Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Halls of Stone (#4307)
Author: Jael
Chapters: 4

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: At the end of the Second Age, Thranduil travels to Moria to settle a score with a Dwarven craftsman. Features Thranduil and Original Characters. Rated PG-13 for language and adult concepts.
Published: 17 Dec 2010
Updated: 23 Dec 2010
Warnings:
Type: General
Characters: Thranduil; Original Characters


Chapter 1 - Halls of Stone

Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the world and characters created by JRR Tolkien.


Halls of Stone

"The world was fair, the mountains tall . . .
There hammer on the anvil smote,
In many-pillared halls of stone . . ."
JRR Tolkien

Part One: The Prince of Eryn Galen

"As long as you are bent upon this course of action," Séregon had told him before he left Eryn Galen, "I suggest you take the time to gaze upon the Mirrormere. It is a sight not to be missed. Especially since that sight may be among your last."

Galion's opinion had been more to the point. "I think you're crazy. But then, I always thought you were crazy. Despite that, it has been a pleasure serving you all these years. I am going to miss you, Thran."

They all thought he'd gone mad; he had no doubt of that whatsoever. In the week before his departure several of the older Iathren nobles had made it a point to take Thranduil aside and recount for him their memories of the sad end of Elu Thingol. Not that the cautionary tales were meant to apply to anything in particular, they had assured him, because the doings of the King's only heir were of course his own business -- they were just making conversation. The palace seneschal, Helegui, had merely shaken his head and sniffed every time Thranduil entered his father's study, as if folly on the Prince's part were a thing to be expected.

Oropher had been the only one with any useful advice. When a series of increasingly heated letters between Eryn Galen and Moria had proved fruitless and frustrating, his father had said only, "If you don't make them respect you now, Thranduil, they never will."

And so, Thranduil found himself standing beside Durin's stone, on the banks of the lake on a bright afternoon in the early summer. Séregon had not exaggerated; a man ought to see such beauty at least once before he died.

Off to the north, a deep clefted valley, already in shadow, wound its way toward the three snow-topped peaks of Fanuidhol, Celebdil, and Caradhras. At the end of it, Thranduil could see a series of cataracts like a thin thread of silver, casting up a cloud of mist at the mountains' feet. At his own feet lay the waters of the mere, still as glass.

"Don't fall in," Séregon had warned him, and indeed, Thranduil could tell from the darkness of the water that the lake was nigh to bottomless. Thranduil knelt carefully on the soft grass of the bank and peered downward into the water. At first he saw only darkness, the black depths, but slowly the reflected form of the mountains took shape, along with his own face; a worried Elf-man, bright of hair and blue of eye and old enough to know better than to do what he was about to do now. And then, in the darkness of the water, the sky above appeared, filled with stars as they had been in the Elder Days when the first Elf-sires awoke, before the sun and moon had taken their first journey across the sky.

"White gems," Thranduil whispered, and they reminded him of the way the water droplets had sparkled as they flowed off Lalaithiel's body when she rose from that forest pool the day he'd first laid eyes on her. A crowd of them clustered about his head, almost like a crown.

"That will be the day!" he said with a rueful laugh. His father lived and ruled a peaceful realm. Thranduil would not wear a crown of gems, nor of leaves either. He would never be a king. He was not even sure that he would live to be a husband.

Thranduil rose and wiped the grass-stain off his knees. He climbed back up the slope to where his horse patiently stood cropping the sward beside the road. He stripped off the bridle and the light saddle he used for travel and stowed the gear beneath a bush, where it would be out of the elements. With a sigh, he laid his forehead against the stallion's glossy mahogany-colored neck, taking in the good clean smell of horse and wishing the animal a silent farewell. Gaeroch was a good beast. He would wait for his master for a good long while, taking care of himself now that he was unencumbered of tack, but eventually, he would head for home.

With a final caress, Thranduil turned and headed up the paved stone road toward the gates of Moria.

He met no other travelers on the way up from the lake, which surprised him, because to hear Oropher tell it while muttering in his cups, there was a steady stream of incessant intercourse between Moria and Lothlórien. Why Amdir put up with the Lady Galadriel and her Golodhren followers who had refugeed east after the fall of Ost in Edhil, Oropher could never understand, and that is why he had relocated them all further north to live cleanly and simply as Elves were meant to do . . . At that point in the discourse Thranduil's eyes would glaze over and he would cease to really listen.

He shook his head and managed an ironic smile, realizing, not for the first time, that his father didn't know quite everything.

"Halt! Who goes there?" The voice was deep and gruff, spoken in an oddly clipped accent, and it issued from a slit in the rock beside the gates about an arm span above Thranduil's head.

"I am Thranduil Oropherion of Eryn Galen, at your service and at your family's." Thranduil, of course, was at the service of no Dwarf, but Séregon had warned him that without this form of courtesy, which passed for manners among the Naugrim, there would be trouble. There would be trouble in any case, but there was no sense in starting it before he was even in the door.

The unseen sentry cleared his throat.

"I come on a matter of business with one of your craftsmen," Thranduil concluded lamely.

"Very well, you may enter." Thranduil felt a deep rumbling begin beneath his feet as the great stone gates began to slowly grind open, and he had to step back a pace to avoid the right-hand side of the gate as it swung past him, riding on smooth metal bearings set into a semi-circular track cut into the stone beneath his feet. Of the mechanism that opened the doors, he could see no sign.

He had expected to encounter the gloom of underground once inside, but instead he found himself in a vast hall, lit by windows set high into the eastern wall. Windows in a cave! Perhaps his visit to the realm of the Naugrim would not be as dark and claustrophobic as he had steeled himself for.

Immediately two stocky guards stepped into his path, barring his way with crossed axes. The guards themselves came only chest high on Thranduil, but they were built broad and strong, and the blades of the weapons gleamed wickedly. Thranduil sighed and gritted his teeth. "Thranduil Oropherion of Eryn Galen. At your service and that of your families."

A third dwarf, this one dressed in richer robes and wearing a heavy chain of office about his neck, stepped forward. "I am Throin Steelhammer, steward and doorwarden to his Deathless Majesty, Durin IV. What seek you, traveler, in the dwelf of Khazad-dûm?"

Thranduil bowed stiffly, hoping he was not being unforgivably terse. "I wish to speak with one Dorin of the fourth level, who has lately performed some metalwork on my behalf."

"Dorin, eh? What's that about? No matter, I'll be happy to take you to him." This came from a fourth dwarf, a black bearded fellow dressed in a dark colored uniform who came striding up.

"Captain Narki," said Throin. "What a convenient happenstance. Now, if Master Elf --"

"I am the son of the King of Eryn Galen," Thranduil said quietly but with unmistakable meaning.

"If my lord Elf will divest himself of his sword and any other weapons," Throin continued, "Captain Narki will take you where you need to go."

Thranduil smiled. "My errand is one of peaceful commerce, merely."

"In that case you'll not mind leaving your sword here at the door. We'll give it back to you when you go."

"Of course." Thranduil inclined his head and relinquished his sword. What would the weapon avail a lone elf in an underground city of Dwarves anyway?

"And your knife," Throin went on.

Thranduil stifled a bitter laugh. Might as well die for a Silmaril as for an agate. He handed over the knife. "I have nothing more."

"Come with me, then," said Narki.

Doors at the west end of the hall led to a wide corridor. They were no longer in the brightness of the first hall, but shafts of daylight cut down through the ceiling periodically. This was not too bad yet, Thranduil thought.

At the end of the corridor, a flight of stairs descended, and Thranduil followed the dwarf-captain, letting his eyes adjust to the lessened light. "How do you like this?" said Narki when they reached the bottom.

A deep chasm dropped away into blackness, crossed by a narrow stone bridge with no railing or kerb. Fifty feet he must pass where only a single man could walk. "I think it's brilliant," Thranduil said. "No army can ever take you from the eastern gate."

