Written for the September 2019 "Lessons" challenge, where it placed second.

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"Kili Móinson!" The shout rang through the learning-cavern, and both Master Nýrád’s pupils jumped. Nýrád gave a gratified snort as Kili grimaced.

“Yes, Sir?” Kili managed, trying not to feel resentful. It was hard not to, though. Even now that he was nearing thirty, the age when young dwarrows were no longer considered unfit for heavy labours or war, he was still under constant scrutiny by Master Nýrád, the tutor.

His brother Fili, five years older, had left these lessons and gone on to begin learning the ways of war four years ago, so now Kili shared lessons with cousin Gimli, twelve years his junior.

Nýrád’s eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned under his bushy whiskers. “The name of the Great Goblin who was conquered by the Hobbits of the Shire, I said.”

“Oh...er…” It was something to do with that Hobbit sport, the one his father had so enjoyed. So much so that a green, of sorts, had been installed in the home-cave. Not that he had been really able to play with anyone since he turned eleven and Papa had died. Golf…something. “Golf-thimble?” he tried, then cringed as even Gimli goggled at him. Nýrád raised his eyes toward the cave’s roof and muttered an unflattering phrase under his breath.

“What have I told you, lad, about paying attention?”

“I’m sorry, Sir, I will do better, I promise,” Kili said quickly.

“That is what you said last time – and the time before that, and the one before that,” Nýrád growled.

Kili licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. “But I do mean it, Sir. I did, too. Every time.” He raked his fingertips through his thin beard, anxiety mounting. “Please Sir, I’m sorry, I do mean to pay attention, truly!”

“Well, since my lessons are not engaging enough for you, lad, I have looked into finding you a new tutor.”

That confused Kili. What new tutor? The Dwarves of Thorin’s Line had been taught by Nýrád for three generations! His confusion must have shown on his face, for Gimli was watching him in dismay.

“You may come in, Master Elf.” Nýrád sounded…not entirely happy about the Elf’s being there, Kili thought, as he strode into the learning-cavern. But Kili was intrigued. His new tutor was beardless – a traitor, then? – lithe and tall. Black hair was pulled back off his pale face with a leather tie, he wore a mithril circlet on his brow, and his knee-length tunic of blue and silver was slit to the hips, revealing a dark grey shirt and undyed leather leggings tucked into calf-high boots. Other than the boots, he had very little in common with Master Nýrád.

“Well met, Kili son of Móin,” the Elf said, and his mellifluous tones spoke of an ancient joy and sorrow mingled. Here, Kili thought, was one who would never shout at or scold him.

“At your service,” Kili said, rising from the bench and giving the Elf a bow. “Um…meaning no disrespect, Sir,” Kili began, feeling Nýrád’s disbelieving look more than seeing it from behind him. “But does Uncle Thorin know you’re here?”

The Elf laughed lightly. “Oh indeed, your uncle approved this.” His dark eyes glittered with mirth. “So best you behave for me, Little One, or you will answer to him, hmm?”

“Yes, Sir,” Kili said. “What will you teach me?”

The Elf gestured for him to resume his seat and went to the bookcase. He retrieved a book of plants, labeled in Dwarven runes. “Since history gives you no joy, perhaps some lessons on the natural world? This is…” he paused, glancing at the runes.

“Pewterwort,” Kili read obediently. “It grows abundantly in the foothills of the Blue Mountains, and in the Shire.”

“So it does,” the Elf agreed. “Do you know anything else about it?”

“No, Sir,” Kili said with a frown. He had quite forgotten Master Nýrád, who had resumed teaching Gimli. “Um…it looks like a pony’s tail.”

“Indeed, and for that reason Men often call it “horsetail.” It is used to polish pewter, which is why the Dwarves call it pewterwort, but it is also useful to treat wounds, or in strengthening baths, and can be eaten as a vegetable,” said his new tutor. “I particularly like the name ‘horsetail’ myself,” he added with an amused smile.

“Why?” Kili wanted to know. “Sir,” he added hastily.

“My name is Elrohir,” the Elf replied. “I love to ride as much as I love to teach.”

“Oh,” Kili said thoughtfully. “Thank you for coming to teach me, Master Elrohir.”

Elrohir smiled fondly on this young one. “You are quite welcome, Kili.”

Nýrád watched the two for a moment, then returned to Gimli. Perhaps, he thought, this was for the best after all. Only time would tell for certain.