From the Dawn of Time

Chapters

Remmirath
Valacirca
Anarríma
Menelmacar

Remmirath

'And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the sea, and thereafter wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret beside the waves. For Maglor was mighty among the singers of old, named only after Daeron of Doriath; but he never came back among the people of the Elves.'
- The Voyage of Eärendil, the Silmarillion

Ouch.

That feels a somewhat... Underwhelming way to put it, but I do believe that the utterance fits. I feel like Tulkas' punching bag.

All things considered, that is not as bad as it could be.

Rolling over amid a symphony of complaints from bruised skin and muscles, I find myself lying under a moonless night sky, the stars glimmering overhead in all their splendour. It reminds me a little of the old days.

Speaking of which, what happened? The last thing I recall was the horizon falling away and a lektaie big wave heading straight for me at ludicrous speed. I had never seen the like before and I doubt Arda has either for that matter, not since the ancient tempests before the Spring. I could have sworn the crest of the thing was up in the clouds. Goodness knows how I survived that, and I must have done as evidenced by the fact that I am not currently being attended to by the Mandonildi.

Most bizarre.

I narrow my eyes, noticing something. The stars are wrong. I know every splendid jewel in Varda's tapestry and none of them match. Anarrima, Remmirath, the Valacirca... Even Menelmacar is missing. I can see a red star that reminds me of wandering Carnil, but it is in entirely the wrong place for the time of year.

Either Varda has got into Oromë's secret wine cellar again, or this is not Arda.

It must be linked to the wave, but Vaire knows how. Waves are not generally known for their tendency to depart the walls of the world. All questions for another time. For now, I should see about finding shelter and something to eat.

Aching, I sit up and assess what I still have on me. Aside from my surprisingly functional hröa, my clothes are salt-stained but otherwise intact, as is my dagger, bow (albeit with an empty quiver), a handful of mallorn nuts left over from my last brush with civilisation and my pack, though much of its contents have spilt. At least I shan't be sleeping without a blanket... Where is it?

A pang of sorrow (sharp and hot, rather than the cold dull ache to which I have grown accustomed) stabs my heart as I rummage deeper, even though a glance has already told me the truth of the matter.

My harp is gone.

I had protected it like an elfling for centuries, the one thing I still really cared about in all the world. Father made it for me, a gift when I came of age.

Gone.

It takes some time for the tears to run dry, but as always, they do. Ultimately, it is a thing, and perhaps there is a chance it may be found.

Sitting up once more, I repack what I have left, rise to my feet and survey my surroundings properly. It appears I am on the shore of a lake, surrounded by steep hills on all sides almost as if dug out by hand. A quarry lake? It must have been abandoned many years ago if that is the case however, for the slopes are weathered and old trees have taken root.

The thought crosses my mind that perhaps I was perhaps somehow washed to Tol Fuin, the vegetation is not far divorced from how I remember it and it would neatly explain both age and solitude, but no, while the hills of old were home to many mines, there was nothing worthy of such a vast quarry as this in that land.

Well, if it is a quarry lake of unknown origin, then the odds are there are no fish to be found beneath the mirror-like surface unless they were introduced. But where there are trees, there are usually animals and more importantly, the means to make arrows to hunt them with. Likely enough there are some wild fruits and roots to eat as well. I might not be Atyarussa or Minyarussa, but I know my way around the wilderness well enough these days.

Life has been kind to me as the year warms. There are plentiful fish in the lake (which is fed by a river as it turns out) and enough forage to survive easily, which means I have been able to set aside the mallorn nuts for a rainy day. My living conditions are poor by all but the humblest peasant's standards, but I have a roof over my head which only leaks a little bit and a mostly-draft free space in which to sleep in my ramshackle hut at the foot of a willow tree.

The poor quality is not too much of a concern, as it is a deliberately temporary measure encouraged by a total absence of nails and my being forced to use makeshift flint tools.

Anyway, I have a stock of dried meat, enough to support a little exploration of my new home. Yes, home. I have wandered for centuries, but I needed time to recover from my battering. Since I am now less blue than pink again and have stopped aching with every step, that would appear to be achieved.

First off, I think climbing the hills is in order. That will give me a better vantage point.

A day's cautious walk sees me scrambling up the slope. It is not a particularly difficult climb, not compared to some of the cliffs of Lindon, but it is hard enough going to be worthy of care.

As expected, the view from the top is impressive. The lake sits at the centre of a crater of sorts about seven daur across, taking up about a third of that area, with a waterfall dropping into the river I saw before. Of note is a small island in the centre of the lake, which further puts to bed the question of it having once been a quarry. The site of a meteor crash seems more likely now.

While the crater is only sparsely foliated, mostly around the lake itself, to the north stretches a vast boreal forest as far as my eyes can see, which is less than I would expect. The horizon seems to fall away at a distance, yet another mystery for the growing pile. For one thing, if this is not Arda (and since Varda has not set the stars aright, I am now working under that assumption), why are so many plants and animals familiar? For that matter, who made them? Yavanna is not here, unless the role of the Valar is much different to how we were informed.

To the south rise mighty mountains, snow capped even in the meagre heat of summer that shut off my view almost entirely, but to the east and west stretch rolling moorlands and yet more forest. Pristine wilderness.

I wonder if this is how Grandfather Finwë felt, looking down upon the shores Cuiviénen from the slopes of the Orocarni?

It has been over a month and I am considering returning home. My stocks of food are running low and though I can forage for a while, the peak of summer feels to be over, and if that is as hot as it gets here (which the evergreens surrounding me support), then I need to lay in plans for a harsh winter sooner rather than later.

As I turn that thought over in my mind, something in the sky catches my eye: Smoke. Woodsmoke, if I am not mistaken from the colour. It looms above the treetops ahead of me, blowing away eastward.

Quickly, I scramble up a tree and peer towards the source. It turns out not to be one cloud, but many thin trails rising from the banks of a river I have been following for the past few days. In my heart, I had begun to wonder if I was the only person in all the world, but if that is natural then I am a Nogoth.

Descending once more, I set off at a quiet jog for the source of the smoke.

Night has fallen by the time I arrive. More oddities there; the moon has a different pattern of craters and never appears in the sky beside the sun, while both rise and set much faster than I am accustomed. Rather than long summer evenings as I would expect at this time of year in the north, the westering sun passes to sunset within half an hour, almost seeming in haste to meet the horizon.

Anyway, it appears I am not a Nogoth, for unmistakable are the shapes of simple, temporary dwellings in the gloom, a couple of dozen at most. A communal hearth smoulders in the centre of the tiny village, filled racks of fish and other meats set all about. Nobody seems to be about and I am unsure if that is a good thing or not.

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I will have to approach sooner or later and an idea springs immediately to mind. It worked for cousin Artafindë, so maybe it will work for me as well.

Silently, I rise and enter the village, padding over to the fire. For the latest of all too many times, I miss my harp, but I was not known as 'Maglor the Minstrel' for nothing. Marshalling my voice, I begin to sing softly to the glory of Varda's stars, even if they are not present for now.

Soon, I hear sounds, movement. Curious shadows move beyond the edge of the circle of firelight and-

From above, a huge beast dives upon me with a ferocious roar.

Immediately, I dart aside, nimbly dodging the winged behemoth as it slams into the ground, vicious talons leaving gouges in the earth. With practiced ease, I draw my dagger and square off, trying to get a measure of my assailant.

It is like nothing I have seen before, with the head, neck, talons and wings of an eagle, but with a leonine torso attached like some idle imagination brought to horrible life. Are the others hiding from it? The shadows seemed to back off hurriedly when it appeared.

Turning its scarred face to me, I get a good look at it. One eye white and clearly blind, a notched beak and feathers smeared with... Is that some sort of woad?

I do not have time to ponder that as it pounces again with its wings flared, slashing razor sharp talons each twice the size of a finger at my face. I duck under the swing and roll, getting around its side and away from the fire. To my surprise, it grabs a burning brand from the pit and hurls it at me. I manage to dodge the worst of it, but the glancing blow of the unlit end stings.

This is not some beast! Beasts do not improvise weapons, nor do they generally paint themselves. If it is not a beast, then it can probably be reasoned with, assuming it is not a servant of the Enemy. That possibility seems unlikely here, and since my dagger is not glittering with the cold blue light that warns of such creatures, it is almost certainly not an abomination of his design.

Sheathing the blade, I dodge another set of swipes and unveil my fëa, its pure light shining brightly across the village and almost drowning the fire's glow.

My assailant does not seem to like that and shields its working eye with a claw in surprise. With eyes half in the Unseen, I see more of its ilk where there had been shadows, also covering their eyes.

Half-raising my hands with palms outstretched, I sing again, a nonsense tune invented on the spot.

It takes a while, but the situation eventually calms down. An old-looking... Person, I do not know quite what they are yet, with a decorated staff steps up and says something to the huge warrior catbird. Guessing it to be a leader of some sort, I offer some of the leftover meat from my pack and that seems to buy me an entry in their good books, since the old catbird squarks cheerfully at me and ushers me inside what I assume is its yurt.

Not seeing much practical alternative than to trust that tenuous interpretation, I follow.

The walls are made from the hide of some sort of animal, mammoth perhaps, and the interior is littered with assorted trinkets. Carven ivory sticks, figurines, bangles, even a couple of hinged gold torcs which it slips on along with some brightly coloured earring-like things made from dyed feathers. It reminds me a little of Grandfather's stories about the Lindar back at Cuiviénen. I am beckoned to sit across a smaller fire and a shout from the old catbird summons what I guess to be a youth of his kind, bearing with it a lit brand to stoke the private hearth. A few more words (it is clearly a language, even if I have not the foggiest what anything means yet) dismisses them again.

The old catbird, who I am beginning to think is male if the depth of his cracked voice is any indication, starts talking animatedly at me, reaching over to the side and dropping assorted herbs into a small clay pot full of water hung over the fire from one of the support poles.

I try to discern some pattern in the words, but it is not easy. Eventually, he starts making excited whooshing noises at me while gesturing at the fire and waving his, for want of a better word, arms about like a maniac.

It takes a moment to click, but I unveil my fëa again, less intensely this time. That provokes more of a response and he starts chanting and singing, tapping a couple of the ivory sticks together. It is quite a nice tune and I tap along to the beat with my hand against the rug I am sat upon.

The catbird seems to approve and gabbles some more before carefully pointing at me, then at the mat.

I nod, guessing he intends for me to stay put.

He then takes the clay pot and downs the contents in one enormous swig. Seconds later, his eyes roll into the top of his balding head and he is well out of it.

I wait patiently, fighting off tiredness.

When the old catbird wakes up, he makes yet more excited noises at me such that I begin fearing he will have a heart attack at the rate he is going and I am given a meal of mixed forage and meat similar to what I have been living on so far.

In the much better light, I can see the remains of a yellowish tint to his plumage and coat, both of which have otherwise turned mostly white. The others of his little community are mostly an assortment of dull browns, whites and blacks, with the odd standout that reminds me of the birds to be found in the jungles among the western slopes of the southern Pelóri. Given the sheer variety and distribution, I suspect this is natural. Clothing seems more an afterthought against the cold or a decorative tool than an essential matter of modesty, though bangles made from ivory or coloured stones are commonplace. A sort of woad also seems popular among some of the bigger males, hunters or warriors of some sort like the big, grizzled catbird I was attacked by on my first night. While the average specimen is tall enough even on all fours that they can easily look me in the eye, those individuals tower over me.

Though I still cannot not understand a word he says, the old druid leads me around the village, followed by the same youth as before. Whatever I - or the brew, possibly - has done has convinced him that I should stay it seems, based on his miming. These strange beings have sparked a curiosity in the world I had long thought extinguished, so I am inclined to agree.

In the end I live with them for three months (or at least, three cycles of the moon, for my awakening beside the lake had seemingly fallen upon a new moon) and through an awful lot of work and an accommodating host am able to pick up much of their language, along with the name of their kind; Griffons.

According to Lefkiourá (the old Griffon druid I have been staying with), they will be moving on soon. Winter is coming and already the moors are already covered with snow. It shan't be long ere the lowlands also have a lasting coat. Also from the same source, the 'gods guide me' and as such he wants me to lead them to an overwintering site.

The last time I was responsible so many lives, I was leading an attack upon my own people for the sake of a jewel, may Ilúvatar take the three of them. Still, Lefkiourá cannot be dissuaded. They have done good by me, so it is only fair I try to do the same by them, I suppose.

Heading north shan't be of much use, it will only get harsher. The moors are perhaps just as bad, for they appear from a distance quite barren and will not provide much shelter from the prevailing westerly. South then. I briefly consider the lake, but I do not know how deep the water is or exactly how cold it will get. If it freezes entirely or floods with the spring thaw, then that could spell disaster. I saw what might be a pass in the mountains when I first left the crater, however. It might simply be a glacier valley, but that would still guarantee shelter, fertile soil and fresh water.