"There are some who falter here," his escort replied. "If we must, we bring our craftsmen out to those who lack the courage to pass. But I doubt Dorin will be willing to cater to such maidenish nonsense."

"No need," Thranduil replied, and stepped out boldly onto the bridge. At home, he had seen Galion's folk, the Green-elves, run a rope stretched between two trees or across a river. If a Laegel could negotiate a path the thickness of a man's arm, surely he, Thranduil could manage one as wide as that arm's length. 'I'm walking on the solid ground,' he told himself, ignoring the sheer drop into fathomless depths and the understanding that Narki could rush him from behind. He had barely broken a sweat when he reached the other side of the bridge and the second hall of Moria.

It was vast. It was tall. Why, Thranduil wondered, did such stunted folk as the Dwarves feel the need for so much height? For the convenience of those with whom they did commerce? To impress? Or maybe to redress the fact that their creator was, himself, a lesser god. Whatever the reason, it made the spirit soar, even underground. Black columns rose, in the shape of tree-trunks, but they resembled no trees Thranduil had ever seen in the outer world. The boles were straight, the branches that supported the ceiling as regular as the arms of saluting soldiers. Did all the Naugrim see the world in such a harsh geometry?

No daylight reached into this deep hall, yet it fairly blazed before Thranduil's eyes with the splendor of sun, moon and stars. The floor beneath his feet was polished to such a high sheen that it seemed to be made of silver, and the roof far above his head glowed a faint gold at the tops of the lofty pillars. How could there be so much light underground? It was the many lamps, he realized, some glowing as warmly yellow as the sun, some with a cooler, blue light. He wanted to stop and examine them, to see how it was done, but Narki hurried him along.

So many Dwarves there were too, hurrying about their business, conversing with their fellows in that odd mumbling tongue of theirs, giving him curious glances before turning back away. They smelled strange, the entire place smelled strange, a combination of the odor of stone dust and hot metal. Thranduil began to understand how truly outnumbered he was.

Beyond the hall lay more corridors, more flights of stairs to lower levels. They were deep within the mountain by now; even so, from time to time they would pass a ventilation shaft and Thranduil would feel a breeze against his cheek and smell fresh air.

"You have some fault to find with Dorin's craftsmanship?" Narki turned to him and demanded as they went along.

Thranduil was about to tell the Dwarf captain that it was none of his business until he realized that the response was not very tactful. "Indeed I do." He left it at that.

The dwarf let out a barking laugh. "I thought so, when you decided to come yourself rather than sending one of your minions to hash it out."

"I have every confidence in my agents," said Thranduil, emphasizing the word, "but some negotiations must be conducted face to face."

"You're about to have your chance. Here we are." Narki stopped in the middle of a long corridor and rapped the handle of his axe against the heavy planks of a wooden door. "Oh, Dorin . . . you have a visitor . . ."

* * *


Chapter 2 - The Craftsman of Khazad-dûm

Part Two: The Craftsman of Khazad-dûm

After a long pause, the door swung open, revealing another dwarf whose mouse-brown beard was tucked into a stained leather apron. His brown eyes seemed to widen as he scanned upward to take in the sight of two full rangar of Thranduil standing out in the hallway.

"I am Thranduil Oropherion, of Eryn Galen."

"Dorin, at your service and your family's," the dwarf said with a terse nod. "Come in."

"I'll just leave the two of you to discuss your business," said Narki. Dorin said nothing and shut the door in the captain's face.

Dorin took off his leather apron and laid it over the back of a chair. The two of them stood staring at each other for a long moment until Dorin broke the silence. "What brings you here, my lord Elf? Eryn Galen is a long journey, even at this time of year." His tone of voice betrayed no emotion, nor did his eyes. Thranduil decided that the beards unnerved him the most about these strange stunted folk. Any facial expression was hidden beneath all that hair.

"Only this," replied Thranduil, reaching into the collar of his riding jacket and pulling out an object which gleamed in the reddish, copper-colored lamp light of Dorin's chamber. "You cheated me, nogoth."

"So you have said, in three letters so far. I see a pendant set with three moonstones, on a thin chain, both of mithril, identical to the drawings your agent presented me. You have no reason for displeasure."

"I have every reason for displeasure," Thranduil said. "The pendant looks smaller than it should be, given the raw materials I provided. I suspect you adulterated the mithril I sent you with plainsilver and kept a portion of the pure metal for yourself."

"That's an interesting theory, my lord Elf," Dorin said. "But I think you have no way of proving it, your finely honed 'eye' or not. That necklace weighs exactly the weight of a quarter ingot of mithril plus the stones you sent me. It's a lovely design, but very uneven on its surface. There's no way of calculating its actual volume by its dimensions."

"And so you have said, in three letters so far. Perhaps you are right. Such a thing would be very difficult to demonstrate," said Thranduil, doing a quick visual sweep of his surroundings. The outer room of Dorin's chambers seemed to be a combined work and meeting area. A workbench ran along one wall, and there was a table in the middle of the room for the spreading out of drawings. Thranduil saw nothing that would suit his purpose.

"Is this the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves?" he said, as if changing the subject. "I have traveled long and I am parched. Yet I am not offered so much as a simple drink of water."

"Water? I'll do that one better," Dorin huffed. He turned and disappeared into another room. He returned with two metal tankards, one of which he held out to Thranduil. "Good Dwarvish ale, which you'll find to your liking. That is, if you have the head for it."

"I'll have the head for it," Thranduil said, hiding a smile. "But I'm not sure it will be to your liking." He set the tankard down on the table and, without further ado, dropped the necklace into it. The level of the ale rose immediately, and a tiny trickle of liquid ran down the outside.

Beard or no, Dorin's expression changed. Thranduil saw a flash of dismay before the nogoth recovered himself.

"Oh yes," Thranduil went on. "I think that if we dropped an equal weight of mithril and gemstones to this necklace into two identically filled vessels the result might prove to be very enlightening. And before you say a word, Master Dwarf, you may be sure that I have performed this experiment many times at home in Eryn Galen, in the halls of my father, Oropher, the King of that realm."

Dorin sniffed. "Oropher, you say? While he is said to be a bit mad, he also has a reputation for being intelligent enough to have learned the lesson of his kinsman the Greycloak.. Coming alone and unarmed into the halls of the Khazad to make demands is the opposite of intelligent. I wonder if your mother told a deceitful tale to your father about who got the elfling on her?" He paused and crossed his arms over his chest. "Exactly what, Elf, can you do about it?"

"I can do THIS!" Thranduil roared, uncoiling like a striking snake and grabbing Dorin by the throat with one hand. Faster than the eye or mind could register, he had the dwarf up against the stone wall of his chamber with his head brushing the ceiling and his feet hanging in the air. "If you ever wish to breathe again no mention of my mother will pass your lips henceforth. I may share the fate of Thingol, but I will not be insulted by the likes of you!"

They froze in that position for a ragged moment until, directly in front of Thranduil's eyes, a dark spot bloomed on the front of the dwarf's breeches.

"Ai," Thranduil choked and let Dorin drop, suddenly feeling sick at heart. He staggered back and sank into one of Dorin's chairs, letting his face fall forward into his hands.

Immediately there came a pounding at the door. "Dorin? I heard loud voices. Are you all right in there?"

Dorin had raised himself up to all fours and turned his head toward the door. "Oh, Mahal . . ." he whispered.

Calmly, Thranduil prepared to meet his end. Unarmed, he was no match for the captain's axe and the variety of sharp metal-working tools available on Dorin's bench, but he was resolved to knock heads and break limbs before they took him down. What happened next surprised him.

Dorin staggered to his feet and went to the door. "Leave it alone, Narki," he said. "I have an . . . unfortunate disagreement with a patron, but for the moment all is well."

"Are you sure?" Even Thranduil could hear the smirk in the captain's tone.

"Yes, I'm very sure. Now go away and let me work this out."

