His first meeting with the Grey Wizard had ended.
Dragonborn pressed his lips together and made his way swiftly toward the kitchens.
So distracted was he that he failed to notice the anxious glance of the elf-maid not far off.
“So,” he mused as he walked, mind racing, “what outlandish powers lie hidden within this body?” He set aside, for the moment, the eyes that could pierce all illusions and see with astonishing clarity.
Over the past fortnight, Dragonborn had discovered that his tolerance for temperature bordered on the uncanny.
Under the fiercest sun of the day he felt no stifling heat, and at night the icy sea breeze touched him like a cool caress.
Clearly the promise of that great Will, “May your body be strong and hale, fearing neither bitter cold nor scorching heat”, was manifesting.
To test his theory, he had sought out an open flame and thrust his thick hand into the blazing fire.
The searing tongues merely warmed his flawless, alabaster-smooth palm, and when he withdrew it, the skin was not even singed.
Dragonborn fell silent.
Driven to confirm the matter further, he obtained an elf-wrought paring knife, one of those small playthings of flawless make.
Yet the result only deepened his unease.
The keen edge of that elven blade could barely raise a faint white line upon his flesh.
Only when he steeled himself and bore down with greater force did the edge at last break his hide; leathery and tough, and draw a thread-thin wound so slight it was all but invisible.
He dropped the knife and sat motionless, staring at the negligible cut.
Then, today, the Grey Wizard’s ‘unexpected attack’ had awakened two more gifts.
The first touched the mind.
A dragon’s will had granted him formidable mental fortitude.
He could not say whether it could withstand the whispered temptation of the One Ring, but he felt certain he would endure and resist far better than most Elves or Men.
The second was the Thu’um!
By the heavens, Dragonborn still could scarce believe that such a thunderous, majestic shout had burst from his own throat.
It was no sound a mortal thing could make.
The voice seemed imbued with power, not only commanding and sonorous, but reaching into the very soul.
Small wonder the Grey Wizard had so hastily cast a protective spell.
And indeed, as that fearsome cry rolled forth, the Elves of the Grey Havens and the Dwarves south of the Blue Mountains quailed as if they had heard a great dragon roar.
The oppressive might of it swept over them; wood, mountain, and all living things trembled beneath the echo of an ancient wyrm’s bellow.
It was a shiver felt in the spirit.
Elf and Dwarf alike recalled, from memory or legend, the First Age when Glaurung, the first and fell dragon, had ravaged Middle-earth.
They remembered the sorrow of the Dagor Bragollach and the tears of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, the countless kin who had perished beneath dragon-fire.
Little wonder that the Elves of the Grey Havens turned anxious eyes toward the council hall, from whence the shout had come, and where Ochriamm had lately been summoned.
The newly-minted Dragonborn, walking under the name Dragonborn, kept his lips tightly pressed as he went, enduring the odd looks of the Elves he passed.
He dared not greet them.
If he opened his mouth, would another terrifying Thu’um burst forth?
Troubled, the dark-haired Dragonborn entered a tall stone building at the northeast corner of the hall, hard by the quays and the main thoroughfare.
Let the body’s hidden abilities wait, he thought.
For now, what mattered most was food.
This was the refectory for the Elves in service at the Grey Havens.
Here, after their duties, watch-captains and the skippers who patrolled the coast would either take a cup at the haven’s lone tavern or come to the kitchen Lord Círdan had set aside for officers to enjoy the day’s fare.
They might sing, or listen quietly to another’s song.
Elvish life was peaceful and joyous, yet also monotonous, for immortal Elves saw the pursuit of beauty and bliss as important indeed, but why hurry?
Long years stretched before them, time enough for learning and delight.
A thousand years might pass in the blink of an eye.
…
Fena the cook awaited him.
She wore a white chef’s cap, a rarity among Elves, a trinket she had traded from the Hobbits, usually reserved for high feast days; its presence showed that the bear-meat feast was, for her, an occasion worthy of full battle array.
Arms akimbo, she glared at the dark-haired Dragonborn.
“Ochriamm, you are late!
Much longer and the kitchen would have been closed.” Born in the Second Age, Fena was the daughter of a Sindarin mother of Doriath and a father from the Falathrim havens of Eglarest.
She possessed the silver hair and deep grey eyes of the Teleri, not to mention a tall, graceful frame and long legs.
But as for her face, well, there is no such thing as an ill-favoured Elf.
Lovelier than the fabled beauties of mortal tales, Fena had about her a spark of vivacity and merriment rarer among her kin.
