The next day, Laurehér rode to the village with Faroniel, but she did not stay with him at the forge. Leaving him in the care of the smith, she departed to check the traps. It would be afternoon before she returned, but Laurehér did not mind. He had plenty of work to do for the smith and he was eager to do it. As he labored, memories of technique and training came to him, bringing him much joy.

The smith made himself comfortable in a chair and watched Laurehér work. He critiqued each piece created, always seeming to be pleased with the craftsmanship. At one point after lunch, Angadan stopped Laurehér. “Explain to me the technique you are using making this tool. I would not have thought to do what you just did.”

Laurehér smiled, wiping sweat from his brow and paused in his work. He launched into an explanation of what his Master had taught him. After a few minutes of discussion, he pumped the bellows to bring the fire back to proper temperature so he could continue. As he set down the bellows, and turned to pick up the tongs holding the half-formed tool, someone grabbed his right hand as a fist connected with his face.

He cried out as he fell against the forge, but his assailant struck him again, knocking him to the ground before his clothes could catch fire.

“Belegon! What are you doing?” Angadan angrily demanded.

“Shut up and stay out of this, Angadan!” Belegon yelled. “This is between me and the Elf.” He picked up Laurehér and smashed his fist into his stomach.

“Elf, I told you to stay away from the village. You are not wanted here!”

Laurehér gasped in reply, trying to speak despite the wind being knocked out of him, but the smith spoke up again.

“Let him go, Belegon! He is here helping me,” Angadan shouted. “I got kicked shoeing a horse yesterday and he calmed the horse and finished the shoeing. He is working for me now for the next three months or until the healer says I am well enough to lift a hammer again.”

“I will not have this pretty boy taking our sons away to the war. Too many of our men have been lost to it. Elves live forever, but our folk do not!” He grabbed Laurehér by his leather apron and pulled him up to rain punches down on his face and torso.

Blood streamed from his nose and his lips, but Laurehér did not fight back. After Faroniel’s warning that a lord and captain of an army would be put to death for tempting men to fight, Laurehér felt it best to not resist at all and let them think he was weak. He hated it, but he wanted to live, to spite Belegon if nothing else at this point. Belegon grabbed him by the single braid which bound his hair and by his arm, dragging him up to hit him again. Laurehér clutched at his head, but Belegon abruptly released him when the smith, the baker, and the tanner, who had houses on either side of the forge, tackled Belegon, pinning him to the ground.

“Stop this madness now!” the tanner yelled. “The Elf is helping here! He was injured in the war and does not even remember who he is or where he is from. What fool would want to go to war if he is an example of what happens to a man as a result of it?”

Belegon fought against the three holding him down. “He will bring more Elves here. We should kill him now before he does!”

“If the Elves wanted him so badly, they would have already come back for him. He is damaged and they don’t want him anymore, but we do,” the baker said, driving his knee into Belegon’s chest.

“He’s a good worker and I want to keep him around,” Angadan declared from his perch on top of Belegon’s legs. “Besides he did not even try to defend himself against you. I’m not so sure he even knows how to anymore.”

“The Elf’s making a tool for me right now,” the tanner declared, digging his knee deeper into the struggling Belegon’s right arm. “If it is ruined because of you, then you will pay for him to make me a new one. Now apologize and let him get back to work. By delaying him you are delaying me in my work, you idiot!”

After a few tense moments, Belegon stopped resisting. Laurehér stayed on the ground where he was, too afraid to move, partly because it hurt so much and mostly because he was uncertain as to what to do next.  When the three holding Belegon were convinced he was going to back off, they let him up.

He gave Laurehér a long calculating look, then spat on him and swore. “If you bring the war back to us again, Elf, you will taste my steel and there won’t be anyone in the village who will defend you.” Then he turned and stormed off, pushing his way through the crowd that had formed to watch the spectacle unfold. As the villagers parted way for him, some muttered in agreement though others expressed sympathy for Laurehér.

As soon as Belegon was gone, the three turned to Laurehér while the baker’s wife ran off to fetch the healer.

