Those of us who didn't join the hunting party were roused by a vexed hobbit.
"Look at this place!" Bilbo said, beckoning us to take in our chaotic common space. Maps, tools, mountain gear, half-finished projects, and several piles of sweat-stained clothing that had not yet made it into the wash cluttered the room.
"To say we need to spruce this place up a bit is a vast understatement," he said. "I'm sure you're so accustomed to living in your funk that you no longer smell it, but trust me, it's ... powerful."
"You take charge of cleaning, then," said Oín, "while we're off training."
"Oh no, I'm not your housekeeper," Bilbo said.
"You needn't clean everything, just give us a head start on it," said Gloín.
"We'll do our share afterward," Dori said, "we promise."
"Just don't touch any of our personal items," grumbled Bifur, who had clothing scattered amongst the piles.
Ori was the most skilled with penmanship, so we pressed him to compose a formal dinner invitation for the elves. He wrote it on a fresh sheet of parchment with large, looping letters and signed it Borin & Company. Then he rolled it up and tied it with a blue velvet ribbon.
"Here, you deliver it Bofur," he said, handing it to me.
"Why not you?" I asked.
Ori shook his head, face flushed. "I don't want to."
I shrugged, then waited until Fevelien had finished her stretches to approach and hand it to her. She looked at it cautiously for a moment before taking it from my outstretched hand and untying the ribbon.
I watched her lips move as she read, and couldn't help smiling. Her brows lifted as she passed it to Calearphen. "We're invited to dinner tonight," she said.
Calaerphen skimmed it, then handed it back, her brow creased. "Ninglorwen carfatha os hen," she said.
"Carfathon athen," Fevelien responded, re-rolling and retying the invitation.
"We'll be there," she said to me.
"Where are Borin, Fili, and Kili this morning?" Calearphen asked with a frown.
"They are practicing archery today," I said.
"Dori, Nori, and Dwalin as well?" she asked, planting her hands on her hips.
"Them too," I said, smiling. With six members of the company absent, including several of our best fighters, my chances of winning today had improved.
"Let's postpone the tournament today and focus on polishing your form, then," Fevelien said.
My mood fell, until she continued. "I'm going to spend a little time with you all one-on-one."
I shrugged, keeping my face neutral, while secretly my heart leapt. A little one-on-one time with her was exactly what I wanted. Bombur, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide his feelings.
"Thank Mahal," he said, then hummed to himself as we lined up for drills.
Calearphen ran us through all twenty-one movements several times while Fevelien flitted between us, stopping us only to adjust our posture or positioning.
All the blood in my body rushed to my loins when she surprised me from behind by gripping my shoulders and easing me down into a deeper squat, again when she grasped by elbow and pulled my free arm back, and especially when she placed her hands on my hips and - straddling my back leg - gently pushed me into a lower lunge.
I thanked Mahal that I had worn loose-fitting pants and a long tunic today, and buried all fantasies of her manipulating me this way in bed in the deepest recesses of my mind. Recalling the flowery scent of her hair was all it took me to unearth them whenever I had time to myself.
She and Calearphen took turns observing us and offering advice. Fevelien spent a luxurious stretch of time practicing with me side-by-side.
"Think of your legs and haunches as coiled springs," she said, patting her own solid thigh. "You're blessed with especially thick ones. Use them to propel yourself forward and back. Keep low, kick hard, and you'll be able to throw your opponents off balance before they ever have a chance to strike."
"Excuse me, did you just say that I have thick haunches?" I asked.
"Use them," she repeated, grinning slyly as she moved on to Bifur.
Calearphen watched me run through the movements, her hands never leaving her hips, and then grunted.
"That'll do. You're decent enough when your mouth isn't running," she said, then moved on to Bombur.
We hustled back to our chambers afterward to get to work on making them presentable.
"We'll need a proper spit to roast the boar on," said Oín to Gloín, and they set about preparing the hearth.
"We should find some fresh onions and greens to serve with it," Bombur said. "And berries for tarts."
"Fetch some wine and ale while you're at it," Balin said.
After gathering our tools and half-completed projects and arranging them carefully in our rooms, Bombur and Bifur and I set out foraging for whatever fresh ingredients we could find. We had every intention of picking wild onions, but when we stopped by the garden shed to pick up baskets, Galorion the gardener asked why we needed them.
