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Second Age, Year 1507
Korvi, Narvi’s mother was due home any minute. At the end of spring, she always took a caravan full of spices and expensive fabrics to their kin in the Misty Mountains and came back mid-autumn with carts filled with elaborately crafted jewels and carefully packaged vials of foreign medicine. The trading was a great boon for the dwarves of the Red Mountains, as their weather was mild enough that they had no need for the heavier silks; but there was one thing that Narvi valued more than any feverfew tincture or sachet of orris root.
Mithril. Dwarrowdelf was the only place where true silver was mined, and Narvi always volunteered to help unload the carts just so she could see whatever pieces of it her mother got during her journey. And although these were few and far between, and small besides – a ring here, a couple of hair beads there, – Korvi also brought tales of the grand forges of Dwarrowdelf, and the slim crowns, detailed ornaments, and sturdy chain-mail tunics they forged of true silver there.
Narvi was a young dwarf of great determination, and it was her dream to one day enter those forges, learn everything they had to offer, and finally make a masterpiece of true silver that would bear her name for millennia. She wanted to craft strong gates and write her name on them. In her sillier dreams, she even imagined a mithril statue in her own likeness, tall as a tree, looking over the Cliff-city where the dwarves of the Red Mountains made their home.
She was still young though, barely even reaching the top of a workbench even when she stood on a stool. So for now, she carried her hammer that she got for Midsummer the year before everywhere with her, and she skipped her lessons on sewing, the languages of Men, and counting to watch the goldsmiths in their forges. (She didn’t skip the classes on writing, though. She would need to know how to write her name on all the majestic things she was going to craft one day, after all.)
Her mother was due any minute, bringing stories and little trinkets of true silver, and Narvi was prepared. She hid from her father and her teachers early in the morning, grabbed the pack of food that she had stashed underneath her bed the day before, sneaked out to the bushes near the road, and didn’t notice the cousin sent to keep an eye on her. She entertained herself with people-watching, drawing in the dirt, playing with her hammer, and trying to copy the voices of birds. Around lunchtime, when the heat started to get stifling even in the light shade, she ate the day-old bread, smoked fish, and pear that she had in her pack. The pear’s skin tasted a bit like fish, but she didn’t mind that much.
The day was getting hotter and hotter, the sun shining unobscured by clouds. Narvi ran out of water a few hours after lunch, and she almost gave up and went home, when luckily she found a canteen full of still-cool water just a few meters away that someone must have lost just a few minutes earlier. She settled back down to wait, thanking her Maker for the unexpected gift, completely missing her cousin crouching just a few bushes to her left.
The sun was starting to set, and Narvi couldn’t remember ever feeling this bored. Twice she had left the cover of the bushes just to run around for a bit, and she would have taken a nap if not for the worry that she would miss the caravan. The last time she went crawling around just to do something, she even thought she heard a vaguely familiar voice whisper “they won’t be coming today. Go home.”
But finally her patience was rewarded. She heard the familiar sounds of loaded carts on the stone slabs that made up the road, and she raced out to greet her mother. Her short legs carried her forward not quite as fast as the wind, but fast enough that Korvi almost fell when her daughter collided with her legs. The caravan slowed, and a passing dwarf that Narvi thought she should recognise ruffled her hair a bit, making her frown and shake her head.
“Narvi!” she exclaimed, “are you out here all alone? Does your father know where you’ve gone?”
“I’m here too, Aunt Korvi” came a voice from behind Narvi, making her startle and turn around.
“Cousin Toruk! How long have you been here?”
“Just a few minutes,” Toruk lied, unconvincingly. Narvi was starting to get the feeling that perhaps it wasn’t the wind that told her to go home after all, and she was preparing to tell her cousin that she was old enough to sit in some bushes by herself, thank you very much, when her mother interrupted.
“How lucky that you two just happened to be here! Narvi, sweetling, can you run and tell your father to expect three elvish guests? Toruk, go with her, please.”
“Why can’t Toruk go alone? I want to see the mithril” Narvi complained, clinging to her mother’s trousers.
“I’ll bring it home,” laughed Korvi, “now run along with your cousin. Tell your father that our guests wish to see his crafts.”