The march is a slow one. These folk do not share my stamina and the pace is kept down by the young and old in the group. Lefkiourá, easily the most wizened of the lot, is pulled on a sled by a couple of the hunters, surrounded by an improvised bed of yurt frames and covers. I walk alongside most of the time, watching the trackless wilderness for signs of habitation or any routes that look more promising than the current valley. The u-shaped dale through which we are passing is clearly glacial as I feared, with an almost cyan river running down the middle. The water is tangy with minerals and the air is crisp, but the grass and other foliage is far from verdant. We are too far north for lush terrain like that found in the Calacirion, certainly well beyond the realm of olive and grape.

Each evening we halt and set up camp. The Griffons are quick in assembling and taking down their yurts while hunters go out. I usually go ahead for an hour or so before returning to scout out the first leg of the next day's journey, picking up any berries and the like that I run across as I go to add to the supplies. Occasionally I catch a coney or small bird if I am lucky, but my improvised flint-tipped arrows do not fly so well as the fine works of real fletchers barbed with equally fine steel, nor am I going out my way to find game.

Come to think of it, I shall have to grow out my hair, for I only have so many bowstrings and I do not see many fair maidens willing to part with a few strands in my near future.

As I crest the last rise, I discover we should be out of the mountains by tomorrow evening. From this height I can see league after league of forest stretching before me. Pines dominate the foothills, but down on flatter ground these give way to endless deciduous trees. In the far distance, I can make out a scar running across the forest that might mark the course of a great river.

I wonder if there are Onodrim out there? Unlikely, unless I am sorely mistaken and this is in fact a merely a land of Arda so distant that even the stars are strange...

"Forged Gold?"

I turn around. "Aye? And please stop calling me that, Sharp Point."

The young Griffon, actually called Akakhménos, does not seem phased. I must be losing my touch. "I have been wondering ever since you arrived in camp, what is that thing?" He gestures at my scabbard with a talon.

"A dagger." I reply, returning my gaze out over the foothills. We shan't be able to travel many more days ere the snow gets too deep. As it is, the Griffons pulling the sleds are having problems.

"No!" The black and grey Griffon replies. "I know that, I am not a little cub! What I mean is, what is it made of?"

I am tempted to dismiss that question as well, but come to think of it, I have not seen anything metal since arriving, other than a few gold trinkets and an occasional copper tool. If that is the best they can do, then these Griffons must be well behind the times. Those were the sort of things Father grew up with.

After brief consideration, I answer in Sindarin. "Steel."

"Thornang..." The druid's apprentice rolls the word about his beak. "What is that?"

"A metal, like gold only far harder." I reply.

"Can I hold it?" He asks.

I consider for a moment before nodding. Drawing the dagger with my good hand, I flip it and offer the hilt to the cub. "Have a care, it is sharp."

Akakhménos gingerly takes the blade and runs quizzical eyes over it, gently bending the metal to get a feel for its pliability. That in particular draws an uncannily Elven look of surprise from him. "I have never seen anything like it. You use this stuff a lot?"

I nod. "Aye, where I am from, we make many things from it; tools, weapons, armour. We even build with it sometimes."

"How? Like how Mardonios gets copper from stones?" Akakhménos asks.

"In a manner of speaking. You need a special tool." I explain, eyes darting across the landscape again in search of a good spot for the camp. Somewhere by a river but not liable to flood. The trees are not making the task an easy one. "Iron, carbon, chromium..." I muse to myself in Sindarin before returning to the local tongue as best I can. "I shan't be able to make more steel, much less steel of any quality. I do not know how to build the tool to do so. Raw ang is much easier, one merely requires a good lothblab, and ore of course." I scratch my chin thoughtfully and find to my mild annoyance that there is a little stubble forming there, an unwanted gift from my grandfather. I may be a wanderer, but I am no vagabond. "Something to consider for the future, if I see a vein."

Akakhménos passes the dagger back to me. "We had best get back, Lefkiourá will be worried."

I nod, for all his gruff attitude towards the youth, Lefkiourá does care greatly about his apprentice.

Lefkiourá is busy. Since the first thaw, he has been hobbling around the camp counting things and having Akakhménos fill a jar with various seeds. According to Akakhménos, it is traditional for the druid at the beginning of each spring to assess the fortunes of the clan this way.

Apparently since last year there have been three births and two deaths, one of whom was a sickly infant from the previous year and the other a hunter involved in an accident. Food stocks are down, but the clan has more assorted tools, particularly axes. Axes seem important. It is a crude way to account, but it serves their needs.

Interestingly, I also gleaned a little more about my hosts. Aside from the discovery that despite their avian characteristics, griffons are mammals, I also learnt that Lefkiourá is a hundred and ten years old. Considering that most of the clan seems to consider sixty to seventy a good run for a healthy adult like the unfortunate hunter, that must be a fairly impressive age in the reckoning of his race. Akakhménos meanwhile is nineteen and will undergo his initiation rites this summer. He was quite surprised when I revealed I am six and a half millennia old, give or take. To be honest, I have somewhat lost track between cosmological shifts and apathy.

Lefkiourá’s response was merely to shrug and count me as a 'spirit' before moving on to the next item on his mental list.

Bundled up with my cloak, I am spear fishing, which has been my usual activity over the unexpectedly mild winter. Much as I have preferred my own company these past three millennia, the old druid warned of the dangers of wandering alone into the woods and I am inclined to agree.

Being alone in an unknown wood during any winter is dangerous enough, but if his warnings of the wildlife are even halfway accurate, danger could easily turn to suicide.

I have considered trying to build a lothblab, but without ore there really is no point. Mardonios has none right now either and spends his days knapping flints and tutoring his young son in the art.

Food is always useful however, and I am seldom disturbed in this spot away from the main stomping grounds of the camp, so this is good enough for now. The nearest people to be seen are a trio of griffonesses nattering while weaving baskets from reeds pulled from the riverbank, one of them simultaneously nursing a small cub of perhaps two or three summers.

Once spring sets in in earnest, then I might return to the lake. As interesting as these folk are, I do not wish to bring the Doom down upon them by lingering, assuming it can reach me here. There is no way to test the theory without inviting disaster, so I would rather not take the chance. Ere I go though, I will have to see about asking if I can take a few of Mardonios' flint works with me, for I shall sooner or later need a tool for which a knife cannot substitute. Alternatively, an antler could make a decent pickaxe if I can find one in order to get the ball rolling on some basic metalwork.

I may not be my father or Atarinkë, but one does not grow up a prince of the Noldor, much less a son of Fëanáro, without learning one's way around a forge. Little used though the skill has been in my life up to this point, I will require some degree of self-sufficiency beyond simple hunting if I am to improve my odds of solitary survival, not to mention retaining some shred of sanity. Proper tools will be needed to make new bows when my current one succumbs to wear, to make instruments and preferably also a home that is not a cobbled together mass of branches.

There was an island in the lake, perhaps I could maintain a quiet existence there for a while? The land is so empty that it is not like I shall be bothered much, if at all, and the cold water will serve as a better barrier to the beasts of the night than any stockade I could easily construct or guard.

A week later, I quietly depart into the night. None mark my passage and I am soon well away from the camp.

I follow the pass we took to reach the winter camp, making good time thanks to the now-familiar route. This time however, I am on the lookout for ore veins in any and all cliff faces. Even surface deposits should not yet have been exploited, under the circumstances.

My theory proves itself correct when after several fruitless days, I discover a small, bright green streak in a boulder broken off from the living rock. Malachite, if I am not mistaken. It could be mariposite, in which case I am wasting time and energy, but I chip away at the boulder anyway until my hands ache and collect the resulting debris in my pack. Casting aside my now-ruined improvised tool (a vaguely sharp lump of rock, since an antler or a deer from which to extract one has proven elusive, despite the ideal habitat of the forest), I continue on my way, thoughts turning to tin.

While both are common in the Calacirion and the local abundance was one reason Tirion was settled there, I cannot be sure the same will be true of these mountains, which I ought to name.

One of my first queries to Lefkiourá was on that topic once we understood one another, but he had simply called them 'the mountains'.

My distracted musings on fitting names are interrupted when I practically trip over an outcrop of blocky, steel-grey crystals almost covered by the thin layer of snow still lingering from a flurry last night. Blinking, I stare at it suspiciously.

Carefully, I take a piece of the malachite from my pack and scratch it against the crystal, leaving no impression. That eliminates a few possibilities. Next, I reach for a nearby piece of quartz and this time make an impression. Leaning in, I sniff at the scoured surface. Garlic, that means mispickel. It is not tin, but one can make arsenic-based bronze.

Thank you Father, I wish I had not made my boredom with your lessons so obvious.

It takes about an hour to unearth the crystal and part of the attached rock. It is heavy (though somewhat less than I would have expected), but if I am correct then hauling it back with me will be all the supply I should need for some time, at least long enough for alternatives to make themselves known or I have the means to go on another, better planned expedition.

Besides, if I find more malachite then I can simply drop it off somewhere safe and come back for it later.

The chunk does not fit in my pack very well, but other than carrying or kicking it, I have little in the way of choice if I am to bring it to the lake. Thus, I put up with the minor inconvenience and continue my plodding way, bow in my for once less-aching left hand in case something appetising makes an appearance.

The leagues pass under me easily and though I spot and memorise a few more small deposits of malachite, I on second thoughts decide against taking any as I do not want to risk injury.

On the thirteenth day, I finally see the lake once more, a few lingering traces of ice visible around its edges. Assuming the years here are the same length and fully aligned, it must be well into the second half of Ethuil by now, even if the chill in the air would disagree.

Descending into the crater the following afternoon, I spot the remains of my ramshackle abode and make for it.

The roof has collapsed, presumably under the weight of uncleared snow since there are no strong winds here to cause damage. No matter, I had very little stored inside and was planning to move anyway.

Though night is falling, a couple of hours of repairs see the structure restored to temporary usability.

Reaching the island the next day is only a small challenge, for while the lake's water is too deep to simply ford and the cold is still biting enough that bodily harm is a real possibility from extended exposure, an improvised raft and some patient paddling are all that is required to bring myself and my less water-resistant possessions across (leaving the heavy ore behind for obvious reasons).

The main problem facing me now is construction materials. While the raft can just about bear me, it will not serve to carry masses of wood, if only because it would run the risk of tipping and dumping me into the frigid water.

No matter. All I need do is, as Father was once suggested; invent a new, artificial sort of boat. Or should I say, coracle? I have never built a boat before, but how hard can it be?

Author's Note

Terminology:
Tulkas - Champion of the Valar, associated with strength and valour.
Aman - The continent west of Middle-earth on the world of Arda, home to most Elves.
Lektaie - A rather coarse word in the tongue of the Exilic Noldor, unbefitting of a certain Prince.
Spring - Referring to the Spring of Arda, a period of time in Arda's pre-history, dinosaurs and the like were around then.
Mandonildi - Servants of Mandos the Doomsman, a fanon word derived from 'Yavannildi'.
Varda - Vala associated with stars and consequently most beloved by the Elves, often called Elbereth Gilthoniel.
Anarrima, Remmirath, Valacirca and Menelmacar - Constellations.
Carnil - Mars.
Aldaron - Huntsman of the Valar and one of the most steadfast opponents of evil on Arda, better known by the Sindarin Oromë.
Vaire - The Weaver of Time and wife of Mandos.
Mallorn - A kind of tree that can grow to impressive sizes, grows green and gold leaves. Plural mellyrn. Elves like to cultivate them for their bark (which can be made into a fibre useful for ropemaking) and nuts (which are highly nutritious and a key ingredient of miruvórë, an Elven cordial).
'Father' - Fëanor, the second most powerful Elf to ever live and almost certainly the smartest. Second High King of the Noldor and creator of the Silmarils.
Tol Fuin - A large island off the coast of Lindon, originally part of Beleriand.
Atyarussa and Ambarussa - Better known as Amrod and Amras, two of Maglor's younger brothers. Noted hunters, both deceased following the Third Kinslaying.
Daur - Sindarin unit of measurement, roughly 4,825m
Yavanna - Vala associated with plants and animals, creator of the Ents (Onodrim).
'Grandfather' - Finwë, Maglor's paternal grandfather and first High King of the Noldor.
'my grandfather' - Mahtan, Maglor's maternal grandfather. Notable smith and freak of nature, able to grow a beard in his youth.
Cuiviénen - The lake beside which the first Elves awoke.
Orocarni - A mountain range to the east of Middle-earth.
Nogoth - Dwarf.
Artafindë - Finrod, the Elf who made first contact with Men.
Fëa - Spirit or soul, which exists within the Unseen. Elves, particularly old or powerful ones, possess the ability to unveil their fëa, presenting it in the Seen world. Evil creatures are disgusted by the light of the fëa, though the unwary can also be daunted by the unknown.
Pelóri - A mountain range in Aman, most Noldor live in communities among it, especially in the Calacirion.
Ilúvatar - Eru Ilúvatar, the sole God (capitalisation important) of Tolkien's world.
Calacirion - A fertile gap in the Pelóri mountains in which sits the great bustling city of Tirion, capital of the Noldor clan.
Lothblab - Sindarin for 'bloomery', a primitive sort of forge.
Atarinkë - Curufin, one of Maglor's younger brothers and father of Celebrimbor. Deceased as of the Second Kinslaying.
Mispickel - An old-fashioned name for arsenopyrite, an ore of arsenic.

