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Ammeril gave a great long yawn. The food fight among the dwarves earlier had been exceedingly entertaining, if nothing else that it broke the humdrum of her long dull life with literal flying colors. The screams of her husband Salaben going rabid in the kitchens once he got wind of the stout rascals’s activities were an added bonus. She could not recall the last time she had such fun. She could count on one hand all the times she had ever recalled laughing and being as maddeningly gleeful as she was in that very moment, though she was required to keep an impassive and proper, if slightly offended, face in respect of her lord during the entire chaotic ordeal.
But it had happened all too fast, and the fun dwindled down when the dwarven leader Thorin finally grew tired of his men’s goofy play and called for them to cease their customary merriment. It was just as well, for Ammeril’s husband was about to crack his skull open from pounding it against the wall in his agitated fury (it was not that she did not love her husband, but life in Rivendell often carried on monotonous and uneventful, with him often complaining about what meals he had to make to please Lord Elrond or other. This was a welcoming change of pace.)
A number of the minstrel elves and her fellow servers had offered to clean up the mess—save for Lírien, the little duckling among them, who cried out in disgust at mere sight of the wreckage before feigning some bowel illness so she may be excused. Ammeril kept that illness in mind for the future the next time she caught Lírien wooing a lady; that may be a little fact the lady in question may need to know. Just in case.
As for the other elves, Gwaeren reminded them, repeatedly with a stubbornly cheerful smile, that their services were well appreciated. Lord Elrond had so graciously offered his own meeting hall as a guest dining area, and the dwarves uttered demolished it. It was up to them to return it to its original state. And yet, no matter where the elves walked, no matter how gracefully they tread, hitching their skirts or robes about their lean legs, cake still found its way under the hems of their clothes and clung to their long soft hair. Many cried, and many more cursed the creator of the dwarves.
It was beautiful.
Absolutely glorious.
With a satisfied grin Ammeril carried a stack of trays with leftover morsels and wrinkled clothe napkins back to the kitchens, greeted instantly by Salaben airing out his grievances to any patient god that would lend him an ear.
“And they have taken all my precious wine already! Including my collection I’ve salvaged from Eregion, damn them!” he cried as he rested on his knees before his dying kingdom of the depleting wine cellar. His arms embraced the cabinet as the tears streaked down his pale ashen face.
“The husband is distressed and destroyed, so all is right in the world,” Ammeril muttered to herself. She set the trays on the counter and stood aside, arms folded, watching her dear continue on in his fevered mad talk. “Perhaps he will attempt to poison Lord Elrond next, but after his last failed attempt, Elrond will be ready for him. This should be interesting to see nonetheless. He might even send Salaben on vacation again until he calms down.”
She exited the kitchens without being noticed, and a few steps later she drew a heavy yawn. Silence surrounded her. Too quiet already. She did not wish to return back to that life of standing on the sidelines, tray in hand, dutifully serving food neatly on guests’ plates and watching the world pass her by, year after year, age after age. There was so much going on out there before Rivendell, and all she knew of it was what was spoken of during these dinners with Lord Elrond.
Surely there could be more fun to be had here.
The answer came soon enough as a strong smell of wine and a rumble of voices reached her: a bunch of rowdy gruff voices swearing and arguing. The source of the squelching noise was not entirely something she was sure she wanted to know, but a second later, thinking of the alternative, she followed the voices.
The dwarves were covered in food, which were making the disgusting squelching noises as they moved in their thick coats and boots.
“Now you’ve done it!” said one of the older gentlemen as whipped cream lettuce clung from his bulbous nose.
“Why’re you blaming me for?” squawked one of the others. A brother, perhaps.
“Thorin was enjoying it too, he was!”
“Where’d you suppose you could wash this off?”
Ammeril nearly screamed with delight. She wasn’t this excited since her wedding night; in fact, she was more excited now. But this needed to be planned and executed carefully, perfectly, as not to drive the dwarves away from her devious ploy. If all worked well, she would never, ever have a dull moment after this.
She slithered a few steps away, gathering herself up. Beside her was an apartment—Lírien’s apartment. The door was closed, but beside it on the small decorated stand lay a folded dress, recently returned from the cleaners.