“You all right?” the baker asked, wiping at the blood on Laurehér’s face with a corner of his flour-covered apron.

“Anything broken other than your pride?” the tanner asked with a grin.

Laurehér spat out the blood in his mouth, trying to figure out just what parts were injured. He hurt everywhere. “I hurt,” he managed. “I do not think anything is broken.” He ran his hands along his chest and took as deep a breath as he could manage, then winced against the pain.

“You probably bruised your ribs, but that leather apron should have afforded you some protection against the blows,” the smith said.

“You best steer clear of Belegon,” the baker said. “He hates you and he will kill you if you cross him. He lost his brother to the recruiters as well as his brother-in-law – Faroniel’s husband. We welcome you though, Elf, and hope you will stay.”

“Thank you for the warning and for coming to my rescue,” Laurehér gasped. “I am grateful.”

“When the healer finishes with you, I’ll help you get home,” the tanner said, moving aside to let the healer through. “I’ll send my son to find Faroniel and let her know what happened to you.”

“Thank you,” Laurehér said again as the healer knelt beside him and began inspecting his injuries.

Angadan called for the crowd to disperse and the baker left to go back to his kitchen, but he returned a few minutes later with a few apple tarts wrapped in a cloth. He handed them to the tanner with the instructions, “Keep one for yourself and one for the smith, but the rest are to go home with Laurehér. The Elf deserves something for his troubles.”

“What, none for me?” the healer pouted.

“Come by my shop when you are finished and you can pick out something for yourself.”

The healer grinned triumphantly. “Thanks!”

Briefly Laurehér wondered if perhaps Faroniel had been right about men and their stomachs, but the then the healer removed the leather apron and peeled back his sweaty shirt, causing him to cringe in agony, forgetting all else.

“Bruised, but not broken,” the healer finally said after much probing. “I’ll mix up something for the pain in a few minutes.”

Laurehér just closed his eyes and tried to think about the tarts.

XXXXX

The tanner and the healer both accompanied him home with him riding in tandem with the tanner who kept him from falling off the horse. Between the effects of the injuries and the pain medicine, he was having great difficulty remaining upright by the time they got him to his house. Faroniel was not back yet, so the two undressed him and the healer bathed his injuries.

When they finally got him settled in bed, the tanner commented, “So you sleep with her then?”

Laurehér looked over at him thinking it an odd question. “There is only one bed. Where else would I sleep?”

“We had been wondering about that when we heard that she had taken you in,” the tanner grinned slyly. “So are you as good with your hands in here as you are at the forge?”

Laurehér answered readily enough. “Well, I am good at carving wood and have added to the décor,” he gestured to the now ornate door frame and the carvings adorning the furniture.

“I believe he was referring to using your hands in bed,” the healer clarified with a smirk. “Those are nice carvings though.”

“Thank you,” Laurehér said. “But what exactly is he referring to by my using my hands in bed?”

Both men seemed a bit taken aback and the tanner started to make some motions with his hands, but Laurehér stared at them blankly.

“Ah, well, never mind,” the tanner said waving dismissively, then added quietly out of the corner of his mouth, “He really is damaged, isn’t he?”

“Could be an innocent,” the healer ventured.

“He must be a thousand years old. He should know what I’m talking about,” the tanner said. “And if he doesn’t, it’s about time someone told him.”

“I am three thousand years old,” Laurehér clarified, wondering why his age was relevant to this conversation.

“It could be the medicine I gave him making him not think very clearly,” the healer offered.

“Could be,” the tanner agreed. “But you have given me that stuff before when I got hurt and I was still quite capable of thinking about using my hands in bed and actually using them and other things as well, so I am not convinced.”

“I gave him a lot more than I gave you, you lusty fool. It is no wonder you have six kids already,” the healer said, swatting the tanner in the arm.

The tanner replied with a cheeky grin, then addressed Laurehér again. “Well, Elf, should you discover a new talent with your hands and get the lovely Faroniel pregnant, you had better marry her.”