Valacirca

Very hard, as it turns out.

Materials are plentiful; there are sticks and withies galore that I can weave together to make a half-walnut shape, using willow bark strips to tie the whole thing together into an rude structure I can crouch in, but I have no way to waterproof it as of yet. Without that, the thing will be no dryer than my ramshakle raft and hardly any more buoyant either.

A single deer skin would be plenty for the job and a stag would solve many of my tool-related woes, but wishing will not achieve anything. I did see a bear recently, but I would be a fool (or Tyelkormo, but that is a distinction almost without a difference) to try to hunt such a beast with a dagger and a shortbow, especially at this time of year when it has probably just awoken from hibernation. In fact, I had best hope it stays afraid of my fire or I might find myself in the unenviable situation of watching it tear into my hovel while I sleep.

This thought lends some urgency to my literal hunt for a waterproofing material. Enough coney skins will do the job and the little lagomorphs seem to be plentiful in the area. I have spotted at least three active warrens, but getting to them without approaching the bear or drawing it to me with the scent of a fresh kill or cooking is a tricky proposition to which haste is not the answer. Subsisting on mushrooms and wild rhubarb in the short term is not pleasant (I despise rhubarb like no other vegetable), but it avoids the most likely scents that might draw a hungry predator.

My initial course of action is simple: Spend a day or two observing the bear's movements to figure out when he is active and if possible identify his den. From that point my options open up.

Killing the bear, probably by luring it into a trap somehow, is quickly dismissed as a first option. Doing so will just lead to another bear moving into the vacated territory sooner or later, assuming I even managed to produce a trap capable of killing the beast without putting myself in grievous danger to trigger it. It is also wasteful, since I doubt I could use even the majority of the carcass ere it went rancid, which would again attract predators to my unprotected camp. If anything, a pack of wolves would be worse than a single bear.

The idea of a trap can be repurposed, however. Knowing when the bear sleeps, I can wait until my camp is downwind of the bear's den to hunt coneys during this season, skin a couple in situ and then use them to create a trail away from my camp that the bear will hopefully follow. Meanwhile I will smear the rest in mud and carry them back before processing them as fast as I can. Cooking can be done when the bear is likely asleep and only if the wind is favourable, and hopefully the skins will cure fast enough for me to use them before my luck runs out.

In the last ditch, I could just sleep on the island with only my cloak for shelter, but with the fairly frequent rain over the past couple of days, that prospect is not a promising one. The water is ice cold and while I would probably not be risking exposure in the air now the year is warming, it would be maddeningly unpleasant.

The bear wakes up earlier than expected and I have to make a quick dash away from the bait, but otherwise the plan works, with the beast seemingly content to forage down at that end of its range for some time afterward.

That time is all I need shoot a few more coneys (or more likely young rabbits, at this time of year and given the ease with which I sneak up on them, their elders being far more cunning) with my bow and bring them back to camp, sparing a lethargic hedgehog along the way since I truly do not need that much meat. Once skinned, I think I will have enough leather for the coracle and at the same time I can begin drying the remainder of the catch to help it keep. If such little wind as gets down into the crater changes I might be in for bother, but so long as I do not keep the meat too near my hovel, I should not be in much danger.

Forty days later, the coracle is ready. Tanning is an unpleasant process, only made worse by the trial and error I had to persevere through to fill the gaps in the odd bits of trivia I have picked up over the years.

To be perfectly honest, I was at times tempted to go back and try to find the Griffons again, simply so as to have someone to foist the work off on for some payment, but a good craftself will endure much for his work.

On the bright side, the smell was so bad that I think I drove the bear off.

Anyway, the little boat does not leak and seats me, if not comfortably then at least competently. Further testing using the lump of mispickel reveals it is buoyant enough to carry some cargo as well, though I dare not dump the crystal directly into the bottom of the coracle. I have already had to repair one broken rod while waterproofing it and the process was long and fiddly enough to do well so as to make me leery of my prospects in the event of serious damage. As for moving the thing, while simple paddling works to a limited extent, a branch will suffice as an improvised oar until I have the tools to properly shape wood.

First things first, I begin transferring my supplies over to the island. There are no trees there and so building a shelter will not be so easy as on the shore, but I shall have to as the hovel is beginning to come down around me again.

Thankfully, the year has warmed and I suspect summer to be upon me, so shelter is not too urgent right now, especially with the rain easing off. The simplest solution for the time being is to use the coracle as a sort of half-shelter, propped up somehow so I can crawl under it to sleep. A fire is easy to keep fuelled on the island, so long as I make regular trips to the shore for wood, which can easily coincide with foraging trips.

In other words, I have some time to actually start working on that lothblab.

The ones Father taught me to use were fairly advanced for what they were, built of clay brick and of refined shape. I will have none of that luxury for now. Instead, I shall simplify the structure to its most basic form, with the full intent of replacing it later. That means a shallow pit in the ground with stones carefully piled around it and stuck together with mud from the waterfront. A hole in the side facing the prevailing wind (such as it is) will help to feed the fire and a second opening dug out of the pit will allow me to access the interior without completely dismantling the entire thing every time, while also acting as a chimney of sorts.

Before any of that is worth doing though, I need fuel that will burn hot enough to melt copper, allowing for my less than ideal conditions. Ideally that means charcoal, which in turn means building a 'clamp'.

Essentially, I need to set up a frame of logs tied together at the top to form a frame and set further logs in a circle around them. Then I cover the whole lot in mud, drop a lit branch down a chimney and wait a few days, blocking up any cracks that form in the seal, which should be easily recognisable. Nice and easy, though I will have to be much more attentive than I was as an elfling longing to go back to his music sheets.

I lack any logs however, which places a further prerequisite in my path. I need to fell a tree or two, transport them over to the island and cut them into small enough pieces, all without risking my source of building materials. There are a few scattered copses in the crater, and I shan't touch the willows unless I have to, but sooner or later I will have to either learn to cultivate and coppice trees from scratch (assuming 'plant acorns and hope' proves insufficient) or start bringing wood in from beyond the crater without the use of pack animals.

That is a problem a few years off however, so long as I do not attempt any major construction projects that would likely jeopardise my ability to eat anyway. There is so much loose stone here on the island and around the crater edges that I might actually find a primarily stone cottage a far more practical home than a wooden one in the long term. It would also play (marginally) closer to my existing skillset.

Felling trees with an improvised stone axe is back-breaking, thirsty work, but necessary. Hopefully, the next time I do this I will have real tools to make things easier.

Dragging an entire tree is obviously impractical, so I prepare the logs I need in situ and haul them back to the lake. Once floating in the water, it is a simple matter of punting them across over many trips and leaving them to dry in the sun.

By comparison, assembling the clamp is trivial once the wood is ready. Realising that transporting enough mud the cover the whole thing at once by hand will take an impractical amount of effort, I set aside a day for gathering and shaping some more willow rods into a basket. At this rate, I might actually start becoming competent at that ere long.

Now the water is reasonably warm, getting mud from the shallows is actually rather pleasant, dumping scoops into the basket before emptying it onto the clamp. That said, while relatively fulfilling once, I do not think I will want to repeat the toolless labour any time soon.

The process takes five days in all, but eventually I am ready to light the thing. The effect when the burning brand is tossed in is somewhat underwhelming for the effort that went into this, but in a few days I should have fuel for my smithing. Since the clamp requires as much supervision as possible to get the best out of the lumber, my time to gather food is somewhat limited. There are fish in the lake however, so I am not totally without nearby replenishment of my limited stocks, and I can begin work on the lothblab in the meantime.

Another five days later, I carefully crack open the hardened mud with the pommel of my dagger, heart rising into my throat in anticipation. Days of effort hinge upon this moment of revelation…

My song of joy echoes across the crater as I dance in circles on the island, a lump of charcoal in either hand. Hot charcoal unfortunately, but the fact it is charcoal is more than worth the discomfort in the hand that can feel it, for soon, I shall have real tools, and then I can do anything, anything my imagination can encapsulate!

The light of my fëa shines out like a star, illuminating the evening as though the little scrap of land I call home has been thrust into the noon of tomorrow.

The next morning I stand beside the lothblab, a little sleepy from the lack of rest the night before, but the excitement continues to buoy me as only a Noldo can be by works of craft... Except perhaps a Nogoth, fine folk who understand the joy of creation that they are, even if they can be a little narrow in their focus at times.

I have no bellows, so I am doing my best creating a draft with my shirt, which is starting to show some signs of wear after a year and more of hard use and rough washing with ash and water. Sooner or later, I shall need new clothes, which will be a problem since I have never so much picked up a needle with intent to sew, let alone woven cloth from scratch.

Animal skins will suffice in a pinch, but I would rather retain some civilisation if I can. Bad enough I have a stubbly, patchy excuse for a beard making me look like some wildman, despite my efforts with the dagger to do away with Grandfather Mahtan’s incomplete blessing.

My capacity for facial hair is a mere shadow of his magnificent beard and will likely remain as such until I reach my third cycle.

The thoughts drift slowly around my mind as I wait. Most of the malachite I collected on my journey is in the lothblab, sprinkled with a few chips of mispickel. My hope is that they (or at least the useful parts) will melt together into a purified bloom I can then forge into tools.

Of course, I am mucking about with arsenic, so I would be a fool to breath too deeply of the fumes coming from the chimney. Some exposure is inevitable though and while I considered an improvised face mask, I decided wreaking my clothes or bedding was not worth the marginal benefits.

Caution and care not to do too much smithing in too short a time will keep me safe. As Father often said: Unless one is vomiting, one is fine.

Admittedly, that did not apply well to being mauled by balrogs, but I doubt many would consider a balrog to be a common workplace hazard.

When the fire begins to wane, I stop wafting and, holding my breath, lean over the low dome of the improvised bloomery, peering into the hole at its base. A rough, silvery cooling lump of metal lies in the midst of slag and leftover charcoal. Grinning, I step away. With a bit of care to remove the impurities stuck to it, that will do nicely, even if Atarinkë would blanch at my sloppy work.

I leave the pit to cool and cross the lake in search of food that is not fish. I ran out two days ago and to be honest I do not want to go to the trouble of preparing and cooking meat after the heat of the day and lack of sleep. Instead, I make do with a salad of wild fruits and vegetables that are starting to appear. Even for a small community like the strange Griffons, the pickings would be meagre, but to stave off the hunger of a single Elf, the gathering is almost trivial.

Come evening, I return and recover the now safe to handle bloom, spending much of the night carefully teasing bits of slag loose from the globule with a flint. The work continues the next morning after I sleep, gradually cold-working the metal into a useful shape. While casting would be preferable, I simply do not have the tools to safely melt the bloom again and pour it into a mould.

For that I need tongs, which will be one of the first orders of business. Before that though, I am making an axe head and a fairly large one at that. The end result will probably look like Orch scrap, but it will greatly simplify wood gathering and allow me to better hew that wood into useful shapes without risking ruining my currently irreplaceable dagger.

My plans from there include a fire-hardened spade from the wood thus gathered, which should ease the construction of future clamps. After that, a pickaxe or, more ambitiously, mattock will let me carve foundations for a more permanent residence upon the island, there being precious little soil mixed into the rocky ground. It will also make collecting more malachite easier in the future, but I shall have to do at least one more tough harvest ere I get to that, based on how much bloom I have.

Likely I will not have a permanent shelter ready for winter, but I intend to have the ground at least partially cleared by then and can make do with another hovel in the meantime, once it becomes necessary.

Life goes on as autumn descends, turning the leaves of bushes and the willow trees to a dazzling array of golds and reds. I begin to build up a stock of dried meat for the winter and go on another trip to the mountains to collect ore for smithing, during which I think I spot smoke from the hearths of Lefkiourá’s folk in the far distance to the north-west, or perhaps from another group. Busy as I am and not much desiring company, I do not approach.

I also properly explore the crater, memorising the terrain to improve my efficiency when hunting and foraging and discovering another coney warren while I am at it. I also find a few surface ore deposits around the crater rim. Though not so rich as up in the mountains, I should be spared many long trips for copper in the future, along with evidence of what I think might be magnetite, not that I will have much use for that for quite some time.

Aside from all the other logistical problems, creating moulds is going to be challenging since there are no convenient materials lying about for it, the lake being devoid of cuttlefish like I learnt with.

Not that that would be likely to survive molten iron anyway, but I could have used cuttlefish moulds for my next generation of bronze tools. I might simply have to chisel out stone ones for now, frustrating as that might be, unless I can find a decent source of clay and build a proper kiln.

For the present though, I have begun flattening the small island as much as I reasonably can with the tools I have to hand. That mostly involves clearing the scree that covers the surface and using it in combination with mud to build the rudiments of a small three walled structure that covers about a quarter of the area and could charitably be called a cottage, leaving the side facing the prevailing wind open for the sake of the lothblab.

