“No... no...” Arlodrir mutters as he draws one of his knobby knuckles over his bottom lip.
Peering with his good eye, he inspects his bedside dresser and the small, pretty stone atop it. He reaches out to scoot it just a half-inch to the left before resuming his contemplative staring.
“What do you think?” he lowly asks, turning his head to the little orange and white cat, who seems more busy with getting hair on his side and kneading his bed’s covers. “Yeah, I think that’s fine,” he answers, giving Pumpkin’s head a rub.
Today is a somewhat rare occasion. That is, he has the Boarding House all to himself, just for a moment. The other folk who live here are probably doing… whatever it is young people do on nice spring days like this. And it is very nice outside, but Arlodrir is taking advantage of it by doing a little bit of rearranging inside.
‘Maybe you can put it up by your spot at the boardin' house. Make your space all fancy and whatnot.’
Finchley had said that with a large grin, some nights ago, in reference to the pretty rock and its accompanying datolite. The Dwarf didn’t tell her, but he’s greatly amused by his winning that silly bet; he hardly wanted to participate in the first place… but now he’s glad he did, as his prize makes him smile a fleeting moment.
It soon falls as he continues to examine his space: the rock, a candlestand, two books. Now it’s too cluttered, he thinks, then grumbles aloud, “Suppose I can put a book away.” Plucking up one he’s already read, he opens his side of the dresser... and cringes at the state it’s in. Filled to the brim with trifles or other things — knick-knacks, as the Woman had called them.
Annoyed and chagrined, he starts taking all the bric-a-brac and putting it on his rumpled bed, Pumpkin deftly weaving around it all. The only thing he leaves in the dresser is all his coin that he doesn't keep on his person, stored instead in an empty pipeweed bag for safe-keeping or emergency. What he does remove is: four wooden boxes, sizes ranging from large to small. A matching silver scarf and hat, a flask. Two shirts, two robes (burgundy and dark blue), a tan blanket. A large sachet, another book, a few pipes.
When Arlodrir began boarding last year at the start of autumn, he didn’t ever expect to settle in like this, nor collect so much…
Junk.
Or that’s what he decisively calls it, anyway, as he begins sifting through, figuring what can be tossed out and what can be kept.
He allows himself two piles: that which will stay, and that which will go. All the clothes are a definite keep, as he needs those; he pushes them closer to the head of the bed, then begins trying to re-fold them all neatly. Pumpkin begins curling up on and cuddling with the knitted hat, but the Dwarf doesn’t mind; Taite may have made it for him, and he cherishes it, but… he can’t strike an intimidating image while wearing it. Of course its companion, the scarf, got much use in the wintertime, and he has on the socks she made for him in autumn.
Once that task is finished, he turns next to the soft blanket, which gives him pause. The horrible Hobbit had given that in her little pity-picnic-present. The basket it came in has since been left in the kitchen, to be used by Taite as she likes, and the Longbottom Leaf long since smoked. And this… well, alas, it’s a perfectly good blanket, despite who gifted it.
Arlodrir sets it with the keep-pile.
Next is the flask. It, too, came with it all, but the Dwarf doesn’t need to debate whether it stays or goes; it’s good for keeping water in while he works at the lumberyard. Kithri specifically asked for it back, sure, but she has probably already bought another by now with her here’s-twenty-siver-for-babysitting-me coinpurse. So he can’t feel too wretched about keeping it.
Thoughts linger on that halfling as he reaches for one of the boxes. It’s a whittling kit that she gave him, months and months ago. Critically, he peeks in, eyeing the little knife, hammer, chisel, drill, smoothing paper. It’s quaint, and he’d be lying if he said he’d never used it.
Arlodrir sets that on the keep-pile, too.
Not much has he crafted with it, except for three pipes of wood from the apple tree, each increasingly better than the last.
“Could probably get rid of those,” he grumbles, scratching at his beard. So, after a moment of thought, he moves the lesser two creations to a throw-out pile, and his latest to the keep.
Afterwards, he faces the biggest box, gifted by that doctor down the street. In thanks for fixing the roof, the Man had said, even though the roof was fixed as payment for medicine! Still, the small chest is good for storage and not too ugly; simple designs are carved into the oak exterior, and the interior is lined with cheap padding. Where there was once a bottle of ale, now letters, notes, pouches, and vials rest within.
Arlodrir scoops up the various pouches first, detecting the smell of tea and medicine.
No reason to keep these.
But what if they can be useful?
For what? Holding marbles? Get rid of them. You don’t need them. Get rid of them.
They’re placed in the throw-out pile. As for the vials… well, the Dwarf isn’t quite sure if they’re supposed to be returned or not. Even if they are, it’s been so long, and it would be surely embarrassing at this point… They join the pouches.
The small chest is picked up and turned over, the rest of the contents floating out onto the blankets. One by one, the letters and notes are looked over. One is from Taite; it came with the scarf and hat. Three are from Maurr, short but detailing whatever was important at the time. Chiefly, the most recent relates to the parcel Arlodrir received last month, right after his little group left.
The old Dwarf turns his attention to the large sachet, tied with a blue ribbon, that sits among all the collection. There’s no debate on whether that should remain — it is placed right by the keep-pile. Pumpkin, intrigued, leans over to sniff it with twitchy white whiskers.
