Post by Admin on Oct 9, 2022 20:08:57 GMT
Author: WindSurfBabe
Summary: A tale in which losing things is no misfortune, and finding them, no serendipity.
Characters: Celebrimbor, Narvi, Galadriel (mentioned), Sauron/Annatar (mentioned)
Rating: K
Warnings: none
“In Eregion long ago many Elven-rings were made, magic rings as you call them, and they were, of course, of various kinds: some more potent and some less. The lesser rings were only essays in the craft before it was full grown, and to the Elven-smiths they were but trifles--yet still to my mind dangerous for mortals. But the Great Rings, the Rings of Power, they were perilous.”
J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
oOoOoOo
Hollin, SA 1377
He arrived through the West Gate, alone and unannounced. The sun was setting in his back, over the distant Ered Luin and the much closer towers of Ost-in-Edhil. Should he choose to turn around, he would see its spires gleam through the mists of distance, calling him back home, and the waters of the Sirannon shine like molten gold; but Celebrimbor did not turn, leaving the beauty of his city unseen.
What grace Eregion had once possessed had left it through the very gate he was about to enter.
No guards to greet him; the gate needed none. Already, the delicate etchings were starting to shimmer, the ithildin within – the very one he had wrought with his own hands – longing for the touch of the moon.
“Mellon,” Celebrimbor called out and was rewarded as the wall of granite broke open, swinging inwards with a resounding crack that shook the threshold, announcing his arrival into the very depths of Khazad-dûm.
There would be feasting and drinking, that night, for the dwarves that had made the Hithaeglir their home were a merry and generous folk, wont to welcome lord and beggar with the same munificence and abundance of both. While there had once been bad blood between their races – blood spilled in greed and anger – Celebrimbor was proud to count their king, Durin III, as a friend, just as his father and grandfather. Yet it was not Durin’s help Celebrimbor was coming to seek.
Narvi’s quiet wisdom was what he needed most.
Already, a delegation was hurrying to meet him, warned by the ruckus of the gate, and he grinned when he recognized the intricate braids adorning his friend’s tawny beard. There was
a reason why his people were were called Longbeards, Narvi had once explained. To cut a beard short was a sign of laziness, for any self-respecting individual would first take the time to braid it safe from the many fires that blazed inside Durin’s halls. A lush beard, adorned with precious metals and rare gems, was a sign of success, and Celebrimbor was pleased to see that his friend’s status had further improved since their last parting.
“Khâzash-menû,” Narvi exclaimed and opened his arms wide just as Celebrimbor put a knee to the stone to embrace him.
“Narvi, my friend. How long has it been? A decade?”
“Two’s more like it,” a dwarf exclaimed beside them, his weathered face crinkling with amusement, “not that we blame you. You tall folk walk one step where we need two, and so
your journey feels twice as short as ours.”
“So it may be,” Celebrimbor conceded, noticing with a pang of sadness the lines that age and laughter had carved out at the corners of Narvi’s eyes. The mysteries revealed by Annatar had kept him busy, of late, but he had not realized just how swiftly time had flown, outside of his forge. “But I gave my word I would return, and return I have. You short folk drink twice as much as us elves, and so your time flies twice as quicker as ours.”
“Heh,” Narvi chortled, and rose to clap a bejeweled hand upon the other dwarf’s shoulder. “You remember Rûmi, my apprentice?”
“I remember him well.”
Was this truly the young, eager dwarf which had followed their every move when last he had come here, his dark eyes shining with the fires of the forge and those secret fires within, of curiosity and ambition?
“…Married,” Narvi was saying, his voice bursting with pride as though Rûmi had been of his own blood, “and a little one on the way. Tonight, my friend, we shall drink it be a son, a
strong lad to perpetuate his father’s line!”
Celebrimbor’s stomach dropped, as though Narvi had poured cold water into a vat of molten lead, right beneath his heart. Narvi’s own children were of iron and stone, magnificent yet
unfeeling…just as Celebrimbor’s own heritage was like to remain. “May the stars shine upon you and yours,” he ground out as he pushed himself off the ground, ashamed of the envy that stirred inside his chest.
Rûmi merely shrugged; if he had noticed Celebrimbor’s dismay, he said nothing of it, mayhap chalking it off to the strangeness of elven nature that either began, or ended, the majority of dwarven jokes. “If Mahal wills it, I’ll be content if the child is hale and the mother, unharmed.”