Ammeril’s grin widened. Eru Ilúvatar Himself must have thrown open the gates of joy upon her on this day and showered her with all the blessings of laughter in the world. She did not care if Lord Elrond threw her and Salaben out of Rivendell after this.
Draping the folded dress over one arm, Ammeril set off, walking towards them nonchalantly. As she passed the dwarves, she gave them a quick glance—just a quick one, though she really wanted to take in just how utterly hilarious they all looked, all thirteen of them; the little hobbit must have shuffled off somewhere earlier.
Good. Otherwise he would have been an obstacle to her plan, and she would have had to find a means of eliminating him. She wasn’t sure if she wanted her quest for entertainment to cross certain boundaries.
“You know,” she said pointedly, and the dwarves all ceased speaking at once. They turned towards her in unison. “That fountain over there? It’s not a bad place for a bath…”
*
Gwaeren found Ammeril about half an hour later. By then Ammeril already brought a chair out and a bottle of wine stolen from the kitchens; the occasion called for the wine.
“Ammeril, dear!” Gwaeren nearly sang. Her voice must either uplift birds in the morning or make them want to run headfirst into trees. “I hope you may help us in this little dilemma! You see, Lírien was waiting for a dress to return from the cleaners, but Glúdhiel says she had already washed it. But it was not waiting for her by her apartment!”
“I have not seen it,” Ammeril said brightly, “but perhaps one of the dwarves have. Why don’t you ask them, my peach?”
She pointed towards the large fountain, and Gwaeren turned, hoping to turn her questions over to them, but let out a great gasp instead. Ammeril couldn’t suppress her grin.
The fountain was large enough to accommodate all thirteen dwarves. And even more, they played around freely like they were at the largest beach, except they were completely nude under the bright sun, hairy asses proudly on full display as dwarves were wont to do.
Gwaeren’s tiny scream was the purest music to Ammeril’s ears. Really, she should seek other means to shock the older elf more.
“Oh my! I do hope none of them thought to use Lírien’s dress as a towel!” Gwaeren said as she paced around, scanning the vicinity as the dwarves scattered all of their belongings around the fountain. “Oh, this will take forever to clean up—think of all the body hair clogging the drains! Oh my—are some of these dwarves women?! I hadn’t noticed before! You know, with their beard and—”
“Gwaeren!” Lírien whined as she caught up to them. “Have you any luck on finding my dress? I have a date tonight and I want to impress the new girl with my singing and—”
She must have finally caught notice of the dwarves because Lírien next gave a tiny gasp and then shrieked at the top of her lungs. And what a glorious scream, demonstrative of Lírien’s true hidden talent in music, the note carried for seemingly an eternity.
“My! You can carry a tune, dear Lírien!” Gwaeren praised, coming up beside her as Lírien stood, transfixed with her mouth hung up, screaming nonstop. “I knew you had it in you, Lady Lírien! You just needed to do it with confidence! But why such dreadful fright, child? They are but dwarves bathing!”
“Perhaps she has spotted the fate of her dress?” Ammeril offered. She sat back, took a swig of her wine bottle, taking this all in with a smirk.
After a moment Lírien’s jaws still hung wide open but all sound ceased.
“Is she still breathing?” Gwaeren asked, growing worried.
“I’m sure,” Ammeril said, shrugging. “She’s probably screaming so loudly neither of us can hear her any longer.”
In that moment they heard another pair of voices, men’s voices, and one she recognized as Lord Elrond’s. What she would give to forever capture this moment as Lord Elrond uttered words none could ever think him capable of, causing Gwaeren to blush and cover her mouth with one hand; he cursed the dwarves, the damn fountain itself, the day Gandalf had concocted the plan, even the very waterfall Elrond and his twin were once found by the elves of old who spared their lives.
And myself for taking them to the fountain, Ammeril added with glee.
“By the Valar,” gasped out Lindir’s voice beside Elrond, “is that a lady’s dress they’re using to wipe their—”
Lírien finally shut her mouth, took another big gulp of breath, and let out another round of ear-splitting screams.