Arradril worked alone, as she normally preferred. Tonight's project was a sheath for her favorite boot dagger. The single-edged weapon was not her largest, nor her longest, nor yet was it her oldest -- so it was no painful reminder of fair Ondolindë. It was not even balanced for throwing; given the alarming upward curve of the blade, and the solid hiltward weighting, Arradril reckoned that any attempt to fling it would end in a loud thud.
Nonetheless, it pleased her sufficiently that she called it Asumo -- a helpful friend, a colleague. In this, the subtle weapon with its black grip was similar to her new-and-eternal Order. If any had need, the others answered it, an arrangement that pleased Arradril. Filegris had fletched a sizable quantity of arrows just recently: not easy work, yet upon hearing their Captain grant Tuilerië permission to escort the Flower-kindlers as far as Nenuial, Filegris had immediately handed half the bundle to her for the trip. For a Silvan-elf, as Arradril saw it, Filegris definitely talked too much but bore a large heart within her.
Thus did Arradril pierce the leather again and again with her awl, working on the sheath that would help her curious utility knife be a true friend at need. Sometimes its friendship was cold, of course. It had delivered the final mercy to a wounded Orc more than once. No fancy tooling was needed for the sheath of a subtle knife. Arradril planned to mark it with what was not even a proper letter, but a diacritical mark: the triangle of dots that would be placed above a consonant to stand for the a sound. It would seem meaningless to foes, but be sensible to friends.
Sewing was a marvellous antidote to thinking, and yet Arradril's thoughts drifted. There were many friends-at-need all around her -- Olriandis was another of the Silvan tribe, and yet her droll humor, dry as a bone, made Arradril glad to see her at any time.
And Branalph. There was Branalph too. Taciturn to a fault, and yet there was something safe about the Hammer recruit. With him looming behind her, his black tabard like a shadow of her indigo. Indeed, the colors were hard to tell apart, even in the copious light of Lord Elrond's Hall of Fire.
Of course he was a friend. Just that. Exactly that. A measured quantity. Loyal to Finrod and Orodreth -- Arradril admired loyalty. That was it, no more. Absolutely.
Furiously now she stabbed with the awl. Emotion was pain. Why feel emotion? Why torture her fëa in this way? It was nice to make a friend. But it was dangerous to think about it.
Hours on end she laboured over this simple sheath, barely marked, the size of a boot-dagger only. Easily concealed, as her heart had been since the fall of the White City.
Arradril was never quite satisfied with her work in leather, but after a time she deemed the sheath good enough and slid her knife inside it. Without thought, she patted herself all over, checking that her hidden armory remained in place. As she did, she touched a piece of paper, folded several times; almost against her will, she slid this out and opened it.
Inside there lay a single purple feather. It resembled those of swallows, although Arradril well knew it was actually from the strange purple starlings that had settled in the Vale of late. No matter. It was a gift from Branalph, of one soldier to another, honoring... whatever it was she had achieved, there on the ramparts, and then covering the terrible retreat -- wearing a fan of such feathers.
Very much like her friendly dagger, it was a kindness that cut to her heart. And yet, Arradril resolved to find him some similar gift, something he would prize above gold.
Purely as an asumo, of course. A fellow weapon of Vanimar. Purely.
But some portion of her stony exterior cracked, and she found herself wondering -- entirely as a thought experiment, of course -- what the clasp of Branalph's hand felt like. Arradril folded the feather back into the paper, resolving further to find some oiled cloth so the feather would not be damaged if it rained. Because a gift deserved honor, and accordingly she slid the paper under her drab duty-robes, over her heart.
