As with so much of Erebor, the ability of the Dwarves to draw light into every corner of their home might surprise the unexpecting traveller. However deep below the mountain one finds themselves, light filters down, suffusing the tunnels with illumination. In a small, relatively quiet corner of a workshop, that light rests peacefully on staves and slivers of silver-grey wood, giving the scene a sense of calm that belies how busy it was only moments ago. All the shavings and shards from the wood have been swept up with incredible care, and placed respectfully to one side with the few unused staves. Two bow limbs, attached to a riser, are placed down on the bench by a smooth hand, and in doing so, that same soft light plays briefly on a beautiful green stone and a thin silvery band. Nínimil scoops up her knife, and puts it away with the other tools, before distractedly reaching for the remains of a bit of waybread and a little leather book.
~~~
It fits. There’s so much more to say, but it fits. And it feels right. I never doubted that Lady Rofda would be capable of anything less than such masterful craftsmanship, of course, but… It fits. As though it had never been resized at all; as though it was always meant for this hand, and waiting only for the right moment to be worn. I wonder whether perhaps that’s why I’ve found myself here, working on this, after so long; finally turning my hand to these precious gifts that I’ve been given. For a time, I thought it might instead be a sense of urgency stemming from those worrying tidings out of Angmar; there’s little peace to be had when I re-read Cedmon’s letter, and I grow restless thinking of my next journey west and south. But I don’t think it’s that. I had his letter in my hands before I came to Erebor, and the mallorn remained uncarved, untouched, unseen, wrapped up as it has been for so long now. It felt wrong, before now, to think about altering the staves, even though that’s what they were ostensibly given to me to do. It felt improper.
(I can’t help but laugh when I re-read that, though. There’s more to say about all of that, but how much of the past few weeks has been spent thinking about what seems proper and improper!)
I thought my first journey under the mountain would be brief - only a day, perhaps. Instead, I wonder now whether my hosts are regretting their kindness! The Bardings were good to their word - I had only to send to Dale for my things, and they were brought up within a day. But poor Bóurr and Hróda! If they expected me to stay at all, they surely didn’t expect me to stay for so long, much less to return while I make use of the workshops here. I can only imagine what they must have heard from their neighbours by now, as well. The neighbourhoods here are pleasant and full of activity, but somewhat difficult to navigate at first, and I feel certain I must have spent a good deal of the first morning here walking in circles as I searched for the baths that Bíld had made a passing mention of the evening before.
May the kindness and the patience of the Dwarves of Erebor be praised forever! I will save relating my experience with trying to find the baths for another time, once the embarrassment has faded a bit, but thanks to the timely intervention of an elder Dwarf, all involved were spared a much more mortifying event. I think he could tell I was in the wrong place, by the quiet way he tapped me on the arm and offered to lead me to the womens’ baths. If there was any sense of disapproval, it escaped my notice - rather, I thought he had a kind face, not unlike Bíld or Maddoct. In our short journey I found this Master Vidarr to be a polite, if reserved guide, tolerating my questions but giving me only brief replies until the subject of his trade came up. A self-described tailor and leatherworker, he took great pride in describing the workshops of Erebor, and even asked a few polite questions about my own woodwork. It is through his kindness that I found myself this little corner of his shop, even now - a place to put my tools, and a table to work on, out of the way of the hustle and bustle of himself and his apprentices. Would that I could have gotten him to talk some more about himself, so that I might carve some suitable offering in thanks for his generosity in letting a complete stranger into his workshop! Perhaps I can still figure something out.
I just hope my wandering and blundering doesn’t reflect too poorly on my hosts, given the respect in which they are apparently held (Master Vidarr seemed to know their names, and it occurs to me that may have something to do with his willingness to let me work, as long as I stay out of the way…) They have been exceedingly generous with their home, and kind almost to a fault. Having spent so much time in Felegoth preparing, and in Dale fretting about meeting them, I can only sigh in relief now! (Though some considerable credit must be given to the Lady Cyanite for helping me compose myself, and for being a model of confidence and grace to lean upon that evening! She deserves more attention than I can give her here, and I still must make good on my promise to visit her and her ‘youngsters’ at the ladies’ hostel before I depart…) It should come as no surprise that Maurr, Rofda, and Bíld are in many ways reflections of their parents: open and friendly, proud hosts, and, especially in the case of Hróda, capable of making a guest feel as though they are all at once at home.
