The day was drawing to its end and light was failing as Feveren wandered up the grassy meadow that sloped south and westwards from Celondim. In yonder vale he had been told he would find Nen Hilith, Lake Silver Light, and there he was to give aid to the glade-warden Ovorlas for the valley was beset with howling grey wolves of unknown origin.
   The dusk deepened, and the last gleams of the sunset were veiled in cloud that wreathed the distant peaks of Ered Luin, but the sky was clear above and the stars were growing bright. Lying on his back amidst the fragrant grasses, he watched them blossom one by one as the sun sank behind the purple mountains, and he softly sang a song of starlight in the greenwood of his home.
   In his mind his thoughts turned to all that had befallen since he came yesterday to the elven-port, for he had learned today that both Maegamel and Thavroniel had vouched to teach to him their arts, but now he needs must linger in Celondim. Time enough to fulfil the promise he had made to Laenin, and bring his aid to the glade-wardens. He sat up, and in the darkness the young Green-elf could see the glimmer of a campfire beyond, and in its flickering flames he descried four dark figures gathered in the gloom. Further west the faint howling of wolves could be heard above the hissing of the wind-blown grass.

   At Feveren's approach one of the shapes beside the fire rose to its feet, and it the firelight he marked it bore the same emblem on its breast as Laenin the Glade Watcher.
   'Be you friend or foe?' it cried, and the young elf laughed.
   'Neither yet, but a friend I hope to be!' he called in reply, 'Are you the warden named Ovorlas? For I am sent hither by Laenin of Celondim to lend you aid.' He stepped into the fire's rosy glow, and touched his hand to his breast in greeting.
   The warden smiled and shook his head as he took in Feveren's slender form, glancing from the elf-lad's young face down to his unshod feet. 'Your aid will be welcome here, for there is much to do. But what aid do you offer, for I can see plainly that you are no warrior or warden, and you walk unarmed and heedless into peril.'
   Feveren smiled. 'I only bring such aid as can be given by a Green-elf of Harlindon,' he replied. 'I am Feveren Tawardil, son of Gladlin, and Laenin deems I might avail you with my woodcraft.'
   'Indeed?' said Ovorlas with a raised brow. 'Then your arrival heralds a time of hope, "Forest-friend". We have yet to discern what caused the wolves to empty into this valley. Perhaps with your assistance, we will soon learn the reasons behind the invasion.' He gestured to two shadows sitting beside a large tent. 'The two other glade-wardens here are Glavrolnen and Helhathel,' he said, and Feveren waved a greeting, 'and there on the other side is Athal, who watches the road and helps the few dwarf-travellers who come to Celondim.'

   Feveren looked over, and in the firelight he could see lying upon a pallet a short, squat shape with a long beard.¹
   'At your service,' the shape said in a deep gruff voice, and the young elf's eyes grew wide and he stood amazed with his mouth agape.
   'You are a Dwarf!' he exclaimed.
   'That I know,' said Athal.
   'But you speak Elvish!'²
   'I know that, too!' He gave a throaty chuckle and rose to peer up at Feveren's face in the flickering light. In height his head but reached the young elf's breast, but he was deep-chested with mighty arms and stout legs. His red-brown beard hung down to his belt.
   'Are you not a little short for an elf,' he said, frowning. 'Do the Elves of Harlindon send their children out into the perils of the world?
He proffered the tankard in his hand to the elf-lad. 'Here,' he growled, 'Dwarven ale will soon put hair on your chest!'
   Feveren was aghast. 'Wherefore would I wish hair upon my breast?' he asked in horror, and the dwarf laughed so hard he fell seated onto his bed beside the campfire. Ovorlas rolled his eyes at the Green-elf, and Feveren saw that it was but a jest, and his high clear laugh mingled with the rasping mirth of Athal.
   'Come sit beside me,' said the dwarf, 'for it is seldom that I meet an elf who knows not the Dwarves of the Firebeard clan.'
   'I know no dwarves at all!' exclaimed the elf-lad, sitting on his heels. 'You are indeed the very first my eyes have beheld in all my life.'
   'A brief life, I wager.'
   'I am full-grown,' said Feveren, 'but you speak truly and win your wager, for alongside the lifespans of my kin I am yet very young, for I have seen but one and fifty autumns in my forest home.'
   'And even next to Dwarves, for I came of age at thirty years,³ and I am now one hundred years and twenty. Indeed, you are barely older than a Hobbit in midlife!'
   'What is a "hobbit"?'
   'Oho! You are green!'
   'Aye, I am a Green-elf, scion of Ossiriand,' replied in puzzlement.
   'Indeed? My house is of Belegost, ere its ruin. My forefathers awoke in the Blue Mountains ere the Elves came even to Beleriand, and here my house has dwelt through years uncounted. Although be glad I am not a Dwarf of Nogrod, for they hold a bitter memory of your kin!' He took a long draught from his tankard.
    'What do you mean?' Feveren asked, bewildered. But then to his mind came the tale of the Nauglamír and the ruin of Menegroth by a dwarven host, which was waylaid thereafter by Beren and the Green-elves of Ossiriand, and Beren took the Necklace of the Dwarves for Lúthien Tinúviel.
   'O!' he said, 'It was the Dwarves of Nogrod that assailed Menegroth in the Battle in the Thousand Caves?'
   'Aye,' Athal nodded, and a smouldering fire was in his eyes.
   'And still they are bitter, even after the passing of the ages?' the youth asked doubtfully.
   'You know not of the stubborness of Dwarves, nor our long lives and long memories.' He winked. 'We forget no friend, but forgive no enemy!'⁴
   'Then in my heart I hope that we will be friends,' Feveren grinned. Strange though this dwarf was to his mind, the young elf found he liked him.
   'Fear not, stripling,' chuckled Athal, 'for the Dwarves of Belegost were ever friendly with the Elves of Beleriand, though we knew not your secret folk in Ossiriand. Nor did we answer the call to arms of our kin who dwelt in Nogrod; indeed, we sought to dissuade them from their purpose, but to no avail.'⁵

