Headless Dalish
To say that Merrill had been surprised by Marethari telling her to 'drop everything and come cover for me' would be an understatement. Not that she'd never covered for her Keeper before, in fact she's had to as part of her duties as a First. But she'd been given permission to go learn from Nelyafinwë and that should have meant she wasn't expected to fulfil her usual duties.
"You know it's probably just because you're nearby, right?" Tamlen asks. "You're not so much 'out of the clan' as 'just down the road'."
"Shut up Tamlen, I didn't ask you. Why'd the Keeper send you of all people?" Merrill replies.
"I volunteered. Considering the fight your boytoy picked with Lanaya's clan, I thought it best that someone capable of defending themselves should carry the message." Tamlen sneers.
"We're not like that! And Auriel and Lyna are both better than you anyway, so it should have been them." Merrill snaps back.
The two ride back to their clan, old playful arguments filled with more bite than they once had.
They arrive to find the camp in an uproar. The warriors are looking rather uncertain, as though they don't know if they should be interfering. Tamlen, to his credit, immediately heads towards them to try and get a report on what's happening. Merrill makes a note to thank him later.
For the moment, she slides off her horse and starts to push past the yelling groups towards some kind of central location where she can get everyone's attention. As she does so, she hears snippets of arguments, phrases like 'unworthy of the title' and 'disgrace to tradition' being bandied about.
Finally, Merrill manages to get herself atop an aravel near the centre of the clearing. It's not the Keeper's, it actually might be hers now that she thinks about it.
"Attention please!" She yells.
Her voice is swallowed by the noise and the space of the clearing.
Merrill frowns and tries again. "Dalish. First Merrill here, trying to do my job!"
Some of the closer Dalish actually do stop and turn to face her, but the majority don't hear her. The young elf glares and raises her staff.
A crack of thunder shatters the cloudless sky and the flash of lightning makes the Dalish flinch back.
"Sabrae! What is your problem?" Merrill yells into the brief silence. "Why do you turn upon each other?"
"Merrill?" Someone asks.
"Where's the Keeper?" Another calls out.
"Keeper Marethari is dealing with a magical incident." Merrill replies. "She has delegated authority to me, and with that authority I am demanding someone explain what is going on, now!"
A long pause follows her demand. Then several people try to speak at once, only to fall silent when she glares at them.
At long last, Merewhen, one of the new heads of the leatherworkers, speaks. "We are having trouble dealing with the new situation. We want to petition the Keeper to name new Hahren."
"Ridiculous!" Veregon, a middle aged Halla handler, scoffs. "These new leaders of the various crafts wish to take the title of Hahren for themselves. I shouldn't need to explain why that's ridiculous!"
"We aren't trying anything of the sort, you insipid creep!" Merewhen yells.
"Enough!" Merrill tries to head the argument off before it can begin.
Unfortunately, the size of the clearing and the fact that there are several smaller groups works against her.
Merrill slams her staff down and the sound of thunder brings silence once more. "I will throw lightning around until I am the only one speaking and I'm not afraid to target troublemakers if I have to!"
The Dalish shuffle awkwardly in place for a few moments.
"Now. First." Merrill turns her attention to the two who were speaking. "You know that's not how being a Hahren works right? The Keeper can't just point at people and say 'you're a Hahren'. There's a selection process, and secret lore that has to be taught."
"We know that!" Veregon snaps. "But the selection process and knowledge are both carried out by other Hahren. And the Keeper is the last one left!"
Merrill almost replies before she realises he's right. The Keeper is the last Hahren alive. And even that's mostly a technicality, Keepers don't work like ordinary Hahren. Strictly speaking, nobody in the clan has the authority to select a new set of Hahren. Then again, the next Arlathvhen is, what eight years away? Something like that.
Suddenly a spike of regret hits Merrill. If she hadn't picked a fight with Lanaya then they might have been able to ask her for help, or at least petition her clans. This fight is, in part, her fault.
What on earth is she going to do?
Ok, step one: don't panic. That was definitely the most important part of the lessons on leading. Or so Merrill assumes, she never liked those lessons as much as the ones on magic and might not have paid the most attention.
Cursing her past self aside, Merrill knows enough from observation to know that she needs to make a decision and quickly.
"Enough all of you!" She yells.
