Finrod's (no, he was back, here was he Findaráto again? Findaráto always? His mother had visited and whispered Ingoldo and as he stared up at her he had corrected her. Felagund. But the syllables were strange in his new mouth and strange in her ears, the ears of this woman who had given him some other name, who, like so many here, knew no Sindarin - let alone the Khuzdul - which would have allowed her to make sense of his new one), Findaráto's entire self was made of soft skin, fresh and young and over-sensitive.

The under skin, the skin that healed over a wound and he needed it tougher before he could leave, before he could breath this air that was too fragrant, before he could open his eyes against the color of this place-

didn't they realize how bright it was?

It was attempting to see in full daylight after stepping out of somewhere dark.

Had the Blessed Realm always been so... so saturated? He bit into fruit and the sharp sweetness of it stung his tongue, the juice dribbling down his chin was too sticky, too wet, unreal. But delicious still. Who had given him this fruit? 

Findaráto couldn't remember. And what was it called? He couldn't remember that either. Dark and shining, a purple as lovely fine fabric - oh yes. A plum. No fruit in the Halls. No food. Nothing in his mouth the echoes of the last thing he had tasted. Blood and foul, matted fur. This was better. This was too much. This was overwhelming. This was better.

He ought to give praise, he thought, or at least give thanks, and he could whisper it but something inside him balked at the idea of singing the hymns he had learned as a child. Something ugly in him, something angry and unfitting in these gardens. He wanted to be as lovely as the trees. 

As promised, the response took two days, and it surprised no one who knew Rôg when he accepted the commission.

One of the younger apprentices had been sent as a runner to deliver the news, serving as messenger between school and forges until they had decided on a day to inspect the original construction. As of the project's acceptance, the smithy would have to rely on the University's availability and no others, allowing for an initial freedom early on but a need for promptness to prevent delays.

Rôg picked one of the earliest days to tour the campus, leaving several of his established master-smiths behind to finish their remaining projects. With him he took two more masters, as well as a handful of upcoming journeymen who he thought had promise in both detail and leadership.

Behind him, he could hear his company murmur approval and talk about technique used on exterior works, but as he led them down the road to the school, he only had eyes for their contact near its entrance.

Parmion sat in the ancient, overstuffed chair in his lower-level study in the great Library. He had considered decamping, retreating for the high, private, tower-room, but a rare fit of indolence won out. There was a glass of shimmering amber-colored liquor, a specialty of the Teleri, at his elbow; and a bound codex open upon his narrow lap.

On the stool across from his great-uncle, Makalaurë kicks his feet in slow contemplation.

"Uncle."

"Yes, Nephew?"

"Uncle, I have a question about the numbers."

I was mistaken. You were raised with the manners of an obsequious rodent too high in the smell of its own excrement to grow a reliable sense of decency.