Narvi’s father was still working on his loom when they arrived. The rhythmic clacking of it was the first thing Narvi noticed, followed almost immediately by the smell of stew simmering. It reminded her that she had skipped all her lessons that day, and she nervously took Toruk’s hand before entering. She didn’t want to be sent to bed without seeing what her mother’d brought.
“Welcome back, you two” greeted Narvi’s father. “Has everything gone all right? Where is Korvi?”
“Aunt Korvi is bringing guests. Three elves, she said. We haven’t talked, but they looked even taller than humans! Should I ask my parents if they can spare some honey-cakes for tonight?”
“I suppose you best do. Narvi, you will find your homework on your desk. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready” with that, her father retreated into the kitchen, leaving her without a chance of protest. She made a face at her cousin, who poked her on the nose before leaving. Being abandoned by her entire family, Narvi had no choice but to obey the implicit order and headed to her room to catch up on her studies.
The next half-hour dragged on forever. By the time Narvi heard her cousin return, she had pretended to read the same page at least a dozen times and managed to balance an upright pencil on her finger. Even the guests arriving barely broke the monotony: the thick doors kept her from hearing anything interesting, and she wasn’t to leave her room until dinner.
Finally, after Narvi died of boredom twice (once even falling off her chair) without anyone there to see her, much less care, her father’s voice called her to dinner. She shot up from her slump immediately, and she would have bolted to the table had she not heard voices from her mother’s study. She quietly sneaked to its door, thinking that perhaps they were talking about some secret elf-thing that she could learn and then use to make the master goldsmith take her on as an apprentice earlier than usual. After all, everyone knew that elves had strange magics that made them grow so tall – even if they seemed to have no beards at all.
Narvi carefully opened the door to her mother’s study just a crack and peeked in. There were only two people in the room: her mother, still in her travelling clothes, and tall, red-haired elf wearing an unusually bright shade of green. She accidentally banged her knee on the door, and they both turned to her at the sound.
The elf was pretty in a very strange way. They were willowy, with fingers too long for their hand and muscles only evident on their shoulders and arms. Their hair was the same colour Toruk’s father made the week before by burning strontium salt, and their eyes were bright with an inner light. Narvi honestly couldn’t guess their gender; they were entirely unlike any dwarf, and they resembled the sons and daughters of men equally, although they were clearly neither. They were without a question the most captivating creature Narvi had ever seen.
“Narvi, come meet our guest,” her mother called. “This is Master Silver-Fist, friend of our kin in the Misty Mountains.”
She didn’t move. The beautiful elf-man (Master Silver-Fist, she reminded herself) smiled at her, and she tightened her hold on her hammer to get rid of the nerves. She couldn’t let this opportunity pass her by. The elf was very pretty, with a kind and open expression, a name that seemed to mark him as a smith, and a connection to Dwarrowdelf and its true silver.
“Marry me, Master Elf” Narvi declared, brandishing her hammer to show off her skills. She was a future smith of great skill, after all, and Master Silver-Fist was sure to see that.
Soft chuckles could be heard from out of the room, and Master Silver-Fist blushed almost as red as his hair. Someone spoke in a language Narvi had never heard before, a different voice answered, and then a melodious sound joined in on the laughter. Master Silver-Fist closed his eyes, and said something to his companions outside that seemed to only increase their entertainment. Finally, Narvi’s father stepped out of the dining room, blush just barely visible under his beard, and took her hammer from her.
“Narvi, no. Please stop proposing marriage waving your hammer around before dinner” he asked her, “and darling, stop smiling and bring our last guest to the table, will you?”
The group finally managed to settle around the dining table, and introductions were made. Sharp-Glance was the shortest of the three, with very pale skin and perfectly normal-looking eyes, and he also spoke Khuzdul the best. Gold-Cleaver didn’t speak the language at all, and he had the darkest skin and brightest eyes. He also never stopped smiling, his chuckles starting anew whenever he looked at Narvi’s determined pout.
Narvi learned a lot during that dinner, but nothing she could use to convince any dwarf to take her on as an apprentice, let alone the Master Goldsmith himself. Elves apparently did have some magic (although Silver-Fist claimed it isn’t quite the magic others often think they have) but they didn’t use it to grow, only to craft or fight. Narvi was going to have to wait until she grows up like all other dwarf children before she can learn to shape metal. And although she found this a bit disappointing, Sharp-Glance and Silver-Fist had both worked in the great forges of Dwarrowdelf, and they were easily convinced to tell some stories.