She has to repeat herself a few times and point out a few of the more aggressive elves by name to get order, but eventually she manages silence without resorting to any more thunder. It's not a good look to be throwing magic around for attention.
"Look. I get that you're all worried, but this isn't how we deal with this sort of thing." She reminds them all. "If you have a problem, you bring it up with the Keeper or me. I know about it now, so it's time for you to all pack up and get about your business, while I make a plan. Alright?"
There's a long moment of hesitation, then one elf winces and walks off.
Just like that, tradition and authority reassert themselves, and soon Merrill is alone in the clearing. With a sigh, she sinks down to sit, dangling her legs off the roof of her aravel.
What are her options? Stall? For what, the Keeper's return? She might have avoided the inevitable fate of having to lead the clan when the Keeper died (hey, another benefit to immortality) but that doesn't mean that she can offload things on her. Marethari is still grieving her husband if the long stints in her aravel are any sign.
No, she has to do this. So, the real question is does she side with tradition or pragmatism? Well, actually she can't side with tradition. Doing nothing isn't an option, they NEED Hahren, the clan is structured with the assumption that they'll be around.
Ok, so how could she get Hahren in a way the traditionalist would approve of? It's not like she can ask Lanaya anymore.
Merrill winces as another pang of regret hits her. Until two weeks ago that might have been an option, but not anymore. That particular connection is cut quite finally. Even if Lanaya might have aided the clan previously, now she'd probably refuse just to spite Merrill.
That mean Merrill is going to have to try and find a way to placate the traditionalists while giving in to the pragmatists. Which will require delicacy, careful manoeuvring and soothing of easily bruised egos. The kind of thing Nelyafinwë is good at and she… isn't.
"I don't wanna." She whines, in a very dignified, not at all childish, tone.
It takes her some time to actually get started, but that proves more helpful than not. It's time for ideas, primarily she comes to the realisation that she can sort of stall. Not exactly, but she doesn't have to say she's choosing anyone. All she needs to do is get an idea of who's doing the work at the moment, and who people think are worthy.
Of course, this is easier said than done.
"Who do you think would be a good Hahren?" She asks a member of the weavers.
"How should I know?" The elf woman replies. "I don't know anything about what a Hahren does all day. Well, actually, I know they teach the young'uns, so it should be someone who knows how to handle children."
That's actually a very good point, and Merrill notes it down. It's not the only one she gets. They need to be wise, good leaders, not afraid of hard work. She also gets a few names, but most of them only get one or two people suggesting them.
Then, right on cue, comes the challenge from the traditionalists.
Veregon shows up with about ten other people. "I cannot believe you dare to overstep your authority in this way!"
Merrill takes several deep breaths and counts to ten. Then she does it again. Then she fantasises about caving in Veregon's head with her staff.
Finally calmer, she replies. "I'm not doing anything of the sort."
Veregon points at her dramatically. "You are going around asking people if they want to be Hahren, how can that be anything other than an overstep."
Merrill just shakes her head, feeling very tired in ways she can't really explain. "I'm not doing that. I'm asking people who they think would make a good Hahren, and why. Trying to get a feel for what people are thinking."
"Are we to select our wisest elders by popularity contest now?" Orwen, a known smartass, contributes sarcastically.
Merrill sighs. "No. That's not what I'm doing either."
"Then what are you doing, First?" Orwen says, stressing her title.
Merrill resists her first impulse, which is to glare at them. She also resists her second impulse which is to enact her earlier fantasy. Really, she's not even that angry anymore, just irritated. Admittedly, it's the irritation of that one fly that just will not leave you alone, but still not true anger. At least not as she classifies the feeling these days.
"All I'm trying to do," she says with forced patience. "is find out what exactly a hahren does."
"You think that you, a First can unilaterally pick a new Hahren?" Veregon asks incredulously.
"No!" Merrill exclaims. "That's not what I said at all!"
"Sounds like you're trying to pick new Hahren to me." Orwen's nasally voice contributes.
"That's only because you aren't looking at this practically." Merrill replies.
"Why you…" Veregon snarls.
"The Hahren are dead!" Merrill yells. "What part of this is confusing you? They are dead and gone! Do you think when we say they're irreplaceable we're lying? I don't know what a Hahren needs to know, I don't know what they do! The only way I can find out is to ask."
"What gives you the authority to do this, First?" Veregon sneers. "Only Hahren have the right to choose a new Hahren."
