The elves passed by a tall oak tree where a few salvaged household goods lay scattered in the grass. Parnard half-expected to see Filignil sitting among them, perhaps counting the silverware, but she was nowhere to be seen. At last they came in sight of the great old house, its front door broken and crazily hanging from one hinge, doormat still in place, a sardonic welcome to the travel-weary elves. “There it is,” he found himself saying.
This is hard, very hard, thought Parnard. He tried to cheer Marawendi and quiet her fears by telling her she was just beginning her new life away from the Greenwood, and although they returned to find the old manse burnt, the greater portion of the hall was spared, and they would work their very fingers off to rebuild it.
“I tremble for her,” Danel had told him in confidence. “I dread the effects of grief upon that beautiful face, and upon that tender heart.”
“She is as delicate as a dove’s wing,” he replied, and after assuring Danel that he would see to her apprentice’s comfort, with many thoughts buzzing in his head he conducted Marawendi to his lodgings - a small house with pierced windows that Danel had decorated with exquisitely wrought furniture.
That was last week. True to his word, he sewed clothing for the maiden so that she would be costumed in proper Noldor fashion. While she needed more garments, her wardrobe was adequate for now. There was much to do, and not a lot of time to do it: the elves wished to celebrate Midsummer, despite the fact that it had already passed, but as Parnard reminded himself, it could not be helped. To his consternation there was still no sign of the missing cook.
As soon as morning broke Marawendi found him seated at the table, already breakfasted and mulling over plans for the festival. “Do not worry about Filignil,” he told her, bringing out a copper ewer and pouring water for her to wash her face. “That tough old bird can take care of herself. Worry instead about what we will serve these Noldor to eat, since they see no reason to temper their feasting simply because we are without a cook. Deep Elves love elaborate displays, filled with wild extravagance, and are fond of keeping up their ancient traditions - I suppose you do not know anything about those.”
Marawendi indicated she did not with a little shake of her head and an apologetic shrug of her slender shoulders.
“Then I shall tell you that their feasts are not much different than our feasting in the Greenwood. Only they are not as lively, and there is not so much leaping and cavorting, because there is no music, and there is no music because we have no musicians among our little household. Dancing without music is like making an omelet without eggs, and the neighbours will likely think we lost our wits if they see us, but I assure you, it is possible to dance without music.
“Indeed, these Noldor love to feast and dance almost as much as we of the Greenwood, and sometimes they recite poems too, or sing their lays of old.” Then Parnard glancing over at her suggested that with a voice as sweet as hers, she could “trill like a nightingale.” The maiden looked away, blushing deep crimson.
“No matter!” he said, failing to elicit a reply. Marawendi was often quiet and said little, but it bothered him not - there were never any drawn out, awkward silences in his company. “The blazing hot sun will shine down again from its zenith; we will dance barefoot on the grass, and when Anar the fire-golden has sunk below the Western Seas to be guided through the shadowy grottos, we sing our praises to the stars and their sublime Kindler, and drink and eat many good things, just like we did last year. Is there anyone in this world who knows more about pastries and wine than I do? And I also know a thing or two about roasting meats, and with your skill at preparing sauces (your great-uncle told me you have a clever hand with flavours) we will prepare such a sumptuous feast for these Noldor, they will not believe what it is they are eating!”
With that settled, once Marawendi had eaten and was ready, the two elves departed from their dwelling along the path that led to the bridge below. Parnard walked rapidly, his face full of purpose, his feet making no sound on the mossy pavers, the elf-maiden following along as best as she could in a half-jog. Beyond the bridge ahead were Danel and Estarfin, deep in discussion, the tall Noldo covered in mud and gripping a long bladed shovel in his hand.
“Since we have decided to remain here, we are considering some defenses, Parnard,” Danel said, as Estarfin gestured at what he had spent all night digging, the beginning of a deep trench.
“It will stop horsemen from riding through at least,” he informed the two wood-elves. “The water is deep enough on both sides of the bridge that crossing with horses would prove difficult to the point of impossible. This ditch and wall of earth will stop horses from riding straight over the bridge. I have sent plans and gold to the Naugrim. They will be here within a few days to start building walls of stone.”
“Walls of stone? Why not a castle? You have already started digging the moat for a glorious castle of white stone with turrets and red flags!” Parnard outstretched his arms, already envisioning the elegant pristine fastness rising up into the cloudless morning, despite the fact that he had never laid eyes upon a real castle: the only ones he had ever seen were colorful illustrations in the books of Golodhrim lore in the library at Rivendell.
“We will need thick steel panels for all of the windows, and heavy bolts for the doors. The fortress should be laid out as a seven-rayed star. Númenarta it shall be called, the ‘Western Fortress.’”
“How ingenious of you, Estarfin!” Parnard crowed out, impressed and delighted not only by his friend's cleverness to dream up a star-shaped castle, but by his sudden readiness to carry out his idea - it was almost as if the Noldo had thought of it himself, and that pleased him even more. “What should I do? Shall I watch the Naugrim at their work?”
Danel looked uncertain. “A castle will take time to construct. Those men will not wait for it to be ready.”
“The Naugrim will shape and lay stone swifter than we can,” replied Estarfin. “While they labour we will fortify the houses themselves. We should focus our efforts on that which is most defensible.”
The elves thought this was an excellent suggestion. Another shovel was found, and Danel joined Estarfin digging the trench, and as the two elves worked shoulder-to-shoulder Parnard commented on the close proximity of the lake, and the feasibility of a water defense, and how the Dwarves could construct a trap for the Men by stacking boulders between a cleft of the rocks over the river, or by installing a sluice-gate “to let the water flood in and sweep the men away,” racking his brains to recall what little he knew of siege warfare to propose this and several other ideas for absurdly complex defensive structures. Then he cheered on his comrades as they shoveled mud, thinking to inspire their digging arms with fresh vigour, while Marawendi listened to everything said, saying nothing. The elves were so occupied when an elf with silver mail armor approached on horseback.
“By the Valar!” said Filignil. “The tidings were bad, but this is far worse than I expected!”
