5th hrívë, present days
Eärcalië led her horse out of the wood and down the gravelly path to Maeth’s house. She found him chopping the oaken logs in his back yard, she hopped off the horse and run to him presenting the bundle of wildflowers. He stared at them blinking, for a long while not saying anything.
“Well?” she said, as he hadn’t uttered word yet. “These are the solution of the riddle. Gems of the wood, they are scattered all over! Honestly, it was not that hard to figure out once I discarded all my other options… (the horse huffed and flicked his tail) so! Now you’ll reforge my sword or not?”
He took the bundle of flowers and sighed heavily. “I had hope that you’d grow bored and leave me alone”
Eärcalië remained dumbfounded at that. “Well… if you don’t want to, you could have simply said no! I don’t understand… and I don’t like these roundabout ways of telling things to others. Don’t make a maze of words, father always said, and I very much agree with him… also I am not one to back down from a challenge. That, I always say”. The elleth again noticed a slight wince in the countenance of the smith when she said “father”. This time she decided to inquire about it.
“There is that face again. If you have something to say, just say it”. The smith inhaled deeply, and let out a sigh that sounded very much like a forge’s bellows. “you are not going to leave me in peace are you…”
“Of course not. Twice you made a face when I mentioned my father. Why? You knew him? Uncle did not mention anything to me”
The ellon lodged the hatchet he was using to chop wood in one of the logs’ cracks, folded his arms and stared at her. “For Sirion”
“Eh?” she tilted her head and stared back, with a puzzled expression. Maeth moved to a table covered by an oilcloth to the side of his house, beckoning her over. He then removed the cloth, and Eärcalië could only stare in awe at an array of swords and daggers on display. She was no crafter herself, but had been around many for a long time and could recognize good work from bad, excellent from good, and perfect from excellent. And the weapons on the table were nothing less than perfect from the carvings of grip and pommels to the runes adorning the blades. And on each and every one of these weapons was also engraved an eight pointed star. She had seen is so few times in her life, but definitely knew what it was. The smith picked up a random sword, holding it to the light of the setting sun. The orange light reflected on the metal as if flames run on its surface.
“For Sirion” he repeated. “I… was part of Lord Maedhros retinue, back then. You can guess… to the bitter end. In hindsight… I should have asked myself if what we did could be justified in any way. Maybe for him who was driven by Oath, but not for me. I remember each name shouted in that battle. Each one, Doriathrim refugees, Gondolindrim, including your parents. I know the names of Mehtarnis and Aicasicil. It is something that should never have happened. I regret everything to this day and took it to live isolated in Athrad Amdir when it was founded for penance and fear of judgement if I dared sail West”.
He spoke matter-of-factly and his face appeared detached, but for his eyes, turmoiled and dark. “Imagine my surprise when after so many years, your father and uncle came here with their caravan transporting supplies, having started this new enterprise after Gil-galad founded Lindon. They did not remember me, not when for those on the other side everything must have been a blur of fear and betrayal. I told the truth when they asked if I had anything to trade… they did not judge, nor were angry as I was expecting. Forgiveness runs in them I guess. Not in me. These weapons you see I keep as a reminder of that terrible mistake, as is with the name I chose for myself. I do not know why your kinsman thought it a good idea to tell you about me, but you should ask another smith to reforge your sword”
“Uncle mentioned you, and I have no wish to ask another. Especially not after spending all day in the woods to solve your stupid riddle! Add that to the list of things you should regret”. She crossed her arms, frowned and stared at him in the eyes in a very petulant kind of way. Maeth blinked, perplexed.
“I just said I am a kin—“
“Yes, yes, are all you old elves so boring and wallowing in self pity? I live in Imladris and you are not the first follower of the Feanorians I’ve known. There are few who also reside in the Hidden Valley. They are good company when they talk of anything aside the Kinslayings… I never asked them if they crossed swords with my parents, I don’t want to ask and I don’t want to know. Mother and father sailed both alive and well, they didn’t hold any grudges so neither will I. I am not so insensitive to keep reminding them of what they did… you are doing it to yourself anyway”. She shrugged.
