a thoroughly agreeable compromise."
Marethari grins slyly, "Hold on a minute, I'm not quite done. Since this is your idea, and I don't want to look like I'm becoming your mouthpiece, you get to convince the elders to agree to the plan."
"Excellent," You reply.
Marthari blinks in surprise, "Pardon? How is that excellent?"
"While I have nothing but the utmost respect for your leadership skills, I am still by far the more skilled and experienced in aligning others' goals with mine," You explain, "Thus, my convincing the elders makes the most sense."
Marethari shakes her head chuckling, "You are a very strange being Nelyafinwë, and I'm not sure I will ever understand you."
"The feeling is mutual," You reply to the keeper.
"What's strange about me?" Marethari asks, mock offended, "I will have you know I am the most normal elf you will ever meet."
"Where do I even begin?" You answer her teasing with your own, "For a start you, and your entire people for that matter, looked at facial injuries and said 'you know what these need? Ink.' And that is only the beginning of your strangeness."
The elders of the clan will simply have to wait while you finish your conversation with the keeper.
The elders look like old humans. Any being that is kin to your own kind having grey hair and wrinkles will never not be strange to you. Paivel is glaring at you from his central position, but the majority seem largely indifferent to your presence.
"Why exactly should we pay for stone for your road?" Paivel asks haughtily, "We are not a bank or a charity."
"I am not asking you to pay for stone for my road, I am asking you to be involved in the construction of a road that will benefit both of us," You explain, determined not to let Paivel stir you to anger, "This is very much an equal partnership, a sign of the alliance between myself and you."
Your angle of argument seems popular with most of the elders. Paivel leads a group of sceptics, but you can forgive their suspicion. No doubt people have tried to take advantage of them in the past.
"Your own traders want this road, and I am going to build it. If you truly wish nothing to do with this, then I will simply pay for the stone myself," You say to the unconvinced, "That would mean that I have sole ownership of the road. I could charge tolls for its use, or have it lead straight to your camp."
"Are you threatening us?" Paivel hisses.
"No, I will not do any of that, you have my word," You reply, "Yet you cannot deny that if you are uninvolved in this construction, you will always be waiting for 'the other hat to drop' as I believe the saying goes. This way you have insurance."
You would like to say that ended the discussion, it did not. For a start, you had used the saying incorrectly, and Paivel gleefully corrected you at length. Further you had to convince the group that your word was worth anything. It ended up with a contract drawn up in triplicate: One for each party and another for Lanaya's clan, who would act as guarantors.
There is little to say on the matter of building the road itself. Once the workers are hired and the stone is purchased, it is nothing you have not already done. In some ways it is almost disappointingly boring, though seeing the warriors of the Dalish watching the progress carefully is comforting.
They do need to work on their stealth, however.
A Teacher
The majority of your staff are not what you are used to. Growing up in Valinor among the Noldor, one becomes accustomed to a certain degree of casual competence. Your staff do try their best, but they are simply not a match for those in your childhood memories, or adult memories for that matter.
It would be wrong to fault them for this, of course. They have not practiced their craft for a full year. It would be the height of unreasonable expectations to demand the same skill from them as a Noldo who has practiced their craft for the better part of a century.
You lean back in the chair you brought outside. From a balcony at the front of the building, you can survey the forest past the walls. You have a glass of passable wine, a beautiful view and plenty of time to scheme.
There is no need for your staff to despair; you are more than happy to train them until they are capable of the same level of skill, in only a fraction of the time. Admittedly however, you cannot do this for everyone. You have already taught both housekeeping and Vintners as much as you know of their tasks.
That leaves you with both sets of your warriors and your farmers left to teach. Many are surprised by the depth of your knowledge of agriculture. They should not be; how are you supposed to make wise decisions about your people's farms if you do not understand how they work?
The warriors are a slightly more difficult problem. While you have more to teach both groups, they are at different levels and are starting to have such divergent roles that teaching them together risks diminishing returns. It remains a possibility, so perhaps you should consider it as an option.
