Continued from: Into the Marsh: Part One | The Laurelin Archives
“Who are you, sir,” I asked in a level tone, as if it were an everyday occurrence.
Estarfin, noticing movement, tried to draw his own dagger from the belt about his waist, but his hands were shaking too much.
Seeing the shadowy figure behind me, the halfling took a step backwards, eyes bright beneath a large floppy hat, and regarded us with curiosity, rather than surprise. He set the tin pie pan on the hard ground, the frost under it melting at once from its warmth.
Moving to Estarfin’s side, I drew my own knife from my belt, then laid it on the ground and held up my hands. Realising what the creature was, Estarfin lowered his own knife, though kept it in his trembling hand.
A single halfling was no threat to us, even in our present state, nor did this one’s demeanour imply any threat. Just curiosity and, I believed, kindness -
He pointed at the pie on the grass, then at us. His intention was obvious.
“You offer us pie?” I asked in Westron.
The halfling adjusted his shabby, but relatively clean tunic and leather jacket, then pointed again at the pie, then at us. He made a munching gesture with his jaws, and rubbed his belly, as if he was enjoying a good meal.
We were both full of Lembas, so neither of us were exactly hungry, though I wondered if the warmth of the food would help Estarfin. I looked back to see he was regarding me hopefully.
The pie was emanating a mouth-watering smell of roasted chicken with carrots and celery. I inclined my head in thanks, and slowly moved to take it up in my hands. As I did so, I noticed how closely the halfling watched me, and when I took a bite of pie, he sighed in a manner as if to indicate that “Sacrifices must be made!” Then he gave us a keen, peculiar look, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Do y-you understand us?” Estarfin asked in Sindarin.
“I am Danel,” I put down the pie near Estarfin, and pointed to myself. “He is Estarfin,” I pointed to the tall Noldo. “We search for our lost friend, Parnard.” I waved my arms, indicating the surrounding land, then shrugged.
The halfling looked at me brightly, then uttered several words in a language neither Estarfin or I understood.
“D-d-do you understand h-h-im?” Estarfin asked, this time in Quenya. He huddled up, shivering.
I shook my head slightly. “Not his words, but his meaning. Ai, meldanya, have some of this food.”
I broke the pie in half in its pan, and offered the pan back. The halfling surely had some purpose for it when he stumbled on us. For that matter, as the pie was still warm, it seemed his village could not be far away. I could not envisage small kitchens dotted around the marsh.
“W-why has he given us p-p-pie?” Estarfin took the broken half and almost dropped it. I aided him in breaking it into smaller pieces.
“He is a Halfling. We know from our local acquaintances that food is one of their greatest pleasures, and gifts.”
“It is w-warm,” he whispered, like that was the greatest of all gifts. “Danel, eat some too.” He tried to hold a portion out to me, but this time dropped it on the ground.
“No. I am still full. You must eat it. Here, let me brush the dirt and leaves off.”
He was still shaking from the cold. I held his hand, helping him direct the food to his mouth until he got a better grip on it. I was trembling a little too, though not as much. We had known this could happen when we first went into the wintry waters.
A sideways glance told me the halfling was watching us expectantly. I wondered what for? He likely knew these islands better than we did. I had no idea why a solitary halfling was wandering about a fen at night, with a large, fresh-baked pie? It was doubtful he was on a picnic…
Another sudden shiver from Estarfin and I turned to face the halfling. I pointed to Estarfin, then wrapped my arms around my own coldly damp form, and shivered. “Our fire went out,” I pointed to the ash and remains of my earlier endeavours.”We are both very cold.” Quick as a rabbit, he ran about gathering new kindling, wood that was hardly damp at all. “He understands us! He is trying to help,” I said in Quenya, to the grimacing Estarfin.
The halfling soon returned carrying sticks and brushwood, which he piled on some dry leaves, arranging his collection of wood to be just-so, doubtlessly having made a fire hundreds of times. Then he struck flint and tinder, and blew on the small smoking fluff. We watched the larger sticks alight. Although damp from the mist and frost, the wood caught eventually. Estarfin looked longingly at the fire, impatient for the flames to grow and thaw his chilled limbs, and immediately huddled close. I moved swiftly to sit next to him.
“Y-y-ou are good w-w-with languages. How is it you do n-not understand-d him?” Estarfin asked me.
“I understand very little he says, meldanya. It is a form of Westron, but his accent is unusual and very strong.” Rising to my feet, I placed both hands over my heart, then held them out to our helper. The Halfling nodded back at me, smiling through the smoke, as if pleased. The halfling was obviously concerned for us. He seemed to be quite at-home and comfortable in the marsh. His village was nearby. Was it possible he had seen Parnard already? I needed to find out. I spoke slowly in Westron, straining my ears for anything he said that was recognisable. Gestures could only convey so much.
“We are Elves from the north,” I began. Then I repeated our names, pointing to myself and Estarfin in turn.
The halfling nodded, but did not give a name. He looked wistfully at the half-eaten pie in the pan.
“We search for a friend who is lost,” I said.