Eventually I hope it will form the nucleus of a more permanent abode, though unlike how many houses in Tirion evolved over the years, with the rough old structures plastered over for the most part rather than totally reconstructed until no other choice presented itself, I will have to do things the Vanyarin way and totally rebuild due to a lack of foundations. Therefore, I give little care for long term durability. Come winter, I will be able to simply cover the roof with branches and it should still keep me warmer than the hovel of last year would have, though some sort of wind break for the open side is something I will have to work on.

I do not think I have been so busy since the Dagor Bragollach, but it feels good to be constructing again. That is what Noldor do best after all, and as soon I can get my hands on a real chisel, then the real fun can begin. Or rather, it will when I figure out how to get significant slabs of stone across the lake. I do not want a bridge for the sake of safety and possibly some semblance of privacy if someone happens upon me. Not that a little water would deter Griffons, since even old Lefkiourá could fly, but the isolation should lend a sense of property.

Perhaps I can eventually make a decently sized rowing boat?

Winter closes upon me earlier than expected and the days feel unusually short. During the summer I simply put the long days down to the effect of my toil playing tricks on me so that the sun seemed hardly to set, but now the nights drag on and I am sure it is some oddity with this place that is obviously not Arda.

Much as the sight of what might or might not be Elbereth's stars is a splendid thing, the long cold spells and need for fuel is problematic. As it is, I may have to start dipping into my charcoal stock, something I would rather avoid due to the effort needed to make more and the fact that the lake is beginning to fully ice over, making access to mud difficult and dangerous.

On the bright side, depending on how thick the ice gets, this gives me an idea regarding how to get stone to the island without hassle: A sled.

Since I cannot reasonably spend extended periods away from camp under these conditions, I might as well give myself something productive to do. Plus, practice in woodworking cannot hurt, such as I can manage without enough bronze to spare for nails.

The first attempt ends up as firewood, having disintegrated irreparably during testing (that is, me sitting on it in my new 'cottage'). The second attempt is little better and shares the fate of the first, as does the third, but the fourth sled is completed after about two months of work in between scrabbling for what food I can.

It is little more than a row of flat boards attached to a frame of willow rods, but by using very carefully bored holes in the boards and yet more rods I am able to pin them together, doubling up on the 'nails' to prevent similar mishaps as occurred to the first three sleds. It holds my weight, more or less, though I do not trust it at speed.

Still, it should make transporting stone from the crater edge much easier, allowing me to begin to work it into bricks. While working them in situ and bringing them back would be easier, the cold, brief daylight hours and frequent snow storms makes that impractical. It does mean however, that the ice should be sturdy enough to safely cross.

An additional advantage of working the stone on the island is that I can exactly fit the bottom level of bricks to the rock they will be placed upon, allowing a good seal without the need for mortar and extensive digging.

I shall have to watch my activity though, too much work will burn through scarce food. I also need to make a better wind guard on the mostly-open western side of the shelter than the heap of spare stone I currently have, as being able to trap more heat would improve the fuel situation. Weaving willow rods and branches ought to do the trick, barring a howling storm.

The spring thaw has come and seldom have I been more pleased for it. My lack of proper winter clothes made any extended period away from the warmth of a fire dangerous, even when carrying a burning brand with me. Nevertheless, a few brief hunting forays and trips to collect stone were necessary, the first for survival and the second for the sake of sanity as the cold months drew on.

Chiselling stone bricks is slow work, but it keeps the mind and hands occupied and can be done in the warmth of a fire. After the arts of song, Mother's chosen craft always appealed and while I cannot match her wonders, I learnt much from her growing up.

The result of the months of work is a half-finished bottom row of finely cut suevite bricks each around a quarter of a ranga on a side, partially replacing the crude rubble-work. Since I was rather bored, I began inscribing my tale thus far into the interior in Cirth, if nothing else then for aesthetic embellishment.

I might once have achieved more, but the blackened palm of my left hand proved problematic. It is not so dextrous as it used to be and I feel that shows in the quality of the work.

Unfortunately, the next weeks will be focussed on more urgent matters. Hunger is really starting to bite and I will need to catch up on missed meals. As such, my activities will primarily be back to hunting and gathering for now, much as I would like to continue toiling with the stone or expand my tool kit.

Speaking of which, I want a better chisel. While the arsenic bronze one is sturdy enough for my purposes (indeed, it is blunting slower than any wrought iron one I could make at present would in all likelihood), I have to take care not to overheat it while working lest it deform, slowing the early shaping steps greatly.

Wants are not needs however, and as such will have to take a low priority until I have stabilised my situation. Aside from food, I also need wood and ideally another round of charcoal, since I did indeed dip into my stock during the couple of blizzards that struck over the winter. I am fortunate for the protection of the crater or I am not sure my shelter would have sufficed, even with its improvised wall reinforced with leftover material from the reconstruction efforts.

Furs are also a priority ahead of the next freeze, though not so immediate.

The bear is back and probably even more hungry than I am. In fact, it came threateningly close today. An arrow to the leg gave it pause, but I doubt the flesh wound is going to deter the massive brute for long, once the initial pain wears off. I may have to slay the beast ere it gets it into its head to come to the island. Bears are good swimmers and I would not be surprised to see it making the trip it if it smells cooking meat.

To that end, flint arrows will not suffice unless I go for the eyes or somehow cause the bear to bleed out by a multitude of wounds. The latter is impractical with a single Elf and while I am theoretically a good enough archer for the former, I would rather not trust my life to such a shot if that can be helped, especially with the poor quality of my arrows and cheapness of my bow.

Even if I make no error, there is no guarantee that a shot will fly straight enough to hit such a small target at a safe distance, as a few fortunate coneys and squirrels have demonstrated. Somehow trapping the bear to pepper it would do the trick one way or the other, but I have not come across any vines or creepers sturdy enough to pose a serious hindrance as a snare and real rope is currently the stuff of fantasy.

The accuracy problem I can address, now I have some proper tools to work arrow shafts rather than simply saving the straightest willow rods I can find and have had some practice working the decent stock of feathers from the birds I have hunted into fletchings. The arrowheads I can do little about though, for I do not have the bronze to waste on all too easily lost ammunition, nor do I possess the tools to make proper broadheads even if I did. For that and any significantly sized metal object of good quality, I need an anvil, not a mostly flat lump of rock found on the ground.

I do not have the time however, to build a kiln, learn advanced pottery techniques by trial and error, put together a mould and cast an anvil from bronze produced from goodness knows how many hours of work. Producing an anvil from stone would not now be beyond my ability and might even be preferable thanks to my existing skill set, but once again a large investment of time is my foe for something I hope to soon outgrow.

The only real alternative I have is to take it on hand-to-claw. Indeed, in bygone days I might have preferred this, when I possessed one of the finest hauberks turned from the smithies of Himring, a broadsword of equal quality and a tall shield to ward against harm.

At best right now, I might be able to cobble together some leather scraps worthy of Orch filth and a few wooden boards strapped together with sinew that would likely shatter from one solid hit. Combined with the fact that while my dagger is of fine quality, it is still merely a dagger, I must dismiss the notion as absurd.

Well, I suppose I can make a cap at least. It would be better than nothing should the worst come to pass, and I could integrate it into the lining of a proper helm later. It would not be bad for the cold either.

Two days later, I am ready. I considered a trap again, but decided against it for the same reasons as before. Instead, I have opted to find a position on the crater rim, just within bowshot of the bear's den. The plan is to catch it when it is returning to sleep and thus at its most lethargic.

It might not be much of an edge, but I need it. Hence the range and difficult terrain I have placed between myself and the beast that is quickly becoming my nemesis. The cliff is not insurmountable to me and I refuse to make the assumption that the bear cannot climb what I can, but it will buy me both time and potential for a few good shots if the response to my first arrow is aggressive.

Lying in wait is a frustrating endeavour, I have better things to be doing and it is still far from warm, but the bear is an obstacle that must be removed for my safety. Eventually, my patience is rewarded by a scarred brown shape rumbling its way through the darkling landscape about a hundred rangar away. Silently, I unshoulder my bow and draw an arrow, nock it and draw the string as I take careful aim, complicated though the effort is by an ill-timed pang through my left hand.

The bear is moving into his den, I have to shoot or I shall be waiting until morning for another, worse chance.

I loose the arrow, which flies slightly off true. Rather than striking the bear through where I presume his ear canal to be, flint buries itself in the beast's neck, prompting an angry roar as he lurches around in search of the source of pain.

Ere the thing has done more than begin to move, my second arrow is nocked, drawn and loosed, this time biting into the thick hide of the bear's torso before dropping away as he jumps again, still roaring. The third arrow I take time to aim, and strikes home in the right foreleg.

The bear, seemingly unable or unwilling to find me, turns and flees into a copse of trees.

Blast.

I consider chasing him, but that would surrender my advantage of position. Maybe I would take the risk if it were lamed, but a few small trickles of blood and a slight limp are not sufficient to inspire such hope in me. I shall simply have to try again another time.

Two similarly stalemated attempts later, the bear remains only moderately injured. Yes, it is now definitely limping from repeated strikes to that right foreleg and half of one of its ears is missing as of the third hunt, but this is going nowhere and I am running out of food. I can afford one, maybe two more days ere I must brave the danger and forage.

Food is not the only thing I am short on, for while I have recovered some arrows between attempts, many were embedded in the bear and either fell out somewhere I could not find them or were broken. Since said arrows take considerable effort to make and are my primary method of hunting, I cannot keep wasting them like this, however much I might wish to throw the whole lot in the lake for their inaccuracy.

The bear however, renders my concerns moot by absence the next evening. I wait all the way to midnight just in case, but he does not return to his den. A second night's hunt after a day of much-needed foraging also proves fruitless.

Maybe he has begun associating the area with pain? Bears are intelligent animals, so he might simply have moved away again to avoid it.

That presents two questions: Where has he gone and will he stay there? He has already returned once, but that was just a bad smell. The only way to answer either is to find him again.

Wonderful, just wonderful.

The bear does not return to his old den and food pressures oblige me to take the blessing at face value, passing almost a week with almost nothing but foraging.

I am beginning to believe he might have been driven away entirely when one morning finds me occupied packing a slain hedgehog in mud for later preparation. It is a trick Tyelkormo taught me; once dried over a fire, the mud can be cracked away to easily remove the spines, simplifying dressing.

That is of course, until I hear the snuffling. Slowly, carefully, I raise my head and turn, looking for the source of the noise. Wild boar are not an unknown sight in the area and since I do not have the equipment to hunt them (which is unfortunate given their size and useful sinews, hides and tusks which would make them far more efficient targets than preying upon small game) I endeavour to keep a safe distance. Unlike a bear, who might if hungry enough consider an Elf from a culinary perspective, a boar is highly unlikely to attack unprovoked, unless it has young with it.

Unfortunately for me, the sight which greets me is not of the porcine variety but the ursine, and all too close for comfort as it rummages its way through the undergrowth.

My first impulse is to run, but that might simply attract it more than the blood already likely is. Instead, I immediately leave the hedgehog and walk away. Much as it feels wasteful, risking death or serious injury is not worth it.

An idea strikes. This bear was easily distracted by bait before, so perhaps I have the chance to be rid of him once and for all? He will have to stop to eat and I know the likely angle of his approach, so if I line up a shot from fairly close range, I might be able to get an arrow into an eye or his mouth. It is somewhat risky due to the chance of retaliation, but I am not far from the lake.

If worst comes to the worst, I can take refuge in the deep water and wait for him to leave, assuming Elven breath holds for longer than a bear's attention. If not, well, they do not like it up 'em, as one of my guards often put it.

Thus, after moving a moderate distance at a brisk but calm pace, I turn and unsling my bow, readying myself.

The bear comes back into sight, having taken his time working over to the hedgehog. I am unsure if he is aware of my presence yet, with his seemingly undivided attention focused on nosing through the undergrowth. No good shot yet, too much obstruction.

I wait with bow drawn, hardly daring to breath lest it disrupt my aim.

Wait...

Realign...

Wait...

Loose!

Well, that could have gone worse. I was not mauled, but the lake's water is still painfully cold, particularly below the surface.

The bear, enraged, splashes around above, trying to get at me.

Actually, 'painfully' might be underselling it. I can feel my body heat being ravenously torn at as surely as the beast's claws would my flesh were I to surface.

As quietly as possible I swim away along the lakebed, allowing the churning silt to screen me from sight. If anything, breath is a secondary concern to getting out before I begin suffering frostbite. It must be below freezing down here.

Fear of drawing the bear to my home is the greater and keeps me under however, circling around the island beneath the surface before dragging myself onto the shore, gasping and shivering. My clothes are of course completely drenched and the only change I have, if it can be called that, is my blanket.

Peering cautiously around the cottage just to be sure, the beast is gone, though the water is still dark with silt and the opposite shore thoroughly churned. My bow, abandoned in my panicked flight, lies mercifully undamaged near the edge of the nearest stand of trees.

Once I have stripped down and wrapped myself in my dry blanket, it takes an enormous effort to steady my painfully reddened hands long enough to stoke up the fire, and almost as much to not get dangerously close to it.