I am grateful that the Five Armies were not mentioned save in passing. Even leaving that tense moment aside, however, I regret neither my hesitance in intruding upon the mountain, nor my eventual going. It is true that both have keen memories of the past (Bóurr is older even than I expected), and know from experience what their children know only from having heard. Bóurr in particular bears the weight of loss and tragedy from the battle at Nanduhirion; a fact of which I was previously unaware. But he shared it openly, and with such dignity and quiet strength that I was moved to speak not long after, and from there spilled out my desire to ask for Rofda’s aid with the ring. I cannot hope to know the depth of Bóurr’s experience on that day, and I do not attempt to. To try and understand the significance of that day to him, and to the Dwarves, would be like trying to explain the likes of Dagorlad, what it was for me, and for the Elves. But we share the grief of children who rode out with their fathers, and rode home alone, and perhaps in that we might find some small point of meeting that can be felt, but not said.
How could I not think of Caladhir, listening to this greatest of Dwarven fathers, speaking of his own? In preparing for this journey, I tried to choose carefully all the things I would bring with me, so as to make a proper impression (and now again, we come back to that theme!) From clothing to jewelry, choosing pieces that were suitably formal, and conveyed respect for my hosts and the honour of the journey, without appearing ostentatious or arrogant, lest I confirm some unfortunate stereotype. It was in this lengthy exercise (clearly, I will never match up to the likes of Lady Galadriel, or the other paragons of effortless grace!) that I turned again to Síloriel’s ring. To my mother’s ring. The first gift from a father long lost, to a mother long gone into the West - left at home by a daughter for fear that it would slip from her finger, and be lost.
It is, of course, not the only piece of jewelry that I possess made by his hands. Many of the things in my collection were gifts of his; rings and earrings, necklaces and circlets. Beautiful things, decorated with patterns that called to mind the petals of the snowdrop. The pale beauty of the thorned aeglos plant. The leaves of the mighty trees of our realm. So carefully engraved, on such small and fine surfaces that it seemed impossible that hands as large as his could have done it. But this one surpasses them all. It has no elaboration, no embellishment beyond the wispy band, like woven branches. It has no claim to high art, it will not be remembered with a name. But in it is the joining of their fëar - his and hers. It is touched by their spirits; and now, through the care of Lady Rofda and the kindness of her family, perhaps also by mine. I struggle to think of how to requite the debt, even though Bíld continues to tell me there is none. At the very least, I will wear it always, and think often on its curious journey from one set of hands to another.
Perhaps it will also serve to remind me, as I go on my journey to meet with hîr Cedmon and this Company of the East Road of which he speaks, of my own place in all of these events. Already, I think it has moved me to unwrap the mallorn I’ve been carrying since I last left the Golden Wood. Another gift too precious to ever repay. Since starting, the task of this bow has consumed me; I feel at times as though I’m not making it, but rather giving shape to something that already existed in the wood, as little sense as that must seem to make. The form is now complete, but there is more to do; the riser is still bare, and needs carving and decoration before I can wrap leather around it. The staves likewise - on the pale wood a pattern of snowthorn, aeglos. And then it can be strung. Losswen. I’m not sure where the name came from - naming a weapon seems presumptuous, at times. But this name hovers over the whole endeavour, so let it be so.
I still feel that I am not the right person for the task ahead, despite the urging of my friends here. Whatever news they found that has sent them this far afield, that they found it in Angmar is by itself enough to tinge my thoughts with dread. But if I may, with my bow, keep them safe, then it is my duty to do so. And if I may, with whatever words I can, temper the impulses of a grieving friend long enough to bring him safely out again, then I have to try.
To those of us who are left, is left the duty to keep hope alive.