"As you wish," came the words through the door, as Dorin dropped the latch bar and stuffed a rag in the keyhole for good measure.

While Thranduil watched wide-eyed, Dorin came back to the table and sank into the other chair. He plucked the necklace out of the remaining tankard of ale -- his own had flown across the room when Thranduil grabbed him -- and drained it in a long pull. He set it back down and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. "I think you and I got off on the wrong foot."

Thranduil sat in Dorin’s nursery-sized chair, aware of how ridiculous he must look with his knees up around his ears. Had he really just made someone half his size wet himself? He nodded. "I agree. Shall we begin again?"

"Aye," said the dwarf. "We'll do that. I apologize for what I said. I suppose you Elves are as fond of your mothers as we Khazad are of ours."

Thranduil acknowledged this with a minute bow of his head. "And I am sorry I lost my temper. Violence solves nothing. I would far rather leave here with the necklace I bargained for than get hacked to pieces by you and your cohorts -- if such a thing is possible."

"I'll do my best. You can start by telling me, Prince Thranduil, why you're so cursed fussy about a trinket, solid mithril or no. It's a beautiful piece of jewelry, you'll have to grant that."

Thranduil sighed. How could he explain to this pragmatic metal-crafter that this necklace contained a piece of his heart? That it was love poetry rendered in solid metal, conveying a message that his fettered tongue could not.

"The necklace is intended as a betrothal gift," he said. "We Elves mate for the life of Arda. How could I see it around my wife's neck until the end of all things and know that I have given her something second best, simply because another man held me in contempt?"

"A girl. I see. That makes it different."

"Not just any girl. If she will not have me I will go single to the end of my days. I will never wed. I paid the price in gold you asked, with no haggling, and believe me, it was more than fair. Why did you cheat me, Master Dorin?"

Dorin sighed. "Like you, my lord Elf, over a girl. I needed the extra money."

"I do not hold myself out to be any great expert in matters of the heart, but I would say that if you have to purchase a woman's affections, she is not the right one for you."

"Look who's talking -- a fussy Elf whose handfasting token must be perfect, or else!" said Dorin, making Thranduil incline his head in rueful acknowledgement. "It's also easy for you to say. Your Elf-women are plentiful, and you have all the time in the world to find one who suits you. Among my folk, women are scarce, and, unlike you, I'm not content to live and die a bachelor. I've found a likely lass, but it wasn't so much her I needed to please, as her father. I needed the money for a bride-price."

"You buy your wives?" Sweet Elbereth, but these stunted folk were odd!

"Of course not; nothing so crass, but we consider it the duty of a man with a marriageable daughter to see to it that her future will be secure. The bridal gift is a dowry of sorts, settled upon the woman, and it becomes her own property following the wedding. And of course, if she should choose to be generous and make a gift of part of it to the father who raised her, that is not unheard of either. To make the story short, the gold from your commission came to a tidy enough sum for me to make an offer to my intended's father so that he would give his permission for me to pay court."

"It was a tidy sum indeed," Thranduil said. "I still fail to see why you had to short me on the mithril."

Dorin shook his head. "Not long after I had agreed upon a price with your agent and put my proposition to Brygni's father, another suitor came forward with a better offer. Not much, but just enough to outbid me. I had your mithril. If I replaced some of it with plainsilver I'd be back in the running, I thought, with no one the wiser."

"But I was the wiser. So how do we proceed from here, Master Dwarf? I intend to have the necklace I commissioned and nothing less. Upon that much, I insist."

"And I won't lose Brygni. Upon that I insist. It could happen all too easily. The other suitor is well connected, the sister-son of King Durin's doorwarden, and he's a soldier to boot. Women like a fellow in a uniform, and so do their fathers. If anything goes wrong he'll move back in before I have a chance to blink."

"Soldier?" Suddenly it all came clear. Thranduil realized that Dorin had been embarrassed to show his wet trousers to Captain Narki -- and for good reason. Fear of humiliation in front of a rival was such a slender thread to pin his hopes of survival on. He dare not pull too hard or it would snap. But perhaps he had another bargaining chip. "I see. I sense you feel the need for discretion?"

Dorin nodded. "I'd as soon keep this -- all of it -- between the two of us, if it's the same to you." He paused and sighed. "We have each other by the beard, Elf."

Thranduil rubbed his smooth chin and fought the ghost of a smile. "In a manner of speaking. I am sympathetic, Master Dorin. I do not want to see you lose your sweetheart. But I want what I came for. What will it take for us to break this impasse?"

"I can't do it for nothing. If I rework the necklace with your full measure of mithril, I won't have enough for the bride-price."

Thranduil thought for a moment. It galled him to pay extra, but he was all too aware that he was outnumbered here, deep underground. What's more, as little as he liked Dorin, he could sympathize with his desperation, and there was something about Captain Narki's attitude he liked even less. He pulled a heavy gold ring from the small finger of his right hand. "My father fished this out of the river Ascar before all of Beleriand sank beneath the sea. Will that make up the difference?"

"Perhaps," Dorin said, as if mulling it over. "There's a good bit of gold in here. But they say Beren Camlost put a curse on Menegroth's looted treasure before he sank it in the river."

Thranduil gave a little shrug. "The House of Oropher seems to have suffered no misfortune thus far. Surely you're not afraid of a curse so ancient. Besides, think of the prestige. You, of all your folk would own a piece of Thingol's hoard. I daresay that would impress your ladylove's father."

Dorin nodded. "I'd still have to hire an assistant to help me rework the piece."

"Does it require any great skill?" said Thranduil, sensing that the dwarf was bargaining now. He had little more in the way of money to give.

"Not really. Just an extra pair of hands and a willingness to follow orders. Not that any of the other metal crafters will admit that when they set their wages."

"I have two good hands. And I'm a quick study." Thranduil kept his voice neutral, hoping to disguise the eagerness he felt. He would give much to learn how the Naugrim worked their metal into such a delicate piece of casting, something his father's own silversmiths had told him was beyond their skill.

"Hah! An Elf and a Dwarf working together?"

"It has happened before, if the old tales are true."

"Do you mean that Elf-lord from Hollin who tricked Narvi into writing a mocking term on our very own western doors? 'Black pit' indeed! That's what happens when a Dwarf trusts an Elf."

"Do not hold me accountable for that," Thranduil protested. "My father's folk have little love for the Golodhrim ourselves. And I hear tell it did not turn out well for that elf in the end. This is partly payback for that old insult, is it not?"

Dorin nodded a grudging assent.

"Then it should add to your prestige that I am seen to be following your orders."

"It would at that," Dorin agreed. "Have we a deal, then, Prince Thranduil?"

"We do. You remake the necklace. I pay a little extra. And we both get what we want."

"And neither of us blabs the details of our agreement and what led up to it."

Thranduil cocked an eyebrow. "I thought swindling an elf would add to your renown."

Dorin sighed. "Cutting a sharp deal is one thing. Outright cheating is another. I have enemies who would use it against me. That and . . . other things. I warn you, I plan to give the impression that you are an overly demanding customer whom I am indulging."

"I see. Very well, Master Dorin, I will lose a little face in order to save yours." Thranduil extended his hand, and after a moment's hesitation, Dorin took it. The dwarf's palm felt rough against his, the hand oddly small and out of proportion.

"All right then -- no sense in mucking around. But first, if you will excuse me for a bit . . ." Dorin let go of Thranduil's hand and disappeared into the back room.

Thranduil took advantage of the dwarf's absence to examine the lamp, about which he'd been curious ever since he'd seen the first of them back in the great Hall. It proved to be a simple candle, its flame reflected and magnified by a curved mirror of highly polished copper. The bluish and yellow ones had reflectors of silver and gold respectively, Thranduil surmised.

He jumped back almost guiltily when Dorin re-entered the room wearing a different set of trousers, which Thranduil understood well enough but pretended not to notice. "Your wick needed a trim," he said.