Narvi also found out about the reason for their visit: they had an elf-city right next to the Misty Mountains, and had traded with Korvi and her caravan before. It was enough to look at them to see what they needed: Silver-Fist’s clothes had not lost their vivid colour in the last half-hour, and Gold-Cleaver was no more modestly dressed. Everyone knew it was better to dye fabrics as they are made, not after they had already been turned into clothes, and Narvi’s father most certainly made no silks the shade of purple Gold-Cleaver was wearing.
After dinner was finished, complete with Toruk’s honey-cakes, the talking turned to planning. Trade negotiations would need both his parents and either Sharp-Glance or Silver-Fist, but Gold-Cleaver only came to accompany Silver-Fist, who was a nephew of his, and Sharp-Glance, a cousin of some degree, and so had to be entertained. They were to be staying for three days, and there’s only so much time an elf can spend playing his long-necked stringed instrument – or so Narvi thought. She sensed an excellent opportunity to skip more of her lessons.
With dinner done, homework finished, and new plans forming in Narvi’s mind, they finally retreated for the night.
The next day Silver-Fist entered Korvi’s study shortly after breakfast, and Narvi was left alone with Sharp-Glance and Gold-Cleaver. The two were talking quietly in their on language, and for the first time in her life, Narvi started to regret not spending more time learning a language she could talk to non-dwarves in. Khuzdul was a secret language after all, and two of their three guests speaking it was unexpected enough already. She spoke barely enough of the local mannish language to get by on a marketplace or ask for directions, and so all real conversation she did had to be with dwarves. This had never bothered her before, but looking at the elves now, she longed to understand what they were talking about. But Narvi was never one to dwell on regrets when she could take action, and so she approached Sharp-Glance.
“What are you doing today? Can I go with you? Mum would let me” she tacked on without any basis, just in case they were worried about it.
“Would she now?” asked Sharp-Glance. “Does she always let you go wherever you wish?”
“Well… if Toruk is with me, I can go sometimes. But he’s only there to make sure we’re not lost, so I think you are just as good.”
Sharp-Glance laughed at that. “You’re lucky I already asked her. Let’s pack some food; we’re going on a trip.”
Narvi had never been on a horse before. She sat with Gold-Cleaver, as Sharp-Glance rode without a saddle, and the experience was rather scary. The horse was huge, and she had to hold on tight if she didn’t want to fall off. Even Gold-Cleaver’s spidery hand on her stomach didn’t help her feel completely safe. Surrounded by horse and elf, it was the smallest she’d ever felt.
The journey only lasted for a few hours, and they arrived at the shores of an inland see just around lunchtime. Narvi had never been there before, but she knew that much of their fish was caught here; the waters were clean and the fish plentiful. They stopped for a quick lunch and to let the horses rest.
“There was a lantern on top of a tower here, long ago. The sea was made when it fell,” explained Sharp-Glance. “The land has moved around since then; new mountains emerged, whole continents sank. But we think that the bay just behind this forest to the south of us is what remains of the place where the elves first woke.”
Narvi looked out over the water, trying to see where trees gave way to water. She supposed it was only right that the elves should visit such a place; after all, the first dwarves awoke under mountains, and it is still in those mountains that their descendants live. Perhaps that’s why elves are so strange, she thought. They never get to see where they came from. Even dwarves of the Blue Mountains, much of which has sunk, live in halls hewn by their forefathers. But what do elves have that they don’t make themselves?
The rest of the way wasn’t long, but Narvi found herself restless. She didn’t know what to expect, but she thought it most likely wouldn’t be very obvious. After all, Sharp-Glance said that weren’t even sure of the place anymore; surely, there cannot be a city left over then. Maybe some stones, Narvi decided. Or ships left at the shore.
The trees broke suddenly. There was only a narrow beach between the forest-line and the water, and there was no sign of civilisation. Gold-Cleaver carefully helped Narvi down from the saddle, then he waded into the sea. Narvi tried to follow him, but Sharp-Glance held her back. Together they brushed down the horses while Gold-Cleaver’s figure became smaller and smaller. Finally, he arrived at a large rock quite a way down the shore, and sat down on it.
One of the horses had just accepted an apple from a gleeful Narvi when she heard the singing. At first, it seemed as if the wind had carried it from miles away, but then she recognised the voice. It was Gold-Cleaver, singing softly with quiet sorrow.
