Continued from Manhandled, Folly and Fury
Parnard brought his sword down the oiled whetstone in a slow, measured stroke, his mind whirling with black thoughts about the Noldor Nirhen and Estarfin of the Order of the Hammer. He hated them both, but could not decide whom he hated more. Nirhen he despised for making him feel like the most detestable creature on the face of the earth: she mocked his physique, his inexperience, and his ineptitude with weaponry. He loathed her touch, how her sharp fingernails bit into his arms when she yanked him around, and the sound of her voice, shrill and grating to his ears. On the other hand, he hated Estarfin for making him feel weak and helpless, and for threatening to drag him bodily back to the camp, and knowing that he could do this easily made Parnard hate him even more, as he had picked him up by the front of his tunic as if he were little more than a rag doll. He had already forgotten how Estarfin’s twisted features and murderous eyes had terrified him: how easily and quickly fear metamorphoses into hate!
I will never understand these Noldor, he thought, as he guided the blade across the stone again, recalling every spiteful remark and each cruel smirk. His face burned hot with humiliation as he was reminded of when Nirhen tripped him, making him fall face-first in the filthy goblin cave. He was never so angry in his life, and he did not think it possible that he could feel so angry, yet be so calm and controlled to sit a few paces from Estarfin, sharpening his sword in smooth, steady strokes. Does that Noldo ever rest? Parnard gave him a furtive glance. Estarfin was still staring out into the night, his back towards him. Well, he would need rest eventually, and then it would be too late for him. He could deal with whatever punishment Lord Veryacano doled out. Estarfin deserved it. Nirhen too.
He had considered reporting the both of them to Lord Veryacano, but had changed his mind.
A taleteller they will call me. None shall believe the lowly newcomer, and not a single person is in my corner. They will deny any wrongdoing, of course, and use each other to bear false witness. He dragged the sword across the stone, a scowl forming on his face. If I were stronger, I would bear up better under these hardships, and it would not be so vexing! It was a test for him, he decided, an important lesson of life, but in what particular subject, he did not know, nor did he feel much edified.
In his heart of hearts, he feared that Veryacano would side with Estarfin and Nirhen, and even approve of their behavior, because they were of his order, and more worthy and valuable than he could ever be.
Parnard suspected that it was common for the Hammers to be as rude and disagreeable as they could to anyone who was not one of them, and that they encouraged each other to be this way. Perhaps it made them prouder, and fight harder, and by it, stronger bonds of unity were created. That is why I could never be a member of the Order of the Hammer – I could never be as cold and cruel as that, he told himself in his fragile, stung pride. But this did not make him feel any better. Parnard imagined the Hammers gathering together for feasts, and laughing about him over wine, and devising new taunts and other ways to make him feel small and ashamed. And in this bitter fantasy, at the head of the table Lord Veryacano presided, looking smugly upon his Hammer Order with benign complicity.
So that was why Lord Veryacano invited me to come along for the goblin hunt - that his men could have some sport - no! he told himself, shaking his head and making his streaky, unkempt hair fly around wildly, as if trying to drive this aberrant thought away like some troublesome insect. Lord Veryacano would never do that – he is a just lord. Yet the thought gnawed at him, and his anger was tripled, but having no certain target, it redirected itself inward, burrowing deep into his heart. Then Parnard hated himself for being so faithless, and suspecting his lord of an unkindness. He frowned as he examined the blade of his sword, and saw his hollow-eyed, warped reflection glaring back at him.
I was wandering in a world of wishes, and now it is no more.
This thought came unbidden to his mind, and he felt his throat tighten and his stomach knot up. Parnard blamed this fresh malady on his newfound enemies, as he blamed them for everything else that was wrong, whether real or imagined. He brought the sword down with a hard smack upon the whetstone and sharpened it faster. As he swiftly ran the razor-edged blade up and down the stone, a strange, far-away gleam entered his eyes. The pains in his stomach faded, and the pressure in his throat eased a little. Every so often, he would make a harsh, bitter laugh, and was quite oblivious of the looks given to him by observers and passers-by in the camp, and was heedless of what Estarfin might think.