“Of course, of course. Now come, let us not stand here idly. A guest has arrived, he must be fed! Before long,” Narvi confided to Celebrimbor as they crossed the vastness of the lower halls, “I’ll be losing him to the joys of fatherhood, left to man the bellows all by myself….”
“…Which is why I am here,” Celebrimbor quipped. “I have felt your distress from afar, my friend, and came to share this new burden.”
“Share?” Narvi turned a skeptical eye towards him, slowing down as he studied Celebrimbor in the light of the many lamps that hung from the nearby pillars, enshrined in many-colored
glass like captured stars. “You bring your own troubles, then?” And, as Celebrimbor did not respond, watching instead as the night coalesced under the ceiling, shrouding the pillar tops in darkness, Narvi added: “Let us drink to our woes, then, and hope that a trouble shared between two weighs twice as lightly upon our hearts.”
oOoOoOo
“This Annatar…he’s not only skilled and clever, you say, but also affable and generous.”
Narvi looked up from the anvil, the iris of his right eye magnified tenfold by the intricate, lens-bearing contraption tied at the back of his head. He raised a hand to turn a miniature wheel on the side of the lens; the size of his eye deflated. “I would call it a blessing to count one such amongst my kin, though we boast many a master amidst our ranks already.”
While he had not asked explicitly, the underlying question was clear.
Celebrimbor sighed. “He is affable indeed, but I do not trust him,” he admitted through clenched teeth, understanding that on his answer – any answer – depended the continuation of
Narvi’s work, which he was impatient to see achieved.
“Why? Do you have reason to suspect him of some hidden motive?”
“None whatsoever.”
Narvi studied him again, his mismatched eyes blinking slowly as though it was no elf he was looking at but a bar of steel, wondering what to make of it. At length he harrumphed and
fiddled with the thumbwheel once more, returning his attention to the golden shape that lay upon the anvil. Without looking, Narvi seized the pliers that hung from his toolbelt and placed the object upon the nose of the anvil. “Almost done,” he announced, “come and see.”
Celebrimbor rose from the low stool he had huddled upon after Rûmi’s departure, and came to stand by Narvi’s side. The forges of Khazad-dûm never slept, and silence had no place in
this realm of toil and creation; yet even in the heat of the day, Narvi’s workshop was quieter than the rest of the halls, and more so in such small hours of the night, when most of the mountain-dwellers dreamt in their beds of stone. Here, only the clang of his hammer disturbed the steady hum composed of all the noises Celebrimbor had grown so accustomed to: the low, almost inaudible crackling of the furnace, and the creaking of the giant iron wheel, somewhere far below their feet – the very wheel that powered the forge itself.
But what powered the wheel? Celebrimbor found himself wondering once more.
Despite their friendship, Narvi had proven unusually secretive on the matter, and he was starting to suspect that the ‘nothing unnatural’ he had been offered was more than fire and
hydraulics. Celebrimbor’s only hope lay in the certainty that dwarves were a reasonable folk, and that the source of their prosperity was likely some unfortunate mountain troll, caught and enslaved until it expired of exhaustion.
“Grab a glove,” Narvi grunted as he soldered the piece together before filing the sharpness off its edges. “Not my best work, but….” He shrugged, before dropping the object into
Celebrimbor’s awaiting palm. “You tell me if this is what you seek.”
Celebrimbor held his breath as he brought the thing up towards the light.
Nested in the folds of well-worn leather, the ring shone dully, reflecting the glowing coals of the furnace. The surface, yet unadorned, was silken-smooth; a promise of spells engraved to reinforce the intention he had infused into the metal, whispering into his cupped hands the purest emotion of all.
Yet the ring was empty. Dead. It held nothing of the rawness that had seized Celebrimbor by the throat, choking the words out of him for the third time that night.
Useless.
He closed his fist with a grimace, relishing how easily the metal bent to his strength.
Hours of hard work, for nothing.
First, he had attempted to achieve what Annatar had promised to be possible – twice – before allowing Narvi to try and wrench some magic into a soulless roll of golden wire. To no avail. Had Annatar lied? Or was he, Celebrimbor, unable to achieve something Annatar could with those slender, golden-nailed hands of his?
“Eh, I’ve been thinking…it might be we’re doing it wrong,” Narvi offered as he watched Celebrimbor toss the ball of cooling metal into the furnace. He stood and shook off the bits of golden wire that peppered his beard, before pulling on a lever placed at arm’s height. The furnace roared back to life; the heat it spewed all but singed Celebrimbor’s eyebrows.
