Estarfin

'I asked my parents to let me train with Forodhir,' I said. 'They refused.'
'Too dirty'? teased Estarfin, with a grin. 

I shook my head, and blushed a little. 'They knew I wanted to train for the wrong reason. I am a Jewel Smith, not a Metal smith.' I held out my hands for him to observe, small hands, meant for fine and delicate work. 'And I only wanted to train there to be closer to you'.

Danel had returned from Duillond with artist materials. Her intent was to make more sketches of jewellry that she again set up her crafting and reestablish her good name in Mithlond as a jewel smith. Barahirn came from the stable to greet her, and take Pelorian's head. The horse was a touch skittish, unlike her normal self. 

"Has she been like that on the trip, Lady?" the stable master asked, looking at the mare's fetlocks, her hooves, her legs. 

"No. Just since we rode in."

Ruineth waited for Estarfin to leave, feeling the heat of the anger flow through her. How dare he, after not speaking with her for years. She picked up one of the blunt knives next to her, gritting her teeth and grinding the metal to a sharp point on the stone wheel.

They travelled mostly at night. Estarfin gazed up at the stars and led Gilastor along the paths to the hidden valley, through streams, across moors and past dark forests. He told Gilastor tales of Beleriand as they walked together in the quiet nights, and he sang often, mostly old songs concerning the stars. His voice was fair by the low standards of mortals, yet paled in comparison to any accomplished singers of his own kind. Yet it was enough for the two dark travellers.

Estarfin let out a small exclamation of frustration as he examined the shining metal in the palm of his hand; another flawed attempt after a long day spent before the forge. The alloyed steel was beautiful, but it was still too soft, too liable to be harmed. The delicate inscribing chisels he had created for the task cut too deep, splitting the grain of the metal apart. He held it up to the light once more, wondering whether such a flaw mattered. He shook his head slightly, then tossed it carelessly back into the heart of the forge. Any imperfection could not be tolerated.