“What is he singing about?” asked Narvi.
“Look around you,” Sharp-Glance answered. “What do you see here?”
Narvi examined her surroundings. The tree-line was unbroken. The waves had long since washed away Gold-Cleaver’s footsteps in the sand. The sea met the sky in an undisturbed line on the horizon. There was a quiet wildness to the place, as if it were not meant for talking creatures to inhabit. Even the singing, no matter how gentle, was foreign to this place that was untouched by all. She could see no evidence of elves ever having lived here.
“Nothing,” Narvi said. “It’s just an empty beach.”
“Yes,” answered Sharp-Glance, “it is.”
“It could be the wrong place. You said you didn’t really know.”
“Or it could be the right place. It’s just that there’s nothing here,” and with that, Sharp-Glance turned back to the horses.
The journey back was quiet. Narvi was tired fro riding all day, and Gold-Cleaver didn’t seem to want to talk. Narvi didn’t know what he had been looking for, but he seemed to have found something entirely different. Even Sharp-Glance, usually willing to chat with Narvi in his surprisingly good Khuzdul, was silent. There was no talk until they approached the gates of the Cliff-city and had to dismount.
Toruk was waiting for them at the gates. He had a sheaf of paper in his hands and a smirk on his face. Narvi had the creeping suspicion that the papers contained more homework.
She was proven correct when Toruk thrust the papers into her hands. “Here,” he said, “you missed a few things, but I’m sure you can finish these tonight.” Narvi looked down dubiously at the pages. “Are you coming tomorrow?”
“I’m very busy,” she declared, ignoring Sharp-Glance’s chuckling behind her. “I have important guests to entertain. It is my duty as a future dimpomat.”
“Diplomat.”
“I just said that.”
“Sure you did. But anyway. I’m free tomorrow. Do you wanna go visit the city of the humans? We can show your important guests around.”
“Yes! Tomorrow, let’s go! I’ll ask mum for money!” Narvi cheered at the idea. To tell the truth, she didn’t really know how to entertain elves. It was lucky that they’d had a plan for today, even if it turned out to be kind of boring and sad. She might have shown them the forges? Still, the human marketplace was a much better idea.
The next day saw Sharp-Glance join the negotiations and Silver-Fist accompany his uncle, Narvi, and Toruk to the human city. The mood was much cheerier than the previous day: Silver-Fist noticed whenever Gold-Cleaver was about to fall into a mood, and knew exactly how to bully him into cheering back up. Narvi could attest to the efficacy of the method: whenever Toruk was in a bad mood and tried to withdraw she too acted as annoying as she could until he went back to normal. Narvi decided that it was the duty of every younger relative to poke their elders until they got over themselves.
They arrived at the human city around mid-morning. Narvi really wanted to split up so she could be alone with the pretty Master Silver-Fist, but she couldn’t leave Toruk and Gold-Cleaver alone without a common language. Besides, she needed Toruk: she could string a few mannish words together, but her cousin was almost fluent already. She once again bemoaned the sad state of affairs that one had to learn in order to know something.
The city was bustling as usual. Narvi led the group through the stone-paved road between flat-roofed buildings. She took narrow streets that saw little use, partly to shave off two minutes of walking time, partly to show off her familiarity with the city. Toruk had her beat in languages, even if he hadn’t found his craft yet, and it wouldn’t do for Master Silver-Fist to find him more impressive and marry him instead.
The marketplace could be heard and smelt before it could be seen. A dozen voices cried out their wares, and the scent of rich spices, cooking meats, and raw fish flooded the surrounding streets, carrying an undercurrent of fresh, fruity sweetness. Gold-Cleaver made a face, then broke into a smile at the honestly repugnant aroma. Elves truly were strange creatures.
Here Toruk took the lead. They had no particular goal other than to show their guests around, so they headed to a dried fruit stall first. Narvi had heard that there were no pineapples in the west, and so she knew it would impress Silver-Fist. Pineapples and great technique with a hammer would surely make up for not speaking many languages.
Sweet treat in hand, they headed towards one of the many coffeehouses in the city. Narvi usually wasn’t allowed to drink any – her father said it made her too excited, and that it was unhealthy besides – but she hoped Toruk would forget that. Although the coffee was bitter and frankly unpleasant to drink, she wanted to prove that she was grown up already. Unfortunately, it was not to be; when they arrived, Toruk ordered three cups of coffee and one of mint tea, then glared at her when she tried to reach for the wrong cup.