"There's plenty of fine onions in the garden, you're free to pick what you like there," he said.
"Thank you," Bombur said, "is there anything we can exchange for them?"
"That's not necessary," Galorion said. "Though, if you wanted to pick some vegetables for the main house while you're there I would be obliged."
We returned with one basket laden with onions, another with carrots and beets, and a third with plump strawberries and blackberries. Bombur and I also carried baskets of fruit and vegetables to the main kitchen for Elrond's dinner that night.
Back in our quarters, the windows had all been opened to let in the breeze. Balin swept while Ori dusted. Bilbo ran busily back and forth, directing us to move pieces of furniture here and there. Gandalf lounged on a divan, smoking his pipe and tipping the ashes onto the floor whenever Balin came by with the broom.
"I'm filling the air with the pleasant aroma of pipeweed," he would say, whenever anyone asked what he was doing.
The kitchen staff had said we could return for some freshly baked bread and fine cheeses if we would carry a few extra casks of wine and ale up from the cellar, so we headed back there after dropping off the garden baskets.
At last we had all of the supplies gathered, all except for the meat. The furniture had all been shoved back towards the walls, leaving space in the center for mingling. All of our "mess" as Bilbo called our various tools and projects had been shut away in our rooms. Our instruments were arranged by our favorite seats. I'd laid my clarinet out on a small divan, hoping no one else would notice the extra spot and claim it before I could invite Fevelien to sit there. The spit was ready, wood for the fire gathered, but still there was no sign of the hunting party.
"We've only 5 hours left," groaned Oín, "That's not enough time."
"If they've dressed it, then we'll be fine," said Gloín. "We can put out the other food while the boar finishes roasting."
Two more hours slipped by while we waited. Oín and Gloín baked strawberry and blackberry tarts while the rest of us took turns pacing around the balcony.
Finally the hunting party returned, shoulders sagging beneath their bows. Each of them carried a small sack.
"Where is the boar?" Gloín cried, as they stomped past him, throwing their sacks down by the hearth.
Thorin glowered at the spit, "There were no boars to be found, nor goats, nor deer, nor any other game larger than a rabbit."
Oín opened each sack, lining up the contents beside the hearth. Five squirrels, four rabbits, a pheasant, and three ducks rolled out on to the floor. "What is this? There's barely enough here for us!"
"We can make them into a stew," Dori said.
"Stew? We might as well call the whole thing off!" Thorin growled. "Tell the elves we've changed our minds."
"No!" I blurted, before common sense could stop me. Thorin refocused his glare on me.
"I rather like Oín's stew," Gandalf said.
Rather than answer him, Oín began skinning the rabbits, mumbling an endless string of oaths under his breath. Gloín hauled out our largest stew pot and hung it from the spit.
"We've got carrots and onions to add to it," Bombur said, grabbing a knife to chop the onions.
"What about potatoes?" asked Bilbo.
"We'll have to go back to the vegetable garden," I said.
"And fetch some bacon, too" Oín growled.
"We'll likely end up with more kitchen chores," Bifur sighed.
Because nothing would have pained me more at that moment then to rescind our dinner invitation to Fevelien, I ran back to the garden to dig potatoes. Bifur folded napkins and tablecloths for an hour in return for four pounds of bacon.
Bombur added a bacon, potato and onion tart to the menu, and soon the stew bubbled in the hearth. We had just enough time to bathe and dress before the elves were due to arrive. I left most of my beard loose, weaving just one small braid from my chin, and working the jasper beads into the long bars of my mustache.
Despite Thorin's grumbling, the tantalizing smells coming from the stewpot were enough to cheer the rest of us.
"If our cooking doesn't agree with them, then they're free to seek out their own dinner," Oín declared.
Bilbo had rummaged up a few colorful lanterns, and hung them from the balcony. Candles were lit in our common room, and all the useless colorful throw pillows were gathered from our bedchambers and scattered about the floor. At the last minute, Dori thought to pick some of the flowers that grew near the river, and so we had a few bunches of lilies decorating the side tables.
"I can honestly say that this room no longer smells like rancid feet," Bilbo said.
Barely a minute later, a soft knock sounded on the door. I froze on the balcony, where I'd been pacing as the last of the sunset faded from the sky.