Dorin gave him a look. "Thank you," he replied and went to the workbench. He picked up a mass of something unidentifiable at first and tossed it in Thranduil's direction. "You might as well get started."

"Beeswax. What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Melt it, in that pot there, using the heat from that candle over there. And then, once it's cooled a little, knead it into a firm ball about the size of your fist. That is if those oversized lady's hands of yours are fit for anything other than strumming a harp or combing your hair."

Thranduil narrowed his eyes and resisted pointing out that his hands had been effective enough around Dorin's throat not so long ago and could be once more. He felt vaguely ashamed of becoming violent with someone half his size and really did not want to demean himself by losing his temper again. If the Dwarf wanted to get his money's worth out of lording it over his new 'assistant', Thranduil would be the better man and let him.

Thranduil dropped the roll of beeswax into the pot and lit the candle on the bench. Meanwhile, Dorin busied himself by rummaging through some trunks that stood against the far wall. "Good thing I kept the working drawings your agent provided me. I really wish I knew who had designed this piece. I've seen nothing like it before. I've many a customer who would pay me well for a copy of it."

Thranduil coughed. "It so happens I know the designer. But it never occurred to you to simply copy it?"

Dorin shook his head. "That wouldn't be honest unless he -- or she -- gave me leave."

"Hah -- so you'll steal a man's mithril, but not his ideas? You Naugrim are a strange sort of folk."

"I have my principles, " Dorin replied, glowering from under his bushy eyebrows as he spread the familiar parchment with Thranduil's sketch out on his table and weighted the corners down.

"It's your lucky day then, Master Dwarf, because it just so happens that the designer of that pendant is sitting right here -- ow! -- burning his 'lady hands' with hot wax."

Thranduil held back a smile of satisfaction to see that Dorin's ears pricked up at this information. "You? You made these drawings?"

"I did. Now, this piece is special, unique. I would not want to see it hanging off every neck in Eriador. However, I would not be averse to giving you a design in the same vein, unlike enough so as to be different."

The dwarf nodded. "That would work. It's just, you see . . ." He paused and traced the outline of Thranduil's sketch with his stubby forefinger. "I can't make my lines go all curvy like that. Like the shape was something that grew out of the ground outside. Just can't get my mind around it somehow."

"Well, how else would lines go?" Thranduil said, kneading the soft wax even though it was still warm enough to hurt. "Where do you ever see straight lines?"

"Humph, where ever? Except here," said Dorin, looking around at the angular contours of the room. "Where decent folk live."

"Decent folk," Thranduil muttered, his turn to be huffy. "Elves have lived in caves, you know. The Golodhren king Finrod Felagund lived in a cave. So did our own Elu Thingol." Thranduil himself couldn't imagine living in a cave, though, no matter how impregnable Moria looked to be. Who would trade sunlight and birdsong for safety?

He finished with his kneading and tossed the fist sized lump to Dorin. "Here's your ball of wax, Master Dwarf. What would you have of me next -- candles for pegs so you can bowl a game of ninepins while I toil for you further?"

The dwarf merely glared. He stumped over to the workbench and returned with a handful of tools, hollow reed handles with looped wire of various shapes and diameters sprouting from each end. "There's some sharpened charcoal. Start drawing."

"Where?"

"There's some space in the margins of your drawing. Do you think I'm made of money that I should be overflowing with paper and parchment? Now get to it," he said and began to trim the ball of wax into an elongated oval.

Thranduil shook his head. Give these folk an ell and they would take a league. He almost felt as if he were back at home being ordered about by his father, and he was glad that no one was around to see this humiliation. But looking at his own drawing upside down made it easier for him to see it as a mere shape and alter the lines into something different entirely.

He lost himself in his work and was in the midst of his third design, when Dorin cleared his throat. "Is this to your satisfaction?"

Startled, Thranduil looked up to see what Dorin was referring to. "Yes, that is the pendant, in the size I had expected from my calculations. It is almost perfect, except this one is in wax rather than mithril. Is this supposed to be an improvement? And what, pray, is that spur of wax running off the top?"

"Elves!" said Dorin, with a roll of his eyes that bespoke his impatience with Thranduil's ignorance. "You come to me because your kind hasn't the skill for such a thing, so why don't you leave the crafting of it to me and stop wasting time with silly questions? Now tell me -- is this what you're looking for? Now's the time for any alterations."

Thranduil gave the piece an appraisal. "Since you ask, it should be just a bit more slender there near the top. And that groove should be more deeply incised."

"Very well." Dorin chose a tool with a wide loop to shave a thin curl of wax off the side. Then with a very fine loop no larger than the eye of a needle, he deepened a curving line that ran the length of the piece. "Now?"

Thranduil held back a smile. It was the necklace as he had envisioned it working all those hours alone in his chamber. "That's more like it. Wait -- what are you doing now?" he said as Dorin picked up a tool with a medium loop and made as it to carve again.

"Mahal's mighty rod! Who's the metal-smith here -- me or you?" Dorin said with a shake of his head. "I'm carving out bezels for your moonstones. You didn't think I was going to leave those parts convex, did you?"

Rather than admit that it had not occurred to him, Thranduil began a fourth sketch, surreptitiously watching to see how the dwarf fashioned the settings that would hold his gems.

A short time later, Dorin had finished and set the wax facsimile down on the table.

"Very well," said Thranduil, what now?"

Dorin fetched two jars of powder, a fox hair brush, a pitcher of water, and a pottery bowl. "Mix the dark powder with the light -- the light stuff is slip clay -- about half and half and then add water. Make it about the consistency of heavy cream. Then start painting."

"Painting what?" said Thranduil, following Dorin's directions and stirring the mix with the handle of the brush until it was smooth.

"That wax model of your precious necklace, of course. What did you think I meant you to paint -- your toenails?"

"All that work to carve it and now you want me to cover it up?"

"I do. And mind you work it well into the crevices, because that will affect the fineness of the casting."

Thranduil shook his head and began to daub. He wrinkled his nose. "Elbereth, what a stench! I've smelled sweeter privies."

Dorin nodded. "The darker powder is ground chicken droppings and manure from our pit ponies. It binds the clay and makes a good base for the mold." Ignoring Thranduil's disgusted look he continued, "You have it covered? Good. Now add more clay and keep building up."

Thranduil glared and made sure he wiped the handle of the brush well with his handkerchief after mixing in the extra clay. Meanwhile, Dorin rolled up the various drawings and placed them safely in a chest. Then he added another log to his fire. "More clay. Make it stiffer, and mind you don't cover the spur."

Thranduil worked on until he had a ball of stiff clay about the size of his fist with a little sliver of wax showing out the top. "How is this?"

"That'll do," said Dorin with a grudging nod. "The next step is to dry it and bake it hard. Lucky for us, I can do that part in my own kiln."

The chamber's stone fireplace had an extra niche beside the one where the logs burned. Dorin carried the ball of clay over and set it carefully on a three-legged prop with the visible wax facing downward. Then he set a panel of stone into the doorway of the niche and dogged it down with two metal pivots, sealing the door of the kiln. He threw several logs onto the already substantial blaze and returned to where Thranduil was sitting.

"Are you hungry?" the dwarf asked. "All I have is a loaf of bread and a bit of cold beef, but it's enough for two."

Thranduil nodded assent. He was famished, and he had wondered if Dorin had planned to feed him.

"Probably not what you're used to eating . . . son of a king and all," Dorin said, breaking off a hunk of his loaf and sliding it across the table.

"Oh, I think you might be surprised. My father believes in the simple life, so our fare is mostly game and a little nut bread, with whatever greens are in season. We save the pickled pheasants' tongues for the special occasions." Thranduil took a bite. "This is rather a treat. We don't get wheat flour all that often." It was good, if a little bit gritty.

Dorin filled their empty tankards with water from a copper pitcher. Thranduil slaked his thirst, tasting the odd tang of iron, so unlike the flavor of the pure spring water back home. This strange dark world was all of metal and stone, even in the food, it seemed.