Laurehér was taken aback suddenly realizing what the two men had been talking about. Appalled, he responded, “For Elves, the act which makes a female pregnant also seals a marriage. I could not get any female pregnant without making her my wife in the process. Is it not the same way with mortals as well?”

The healer and the tanner looked at each other both suddenly seeming a bit uncomfortable as they regarded Laurehér again. “Ah, no, it is not the same way with mortals,” the healer said.

Now Laurehér was very surprised and shocked as well, especially when he more fully realized what they had been implying about him. “You think Faroniel and I have been…No. Absolutely not. No.”

“You have to admit that she is very beautiful and very lonely,” the healer pointed out.

“Yes, she is both of those,” Laurehér agreed. “But Elves do not…it is not…I…we do not take advantage of people like that. I must admit I am horrified to think that you thought I would do something like that. I am an honorable ellon!”

The tanner shook his head in disbelief as the door suddenly opened and Faroniel came rushing in, “And a damaged one. Obviously a damaged one,” he said as he rose from his chair and greeted Faroniel as she ran to the bed.

“I trust my boy told you what happened to him. The healer tended him and we brought him home for you. There are some tarts from the baker over on the table. It is time I got back home now.” Turning to Laurehér, he added with a knowing grin, “Feel better soon, my friend, and may your hands discover a new purpose in the days to come.”

“Thank you,” Laurehér said a bit uncertainly, feeling most uncomfortable with what the man was suggesting.

“He refers to the effects of the medicine,” the healer said dismissively, nodding to the tanner. “Ignore him. We have been.”

Faroniel looked at the tanner oddly, but she expressed her gratitude then seemed to dismiss him from her thought as he walked outside, closing the door behind him. Turning her full attention to Laurehér, she asked, “Are you badly hurt?” Without waiting for a response, she looked to the healer, “Will he be all right? Belegon can be ruthless when he is angry.”

“He will be fine,” the healer assured her. “No bones are broken and his kind heals quickly. I already see improvement in the hours I have been with him. He should stay home tomorrow, but perhaps in a day or two he will able to return to the forge. I have prepared another draught for him. Give it to him in an hour and then he should sleep comfortably through the night. I will return in the morning to check on him.” He patted Laurehér on the arm, then turned to Faroniel.

“Your brother-in-law made some people very angry today with his attitude and his fighting. Laurehér did nothing wrong and did not even try to defend himself. He is a wise ellon in that regard. If he had fought back, Belegon may well have killed him.”

Faroniel nodded as she bent and gently smoothed Laurehér’s hair. “Thank you for all you have done for him and for bringing him here and for sending for me. I am most grateful.” Leaning forward, she kissed Laurehér on a small unbruised spot on his forehead. “I am so sorry for what Belegon did to you. So very sorry.”

Laurehér reached up and brushed his fingers along her face. “I am all right. You have nothing to apologize for. You have shown me nothing but kindness and tried to warn me about him. I did what I thought best when he attacked me and it seems to have been the right thing to do.”

She kissed him again on the same spot then stood up. “Are you hungry?’

“A little bit,” he replied.

“Best keep the meal light. Anything heavy might make him sick right now,” the healer advised. “Do you want me to stay or do you think you can handle caring for him?”

“I will be all right taking care of him. If I need anything, I can be at your house in a few minutes. My horse is fast.”

The healer smiled as he arose and gathered his supplies. “Very well then. Take good care of him and I will return in the morning. Laurehér, rest easy and stay in bed. Let her take care of you. You do not need to be up and about for any reason tonight. You need sleep.”

“Thank you,” Laurehér said, feeling very, very tired.

“Good evening to you both,” the healer said as he walked out the door.

“Good evening,” Faroniel called after him, already pulling out dishes and stoking the cooking fire.

Laurehér fell asleep almost immediately.

XXXXX

He looked up from his desk as the door to his study burst open then immediately slammed shut. Without a word, his brother strode over to the side table and poured two very full glasses of wine. He drank most of one in one swallow, the refilled it and walked over to the desk.

