After Parnard assured Danel that he would only listen to the conversation, and not say a word, to his surprise Ruineth turned to him, and speaking quickly and quietly, said that she wished to speak with him, alone. Then she led him away to a quiet corner beside a beech tree, and told him:
“Danel is blinded by her affection, but I see you see the truth of it.”
“Hmm…I think I might,” replied Parnard, and making a faint smile added, “if you think so!” For he had no idea what the lady was talking about, and whenever this happened to Parnard (which was fairly often) his habit was to always agree with whatever was said. “Then there will not be any rancour to spoil the conversation, there is no danger of misunderstandings, and they may eventually explain whatever it is they are talking about, if I encourage them along this vein,” he later said to his friend Sogadan the Vintner, when describing what he considered to be a very successful method of making pleasant conversation.
Yet this time he forgot to take his own advice to heart, and instead speaking bold truth, told Ruineth:
“But I would not say she is blinded.”
“No?”
“No. I would say, more like chained by the bonds of love! No shackles are sweeter, eh? Ha ha ha!” But seeing that Ruineth did not laugh along with his jest (she was not even smiling!) he continued, undeterred, “One day perhaps, you shall be bound up, too! Now, is that all you wished to tell me?”
“'I wished that you would understand. Perhaps that was too much to hope for.”
“I understand, oh I understand!” said Parnard, not understanding a whit.
Then Ruineth crossed her arms, gave him a keen look of dislike, and told him she had work to do.
“Well!” Parnard huffed, not remembering his other advice about making pleasant conversation, which is not to be easily nettled by snappish, unmannerly persons, “Perhaps that vat of molten whatnot will soften that hard heart of yours, forge maiden, but I doubt it! I doubt it mightily. Mightily,” he said again for emphasis, and with a disdainful toss of his head spat out, “Perhaps it is you that does not understand.” Irritated by her imperious, cold manner (so very typical of these haughty, stiff-backed Noldor maidens! he thought) he turned around, and loudly announced to everyone within earshot, “It takes a hard heart to tame metal!”
“You should leave,” Ruineth said, her face pale, and her eyes hard and threatening.
“I wish for nothing better!” declared Parnard, and hastily backing up, stood behind Danel.
“It was not that I was affrighted of her,” he insisted to Sogadan later, “but I realized my reply to Ruineth was as a wasp’s sting, when I did not mean to be so sharp in manner. Does she come into the Hall of Fire often?”
“No,” answered Sogadan. If she came in that moment, then the Valley might have something to talk about again for the next few months, but as it was, things had gotten very dull. “You know that you must apologize to her,” he said.
“For what!” cried Parnard.
“For disregarding her feelings.”
“What feelings? She will marry whom she will, and cares not for Estarfin.”
“Then you should find out what it was she was trying to tell you about him. Why did you not ask her to speak plainly,” Sogadan complained.
“What secrets that forge maiden has stored up in her heart are best kept locked up: I do not wish to know.”
“You are not curious in the least -”
“No!” said Parnard. “Now leave off such talk, for I shall ne’er be of a mind to speak to her, and not for anything should I agree to do it, even if might be pleasing to you.” He had not told Sogadan everything. Certain words were indelibly etched in his mind, and he found himself thinking about them over and over, like the words in his book of Quenya that he had yet to master, and now they weaved themselves with his thoughts: blood, defilement, murder, oaths, and recriminations. He wished with all his heart that he had not agreed to accompany Danel to the forges, but it was too late now. He sat back in his chair, closing his eyes, and, numb with apprehension, waited for Sogadan to pour wine.