A crumb had fallen and lodged in Dorin's beard. Thranduil watched the hypnotic rise and fall of it as the dwarf chewed stolidly. Beards seemed such inconvenient things, a catch-all for any little thing that might drift past a person's face. He was glad he didn't have one.

After a time, Dorin noticed Thranduil's rapt attention to his chin and casually flicked the offending morsel loose. "Done eating?"

Thranduil nodded. There was nothing left on the table except the mithril necklace, now dry of the ale it had been dipped in. Dorin picked it up and eyed it appraisingly, turning it this way and that in the lamp light.

"We've just enough time before the mold is fully baked," he said. "Fetch me that box of tools from off the bench." While Thranduil did this, Dorin opened a small coffer lined in velvet. Gently and deftly he pried the moonstones from their settings and laid them on the soft fabric. At the same time, he removed the chain. "We don't want these scratched or lost while we cast the new pendant."

By this time the blazing fire had subsided to glowing embers. Dorin handed Thranduil two squares of tightly quilted padding like unto that which the soldiers of Oropher's army wore under their leather armor. "Take away the door panel from the kiln front and pull out the mold. Mind you use these to protect your hands. It'll still be hot."

Thranduil did as he was told, gingerly, trying not to show his discomfort as the heat from the hearth beat against his face. The clay had turned paler -- almost white -- and where the spur of wax had protruded, there was now only a hole leading into the interior of the mold.

Dorin examined the sphere in Thranduil's outstretched hands, balanced carefully on the thick cloth padding, and gave a terse nod of approval. "The wax is all gone. We're ready to cast our mithril."

Understanding came to Thranduil then, like a flash of summer lightning. 'So that's how they do it!' He set the knowledge aside for later. The method did not seem to be beyond the abilities of his father's Silvan metal-workers once it was explained to them. Fine castings would no longer be something the Woodland realm were forced to come to the Naugrim to obtain.

"Are you ready then?"

Thranduil nodded.

"Then we're off to the forges."

* * *


Chapter 3 - The Forging

Part Three: The Forging

"Not here?" Thranduil asked. It felt good to be out in the corridors again after such a long time in that cramped workroom. He halfway expected to see Captain Narki lurking at a safe distance, but the hallway seemed deserted.

"The heat of my hearth is enough to bake clay," Dorin replied. "Mithril takes something more."

They traveled upward, several levels this time, but they moved further into the interior of the mountain by Thranduil's best reckoning.. Thranduil hated to admit it, but he had taken so many twists and turns since entering the gate, so many ups and downs, that he was lost.

The forge room was huge, baking hot, and lit with the reddish light of ranked furnaces. Several dwarves looked up from their work, their faces glistening with perspiration. Being bathed in sweat did not make them smell any better, and Thranduil did his best to breathe shallowly.

"I need to use the high temperature forge," Dorin announced in a tone that indicated he was used to getting his way.

"What's he doing with you?" one of the workers asked, eyeing Thranduil sidelong.

"The Elf is my . . . assistant," Dorin said.

"Pumping your bellows for you, eh?" another said with a knowing wink, and the others laughed.

"Is there some significance to pumping another man's bellows that I am unaware of?" Thranduil whispered, frowning.

"Best you not know, Elf," Dorin shot back under his breath. He cleared his throat and said, "Everybody out."

There was some grumbling at this. "It's for your own safety," Dorin continued and then lowered his voice conspiratorially. "The Elf is deranged."

Thranduil gave Dorin a quick glance, but did his best to look menacing. The other dwarves filed out, muttering in that strange guttural language of theirs.

"Nicely done," Thranduil said, once they were alone. "I assume you do not want them to see what happens next?"

Dorin merely tilted his head to the side and shrugged. "I told you I'd give the impression you were being unreasonable. I had to get them out of here somehow."

The forge itself was the most outlandish array of steel doors, metal pipes, and valves that Thranduil had ever seen. He could not make head or tail of it, and he began to realize that imitating the metal-craft of the Naugrim was not going to be so easy as he had thought. Indeed, it might prove to be impossible, at least insofar as the melting of mithril went. "What do we do now?"

"You -- open the furnace door and shovel in a good load of coal," Dorin said, indicating a large bin of what looked to be black rocks, "and prepare to work that bellows lever. Meanwhile, I'll set up."

"You mean there really is a bellows? I thought . . . oh, never mind." He picked up the shovel and went to work.

"And mind you use a block of wood to flip the latch on the furnace door. That metal is hot." Dorin set the mold down on the ground beside the forge and opened a smaller metal door. He carefully propped two small cones of clay inside the door at eye level. Then he pulled out the pendant. "Last chance, Prince Thranduil. This is your moment of truth. The piece is the loveliest work I've ever done, and there'll be no turning back after this point. Are you sure you want me to do this?"

"Very sure," Thranduil said, straightening his back and resting on the handle of his shovel. "My beloved is worth no less."

Dorin nodded and laid the pendant in a declivity inside the melting chamber. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small lump of bright metal, which Thranduil realized was the portion of mithril the dwarf had withheld.

"So much!" he said, with a soft whistle under his breath. "Do you have any idea how long I had to work at doing my lord father's accounts just to earn that mithril?"

"Aye," said the dwarf with a sad shake of his head. "We all do what we must do. My own beloved is worth no less. But for your cursed keen eye, no one would have been the wiser." He set the small nugget of mithril beside the pendant and shut the door, careful not to topple the two clay cones. "Shut the furnace door and start pumping."

Thranduil did as he was told. The internal fire roared and rumbled. From time to time Dorin used a stick to push aside the little circular cover that hid a small hole in the forge's door. After a few minutes, he turned a lever and a small trickle of molten metal dribbled out.

"There's the silver gone," Dorin said.

"We are done, then?"

Dorin shook his head. "The mithril needs to flow freely -- much hotter than this. Pump harder, Elf, and put your back into it."

Thranduil worked the long lever, blowing more air onto the coal fire. The forge began to rumble and shake as the heat grew. The valves hissed and groaned, and the metal doors glowed reddish, the heat coming off them in waves. It was, Thranduil thought, what it must be like to stand next to a dragon in full fire. If so, he never wanted to come anywhere near a dragon.

Again, Dorin flipped aside the little cover and peered in.

"Now?" Thranduil panted. The sweat was beginning to roll off him.

"When I see what I want through the glory-hole, I'll let you know," Dorin yelled. "Keep pumping."

Thranduil kept at it. His muscles began to feel like boiled leather, and the heat grew so intense that he feared his hair would catch fire.

One more time, Dorin peered through the glory-hole. 'Please, Elbereth, let it be soon,' Thranduil prayed silently, for he had no breath to spare.

Dorin took up the mold and positioned it carefully beneath the spigot. "The hot mithril will burn the fingers right off you if it spills," he said, as he turned the lever to let it flow. At that point, Thranduil could not have cared less. "You can stop now."

Thranduil stood with the perspiration streaming down his face and chest, watching the metal run into the mold. When it was done filling, Dorin dipped a rag in a nearby barrel of water and clapped the soaking cloth to the mold. A cloud of steam burst up with a sudden hiss, making Thranduil jump back.

"Startled you, eh?" Dorin said with a grin. "The steam drives the metal deep into the mold, but the flash can be impressive."

"Is that water for drinking too?" Thranduil asked.

Dorin shook his head no.

"Good," said Thranduil and plunged his head and shoulders into the barrel, coming up with his face and hair dripping. He shook off like a wet dog, sending the droplets scattering to hiss and spit against the metal of the forge. "That's better."

He wrung out the ends of his hair and looked up to see the dwarf grinning at him. "What?"

"Nothing. Just that this is the first time you don't look like you've just stepped out of a tapestry. I was beginning to think you Elves never got dirty."

