Mirthfully Hasten
Spring melted into summer, and the bluebells gave way to purple dog violets. Orange fritillary butterflies had emerged from their cocoons. Cream-colored woodbine wove throughout the trees, casting its sweet fragrance over the whole of the woodland. Fuzzy yellow bumblebees buzzed at the borders of the woodland.
Yet, this idyllic bloom contrasted starkly with the bustling Elves preparing for war. Tanners rushed, crafting armor for the growing army. Fletchers and bowyers, swamped, crafted more than hunting gear, and even Barangolf's cooperage hummed with unusual activity.
Putting barrel work aside, Barangolf crafted dog-pulled sleds for long-distance goods transport - wagons were impractical in their dense forest, and horses few. This task depleted his lumber, forcing him to gather fallen branches before the coppicing season. Nengeldor joined him, picking berries or helping with the lumber collection.
Now, it happened on this day that the two friends set out to wander in the forest together. Nengeldor gathered dewberries as he went, whilst Barangolf searched for fallen branches in the wood. Onwards through the trees they went, seeking out their treasures amongst nature's bounty.
There had been a summer storm the night before, stripping many branches from the trees. Although it had been many hours since the storm had passed, water dripped from overhanging leaves onto the heads of the two foragers. Brown and white mushrooms poked their caps up from beneath the damp loam. A tan and white hound bounded between the two Elves, yapping every time the brush shifted with some small animal movement.
Newly enlisted soldiers flitted in and out of view between the trees as they marched to the hastily constructed training field. “I wonder when they’ll leave,” Barangolf mused, bending over to pick up a lichen covered oak branch that had fallen into the dewberry bramble Nengeldor was examining.
“Before Sauron’s forces arrive at our doorstep, I hope.” Nengeldor’s fingertips were stained purple from the dewberries filling the woven basket at his hip. He tugged another berry free and, after a furtive look at his friend, popped it into his mouth.
A squirrel's sudden dash startled the hound; it chased after the intruder, barking as it disappeared up a tree
“Easy, Nimdog.” Nengeldor placed a hand on the dog’s back and leaned closer to the dewberries. “Have you heard the way Laerorn talks? It’s as if she thinks she won’t be coming back.”
“That’s nothing new,” Barangolf said, shifting the branch in his arms. “Laerorn always talks as if Doom is right around the corner. She’s probably glad to have a reason to predict misfortune.”
“My father speaks as if he agrees with her. I suppose they could be right. Not everyone returns from war.”
A shadow fell across them and a familiar voice said, “They’d best return. I’ve already warned Torvrethil I won’t forgive him if he doesn’t.”
Both friends turned to the newcomer, Hwinnion. He was short for an Elf, and dark of skin and hair. A grey feathered goose rested in his arms. The rest of the flock weren’t in sight.
Barangolf scanned the surrounding forest for sign of the missing flock as he addressed Hwinnion. “If anyone returns, it will be Torvrethil. I’m amazed he can leave your side long enough to fight.”
Hwinnion’s face flickered with a smile, but before he could respond, Nimdog lunged, snapping at his goose. The goose reared up, spread its wings, and honked defiantly, causing Hwinnion to drop it. The two animals focused on each other, ignoring their masters' desperate calls.
'Nimdog!' Nengeldor moved quickly, spilling berries from his basket. 'Heel!' He snapped his fingers, while Hwinnion cried out for his goose, 'Gurbess!' But the animals paid no heed, too engrossed in their standoff."
Barangolf kept his eyes trained on the goose as he backed away from the impending violence. “I wouldn’t wish to get in the middle of this fight.” He said, watching the two animals circle one another. “A goose is worth ten Saurons. Especially one named…what did you call this one? Gurbess?”
Hwinnion nodded.
Death-feather seemed an unusually apt name for a goose.
“We ought to send geese to fight Sauron in our stead,” Barangolf suggested as the goose thrust its snake-like neck forward with a honk like a battle cry. “Not even he could survive against such a foe.”
The goose’s onslaught forced the hound backward. Gurbess grabbed hold of Nimdog’s back with his beak. The hound growled and turned in a circle, trying to snap at the goose’s neck. Gurbess turned with the dog, remaining tantalizingly out of reach and doggedly maintaining his grip on Nimdog’s fur.
“Serves you right for trying to outfight a goose,” Nengeldor chided. But like Barangolf he remained well clear of the goose.
“Where is the rest of the flock?” Barangolf asked, not taking his eyes off the snarling animals. “I don’t suppose you’ve enlisted them in the army?”
Hwinnion made a series of clucking sounds at Gurbess and the goose released Nimdog with a frustrated hiss. The hound slunk back to Nengeldor’s side.
Hwinnion picked Gurbess up. The goose nuzzled his neck. “Gurbess wishes to come,” he said. “But if all the hounds are so ill-bred as Nimdog it mightn’t be wise.”
Nengeldor gingerly ran his fingers through Nimdog’s fur. “You’re all right,” he said, then glanced up at Hwinnion. “He’s not ill-bred. Your bird is a demon.”
Hwinnion lifted Gurbess higher. “Who attacked whom?”
Nengeldor grumbled wordlessly as he stroked Nimdog.
Before Nengeldor could answer, a high-pitched voice echoed, “Who attacked whom?” and an Elf-child skipped into view. Seeing the spilled berries, she tsked, wagging a finger at Nengeldor. “Clumsy Nengeldor! Have you been drinking wine so early in the morning?”
“Not this morning,” Nengeldor responded, releasing Nimdog, who enthusiastically greeted the newcomer.
