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Rôg grumbles quietly to himself as he heads to the latest smithy he’s been sent to. Ever since coming back to life in Valinor, things have been difficult for him. He had chosen to continue pursuing his career as a smith, but apparently to join the smithing guild in Tirion properly, one had to prove mastery or undergo a second apprenticeship.
Every smithy he has tried to go to to prove his mastery has taken one look at his hair – fiery red curls passed down from his grandfather – and refused him outright. It’s getting deeply maddening. No one will tell him why simply having red hair seems to be taboo. He could go to one of his old friends and ask, but it’s gotten his blood up now and he’s mad about it. Anger is an old friend of his, settling in his bones in a familiar blaze.
He approaches the newest smithy, and an elf storms out the door, looking in high temper. She brushes by him without acknowledging him, and he glances after her. Long red hair braided away from her face, but with a halo of frizzy fringe, pale cheeks flushed with anger, making her freckles all but vanish.
For a second he’d seen his sister in her. Long gone, possibly dead. Never taken to the pits, though. He’d gotten her out in time, gotten her to flee their homestead’s attack. The rest of their family had not been so fortunate, but he’d managed to save his baby sister, and that’s what kept him mostly sane in the pits of Angband.
Still, her angry charge out doesn’t bode well for him being able to prove his mastery so that the guild will accept him and permit him to set up a forge in Tirion. Maybe he shouldn’t stay in Tirion, despite the presence of so many of his old friends from Gondolin. They’re the only reason he’s trying to stay here anyway.
“Hello?” He calls, entering the store. “I’ve been sent from the Guild.” There’s a strongly-built elf facing away from him, his shoulders slumped, likely holding his head in his hands.
“Ah, apologies. I hope my daughter didn’t run you over on her way out.” He straightens up, and turns around, and it takes all of Rôg’s composure not to let his jaw hang open like a fish. The other elf looks equally shocked.
They’re damn near mirror images of each other, it seems. Though Rôg keeps his curly hair short, and has rich, dark brown skin to the other elf’s pale freckled skin and long, sectioned ponytail of thick curls. They both have the ability to grow facial hair as well, and have neat, short beards, nearly identical in grooming.
“Serhê?” The smith croaks, reaching out to him.
“My grandfather.” Rôg says, equally hoarse. The smith pauses, fingers curling briefly as grief flickers over his familiar features.
“I’m Mahtan. Your grandfather and I declared ourselves brothers, in the old days.” Rôg closes the distance, embracing Mahtan boldly, as the older elf had clearly been about to embrace him before stopping.
“I am Rôg.” He breathes in the familiar tang of metal and smoke. His grandfather hadn’t smelled thusly – he’d been a farmer – but the scents calm the anger boiling below his skin. The embrace is returned eagerly, the strength in those arms around him the same as his distant memories of his grandfather.
There are tears, because not all tears are those of grief. Once they finally part, Mahtan guides him away from the forge into the house, where another red-haired elf is kneading bread.
“Did Nerdanel leave, father? I heard you two having an argument again. Honestly, you two are too alike sometimes. Let mother or I talk to her about it next time.”
“I will, Carnimírë. I’m sure you’re right.” Mahtan acknowledges tiredly, and the woman whips around, eyes wide with surprise.
“Are you feeling well-” she cuts off immediately on seeing Rôg, and he smiles sheepishly, bobbing his head in a little nod. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we had company, father. Shall I fetch mother?” After a moment, Carnimírë returns to her bread, shaping it into a loaf on the paddle she has next to the board, before wiping her hands clean.
“No, it won’t be necessary. Please be made known to your cousin, my dear. This is Rôg.” Mahtan says. “He’s here from the guild for ah – reasons we haven’t discussed yet.”
“A pleasure, cousin,” Rôg says quietly, shaking his cousin’s hand, slightly gritty still with flour as Mahtan finds them cups and clear water to drink. She gives him a warm smile in return.
“A pleasure indeed. Are you related to father’s brother, then?” Carnimírë asks warmly, and he nods, accepting the glass from his great-uncle.
“He was my grandfather.” Rôg sips the water, surprised to see that he’s drinking from an actual glass, not ceramic. He lifts it to the light, admiring it, and Carnimírë swats at him with her dishcloth.
“Don’t you admire those early works of mine, cousin! I simply can’t get father to get rid of them, or let me turn them into something new.” She huffs, giving her father an arch look. Mahtan simply laughs.
“They’re proof of your progress as a glassblower, my little jewel. I keep them around to remind you of how far you’ve come!” He says warmly.
“He also keeps them around to keep you humble, my daughter. Is the bread ready?” An elf who is clearly Mahtan’s wife comes in from the door, the scent of woodsmoke clinging to her. Clearly that small courtyard is where the oven is kept. “Ah, a guest!”
“My great-nephew Rôg, Urisimë, love.” Mahtan corrects gently. She claps her hands together with a smile, coming over to cup his cheeks in her hands, beaming up at him. Urisimë is a shorter elf, with broad shoulders and a stocky build, soft chestnut hair braided back much the same as her daughters’. Rôg can’t help basking in the maternal affection bestowed on him. His last memory of his own mother is not one to remember, though he remembers how she used to be fondly.
“To answer your earlier question, Uncle, I’m here to ask if you’ll judge my mastery. The guild has been giving me a bit of a runaround. Every smith they send me to refuses me forge time and sends me back.” He sighs, still frustrated by it, but the anger bleeding away into tired, confused sadness.
“Ah.” Mahtan sighs and Urisimë reaches over to take his hand, squeezing it lightly before going to check Carnimírë’s loaf. “What the guild isn’t saying is that there aren’t that many redheads among the Ñoldor. Though there’s definitely more than just my family, the hypocrites. My grandsons made many unwise choices, and that’s reflected badly on too many people.” Mahtan sounds defeated, and Rôg senses there’s far more to it, before he finally makes the connection he should have ages ago.
“Oh. You’re talking of the sons of Fëanor.” He says, wincing faintly.
“Yes. I’m afraid there’s quite a bit of family history I need to catch you up on. But yes. I’ll judge your skill so the guild will grant you mastery.” Mahtan says decisively.
“My thanks, uncle.”
“And you’ll stay for dinner, too.” Urisimë interrupts them calmly, voice brooking no argument. “Carnimírë, go catch up to your sister and sooth her temper, will you? I want her to meet her cousin too.”