Thranduil merely shrugged. "Oh we get dirty, especially around dirt. We just like to wash it off." Unlike some, he politely forbore to say. On the way to the door, he stopped and gestured at several ceramic bowls full of the little pointed bits of clay Dorin had placed inside the melting chamber of the forge. "How do these work?

"Different compositions of the clay soften at different temperatures," Dorin replied. "You set them right inside the door of the forge, and when the cone slumps over, you know it's hot enough for your purposes. These are for silver, these are for gold, and this one is for mithril. Needless to say, we don't use very many of those."

Out in the hallway, they were met by a gauntlet of eyes. Wide eyes, staring out from under bushy brows, in all colors from blue to green to that disconcerting brown Thranduil never saw at home. "Are you all right?" he heard someone say.

"Of course," Dorin said. "The furnace is heated, if anyone is of a mind to make use of it. You can thank the Elf, here, for that."

"Narki said --" another began.

Dorin gave an angry shake of his head and a quick chop with his hand, cutting off any further conversation. "Come," he told Thranduil.

Back in the chambers, Dorin set the mold down on his work bench. "I suppose you'll be hungry again?"

"I am. But first . . ." Thranduil looked around. "I would like to, ah, . . ."

"Through the door in the back wall. There's a privy closet with a close-stool in the corner of my sleeping chamber."

Thranduil went through the door, finding he had to duck his head as he did so. The ceiling in Dorin's sleeping chamber was low; the bed was accordingly short. He stood hunched over in the privy closet, feeling like a giant as he took careful aim at a hole in the seat that barely came midway up his shins. He took a quick rinse at Dorin's child-sized wash-stand and returned to the outer chamber.

"Thank you."

"No. Thank you," Dorin replied. "You may not know it, but Elf-pee makes the best green patina for silver that can be found on the Eastern shores."

"Or so legend has it," Thranduil said. "I suppose that's why Narvi put up with Celebrimbor?"

"It's more than just a legend. I gave it a try when your agent paid his visit and used my piss-pot. It's better than any Dwarf urine, or even that from the pit ponies. I'm not sure why."

Thranduil made a wry smile. "I am happy to be of service. And I'm sure Séregon will be as well, once I tell him. Now what?"

"We wait," Dorin said. "The mold needs to cool in its own good time. So you should take the opportunity to eat." He shoved a plate of bread chunks across the table in Thranduil's direction. "And we might as well wet our whistles too, as long as the hard part's over and there's no worry if we get a bit tiddly. I ask you again -- do you have the head for Dwarven ale?"

"I've had Dorwinion wine," Thranduil said, accepting the full tankard from his host. "Nothing could be as strong as that vintage."

"Is that so? We’ll see about that."

To prove the point, Thranduil took a hefty gulp. His first impression was that the pit ponies had made yet another contribution to Dwarven culture, in addition to the clay binder and the patina, but the first rule of courtesy was that one must never insult another man’s drink, even if the man was a nogoth. "Very interesting," he managed to say.

Dorin snickered. "I know what you’re thinking. But give it another try. It grows on you."

Thranduil offered a diplomatic smile and raised his mug in a salute. "Here’s to acquired tastes." His second sip was not so bad. Once past the bitterness, he could taste a hint of nuttiness and grain, not unlike the bread. He took a bit of that bread now and chewed thoughtfully. They complemented each other well. "Nice," he said.

Before he knew it, he had drained the tankard.

"Care for more?" Dorin held out the pitcher.

"I don’t mind if I do." Already, the tips of Thranduil’s ears felt warm, and he felt a glow of cheer that he attributed to the ale. "But I would not like to drink you out of hearth and home."

"Don’t worry about that." Dorin filled Thranduil’s cup and then his own." Once this jug is gone, I have a whole barrel in the back. My brother makes the stuff and keeps me well supplied."

"That is very generous of him."

Dorin shrugged. "We look after each other, and have done so for a long time. I was fifteen when my father was killed in a cave-in in the lower tunnels. My brother was two years younger. If we’d had a sister to bring in a good dowry, things might have been different. But we had none. Out of need, my mother apprenticed me to a silversmith, a miserable old skinflint who starved me and seemed to think he had mastery over me in more than just the metal shop. I set him straight about that soon enough. My brother got off luckier. His master was a merry man, and my brother has continued in that vein."

"Well, he’s good at his trade," said Thranduil. The taste was definitely growing on him. He held out his mug for more.

"He’s a happy man, my brother. We’re both good at what we do. My old master taught me well too, but his meanness made me determined to better myself." Dorin paused and sipped his ale. "I intend to be the purveyor of fine metal-work to kings before I’m done."

"No such luck here," Thranduil said. "I’ll never be a king, but at least I’m royalty. Your ambitions are to be lauded. Your modesty too.""

Either Dorin missed Thranduil‘s irony or he chose to ignore it. "I’m not content like my brother to spend my life drinking up my profits, living alone and letting another man pump my bellows for me."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow at the mention of bellows. So it was a euphemism for bawdy matters after all. But with each sip of ale, he felt a creeping mellowness that made him disinclined to take anything amiss.

"And that’s why I mean to have Brygni," Dorin finished. He let out a belch.

"So what is she like, this lovely Dwarf-lass who will share your worldly goods and raise you up a passel of fine sons to pass it all on to?"

"And daughters," Dorin said, with a wave of his hand that sloshed his ale. "Don’t forget the daughters."

"Of course. How could I forget the daughters?" Thranduil added. He held his mug out for a refill. "A man must have daughters. What is your Brygni like?"

Dorin’s eyes crinkled above his beard while he poured, and his voice took on a gentler tone than Thranduil had heard him use heretofore. "Ah, you should see her, Master Elf! She’s as plump as a young partridge hen that’s been fattened on corn for King Durin’s own table. Her hair -- it’s yellow like yours. It gleams like polished gold. And her beard is the fullest and fluffiest I’ve ever seen on a lass!"

"Beard . . .?" Thranduil said in a small voice. "Your women have beards?" No wonder some Dwarf-men were disinclined to marry.

"Why, of course. We wouldn’t have it any other way." Dorin bent his head and his voice took on a confidential tone. "Among our folk, a full beard on a woman is taken to be a sign of great beauty, indicating that she is as luxuriantly endowed . . . elsewhere. The carpet should match the hangings."

"I see," said Thranduil, wishing he did not. He drained his tankard in a single long pull and held it out for more.

"What is the color of your sweetheart’s beard, then?" Dorin asked.

"Our women have no beards."

"No beard?"

"None at all."

"I feel sorry for you then," said Dorin. "No hair . . . anywhere?"

Thranduil felt his ears turn pink, and he began to stammer out a demurral, when Dorin saved him by upturning the pitcher over his own mug, giving it three shakes and muttering, "All gone. Better get more."

While Dorin trudged into the next room, pitcher in hand, Thranduil was left alone with his thoughts. He recalled the day Lalaithiel had risen naked from the water, granting him a fleeting view of the dark triangle at the base of her belly, as neat and silken-sleek as the pelt of an otter. Now that Dorin had put the idea into his head he wondered what it would feel like against his cupped palm. He rarely allowed himself to dwell on such carnal thoughts. He would not have made it to his present age without disgracing himself otherwise. But now the desire and the uncertainty and the frustration hit him like a body-blow.

He took a deep breath and drained his mug again. Curse it, where was Dorin with the ale?

"Dry already?" said Dorin, reappearing with a head of foam on the pitcher and trickles of dark ale running down the sides. "Take care you don’t put yourself under the table. This ale is stronger than you think."

"I c’n hold my liquor," Thranduil said, although his tongue seemed reluctant to form the words as well as before and the room had begin to spin if he turned his head too quickly.

"More bollocks than sense," Dorin muttered. "What does your betrothed think of you tearing off to Khazad-dûm on some half-baked quest over a bauble? I’ll be honest with you -- you were risking your life. Not every Dwarf would have been as reasonable about it as I was."

