Erfaron Sílûgnir
Candidate for worst Apprentice in the Living World
Store Room >>>>>> Reception (some time later)
His steps were swallowed by the sound of her own as the Mastersmith led a way into her cache. It was not unimpressive, to say the very least; a virtual ecosystem of supplies. A slow turn within that chamber allowed
Erfaron some proper glimpse of untold possibilities. Even employing all senses, the Elf failed to take in quite all of the resources present. His pale eyes rested on
Fuin herself, last of all.
She didn’t say a word about the gathered hoard, did not crow, did not boast. There was no need. They both knew it and he respected her the more for it. So on to other things. She bade him shield himself for the task ahead, allowed him to find the means himself. He did so. A snake sheds its skin often, and he had worn and discarded several disguises over the long ages of the sun. From several army transfers, to whatever the situation may call for, .. the range of situations had fallen quite wide … The nobleman’s son, the soldier, the lover, the traitor, the Mole, the .. whatever ..
Sílûgnir glanced down at what new camouflage he had decked himself out in this time. Did not recognise the fact that he had obeyed without question.
The apprentice did not lend words to confirm whom he had referred to, when last he had offered words. But he did lend sight toward the leather which
Fuin presented next. It had been well worked to show off such a flawless rind, testament to the amount of care and attention which had been employed, evidence of the quality that was catered to here. The newcomer had borne far heavier, far poorer scraps of hide before this day and made still use of them. But that had ever been for meanest need. There had been little attention put to aesthetics, no thought for what an appraisal might make of his efforts. Those few unhappy souls who had seen his works put to their use rarely lived to give account of it afterwards. The projects worked, that had been all that mattered. And like the Mole himself, they had nurtured little thought of impressing an audience.
His teacher left him to select his own material. His teacher left him unsupervised. For a moment this inspired confusion. He waited for the door to click shut, he waited for the assassins to spring out of the shadows, but then he scoffed at the idea. This Smith clearly cared enough for her materials that she would not risk them damage. This was a place she cared for and he doubted she would sully it with hate.
“
… your tools ..” The Smith concluded her expectations. Her newest apprentice blinked, rolled his neck upon one shoulder as though subduing some errant itch. But it was not an itch as itches were. It was a memory, or a dozen, or more still than a dozen memories. It was the demanding aroma of a past he had never asked for, and a future he could barely believe. And he was left, he was unsupervised, he had been for the longest time, answerable only to himself.
Sílûgnir stalled in that storeroom so long that
Fuin made herself busy at her bench. It was while she slipped into her office to fetch up supplies for a necklace, that he calmly strode out of the storeroom, and the forge, with no words or delay, or else proper understanding of what he had been thinking. What had he been thinking ? That he could prove .. respectable ? He didn’t realise that he was still wearing the apron and gloves until he let himself in to his own home, and
Iggy Steeljaw stared to observe him.
“
You stole those ?” the dwarf assumed.
“
I was told to take them,” he defended himself, automatically. And it was the truth. But also, he had every intention of returning, so it was not stealing per se. He had never promised he had time to start his education straight away, after all. Could be he had very important things to do first. Could be there were things which needed removing from mind, so that that mind be primed and ready to receive proper instruction.
A few days later, he could no longer convince even himself this was the case. The trappings he had lain, readied to take up, haunted his days. Troubled his nights, so that he rose and took the apron, the gloves in hand. Then replaced them where they must wait, the Elf returning to reflect upon his thoughts. The brass ring he had accepted clashed against the silver one of old. ‘Two broken promises’, they silently taunted him. So much for learning better. So much for learning anything at all … And so, with thought of naught else but, at worst, returning the garments – he would not give folk the satisfaction of proving him a thief. He set out for the Tingdain. There was though no sound of hammer nor halo of steam on this occasion. There were voices, he noted, inside. The more clear as he made closer to the scene of the crime. It was not even the ‘crime’ he had expected to walk back into the scene of.
Tharmaras and
Aigronding must have returned, no doubt, for their ordered wares. He spared himself the sauntering inside to meet their sting of disappointment. He had, from where he stood, a sight enough of
Fuin, sprawled out upon the floor. Wracked by the knowledge that they, that anyone, would surely blame him, if they were to catch sight of him here, the Mole drew back beyond the doorframe just as the closest Elf within turned at the merest sound that escaped his position. Either
Erfaron had given himself away, or the someone else had, who was now approaching from outside. Wheeling to his back against the outer wall, the Mole met the latest arrival to the establishment with an unflinching stare..
His pale fingers coiled like osseous roots around the folded apron and gloves in his grasp. “
Ask me not” he shrugged, as dispassionately as he could, when broached. “
I just work here.” Was that even the case any more ? A chill slid the length of his spine as he considered the chances, that he had bade
Fuin to teach him, instead of going to
Hatholdir for help. How she had spoke with such scorn for the Mole King. How she was now laid out upon the ground.
Sílûgnir blinked away the very sort of suspicion for his friend that he knew others would endow him personally with. He ought not play that game.
Was the Mastersmith dead ? He meant to ask. He could not look and knew he could not help. He didn’t waste time telling them he hadn’t been responsible. For one thing, people tended to make up their own minds what he was to blame for. And for another thing, on this particular occasion, he was not properly sure himself. If he had been here, perhaps he could have stopped whatever had happened. If he had never come at all though, maybe whatever had happened would not have happened at all.
The notion of the Smith having worked herself unto a swoon never occurred to him. Which proved he knew as little of the Moriquendi’s tolerance as he knew about working at a forge at all. It remained to be seen if he should be given the chance to learn better of both.