Over the long years, she had devoted herself to the art of cooking.
Indeed, she was the undisputed master of culinary craft in all the Grey Havens.
For centuries, the lord of the Havens and many Elves had their meals from her hand.
When she heard the hunting party had taken a bear of many hundred pounds, she could scarcely sleep.
The next day, as soon as the bear was brought in, she joyfully set to skinning and dressing the poor beast, seasoning it with every spice and method at her disposal, all for the morrow’s feast.
And now the very person who had yearned for bear-meat had been missing half the day.
She had stood fuming and muttering at the kitchen door for an age, for the dark-haired Dragonborn, owing to his prodigious appetite, had struck up a fine friendship with the cooking-obsessed Elf-maid.
Among all the Elves of the wide Havens, she was one of his closest friends, second only to the dark-haired, brown-eyed elf-guard.
Now the dark-haired Dragonborn spied the familiar Falas-elf from afar, idling at the door in her ridiculous chef’s cap, and he smiled.
He approached her, looking down from his great height, and said in a low, gruff voice, “Good day, Fena.” He was careful to restrain his volume, dreading that a shout might slip.
He succeeded well; the once-mighty voice came out so muted that the cook’s fine brows knit.
“Is something amiss with your throat?
Your voice sounds strange.
But never mind that!” Suddenly remembering, she seized his hand and pulled him inside.
“Come quickly!
The bear feast I laboured over all night will be cold!” Dragonborn stooped awkwardly through the low doorway, passed the dining hall, and entered the kitchen cluttered with jars of spice, seasonings, and cooking implements.
“Ta-da!” Fena flung open a pot where a good half of the bear-meat, stewed overnight with a host of fragrant herbs and spices, now sat warming over embers, its juices thickening.
She launched into an eager explanation of her masterpiece.
As the pot opened, an indescribable aroma surged forth and struck Dragonborn’s senses.
“Stop!” He cut her off, swallowing hard.
“I don’t understand half those terms.
I’m so hungry I could eat a whole bear.
Let me have a bite before you lecture on technique.” Then, with shocking rudeness, he lifted the entire pot of braised bear, snatched up a knife and fork, and fell to devouring it straight from the pot.
The meat was so tender, the juices so rich, that he nearly swallowed his own tongue.
Fena’s craft was indeed extraordinary, and the bear-meat surpassed his imagination.
He chewed in great mouthfuls, grinding even the bones to splinters and swallowing them.
Perhaps it was the price of being Dragonborn: along with his prodigious strength and towering frame, his teeth had begun to grow dragon-like.
In the last fortnight, he had consumed nearly as much food as he had in half a year before.
By rough reckoning, he was eating half a hog, several pounds of sausage, a dozen pounds of bread or similar grain, with fruits and extras daily.
Only Elvish resources could sustain such a ravenous appetite; any lesser folk or power would have been bankrupted long ago.
A walking dragon in human form, indeed.
This, in no small part, explained his friendship with Fena.
One was a feckless Elf who pursued cookery over swordplay and styled herself the finest chef in the North; the other was a bottomless glutton never satisfied.
A match made in heaven, one might say.
Fena had been viciously vexed by his taking without asking, but seeing him wolf down the food with such a gourmand’s joy, the self-proclaimed Northern master cook’s eyes narrowed in contentment.
Ever since the Lord of the Havens had brought the Dragonborn back, rumours had swirled among the Elves: Some said he was a gift from the Valar, a Child of Fate ordained by Ilúvatar to end the years of turmoil.
Others thought him the offspring of a kindly dragon, abandoned by his parents (if he had any) upon the shore.
Yet all agreed they sensed no taint of evil in him.
Many ‘masters’ had tested and probed, and their verdict was clear: “A child of the stars, ever bright.” Thus the Elves had come to welcome this mysterious stranger with open hearts, and Fena was among those who held him in warm regard.
Soon Dragonborn had devoured every scrap of that secret-recipe bear stew, more than twenty kilo of meat and broth, and still unsatisfied, he wiped his mouth and cast a pitiful look at the elf-maid.
Delighted that her creation was so loved, Fena smiled brightly.
She fetched another dish: a bear paw braised with half a pot of honey, along with other viands, and set them before him.
He fell to without lifting his head.
“Ochriamm,” she asked suddenly, “was that great noise earlier your doing?” The dark-haired Dragonborn nodded, still stuffing food into his mouth, and replied in a gruff, muted tone, “That’s why my voice is like this now.” Fena planted her hands on her hips, gazing at him with a thoughtful expression.