Loyalty, Honor, and a Willing Heart

EPILOGUE

Valinor

He took in a deep breath and opened his eyes a slit. It was too clear around, though he could no figure out where the sun might be. It was not cold, it was not warm, and he was not hungry. Everything was comfortable, more than he had been comfortable for a long time. He noticed his shoulder and other wounds didn’t bother him anymore, either. He was tired, tough, and closed his eyes to sleep a bit more.

***

He woke up with the feeling of being observed, and sat up at once, startled. He could not see his observer, and begun to search the place, warily. It was not as full of light as before, and he felt the place he was sleeping on was not as smooth, although his muscles felt perfectly rested.

It was a large stone room, and he didn’t figure out what kind of place was that. He saw two hearths, one on each side of the room, the closest one meant for comfort, with its golden flames licking... what? That was not wood, at least didn’t look like wood. It looked more like... stones. Burning stones. Now he was sure he had seen everything in this world.

The heat of the fire made him feel thirsty and then saw a water flagon on a table nearby, and a mug he was sure he didn’t see there before. He poured some water in the mug, warily, but the water didn’t make anything unexpected. It was crystal clear, no smell, and he decided to take a probing sip. Water. Plain water, refreshing, tasteless, water. He drank it down in small sips, exploring the place with slow steps. Somehow, he knew he didn’t have to haste.

There were tools on the wall, and scattered on a workbench were several pieces of handiwork in different stages of completeness. Most of them he could not understand, but some were quite what he was used to make himself. He felt a sting in his heart thinking how long it had been since he used a forge last time. It felt worse when he remembered when it actually was. He sighed and shook his head, sad. There was nothing he could do now. Only wait.

He left the water mug on the workbench when he noticed a particularly known object on the other side of the room, close to the forge hearth, and went for it. There was an anvil, and an unfinished war axe waiting to be worked on, the metal glowing red, begging to be hammered, shaped into what it was meant to become. If he was left in that room for any reason at all, this might well be the reason. That axe was calling for him, and he yearned for the heat of the forge, the weight of the hammer in his hand, the sound of metal against metal reverberating through his whole body. He smiled to himself when he took the axe with a tong and lifted the hammer to hit it where it should. His hand fell down with all the weight of the hammer and of his own will on the axe head.

The pain hit him at the same moment, making him release the tools and throwing him seven feet away from the anvil. Biting his lip to hold back a groan, he sat up and rubbed his chest where the pain hit him. It was not even sore to the touch, making it all more incomprehensible. He was scrambling to his feet when a shadow moved to be between him and the fire.

“You should not play with tools that are not meant for you, child, even if you feel inclined to fix things as soon as you may. I’m glad to see you are so willing to make things right, tough, as last time it took you absurdly long to take this step.”

He looked at the one who spoke to him, wide eyed. He never heard that voice before, not outside his dreams, and he knew to whom it belonged.

“Mahal...”

The newcomer took the tools from where they’d fell and put them back into place; then he took the unfinished war axe, the metal still glowing red, with his bare hands and put it back on the forge to heat up again; then he straightened his tough leather apron with his hands and turned back to him.