Long had Arradril been thinking -- or so it seemed to her -- over the question of what sort of gift she might find or make for Branalph, survivor of the ruin of Nargothrond and lately recruit of the Order of the Hammer. It was merely polite, after all. He had given her the pretty purple feather that reminded her of younger days. So etiquette, for surely that was all that it was, would seem to demand some sort of token in return.
Naturally, it had to be something that he could wear or carry on his person. Arradril prided herself above all on her ability to observe: the comings and goings of residents in, and guests of, the Vale, for example. Even a change in a previously known quantity could be significant. And Branalph seemed to cherish few personal possessions, which was suitable after all -- jewelry could quickly become a source of injury in combat. His gear was plain, utilitarian, and the sort of thing that could be strapped to his person or carried lightly in times of sudden need. All to the good. Arradril heartily disliked the sort of frippery and needless ornamentation favoured by some Elf-lords. But this made the question of what to give significantly more difficult.
Finally a day came when the two hunted boars together, and Arradril noticed that the sheath in which he wore his knife of daily utility -- the one meant for simple, mundane tasks less than it was meant for defense, although it could certainly serve for the latter purpose at need -- was beginning to fray. The leather itself had worn away through long use, and also the stitches were loosening or split here and there. It would not do. Thus it was not from mere politeness but also a love for the practical that Arradril settled upon making a new one: if not fancy, exactly, then perhaps just a mite less plain.
But what to tool into the leather? This was a new dilemma. A reminder of his old life could be pleasant, or painful, or both -- such was the nature of memory, but Arradril could not bring herself to do aught that might cause pain. If the trees of the Taur-en-Faroth were somehow made recognizable, for example... no, perhaps the simplest design was his name. Having gone through the agonizing indecision of choosing the type of hide, the colour it must be made (really, this was not much of a choice for a Hammerite, but Arradril did ponder leaving the leather without dye), and other considerations, the wood-scout settled gladly on this simple choice. The daily spoken language of the Sindar and Exiles did not seem quite grand enough, so Arradril set to work on her best guess at what it would have been in the tongue of their youth: Varandalqua.
Having called in a favour from Sarmëtecil of the Pillar, perhaps the best calligrapher of their House, Arradril busied her hands with tracing and measuring and the work of the tools, leaving her mind to drift. Craft was both the pride and fame of their people, and too often, their undoing. The gruesome end of Curufin's son proved that, and of course, the lives of Curufin's father and brothers served as cautionary tales. No light did Arradril seek to capture within the black sheath, of course. It was simple. Utilitarian. Merely polite.
And yet, though she strove to make the sheath one from which the knife could be drawn smoothly with either hand, Branalph did have some preferences. The current sheath almost always lay on his belt in such a way that it could be drawn by the right hand, so there was very clearly a side that usually faced out, and one that rested against his tabard. Briefly and irrationally she wondered why it could not lie beneath that, and chain hauberk, and padded gambeson, and linen tunic beneath, directly against his skin. But the Hammer was not an Order which typically hid its tools and weapons.
When the name of the new owner had finally been finished to Arradril's satisfaction, therefore, she could not resist leaving a simple mark on the leather that would become the inward-facing side -- her own mark, an equilateral triangle of three dots. Nothing grand. Nothing complex. Easily missed, if you were not looking for it.
But once the sheath was sewn, and waterproofed, and all of the toil was finished -- she hoped he did see it, or run his finger across it. It would not do, after all, to have any one think Arradril of the Arrow did not repay her debts.
