He was willowy even for the Nandor, seeming taller than he was; his hands fluttered and curled restlessly like thin branches in the wind. His hair was long and aspen-white, his eyes grey-green and terrified.
“Why did you volunteer?” Was the first question the warlord asked him.
“Because,” he laughed, high and reedy and without humor, “I’m a coward and I’m not built for the work you’ve put the other prisoners to. I’m not even of Lord Finrod’s household, I was visiting from the South when you… when the fortress…” he stuttered, pushing his hair behind one delicate ear. Unsure how to finish, he said “I’m not a soldier. I’m a beekeeper. I make candles. I… I don’t want to sleep in muddy straw again.”
The warlord grunted in acknowledgement, and perhaps there was a hint of a smile on his lips.
“Serve me well and thou shall shalt sleep in this very bed,” he patted the mattress he was seated on, armor clinking. “I shall see thee bathed, and given hot food to eat. And if I like thee well enough, thou shalt stay in my employ.”
“And if I fail to please?” The Nando swallowed, throat tense.
“Then, thou shalt be returned to the mill house with the other prisoners, to sleep in straw and labor in the service of my army. I’ve no desire for an unwilling attendant, and plenty of other uses for thee.” He made no mention of treachery, for the bedroom window opened directly onto the courtyard below, where wolves fought over fresh bones, and there was no need to point out the obvious.
“How shall I begin then? …Lord Thû.” He made swift bow, and the conquerer of the island keep stood and turned, gesturing to the clasps of his black-laquered armor.
“Take care.” He warned, as the elf’s long fingers fumbled with knot and buckle. His servant steadied himself with a breath, placing carefully each piece of armor on a waiting stand, displayed like the carapace of a huge beetle. The great wolf-hame cloak, he draped over a hook where it hung grey and looming. But he dropped the clasp that had held it, a heavy iron ring and twisted pin that clashed to the floor, as loud as swords crossing in the quiet fire-lit room.
He scrambled to pick them up, nervous hands pressing them as if the could silence the already-loosed sound. But it was too late, and he closed his eyes, afraid to breathe.
Thû laughed, quiet and ominous. The elf felt a mighty hand on the back of his neck, and flinched.
“Tsch. Art thou so clumsy with thine honey-hornets? Up with thee, candlemaker. Show me thine hands— so slight! And how they tremble! No wonder, then, the iron was too heavy for thee.” And he bent back the elf’s fingers so far he thought they would snap like twigs, and a sound of horror made its way past his lips— but the pain ceased, and the warlord relented.
“I am feeling merciful.” He rumbled. “Remove the rest of these garments. I wish to bathe.”
Thû was down to his leathers and cloth, there was little more work to do for the elf, but try not to stare or hesitate. And when he’d finished, Thû rubbed his wrists, divested of leather cuffs, and said, “Now your own.”
The elf did pause now, and nearly opened his mouth to question, but he began to do as he was bidden before it fell out. Naked, he started to fold his filthy clothes, all he’d had to wear since the attack.
“No. Throw them in the fire.” Said Thû, and the elf complied, trying not to imagine a life of naked servitude from that point on. But the clothes were ripped and reeked; he could not find it in himself to mourn their destruction. Nakedness was less shameful, though only just.
He folded one arm across his body and clasped his wrist, standing awkwardly in his own spindly skin across from a tower of brawn and bristle, trying hard not to shiver.
The bath was large and copper and already drawn full. He wondered who had heated the water, now that all the servants had been imprisoned or killed… Lord Finrod’s clever designs drew water up from the cisterns, running through pipes into the castle, but there was no one stoking the fires to heat it. Thû answered his question by running one finger along the gleaming edge of the tub with a sound like a singing wineglass— the water began to steam, and he stepped in, sighing.
“Well?” he beckoned, “Dost thou serve me or no? Hurry and clean thyself, so thou mayst attend me.”
One slender ankle and then the other dipped into the steaming water; he sucked in a hard breath, both from the heat and the joy of feeling like a person again and not an animal. Quickly and gratefully he washed the grime from himself, with soap that he recognized as his own wares. The vapor billowed white in the glow from the fire, smelling of honey and lavender. Through it he dare to look long at the seated warlord he served now, the dreadful enemy, devil in the form of a man. Thû watched him back, taking pleasure, it seemed, in the mutual assessment.
Without speaking, the elf made the first deer-shy movement towards him, drawing the dripping cloth across his chest, steam and the cleansing odours of flowers rising. Thû’s head tipped to one side, eyes closed, half purring. And the elf shivered again, not from cold, placing a hand on the warlord’s knee and leaned in close to his work. The more his rag dripped the nearer he pressed, and when they were both shining with steam and water, he sat across the devil’s lap, dragging the cloth across his shoulders, behind his neck, under his chin. His chest was hot to the touch, deep bronze, fur-thatched, rising and falling beneath his hands.
The candlemaker finished his task unbidden and licked his wan lips. He hoped Thû was pleased. He hoped the bed he’d have that night would be as warm.
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