Neither had spoken in several hours, only occasionally sliding a piece of parchment or half-baked translation over to the other. Cross-legged on the bench with her head bent over the table, and him, half standing on the tall elvish bench, the stout dwarf was even with the slender woman.
Though the furniture was of clear Elvish make, this was no grand hall, but a small cabin with a chuckling fire in the hearth, and long neglected cups of cold tea on the table.
The fire popped, quills scratched and the tea grew colder. Then the door burst open, and a blast of cool wind swept away the stagnant air, thick with old parchment and older ink.
The Dwarf, Hróarr, looked up first, methodically moving a tall stack of books to the side to better see the intruder. Seeing Dínfalver, he waved to the elf, but then just as methodically moved them back in front of him.
But undeterred, the interloper crouched down next to Gwetheril, who smiled but did not look up, “Still thou strainest thy eyes, when outside the Sun laughs to see the snow glitter, though it will not long last under her gaze! But I have fluted louder, and the Limsúl has sped swifter to reach the cabin of the Lore-Seeker. Only the kingfishers managed to detain me, and that but briefly, and they would not have done so had they been less insistent.”
At this Gwetheril set down her quill and looked up with a smile, “Thou art not often a-hurried—what news? Three weeks gone and thou sayest thy return is swift? But swifter has been my study in the quiet of these weeks.” She touched her temple and shook her head in apology, “My mind is still clouded. Thou returnest faster than my mind can return from the quandaries of ancient Dwarf halls. Did thy journey fare well?"
She poured another cup of tea, handing it to Dínfalver without noticing that it was completely cool, and the Elf laughed, “Tell me of thy study, and perhaps thou wilt forgive that I drag thee from it! But my own tales can be told as well by light of moon as sun. Verily I would have tarried longer, but I met one that carried a message. At Duilland a man by name of Langlas asked where dwelt the mortal woman Gwetheril of Imdathir.”
Gwetheril shook her head, trying to clear it from the haze of runes and dwarvish diagrams, “Langlas? Why would he want to send me a message?”
Dínfalver pulled out a satchel, and sorted through a small collection of unrelated documents, a square of embroidered cloth, and assorted blocks of wood before handing her a letter. “It is not from him, but one Anarlossë of Ost Tinnudir.”
“Anarlossë! I hope no ill has befallen her.” Gwetheril reached for her knife and slit open the letter. Dínfalver paced the room, stopping in front of the Dwarf and restacked his books, first from thickest to thinnest, then by color—darkest to lightest. Hróarr did not attempt to hide his laughter, but kept at his work.
At last Gwetheril reached for her quill, and Dínfalver looked over. At her expression he smiled, “Good news I take it?”
Gwetheril spared one moment to glance up with a gleeful light in her eyes, “She seems well! But it is a puzzle, a code written in days long past, and she invites me to Nenuil.” Hróarr moved to look over her shoulder, and she set to scribbling, working out the cipher occasionally aided by the just as enthusiastic Dwarf. Dínfalver took out his knife and one of the blocks of wood and began whittling.
It was evening by the time she stood from her work. There was a new cup of tea in front of her, by now just as cold as the original ones. Three half finished whittled birds sat on the bench, though the Elf had long since vanished.
With a farewell nod to the tireless Dwarf she donned her cloak and slipped into the moonlight.