Seeing all us dwarves jolt upright but make no move toward the door, Bilbo darted forward to answer it. Ninglorwen entered first, standing tall and proud, her golden hair glimmering loosely about her shoulders.
"Mae govannen, Bilbo, Mithrandir," she said, gliding straight to Gandalf's side. Gliriel and Calearphen followed just behind, arm-in-arm.
"Is that stew?" Gliriel asked, dragging Calearphen toward the hearth. "It smells delicious!"
Fevelien walked in next, and I confess I paid no attention to the other elves who followed.
She wore a loose robe of shimmering violet. It concealed her legs, but left her bronzed shoulders and arms bare. Her alert eyes roved about the room, glancing over the furnishings, taking note of every exit, where our instruments lay, and everyone's positions. I wove my way in from the balcony to her, pausing only to pour a glass of wine.
"I believe this is yours," I said, offering it to her.
"Annon allen, Raenor" she said. Our fingers brushed as she took the glass. "This is cozy," she added, indicating the room.
"We have no complaints. Very solid workmanship all around. And top notch plumbing," I said, smiling.
"Considering this house was built to withstand the armies of Sauron," she said with a laugh, "I would hope it could hold up to the daily wear and tear of thirteen dwarves."
"Báh, it's not us putting a strain on the plumbing," I said, leaning in and tapping the side of my nose. "it's the hobbit."
She laughed again, shaking her head. "Don't you put the blame on Bilbo."
"So, you're very familiar with the history of this place?" I asked, hoping that she might tell me more about herself.
"I've lived through some of its history," she said, long fingers tapping her glass for a moment before continuing. "I lived here for a time after my parents passed on to Valinor. I sheltered in these halls during the War with the Witch-King of Angmar. The Witch-King laid siege for 53 years before his army was broken."
"I'm sorry-" I began.
"Excuse me, lass, did you just say you lived through the Second Siege of Imladris?" Balin interrupted, loud enough for the entire room to hear.
"Yes," she said. "Calearphen, Gliriel, and Ninglorwen as well."
"That siege ended more than 1500 years ago," Balin said. A hush fell over us dwarves as the implication of his words sank in.
The elves glanced knowingly at each other, some snickering behind slender hands.
"Yes. 1,532 years to be exact," Calearphen said.
"Oh," I said, the air audibly rushing out of my chest. I knew of course that elves were immortal, and had suspected that Fevelien must be significantly older than me. It never occurred to me that she would be quite so old.
"So would you also remember Khazad-dûm in it's glory?" Dwalin asked, his eyes bright.
The elves looked to Ninglorwen, who inhaled sharply through her nose, then nodded.
"Lothlórien maintained contact with Khazad-dûm in those days," she said. "I never dealt directly with the dwarves, but our Lady did. My own memories of dwarves concern them digging too greedily, and bringing destruction onto themselves."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. I sensed Fevelien stiffen beside me. Limdal and Thaliel exchanged panicked expressions.
"Many Silvan elves of Lothlorien fled south as a result," Ninglorwen continued.
"The Dwarves of Khazad-dûm fled north after they were denied sanctuary in Lothlórien," growled Thorin. "Despite us providing safe passage to your lady and her husband when they fled Eregion."
"Why dwell on the past?" Thaliel asked, stepping between them. "To do so would only waste a lovely night."
"I propose a recital, 'Tuor and Idril' perhaps? It's a lovely, romantic tale," said Gliriel.
"Excellent suggestion, nin mellon," Calearphen said, rubbing her shoulders, "why not warm up your voice while I pour us some wine?"
"Wine, yes! Let us all enjoy some wine," Limdal said with a plastered-on smile, gladly taking the bottle that Dori offered her and filling her glass to the brim.
Thorin and Ninglorwen glared at one other, locked in a silent battle. The elf towered over Thorin, her cold grey eyes fixed on his. Bifur and Bombur stepped up beside Thorin, and I started to do the same.
Fevelien stepped forward with me, draining her glass. "I dwelt on the edge of the Woodland Realm at the time. I clearly recall Thrain leading his people north to the Lonely Mountain," she said.
That caught every dwarf's attention, halting all arguments for the time being. I took her glass and refilled it as she continued.
"Thranduil's own halls were built by dwarvish hands, nearly a thousand years before. I would run through the unfinished corridors, ignoring the masons' warnings, to play hide and seek in the lower chambers."