“Perhaps uncle thought it was high time you stop your self isolation after two Ages and do something actually useful for your fellow Eldar before we all sail away. You can start by reforging my sword” she grinned as she was saying the last part of her sentence. The old smith yet again let out a sigh like a forge’s bellows. “You speak thus only because you weren’t there. You are too young to understand—”
“It is well and good that I don’t understand, I have no wish to mope for the rest of my days. You shouldn’t either, not when you have the possibility to act for good”.
The setting sun about to completely disappear under the horizon, Maeth covered the weapons on the table and spent a long moment in silence, immobile. When she was about to speak again, he raised a hand. “You are relentless… If I didn’t know Histealdo better, I’d say he sent you here to torment my ears on top of my guilty conscience”
Eärcalië stood there, crossed arms and titled head as answer, waiting without uttering another word. The sun almost disappeared beyond the horizon leaving dusk for the gloaming of evening. “Go back to the village before your uncle starts a search for you”. He crossed his arms as well. “…and come see me tomorrow morning in my workshop. Ask somebody for directions”. With that, he walked inside his house, leaving the elleth alone with a grin of victory on her face.
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The next day, Eärcalië woke up early, dismissed Histealdo’s inquiries with a “I have things to do, don’t worry I’ll be fine” and stopped the first elf the could find to ask where Maeth’s workshop was. She learned he built the site himself in the middle of an isolated grove of oak trees north of the ford, so she hopped on her horse and off she went.
As she was told, where woods gave way to grasslands and the slopes of Ered Luin leaned into gentle curves of hills, stood the solitary grove. She lead the horse by the reins among the great oak trunks. The leaves, brown, dry and falling to the ground at the faintest winter wind covered the soil like a crunchy carpet under her boots. She found the place to have a sort of sad, nostalgic beauty, much like Athrad Amdir except the life of this grove waned a lot faster. Perhaps that was why someone like the old smith chose this location to set up workshop. It sure suited him, she thought.
Well into the grove, she arrived at an arched gateway. Very simple with almost no ornaments, and beyond that, the fabled workshop. It was very different from what she had imagined, belonging to one of the Noldor of old. It was clear at first glance that the smith built his abode with practicality in mind and no thought for embellishments. The stonework, while precise and sharply cut didn’t have any carvings but smooth surfaces, the oven a simple round shape and the furnace nothing more, nothing less than its name implied. Weapon racks were neatly distributed in rows around the forge, each hosting a sword, a shield or some other weapon, the tool shed… just about any other shed Eärcalië ever saw. Of course being elven work, an air of grace and order floated around the place but overall, the elleth felt a tad disappointed. Her sentiment perhaps reflected on her face, because Maeth, who was working the bellows heating the furnace snorted, amused. “I can assure you, nothing that comes out of my forge is of lesser quality than those of Imladris… or Valinor forbid, Tham Mirdain. I need no gilded tools to create beautiful crafts”
“Valinor forbid?”
“An old figure of speech… now, give me that sword”. The elleth handed it to him along with the scabbard, looking curiously as he improvised a few slashes and figures, then moved to pick up some tools. “I have but one favor to ask” he said.
“Which is?”
“Keep quiet and don’t bother me until I am done”
“Hmpf”. Frowning, she then moved to inspect the weapon racks, leaving the smith to his craft. Every once in a while, she looked at what he was doing from the corner of her eyes. Maeth had his back turned and she couldn’t really see much of anything, but for the light of the forge fire, and that the various components of the sword lay on a table waiting to be given new life. The weapons displayed on the racks kept her occupied while the hours passed and the smith worked. All of them were old, with intricate patterns and insignias Eärcalië only saw in her history books or engraved in the weapons of a few of the older elves in Imladris. On one shield, an eight pointed star in a black field gleamed blood red with the light of the forge. Two crossed hunting horns adorned the hilt of a dagger and the musical notes of a harp run all along a spear’s shaft, and many more as she inspected them. She realized, that these must be all related to the seven brothers.