I thought I had it, I really thought I had it that time. Then the arrow went wide. Hopefully he gets an infection from the wound, because otherwise I just almost earned myself an express ticket to Mandos for nothing. Less than nothing in fact, since I wasted a perfectly good hedgehog and an arrow I probably shan't be able to recover for that.

Stupid people say a bad workelf blames his tools, but a good workelf knows when to blame those tools. Lekta these lektaie inaccurate arrows. Perhaps I really should have taken warning from failed hunts and tossed the lot in the lake. But then I had always been far enough away that I expected some failures. Here, I had the muco-head at point blank range and yet the arrow still contrived to go a hand's span wide of his eye.

I need proper woodworking tools, but I cannot construct those until I have a better, permanent shelter. Not without wasting a lot of time and effort in the good months I have ere the next freeze, at least.

I cannot have a better shelter until I can gather enough stone.

I cannot gather more stone - or enough food to last through winter, for that matter - in safety until that beast has been slain.

I cannot kill the bear until I have better tools.

It is the proverbial chicken and egg.

I wish there was another Elf here, I need a musical session.

If asked mere weeks ago, I would not have believed that I am now resorting to chemical warfare. This Torog in ursine form however, has driven me to it.

The plan, the latest of so many of its failed ilk, is at its core a simple one:

First, I need to find as toxic a plant as possible, or preferably multiple to make absolutely sure. Nightshade, yew or similar. I do not know their exact growing ranges, but for best results a trip over the pass seems prudent. Setting up a shelter over there while I am at it would not be a bad idea either, in case I cannot deal with the bear ere autumn arrives. I would still be at risk without a decent food and fuel stock, but the winter I spent there was at least milder and food somewhat easier to come by.

Assuming success, then the next step is to cook a rabbit carcass over a fire filled with arsenopyrite in order to saturate it with arsenic fumes. I hold no illusions that this will be enough to fatally poison the bear on its own, but it certainly cannot do it any good on top of whatever other poisonous mix I can concoct as a dressing.

Steering well clear of the beast, I trudge up into the mountains once more. The journey is uneventful, in part because of the receding snow still lingering on parts of the slopes. Searching here would be a waste of time, though I make a mental note to pick up some malachite on the way back, since my stocks are running low.

From the vantage I visited before with Akakhménos, I can see a great deal of smoke far to the south-east, almost lost to the horizon. Much as it is tempting to investigate in the hope of an encounter with my acquaintances and the possibility of securing aid to deal with the bear by more respectable force of arms, the smoke is so distant that there is a good chance I would miss them.

Thus, I descend down the familiar route, beginning my search in earnest as soon as I cross the snow line. Budding deciduous trees abound, which brings me hope of finding a yew in particular.

The woods, though empty, are far from silent. Birds and other kelvar there are in abundance, and yet fewer large creatures than I would expect. I still have yet to see a deer, for example. On the second day however, I do encounter one of the beasts of which I was warned by the old druid.

The thing, which straddles the line between kelvar and olvar much as the Onodrim do, even down to its green eyes, prowls warily just beyond a stone's throw. It must know I have seen it, but either it is unsure how to react to me, or it is protecting something. Possibly I am at the bounds of its territory.

Cautiously, I approach, and the creature backs off, growling. Keeping an arrow knocked so as to draw and fire in an instant if it lunges, I continue to advance.

Whatever it is whimpers, turns and flees.

If looks betray nature, it likely has pack members nearby, so I take the opportunity to backtrack for the remainder of the day and, after sleeping up a tree just to be safe, give the area a wide berth going forward.

After about a week more with a merciful lack of canine plants, I finally come upon a cluster of yew trees at the edge of a clearing. It looks like someone inhabited the place relatively recently, going by the decaying remains of hearths and scattered detritus. Not being the best of trackers, I cannot say much more than that.

I try using of a battered basket, but it disintegrates in my hands, which probably goes some way to explaining the scent of rotting wood. As such I have to make do dumping ash leaves and buds into my pack.

Stopping when I begin to feel a little dizzy, I wash my hands in a nearby stream and examine the former camp further. Little in truth remains. Bones, a little broken pottery and some debitage in a pile on the outskirts represent the majority. Nothing worth salvaging turns up.

By the time I have thoroughly checked the entire clearing, evening is approaching and I set camp, taking advantage of the existing hearths. Storing food is going to be a problem on the way home with a pack full of poison, so I eat heartily, planning to carry only what little I can secreted elsewhere about my person.

While sleeping near the fire, I become aware of several pairs of green eyes leering out of the darkness. Tortuously dragging myself to wakefulness, I stand up and cast about. There are five of the things in total and my bow is not an option as it is currently unstrung, for I cannot risk damaging it through poor maintenance habits.

I do however, have the traveller's best friend to hand, an open fire. None of the things seem too keen on approaching it.

Thus taking up a brand, I wave it threateningly and they back off further. Since said brand is a little shorter than ideal, I toss it toward the feet of one of the creatures and find another.

The leafy warg does not go up like dry kindling, but it does yelp and bolt with the rest of the pack close behind as soon as I advance again.

Surprisingly cowardly creatures, for their impressive individual size and numbers. Not that I am complaining.

As soon as the sun breaks the horizon, I leave the clearing and head straight for the mountains. I do not know how long the yew leaves will remain potent, so haste is now vital.

Though I heard the occasional howl, the ambulatory plants made no more appearances and I travelled safely over the now-clear pass, sparing a couple of hours along the way to extract some malachite from the same vein I tapped previously.

The morning after my hasty march, since my arrival was under the light of the stars, I begin phase two. The pine leaves easily pack into the carcass, which after its smoking smells in a manner that could generously be called 'interesting'. As such, I pad it with clean meat in a bid to raise the appeal above the unpleasant smell.

I then leave it in a spot relatively close to the lake, but distinct from the previous attempt to avoid creating a pattern in the bear's mind. Then I lie in wait, ready to drive off any boars or other non-target beasts that are lured.

The bear cooperates for once in its life and ambles out of the brush toward the meat after a remarkably short few minutes. It sniffs around for a longer time and for a moment I fear it might decide that this particular meal is not one in which it wishes to partake, but eventually animalistic greed wins out and it chomps the thing down in three bites.

Not wishing a repeat of my near-fatal bath, I leave well enough alone and feel only mildly disgusted with myself as the creature plods off.

In the end, it takes a second dose (using all that remains of my supply of yew) to finish the clearly-unwell behemoth off, though slipping it said dose is less easy than last time, for the bear seems uninterested in meat, instead eating grass and other vegetable matter. An observation of its waste leads me to believe this is simply a response to sickness.

Two days later, I find success in feeding it the now somewhat less than fresh coney. That seals its fate, and a good thing too since this is costing me more mispickel than I expected to use in years.

I stalk it through the day, meandering seemingly aimlessly until it eventually slumps outside its den, limply digging at the ground with a balding, battered paw. Its only response to my approach is a grunt, though I remain cautious. Too many have fallen to overconfidence in getting into the reach of a supposedly helpless opponent, beast or sapient alike.

Knocking an arrow to finish the job however, something stays my hands. The bear must die for my knowingly temporary safety, and even if pity sways me now it will almost certainly succumb, but I used poison to bring it to this point.

However I slice it, that is Orch work and to now shoot it to death from just beyond its reach, something which may take some time to achieve with these arrows, would only confirm the foul deed. With so much arsenic and yew in its flesh, I will not be able to eat it either, so a good deal of the carcass will already be wasted, only adding further disrespect.

Thus after a couple of seconds internal debate, I ease the tension from the hunting bow and sling it, drawing my knife as I approach.

The bear shifts, but four hundred noedia of muscle and sinew may as well be inanimate wood, with so little energy behind it.

"You are a foe with whom I have struggled for months." I say, crouching beside its head and taking care to remain alert in case of any sudden movement. "A war of brawn and wits in which you won several victories. Against a son of Fëanáro, that is more that can be said of most any being. You have my respect, and I am sorry that it must be this way, for I doubt our paths should ever have crossed. Go, with the blessing of Yavanna and Aldaron."

With that, I place a hand on its head and swiftly give it what mercy I can.

I take what I can use of the carcass and burn the rest to avoid spreading contamination. Mostly, that leaves me hauling and cleaning bones for the rest of the day.

Strong bones like these will be useful for a great many things, at least. Tools to keep me alive and ornaments to keep me sane. I am leaning toward the latter, it seems more respectful to at least bring some beauty forth from the evil deed.

The real prize from a practical standpoint however, is the hide. With proper care, it will solve my winter wear woes almost singlehandedly.

The next weeks are occupied with tanning and gathering as much food as is reasonable to fully replenish my stocks and after that, I turn to quarrying.

With the weather warming, I can spend long hours at the crater edge, carefully chiselling knobbed bricks out of the living rock for use in the upper portions of the wall. The stone cooperates and so long as I do not hurry my work, my bronze chisel lasts.

Little by little, my pile grows and each evening I take a few back with me to the island, where I have taken a side out of my shelter above the existing foundation bricks. Gradually the new, straight wall rises, bringing a trace of civilisation to the place.

Indeed, by the time I awake to the first snow of the coming winter, my shelter has two complete outer walls. Though structurally solid thanks to the exact shaping of the stonework, they are unfortunately thinner than would be ideal in this climate by necessity of haulage.

There is a simple solution to that however, which does not involve doubling (or more) my stonecutting work: Wattle and daub.

Once the rudimentary roof is back on, I begin spending my free time gathering the year's crop of willow wands and weaving the narrower examples around the sturdiest of the lot. With my chisel, I then carefully bore holes through the stonework, through which yet more wands are to run, tying off with the two large frames I create.

Unfortunately, by now I am running short on time and the ground has grown too hard for my crude spade, so I make do with what I have and slot the wattle in without any daub. Using some of the spare loose stones freed from my construction work, I secure the base of the outer panels and tie off the other end of the connecting rods on the inside of the shelter, held in place by shaped bricks.

It is not ideal, but the wood will provide at least some insulation and I can cheaply replace the connecting rods when I resume work next spring.

The remaining rough stones are added to my rudimentary wind guard on the western side in the hope additional bulk will help.

Almost before I am finished, winter's claws dig in and the edges of the lake begin to freeze. The shelter proves much less draughty than before and so retains the fire's heat that much better.

With the bear’s pelt now converted into a heavy toga-like arrangement, I can risk somewhat longer excursions to squeeze food and fuel from the land, and comfort at home is all but guaranteed.

Those expeditions and tending the fire take up most of my days, but I still find some time to work on more inscriptions.

My method is a little unorthodox, working left to right and bottom to top, but so long as I am consistent, then that is no trouble. By the time the snows begin to melt, I have with painstaking care reached my own birth and filled a couple of rows of bricks without error.

I intend to spend the coming year in the same manner as the fading months of the last, more or less: Replenish stocks, quarry stone and get the skeleton of what is gradually becoming a cottage finished. If I have time left over, I will work on finishing the wattle and daub and then perhaps on a roof sturdier than random logs and sticks balanced across the walls. Maintaining the existing one is a fairly major time sink in winter in order to prevent a dangerous collapse and in summer the thing leaks.

As spring is warming toward full summer however, I am interrupted.

Author's Note

Terminology:
Tyelkormo - Celegorm, another younger brother of Maglor and a friend of Oromë who was wise in the ways of animals and particularly birds. Generally something of a scoundrel.
Mahtan - Maglor's maternal grandfather, a famed smith notable for being able to grow a beard before what an Elf would consider old age.
Mother - Nerdanel, one of the greatest Elven sculptresses and Feanor's estranged wife. It was said that her statues were so life-like that some Elves mistook them for people and tried to talk to them.
Suevite - A type of impactite metamorphic rock, generally light grey with dark inclusions.
Ranga - Elven unit of measurement equal to 96.5cm (or 38 inches, if one is still living in the eighteenth century).
Cirth - A form of Elven writing. Less modern and common than Tengwar, but favoured for carving due to its angular nature, especially by Dwarves.
Hauberk - Mail armour of the sort worn throughout the dark ages and into the early middle ages. At the time when Maglor was active in combat during the First Age, it was cutting edge technology learnt from the Dwarves that only the wealthiest of lords could afford to outfit soldiers with.
Himring - Chief fortress of Maedhros, Maglor's elder brother. Later also Maglor's home after his defeat at the Dagor Bragollach (Battle of Sudden Flame).
Torog - Troll of the Dwarf-roasting variety.
Kelvar - Fauna/Animals.
Onodrim - Ents, guardians of the forest and children in thought of Yavanna.
Noedia - Non-canon Elven unit of weight approximately equal to half a kilogram. Inspired by Sumerian measurements.

Anarríma

While reforging my chisel one drab afternoon, having noted the thing finally beginning to blunt, I spy four figures at the northern rim of the crater. Griffons, it is plain.

They seem to spot me as well, as they take to wing and begin gliding straight toward me.

My contact with that people was cordial enough before, but this may be a different group. As such I take the precaution of stringing my bow and loosening my knife in its scabbard.

