Light play. by Urloth

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What happened to the dog.

I was asked what happened with the dog after all that.

So without further ado.

Though not relevant to the actual fic, it is set during Oropher's reign of the Green-Wood when the capital was in Amon Lanc.

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“Well… he is an interesting looking one,” Tathar said, staring at the dog which Erevir had just lifted off the back of its saddle, whilst the world’s most sarcastic horse looked on. The Silmaril had wound up naming the creature since it would not respond to ‘dog’.

Originally it had called him ‘Aidiki’, the dog’s original name. Erevir had worked out the name through a process of elimination; calling the dog by the common pet names of the region until he responded. However the Silmaril had noticed that every time that it called the dog Adiki, Aidiki would look around expectantly and then act despondently for a few hours.

Erevir had wound up renaming him Nelolf eventually, since a depressed dog was a sad sight indeed.

Nelolf was, as Tathar had put it, an interesting looking dog but the Silmaril thought he was a rather handsome one as well. It hoped that Nelolf’s uniqueness might earn the hound some acceptance from Tathar’s mother, Tuilinnel.

Nelolf’s bear-cub shaped head came up to Tathar’s mid-thigh, he was solidly built and his black, tan, and white coat was coarse, and surprisingly thick for desert dogs in order to easily survive the cold of the desert night. The Silmaril was not so sure about the harsh winters they could get this far north but something could be worked out. And most importantly…

“The breed is used for guarding herds and also some of the smaller villages… they are very vigilant, I thought he would make you a good companion since you complained about how lonely your night duties were,” Erevir informed its oldest friend stiffly.

Stiffly because it knew what was going to happen next and had to brace itself for it, frown disapproving.

“Oh so you do listen and care about me,” Tathar flung his arms around Erevir’s waist, something the Silmaril had been expecting with some dread since it arrived, and gave it a rough hug, thankfully setting it down quickly.

Erevir had not minded hugging and being hugged by Tathar when Tathar was a child. Truthfully it did not mind it now.

However since Tathar had been about three-quarters grown, his father, Heledir had begun frowning so badly when they had hugged that the Silmaril had divined that something was wrong with this and had tried to put a stop to it. Tathar, though, had not picked up on the unspoken message, which meant Erevir caught the full brunt of both Heledir and now Tuilinnel’s disapproving looks with Tathar happily oblivious.

Bah!

Actually speaking of a grownup Tathar, the Silmaril was having a great deal of trouble remembering his adult-name.

Cele…

Cele something… it started with a hard sound...

Keleviki?

No… that was not even Sindarin.

Tathar cautiously offered his hands to the bouncing canine. The dog perked his ears and buried his muzzle into Tathar’s warm hands, taking in his scent.

Finding it agreeable Nelolf raised a dainty paw and offered it to Tathar.

Tathar looked up at Erevir unsurely.

“Shake,” Erevir imitated the motion.

Gingerly Tathar took Nelolf’s paw and gently shook it before letting it rest again.

“What happened to his fourth leg?” Tathar had to ask. Erevir glanced at Nelolf’s fourth leg which was still being favoured gingerly. “He was shot the leg with an arrow, it healed badly.”

“Oh?” Tathar cast it a look it could not readily interpret.

“Well I am not a healer like your mother, there was only so much I could do for a shattered bone,” Erevir replied, prickling in defence in case it was being thought ill of. It was true! Its own bones could not be broken, that was where the traces of its original silma had gone. It had never mastered setting bones since it had learnt the majority of its limited healing skills through what injuries it had suffered.

“Easy, I was not accusing you of anything,” Tathar tried scratching behind Nelolf’s ear and received a rapturous whine and thumping tail wags for his effort.

Erevir just grunted, hunching its shoulders.

“Well it is a good thing I do not do much. I just walk the halls once an hour. I will not be straining his leg over much I think,” Tathar decided.

“So you will take him?” Erevir asked, relieved. It would be easy enough to find a buyer for the world’s most sarcastic horse, but the Silmaril had been at a loss at what it would do with a lame dog if Tathar would not take him in.

“Of course. I can convince Nana,” Tathar nodded, “she will be easily won over if I tell her he is to keep me company on my watches. Even more so if I tell her you brought me him.”

This comment went contrary to the usual feelings the Silmaril received off Tuilinnel these passing years.

“Oh?”

“Of course,” Tathar gave Nelolf one last pat and stood, smiling at Erevir openly, eyes honest, “nothing you have ever brought us has ever done us any harm.”