She paused as I handed her the glass, taking another sip before continuing. "The prisoners are kept there now, but I claimed them as my own. My reckless games no doubt expedited my being sent to Rivendell for the remainder of my childhood."
She paused again to exchange a glance with Ninglorwen, who seemed to diminish slightly at her words. "Many of us Woodland folk were glad to see dwarves claim the Lonely Mountain. The kingdom they built for themselves was grander even than the elven king's."
"You've seen it, then, the Kingdom under the Mountain?" Balin asked.
She nodded. "The Elves, dwarves, and men of the region got on quite well for a time."
"Where were you, then, when the dragon came? Do you remember that?" Thorin asked, his voice steely.
Fevelien hesitated before answering. "At home, in a tall beech tree along the northeastern edge of the forest. My flet looks out on the Long Lake. On clear days I could see the mountain. I felt the chill wind of his wingbeats as his shadow blocked the sun, then a rain of fire and ash. Afterward, Calearphen, Orlereth, Rhaweth, and I rode out looking for ... for anyone we might be able to help ..."
She faltered and trailed off, lost in a memory. The room fell silent, aside from a log popping in the hearth. I drew myself closer to her, wanting to shelter her bodily since I could do nothing to remedy her painful memories.
"We gathered what we could of their bodies and put them to rest," she continued at last. "We never made it as far as the mountain. Smaug had scorched the earth bare for miles."
Tears streamed down Balin's cheeks, while Thorin's eyes grew suspiciously shiny.
Fevelien swigged the last of her wine, then fidgeted with glass as if she were debating whether to crush it in her hand or let it crash to the floor. I gently took it from her, setting it down on a side table. Her hand continued to fidget and shake. I considered whether taking her hand in mine would be too bold, and decided I didn't care. Orlereth beat me to it, giving her hand a comforting squeeze.
Fervelien looked at her friend and squeezed back. I wished that I could take her other hand, and have her gaze at me the same way. It struck me then, with a flush of heat rising from my belly to my ears, that I didn't only desire her. I had grown fond of her.
I picked up her discarded wine glass and refilled it as Gliriel launched into the tale of Idril, elvish princess of Gondoloin, and Tuor, the mortal man who loved her. Fevelien and Orlereth settled onto two throw pillows on the floor, and I saw there was an empty pillow on Fevelien's other side. I sat on it myself and handed her the wine.
She smiled at me briefly, then turned back to watch the performance. Limdal rose suddenly on her toes and began to sway in time to Gliriel's cadence, translating her words into motion.
I found myself so enthralled that I almost missed Fevelien gently prodding Orlereth in the side when Glorfindel entered briefly into the story.
"Cheekbones," I whispered, smiling when they both giggled.
Just as the couple sailed off to Valinor together to end the tale, Oín trumpeted loudly into his handkerchief.
"The stew is ready," he said roughly.
In the end, we need not have panicked about the meal. Gliriel took one bite of the mishmash of game simmered in bacon and onion broth and sighed with such deep satisfaction that Oin and Gloin both blushed ruby red.
"It's as delicious as it smells!" Gliriel said. "Have you been doing all your own cooking?"
This prompted the chefs to launch into stories of cooking on the road. Stories from our travels inevitably led to a recap of our mishap with the trolls, which we were all able to laugh at by that point.
"So that's why you've been wearing cut-off sleeves," Fevelien said with a laugh.
"Perhaps I should cut my pants short, now that I know you've been eying my haunches," I said.
Both Bifur and Bombur cast stern glances my way, warning me to stop flirting.
Rhaweth joined us on the floor pillows to eat. Bifur and Bombur followed suit. The trio of elves heaped their bowls with beet greens and dug in greedily, sopping up the broth with hunks of bread.
"We need to ask the kitchen staff to supply us with beets," Rhaweth said, the other elves nodding. "I'm also getting the recipe for whatever the greens were simmered in before we leave tonight."
"You don't pull your own vegetables?" Bombur asked.
"No, we haven't been. Though we might have to, now. We can't let a bunch of dwarves show us up," teased Rhaweth. "I hear you're very popular with the kitchen staff as well, Bifur. We'll all be folding tablecloths before we leave here."
Bifur blushed as deep red as the beet roots that Gloín had roasted in the coals.
