Chapter 7

The next day at the forge, things were better. He felt stronger. The pain was less. The baker and the tanner were too busy to harass him about his healing. The smith found activities to occupy himself as he sat unable to lift a large hammer.  The sun shone more brightly and the day warmed nicely. By the early afternoon, more people were out in the street than Laurehér had noticed previously, which surprised him.

When he had occasion to look up from his work, he began to realize that most of the villagers who were out and about were female. At first he thought he was imagining it, but then he started noting the genders of those wandering about or stopping to watch as he worked and he realized that overwhelmingly they were female, females of all ages in fact.

At last he took a break from the piece he was working on to allow it to cool properly before he began the next phase of work on it. Occasionally the slight breeze wafted by, bringing him snatches of comments from the onlookers.

“Oh, he is handsome.”

“Look at that light in his eyes. They fairly seem to glow and I don’t think it is the fire doing that either.”

“Look at his arms. They must be sooo strong!”

He wiped the sweat from his face with a rag, removed his apron, and loosened the ties on his shirt and tunic as he sat down at the table across from Angadan to take a long drink of cool water. His side still pained him, but it was more bearable today. Taking a short rest should help him make it through the day or so he hoped.

“He has healed well. Not a scratch or a blemish on that perfect face of his,” an old woman’s voice admired.

“Mommy, can we come watch the smith work more often?” a little girl’s voice begged, “He is pretty!”

Pushing his cup to the side, Laurehér folded his arms on the table and rested his forehead on them. He really wished the females would go somewhere else and stop talking about him. He looked up briefly when Angadan reached over and patted him on the shoulder in something between a gesture of sympathy and a punch of admiration. The man had been smirking and chuckling all day. Now Laurehér suspected he knew why, and he hid his face again.

“His ears are shaped like a leaf,” another little girl announced.

“Nice shoulders,” a young woman commented.

“Yes, but I would not want to birth his babies. You girls think those men with broad shoulders are so handsome and wonderful and then you marry them and struggle to bear their broad-shouldered sons. You really should think about this before you go getting pregnant by them,” another woman’s stern voice warned.

“Leave it to the midwife to spoil an afternoon of fun,” the one who made the shoulder comment pouted.

“Sweetie,” an older woman admonished, “You are pregnant with a woodcutter’s child. You had best be nice to the midwife because you will feel the wisdom of her words all too soon.”

“Yes, I know,” The woman replied with a sigh, “But I can still enjoy the lovely view, can I not?”

“As can I,” agreed the midwife, “And he is ever so lovely to watch, is he not?”

“Have you ever considered moving the forge to, say, the middle of the woods?” Laurehér asked without looking up, his voice muffled.

Angadan laughed merrily and patted him on the shoulder again, this time good-naturedly, “Ah, but you are so good for business, Elf. So many items that people have just been making do with have come in for repair, and I suspect it is all because they want a glimpse of you.”

“Glad I could be of service to you,” Laurehér grumbled sarcastically.

“Do not complain too loudly,” Angadan admonished. “It assures you steady work and dependable pay.”

“That may be so, but at what cost to me? Can they not go make comments about someone else, such as the candlemaker?”

Angadan snorted loudly. “Have you seen that man? His wife and his mother love him, but they are the only ones who would venture to call him appealing to the eyes.”

“In truth?” Laurehér asked and the smith nodded, making a disgusted face to emphasize his opinion.

“Well, I have not seen him. I was merely suggesting someone who worked indoors so I would not have to hear these females make their comments.” Laurehér raised his head, noting how the smith’s face was red with obviously suppressed laughter. “I do not think it would be so bad if were not for the fact that it is the old women, the young women, and the little ones all making comments about me.”

The smith grinned a little wider than necessary and asked, “Did your own folk not stare at you as well? I mean even for an Elf you are good-looking, and that is saying something. I saw Elves a few times long ago and you really are, well, prettier, no, that is not the right word, perhaps handsomer and nobler, or…I don’t know. You have more presence than any of them did…If that makes any sense to you.”

“No, it does not,” Laurehér said, intentionally giving the smith a blank stare. He seemed to be coming dangerously close to figuring out that he was more than just a simple village smith. “Faroniel said that the Elves from Valinor are different from the Elves of Beleriand. I would not know as I have never met any Elves of Beleriand, and the only other Elf of Valinor I remember meeting recently was gravely wounded and died in my arms.”

I am sorry,” Angadan apologized, looking truly contrite. “It must be very hard for you when your only memories of your kind are horrific memories.”

Laurehér nodded and put his head down again.

However, Angadan was not finished with him. “Do you remember any of the good times at all?”

Laurehér searched for a safe memory to recount, then settled on, “I remember one of my brothers teaching me to sail a ship on the sea and fish with nets.  I do not think I was very good at it for I struggled with it, but I enjoyed it very much.  And the songs he taught me while we labored were fun to sing.”

“Do you remember any of them?”

Laurehér thought for a moment then sat up and nodded.

“Sing one for me.”

