Homefelt Pleasures

Spring was at its zenith. Bluebells carpeted the forest floor and pink rhododendrons stretched out over the banks of the Forest River, which went leaping and burbling over mossy rocks as it traveled from its source in the Grey Mountains down through the Greenwood.

Here and there, a bluebell cluster crept onto the well-trod mountain paths in optimistic disregard for the borders imposed by civilization. Not even the Wood-Elves could avoid wearing footpaths along familiar trails, and the paths to and from their summer abodes in the mountain were among the most frequently traveled.

Barangolf whistled as he wound his way through the familiar forest paths toward the glade where his cooperage was nestled between several other workshops. The scent of tanning leather greeted him long before sunlight dappled the ground, heralding the transition from wilderness to civilization.

As he reached the clearing, the branches rustled above him, and a figure dropped onto the ground in front of him. The other Elf was taller than Barangolf, and fairer, with silver ash hair and eyes the color of a robin’s egg. A wooden flute hung at his side.

“Good morning to you!” Barangolf said, slinging an arm around his friend as they fell into step together.

Nengeldor shielded his eyes as they broke cover. “Have you heard? There was a strange woman seen leaving Amon Lanc,” he said.

“A strange woman?” Barangolf repeated.

“The beech trees have talked of nothing else all day,” Nengeldor chided. “Haven’t you been listening to them?”

Absently, Barangolf glanced back at the beech trees outlining the glade. “I suppose I haven't," he confessed. "I was engrossed in my own music, and the trees do love a good gossip."

"Nonsense! The trees would be insulted to hear you say that!” Nengeldor retorted.

“Tell me about this strange woman,” Barangolf prompted. “What is so strange about her that has the trees in an uproar?”

“Well, she was unusually tall,” Nengeldor said. “And she had a funny accent.”

“Perhaps she was a Maiar,” Barangolf said. “They choose abnormally tall embodiments.”

“The trees said she was an Elf.”

The two Elves paused before a stack of lumber at a distance from the cooperage; the coopers left the wood here until it was pliable enough for use.

Barangolf hefted the stack of lumber into the air and slid the bottom stave out. A beetle scrambled for shelter, taken by surprise at this rude uncovering of its hiding place.

He hopped and skipped over the threshold, his footwork kicking up wood shavings strewn across the earthen floor. Nengeldor tugged his flute free of its leather strap as he followed, picking up the tune.

The cooperage was a maze of barrels occupying nearly the entire front. A long wooden counter lined the back wall, interrupted only by a window with open shutters, allowing sunlight to illuminate the shop. A sleeping cat sprawled across the windowsill, paws twitching. The wall above the shelf was lined with wood and stone tools that marched right up to the edge of the window; The wooden drawknife hung crooked.

“Tsk, Tevildo, have you been playing with my tools again?” Barangolf chided. He snatched the drawknife and a ruler off the wall and sawed the stave to size with a careful, steady hand. If the length was even the slightest fraction wrong in either direction it would be unable to fit with the rest of its fellows.

Nengeldor perched on one of the finished barrels, continuing his musical accompaniment with no hint that he might join in the work being done.

The shop cat lifted its head to peer at the two Elves before dropping its chin back onto its paws in drowsy disinterest.

Barangolf had only just begun tapering the ends when a leather-clad head and shoulders thrust through the window. The cat leaped to the floor, hissing in fright.

The intruder spoke in a hurried whisper. “What ho, brother. Have you heard the news?”

Barangolf ceased whistling but continued shaping his stave rather than turn round to look at the Elf he addressed. “And you tell me to learn to use the door!” He said with affectionate exasperation. “What am I supposed to have heard that has you so impatient to tell me?”

Torvrethil remained stretched across the windowsill, although he had the grace to loosen the straps of his helmet, removing it out of courtesy. His hair was cropped in the same short style as his younger brother’s, and was just as dark. “Oropher has declared war.”

“War?” Nengeldor echoed with a trace of laughter. He spun around on the barrel to face the window.

Torvrethil scowled at him. “Do you take me for a liar?”

Barangolf’s attention remained on his stave rather than his brother as he asked, “What cause have we to make war? Long has it been since the Noldor set foot in Eregion.”

“It is not the Noldor on whom we make war. Nay, they are our allies in this fight.” Torvrethil sounded as if he didn’t quite believe this himself.

Barangolf lifted his face to the window at last, searching Torvrethil’s face for any hint of admittedly unlikely teasing. “Our allies? The Noldor? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Do not make light.” Torvrethil’s fingers dug so hard into the leather of his helmet they made indentations. “An enemy greater than any Elf has returned to Middle-Earth.”

Barangolf schooled his face into passivity but that was as far as he could manage in pretending he believed his brother. Torvrethil had always been honest to a fault, but the presence of any enemy powerful enough that the Woodland Elves would make peace with the Noldor was too impossible to credit.