"Are we having the same conversation right now?" Merrill asks. "There. Are. No. Hahren. Are you willing to wait a decade until the next Arlathvhen to choose a new set?"
Veregon hesitates before replying. "We cannot have the Keeper seizing universal power in the absence of a council of Hahrens. Tradition…"
"Traditionally, Hahren are required at a number of positions throughout the clan." Merrill replies before he can continue. "Strange how tradition only matters when it benefits you."
"Listen." Veregon says, switching from furious indignation to reasonable dialogue too quickly for Merrill to truly trust it. "I am trying to keep this clan on the right path, with Hahren that have the knowledge required rather than being mere officers of the Keeper."
Merrill gives him the same look she gave Lanaya. "The clan needs Hahren. It can't function without them, so I am going to find out what a hahren needs to do, then I am going to create a list of candidates which I will present to the Keeper."
Veregon tears at his hair. "The Keeper does not have the authority!"
"Veregon." Merrill says, voice as close to the quiet and cold Nelyafinwë's so good at as she can manage. "I wasn't asking you. I am the First of the Sabrae, and I will do what is best for the clan."
The other elves stand still, not sure how to respond. Idly Merrill wonders if this will come back to bite her later. In the end, she decides it doesn't matter. She's already fought one friend for the clan, what's six more.
After a pause that feels like an eternity Vergon bows sarcastically. "Of course, honoured First. We shall let you go about your business."
The group slinks away, glares being thrown at Merrill and mutters of discontent being shared. Merrill remains firm until she can no longer see them, then sags. That, didn't go well and now she's all but certain it will come back to bite her.
With Veregon and his minions cowed for now it proves much easier to take a survey of what people need from a Hahren. Truth be told, it's actually not as monolithic a position as she had imagined. Generally speaking a Hahren tends to continue in whatever trade they held prior to their elevation.
Given the nature of the Hahren, this tends to mean that most of the main groups of the camp have a 'head' Hahren, even if only unofficially. Said Hahren will usually take a position akin to the oldest member of a family, not strictly a leader per se, but someone whose advice must be considered carefully, and sought before major decisions.
At least that's what people tell Merrill about families, she doesn't remember hers.
Truth be told, a lot of what the different trades look for in a Hahren is the same. Generally speaking, they need to be wise, which usually means old. Younger Hahren are going to have an uphill battle regardless of actual qualifications. Secondly, while having the hahren be popular is an advantage, it's not necessary. Much like herself, the position will be respected.
The downside is that the person needs to be able to give advice, or at least pretend to, in a wide variety of situations. If there's an unusual situation then the hahren will be expected to have or come up with an answer to it. If they can't then they're going to be considered fakes.
Annoyingly this means that her list of names has more traditionalists than she'd like. Even Veregon is there.
Merrill sighs. Now she knows why Nelyafinwë is so grumpy sometimes.
Ranging Hound
Solas and his people are settled, and you have done all you can for Shilya and Marethari. Merrill has not yet returned from her clan, and based on what you saw and heard while you were there, it will be some time until she does.
That leaves you with time to take care of something you have been putting off.
Finding the subject of your schemes is not difficult. "Ranger, are you busy?"
The old human looks up at you from the whittling he's working on. "No, just passin' the time with, uh, this."
"That is a rather interesting piece." You observe, taking a closer look. "Good detail, and steady lines. You should be proud."
Ranger blinks in surprise, perhaps at the rapid shift in topic. "Thanks kid, I worked hard on it. It ain't nothin' special."
"Craft is always special, no matter how basic. Even father was once an apprentice." You point out.
"I'm sure if I knew who your father was that would have been comforting." Ranger mutters, hiding his blush in his beard.
You shrug. "Perhaps, but mere words will not capture my father. Sometimes I think that even memory fails me."
The old man's knife pauses. "Yeah. Memory's like that."
You laugh brightly. "Ah, no I fear you misunderstand me. Sometimes, looking back on what my father did during his life I wonder if I might have been hallucinating. He was something of a force of nature, and rather uncaring for what 'conventional wisdom' deemed 'possible'."
Ranger joins in your laughter. "Sounds larger than life."
You nod. "The mightiest of the Noldor, of a kind never to be seen again."
Ranger shifts, fiddling with the carving in his hand. "It can be hard to step out of the shadow of our fathers."