Laurehér took another long drink of his water, then set down the cup and sang the song.

Anagadan applauded when he finished, as did those nearby who overheard his song. “Laurehér, you have an amazing voice! So what was the song about? I do not recognize the tongue.”

As he explained the best translation he could give, more songs of the sea came flooding back to him. Angadan nodded along fascinated, then asked, “Do you remember any others?”

Laurehér felt his face flush as he grinned and nodded sheepishly. “Yes, yes, I do but they are rather, well, bawdy, and I do need to get back to work now.”

The smith grinned back, “I am a man full ripe in my years. I know many bawdy songs as well. You teach me yours and I will teach you mine.’

Laurehér laughed long and loudly as he thought about how absurd this all was, but in the end he agreed. As he worked, he found that the rhythm of the shanties could be adapted to fit his hammering. He spent the afternoon singing bawdy Telerin sea shanties in Quenya, pausing to give confidential translations to the smith after every song. For hours, the two swapped songs and shared in much laughter as they worked, oblivious to the stares and comments of the onlookers who could not make out a word of what they said.

XXXXX

A few days later, Laurehér returned home early to find golden-haired children playing around the cabin. He approached cautiously, calling out a greeting as he passed through the trees and into the open near the house. The children, three boys and a girl of varying ages stopped and turned to stare at him.

“So you are the Elf,” a teenage boy said as he stood staring. “You do not seem so dangerous to me. “

Laurehér replied curiously. “Yes, I am the Elf, and I can assure you I am not dangerous. Who might you be, Young Visitor?”

“I am Beledir son of Belegon,” the boy proudly replied.

Laurehér slowed his pace even more, carefully taking in his surroundings in case Belegon lay in wait. He had nothing with which to defend himself, and his sword and armor were in the cabin, hidden away in a chest near the bed. The man had been silent and conspicuously absent from Laurehér’s life since the attack. So, why were his children here now?

“What brings you here, Son of Belegon?” Laurehér asked carefully.

“We are visiting our aunt,” the girl, who was clearly the youngest of the group, replied cheerfully.

“He said son of Belegon, not daughter,” the youngest boy complained sticking his tongue out at the girl.

Laurehér could not help smiling at her. “Thank you for such a joyful answer, Daughter of Belegon.”

“Ha!” the girl smirked, putting her hands on her hips and sticking her tongue out at the youngest boy.  

“I’m telling mom, Liriel! You aren’t supposed to stick out your tongue at people,” the boy said accusingly.

“Well you did it first, Beregond. You are always the mean one anyway,” she shot back.

“I am not!”

Yes, you are!”

“Nana!” they both yelled at the same time.

Beledir sighed in deep annoyance. “They are so bothersome. Elf, I apologize for their behavior.”

Laurehér smiled wider unable to help himself. How he missed the voices and banter of children – even when they were misbehaving. “Do not worry. That is the way of siblings, is it not? And my name is Laurehér. I would appreciate it if you would call me that instead of Elf. Otherwise I shall call you Mortal Boy.”

“Yes, Mortal Boy, you should be more considerate of guests,” the third boy smirked.

“Shut up, Brandir,” Beledir snapped. Then he turned his attention to Laurehér again. “Thank you for telling me your name. I will be sure to address you by it from now on.”

“Thank you.”

Just then, an obviously pregnant woman emerged from the cabin followed by Faroniel. “What are you two arguing about now?” the woman demanded.

Beledir and Brandir pointed to Laurehér while the two youngest pointed to each other. Faroniel hid her smile behind her hand. Rolling her eyes, the pregnant woman threw up her hands in exasperation and started to scold the two youngest, but then she stopped when she noticed Laurehér standing there.

“Oh, my,” she said quietly in surprise as she smoothed her dress over her swollen belly. “Ah…hello. You must be that Elf I keep hearing so much about.”

Laurehér took a breath to reply, but heaved a sigh instead when he heard her whisper out of the corner of her mouth, “He is even more gorgeous than I was expecting. Nicely done, Sister, nicely done.”

Faroniel scowled at her sister and swatted her arm in irritation. Her sister elbowed her back in annoyance while putting on a lovely smile aimed at Laurehér.

He bit his lip wondering how he should respond, knowing that this was the wife of the man who wanted to kill him and yet also the sister of the woman he cared about and lived with. Finally he settled with, “Yes, I am that Elf. My name is Laurehér. You must be Faroniel’s sister Tathariel.”

Tathariel beamed. “He knows my name,” she whispered to her sister.

Faroniel rolled her eyes, grumbling as she crossed her arms in annoyance, “Of course he does. He has heard me talk about you for months.”

“So,” Tathariel paused a moment, “Laurehér, are you enjoying your work with the smith? I have heard that you are very good with your hands.” She smiled coyly at him and raised her eyebrows suggestively.