“Mithuial!” Barangolf waved the oak branch at the girl. She was, of course, his brother Glanvir’s daughter. “Are you here alone?”
“No,” Mithuial said, pushing the hound away. “Papa is here.”
As she spoke, Glanvir, her father and Barangolf's brother, emerged, mushroom-filled basket in hand. “I thought you might be about,” Glanvir said when he spied his younger brother. “We stopped by the cooperage.”
“We’re out of wood,” Barangolf said by way of explanation.
“A pity, that.” Glanvir’s gaze was drawn to the shifting figures in the trees beyond. “It’s nigh impossible to use when it isn’t properly seasoned.”
“Well do I know it!” Barangolf replied.
At his feet Nengeldor cleared his throat. “I’m sure your craft is very interesting, but would you mind helping me with these berries?”
Barangolf knelt beside his friend, picking dewberries out of the loam. “You ought to have more control over Nimdog,” he teased.
Nengeldor’s brushed dirt from a dewberry before dropping it back into his basket. “I was considering that.”
There was an indignant squawk from Hwinnion at that. “And yet you blamed Gurbess!”
Nengeldor ignored the accusation. “I was thinking about enlisting. They asked for hounds, you know, and I couldn’t bear sending Nimdog alone. Nor could I entrust his training to another.”
Barangolf stared in astonishment at his friend, all pretense of helping forgotten. “Enlisting!”
“And why not?” Nengeldor glowered at the berries as he returned them to the basket. “If Sauron is not stopped then we may have to fight him even at the eaves of the Greenwood.”
It was Hwinnion who answered. “There is work to be done that is not waging war. Not all need fight.”
“But some must,” Nengeldor argued. “And I do not have children to tend.”
Glanvir rested a hand on Mithuial’s shoulder. The Elf-girl’s expression was sad as she looked at Nengeldor.
“Lognir also wished to enlist,” Glanvir said into the silence.
Barangolf looked from Nengeldor to Glanvir. “Did he…?”
Glanvir shook his head. “Laerorn had the good sense to turn him away.”
“I didn’t think she’d turn anyone away,” Barangolf said, recalling Torvrethil’s statement about Anwiel.
“She will if they’re not yet of age.”
Glanvir and Hwinnion turned to stare at Nengeldor.
“But we’re both of age!” Barangolf objected, recognizing their expressions too well.
“Barely,” said Hwinnion. Gurbess honked in agreement.
“A mere ten years,” Glanvir added.
“And yet still of age.” Nengeldor caressed the weave of his basket before standing.
Barangolf rose, wrestling with unease and an unexpected sense of guilt. Was he being selfish by not volunteering? And the hint that they were still children irked him. A burgeoning need to prove his maturity flared.
He gave Nengeldor a grin. “Well! I can’t let you have all the fun. Where do we enlist?”
Glanvir and Torvrethil ambushed Barangolf early the next morning at the cooperage. They hemmed him in with solemn faces.
Glanvir crossed to the counter, setting down the basket in his hands. Torvrethil barricaded the door with unfinished barrels, then turned to Barangolf with folded arms and narrowed eyes. “There are matters we must discuss.”
Barangolf reached longingly for his drawknife, just out of reach behind Glanvir. “We have a lot of work to do today,” he said.
“It will wait,” Glanvir said, gently pushing Barangolf’s hand away from the tools.
Torvrethil gestured toward a cluster of waist-high barrels near the window. “Please, sit.”
Barangolf complied, settling onto the nearest barrel while looking between his two brothers in suspicion. “What is it you wish to discuss?”
“Hwinnion tells me you’re enlisting.”
Tevildo leaped into Barangolf’s lap and began kneading his stomach. Barangolf scratched behind the cat’s ears. “He told you true,” he muttered, inwardly cursing his brother-in-law.
“Even Anwiel says you’re being foolish.” Glanvir peeled back the blanket covering the basket, allowing the savory fragrance of mushroom pies to waft throughout the cooperage, overpowering the smell of sawdust. Barangolf’s stomach growled, but he didn’t look at the pies. His attention was trained on his brother.
“There is no reason for this,” Torvrethil said. “You’ve skills we need for other purposes. Put these thoughts out of your mind.”
Barangolf stroked Tevildo’s fur with hands far calmer than the foot that tapped impatiently against the side of the barrel he was seated upon. “But you’re going!”
Torvrethil’s expression was foreboding. “I’ve been with Oropher’s guard longer than you’ve been of age,” he said.
Barangolf frowned sullenly. His foot continued to tap against the barrel. “And shall you also tell Nengeldor not to enlist?”
“If Nengeldor wishes to make foolish decisions that’s none of my business.”
“Foolish!” Barangolf said. “Is it foolish to wish to aid in the war? Sauron is not so easy a foe to defeat if even the Valar could not drown him.”
“Foolish indeed, if you wish to meet such a foe,” Torvrethil answered.
Over by the counter, Glanvir nodded his agreement as he parceled out pies onto wooden plates. “You’re too young to risk your life so heedlessly.”
Barangolf dropped his gaze to the cat on his lap. Tevildo purred in contentment, unconcerned with the troubles of Elves and Men. “I’m old enough to decide for myself,” he said at last. “And I wish to enlist.”
Glanvir thrust a plate in front of Barangolf. “You ought to be old enough to know when to listen to your elders.”
“I am,” Barangolf said, taking the plate and staring down at the succulent pie. “I’ve listened to Laerorn. And if she won’t have me then I won’t go.”