   Behind them, they heard a quiet cough, and Helhathel said, ' I overheard your discussion with Ovorlas and hope that you are willing to assist us.'
   'That is why I am here,' Feveren smiled, and Athal leaned back and sipped his ale. This to him was elf-business, and not of his concern.
   'This vale was once a place of inspiring beauty where we could come and commune with nature,' said the glade-warden, ' It has fallen far from those days since the incursion of these wolves. It is unclear where the wolves came from or why they chose to dwell in this valley, but it is clear that they must be removed to ensure that nature can return to its balance.'
   'What would you have me do?' asked Feveren.
   'Enter the valley and destroy the wolves to ensure its future,' she replied.
   'Nay!' he frowned, 'You cannot slay a whole wolf-clan out of hand! But you say you know not why they came hither; have you asked them?'
   'They are foul beasts!'
   'Foul, maybe, but not fell. Which one leads the pack?'
   'A large wolf stands atop a boulder on the lake's southern shore,' Helhathel told him, 'and the others defer to him, it seems.'
   'You said they must be removed, and so they shall. Await me here.' And the young elf laid down his pack and staff, and wandered unarmed into the night.
   The glade-wardens watched him go with wide eyes and open mouths, and Athal laughed into his ale.

*      *      *

   Midnight came and all was quiet; even the wind had dropped. Then without warning a storm of howls broke out fierce and wild all about the moonless vale, and then the wolf-voices fell silent once more. Suddenly in the darkness could be heard the soft patter of many paws running upon the grassy sward past the camp of the glade-wardens, and then at last the slender figure of the young elf emerged from the darkness.
   'The battle of Nen Hilith has been fought and won,' he said with a grin, 'without bloodshed.'
   'But how?' demanded Helhathel. 'My ears tell me the wolves have fled, yet here you stand smiling and unscathed!'
   'I am a friend to birds and beasts; I read the thought of Narchon, their chief, and from around his throat removed his bond of anguish.'
   In his hand he held aloft a crudely hewn iron collar, which he passed to Ovorlas. 'There was an ill enchantment on this, but it was broken when I took it from his neck. Then in his mind I warned him of their peril, and with many voices his clan agreed to depart whence they came.'
   'The woodcraft of your kin is indeed a wonder,' she remarked. 'Nature calls once again from the vale, I can feel it course through my being. We cannot rest on this virtue, but you have brought hope where there was sorrow!'
   Feveren bowed humbly.

   'I know this handiwork!' cried the warden, as he inspected the artefact. 'It is said "where the warg howls, there also the orc prowls",⁶ and this is the handiwork of goblins. We must inform the others in Celondim. If the goblins have grown this aggressive, then we must do what we can to drive them back from our homes.'
   'Goblins?' Feveren repeated. 'Save for the ancient tales, I know even less of goblins than I do of Dwarves!'
   'They are of of Orc-kind,' explained Ovorlas. 'Smaller they are than orc-soldiers but no less cruel and wicked, and they are cowardly unless in great numbers. In mountain caves they dwell, making settlements from which they ambush passing travellers and raid nearby towns. Thus we cannot let another moment pass without informing others of the arrival of the goblins. Perhaps Lord Dorongúr's protection is weakening as we make our way to the shores to depart -- or perhaps the Enemy grows stronger faster than we expect.'
   He looked up at the rock walls of the vale as if he was measuring their protection.
   'Regardless, Feveren, we must send word back to Celondim and my superior there. Quickly, return to Laenin the Glade-watcher at Celondim and tell him of what you have found.'
   'Indeed,' said the young elf, 'but ere I go I would taste the ale of my new dwarf-friend, chest-hair or no, for this night has been thirsty work!'

*      *      *

1. "The Naugrim were ever, as they still remain, short and squat in stature; they were deep-breasted, strong in the arm, and stout in the leg, and their beards were long."
   - The War of the Jewels, "Part Two. The Later Quenta Silmarillion: Concerning the Dwarves"

2. "But the Dwarves were swift to learn and indeed were more willing to learn the Elven-tongue than to teach their own to those of alien race."
   - The Silmarillion, "Quenta Silmarillion: Of the Sindar"

3. "Dwarves remained young - e.g. regarded as too tender for really hard work or for fighting - until they were 30 or nearly that (Dain II was very young in 2799 (32) and his slaying of Azog was a great feat). After that they hardened and took on the appearance of age (by human standards) very quickly. By forty all Dwarves looked much alike in age, until they reached what they regarded as old age, about 240."
   -  The Peoples of Middle-earth, "IX. The Making of Appendix A": (iv) "Durin's Folk"

4. "Therefore they are stone-hard, stubborn, fast in friendship and in enmity, and they suffer toil and hunger and hurt of body more hardily than all other speaking-folk. And they live long, far beyond the span of Men, and yet not for ever."
   - The War of the Jewels, "Part Two. The Later Quenta Silmarillion: Concerning the Dwarves"

5.  The Silmarillion, "Quenta Silmarillion: Of the Ruin of Doriath"

6. The Fellowship of the Ring, "The Ring Goes South"

*      *      *

* Some of the NPC dialogue is taken verbatim from the game, via the LotRO Wiki, with slight embellishment. *

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