The time was perfect to learn more about the elves, and Silver-Fist especially. Narvi grabbed the opportunity with both hands, and started peppering Silver-Fist with her questions while Gold-Cleaver watched on with an amused expression.
“There’s metal in both your names, are you smiths then? And Sharp-Glance? Why is he called that when only his eyes don’t shine? Why do your eyes shine?” she started in on her questions.
“One question at a time, little one,” laughed Silver-Fist. “I am indeed a smith, but my uncle cleaves gold with his voice, not his tools. Sharp-Glance was named by his father, and I don’t know why chose this name. He’s a miner first and a smith second, but I suppose he sees in the dark almost as well as the best dwarf. And our eyes are like this because we used to live beyond the western sea.”
“His father named him in Khuzdul? Why do you speak Khuzdul? Why doesn’t your uncle?”
“His father named him Maeglin. But it means Sharp Glance, so that is name he uses with dwarven folks. I learned the language recently from the dwarves in the Misty Mountains, but he lived in the Blue Mountains for a long time before that. Uncle never dealt much with dwarves.”
This was new to Narvi. She ha suspected that there were many things the three elves hadn’t told her about themselves, but she never would have guessed that their names were different. She felt a bit embarrassed about that; after all, it would be strange to name children in a language not their own.
“So what’s your real name? And Gold-Cleaver’s?”
Silver-Fist smiled at her. “Hello Narvi, I’m Celebrimbor, and this is my uncle, Maglor.”
“Celebrimbor. Maglor. Maeglin. Now, I know how to pour molten metal into a mould, but how do I make that?”
“Narvi,” Toruk interrupted, “you will learn smithing when you’re old enough, and not a day sooner. Master Celebrimbor, please don’t mind her.”
“Fine,” Narvi pouted, “but I still wanna know about it. Even if I’m too small to work with metal, I can still know how, right?”
“That’s up to your parents. But I’m sure there’re many other things Master Celebrimbor can tell you about. I heard that the western dwarves build their cities in the middle of the mountain.”
“They absolutely do,” Celebrimbor confirmed. “There are still many orcs in the west, and secrecy is one of our best defenses against them. They delve deep into the mountains, and their doors are invisible when shut, so you cannot find a western dwarf-city unless you know exactly where to look for it. Some of our elf-cities were similar, a long time ago; Maeglin and I used to live in a city built in the caves under the Black River. Those cities can be beautiful, but really only shine on the inside. Your Cliff-city was carved into the mountainside, and we don’t have anything like that. It’s something special.”
This surprised Narvi. She hadn’t known there was so much difference between dwarf settlements. She’d thought there were dwarves living in mountains, and perhaps a few unlucky souls who only had a hillock to their names, but this was the first time she realised that even mountains aren’t always the same. She’d never really contemplated it, but somehow she’d always believed that if you have a mountain, you carve the city into the cliff-face, but of course that cannot be all mountains! Narvi now recalled that different stones were good for different things.
You cannot build a city from sandstone, for example; it would crumble far too easily. Limestone can get washed away by the frequent rains in the west. Obsidian is far too brittle, although it would be beautiful. Maybe not all mountains were created equal after all, Narvi thought. Maybe they couldn’t carve the mountainside. Maybe the windows would collapse. Did they have any windows at all? Where did the light come from? They couldn’t possibly use only torches to light up the whole city, after all.
“They have long shafts to let in light and air,” Celebrimbor explained. “And they have lamps fuelled by crystals that give off no heat at all.”
This all sounded by magic to Narvi. Maybe true silver gives dwarves magic. She couldn’t wait to live in the Dwarrowdelf as the greatest smith of all times. There was just one more thing to ask.
“Master Celebrimbor? When I grow up, and become such a great silversmith that the dwarves in Dwarrowdelf ask me to go there to learn about mithril, and then I become such a good mithril-smith that they ask me to remake their gates for them, and then I write my name on them them so everyone will know me forever, will you marry me?
Celebrimbor laughed, but Narvi didn’t feel embarrassed. It was good to have clear goals, as her mother always said.
