[Bêthberry]

The crackle of the campfire and the scent of tobacco mixed with burning oak brought the strange company into various moods of mellow reflection.

Bethberry rose and accepted her cattail-like rods from Gandalf with a sombre nod. "As you know, Gandalf, I will not be entering the Castle. My footsteps will take me to the garden, where lies my concern. You will, I know, explain later what you would have me do there, unless you wish me to be guided by my own wits." The grey wizard nodded in reply, between puffs on his pipe.

The daughter of the Old Forest then retreated, for she wished to speak to Andreth. On her way over to the young woman of Bree, she stopped behind Aislen, who had just returned from caring for the horses. "Have you asked Olo about Nardol's horse, or perhaps Nardol himself? Speak directly to him if you have concerns about the animal, but do not upbraid the elf. Rest assured that wherever such defenses lie, there lies also good reason."

With knowing eyes, Aislen answered, "I will ask about the horse and I will hold my tongue further. Once bitten, twice shy."

"No, the wrong reason, Aislen. Be more patient in your youthful enthusiasm."

Seeing Nardol leaning against a tree, just outside the light of the circle, Bethberry then sought out Andreth, but her movement caught the elf's eye.

"Andreth, the beauty of your embroidery has caught my attention. You have been anxious to escape the confines of home, but I see you have brought something of home with you."

With a half smile and slight shrug, Andreth gave an equivocal answer.

Bethberry continued. "You have asked if perhaps I know the Ancient Tongue of the elves. That I do not, so you must call upon Nardol's help in the translation thereof."

A look of interest and a raised eyebrow from Andreth brought out greater explanation from Bethberry. Nardol, too, looked up, to listen.

"While it is true that I know the sorrows of the early Ages and grieve still the loss of Nogrod and Belegost, it has never been my gift to empathize with the elves, but rather the dwarves. From before the breaking of Thangorondrim I was taught the secret tongue of the dwarves, for I could fathom their love of beauty and of creation as it was always free from possessiveness. They love creating but not hoarding and thereby have mastery of themselves, a mastery I understand so well from my father."

"This I cannot understand about the elves and their love of creation, for beauty masters them rather than their own accord. Beauty buys time for man and dwarves, but I do not think it can do so for the elves. Rather it imprisons them, binds them in cruel chains, forcing them link by link into vindictiveness, petty jealousies, betrayals, kinslaying. Both words and jewels, things of created beauty, seem to matter more than life itself to them, which they would break first before their creations. Perhaps Curufinwë, in never knowing his mother, was too unacquainted with Nienna; I do not know and I do not understand."

Andreth, not knowing the stories of which the forest woman spoke, looked perplexed but was too polite to question, for she guessed that the story was directed less at her than at Nardol--a true enough point, as Bethberry's next words made clear.

"Nardol, perhaps I have completely mischaracterized the elves' making of things. What can you tell me to teach me otherwise? How should I understand the hold of the Simarils upon you and your kind?

[ December 29, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]