Not often was the grim visage of the Hound of Vanimar a face one might describe as anything but cold, cruel, contemptuous. Yet after he and his dearest friend, the Gondolindrim bastard, had finished their great work, his face lit with a strangely innocent joy. Themodir beheld in Daegond all that he once was, before, and all that he should have been. That their project was grisly bothered Themodir not at all at this moment, for his war-damaged friend was now happy.
First, they had had to saw the head off the cave-troll they had slain, and this was no light task. The creature barely had a neck; the two strong Noldor struggled to remove the head and carry it back to Imladris, then up the winding stairs to Daegond's quarters. The trophy then had to be mounted onto a suitable wooden plaque. Daegond had mysteriously won at dice against some poor craftsman, who had engraved the date and place of the cave-troll's slaying into a bright brass tag. This was added to the trophy under the monster's chin.
"Only one thing still bothers me," Daegond said, stepping back and surveying his new decoration.
"What still bothers you?" Themodir braced himself, but smiled.
"We forgot to bring back the other end of the troll." Daegond nodded as if this ought to be obvious.
"The other -- Why would you want his... back end?"
"To mount on the outside wall, of course! Then all the fine lords and ladies in their fancy clothes, passing by these quarters, could see his --"
Daegond was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Yes!" he shouted. Could a soldier not enjoy his simple pleasures in peace?
The door, whose hinges were a bit dodgy from repeated bashing, creaked open. A maiden's voice hailed the two. Themodir's face brightened, and Daegond's darkened, returning to his habitual bitter scowl. The visitor was that annoying Telerë who had been distracting Themodir from his duties... yet Daegond, although not ready to admit this to himself, had been nursing a grudging respect for Manadhlaer ever since she slapped him in the Hall of Fire. She might not be a Noldë, but she had a bit of spirit.
"I was told I might find you here," Manadhlaer called. "I brought some -- What is THAT!" Her voice rose to a shriek. Daegond smiled again, his trademark upsetting smile. The nis might have blundered into any of a dozen things that would frighten the delicate.
Regardless, she mounted the stairs. Themodir fairly shone, all silver-haired radiance. Manadhlaer appeared, and nodded curtly to Daegond rather than explain what "that" was. Then she offered her hand to Themodir, and each smiled at the other. Daegond snarled. How were these two fools waging a campaign of love, when there was perfectly good war to be fought?
"You are wearing it," Themodir said simply. The pink diamond he had given Manadhlaer, an heirloom of his house all the way back to the Uttermost West, now shone in its setting on her dress.
"You honor me, meleth nîn." Manadhlaer tilted her head, looking up at Themodir, and her hand crept up to touch his cheek for an instant.
"Does he?" Daegond cut in, his voice disturbingly deep. "Now you have a shiny rock. Congratulations, my lady. Is it heavy with the weight of its origins?"
Manadhlaer tore her eyes away from Themodir, and they met the glass eyes mounted in the head of the troll before looking at Daegond. "Though it weighed as much as Lord Elrond's house, foundation to roof, I should carry it with pride."
It was a good answer, but Daegond pressed forward, looming above the tall maiden betrothed to his great friend. "A pretty rock to carry around. Do you know the problem with rocks like that?"
Themodir raised an eyebrow. Manadhlaer lifted her chin, but waited for the explanation.
"The memory is the heavy part." Daegond had been playing with a spare nail from the mounting of the trophy. "That's what makes a shard of rock stick to you. Stick in you."
"We all have long memories," Manadhlaer said softly. It was not only for Themodir's sake that she refrained from any cutting remark. "It is the way of our race. All of us have seen much." She did not have to mention Himring by name, or Gondolin, or for that matter Alqualondë.
"Just be careful with that thing." Daegond looked at his hands, as if picturing them soaked in blood yet again. "Pretty memories have sharp edges, lady. Someday you may know why."
