Maurr Bóurrul is neither an artist nor a crafter, as shocking an admission that is for any Dwarf to make. An armorsmith he is, supposedly, though even at the age of 100 not yet recognized as a master; that never bothered him, though, for as he'd readily tell any who asked, it was the axe that he considered his chief tool. The hammer was just a supplement to it, useful for banging out dents, very rarely cobbling together a whole new helmet for an accident-prone shield-brother. Most commonly, he barely picked up the hammer at all, spending most of his time with pliers and tongs, endlessly fiddling with tiny rings for the endless creation and endless repair of Dwarvish mail, to meet the endless demand.
But that is not the sort of ring he is making now—or attempting to make, at least.
It is miserable going, here at the outdoor anvil of the Hobbiton blacksmith the Dwarf's just sat down at in the middle of the night. Perhaps if Maddoct had brought the articulated prosthetic with him, he'd have had an easier time; with a single hook for his left hand his task has proved almost impossible. After briefly considering his knees or his teeth—both of which he quickly decided were terribly foolish options—he lucked into finding a vise among the benches in the yard, and used that to clamp this silver coin while he hammered delicately along the rim, flattening it out bit by bit. A quarter-inch was as much as he hoped for; now he sits filing and filing and filing at the hole he drilled into its center (another nightmare), wearing it wider bit by bit by bit.
All the while, he wonders why he's doing such a stupid thing.
Because it is stupid. It was stupid of him to be so bothered, in the first place, by the Elf and the dog and the white-gold pin. The dog was, after all, just the gift of an impulsive youngling, and apparently contributed much to the recovery of Maddoct's good spirits. And the white-gold pin—beautifully crafted, and to be worn on Maddoct's lapel just north of his heart "always"... that, too, was fine. It was fine, as Maddoct explained. Treasuring a gift of a friend, wrought by his hands to symbolize his… love and affection—that was fine, natural. No different from the green scarf gifted Maddoct by Miss Addiela, as he said. It was fine. It is fine. There's no reason for it not to be fine.
And yet he spent an hour lying awake, staring at the tent-roof while Maddoct softly snored in the bedroll one over from his, more and more and more bothered until he could stand it no more and had to stumble out and down to the village, to begin this stupid project with these pitiful materials—all that he had on him—at this tiny, borrowed bench.
He pauses, ostensibly to check the size of the hole, though in truth more to look down at his creation scornfully. It really is awful, sad, amateurish. His purpose is to make a trinket for Maddoct to wear, so that Maurr shall not be unrepresented among the friends who have made him adornments—but this is really not good enough. Regarding it, he feels a fresh spike of that hot, unpleasant emotion in his gut; it gleams in his mind, the white-gold pin. Tiny, intricate, a perfect little quill, as if plucked from a goose the size of a hummingbird and transmuted directly to gold; exquisite, beautiful, and more perfect than nature, like all Elf-craft, and crafted in an effortless instant by an Elf-babe who rarely bothers to greet Maddoct more than once every few months. Just like an Elf, gifted with fey skill just for being born a precious, favored 'Firstborn', without ever having to work at it, suffer, cry. And just like an Elf, that the merest acknowledgment, the most insignificant exertion, should be fallen over with gushing praise and enthusiasm, worn and treasured for ever—
He abruptly sets down his file and puts his hand to his forehead, clutching it a second before running his fingers back and forth through his hair, worsening the mess that's already developing there. Doing it again, he thinks, feeling his face grow warm. Acting like one of those awful Dwarves who search for any excuse to be resentful. It's not fair and he knows it; Master Nind's done nothing wrong, nothing to deserve Maurr's inexplicable anger. He's truly ashamed of it, how he acted earlier, interrogating Maddoct about the poor Elf's intentions; none of that is how Bóurr brought him up or how Maurr himself wishes to behave or feel. And yet—he can't stop it fluttering inside him like the heart that's now beating quick with anxiety, the hot and bitter pangs.
Why?
He returns to his ugly project, glumly filing at the inside so that it will fit a finger slightly broader than his own, tumbling that question around in his skull. Why?
Why is he so bothered by the white-gold pin, so much that he had to get up in the middle of the night and make something to compete with it, without delay? Why did some horrible little part of him that he hadn't even known existed feel disappointed, hearing Maddoct's beloved friend was not to die of poisoning after all? Why is such a gentle, beautiful, wonderful friend, and a friendship that gives Maurr such happiness and fulfilment, drawing so many foul sentiments out of him as well?
Why is he making this terrible thing that shan't, when it's finished and polished, be worthy of the warm hand, gentle and tender and wise, in which he'll place it? It's not too late, probably, to reforge it into a beard-bead—but even less worthy of that it'd be, this shabby silver thing in with those delicious red curls. He's embarrassed of it; and yet, he can't leave it aside and wait till they're in town and he can prepare proper materials. He must make it tonight—he can't bear for Maddoct to go one more day without it, the proof of… of…
Of…
It hits him suddenly, like a hammer-stroke to the heart, so hard he's physically thrown back, leaping up from his seat and staggering backward, file falling with a tinkle to the ground. In the dark night his eyes open wide and his body stiffens, invisible lightning striking and shooting through him, crown to toe.
Suddenly, he knows.
He admires him, his beauty and charm, the face sweeter and body lovelier than any he's admired before. So wonderfully he shines—but like the sun rising out of the East, half-hidden behind the hilly horizon, too bashful to show himself in full. Oh, how badly Maurr yearns for him to come out from hiding and shine in his full splendor to dazzle and amaze the world, proud and glorious—to crow, as Maurr once bid, like the cock in his shameless feathers. How that'd make his heart skip! But his admiration, his desire—it is not that.
He adores him, cherishes him, Maddoct, his friend beyond price. He leans on him, clings to him for comfort, this pillar of support and warm source of tenderness that cruel fate was merciful enough to give him, right after it robbed him of his hand. He worships him, loves him—holds greedily to every laugh at his jests, every opportunity to tease him and be teased, every chance he has simply to be his companion, in play, in sorrow, in easy silence. In these few months he's become his dearest friend—and yet. His adoration, his friendship—it is not that, either.
He feels his face going hot again, then numb and prickly, and for a moment cannot breathe. Then he forces a gasp, and his lips move, though no sound passes them:
Mudtê malzana!
His heart is lost.