"Did we just spend our afternoon picking vegetables when we needn't have?" Bombur whispered to me.
"Just be glad everything worked out," I whispered back.
Betrothal and marriage traditions eventually came up. I had noticed early on that Calearphen and Gliriel's silver rings were the only ones worn by any of the maids. The two of them, at Fili's urging, made their way around the room to display the rings for each of us.
"Exquisite craftsmanship," I said, examining the intricate swirls and flowing curves adorning each of their fingers.
"My father made them for us," Gliriel said, beaming. "He'll be happy to hear you admire his work."
"So, do not many elves marry, then?" Bombur asked a bit later. "That's the way it is with dwarves."
"Many elves do marry." said Rhaweth, eyes flitting between Orlereth and Fevelien. "Most of us just haven't given it much thought."
"Makes sense when you're immortal," I said. "Why rush?"
"A hurried marriage is unheard of among elves," Rhaweth said. "In times of trouble, marriages have been made without a betrothal period. All that's required is consummation. But even then spouses have typically known each other for a hundred years or more."
I nearly choked on my ale when she mentioned consummation. I'd always assumed that elves carried on like human women. My mind whirled at this radical shift in my understanding of elves. All that's required is consummation. These maids were truly maids in the most traditional sense of the word.
I had never limited myself to wishing for a quick tumble with Fevelien, but there was a vast span between that and marriage. A passionate, weeks or months-long affair had been the extent of my fantasies.
"Is that so?" Bombur said, looking my way with raised eyebrows. "That would never be accepted amongst dwarrow. We marry so infrequently that weddings are major celebrations. Family travel long distances to witness the vows. The wedding feast typically lasts an entire day."
"Your traditions are not so far off from ours," Rhaweth said, "It would be considered very rude for Calearphen and Gliriel to forgo their feast and go straight to the consummation."
Orlereth laughed. "I'm sure Calearphen would prefer that to all the trappings that come with the feast. You should know that while she and Fevelien are playing swords with you all, the rest of us are sewing wedding raiments."
"Pardon me, 'playing swords'?" Fevelien said.
"It's more playing axes for us," I said.
Fevelien shook her head. "Whatever you want to call it, I'm glad for the reprieve from sewing duties."
"So you're not interested in marriage, then?" I asked, ignoring Bifur and Bombur's subtle warnings.
"Marriage hasn't been a priority for me," she said softly, her eyes lowered toward her bowl. "Fewer elves are marrying. Almost all of the Nolder have left for Valinor, and many of the Sindar are leaving now, as well. It's only a matter of time before even the Silvan elves head to sea. There doesn't seem much point in marriage."
"Ah," I said, "Pickings are slim, then."
"So what of you? I've heard no mention of spouses, other than Gloín's wife," Rhaweth said.
"He's the only married one among us," Bombur said.
"Not many married dwarves willing to leave their families for a long-term, long-distance music tour," I said with a grin.
"So, are you all not interested in marriage then, or just waiting until the right lady comes along?" Rhaweth pressed.
"I've no interest in it," Bombur said.
"Nor I," said Bifur, spooning up a bit of potato and stewed squirrel. "Not yet, at least. Most dwarves will tell you that before they met their spouse, marriage was the furthest thing from their mind."
Rhaweth fixed her eyes on me. Bifur and Bombur both begged me with their eyebrows to change the subject. Fevelien remained uncharacteristically pensive. I wondered whether she was thinking of her parents, or something else.
"Well, you see, my cousin Bimbur, Bifur's sister, saved me the trouble. She settled down and birthed four strapping young dwarves - two lads, a lass and a Ruli, to be precise. So, the rest of us in our generation of the family are completely off the hook when it comes to marrying and procreating," I said.
"What is 'a Ruli'?" Orlereth asked.
"Ruli is Ruli," I said. "Neither lad nor lass, they are themself."
"So you're all uncles," said Fevelien, one corner of her mouth turning up in a smile.
"Ohh, if any of us ever has a child," Orlereth said to Rhaweth and Fevelien, "The the rest of us will get to be aunties."
"I highly recommend it. You can spend all the time you like playing with the wee ones. Then they go home and you're free to sleep or go our carousing however you like for the rest of the night."
"It wasn't all play. We've changed our fair share of soiled braies," said Bifur. "Though it's been nearly three decades since the last."