“You don’t want that,” Arlodrir scolds, scooting it away from her. “That’s pipeweed, and lots of it.” The cat replies with a yawn and a stretch, settling back on the silver hat. “No, I don’t know what he expects me to do with all of it,” he continues. Then he pauses, as if giving time for the cat to speak. She doesn’t, of course, but he answers her nonetheless. “...Smoke it, yes, obviously. But. Ack.” He waves his hand dismissively, returning to the papers.
He finds a collection from last autumn: four letters and one note from Kithri, all decorated with her typical paintings of little gems or worms or mountains or leaves or whatever else. Arlodrir peruses these again — which, in hindsight, is a poor decision, as he grows increasingly irked while doing so. “Ugh,” he grunts, distasteful, stuffing them all back into the box after a while. “Can’t believe that Kindleflame,” he hisses. Pumpkin listens, meowing once in response. “Aye, that little...!” Large hands clench and unclench.
Why are you so angry? His mind asks.
Because she could live in the mountain, near the community, while you couldn’t.
Because she assumed you to be one of Durin’s Folk, easily befriended with a few ales or a meal or a story.
Because she was so insistent on learning about you, on being kind, on…
“What has my race come to,” he starts, throwing up his hands, “where Hobbits are more accepted in our halls than some other Dwarves!?”
Pumpkin slowly blinks.
"...You're right. It doesn't matter anymore. It.."
To be fair, you’re a pretty bad Dwarf, he thinks.
"It doesn't matter."
Organize. Just organize.
After a heavy sigh, he tucks the rest of the notes into the box, more gently than a minute prior. That is placed with his keeping-things before he moves on to the remaining two boxes, both boasting neat latches. The first contains the tool to clean his eye socket and a now-empty jar that once contained salve, and the other is smaller, lined with cheap white silk and holding three vials of oil, one hardly used, the others still practically new. During the night, while he rests, a finely painted glass eye joins them, but currently...
Arlodrir lifts his hand to his eyepatch, frowning, feelings mixed. He uses it, of course; the benefits outweigh the risks. Yet the Dwarf still finds himself wearing the patch over it, not mentioning a word to others.
Not even Taite.
And he hasn’t even told Dimheim a thank-you.
Perhaps it’s his pride, or something else besides. But, trying not to linger on it, he huffs, returning to his task. He takes the tool from the first box and moves it to the second. Now redundant, the first is relocated to the throw-out pile.
To the keep-pile the second box and its accessories go. The books, too, are immediately kept. And that’s it, isn’t it? Arlodrir looks over his work, feeling marginally accomplished even though he’s getting rid of little. Now… he has the work of filling his side of the credenza in a coherent way.
The old Dwarf’s collected much more than anticipated, he realizes now. Even extending beyond sundries; friends, acquaintances, a home, a safe job… a cat, too, though she’s not technically his. He’s collected the long-sought-after comfort, even if there’s always some problem or another he has to see to.
Despite this, he has also lost things; losing, though, isn’t necessarily always bad. He lost his wretched job beneath Bramlun, has lost his fear of seeing Arlis again…
Don’t think about her. It never ends well.
Arlodrir makes himself begin the putting-away, starting with all his cloths on the bottom shelf. Good and orderly, this time; not haphazardly stuffed in there. And, despite his own warning, he thinks anyway. He thinks about her, her house, her family, her friends.
Her anger towards him, though justified, doesn’t sting any less. He thinks—
'I hate you.'
Pops her voice into his mind.
'I hate you for all that you did and didn’t do.'
Once more.
'I hate you, Arlodrir.'
Comes it a third time, and he has to rest his forehead on the sideboard, inhaling and exhaling shakily. No regret weighs as heavy as his absence, his mistakes and fumbles and everything else. If he could just have another try at life, go back a century, he would…
He would…
He would what?
He’s not entirely sure. But he’d do something different. He’d do something right, for once. — Of course, he’ll never have such a chance, so he just has to do his best now, with his wizened and meager collection of new opinions and new approaches.
It was vain, and dumb, to hope that he would receive regular letters from Maurr. He doesn’t deserve to know where they are, how they are, what they’ve been occupied with, if they’re happy. Bóurr’s son has no reason to care so much, especially since Arlodrir’s daughter surely mentioned all his wrongdoings towards her.
There’s no reason for this old Dwarf to even be given a second thought.
At least he’s come to terms with it.
Arlodrir is only taken from these dour musings when he feels someone nudging his side. Turning his head, Pumpkin's sweet face greets him, and after another sigh he manages a pained smile.
“You don’t hate me, do you?” he dryly asks, reaching over to scratch beneath her chin. She responds with a short, high-pitched mew. Whether she sensed he’s aching, or got annoyed he stopped being attentive… the Dwarf is grateful for either. Said Taite once, in regards to the cat:
'She loves you.'
That makes one, is all that Arlodrir can think now.
---
“Let’s get this cleaned up,” he says after a while, Pumpkin meowing in reply. Wiping his fur-covered hand on his shirt, Arlodrir turns to finish sorting his knick-knacks… And his thoughts.
