A/N: As usual, nothing within belongs to me.  This chapter also guest-stars Nerdanel and Legolas.

Nerdanel kept a small house, neat and clean, stranded halfway between the forge and the city of Tirion.  They shared dinner once a week; she knew better than to try and force anything more on her father, and once again Mahtan was late, late, late.  “You know, Nerdanya” he commented as he came in through the door, “if you came back to the forge, to stay with me, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

“Knowing you, Atar, we’d still have this problem.  It’d just be closer for you to from the forge to the table when you realised you’d forgotten again.” She smiled, slipping a plate of warm bread onto the table and returning to the kitchen for the rest of the food.  “And you know why I don’t visit the forge anymore.  Too many memories.”

He furrowed his brow when she brought the bowls of stew out.  “How late am I this time?”

“A couple of hours or so.  Don’t worry about it, I’m used to you by now.  Just eat.”  So he did, tearing chunks of bread off to soak up the stew as his stomach reminded him that yes, he was hungry after all.

“I ought to cook for you sometime.” he mentioned between mouthfuls of stew and when she responded with a peal of laughter he added, “What? I’ll have you know, daughter, that I am quite able to cook.  Just out of practice.”

She shook her head, copper braids dancing.  “You’d insist on using on of the forge-fires to cook it, and I’d be picking chunks of metal out of my bread.”  He couldn’t hold the mock-glare for that long; Nerdanel’s giggling was contagious.  “You’re in a good mood today, Atar.” she added, reaching for another piece of bread and smirking at him.

“And what is that look for, hmm? Am I not allowed to be happy once in a while?”

“Don’t pout.  Really, you’re worse than the twins were, sometimes.  You’ve been like this ever since you started spending more time with that dwarf.  I can’t quite decide whether or not you’re just doing it to annoy the Vanyar – Ingwë’s gotten himself into a right fuss over one of the Naucalië turning up here. You ought to have seen that Thranduilion facing him down over it.  Priceless.”  She caught his glare.  “Fine, why are you doing it, then?”

Mahtan shrugged.  “I have to have a reason now?”

“You cut yourself off from your people, from your family.  This should be a time of renewal, but you are still trapped, obsessing over imagined guilt for crimes that were not yours committed more than three Ages ago.”  She spoke with passion, tears in her eyes, but Mahtan felt every word pass over and around him, leaving him unmoved.  “People talk, Atar, and even if you don’t care how they speak of you, I do.  In Tirion-”

“In Tirion,” he murmured, cutting her off, “they speak a language I have forgotten.  They sing songs of things that mean nothing to me, and spend so long calling each other wise they believe it true.  I have found another who speaks in the tongue of Aulë, speaks of the secrets that metal yields to careful hands, and I am content.  Do not begrudge me that.”

Nerdanel sighed, scooping up the dishes and heading back to the kitchen.  “Ammë is holding a party in a week or so.” she mentioned, although the tone of her voice suggested she knew what his answer would be.  “I thought perhaps…”

“As wonderful as I am sure it will be, I will have to decline.”  He stood, shaking crumbs off his lap, and kissed her cheek.  “We both know that I am neither needed nor wanted at your mother’s parties, Nerdanya.”

“Excuses, excuses.” she said, but let him go anyway.

-----

“Catch, Elf.”  He needn’t have said it.  From long experience of throwing things at Legolas’ head (mostly in jest), Gimli knew that his friend certainly didn’t need the warning.  “It’s a present.” he added, when Legolas turned the package over in his hands, making no move to open it.  “You’re supposed to take the wrapping off.”

Arching an eyebrow, Legolas did just that, an uncharacteristically broad grin gracing his features as he examined the belt-knife.  “I think it would be a little difficult to fight Orcs with this, Gimli.” he said, tracing the delicate patterns on the hilt with a mock-frown.

Typical  “When will you learn, Elf, that size is not as important as you seem to think it is? Besides, the only thing you’ll be using that on around here is your mother’s cooking.”  He could only hold the scowl for a few moments, before the chuckles started to escape.  “Happy Begetting Day, Legolas.”

“Thank you, my friend.”  Legolas still seemed fascinated by the knife.  “Not your usual style of work, Gimli.  Almost Noldorin, in fact.”  He was grinning again now.  “Is it possible you had help with this?  Perhaps from a certain smith who has been monopolizing your time of late?”

Gimli decided not to dignify that with an answer.  “You’ve been busy yourself, you know.”

“Mmhmm.  Tell me then, are all the stories about him true?”  Legolas sat down and leaned against a tree – it leaned back.  Gimli eyed it warily.  Aulë had warned him that Yavanna’s creations were more awake here than anywhere else, and he had a feeling they didn’t much care for dwarves.

“I go to the forge to work, not gossip about Elves.”  Curiosity was getting the better of him, though.  “What stories?”

“That he refuses to refer to the sons of his daughter as anything else other than ‘my kinslaying grandchildren’? That he once threw Fëanor bodily out of his forge and lived to tell the tale?”  Legolas shrugged.  “There’s as many stories about Mahtan as there are hairs on my head, and I’m sure you’ve heard at least some of them.  He’s infamous.  Not to mention quite mad.”

“He’s a good smith, and I don’t care for Elf-gossip.  Just because he doesn’t stand for any of the usual Elvish nonsense doesn’t make him a fair target for every bored Vanyarin lady in Tirion to invent gossip about!”  His voice was rising as his temper worsened; let it. No one around but them and the trees, after all, and the trees weren’t going to tell anyone about it.  Probably not, anyway.

Legolas shrank back a little.  “I am sorry.  I didn’t realise…”

“What? That I might not find it amusing to hear you insult a friend of mine?”

“I did not realise that you accounted him a friend, Gimli.  Every time I’ve been to meet you at the forge, you are arguing with him.  Really, I did not mean to…”

Gimli rolled his eyes and hollered “You fool of an Elf!”  When that cut whatever apology Legolas was about to make short, he added, “I hardly ever waste time, Legolas, on arguing with those who are not my friends.  Or hadn’t you figured that out yet?”

“The logic of dwarves will never cease to baffle me.”  And indeed Legolas did look rather confused; or as if he was trying to work out a puzzle to which he only had half the pieces.

“Luckily you have me to explain it to you.” Gimli said. “Come on – let’s find some ale or the closest thing they have to it here, and celebrate the bafflement of Elves.”  They didn’t seem to understand the joy of a good mug of ale here, but the wine wasn’t half bad, at least in Gimli’s estimation.

“Gimli, are you planning to use my begetting day as an excuse to get drunk?” Legolas asked.

Gimli grinned, waggling his eyebrows. “Well, I’m certainly not going to use it as an excuse to stay sober!”