Heavy infantry have always been the backbone of Noldor armies. The armoured sword line or spear wall that cuts down the hosts of Morgoth... Teaching these humans to that standard is a challenge, but not one you find impossible. Even the solid shield wall of the Dwarves would be useful, truthfully.
Your horsemen on the other hand, being more skilled, are even now taking on an expanded role. Acting as rangers, seeking distant foes and generally acting as your eyes and ears throughout the forest. They could probably use some lessons in combat and independent planning - they were lucky, last week, that the first strike did not slay Anneth for there is currently no replacement for her.
As you consider these options, your ears catch the sound of singing. From the courtyard, if you do not miss your guess. The song is a simple but pleasant melody. For a moment you are confused, who could possibly be in the courtyard at this hour?
Wesley's beloved, that is who. She does not have any role to fulfil and presumably does whatever she wishes. Perhaps you could give her something to do? She is not being paid and her living here was a condition of Wesley working for you.
Yet as you listen to her song, you consider further. While you do not need her to work, she might find having something to do fulfilling. Not necessarily practical, of course. You have been bemoaning the lack of music in your halls.
Yes, your halls could use a singer. The sounds of conversation may fill the silence, but they do not match the ambience created by a gifted bard. Resolved to make the young woman an offer, you drain your glass, stand up and walk towards the courtyard.
You enter the small pocket of greenery in your building, the walls around you shielding you from the heat of the sun, at least until high noon. Sitting on a low branch of the tree in the centre is Wesley's love.
She has pale blonde hair, 'finest gold spun by angels' as Wesley describes it. Her skin is somewhat tanned by farm work, but less so than most farm women you have seen. Most striking are her green eyes, unusually bright in colour, which Wesley prefers to call 'shining emerald orbs'. All together it makes for a decently pretty human.
"Greetings, madam," You call out as you enter, "I would speak to you, if there is naught pressing you must attend to."
The girl's singing comes to a sudden stop, and she turns her head to looks at you. For a moment, there is no response. Then she scrambles down the tree quickly. She smooths her dress down frantically and attempts a crude curtsy.
"M'lord. 'm sorry. Did I disturb you? I can go somewhere else if you like?" The young human babbles, panic clear in her voice.
Perhaps it is cruel to laugh, but you cannot stop yourself from doing so, "Forgive my mirth. My brother was a famously loud-voiced individual, and I had to endure his entire journey to mastery over song. Your pleasant melodies hardly compare."
"Um, yeah. That's good to hear, m'lord?" The young woman responds, clearly confused and flustered by your response.
Recomposing yourself, you raise your hands in apology, "Forgive me. I did not mean to distress you."
Wesley's love does not relax at your words, "Right, whatever you say, m'lord. Did you want somethin' m'lord?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact," You are prepared to move to your offer when a thought strikes you, "I do not believe we have been properly introduced. I am Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, eldest of the sons of Fëanáro and lord of the forest. Might I inquire as to your name?"
The young woman mumbles her name beneath her breath. Though you hear it, you judge it unwise to reveal the keenness of your ears at this juncture.
"My apologies, you spoke too softly. Could you repeat your name?" You ask.
"Crowsfoot," The girl says quietly, face flushing red, "M' pa wanted to name me after m' ma's favourite flower. Please don' make fun of it."
"I had no intention of doing so," You state calmly, concealing your confusion as to what about her name is worthy of mockery, "Well, Crowsfoot, I was wondering if you would be interested in having something to do."
"Somethin' to do, m'lord?" The girl blinks in confusion., "If I need to earn my keep, I'm more than happy to. I'm not sure what I can do exactly, but I'm willing to try anythin'…"
The human trails off suddenly blushing fiercely, so you take the opportunity to respond, "There is no requirement for you to 'earn your keep'. You are welcome to remain here at no cost to yourself if you wish. I merely thought that you would find idleness unpleasant and having some task might entertain you."