The four Griffons however, land just across the water from me and the most-ornamented of the group steps forward. "Hail, Spirit! I am Gaumata. My companions and I were sent at the will of the new druid, Akakhménos. We seek guidance!"

I raise an eyebrow. "New druid? What of Lefkiourá?"

"He joined the mountains last autumn." Says Gaumata. "It was his wish that Akakhménos take his place until his time comes again."

Reasonable enough, Akakhménos was his apprentice after all.

"My condolences. What does the druid need of me?" I ask aloud, deciding not to beat about the bush. The group are clearly travel-stained.

"When the moon was last half-waned, we were raided by creatures of a kind we have never seen before, yet they are clearly no dumb beasts." The Griffon explains, using his spear to draw in the mud near the water's edge. "They bore weapons, but they tried to escape once the camp was roused and took little. We caught two of them and they seem to speak, but even Ariaramnes could make no sense of it, and he has seen the southern sea!"

Dragging my coracle down into the water, I paddle across to the group. By the time I arrive, Gaumata has finished with his picture. Looking past the elflingish angry face added by one of his compatriots, in the mud is a four legged creature with what I assume to be a horn protruding from its head. Beyond that, the depiction is too crude to be of much use.

"They used spears?" I half-ask, pointing at the weapon, which seems to have been circled for emphasis.

Gaumata nods and taps his hide arming cap, which has clearly had a gash resewn recently. "Almost got me with it. I have never seen the like; they can grasp things without touching them!"

"Nor have I." I say, curiosity piqued. "Can you describe them any better?"

Gaumata blows out of his nares. "Beastgriffs. A little smaller than me, furred all over, hooves like a cow, but thinner and far more colourful. When they use their devilry, the horn and whatever they grab glows."

I shake my head. "I would need to see them. Come, you must be hungry and tired from your journey. I have food and room enough for all. Rest here the night, and tomorrow I will come back with you to your camp."

The Griffons share uncertain looks.

"What is the matter?" I ask after a moment.

Gaumata shifts side to side. "What is the price, spirit? The druid warned us not to accept anything from the fey blindly."

"Price?" I muse on the thought for a moment. Curiosity had almost carried me away. "That rather depends on what awaits me at your camp, but hospitality and some pots to take back with me would not be unwelcome, or perhaps a few bundles of rushes. As for my own hospitality?" I chuckle. "Nothing, save any stories you may wish to share tonight. I am sure folk such as yourselves have a few between you."

The Griffons are encamped some weeks west from the lake, but our fast-paced journey skirts north around highlands my explorations have yet to broach. Apparently those hills are home to many 'monsters', whatever that means in the local sense. Along the way, I keep watch for signs of useful minerals, but on the flat tundra this avails little.

To the north, the land slopes away down to glittering waves just visible at the edge of the strange bent horizon. On second to final day we turn our backs to it and pass south along the course of a river until first the smoke of a dozen hearths is to be seen, then keen-eyed sentries upon wing above and finally huddled in a depression in the landscape, the camp appears.

Gaumata leads me to the druid's yurt, where Akakhménos is holding one of his old mentor’s necklaces and reciting a rhyme of herb lore again and again, fumbling for the correct ending. He seems oblivious to the world.

"Perhaps you should show me the captives?" I quietly ask after a minute.

The warrior shakes his head. "It would be better if the druid were there. Their magic is dangerous."

Neither of us are inclined to interrupt the young druid, but eventually he works through the block, selects a few pieces of bark from the assortment of small pouches currently littering the ground around him and grinds them up. With an impotent incantation to his gods, he sprinkles the flakes into a clay pot half filled with water and stirs.

Picking the thing up and turning, he starts and almost drops it again when he sees us waiting in the entrance.

"Gaumata! Spirit!" He turns his head briefly up in respect. "Your journey was safe, I hope?"

Gaumata, who had mirrored the body language, turns it into a nod. "No trouble, druid. Though I still believe we should have killed the things and been done with this."

"I know how you feel, and I know you have the safety of the clan at heart, but we cannot simply kill all things which we do not understand." Akakhménos replies, trying a little too hard to sound wise. "What if more of them come, or it angers the spirits?"

The warrior looks dour, but nods. "May they have mercy. I will attend to my companions."

Akakhménos holds out the pot. "Take this to Drypetis, would you? It is for her leg. Make sure she drinks half now and half before sleep."

Gaumata's expression turns worried. "What happened?"

"Worry not, she simply landed badly with a heavy load on the way back to camp last night. The leg will heal and this will help in the meantime." The druid explains. As Gaumata hurries away with the pot, Akakhménos turns to me. "Come, I apologise for keeping you waiting, spirit."

"It was clearly important." I say. "I do not think I am familiar with Drypetis."

Akakhménos begins to lead me though the camp. "Gaumata's wife, they married last spring. She comes from the Heron clan like me, to the south."

"I take it there are many such clans." I say.

He gives me a slightly odd look. "Yes, there were over a dozen at the last moot, and there are other moots." Then his tone carries away with itself. "The land has its edges, but none has found the edge of the world beyond the seas, only other, strange lands. In a world so vast, there must be thousands of clans, perhaps more."

"Feigned wisdom will not earn respect, Akakhménos." I say softly, once I am sure I am out of earshot of any of his people.

The Griffon, hardly more than a cub, huffs. "I must be like Lefkiourá, otherwise how am I to lead?"

"Your mind is like your name, rely on that for now and wisdom will come in time." I say.

Soon we arrive at a yurt a little away from the rest, outside of which a hunter lounges against his primitive spear. He straightens and raises his head when he sees Akakhménos, however.

"Has there been any trouble, Ariamnes?" The druid asks as we approach.

The hunter shakes his head. "Still sulking."

"Better than trying to escape." Akakhménos replies, turning to me. "The creatures are inside, unless you would prefer to rest after your journey? You will be fairly paid for your time regardless, I assure you."

"I will see to them now." I say.

The druid nods. "I will come in with you then, in case they try anything."

Deciding that it would be more of a liability than a help if they did indeed 'try anything', based on what Gaumata and his fellows told me, I leave my bow and quiver at the door. Inside is a little gloomy thanks to the dull weather overhead, but immediately obvious is the back of the huge Griffon who 'greeted' me upon my first encounter with the clan. He and another of his fellows are eyeing two creatures sat on a fur on the opposite side of the yurt.

Stepping around his massive bulk, I get a better look at them. They are more or less of equine build, of a sort that recalls fanciful artworks. Each sports a horn on a head that seems to have overgrown much of the muzzle one would expect on such a thing. Presumably on account of the brains behind the obviously intelligent eyes currently examining me in return.

Their expressions are easier to read than the Griffons, and neither looks best pleased with their circumstances. Then again, prisoners seldom do.

Given that the Griffons have already attempted their tongue to no avail, I try the couple I know myself, even my imperfect grasp of that of Bór's folk. As expected, none of this achieves much except to acclimatise the pair to being babbled at.

It does however, ease their minds when I attempt ósanwë. Carefully at first, and drowned by more Quenya so as to not alert them. This precludes direct communication or any deep understanding, but brushing the surface of one of their minds gives me some measure of their nature and emotions.

Like the Griffons, these are mortal incarnates. I immediately recognise that trait from Bór and his folk. More immediately useful however, it allows me to confirm the connection with their body language. Mostly this consists of frustration and fear.

That needs to be defused before I go further, lest they either shut me out (if they are wise) or panic (if they are not). Thus, without any sudden movements I overtly draw my knife and pass it to Akakhménos. Then I approach the pair and sit crosslegged before them.

The pair, 'dun' and 'pink' for want of names, eye me cautiously, but otherwise leave me be.

Once more wishing for my harp, I begin to sing in Quenya. Elflings' play-songs for the most part, being the easiest to grasp and complete with the gestures I used raising my foster-sons.

"Atto emme hanno nette winike!" I clap and repeat several times, then eventually hold out my hands to Dun, who seems more receptive. After a couple of attempts, Dun tentatively taps a frog against my palm.

I smile and nod, then repeat until she seems to gather that there is a method to the Elf's madness. Once she is clapping alongside and haltingly repeating the words, I point to myself and circle my finger indicatively. "Maglor."

It does not take the first time, but I try again, this time actually touching myself before saying my name, then reaching out and touching her with a cocking of the head for emphasis.

"Lēohtsāwend. Ic i béo Lēohtsāwend." She says rapidly.

Her companion nudges her with a frown and the two have an exchange in their tongue. Eventually, Lēohtsāwend (presuming she understood my intent) seems to win out, though Pink looks ill at ease over it.

I run through a few more songs to try and break the ice further, raising the age bracket little by little.

Through all of this, Akakhménos waits patiently a little off to the side. The process is not entirely dissimilar from how I began building my vocabulary in his tongue, after all.

There is more time pressure here however, since presumably these two are not alone in the world. A meeting between whatever society they come from and Akakhménos' folk will likely end poorly without dialogue, if any come to look for them. The sad fate of the Pikinaukor stands testament to that.

Ósanwë is not a substitute for learning a language, but it can bypass the problem to a limited extent and now Lēohtsāwend is cooperating, I turn to signalling. Touching lepetas fingers to my lips, then to her ears before repeating the motion forehead to forehead. She goes to repeat the motion, but I hear a stir from one of the hunters and she freezes.

Not breaking eye contact, I raise a forestalling hand in the direction of the hunter, then smile and go through the motions again.

She reciprocates, albeit hesitantly and with an eye on the burly Griffons.

As she touches my forehead, I reach out for her alien mind and find it. '*Hello, Lēohtsāwend.*'

The mare starts, then tentatively makes the motion again.

I nod. '*Never met one like you before.*' Then I gesture toward Akakhménos. '*I help. Druid wishes to know why you here. What you are. Why you harm Griffons?*'

Lēohtsāwend turns and babbles at her companion, who looks alarmed. Their exchange grows urgent until Pink bites Lēohtsāwend on the ear and shouts something. Lēohtsāwend flinches and withdraws into herself, muttering nervously. My ósanwë connection, such as it was given the lack of direct response, falters as unwillingness clamps down over the creature's mind. I could still send, this is no trained aquapahtië, but nothing now comes back to me.

Not desiring to turn to the peddling of temptations to try and coax her back, I sigh and drop the connection. Formally taking my leave and hoping the exagerated body language carries the meaning across, I stand and leave the yurt.

Akakhménos follows a moment later and finds me resting on my haunches, looking out east toward the hills. Oddly, they linger upon my thoughts more than the sea.

"Did you find out anything useful?" He asks, fidgeting on the spot and trying to hide it.

"A little." I say. "The one who spoke to me is called Lēohtsāwend."

He nods. "I followed that. You did not seem to understand their language."

"I held little hope of doing so." I reply. "They are mortal creatures like you though, and seem quite frightened."

"Good, that should keep them out of trouble." Akakhménos says.

I elect not to comment on that dangerous path, moderating my disapproval. Neither of the prisoners had seemed seriously mistreated.

"Is there anything else?" The druid asks at length.

Doubting that he would find their marital status of use, I shake my head, keeping my eyes on the hills. There are a lot of birds circling in one patch of sky in particular, but I cannot divine why.

He seems surprised. "Really? That is not much."

"You expect much from a first meeting." I chide. "Remember how long it took for us to understand one another."

"I suppose. Do they have feelings? They are uncannily blank, but sometimes…" He trails off.

I raise an eyebrow at that. "They do, and they probably wonder the same about you.”

"Do you think they will cause more trouble?" He asks.

I shake my head. "I do not believe Lēohtsāwend will, at least ungoaded. Her companion seems the elder and more stern. I will speak with them again tomorrow, if you will allow it."

Akakhménos nods. "Of course, why would I not?"

"A druid has many calls upon his time." I say.

"This is important." Then the Griffon sighs. "I wish Lefkiourá could have stayed. He would have known what to do right away."

Progress is slow over the next few days. Whatever Pink said, and it is a measure of 'slow' that she refuses to provide even an essë as though I were a dragon, seems to have shaken Lēohtsāwend deeply. I do not attempt ósanwë again, instead reverting to the songs that at least garnered some positive response before and generally doing as much as I can to interact, taking my meals with them and so forth.

I am fairly confident that they learn more of Sindarin than I do of their tongue in this time, and though ultimately either would work as a means of opening real dialogue, forcing proper communication with one side unwilling is almost as impossible as it would be via ósanwë. Lēohtsāwend seems most to enjoy counting, and so in that area alone do I make much headway, even advancing into the fundaments of mathematics.

Obviously, this state of affairs cannot continue indefinitely. Regardless of what their kin are doing, I would rather not remain away from my own work indefinitely, the two are consuming the Griffons' resources for no return and until I convinced him that I have matters in hand, they were also monopolising Akakhménos' time. One less glowering face does not seem to have much eased communication, however. It is evident that another course must be plotted.

Thus, when I arrive as usual at the break of dawn, I gesture at a drowsy Lēohtsāwend and then at the way out of the yurt. As usual, she is hesitant and Pink clearly does not like this one bit. That is something of an understatement in fact, as she demonstrates said dislike first by shouting and then bodily interposing herself in Lēohtsāwend's way when the other mare dithers, snarling at us. Eventually, I distastefully have to have the Griffons restrain Pink while I do my best to gently lead Lēohtsāwend out.