You grin. "Well, choosing to walk a different path can be a helpful beginning."
Ranger relaxes ever so slightly. "Yeah, I imagine it would be. He was, what a carpenter?"
"Smith, though he could turn his hand to just about any craft." You state, then wait until Ranger has completely relaxed before continuing, "Oh, and a master warrior, a leader of men second to none, a gifted inventor, one of the best fathers I have ever met, at least when we were young. I could continue."
"Alright, alright I get it, ya old man was basically perfect." Ranger says, shaking his head and chuckling.
"He would certainly say so." You agree, turning your eyes up to the sky.
For a time, there is silence, save for the scrape of Ranger's knife on wood. It is almost a nostalgic feeling, to sit in a clearing with only the sound of some crafting to accompany you.
Speaking, or rather thinking, of your family, "Ranger, have you found a dog yet?"
"No." He replies offhandedly. "Haven't had time."
For a moment you almost leave it there, but a thought strikes you. "Do you not have time now?"
The scraping of the knife stops. "Uh, yeah, I guess."
"Perhaps we should seek a hound for you then." You suggest. "I certainly have nothing better to do."
Ranger thinks on the matter for a time, then says, "I guess. Where do we even start?"
"We have a number of potential options, it is merely a matter of identifying what exactly you wish out of your relationship with your soon to be canine friend." You state.
"Ok, that time ya were tryin' to drag out the sentence." Ranger accuses with a glare.
"I weep for you, who does not appreciate the beauty of a well-crafted statement." You reply beneficently.
Ranger rolls his eyes. "Right, so the dog?"
"It is you who must tell me what you seek." You remind the old man. "Do you wish a lean hunting hound to seek out prey for you? Does your heart desire a fierce war dog, that might secure you in battle? Or is all you seek loyal companion, the nature of which matters little?"
Ranger falls into silent thought for a long time, before he says, "I guess I don't mind too much. I can see a use for most of them, really. Except a sheepdog. I ain't herdin' no animals for you."
You laugh once more. "Fair enough. If you truly have no preferences, I happen to have a number of Mabari puppies on hand. They should be half grown now, which may be something of a detriment to training, but they would cost nothing."
Ranger shakes his head with a chuckle. "Alright kid, no need to sell them so hard. Let's go check out those pups of yours."
Your poor animal handlers look exhausted. You can hardly blame them, you have nearly twenty puppies to take care of, and there are only three of them. Though you do notice that they spend a great deal of time playing with each other and the sheepdog, who bears their attention with a long suffering patience you find relatable in a manner beyond mere words.
Ranger for his part looks unnerved by the way every hound within arm's reach turns its attention to him.
"Hey kid, are these dogs, uh, alright?" He asks nervously. "I mean, didn't they show up when the forest was all, well, evil?"
"They are." You reply with a laugh. "Quite aside from the fact that they were born here under my protection, their pack was led here by the Lady and thus was already free from corruption."
The old man pauses his petting of the nearest pup. "The Lady? As in the Lady of the Forest? She sent the dogs here?"
"Yes. Did I not mention this earlier?" You ask.
Ranger swallows and sinks down slowly to sit on the ground. He picks up the nearest puppy and holds it close with eyes closed. You lean back against the nearest wall and watch as the dogs in the room slowly cycle into and out of his lap one at a time.
Every dog gets an embrace and more pets than it likely desires, as well as getting to tug on Ranger's beard and hair freely. The old man does not seem to mind, whispering about how they are all so big and strong, and what good dogs they are. The mabari respond with barks and whuffs, which to your deep discomfort you understand.
At some point Ranger stops speaking Thedaslta. Suddenly you feel a deep sense of déjà vu as the human starts huffing and sniffing at the pups. The worst part is you almost understand what he is 'saying'.
Turko must never know!
Eventually the old man has sifted through the various small canines and seems to have chosen one. The mabari in question is small, even for its age, and has grey fur with dark spots like a dappled horse. It is a strange choice.
He looks up at you and coughs nervously. "Uh, so about that whole, um, barkin' thing…"
"Please do not translate what you said." You reply tiredly. "I prefer to live in the world where animal speech is animal speech and not almost comprehensible."
Ranger blinks. "Ya don't think it was, uh, weird?"
"I am surprised that you learned to speak the language of dogs." You reply, slightly bemused. "Given you and the others retained the power of speech I assumed there was no need to do so."
