“Good day, Ecthelion.”
The Lord of the Fountain looked up from his work. “Good day, Rog!” He resumed sharpening his blade as the Lord of the Hammer continued to walk down the path, a very delicate and petite elleth on his arm.
Beside Ecthelion, young Glorfindel had stopped his own task of polishing the knives for the ellon he squired for. “Who is she?” he whispered, nodding his head in the direction of the lady.
“That is Meleth, of the House of the Hammer,” Ecthelion replied.
“Is she Rog’s daughter?”
“No, she is his wife.”
Glorfindel watched the pair disappear around the corner of a building and let out a low whistle. “The Valar have a strange sense of humor.”
Smiling, Ecthelion agreed.
To say that Rog towered over Meleth was something of an understatement. On sunny days, his shadow could completely devour hers, and if she hugged him while he stood up straight, her arms encircled his waist (but never quite managed to reach fully around his powerful form. He could lift her up with one arm and carry her on his shoulder, which was often something reserved for days he was feeling particularly silly.
Some made jokes about them being a couple, that it was like a lapdog and a wolfhound falling in love with one another. Others thought it was terribly romantic, yet worried for Meleth’s wellbeing behind the doors of the bedchamber.
There were many elves revered in Gondolin: The King, Ecthelion of the Fountain, Egalmoth of the Arch, to name a few. Rog was not only held in high regard, but he was also treated as someone most others feared. Something about him set others to tremble when he was around. Perhaps they had heard him training his soldiers, and listened to the commands he barked at them. Or it might have been that they had seen him at the forge, and watched his arm beat steal faster and more accurately than anyone else in the hidden city. It may have been his shear size – the muscles of his arms were more like the muscles of one’s legs, and his thighs were nearly as large as a grown ellon’s chest. Some rumors claimed this could only be due to him having the blood of a Maia mixed in his veins. It could have been his appearance, for he always wore red and black, vibrant and dark, and instead of long flowing locks, he kept his head shaved bare.
Meleth was the polar opposite of Rog’s masculinity. She looked very young despite her years, and everything about her was tiny. So slender was she that Rog was able to encircle her waist with his two hands, his thumbs and fingers just touching. Children flocked to her and for this reason she often tutored the very young ones whose parents did not have the time or patience to teach them their letters and numbers, or would nurse those whose mothers were too weak or had succumb to some terrible fate. Her favorites were the littlest ones, and if she was not seen walking through the city upon Rog’s arm, there was a good chance she would be seen walking through the city with a babe on hers, cooing and snuggling against her. Her clothing was subdued, flowing gowns that usually hung off one or both shoulders in cool pastels, her dark hair tumbling down her back in a mass of curls. She found it easiest to nurse a child at a moment’s notice if her garments did not restrict her being able to push them below her breast easily. Mothers would apologize at the inconveniences they caused her, but her loving smile assured them it was alright, and she freely admitted she was honored that the Valar gave her such a gift that she could share with those most in need.