Unsurprisingly, Lēohtsāwend does not take this inauspicious beginning well, becoming clearly frightened, but I do eventually elfhandle her outside. Once a few steps from the opening, I let go.

My gamble on her personality pays off and she does not immediately bolt. Instead she freezes, squinting in the bright summer sunlight with her ears pinned back at the yells and probable curses drifting from the yurt.

I instruct the concerned-looking warrior outside the yurt to keep an eye on Lēohtsāwend before going back inside, where I am met with what looks seconds from breaking out into a fight. Pink's horn is surrounded by an olive glow as a similarly-enshrouded loose object hurtles about the interior. The Griffons had the sense to not leave anything particularly dangerous lying about, but few adults enjoy being repeatedly bashed with loosely-rolled furs and the way Pink is struggling makes following my stipulation not to harm her problematic.

Closing the flap so Lēohtsāwend cannot see, I draw my knife and wade into the tussle. Timing my move, I catch Pink around the scruff of her neck and present the weapon before her eyes, angled carefully so as to not accidentally maim her if she jerks or to imply immediate murder, but remind her that it remains on the table if she keeps making a fool of herself.

Pink falls for the bluff (at least on my part) and is transfixed by the razor-sharp blade, which gives the hunters an opening to reaffirm their own holds and bear her to the ground. She is bleeding slightly from a few minor talon-inflicted cuts, but otherwise not obviously harmed.

Slowly letting go and putting away the knife, I reach out to her with ósanwë. '*Calm. No wish harm you. No harm Lēohtsāwend.*'

Pink is obviously unwilling, but that does not prevent me blindly sending. The anger in her eyes has been fully replaced by fear and she draws away from me as much as she can. For the purposes of preventing trouble however, that will do for the time being.

I duck back out of the yurt. "Hydarnes, please find Akakhménos and inform him that one of his prisoners needs some attention."

The young warrior, one of those I journeyed with before, looks over from where Lēohtsāwend is looking nervously back at the yurt. "What happened, spirit?"

"She had a scuffle with Hystaspes and your brother and suffered a few cuts. The others are fine." I reply.

He looks relieved. "Should I go now or...?"

I nod. "Go. And thank you."

As Hydarnes takes to wing and heads back to the encampment, I turn to the Unicorn. "Lēohtsāwend?"

She looks up at her name, albeit fearfully.

Calmingly, I hold my arms low but wide, empty hands open and palms outward.

The mare stares at me for a while, seemingly nonplussed. Eventually she cautiously rears and with remarkable dexterity for a creature of such build, mimics the gesture. I wonder if all her kind are double jointed like the Griffons?

I smile, nod and touch my forehead. '*No harm.*'

Her ears flick back uncomfortably and she drops down to all fours, but she does not overtly panic.

Making a gesture for her to follow, I begin to slowly walk.

For a long moment, I do not hear hooves and I can picture her looking out toward the empty lands. Then the thumps start and she soon catches up.

Good, that suggests her kind - or at least Lēohtsāwend - has a sense of loyalty to their fellows. That or she does not believe that there truly are no watchers there to catch her, should she flee.

I lead Lēohtsāwend toward the encampment, pointing at various things as we pass and naming them in Sindarin. Initially, she parrots me, but I firmly shake my head and sign at her mouth. After that, she starts repeating in her own tongue. Or at least I trust she is doing so. Sometimes she reuses words, but since neither the Griffons or I have encountered her kind before, she is probably unfamiliar with the area and its olvar.

The camp itself is a little more problematic. Lēohtsāwend is skittish around so many Griffons, not helped by the glares shot her way. I ignore them and bull on with the language exchange.

Lēohtsāwend however, is too distracted to do particularly well now, ears and eyes flicking as she tries to keep track of everything at once.

Deciding not to push too far by collecting food for breakfast with her, I lead the mare back to the yurt, only to run into Akakhménos packing up. When he hears us enter, he gives me a curious look and beckons me over.

Leaving Lēohtsāwend to rush over to babble at Pink, I comply.

"What do you think you were doing?" The druid hisses. "Gaumata was furious!"

"You wished for progress, and I have made some. Taking Lēohtsāwend out to gather words is the quickest way, and it builds her trust." I reply.

"Not that, though I'm glad to hear it." The druid says, tying up the last pouch and standing. "She could have got up to all sorts of mischief in the camp. Gaumata insisted on having this yurt separated for a reason, and he should be consulted on matters of protection."

"If he had his way, these two would be dead." I counter. "Yet I am now confident that that would be an error. These folk are no Yrch, they care for one another and can be reasoned with."

For emphasis, I gesture where the two Unicorns are arguing. Lēohtsāwend keeps shaking her head and pointing at me.

The druid watches for a moment, then makes a nervous noise. "Very well. I will talk with him. He may wish one of his griffs to follow the prisoner though."

I shake my head firmly. "Trust begets trust Akakhménos, and the last thing that will inspire such in a young maiden is a fearsome warrior looming over her shoulder. I intend to take her through the camp each morning until she is comfortable doing so, and that will be aided by toleration of her presence. Once she opens to me, the knowledge you wish for will be yours, and perhaps your people will have a friend."

The young Griffon rubs his nares for a moment, uncertain. Then he sighs. "I mean no offense spirit, but I must consult your kin. Come. I will need a watcher."

I follow the druid out, though not before smiling to Lēohtsāwend and bidding farewell, which she returns with more enthusiasm than I have seen before.

In his own yurt (in which I have also been boarding), Akakhménos stokes up his hearth and begins brewing a potion, likely of the sort that sends one to the land of dancing mushrooms and rainbows, if past experience from his tutor is any indication. Not that I vocalise such misgivings.

Once the brew is ready, the druid sniffs it uncertainly and blanches. A moment later with clear disgust, he tips it down his beak.

I keep my expression diplomatically neutral as I watch for 'unseelie fey' while Akakhménos mutters to himself in tongues I cannot comprehend. Eventually though, he comes to his senses.

Mumbling about bones, the Griffon rummages through a basket full of pouches, drawing a particularly large one out. He breaths a prayer over it and tips out the contents on his mat, then inspects them.

His brow furrows and he pokes at the intricately carven ivory pieces. "Poor weather. I suppose that could be a sign of ill-omen, but no direction of path..."

Painfully familiar words of Doom echo in the back of my mind and I am tempted to back out here and now, but then chide myself for worrying over the 'magic' of wild folk. Besides, my efforts did not begin well.

"Then half measures will not suffice." I instead say. "Turn aside to murder or follow your current path, but do not dither."

The next days are spent repeating the new routine, thankfully without such a dramatic fuss from Pink. With a little coaxing and some preparation behind the scenes on my part to ensure a reception that is at least not overtly hostile, Lēohtsāwend begins to reach out to the Griffons by means of signing. Again I draw heavily upon what worked well in the education of my wards and constantly press for words, first nouns and soon adding verbs to our respective vocabularies.

This does little good in communicating directly with the Griffons since of course they do not speak Sindarin beyond a few snatches Akakhménos has picked up in our acquaintance, but it allows me to provide a few single word contexts back and forth as a translator. I suspect Lēohtsāwend has been doing some homework of her own too, since I note that the hunters set on watch inside are generally behaving a little more cordially toward her. Pink's sulking on the other hand, does not seem to be earning her much slack.

All the same, we steer clear of cubs throughout all of this. Gaumata drew a line with regard to that, and I am uninclined to push him further. I make a point of working out a 'safe' route through the camp with him so that parents can make the task easier for all at the set time, though of course the young will be young and some shooing is still required.

It is during one such walk that Hystaspes almost crashes in the middle of the camp.

Unsurprisingly, this draws a crowd as he catches his breath. "West! West! Many beastgriffs to the west! Gaumata!"

Author's Note

Terminology:
Ósanwë - 'interchange of thought', effectively a form of limited telepathy possessed by all sapient beings in the world of Arda, though the potential for true proficiency is rare outside of Elves. Most neglect it anyway since spoken language is almost always more useful for communication.
Bór - An Easterling lord from the First Age who sided with the Noldor. He and his sons died defending the sons of Fëanor from the traitorous houses during the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.
Atto, emme, hanno, nette and winike - One of many variants of childish Elven finger names, corresponding to a family (father, mother, big brother, little sister, baby). In adult use these might be nápa, lepetas, lepenel, lepente and lepinke, though variants exist.
Pikinaukor - Petty-Dwarves, an ethnicity of primitive Dwarves native to Beleriand prior to Elven settlement in the region. The Elves, not familiar with the idea of other races and so believing them to be animals, hunted them to near-extinction before contact with more advanced Dwarven cultures revealed their mistake.
Aquapahtië - 'Full-closedness', a state in which a mind is closed and so rendered completely deaf and dumb to ósanwë. Renders the mind immune to outside influence.
Essë - Father-name, the Elven equivalent of a surname, used formally and usually given openly to strangers. For example, Maglor's essë is Kanafinwë, though he is canonically one of the many exceptions who preferred to use his mother-name (amilessë, 'Maglor' being a Sindarised rendition of it) publically instead.
Olvar - Plants/flora.

Menelmacar

As a second Griffon following the panting Hystaspes lands and pelts away toward the chief warrior's yurt and a general riot ensues, I hustle a frightened Lēohtsāwend 'home', along the way gathering my bow, quiver and cap from Akakhménos' yurt.

Once she is secured with Pink and a doubled guard, I hasten back to the encampment, geared for trouble.

Those unable to fight have hidden away inside, while most of the clan's hunters and a pair of Gaumata's tiny band of dedicated warriors take the lead of the muster in the open beyond the western edge. Most everyone else capable of holding a spear is bunched up behind, trying to look intimidating.

Gaumata himself, now bedecked with an array of golden finery in addition to his usual torc, is sitting patiently while woad is deftly applied to his plumage by one of the more seasoned hunters.

I approach him, keeping an eye to the west. "No sign of them yet, I presume?"

"Not from here spirit, and the longer it remains as such, the longer Hydarnes has to gather up the patrols. We will need every claw to keep them out the camp." He says as seriously as ever.

"Then let us hope it does not come to that. If these are Lēohtsāwend's folk, we may yet reason with them." I reply, stringing my bow all the same.

"You put too much trust in that creature." Gaumata says.

"We may see that tested today." I say. "Assuming of course that these are not another group."

"And if I am right, then we will also see how stout your heart is." He adds.

His odd turn of phrase throws me slightly, but his meaning is plain enough. "It would be ill mannered of me to betray your hospitality." I look around. "Where is Akakhménos?"

"He was heading to join the watch on the prisoners, in case they take advantage of the confusion." Gaumata says, gesturing at the rise to the north-east behind which lies the yurt. "You must have missed him."

By fortune, I happen to see a figure rising from the centre of the encampment and head in that direction as I turn to follow his talon. "There he is. He must have been collecting something."

As the druid dips below the crest of the land, drumbeats begin to echo from the woods to the west. The old Griffon who was working on Gaumata takes that as his cue to hastily apply the final touches and hurry back to the rear lines.

Gaumata himself picks up his fine spear and thumps the base of it rhythmically on the ground. Others soon begin to follow suit, creating a susurration as of rain in response to the drums. Atop that, a rumbling emerges from the woods and finally, low but rising above it all like a wave, a single imperative is repeated again and again from our side.

"Begone. Begone. Begone. Begone! Begone!"

From the trees bound Unicorns by the dozen in a clamour of colours added to by their field-lights. Stone spears and axes of wicked sharpness are waved aloft as the creatures throw back their own goading retorts. A pair lagging a little behind the rest carry a standard of carven wood between them, escorted by a couple of well-appointed warriors of clear prestige. One of them even wields an axe of what looks to be cold-worked iron.

The host, a hundred and fifty-seven strong unless more are hiding in the trees, comes to a stop just beyond twice throwing range. Though their loose formation and wide frontage makes them at a glance seem greater, they are in fact outnumbered.

Gaumata barks out orders and his chosen warriors move to the flanks, in turn gathering a handful of clansgriffs to them as a screening force. In the centre, hunters armed with slings mark targets.

A tall, matronly mare bedecked in a barding of tanned hide into which has been sewn many semi-precious stones strides forward and begins yelling at Gaumata.

"I believe that was a threat." I say, recognising a few of the words.

"Oh really? Well 'taperaex' yourself!" He shouts back mockingly.

The purple mare snorts, pawing the ground.

"That may not have been the wisest-" I begin quietly.

"That's the point." Gaumata hisses over me. "If I can challenge her, one on one, then it'll be less bloody all round. I'm sure you can appreciate that, spirit."

I narrow my eyes slightly at his tone, but nod.

"Þone blōt of Calduaex, Forstiġuhrineþ ond Lēohtsāwend willane fercienne fordende, hyldereas!" The headmare shouts angrily.

"This is no raid for goods. Stall them, please stall them." I beg the warrior before dashing away.