"Uh that was actually the Lady's doin'." Ranger says. "Before that we were basically just wolves. Ya really don't think makin' animal noises is weird?"
"Is it strange to speak another tongue?" You ask. "Is this a human thing?"
Ranger stares at you for several moments, then shakes his head. "Kid. I've said it before, but ya're really weird."
"I maintain that I am the only sane quendi in a world gone mad." You reply primly. "But that is neither here nor there, you have chosen your hound, do you have a name for it."
Ranger lifts the small thing up to his face, where it yaps and licks his nose. The old man chuckles and says, "Witherfang. It's the name of a pretty great wolf, hope ya live up to it."
The dog's bark was not the word yes. You refuse to acknowledge how close the cadence was to any form of affirmative in any tongue. There is no knowledge of animal speech in you, not a drop.
"I had not thought that you would name the hound after the Lady's false name." You say instead. "It seemed as though you were happier forgetting the time you spent accursed. Not even speaking of the strangeness of giving a false name as true."
The puppy puts a paw on Ranger's leg and barks comfortingly.
"Yeah. Kinda, but not really." Ranger runs a hand along the hound's head. "It's not that simple. I don't much care to think about what I did to folks, but the time I spent with the Lady… I don't know how to explain it to ya."
You settle down to sit, fending off a number of puppies who decide that makes you a climbing frame. Ranger laughs at your struggle. Eventually you manage to secure yourself with one sleeping on your leg, another on your lap and a third demanding you pet it on pain of bites.
"I think I might have some idea." You say, as much to stop Ranger's obvious mirth as to continue the conversation. "Tell me if I speak in error, but she was wise in ways you could not put your finger on. Often, if asked a question, she would give an answer that addressed something you were not even aware you needed addressed. Her knowledge was vast certainly, but far more so her empathy."
Ranger itches his beard idly, the puppy in his lap copying him to the best of its ability. "Kinda. It were more than that though. Ya know, it was like all the world was itchin' but she was the only place where ya didn't. If that makes sense?"
You pause in thought, only to be sharply reminded of the penalty of ceasing pets. With a glare at the offending pup, you resume your petting and turn the question over in your mind.
"I think I can imagine, though I suppose that is much different to experiencing it." You say at last. "I suppose that is the reason for your choice of name."
"Well yeah, plus she sent the dogs in the first place." Ranger pauses, ruffling the ears of the newly named Witherfang thoughtfully. "It ain't the whole story though. It's… Do ya remember Swiftrunner?"
"I recall the name, but I do not know much of him. I generally take threats upon my life as an indication that people do not wish to see me." You reply humorously. "In this manner I am unique among my family."
Ranger barks a laugh, so do all the Mabari in the room. You studiously do not think about it.
"Ya know kid, it's a damn shame that Maeglin fellow wasn't one of ya brothers. They sound like a riot." Ranger chuckles. "Uh, where was I?"
"You were explaining why you deemed it appropriate to pass the Lady's false name onto your hound." You supply without hesitation. "To that end, you asked if I recalled Swiftrunner."
"Right. Yeah." Ranger nods a couple of times. "So Swiftrunner was closest to the Lady. I never really got his story, thought he used to be a Chantry type, but he ain't. That's not here nor there though. He always called her Witherfang, and it always made me wonder why. Tracked him down once and made him cough it up."
"I had assumed it was a form of code. Concealing the Lady's identity from potentially hostile forces." You suggest.
"Perhaps in part." Ranger allows. "But he also told me that the Lady told him that she was Witherfang, but at the same time not."
"I must admit to some confusion as to how that is possible." You say, feeling a familiar headache coming upon you. "Yet I am completely unsurprised to hear it.
Ranger snorts "More of that crazy weirdness from those Valar of yours? Yeah, guess they'd be a bit like that. Anyhow, way Swiftrunner told it, Lady wasn't always the Lady. She used to just be some spirit, and it was in binding to the great wolf Witherfang that she learned to be as wise and, I guess human, as she was."
"Then you are hoping that similar blessings might be passed onto your new companion?" You ask.
"Nah." Ranger reaches down and rubs the hound's ears. "I just figure that that Witherfang must have been quite the creature. Figured it was appropriate that such a legacy be passed onto the best boy of the litter."
Witherfang barks proudly, then is immediately dogpiled by his siblings.