“What do you mean?” Celebrimbor huffed, rubbing the sting off his skin with his ungloved hand.
“Well, wire’s a good place to start for an ordinary ring. Even the most unskilled of apprentices can do that and you and I, my friend, are anything but.” He smiled, relishing
Celebrimbor’s confusion, before striding to rummage in the countless shelves that lined the wall of his workshop. Drawers of all sizes had been fitted into the stone alcoves, engraved in Khuzdul to mark their contents. “Aha!”
He returned with a square object held between his hands – a mold, as Celebrimbor soon discovered, hollowed out in the shape of a ring.
“One of Rûmi’s first projects,” Narvi fondly chuckled, “before the lad knew better than to melt anything he could get his hands on. Yet it may just serve our purpose, my friend.” He set the mold onto the workbench between them, squinting at the crudeness of the design inside.
“A wire’s already been forged, aye? It’s been bent to the craftsman’s will, with the simple intention of becoming something else, something useful. Mayhap this project of yours
requires to start from scratch.”
And start again they did.
This time, Celebrimbor bent over the crucible where bubbled the purest gold Narvi could find – untamed and untainted, one he could alloy with a piece of himself. This time, he must
succeed.
If he did…oh, if he did! Artanis may yet return to Eregion, from the confines of Middle-Earth where she had fled in her unease about Annatar. Her wariness alone had been enough to wake his own suspicions regarding the newcomer, suspicions he could not assuage no matter how hardworking and generous Annatar had proven; and though Celebrimbor would never confess
to it, those suspicions he soon knew to name jealousy.
The heat that rose from the bright, shivering surface brought tears to his eyes but he ignored the discomfort of the flesh, concentrating instead on the ache inside his heart, the bleeding, hollow place Artanis had left in her wake.
A wound that would never fully heal.
Celebrimbor closed his eyes.
With time, he had accepted the immutable truth. Artanis would never be his, no more than copper could be turned into gold; even her new name, obtained from the lips of her lover, did not hurt as much as it used to. It was one thing, however, to admire her from afar, and another entirely to be deprived of her presence due to Annatar’s.
Him again!
Celebrimbor clenched his jaw. The other smiths valued Annatar’s counsel, and marveled at the knowledge he dispensed so freely. Celebrimbor could not help but marvel as well at the
possibilities he had yet but glimpsed, like a child peeking into his mother’s jewelry box. Yet where the others yearned to start anew, and make Middle-Earth into Aman reborn,
Celebrimbor desired nothing more than to continue.
Artanis had not chosen him; she belonged to another. He asked nothing of the Valar but to live as they had lived before: Artanis safe within his sight, unreachable but present. If
Celebrimbor succeeded, they would no longer have need of Annatar, and Artanis would return.
Those were the wishes he whispered over the gold before him, willing the metal to accept a love Artanis had not.
“I believe it’s time,” Narvi declared.
Celebrimbor opened his eyes to seize the pliers his friend had proffered. He poured the shimmering liquid into the mold before sealing the spell with one last, wordless prayer; and
then they were left to wait and drink to their troubles, just as Narvi had promised.
oOoOoOo
“It worked,” Celebrimbor muttered in disbelief.
The ring was heavy in his hand, more so than an ordinary trinket. The freshly polished surface bore an artless design of flowers and vines – Rûmi’s involuntary contribution to progress – but where it caught the light of the fire, it altered the world reflected within.
“Good,” Narvi nodded in approval as he looped his thumbs around his toolbelt, poking his large nose into Celebrimbor’s palm to better admire his creation.
“It worked,” Celebrimbor repeated in a hollow voice, “but not in the way I intended.”
The reflections in the ring warped and twisted, so that Narvi’s familiar features were contorted beyond recognition, and even Celebrimbor’s own face appeared to grimace until he
touched a hand to his cheek to ensure it was not so. And as he closed his fingers around the ring, he felt it.
Bitterness.
This was what he had imbued the gold with; his own resentment and weakness. The ring called out to him, a plaintive whine that found echo in the dull ache in his back from hours of
uncomfortable seating, and the grittiness in his eyes. It fed off the hunger that growled in his stomach, and the sudden annoyance at Narvi’s solicitous presence.