“Here, Arafinwë, you will need this,” he handed over one of the glasses. “I know I certainly do.” Careful not to spill, he collapsed into the chair in front of the desk. He drank most of his glass again, then got up and brought the whole decanter over and set it on the desk in front of him.

Arafinwë reached out and poured half a glass more for his brother, then moved the decanter over to his side of the desk out of reach of his brother. “No more until you explain.”

“I hate him. I swear, I hate him.”

Arafinwë sat back expectantly and took an appreciative sip of his wine. He had done this many times before with his brother. “So, tell me what our dear elder brother has done this time.”

“Set down your glass, first. Your wife made those robes for you and I would hate for you to spill wine on them. She would blame me for it.” He emptied his glass again and held it out to Arafinwë who just shook his head, setting down his own glass.

“Not until you tell me.”

“Very well then. I was speaking with atar, asking him to restrain our brother for all of his outbursts and speaking against the Valar. Then our dear elder brother walked in fully armed with the ridiculous helmet on his head, and tried to gainsay me in front of atar. I told atar that he has two sons at least who will do his bidding and who support all that he has tried to do here in Valinor, and then I left without saying a word to our brother. My silence always angers him. He followed me out and stayed me at the door to atar’s house. There in front of the throngs of people in the square, he drew his sword on me and put the point on my breast. Then he accused me of plotting to usurp his place and the love of his atar and threatened to kill me! Right there in front of everyone - there must have been hundreds there - he threatened to take my life. When he lowered the sword, I again answered him with silence and walked away.”

Arafinwë sat stunned, staring slack-jawed at his brother, shocked horror coursing through his veins. He picked up his glass and downed the contents in one go. Pouring himself and his brother another full glass, he spilled a bit on his desk, his hands shaking with fear and rage. He drank half the glass, then managed, “He threatened to kill you?! In front of hundreds of our people, he threatened to kill you?” He let out a string of curses in Quenya and Telerin, trying to find something to adequately express his dismay.

“He threatened to kill you?” he asked again, shaking his head, his hands still trembling. “Eru, he has fallen even further than I had previously thought. Melkor has poisoned him even more than I believed possible.”

“Do you know what is even worse?” his brother asked, finishing half of his glass again.

Arafinwë choked on his own drink, gasping, “There is more? What could possibly be worse than threatening to kill you?”

“Atar refuses to reprimand him.”

“What?!” Arafinwë demanded, more fury welling within him. “Well what about ‘the king’?” his voice dripped with venomous derision as he spoke. “Will ‘the king’ judge him then if atar will not?”

“No, ‘the king’ will not judge him either.” He held out his glass for more wine, which Arafinwë gladly poured, adding more for himself. “A Maia came to me before I ever even made it here and informed me that the Valar will sit in judgment of him for breaking the peace of the Valar.”

Arafinwë choked on his drink again, coughing and sputtering, “The Valar?” He swore as wine dripped from his chin onto the documents he had been working on. He brother handed him a cloth and they dabbed at the papers. Giving it up as a lost cause a few moments later, Arafinwë sat back still shock and swore some more.

“He really has gone too far this time,” Arafinwë whispered in awe. “He finally went too far.”

“Little Brother, think of how bad it would have been if I had said anything in response to him either time.”

“Especially at the door to atar’s house.”

“Especially there. I believe he would have killed me.”

Arafinwë swore some more and emptied the decanter into his glass. Glancing at his brother he realized his brother’s glass was empty again, so he arose and retrieved another decanter from the table. Pouring his brother another glass, he sank back down into his own chair behind the desk.

“Thank the Valar you held your tongue. I am surprised you were silent before him, but I am grateful. Very grateful and relieved. I do not know what I would do without you. And atar did nothing? What is to become of us, Brother? What is to become of us?”

When Laurehér awoke he could not tell if he had dreamt or remembered again. In any case, his brother Olwion who taught him to sail must be a terrible ellon for the conversation Laurehér and their other brother had had about him.  

XXXXX