A few of the Unicorns give chase. A fair bit of shouting and warning motions with spears make them give a wide berth at first, but as soon as I break from the main group the threat fades.

They are blisteringly fast and I am forced to turn and loose a couple of arrows while backpeddling with the intent (more hope, given their past performance with the bear) to miss.

The crack of the bowstring and arrows thudding at their hooves give the opportunistic trio more pause for thought and buys me the lead I need to get over the crest, troubled only by a few inexpertly lobbed spears.

My pursuers do not seem keen on pushing their luck when they spot the four Griffons on guard outside the yurt, contenting themselves with jeers.

Without time to spare, I brush aside the questions thrown at me and rush inside, where Akakhménos and two more hunters are standing watch. The druid starts when I tap his side.

"Their leader was ranting about blood and mentioned Lēohtsāwend. I think they they believe we killed their kin and want revenge." I explain. "If we show them alive and well, the host may leave."

Akakhménos approximates a grimace. "Go then, better than a feud."

Almost before he has finished speaking, I am asking Lēohtsāwend to get up, confused and worried in equal measure. I hesitate upon Pink. She would be an uncertain prospect and keeping one back might prove useful.

Thus, I nod and beckon the more cooperative mare out. She follows as I run back toward the hopefully-not-battlefield, but halts with a gasp as she crests the ridge.

"Noro lim! Noro lim!" I urge, not that she knows half of it. The rest is made up for by tone and more arm waving.

By the time we arrive on the fringes, drawing several stares from both sides, Gaumata and the headmare are practically beak to muzzle bawling at one another. It is honestly rather impressive how either can stand it, considering the total lack of understanding. If this is deliberate, then I owe Gaumata a debt.

It turns out that one cannot endure for long however, as the headmare abruptly twists with almost the speed of a striking serpent and kicks at Gaumata, the warrior just ducking under her vicious hooves.

Gaumata of course retaliates with his spear, which is briefly caught in the beard of the headmare's golden axe. There is a contest and the spear's haft seems as though caught in a heat haze, but the Griffon's grip proves stronger than her field and he drags both away, sending the axe spinning into the grass.

Someone with more loyalty than sense among the vengeful host decides to 'save' their leader by lobbing a dart a marvellous distance using a device of a similar sort to one which I recall Tyelkormo toying with in happier days. Said dart misses, but comes near enough to the gathered hunters that a couple flinch away, and slingers among them begin to whirl their weapons.

If they loose, this is going to turn into a needless bloodbath.

Checking a last burst of speed, I practically dive on top of Gaumata and the headmare. Digging in my heels as I land, I raise my arms as much for balance as prohibition and unveil my fëa. "Hold! Hold!"

I may not match up to my father, but slings fall slack in talons as their wielders are amazed. On the other side, surprised Unicorns step back. As for the leaders, closest to hand, the two squint and raise appendages to shield their eyes while simultaneously trying to both figure out what just happened and watch one another.

Trying to draw full attention, I clap my hands above my head, dimming my fëa once more so as to be closer to a candle than a star. "Miere!"

This partially succeeds, and the headmare backs off so that she can use both eyes to glare at Gaumata and I. It may have been best to have hidden myself before their arrival, so as to appear more neutral. Hopefully that error is not beyond salvage.

Half-turning, I gesture some way behind me where Lēohtsāwend is just beginning to peak from behind a raised foreleg. "Lēohtsāwend!"

That gives the headmare pause, as she looks openly surprised and rattles something rapidly in her tongue.

Lēohtsāwend replies and nervously approaches, eyeing Gaumata and keeping me between herself and him.

"Gaumata?" I prompt.

After brief consideration, he nods and takes a few steps back.

To my surprise given the ferocity she has shown until now, when I look back I see tears welling in the older mare's eyes as she rushes forward and locks necks with Lēohtsāwend.

When they break apart, they converse, too rapidly for me to divine anything. Lēohtsāwend is pointing a lot. Of concern is that some of the headmare's anger seems to return, though Lēohtsāwend grows more urgent in response.

Eventually, the young mare makes the forehead gesture at me.

I comply and reach out to find her mind willing. '*No need fight.*'

She nods, then points at the headmare. "Mōdor." No clear words come to me, per se, but I get an impression of respect for her in a parental sense. Biological or adoptive is unclear. Either way, the headmare at this point sends her back to perceived safety.

Cautiously, given Lēohtsāwend's initial reaction to ósanwë, I contact 'Mōdor'. '*Why attack?*'

The headmare cocks her head thoughtfully. After a moment she responds. '*You unlike others.*'

'*You attack, you identify first.*' I insist.

She huffs. '*Wise Mother, daughter of Light Mother, who was Mother before.*'

'*I Maglor, son of Fëanáro, lord of the lights. From far away.*' I gesture at the wary mass behind me. '*Trade, friends. Why attack?*'

'*We from far too, where sun sets. Crossed ice young.*' Her thoughts grow turbulent with anger. '*Bird-beasts raided. Slew Mother, took many. We find murdered, eaten. Butchers! We flee north. Strong again. Raid bird-beasts.*'

'*When?*' I ask.

'*Sixteen years past.*' She replies. I sense no lie in any of this.

I turn to Gaumata. "The Mother claims you attacked and ate her kind sixteen years ago."

He shakes his head. "Never! These creatures are strange, but they think. We..." He pauses, then points at one of the hunters nearby. "Get Ariaramnes, now!"

The hunter does not need asking twice and dashes back into the encampment. He soon returns, tailed unhurriedly by an elderly Griffon.

"Good morning, Gaumata." Ariaramnes greets cheerfully, as though there were not a small army before him.

"In your travels, you never met any of these creatures before, correct?" Gaumata says, gesturing at the increasingly restless host.

The old cob squints, then shakes his head. "Never. Never heard of them, even."

"What about griffs who might eat speaking creatures like them?" Gaumata asks.

Ariaramnes cackles. "Marsh-griffs! Oh, they're complete savages, live below the southern end of the mountains. I had a run-in with them when I was working for the Badger clan oh... Seventy, eighty years ago? I've lost track. They think not plucking a stranger as soon as lay eyes on them is a high honour. The sted-dwellers in the area have a feud with them. The old gang riled them up to a raid just in time to save me and Orsabaris from the pot. Good times!"

Gaumata looks less cheery, but lifts his head respectfully. "Ariaramnes has been everywhere."

I nod and resume the contact, turning on a little of the diplomatic flattery. '*Apologies, noble Mother. Wise traveller knows marsh-griffs you feud. These not same. These hill-griffs.*'

'*Prove. Prove or fight! Where Frosty Touch, Cold Axe?*' Wise Mother demands.

Not knowing names, I present a memory of the sight of Pink.

She nods. '*Cold Axe. Where Frosty Touch?*'

I gesture uncertainly at Lēohtsāwend, who is lingering near the front of the host.

'*Not her.*' Wise Mother sends. I then get a mental image of a black coated Unicorn, tall and slender compared to the others.

'*No know. Ask Gaumata.*' I reply. Then I turn to the warrior again. "She wants to know what happened to one of her kind. Tall and black."

Gaumata points south toward the hills. "Killed in the fighting. We were not sure what to do, but since they speak, we buried it with its goods."

I translate that as best I can within the limits of ósanwë. '*Dead. They show. Show Cold Axe too.*'

Eventually, Gaumata is persuaded and, after leaving clear instructions to not let any approach the main encampment, leads the Mother with a couple of bargained escorts toward the guarded yurt.

Akakhménos seems to have expected this and meets us outside. Though wary of the Unicorns, none of the hunters on watch question Gaumata as he pushes past with them.

I stay outside and bring the druid up to date, and since no violent sounds emerge from the yurt, all seems to be well.

Wise Mother is looking less leery when she comes out, bringing Cold Axe with her. '*Show Frosty Touch.*'

I translate again, inserting appropriate politeness along the way. Akakhménos beckons the headmare to follow and we walk for an hour or so south along a faint trail. The bumpy ground eventually reveals an open field dotted with yet more bumps, these ones clearly artificial. Raised mounds of earth. At one end of the field is a neat line fronted by standing stones, but the majority are smaller and seem to have little order to them.

Akakhménos launches himself off the rise and glides down toward a fresher mound, the covering turfs of which have yet to fully settle.

"Here." He says once we catch up.

The headmare's horn flashes and she looks at the mound contemplatively for a moment, then she turns to me. '*Is her. Nothing was done?*'

Once the query is passed along, Akakhménos pulls a feather from his neck with a wince. Then drawing his flint knife, he pricks his palm, wipes the vane across it and proffers the feather to the Unicorn. "She was buried as she fell. May I be cursed if I lie."

Wise Mother takes the reddened feather in her frog as I translate, inspects it and nods. Once it is away in a pouch, her horn lights and she tears a black stone from her barding, lifts one of the turfs and places it beneath, muttering something in her tongue.

As she steps away, the two chosen warriors of the headmare plant their spears in the soil and canter around the mound, singing a slow lament I wish I could understand.

Our return is sombre, but the hostility has passed. Upon return to the encampment, a few words break the rusting tension and Wise Mother presents her notched axe to Akakhménos, who raises his head respectfully.

Then the headmare turns and walks away and all her host follow, fading into the trees. Last to linger is Lēohtsāwend and we exchange a smile before she too passes out of my life and the history of the north.

As has become the norm in the five years since my appearance in this place, the spring thaw brings work. The dawn hunt went so well yesterday that I found myself with time to spare in the afternoon to gather daub materials, for which the local wild boar obliged. The cottage is coming along nicely. The walls are up (if in need of livening inside) and this last panel will see my main attention turn to the roof. This year I plan to begin tilling the soil to grow some straw for good thatch, if the Griffons cannot come through. If they do, then planting some vegetables so I do not have to scavenge hither and yon cannot hurt.

Trading bronze tools for raw materials, food or simple labour when they pass by might not free up much time, but the arrangement does let me spend my working hours on things I prefer. Metalworking is not so bad as I recall, now I am working to my own ends rather than at the demand of Father, and once I find the right tree for it, I will certainly enjoy making a door for my abode.

In fact, since this seems likely to be my home for some time, I am considering planting one of my nuts as an experiment. Some will never germinate, but a few are intact. If I can get a mellyrn grove thriving, then I will be able to look forward to fine wood for craft and even finer drink for after.

More still, I hope to make a replacement for my harp, once I have suitable tools. It has been too long since I heard such sweet music and if my beloved old one were to be found, it would have turned up by now. One day, I should investigate how its loss came to be, though I suspect answers might not be forthcoming to an incarnate such as myself.

At the rumour of heavy wingbeats, I look up from the basket I sacrificed for daub mixing to see a familiar figure approaching.

Akakhménos lands nearby. "Hail, spirit! A fine new year to you!"

Raising an eyebrow, I move over to the nearby water to rinse off my hands. "The snows departed sooner for you than I then."

"Blessedly." The Griffon replies.

"I would have imagined every talon would be needed." I say.

"Two less talons, one less beak." Akakhménos says. "It is not so bad."

I stand, shaking my somewhat cleaner hands dry. "I meant your duties as druid."

"I thought it was a good chance to let Amytis test herself." He says, briefly inspecting the basket before leaving well alone. "Actually, it is in part why I have come to you. Lefkiourá died before he could pass everything on to me, which is why I took Amytis on early, but... I realise just how much I missed. The other druids at the moot know so much more than me, and I am sure she sees it too. It is bad for the clan and for her." Searching about, he settles on my proper cleaning station, set up on the island for my return. "Why does adding fat to ash make it better for cleaning, for example?"

"Saponification. Wet ash on the skin makes soap from any grease, but it burns. Better to make the soap and then apply it." I explain, recalling one of Father's brainwaves. "Plant fats and oils tend to be kindest to the skin."

"You see what I mean then, I did not know that when she asked!" Akakhménos says, a little pleadingly.

"You wish to learn from me then?" I ask.

He nods fervently. "What better teacher than a seelie spirit? Even half a cycle will help the clan, and you know we are good for our debts."

That, they certainly are. Possibly a little more than is strictly good for them, but I have not seen much of their dealings with other Griffons. The reputation Lefkiourá so unexpectedly saddled me with has coloured our relations ever since. That or Akakhménos is subtler than he looks, playing a game of obliging generosity in exchange for generosity. I do not mind either way.

"Be warned, I know more of stone and song than of herblore." I say.

"I can share that at the moot in exchange for other lessons, and I'm sure Amytis would love it!" He answers candidly.

"You are quite taken with her." I observe.

Akakhménos fidgets. "She is bright, and nice and well, you met her before winter. I like her."

"I know the feeling." I chuckle, though mirth is softened by a pang of longing. "Come then, let us impress the lass."

Picking up the basket, I lead the way toward the soon-to-be cottage and another of life's little adventures.

Author's Note

Thanks for reading, I'm glad this Matryoshka doll of nicheness didn't drive you away! I had a blast researching for this story. Hopefully, the next one I post will be the beginning of the main Quenta Roccolië trilogy. Finding betas has proven harder than usual, probably because of its size. A link to this story's appendices is in the description, in case you missed it on the way in.