"I'm glad to be done with that whole business," Bombur said, scooping the last of his stew into his mouth.
"Bombur here has had his face pissed on while changing the wee lads more than Bimbur, even," I said, clipping my brother playfully on the shoulder. "He always forgot to cover them up."
Bifur howled with laughter, while Bombur frowned. "Why did you have to bring that up?"
"I think the possibility of us becoming aunties is very slight at this point," Rhaweth said with a grimace. "but only summon me when the child is capable of drawing a bow."
"Limdal has an admirer, but Orlereth may be out best hope, if she ever talks to Glor-" Fevelien was cut off by Orlereth's hand over her mouth.
"Stop!" Orlereth said.
"Very well then, we'll all grow old together and spend out days braiding each other's beards once they grow as long as Círdan's," Fevelien said.
We looked at them blankly.
"An elf with a beard, that would be a sight to see," Bombur said.
"Have you never heard of Círdan?" Rhaweth asked, her eyes growing wide.
We shook out heads.
"Círdan the shipwright? Guardian of the Gray Havens?" Rhaweth said.
"Oh! I've heard of the Grey Havens," Bombur said.
"He is Calearphen's great-great-great ... something or other, and he is very old. So old that he has grown a beard," Rhaweth said.
"I think I would like to grow a beard," Orlereth said, pulling her long copper tresses over her chin. "Or at least a mustache." She pulled a single lock over her upper lip.
Rhaweth drew a black ringlet over hers. Fevelien pulled a lock free from her bun. The three of them all pursed their lips to hold their makeshift mustaches in place. I found myself oddly turned on by the effort.
"Mustaches suit you," I said, repositioning my empty bowl to cover the unexpected blood flow to my loins.
"Who's ready for dessert?" Gloín called out, holding up the strawberry and blackberry tarts.
"Can you fetch me a slice?" I asked Bombur.
"Why can't you get your own?" he asked.
"I'll get one for you," Fevelien said, standing up. The ribbon holding her bun in place slid free and fell to the floor, loosing her hair in a black wave. "You've kept my glass full all evening."
"Annon allen," I said, picking up the silk ribbon, thinking to hold it for her until she returned.
You promised, Bombur's eyes said accusingly. I turned away.
The tarts were eaten and calls for music had begun before I remembered that I had laid my clarinet on a divan. I leapt up to fetch it just as I heard Ori's plaintive wail.
"Bofur, I'm afraid I've sat on your clarinet," he said, holding it up. "I didn't see it until it was too late."
I took the pieces from him. The reed had snapped in two, along with the clip that held it in place. I huffed out a heavy breath.
"Can it be fixed?" Fevelien asked.
"I can make a new clip," I grumbled. "But this was my last reed."
The elves laughed.
"You'll find a new reed here," Fevelien said, her eyes glimmering. "I'm sure we can find you enough to last you through your tour."
I flopped back onto my pillow, feeling foolish.
"So you can just make yourself a new clip?" Orlereth asked.
"Yes," I said. "It will be fairly simple. We've been churning out rope clips by the dozen. You never know when a rope clip with come in handy. Just like the toys Bombur has been working on. You never know when you're going to need a spring-work toy."
Orlereth and Rhaweth's eyes grew wide.
"You make toys?" Orlereth asked, focusing her full attention on Bombur.
"Yes," he said nervously, his eyes darting back and forth.
"Can we see them?" she asked. Rhaweth nodded enthusiastically by her side.
"What song should we begin with tonight?" Dori asked the crowd.
"Hold on," I said, "Bombur's about to showcase some of his toys."
Enthusiastic sounds echoed about the room. Bombur shook his head, eyes wide with terror.
"Go on, they want to see your toys," I said, shooing him toward his bedchamber. He tread cautiously through the room, face pale and sweaty by the time he reached his door. He closed it behind him, and for a moment I thought he might hide there for the rest of the night. Then the door creaked open again and he shuffled slowly back, his arms cradling half a dozen toys in various stages of manufacture.
Bifur had already cleared a table in the middle for him to place them on, and the elves had arranged themselves in a circle around it. Rhaweth, Orlereth, Gliriel, and Thaliel all clapped their hands as Bombur wound each one up with shaking hands and set it loose. First came a little bird that lowered its head to peck at whatever surface it was placed upon, then another bird that flapped its wings, a mouse that ran in a circle, a butterfly that opened and closed its wings, and finally, two little dwarves, one that clapped a pair of symbols and one that beat a drum.