Eärcalië couldn’t help but be awed by it all, she was after all looking at the tangible proof of people who lived and fought in Beleriand with mighty Lords in epic battles. Fey Lords, terrible battles but epic nonetheless. Like so many times before, she wondered what her life could have been if she was born in the First Age. She could have been just like her forefathers… with her name written in the books and ballads.
Gradually, sunlight waned and fire light brightened when Maeth announced he was done. The elleth rushed to the large work table where her reforged sword awaited. She noticed that the pearl, the broken key and the chain were removed from the hilt, leaving space to elegant swirls made of silver, the grip wrapped with comfortable stripes of leather and the pommel matched the hilt. On the blade, elegant tengwar read: Eldacala. She picked it up, and executed a few basic figures of combat to test its balance. Not that there was any need for it. The sword felt like a natural extension of her arm, perfectly balanced, dangerously sharp and also beautiful. No eight pointed star to be seen, neither on the scabbard, where the black pearl, the broken key and the chain Maeth fused together and reinforced with thin leather bands to attach said scabbard on her belt. “Well?”
“It is marvelous!” she exclaimed, a wide grin on her face. “Uncle was right to tell me about you but why—“
“Allow me an explanation” he interrupted. “As you requested, your family heirlooms will serve a better function now. By leaving them embedded in the hilt, they risked being ruined by wear, tear and dirt. That’s a real shame… as a fastening for the scabbard nothing shall tarnish them or the memory they represent” he pointed at the tengwar “I figured you wouldn’t object to the name. Also…” he went to pick up something else covered by a cloth. He then revealed a buckler in the shape of a flower, like one of those she found the day before in the woods. Eärcalië’s eyes widened at the incredible level of detail. Tiny wildflowers covered the “petals” of the buckler made with gold filigree in a green background and in the center around a multifaceted ruby was the word Narturme. “This goes with the sword”.
Eärcalië remained speechless for a good while. “Why? I can’t afford this, and even if I could it is too beautiful! I can’t risk using it”
“I didn’t say it was for battle. I’m sure you know the concept of ceremonial arms and armour. Think of it as a symbol of the ideals you believe in, and treasure it. That buckler didn’t need a lot of work anyway, it was already like that minus the name. See… you are an annoying little brat (she frowned greatly) but your words yesterday had some truth in it. If I can accomplish anything good before departing it is time better spent than self loathing… though I shan’t stop regretting my past no matter what. But I can find solace for a little while… your sword and that shield shall be my first act of goodwill for the little time I have left on these shores. As for this…” he opened his arms to encompass the workshop and the weapon racks “I shall keep the forge and bury the rest. There is no need for all this old weapons anymore. Let the earth keep custody of them”.
The elleth remained in silence for a bit, crossed arms and staring at the smith as if evaluating his words. Then she smiled. “I am glad to hear it. And I am grateful for both. I do like the names but why did you choose them specifically?”
“Eldacala and Narturme, quelled but not quenched, there is ever fire waiting to be ignited in the hearts of the Exiled, like the heath of a forge, the brightness of flames, a reflection of light. Did you inherit such spark, young Eärcalië?
“Pffff, of course I did! I am not a grumpy old elf like you, am I?” she smirked, and he snorted, rolling his eyes. “Run along now, I need to put everything in order and I want to do so in peace”
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When it came time to depart Athrad Amdir, the caravan filled with goods to transport southward, Eärcalië was surprised to see Maeth talking to her uncle.
“What are you doing here?”
“What do you think I am doing? I was the one requesting help from the caravan to transport all the logs of oak wood to Mithlond, after all. I shall not accompany you south personally, but I came to bid you all farewell. Perhaps we shall see each other again, perhaps not. Make good use of that sword”
“I doubt anything of note is going to happen traveling south… but I could challenge some random villager to spar, you know… to pass the time!”
Maeth and Histealdo looked at each other, ad sighed.
Valar help us…
FIN
some names:
Eldacala: light of the Eldar
Narturme: fire shield