“Of what enemy do you speak? If it be Tevildo, I am surely in trouble.” He glanced at the cat currently hiding beneath his workbench, affectionate smile turning into a grin again, unable to hide his mirth at what he considered Torvrethil’s dramatics. Between the brothers, Torvrethil had always been the one most prone to a sort of earnest pessimism, which had clashed more than once with Barangolf’s frivolity.

Nengeldor mirrored Barangolf’s grin. “If you require a noble hound to aid you in your quest, I offer Nimdog’s assistance. He’ll put Huan to shame. I swear on it.”

The two younger Elves collapsed into fits of laughter at their own jokes, unmoved by Torvrethil’s disapproving expression.

“Sauron is abroad once more.” Torvrethil raised his voice so that it rang throughout the cooperage, and for a moment the light appeared to dim.

Barangolf set down both stave and drawknife, suddenly bereft of the levity he had displayed only moments prior. “Sauron?” He repeated, dismay etched across his face. There, indeed, was a reason to forge alliances with even the treacherous Kinslayers. And yet it seemed incredible that an enemy not heard from since his conception could have returned.

“But surely not! He was vanquished by the Valar ere we were born.” Nengeldor scoffed, but his expression was as troubled as either of the brothers.

Torvrethil heaved a weary sigh. “It seems not. The High King, Gil-Galad, sent a messenger to Amon Lanc to request aid in vanquishing him from Middle-Earth.”

“A messenger!” Nengeldor gave Barangolf a meaningful look. “So the beeches were right, she was an Elf after all. One of the High Elves. It’s a wonder Oropher gave her an audience.”

Torvrethil twirled his helmet between his hands. “Laerorn has proposed seeking recruits to turn the guard into a proper army. Oropher approves.” Laerorn was a scarred Elf who had accompanied Oropher during his flight from Doriath. It was no surprise she would jump at the opportunity to train more Elves in arms; she was suspicious at the best of times; the scars from the sack of Doriath were not only physical.

“Are you here to enlist me, brother?” Barangolf’s dismay turned to amusement at the thought. Even as a child he had preferred song and dance to hunting or playing knight. “Oh, but you jest. Do you wish to teach me archery?” He lifted a hand to the bluebells tucked behind his ear. “Or to wear a helm?”

“I’m here only to inform you of what is needful,” Torvrethil said, his voice quiet now that he had finally imparted the seriousness of his news to the two younger Elves. “I would not wish you to endanger yourself. If we go to war we shall need you for your woodworking skills, not your inexpert fighting.”

“Who would you have enlist, then? Not Glanvir, surely.” The third of the brothers was as unlikely a soldier as Barangolf.

“Not Glanvir, no. You ought to know that. He’ll want to ensure his children have one parent left alive should all go poorly.”

Barangolf fell silent, but Nengeldor was not as easily cowed. “Is Anwiel enlisting, then?”

Barangolf resumed his woodworking with a despairing shake of the head. Anwiel was Glanvir’s wife, and a member of the Woodland Guard alongside Torvrethil. She was brave to the point of foolhardiness, but she had only given birth to her second child a few scant years ago and was currently still on leave.

Torvrethil snorted in amusement at such an unnecessary question. “Glanvir would have to leash her if he wanted to keep her home.”

“And Laerorn will allow that?” Barangolf asked.

“Must you ask?”

“And Hwinnion?” Barangolf hazarded, glancing at Torvrethil long enough to see how his brother’s face went doe-eyed at the mention of his husband.

“Hwinnion will only be along to help manage the pack dogs,” Torvrethil said.

Barangolf suspected his true motivation was to remain near Torvrethil. Glanvir had been similarly besotted when he and Anwiel had first become betrothed, and it had taken the arrival of children to return them to their senses.

He exchanged a wordless but judgmental look with Nengeldor.

Torvrethil flushed. “One day you shall fall in love, and then you shall understand.”

Barangolf shook his knife at Torvrethil. “I have seen how wholly love robs you of your senses,” he said.

“I have no senses to rob,” Nengeldor laughed as he pocketed his flute. “So I shall be safe enough from love’s ruinous snares.” He hopped off his barrel, inclining his head at the brothers. “I’ll take my leave now, before Laerorn comes round to do her own recruiting.”

Barangolf laughed. “If she’s handpicking recruits you have nothing to fear,” he said, and as his friend disappeared out the door he shouted, “Take care!”

Torvrethil stretched and hit his head against the top of the window. He winced as he pulled himself back outside. “I’ve got to get going, myself. Laerorn wants us to begin training our new recruits tomorrow, and a poor show it will be if I have no recruits.”

Barangolf waved as his brother retreated into the dark shadows of the forest, then glanced down at his cat. “What do you make of that? War! And allying ourselves with the Kinslayers despite Oropher’s warnings. ‘Tis a marvel indeed!”

But he returned his attention to his barrel, casting away thoughts of war.