"Do you ever sell your toys?" Thaliel asked.
Bombur shrugged, "Sometimes. It's really just a hobby."
"Music is our full-time profession," Bifur said, his face serious if you ignored his twinkling eyes.
I noticed Fevelien had not joined the group circled about the toys. I found her standing on the balcony, holding the two halves of my split reed and gazing up at the stars.
My mind was all muddled, trying to make sense of my jumbled emotions in the context of the knowledge I'd gained tonight.
"I'm not that upset about the clarinet," I said to her.
"I would loan you my pipes to play tonight," Fevelien said to me dully, "but I left them back in my room."
"Are you not in the mood for sad songs, then?" I asked.
"No, honestly, I'm not," she whispered, handing me the broken reed.
I shoved it in to my pocket, and realized I still had her ribbon.
"A trade," I said, handing it to her. I had many questions I wanted to ask her, like what had happened to her parents, and did she long to sail to Valinor, or did she prefer to stay, and if the right suitor approached her would she consider his proposal. I also had much that I wanted to tell her, like how much I loved her laugh, and how glad I was to have met her, and how she frightened and beguiled me at the same time. I didn't know where to begin.
The corners of her mouth turned up briefly as she took the ribbon and wrapped it around one wrist.
"Fool thing never stays put," she said.
"A clip might serve you better," I said. "The kind with a pin."
Bifur appeared in the doorway of the balcony, loudly clearing his throat. "We're about to begin the music," he said.
"We know some very silly songs," I said to Fevelien, striding back inside and climbing up onto a chair.
"We should begin with 'The Bath Song'," I bellowed, already stomping out the rhythm with my feet. Then singing:
Sing hey! For the bath at close of day
that washes the weary mud away...
It was a short and simple song, and considering that it was all about bathing, surprisingly free of innuendo.
The others soon joined. The song ended with:
as splashing Hot Water with my feet!
Which of course was accompanied with a kick. I'd forgotten this when I leapt up on the chair, and decided to be clever and leap off of the chair with my kick. My left boot slipped on a silk cushion as I landed, and for one horrifying moment I felt myself toppling backward. But my right boot had landed square, and I bent deep into that leg, giving my left time to find purchase and - not fall flat on my arse. I straightened up, smiling as if I had meant to land that way. Fevelien had snuck back inside and made her way to my side.
"Today's training session paid off," she whispered into my ear.
"I thought you might appreciate watching my haunches in action," I whispered back, with a wink.
"Let's play a love song next," announced Dori. "How well do you elves know the story of Yavanna and Aulë, Mahal in our tongue?"
"Aye," said Gloín, "that's a love story for the ages."
There was no foot-stomping in this ballad, so I settled back onto the floor to hum the bass line. I was all too conscious of Fevelien's body settling next to mine, close enough to smell her flowery hair. My left hand rested barely a finger-width from her right. I imagined how it would feel to clasp her hand in mine, and to gently stroke the soft flesh of her inner wrist with my thumb.
I tried to lose myself in the song, but couldn't stop from glancing up at her. She smiled, looking content, and I felt myself grinning like a fool, missing some of the notes. Her eyes suddenly flitted around to mine, her smile broadening.
"It's a shame you aren't actual professional musicians," she whispered.
"Who says we aren't," I said. "We might just perform in Thranduil's Halls one of these days."
"That I would pay to see," she said, chuckling.
"Oh no, you would attend as our honored guest." I replied.
All throughout our exchange, I reeled with the recognition that I was falling for her. I'd already plunged too deep to catch myself and turn back. And even if it came to naught, I would craft her something simple and beautiful to express how much she meant to me. The design for her hair clip came together in my head.
Notes:
Ninglorwen carfatha os hen = Ninglorwen will have something to say about this (Sindarin)
Carfathon athen = I will speak to her (Sindarin)
Mae govannen = Well met (Sindarin)
Annon allen = Thank you (Sindarin)
nin mellon = my love; mellon can mean friend or lover depending on the context (Sindarin)
"The Bath Song" was a favorite of Bilbo's.
Source: J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, "A Conspiracy Unmasked"