Celebrimbor fought the urge to shove the dwarf away, to wipe the satisfied smirk off his face with a well-aimed retort. Could he not see they had failed? He flinched at the loud lapping that filled his ears as the dwarf downed the remains of his cup…and belched.
His grip on the ring tightened.
“What’s the matter, my friend?” Narvi barked out, “You look like you’ve seen a wraith.”
The angry words almost tumbled from his tongue…almost. This was not Narvi; this was not his long-time friend, whose voice was the gentlest he knew. This was not Celebrimbor
himself. It was the temper of his father, and his grandfather…a heritage he had vowed to overcome. Celebrimbor’s grasp on the ring lessened, until the disquieting bauble bounced off
the stone slabs and rolled towards the door.
Narvi stomped his boot, stopping its course, and bent to pick it up. “What’s wrong with it?”
Celebrimbor pulled off his glove and threw it onto the workbench, flexing his fingers before he raised them to rub his temples. “It is irritating.”
Narvi snorted; a kindly, pleasant sound. “I can see that.”
“No. I mean it is irritating – in the sense that it annoys those that would wear it.”
“Oh, does it?” His friend adjusted his lens to take a better view, scrutinizing the ring as though attempting to discern, beneath the clumsy adorning, the trouble brewing within the
metal. “Congratulations. You’ve created the first ever ring to bring a foul mood. Not quite what the world needs, I reckon.”
“Destroy it.” Celebrimbor waved a weary hand towards the hearth. He would have to start again. Tomorrow, and the day after, if need be. Time imported little; only mattered the result.
“As you wish.”
Narvi grunted as he bent to open the sliding door of the furnace. The ring glinted amidst the leathery folds of his hand like a yellow eye, slumbering yet watchful, biding its time.
Celebrimbor mused how strange it was, to think of a jewel in such a manner. In truth, it had felt alive….
Before he could speak up and warn Narvi, the ring had slipped out of his friend’s grasp.
It rebounded on the steely tip of Narvi’s boot with a triumphant tinkle, then off the pedestal the anvil stood upon, before tracing a golden trail across the room and into a crack in the stone, beneath the well that served to quench the pieces Narvi forged.
Celebrimbor leapt after it, wedging his fingers into the gap, encountering nothing but water.
“Eh, leave it,” the dwarf called out. “It has nowhere to go. The stream that fills this well runs deep under the mountains. Your ring will sleep there forever, and never again will it trouble a soul.” He lay a hand on Celebrimbor’s arm. “Now come. The dawn has risen, and my belly’s as empty as a bad minstrel’s purse.”
Celebrimbor reluctantly obeyed. With a baleful look towards the hole under the well, he wiped his hands on his thighs, reluctant to abandon what he had begun – his creation, and the
promise of more to come, until he could match Annatar’s skill. Feänor’s skill, a small voice whispered in Celebrimbor’s mind.
He smothered it.
“Very well. But….”
“I know, I know. We shall try again later, my friend, you have my word, but hunger is a lousy assistant. Speaking of which….” Narvi stalked towards the door, and threw it open with an impetuous shove. “Rûmi!” he bellowed, “Rûmi! By Mahal, where’s he run off to?” He caught a passing dwarf by the sleeve. “You. Watch the forge. I won’t be long.”
Celebrimbor had to concede that Narvi had a point. His own stomach protested against being thus deprived of nourishment, and his mind seemed diminished as well – a consequence,
mayhap, of his hunger. He smiled.
Even after all these years, dwarven wisdom never ceased to surprise him.
oOoOoOo
Hollin, SR 1505
Bero Bunce had never learnt how to fish or, rather, no-one had taught him, and he was too timid to try it out by himself. Stories went – awful stories, ofttimes told by Grandma Well, aptly named for both her appetite and her customary “Well, whatcha looking at? Scram!” whenever she wasn’t feeling talkative – about little boys and little girls who came too close to the water, and got whisked away by some water creature, never to be seen again. Grandma Well’s favorite illustration for the veracity of her tales had been the disappearance of some distant cousin of her mother on the occasion of a fishing trip, so long ago that no-one – not even Grandma Well – could remember his name. Once grown up, Bero had understood the aim had merely been to keep her flock of grandchildren out of trouble while she sat by her house and puffed on her pipe, wordlessly competing for the biggest smoke ring with old Melampus Pott that lived right across the road; but the tales had stuck with him just as Grandma Well’s nickname had with her. Even now, comfortably perched upon a sunny bank of the Swanfleet, high enough to be safe from the cold, creeping fingers of whatever lived under the surface, Bero remembered the stories, and kept his feet well away from the waterline.