"I daresay," said Thranduil dryly. "She is not my betrothed as yet. I intend to make my proposal to her on my return to the Greenwood, when I can give her the hand-fasting gift as it was meant to be. And so as not to worry her, I did not tell her where I was going or why. I merely told her that I had been called away on business of the realm for several fortnights."

Thranduil set down his mug and looked up to see the dwarf peering at him keenly. "How old are you, Elf?"

"I’m not sure. I lost track a while back, but it is something over one hundred and fifty ennin. Why do you ask?"

"Because as long as you’ve lived, you still have a thing or two to learn about women. You can’t keep anything from them. She knows where you are and what you're doing."

Thranduil had no answer. His homecoming, now that it seemed he might actually escape Moria with his skin intact, would be even more complicated than he had expected.

"She must be something special, that you would go to such lengths for her. I‘m sure she‘s beautiful, although to hear you Elves tell it, there doesn‘t exist an elf-lady who isn‘t."

"If you’ve seen the pendant," Thranduil said, "you already know how beautiful she is. It is meant to echo the slender lines of her body, her grace when she moves. I sat in my room alone for hours working on it, drawing and redrawing until I had it just so -- the way she looked the day I first saw her. She has pale grey eyes exactly the color of those moonstones. I’ve never seen anything like them before. I could drown in those eyes."

Dorin laughed. "So does she have a name, this beautiful grey-eyed girl?"

"I’m sure she has a name, but I do not know it. Her folk have secret spirit-names they reveal only to those closest to them."

"Well done, "Dorin said, with an approving nod. "Your lady’s people are as wise as the Khazad in this matter." He let out a soft hiccup.

"She’ll tell me, when and if she accepts my suit and agrees to become my wife. I can only hope." Thranduil sipped his ale and let his face relax into a soft smile. "Until then, I call her Lalaithiel, because she makes me laugh. It’s so good, you see, Dorin, to spend time with her and forget about all the trouble and fuss of my father’s court and to just be myself for a few hours. She lets me carry her basket for her, while she goes around the forest harvesting nuts or roots or whatever it is she does."

"That must be a sight! A prince of the realm following a girl around like a puppy-dog."

"That’s the beautiful part," Thranduil went on. "She doesn’t care a whit that I’m the King’s son. Not at all. We have a special spot, in the clearing where we first met. I built a lean-to out of branches, with my own hands, and we sit there together when the weather turns, watching the rain fall, or the snow come down. When it’s cold she’ll come under my cloak, and I can put my arm around her. In the spring and the summer, I pick flowers and fill the shelter with blossoms. I have a song that I sing for her about an Ent and his Entwife, and another that I wrote myself-- I will build my love a bower, by yon free-flowing fountain, and inside it I will pile all the flowers from the mountain . . ."

He trailed off to find Dorin staring at him wide-eyed. A little speck of foam clung to the tip of his nose. "Oh, Elf . . . You have got it bad!"

Thranduil drew in his breath for a sharp retort and just as swiftly felt the impulse leave him. "You’re right," he said, letting his face split into a silly grin, "I have got it bad."

"You’re not such a bad fellow," Dorin said, "for an Elf."

"And you’re not so bad either, for a Dwarf," Thranduil replied, but in the time it took him to get the words out, Dorin’s head had sagged forward onto his crossed arms. A few ragged snores confirmed he was out cold.

"Hah -- can’t hold his liquor," Thranduil muttered. He drained the last swallow in his mug and looked at the pitcher. "Empty." He had the fleeting desire to refill it, but suddenly the next room seemed like a very long way to walk. What harm could there be in taking a little ease himself? He carefully lowered his head to the table in front of him. "Just resting my eyes . . ."

* * *


Chapter 4 - Aftermath

Part Four: Aftermath

Thranduil cracked open one eye to find the room tipped over onto its side. He blinked, and his brain readjusted itself. It was his face that was tilted to horizontal, still resting on the table where he had collapsed forward the night before. He raised his head and immediately regretted it, when twin spikes of pain jabbed his temples. His mouth tasted like the floor of a stable. "Huitho . . ."

"I see you’re finally coming around." Dorin’s tone was obscenely cheerful. "Are you well?"

Thranduil grunted.

"Dwarven ale exacts a harsh revenge on the morrow if you’re unused to it. I suppose I should have warned you."

This time, Thranduil managed a sour look in the dwarf’s direction. He rose unsteadily to his feet. "’S’cuse me a moment."

"Be my guest. But if you find yourself with a need to bring up last night’s drink, be sure to use the slops bucket. You’ll spoil the patina otherwise."

Thranduil replied with a weak wave of his hand and stumbled into the next room. For a moment, when the smell of stale urine tinged with last night’s ale wafted up at him from the pot, he thought he might have to make use of the slops bucket. But he stood with one palm against the wall for balance, eyes shut, taking deep and careful breaths until the feeling passed. His head continued to throb.

When he returned to the outer chamber, Dorin greeted him with an expectant look. "Better?"

Thranduil nodded. "Better. But I’m afraid your precious patina is mostly water now."

"Can’t be helped," Dorin held out a steaming mug. "Here, drink this. It’ll set you right."

Judging by the smell, Thranduil doubted that. He took a cautious sip and made a face. "Pit ponies . . ."

"Eh?" Dorin didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he held out another chunk of bread. "Care to break your fast?"

Upon the first whiff, with its rich grainy smell so reminiscent of the ale, Thranduil’s stomach rebelled. He shut his eyes and swallowed hard, hoping to avoid the humiliation of a run for the bucket. "No, thank you," he replied wanly. "Perhaps a little later."

"Suit yourself." Dorin paused to flick the morning’s crumbs from his beard and then took up the mold from off the workbench. "It should be cooled now. Are you ready?"

"That is why I am here," said Thranduil. He watched while Dorin took up a cold chisel and a wooden maul. The dwarf gave the mold several sharp raps that sent sympathetic bolts of pain through Thranduil’s head. On the third, the mold split and fell away.

Dorin gave him an expectant look. "Disappointed?"

"No, not at all. I expected it to be rough."

The pendant lay on the table, its surface dull and cloudy, with the spur of metal Dorin had called the sprue sticking off at an odd angle. Rough it was.

"Hmm. What has made you so reasonable all on a sudden?" Without waiting for an answer, Dorin began to cut away at the base of the sprue with a slim three-sided file. Soon, the tiny bit of metal fell away. Dorin swept it up carefully and placed it in the box with the chain and the gems. "Now for the polishing."

He carried the pendant over to the workbench, near a wooden device that consisted of a crank and a horizontal spindle. He slid a largish disk of wood onto the spindle as far as it would go, and paired it with another disk held tight by a smaller collar of wood with a set screw. Between the two, Dorin placed a tightly stitched round of layered muslin with its edges protruding slightly past the supporting disks.

"What’s that?"

"The polishing wheel." Dorin finished snugging the whole assembly tight and gave the set screw a final turn. "You’ll be providing the power. I’ll be doing the work. One wrong move when the wheel is going fast and the piece can fly across the room."

"Suits me," said Thranduil. "If I can pump your bellows for you, I can certainly turn your crank."

Dorin looked at him blankly for a moment and then burst out into guffaws. Thranduil resisted briefly and then followed suit, laughing until lack of breath brought him up short. "Ai, my head."

"And to think my old master told me that Elves had no sense of humor." The dwarf paused to wipe a dribble of spit from his beard. "Go ahead, make yourself useful."

Thranduil did as he was told, turning the crank slowly at first, for the mechanism felt stiff, and then faster as the wheel picked up momentum. He kept on turning while Dorin applied a stick to the edge of the wheel, which he explained was abrasive compound bound with tallow and then held the pendant against it. Twice during the process, Dorin had him pause while he changed wheels and applied a different polishing compound -- a red stick rather than a grey one -- and then to replace the cloth wheel with one of fine felt.

