Forest-dwellers by chrissystriped  

Rog looked up from his work when he heard someone hailing him and smiled at the elf walking down the path towards his forge. He was carrying a javelin resting in the crook of his arm in a non-threatening way and wore leathers and furs like most of the woodland folk.

Rog relaxed, he did not wish for contact with the city-people. Turgon visited him sometimes for old times' sake and he still valued the friendship of his former king, but he was a forest-dweller and enjoyed his solitude.

“I’ve heard you work well with metal”, his visitor said in the old tongue. One of the Faithful Tribes, then — whom the Noldor had named Avari.

“Yes”, Rog answered in the same language. “What can I do for you, brother?”

His guest lifted his left arm and Rog saw that the hand was made of metal. “It took a hit, the fingers won’t bend as they used to. Something must be broken.” He opened the straps that held the hand to his arms with one hand and offered it to Rog.

“Who made this?” Rog turned the prosthesis in his hand and admired the delicate handiwork.

“One of Aule’s smiths modelled it after Maedhros’s hand.”

“It’s a masterwork, I’ll have to study it, before I can start mending”, Rog said and offered his visitor a seat at the wooden table in front of his house. “Why not go to the maker, if I may ask?”

Rog moved the fingers gently, feeling for the broken or bent mechanism.

“I don’t like to go there. Too crowded. Too much noise.”

Rog hummed in agreement.

They sat quietly beside each other. His visitor had helped himself to a cup of well-water and a bit of fruit that had lain on the table and Rog was engrossed in discovering the inner workings of the prosthesis. The metal had been Sung over, usually it would move like a hand of flesh for his wearer.

“To be honest”, the other said suddenly. “I was not too well pleased to end up here, but… at the time I was in no shape to refuse.”

Rog nodded in understanding. Given a choice, he’d have rather been reborn in Middle-earth. He didn’t ask where he’d lost his hand, he could see Angband in his eyes and knew the other had recognised him too.

“It’s not so bad here, once you’ve found your own place”, he said. “But I get it. You hunt with Orome?” He’d noticed the pendant the other had tied into one of his many tight braids.

“Sometimes. It’s good to have company now and then. They make me feel at home. You don’t?”

“I get all the company I want here at my forge.”

He knew, he’d meet Aredhel with the Hunt and how could he look her in the eyes when he’d failed her boy so much.

“Here, try it.”

Rog gave the metal hand back to its owner and watched him strap it on. The elf closed it to a fist and smiled.

“Feels good, thank you. I don’t have money, will you accept these two squirrel furs in exchange for your work?”

He took the pelts from his bag and spread them on the table. Rog let his hand glide over the soft, red fur.

“I accept.” He rarely saw money here anyway. “They are beautiful.”

The other stood up and shouldered his bag and javelin. “May the stars shine upon you, brother”, he said.

“And you”, Rog answered and watched him quickly vanish between the trees.

They’d never exchanged names, but that didn’t matter much. They’d shared a few moments of their lifes, that was enough. They’d know each other, if they ever met again.

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