“If you do all that, I will consider it,” Master Celebrimbor conceded. Narvi supposed she would have to be content with that. After all, not every dwarf can have a skilled and pretty elf lord. He probably gets proposals every week.
Toruk, however, blushed and covered his eyes with one hand. He quickly steered the conversation to safer waters.
“Why did you choose to visit now? We have been trading with the Misty Mountains for decades now, after all. And you brought your uncle, who doesn’t even speak the language.” Narvi felt a bit guilty about that. Here the four of them were sitting, and one couldn’t even understand what they were talking about! She looked at Maglor from the corner of her eyes, but he seemed to be paying close attention to the distant notes of music coming from the market.
“Officially it’s to establish a direct trade route with the Red Mountains, so we don’t have to get our silks from Durin’s folk. Personally, I needed some time away. A very good friend of mine recently left my city, and I find myself unmoored in his absence. Uncle Maglor spends most of his time wandering anyway, and it was easy enough to convince him to wander with me just this once. Maeglin came to see the Red Mountains; he likes looking at stones. Miners are often strange like that.”
“Well, if your friend left, then he wasn’t a good friend,” Narvi decided. “Unless he was looking for a place to learn something new. I guess it’s okay then,” she added quickly when she remembered that she was planning to leave her home to become a mithril-smith of renown.
“No, it’s fine. He came for help in improving a technique. We did it. He had no reason to stay.” Narvi thought this friend sounded very rude, but she wasn’t going to argue about it. Instead, they took their cups back to be washed and left the coffeehouse. After all, they still had much to see, and only a few hours to do so.
The third day, Narvi had classes. She’d had classes on the first two days too, but of course she couldn’t learn multiplication and escort important new trade partners at the same time, so she sadly had to skip. It was one of the greatest injustices in the Red Mountains that she was expected to make up for missed materials. Sadly, both Master Celebrimbor and Master Maeglin said that she will, in fact, need multiplication for making alloys, so she reluctantly did all her homework. And then, just to punish her for her extreme diligence, she now had to spend the day in her classes. And Toruk got to stay behind! There was no justice in the world.
She grumbled the entire day. It was the last day of the elves’ stay, and she was missing the whole thing. She was in a proper sulk when she finally trudged back to her family home, and her mood plummeted even further when everyone was already too busy for her.
Maglor was somehow teaching Toruk about his lute-like instrument without actually speaking. He twisted a metal piece on the neck, plucked a string, then did it all over again. Toruk seemed to be fascinated by the process.
The voices coming from Korvi’s study and the closed door meant that they were still finalising the contract. Narvi had seen such a thing before, and it was boring. Why would anyone even need three days to agree to exchange silk for medicines?
Maeglin was with Narvi’s father, and what they were doing actually looked interesting, so she approached them. They had an inside-out tunic on a dummy, and were affixing small, flat pieces of metal to it. As Narvi watched, Maeglin pushed his arm through the sleeve, turning it right side out. He moved it around, twisted it in a few strange way to test the sleeve. The metal plates on the inside dragged against each other, making a quite horrible noise. At one specific elbow-bend Maeglin made a face, took the thing off, turned it inside out again, and started rearranging the small metal pieces. Narvi thought they were making armour of some kind.
Korvi’s door opened; it seemed like they were finished negotiating. Celebrimbor stepped up to the dummy to examine the strange armour being made.
“Are you sure the fabric is strong enough to hold all this steel?” he asked, pulling on some of the metal pieces to test the durability.
“Naglin says it is, so it should be,” Maeglin answered, still distracted by the insides of the elbows.
“Should be! It is, I say. I’ve been a weaver for over a century, and I know how much weight my fabrics can take.” Narvi’s father seemed entirely unimpressed by the elves’ disbelief.
Although Narvi would’ve liked to watch them finish whatever weird new type of armour they were making, her mother had other ideas. She reluctantly sat down for dinner, then did her homework before bed.
The next morning, the elves would leave. Silver-Fist, Sharp-Glance, and Gold-Cleaver – Celebrimbor, Maeglin, and Maglor – might never return to the Red Mountains. But Narvi would see them again. Because she would grow up, and become such a great silversmith that the dwarves in Dwarrowdelf ask her to go there to learn about mithril, and then she would become such a good mithril-smith that they ask her to remake their gates for them, and then she would write her name on them them so everyone will know her forever, and maybe even marry an elf.