By the time the pendant had been polished to a bright sheen, the ache in Thranduil’s head had subsided to a dull throb. By the time Dorin had set the moonstones and reattached the chain, it was gone entirely.

"Are you satisfied this time, Elf?"

Thranduil took the necklace from the dwarf’s outstretched hand and let the chain run through his fingers. It was light as a feather, exactly the size he had imagined it to fit perfectly just beneath the hollow of Lalaithiel’s throat. Again, words failed him. He nodded.

"Good, because I don’t have it in me to make the dratted thing again. Are we done, then?"

"We are finished, Master Dorin, and I thank you."

"I suppose you’re welcome, then. Never let it be said that we Khazad lack courtesy to match that of the Elves. Can I offer you a bite to eat before I send you on your way?"

Thranduil pondered a moment. It had been long since he ate, but even as empty as he felt, the thought of the grainy taste and texture of the bread failed to appeal. He had some venison jerky in his saddle packs, or, once he was out in the fresh air again, he could look for fiddleheads or berries, food that nature itself could provide. Anything but this alien, Dwarvish food. "I thank you kindly, Master Dorin, but no. I am eager to head for home."

"A sip of ale, perhaps?"

"Ai, Elbereth, no!" Thranduil exclaimed, forgetting courtesy. The very thought made his head threaten to ache again. He caught Dorin grinning at him.

"Hah! Told you you had no head for it."

Thranduil narrowed his eyes. "That may well be, but I challenge you to repeat the experiment with Dorwinion wine, and we’ll see who has the sore head on the morrow."

Dorin merely laughed. "I’ll guide you to the gates, Prince Thranduil."

But at the door, he paused with his hand on the latch. "I know you’ll talk about this in years to come, and I know I will as well. I don’t care much how you tell the tale but . . . have we an understanding?"

"One of my kind getting along with one of yours? It would ruin my reputation if it got out and yours as well, I daresay. Have no fear, Master Dorin. In future, I will speak of you in the most unflattering terms, and I hope you will do the same of me. The secret is safe."

"That’ll do, Elf. Follow me."

Back he led him, through the maze of corridors and staircases. Thranduil recognized little until they reached the great hall, which was as brightly lit as before but oddly quiet. The bridge was easier for him this time, because he knew that beyond it lay the gates and the world outside. He could sense it like a thirsty horse smells water from afar, and his heart lightened at the thought.

Instead of golden sunlight, the light shafts cast only a pale blue glow on the stone floor of the corridor. Of course! Thranduil had not marked the passage of his time spent underground, but he realized he must be seeing the rays of a full moon. Sure enough, the great eastward facing windows of the entry hall let in rectangles of silver moonlight as well as the flickering torch light, but that was not what brought Thranduil up short.

A crowd of dwarves barred the way, their axes a thicket of wickedly sharp and gleaming blades.

"Halt!" Captain Narki stepped to the fore, and the light in his eyes gleamed more wickedly than the axes.

"Oh, nuath . . ." Thranduil whispered. To have come so far, and now this. He had actually allowed himself to think that he would come out of this adventure unscathed. He examined his options and decided he had none, unarmed as he was, with only the narrow bridge and the bottomless chasm as his means of retreat. Dorin would have his gold and his mithril, while Thranduil might soon learn the bitter taste of Dwarvish steel. Trying to force his voice into tones of measured calm, he said more loudly, "My business here is concluded. If you will let me pass I will be on my way and trouble you no further."

"What is this, Narki?" Dorin said quietly.

"We’re rescuing you, fool," Narki barked back. "We dared not assail you when this mad elf held you hostage down below, but I knew he’d have to bring you up sooner or later, and now he shall be held to account. We‘ll teach him his manners the way the Khazad of Belegost taught old King Thingol."

"No," said Dorin.

"No? No . . .?" Narki turned to the crowd, which was already muttering angrily. "Are we to let this insult pass? Who is this arrogant Elf-princeling that he thinks he might march in here making demands and manhandle one of our own? I heard the scuffle from outside your door with my own ears, and I know he was forcing you to do his bidding. Do you deny it, Dorin?"

Thranduil and Dorin exchanged a quick sidelong glance of dismay. The face-saving fiction had rebounded on them, it seemed.

"You’re the fool, Narki. The King of Great Greenwood won’t take kindly to you chopping his son into little pieces."

Narki let out a derisive snort. "Afraid of Oropher, are you? Backwoods upstart ruler over a pack of rustic woods-runners? Oropher can beat his armies to death against the stones of this mountain until he grows a beard like a proper man. He’ll never touch us in here."

"Piss on Oropher! Oropher can go hang himself for all I care. This is about my honor. I guaranteed this elf safe passage to the surface. Once he’s out the door, we can laugh at his retreating backside, but until then, he's under my protection."

"Move aside, Dorin."

"I shall not." Dorin stepped in front of Thranduil and stood with his arms crossed defiantly across his chest. "You’ll have to cut me down too."

Feet shuffled nervously, armor jingled, and the hall echoed with the sound of harsh breathing. A trickle of nervous sweat ran down the center of Thranduil’s back.

Then came a commotion, and a yellow-haired dwarf elbowed through the crowd, bustled up to Dorin, and planted a kiss full on his mouth, their beards mingling in a tangle of cornsilk and mouse brown. Thranduil almost made a face before he realized that, of course, the dwarf-women looked just like the men and he had just laid eyes upon the lovely Brygni. "You were magnificent, Dorin!" she breathed in a deep husky voice.

She linked her arm in his and turned to face the crowd. From the look of things, the matter of her courtship had just been settled, bride-price or no.

"Enough." Thranduil recognized the voice of Durin’s door-warden. "We don’t want a diplomatic incident here. It would be bad for business. Let the Elf pass, Narki."

The Dwarf-captain gave an angry shake of his dark head, but turned and stumped off through the rapidly dispersing crowd. Thranduil finally remembered to take a breath.

A guard appeared bearing weapons.

"Your knife, my lord Elf, and your sword, as promised," said Throin. "And now, Dorin, kindly show Prince Thranduil the way out of Khazad-dûm."

"Happy to oblige, Lord Throin,’ said Dorin, as the great doors ground open.

The night air had never smelled so sweet.

"Go on, get out of here," Dorin said, "And don’t ever come back!"

"Not likely, nogoth." Thranduil strapped on his sword with as much dignity as he could muster. Keeping his head turned to hide his face from the open gates and the sentry post, he silently mouthed, 'Thank you.'

In the moonlight he fancied he saw Dorin give him the faint ghost of a wink. "Bastard!"

"Prick!" Thranduil shot back over his shoulder and headed back down the road to the mere.

The necklace jingled reassuringly in his breast pocket. Now he could face Lalaithiel feeling like a man rather than a weakling boy. He let out a soft whistle and was soon rewarded by the sound of approaching hoof beats. "Hello, old fellow, are you glad to see me?" Gaeroch whuffled into his ear and tickled his cheek with the soft hairs of his muzzle.

Thranduil leaned back against the stallion’s side and stared at the reflection of the full moon in the waters of the mere. Even high in the mountains, the night air laid the balm of summer upon his face. Never had the night sky seemed more beautiful than tonight, when he had feared he might have lost it forever.

Two weeks' ride would bring him home. Lalaithiel would be waiting for him in their spot, where he would give her the necklace and ask the question. He did not know yet what words he would use, but he had a fortnight to compose a speech grand enough for such a momentous proposal.

Even afterward, he would have to be patient, for the custom and courtesy that had been drummed into him from childhood required a one-year wait between betrothal and the speaking of the vows. This was a blink of an eye compared to the long-years of his life, but at the same time, it would be an eternity. Thranduil felt a shiver of anticipation in the pit of his belly at the thought of finally tasting Lalaithiel's lips, and more . . .

The world was young, the mountains green behind their veil of moonlight, and life held endless possibilities. Oh, how he hoped her answer would be yes!
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