Laurehér gasped in dismay, understanding full well what she was implying, having listened to enough of the women in the village talk about him and then of course the fateful conversation with the tanner.  And to think this woman was Faroniel’s sister and pregnant with the child of the man who wanted him dead!  With an abundance of caution, he replied, “I am a smith and I use my hands as a smith must if he wishes to remain employed in the craft. “

“Yes, of course,” Tathariel said. “I understand you were gravely injured, but it appears you have recovered very well.  Was it my sister’s practiced hand which drew you up and made you hale and whole again?”

“Your sister is remarkably skilled and she has been a great blessing to me. Even the healer in the village has said as much.”

“Yes, she is…ah…skilled. Her long deceased husband often said as much.”

Laurehér opened his mouth to respond, but was not certain what to say in response to that. He was fairly certain that Tathariel was implying some things about Faroniel which were inappropriate for them to be discussing.

“Well, I had best be getting cleaned up so I can help with dinner. It was interesting meeting you all.” He made a polite bow, then went to the door. As the two women parted for him to walk between them, he inclined his head graciously. “If you will excuse me…”

As he moved past, Tathariel reached out and pinched his right buttock, causing him to yelp as he hurried through the door and promptly shut it. He leaned against the door breathing hard, torn between being appalled at the behavior of this pregnant married woman toward her sister’s ah… whatever it was her society would consider one in his rather unique position …and terrified of what her husband would do to him if she went home talking about him the way she had spoken of him just now.

Through the door he could hear Faroniel berating her sister for her behavior and Tathariel arguing back. As quietly as he could, he barred the door and then went to the chest, pulling out his sword and his dagger and laying them on the bed in easy reach.  Moving as quickly as he could, he washed up and started dressing in clean clothes.  As he finished lacing his leggings, he heard the argument end and the sounds of the children being gathered to depart.

Barefoot and bare-chested, he unbarred the door and Faroniel immediately came inside. As soon as the door closed behind her, she stopped and stared at him.

“I am glad you were not dressed that way in front of her or she might have taken you right there at the edge of the woods.”

“Taken me where- ,” he started, then realized what she meant and backed away toward the bed, eying his sword. “Oh! Oh my! No! Absolutely not! I would have fled in terror from her. What is wrong with that woman?”

Faroniel stood there shaking her head, then raised her hand to push her unbound hair behind her ear.  Sighing heavily she replied, “I think she is jealous.” Then she looked over toward the bed and exclaimed in dismay, “You got out your sword to protect yourself from a pregnant woman?!”

He crossed his arms and glared at her. “I got out my sword to protect myself from her husband who might well come back and decide to kill me for what she has said and done.”

“I do not blame you for that. But I do not think she will be telling him about the way she behaved toward you.” She kept looking at the sword, shaking her head.

He turned and put on his shirt and tunic, lacing them up.

“You did not wash your hair,” she observed. “You must have had cold water for washing up. I am sorry about that.”

“I stank of smoke and sweat and needed to bathe. My hair can wait. I will need your help though.”

“Need my help with what?”

“I am going to put on my armor.”

“What?!” she exclaimed as she watched him dress. “Why?”

He put on his boots, then went over to the chest and started pulling out pieces of armor.

“Because,” he explained. “If that man comes back and threatens me or you, then he will be met by an Elf lord and captain of the army of Valinor and not by Laurehér the smith.”

She looked about flustered for a few moments, then reached for the nearest piece of polished armor.

“No,” he said waving to another piece. “That one first.”

After a few minutes, he was fully garbed and she stepped back, eyes wide, clapping her hand to her mouth.

He strapped on his sword, then put on his helm and gloves. “Well?” he asked expectantly.

Faroniel’s pretty blue eyes were wide as she moved further away from him, nearly tripping over a chair.   “You…you…” she blubbered

“Am I imposing enough to make him stop and think before he tries to attack me again?” he asked in all seriousness.

She looked fearful as she nodded, “You look terrifying,” she fairly whimpered.

“Good. That is even better.”

Cautiously she moved toward him, tentatively reaching out her hand and placing it on the cold metal protecting his chest.

He sighed and put his hands on her arms. “Why are you acting this way? You saw me in my armor when you rescued me.”

“Yes, but…” she shied away from him. 

He reached out and lifted her chin with his fingers. “But what?” he asked feeling concerned and surprisingly hurt by her fear of him.

“When I saw you then, you were a wounded warrior desperately in need of aid. Now…now  you…you are strong and powerful and terrifying and…and…” suddenly she reached up and pulled his head toward her and kissed his lips. “And beautiful. And I do not want to lose you.”

He raised his hand and smoothed her hair. “I do not want to lose you, either,” he whispered, meaning every word. Then he kissed her again.

He held her to him for a long time, cursing the armor and wishing to feel her in his arms properly. The sun was starting to set when she pushed away at last.

“Well, Belegon still has not come and I am hungry. Do you think you can peel potatoes in that armor?” she teased.

“No,” he replied with a grin, “but I can skewer meat.”

They both laughed and he removed his helm and gloves, then helped her prepare the meal. After dinner, he sat up all night fully armed, but Belegon never did show up.