"Oh? Oh. OH!" The young woman's blush becomes even fiercer, "Um. Yes. That sounds nice."
"Is there anything you would like to try?" You ask calmly, patiently waiting for her to calm down.
"I ain't never tried anythin' but farmin'," She replies after a minute, "An' Wesley an' I tend to, um…"
"Dissolve into bouts of spontaneous love poetry every time one of you so much as crosses the other's vision?" You ask rhetorically, "Well, outside of fields, is there anything you would like to try?"
The girl shakes her head, "Do you have any suggestions, m'lord?"
"I came here because I overheard your singing. It would be a shame if the halls were to remain silent," You observe casually, as though you had not been planning to direct her towards this path from the beginning, "Perhaps singing would suit you."
"A singer? Me?" Crowsfoot points at herself, "Like one of them travelin' singer types da always warned me about?"
You stare at her in confusion, "Given that I have no idea what you are talking about, no. I plan to teach you to sing as I was taught."
This gets you a disbelieving stare, "You know how to sing, m'lord? If'n you don't mind me askin', why do you want me to do it then?"
"Just as I hire warriors to fight where I cannot, and how I hire workers to mind the orchards, I want someone who can sing when I must do other things," You reply seriously, "Besides which, you are far more likely to get honest feedback and song requests than I."
"You're not just bein' nice are you, m'lord?" The girl asks suspiciously, "This ain't some cushy job just to make me feel like I'm contributing? I get that I don't need to do anythin', strictly speakin', but I ain't lookin' to do busy work neither."
You burst into laughter once more, "Crowsfoot, I assure you that this is in no way an easy task. I have extremely high standards for those who sing in my hall."
Your laughter peters out as you focus on the seriousness of the situation, "Further, you will be practicing day and night when you are not seeking out new music, whether it be your own creation or another's. It is a time-intensive task that risks serious physical injury if you do not pursue it with care."
Strangely the girl seems comforted by your declaration of the challenge she is undertaking, "Right. I'll do it!"
The immediate problem you run into is that Crowsfoot is not a patient woman, nor is she a naturally gifted learner. You have to walk her through the vocal exercises necessary to prepare herself for the role many times. The sun has passed overhead and beyond the wall by the time you get to talking about songs.
"What kinds of songs do you know?" You ask her.
"Umm, I know bits of the Chant?" The girl volunteers nervously, "Some festival songs. I wrote a song for Wesley, if you'd like to hear it?"
You can already tell this will be bad, but not wanting to discourage your student, you nod.
It is every bit as bad as you thought. It does not rhyme, the rhythm keeps changing, honestly it barely counts as bad poetry, let alone something as exalted as a song. It is a list of compliments to Wesley in vaguely flowery language. You genuinely have no idea where to start fixing it.
"Ok, you can stop now," You tell your newest student.
The girl does not respond.
"That is enough!" You repeat, more forcefully.
After a few more attempts, you realise that, much like her paramour in similar situations, Crowsfoot is in a world of her own and your voice will not reach her.
While you are reluctant to physically touch the woman given her obvious nerves around you, her alleged singing drives you to do so, shaking her by the shoulders until she stops singing.
Looking at her dazed and confused face you foolishly assumed that will be the end of it, but only moments after she stops, you hear it start again from behind you.
Wesley had arrived in the courtyard at some point during your attempted lesson. Obviously moved by his love's song, he has taken up a counterpart 'melody'2. The lovers interlace their fingers, staring into each other's eyes as the passionately sing about how in love they are.
It is too much for you, amid horrifying flashbacks to not only Kano's courting days, but also Kurvo's, you flee while your sanity lasts.
1 Green elves: Name for the wood elves of Beleriand. The sons of Feanor lived with them after the fall of Himring
2 Sadly you know no other word for what they are doing and quietly apologise to musicians everywhere for insulting their craft so.