The dog, sensing no more pats from Tathar, trotted over to his caretaker, gave one of Erevir’s hanging hands a lick. Then he made his way to the world’s most sarcastic horse, where he lay down and went to sleep in the shade of the equine’s body.

-

Snow was thick on the ground as Erevir crunched its way to the tree where Heledir’s talan rested. It grumbled, hitched the bottle of wine under its armpit up more, then its package of mid-winter presents and scaled the tree.

It seemed silly to have ever gotten up in the morning when the black-smith had shut down his space at midday and shooed out his apprentices, journeymen and the artisans who rented space and forge use from him, like Erevir did.Good though because it had been able to find its package of presents in its work-room, cleaned itself up thoroughly, and then returned to the Talan before Tuilinnel considered it late to the mid-winter meal.

Tathar answered his knock and let him in. Erevir endured a hug with far more grace than usual (hugs were deemed to be acceptable at mid-winter), deposited its packages in the basket under the western window, placed the bottle of wine on the table already set for an evening meal and finally exchanged embraces with Heledir, Tuilinnel and Heledir’s parents… all three of them, his mother being Tuilinnel’s foster mother also.

Aye, this family had its own stories to tell. Erevir did not know why it was always singled out.

There was the usual: feasting, raucous laughter and present exchanges.As usual Heledir’s first father; Celon, got tipsy and declared Erevir to be the loveliest holly-berry he had seen, only missing the leaves which he promptly applied to the Silmaril’s red hair. This happened all the time, no matter which colour the Silmaril picked. One year it had attended mid-winter with black-hair and Celon had simply pestered it into changing its hair colour to something ‘more appropriate’.

It had promptly changed its hair to blue out of spite, only to be told it was the ‘prettiest bluebell in the whole wide woods.'

Then Heledir and his fathers disappeared off to go observe the last races of the mid-winter games. Shortly after that Heledir’s (and Tuilinnel’s…awkwardly) mother and Tuilinnel left to go carolling, with a:

“Celeverilin do not go sneaking any of your father’s fire-wine while we are out! You too Erevir! Do not think I have forgotten what happened last time we left the two of you alone at mid-winter!”

“Manwë’s dick!” Tathar snorted as they left, “that was years ago. I am hardly a half grown young man with far too many bad ideas.”

The Silmaril dragged itself onto a soft chair before the fire, too full of food and wine, ready to hibernate like a bear.

Someone had discarded one of Tathar’s childhood tunics on the small shaggy rug before the fireplace.

It yawned, eyes blurred from good wine and pleasant languor.

Tathar flopped down beside it and nudged it over.

“Like a bag of sticks,” Tathar complained half-heartedly, as stuffed to bursting and lazy for it as Erevir was, “how can you not be bulging at the seams with how much you’ve eaten today?”

Erevir grunted, smirking at him smugly.

“You too,” Tathar added, poking the tunic on the rug with his foot, “do not think I missed seeing the grandfather’s slipping you chicken scraps.”

The tunic stirred, the rug uncoiled and Nelolf gave Tathar a hopeful look. When no scraps were forthcoming, the dog curled itself up again.

“… your dog is wearing your old tunic,” Erevir pointed out.

“Nana was worried that he was getting cold when it started to snow,” Tathar wriggled and settled against securely against its side.

“His name is embroidered along the side,” Erevir observed.

“Nana said she had not had a chance to practice her ‘broidery for a while,” Tathar rest his head on the SIlmaril’s shoulder, taking advantage of their height differences to make himself a handy headrest.

“She has embroidered holly all over it,” there had not been holly on it before.

“She thought it needed a festive feel what with mid-winter coming up,” Tathar yawned, eyes dropping.

“Someone has tied a bow around his neck,” somehow Erevir did not think the strangeness of Nelolf’s appearance was impacting Tathar correctly.

“I cannot explain the bow,” Tathar admitted, “now shuddup would ya?” He yawned again, "‘t’ain’t mid-winter without a post-feasting nap.”

After a few moments, his breath evened out and his body slumped in that relaxed manner of sleep.

The Silmaril stared at the fire for a while and then down at the dog.

“You have certainly done well for yourself, hmmm Aidiki?” it asked softly.

The dog stirred, raising his head and staring directly at the Silmaril. They held each other’s gazes for a moment and then together they sighed and slumped down.

“You are right,” Erevir yawned, “I have not done too badly for myself either.”