Diary, it is ridiculous.
Any other order that lost people in such a careless and rapid manner would be disbanded. Himwen at least keeps a tight rein on her soldiers of the Fountain, even if she yells at them a bit much. (Poor Nandutiriel! She probably saved Elloen's life, albeit in a grossly roundabout manner.)
But two Hammerites in five years only -- five turns of the seasons. To face each dawn without my only love is one difficulty, but to face summer this year without Daegond eating my flowers -- that was simply too much on top of the other loss.
Throwing myself into work was a bit of a... well, of course I wound up comforting someone who had been in the First Kinslaying, and may have run my uncle through with a smile on her face. She is wretchedly alcoholic. Since that is a problem of the fëa, it is easy enough to dump her on poor Elvealin, or send her to Lord Elrond himself, son of the evening star. I deal in patching people.
Until they can be patched no more.
On the morrow, Lord Tindir insists that we all gather at the hall of the Hammer. How can I, Diary? When the Dwarf-pedlar came along with the hound puppies, I knew the one who kept sniffing everything must come home with me. Now, Daegond the dog leads a merry and contented life, chasing away Silwë's ginger cat as well as any shrews -- he can get right down their burrows. As an experiment, when he came to me wagging his tail with a live one in his mouth, I let it go. It made a brave try to reach the safety of Elloen's house (despite the eagle), but nose to the ground, little dog Daegond tracked it as relentlessly as the warrior he is named for.
He is, in truth, a bit much like whom he is named after. He eats ridiculous foods, and suffers for it. He piddles where he likes, although to his credit, he held it through that long and tedious meeting. He has yet to destroy any furniture, of course. Rámarillë chases him around as though he were a mighty dragon, but what he is -- is a dog.
But I am bidden by my Tûr to enter the Hammer Hall once again, and pass under the lifelike gaze of my husband, with his wine-glass red as blood, and go where I last went to receive his badge for having gone on the mission that killed him. At that same meeting, of course, Brother received his black swan. It is now in the care of Losgael, and that is well, because although Earcalie is making a strong bid to wear the sergeant's shoulder armour, she is frankly a bit of a dullard. Money, money, money. Not that she does not deserve it -- but she is not a bit sorry that Daeruth is now a living, unmoving ice creature.
How can I go there again? It makes no sense. The last time I was there, it was as a widow. And then Daegond started the dice-game. Perhaps even now, he is gambling with Namó for his release from the Halls of Mandos. I suppose the ensuing brawl was all right as such things go -- there were no broken bones.
And I will cross the threshold again because it is the requirement. Because of duty, the same kind of duty that killed Themodir. And Tindir sits there contentedly as if he had been napping underwater for weeks (note to self -- inquire about that discreetly). Is he even grateful, Diary, that in order to stop Tolmen murdering him (and me, and his own cousin, and perhaps Mallosson and that mortal Woman... I am sure he had a long list), I hit Tolmen with a book?
I mean, of course, not hard. I was merely looking to stun him, and it was a silly romance novel anyway. Perhaps that is the fun to be had... that the weapon with which I endeavoured to save the world from a rampaging footsoldier (well, not any more, I suppose) of Fëanor the Cruel was a daft novel of will-they, won't-they, until at last they marry.
The more fools, those characters. Marriage is a doom of iron.
