An áren pecking at Fëor’s wooden shutters signaled that dawn had come again.

Groggily rolling out of bed (almost literally), Fëor stumbled towards a nearby wooden cabinet. Feeling his way around, he opened a small square drawer, grabbling a generous pinch of semi-oxidized mëa leaves. He tossed them into a clay teapot before dragging himself to the hearth at the heart of his round home, over which hung a cauldron of water. After getting a fire going, he sat in a daze waiting for the water to boil.

“It doesn’t concern me,” he mumbled.

He watched the flickering flames with a stern face, still haunted by his encounter with Ërna three days prior. He was afraid, of course, now that he could no longer deny the reality of the war Valýría worked so tirelessly to prevent; but more surprising was his concern for Ërna, which seemed to weigh upon his heart just as heavily.

“She’s just a strange…stranger,” he told himself unconvincingly.

He remained trapped in his thoughts until the sound of bubbling water snatched him away again. Normally, he would have used that time to prepare breakfast; but now, for the third day in a row, he had failed to do so. Sighing in defeat, he grabbed a wooden ladel, scooped some water into his teapot, and grabbed a handful of nuts from a nearby jar. That would have to suffice (again).

To be honest, he was exhausted. It’s not that he did too much, but rather thought too much. His anxiety was so high that as soon as he stepped out of his door, the sound of a single twig snapping was enough to make him jump. His racing heart was both relieved and disappointed to discover that it was just a squirrel.

“What’s wrong with me?” he mumbled, still adjusting his belt as he headed up to his garden. Indeed, like most other dwellings in his valley, his turf-topped house was dug partially into the earth with mossy, cobblestone walls. A small, stone staircase wound along the side, taking him up to the fenced-in mound where his garden grew.

And that’s where his worries abated, at least temporarily.

Atop his home, surrounded by his not-so-curated garden and caressed by the grove’s gentle breeze, nothing troubled him. Even the clacking calls of waking orfëár—golems made of mossy stone—didn’t bother him (and they could be quite noisy). It was a safe space, which he sorely needed after the events troubling him made him too afraid to wander away from home. Even his familiar glade was off-limits now.

But his respite there was indeed short today.

“Oooooi!” came a cheerful voice from below.

“Shh! Don’t shout!” Hissed another, more timid voice. “You’ll make him jump.”

Fëor had, of course, already jolted and nearly fell over the fence surrounding his sanctuary.

“Oh, it’s just you guys,” Fëor exhaled, slumping over.

“Just us?!” cried the loud fellow. “That ain’t no way to talk ta yer friends!”

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“S-sorry, Fëor,” soothed the quiet one. “We heard about what happened. I wanted to give you more time to yourself, but Belor couldn’t wait anymore.”

“Tha’s right!” Belor bellowed. “Ya need yer friends. We know yer a bit of a hermit an’ ya don’t like talkin’ ta many folks…but ya jus’ can’t coop yerself up so much. So I says to Hálin here that we needs ta go see young Fëor now.”

Fëor grunted.

“See!” Hálin exclaimed, gently slapping the back of Belor’s bald head. “I told you he wasn’t ready.”

Belor just furrowed his brows and knocked Hálin’s pointed hat to the ground.

“No, no,” Fëor sighed, waving at them to stop. “It’s fine. Really. I appreciate you coming to check up on me.” He smiled softly and began making his way back down from his garden to greet them properly.

Belor and Hálin were both Ëolrí, but quite different from one another. Belor was a classic, mountain-dwelling Ëolr. His head was like a polished stone, but he boasted one of the best beards in Gälenor (which he braided and adorned with great care). Hálin, on the other hand, was a mound-dwelling Ëolr. He was beardless and bookish. Despite their obvious contrast, they dwelled together and worked as a masonry-carpentry duo.

“Well, since you’re here,” Fëor began, “I suppose I should make a proper meal. My breakfast was a bit…meager.”

“Second breakfast is all I ever dream of!” Belor sang.

“As you know, I don’t have any ale,” Fëor reminded. “But I do have some of that tea you like, Hálin.”

“The one with folëamýr buds and dried river-berries?!” Hálin asked with sparkling eyes.

Fëor nodded.

“I was just gathering a few folëamýr buds in my garden,” he replied proudly. “They’re still wet with dew, which will add a nice touch. As for the river-berries, I picked some on my way to the glade the other day, so they’re still fresh!”

“Then let’s make haste!” Hálin chirped.

“Oi,” Belor growled, “weren’t you jus’ sayin’ to take things slow?”

“B-b-but…berries and tea!” Hálin returned Belor’s jeer with pouty eyes.

Belor sighed, defeated.

“D’ya have those berries as a jam, Fëor? I’d love a bit o’ that on some of yer ëána bread. And perhaps a mug o’ that darkened mëa stuff ya make.”

“Black tea?” Fëor clarified. “Yeah, I’ve got some left. The jam, too. As for the bread…it’s not fresh, but we can probably make do.”

“I’ll have some o’ that with eggs then, if ya don’t mind.”

“Me too!” Hálin added.

“Alight, alright,” Fëor agreed, beckoning them to follow him into his home. “That sounds like a much better breakfast than what I had, anyway. But it’s kind of a shame…”

He stopped at his door.

“It’s just that…well, it would be nice if I knew more about these herbs. They’re delicious, of course, but…I’m sure I could make better things with them if I did. You know, like their benefits and such? I don’t know…”

Belor and Hálin looked at each other with concern. After all, Fëor didn’t usually think so hard about these things. He was a great cook, but most of his creations came from throwing things together on a whim.

“Does…does this have to do with the Eldásr you met the other day, by chance?” Hálin asked nervously.

Fëor turned with a start, catching his breath.

“N-no, of course not!” he stammered. “I mean, maybe? I don’t know…probably.”

“Ya shouldn’t get involved with ‘er,” Belor warned gently. “We know ya have a soft spot for herbs, but…ya just shouldn’t get involved. Ya don’t want that trouble.”

“I know,” Fëor replied, eyes downcast.

Hálin jabbed Belor in the side as an awkward silence grew like a weed between them and Fëor.

“We should tell him,” Hálin whispered.

“Now?!” Belor breathed. “But he hasn’t made us breakfast yet!”

“Don’t be silly. If he’s already this depressed, we might as well get it out of the way.”

The silence lingered.

“Fine,” Belor acquiesced, “but if he sends us back without breakfast, I’ll kick ya.”

Hálin rolled his eyes. “Go on, then.”

Belor cleared his throat.

“L-look Fëor,” he began, uncharacteristically hesitant, “tha truth is…well, we also came here for another reason.”

Fëor looked suspiciously at Belor.

“We were asked to give ya…this.”

He handed Fëor a thin, wooden tablet.

“It’s a summons,” Hálin explained. “They want you to speak at the assembly.”

And so Fëor’s week had just gotten much, much worse.