“P-parnard - his name is Parnard,” Estarfin added. Then he pulled his wet shirt over his head and cast it aside. He was too cold to be concerned with propriety.
I understood. This was not the time nor place to think about it. I could feel my face flushing with heat, and quickly turned back to the halfling. “Our friend is like us, well, sort of.” I pointed at Estarfin’s wild black hair, with its collection of leaves and weeds. “Dark of hair, but not as tall.” I tried to indicate Parnard’s height. “Fast,” I made a swift running movement with my fingers.
The halfling patted his jacket and pulled a clay pipe from a pocket, which he put between his teeth.
“I don’t expect you to have any blankets with you?” I asked hopefully.
He removed the pipe from his lips. “Ooo wee,” he said, and pointed the wet tip of his pipe at us, a questioning look in his eyes.
I shook my head, but smiled. “Thank you for the kind offer, but we do not need your pipe.” I made another gesture of ‘hand to heart’, that he knew his offer was appreciated.
Estarfin spread his tunic beside the fire in hopes of it drying. He looked a little better. I was not too inclined to dry off my shift in the same manner, though I could see the sense in it: the cold, damp cloth clinging to my skin was most unpleasant.
The halfling rubbed his jaw, putting the pipe between his teeth, and as he watched us, appeared to ruminate on the situation, shifting his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other.
Ai, there was nothing else for it. I pulled my shift over my head and laid it near the fire. The thought of putting something warm and dry back on was like a light in the dark. I glanced at Estarfin with memories of him running off along a beach to find a blanket to cover me. There were no blankets here, and nowhere to run. He blinked at me. “It is too cold,” he said. I moved closer and huddled against him, so that we could share what little warmth we had.
“We must find our friend,” I said to the halfling again. I touched my eyes and waved my hands around. “We have been looking for him,” I pushed back my hair and touched my ears. “We listen for him.”
The halfling tilted his head, eyes bright with excitement.
“Yes, yes. We are all Elves.” I said. I could feel Estarfin relaxing as the shared warmth took some effect. His shoulders sank down, and his breathing became easier.
“We are ‘Firstborn,” Estarfin said in Quenya, then in Sindarin said, “The Elder Children.” I knew he was trying to be helpful. I also knew it was no help at all. I smiled at him affectionately, and rubbed his arms to try to warm him.
The halfling looked across the river, then he looked back at us, his face dark, and shook his head.
“Is there something bad that way?” I asked, in slowly spoken Westron. The halfling rose to his feet, took up the pie pan with its remaining half of a pie, and beckoned to us to follow him. “Whatever is out there, ill or not, we shall face it to find our friend,” I said.
He made a curt nod. Was he beginning to understand?
Estarfin stood up, then seemed to realise he was not wearing his tunic, so made a grab for it and hastily pulled it back on.
“Is it still damp?” I asked him. He nodded sadly.
“Damp and cold, but warmer than it was.”
I sighed, taking up my cold and damp shift, and shivered as the cloth touched my skin again. Tightening my belt about my waist made it even worse, but I needed it to sheath my long dagger. I looked at Estarfn. He was hating this. But he said, “For Parnard,” and fixed his own belt, sword and knife.
The halfling showed us the remains of the pie, again pointing to another island.
We looked at each other. “The pie was for Parnard?” I said. Estarfin sighed. As we moved to the water’s edge a cold wind caught us. It was painful coming away from the small shelter of that grove. My feet slipped on wet moss. Thankfully Estarfin was close enough to steady me. On we waded. After a few moments the halfling corrected the direction we headed in. He held the pie overhead, unlit pipe still clenched between his teeth. Thankfully the water never reached above his waist or over knee-height for us. We were both shivering again by the time we reached the bank of the island.
Estarfin managed to shout “Parnard!” but my voice was stolen away by the cold. We heard no answer.
The Halfling regarded us curiously, pointing at our insufficient clothing, then at his warm and cosy woolen and and leather outfit. He even raised one foot at a time to show us his boots. He pointed at us again, and shook his head in disbelief, so that I almost laughed.
“Yes, we are well aware we are not dressed for the occasion,” I said. He smiled, then looked at the treasured half pie. It was a bit soggy from the mist. “You should eat it. It cannot go to waste.” I spoke between chattering teeth. The halfling shook his head and pointed again at the distant island.
“You are fetching it for someone else. For another Elf?” I pointed again to Estarfin and myself. “To Parnard?” He gestured that we should follow him. Estarfin and I had been standing close, still trying to share the little warmth we had. Neither of us were at our best, and Valar help us if we encountered a real enemy. But we had to continue. He set off at a surprisingly fast pace, given his short legs. We started to follow, then realised we were in boggy land. Our guide had the advantage of knowing exactly where to place his feet without sinking.
Estarfin looked down at his wet legs and sighed. Then he looked hesitantly ahead. “I hope we are near our goal.”
I nodded, “We are,” and we both followed the halfling, fearing to lose sight of him in the Wadewater Bog.
Followed by: Cold Hands, Warm Heart | The Laurelin Archives