Bero’s stomach grumbled.
Give a man a fish, his father used to say, and he’ll be sated for a day. Bero had forgotten the rest of the saying, and his father was no longer around to remind him. Master Dinodas, for his part, hadn’t seemed intent on sharing his fare with Bero, fish or otherwise, and now enjoyed a hearty meal, propped against the wheel of his cart, protected by the two fierce-looking dwarves he’d hired for the journey. Bero, who’d suffered from the first pangs of hunger shortly after they’d left Larnwick, hadn’t dared ask Master Dinodas for a bite.
Master Dinodas was well-renowned across the Shire and the Westmarch for his avarice, as well as the swiftness of his ire; but he paid well, and so Otton Bunce, Bero’s late and much
beloved father, had taken the matter of his son’s fate in his capable hands, and had approached Master Dinodas with the proposal of hiring Bero as an handyman. Whatever Otton had told Master Dinodas regarding Bero’s character had been lost to history, but the older hobbit had taken a long, hard look at the young Bero, and declared: “Very well, but I
shan’t supply his food.”
And so the deal had been struck. Ever since, Bero had accompanied Master Dinodas in his travels from the Shire down to Tharbad, and sometimes as far as Dunland, if Master Dinodas
thought he could sell anything there. Their present journey was a rare occasion, much to Bero’s relief; he knew from others’ experience that the rills and streams around the Shire
were free of water-dwelling folk, but hadn’t yet been acquainted with this particular river. He sucked on the stem of a marigold, trying to extract the sweet sap it contained through much suckling and slurping, but the flower provided a meager sustenance to the round little belly that strained the buttons of his vest.
In truth, Bero could’ve bought a bite to eat from the amiable taverner in Larnwick, the village of men they’d stopped at for the night, a little off the North-South Road, but he was saving his earnings for something far more important. Caramella Took, the fairest girl in the Shire and daughter of the Thain himself, had graced him with a dimpled smile during the Lithedays, and Bero had been smitten ever since.
He wasn’t the only one. Caramella was a merry girl, prone to smiling, which led to an abundance of suitors throughout the Shire, some much better off than a merchant’s handyman. Saradoc Brandybuck, for one. Bero scowled and tossed the now-limp marigold into the river, watching dejectedly as it slowly released its petals into the stream.
It was then that he saw it: a glimmer under the surface, some ten steps away.
Had Bero been a water creature lurking in search of a prey and tired of waiting, he too would’ve found a way to lure its victim closer to its reach. The creature would soon
understand, however, that a respectable hobbit from the Shire wasn’t so easily fooled.
And yet…if this was indeed something worth investigating? Had Saradoc been here, no doubt he would’ve gone to see what it was, and then bragged about his findings to anyone in the
Green Dragon willing to listen. Caramella, for instance, who’d rest her rosy cheek on one small hand and hearken, wide-eyed and enraptured, to the exaggerated tale of Saradoc’s
bravery.
Bero scoffed. Everyone in between Deephole and Little Delving knew that Saradoc’s grandfather, Meriadoc Brandybuck, had fought in the War and served the King of Rohan himself, despite an early reputation for laziness and trouble; Saradoc liked to recount his ancestor’s tale, hinting he was destined for the same glorious fate. That, and the great fortune
of the Brandybucks, was enough to make any girl sigh with hope.
Bero was the son of a farrier, who in turn was the son of a farmer himself; his family could boast little else than exceptional good health, and a notable circumference around the waist.
The glimmer appeared again, at the whim of the stream that rolled over submerged rocks.
Bero almost thought his eyes had deceived him, and that it was nothing but the sun’s play on the water, but a passing cloud proved him wrong.
There was something in the river. Something golden.
Bero cast a glance to where Master Dinodas was enjoying his lunch in the sullen company of the dwarven brothers. Should this truly prove a river monster’s trick, would they pull him
out? Bero reasoned they would, only to deduct the price of their troubles from his wages.
With small, cautious steps he approached the sandy bank, his toes but a thumb away from the water that lapped the shore. The glimmer remained, winking at Bero from beneath a
submerged branch whose shoots protruded above the surface, slippery with spray and rot.
Bero hissed as he stepped into the stream, splashing gracelessly until he reached the spot. He rolled up his sleeve with care, and plunged his hand into the sand.
It was a ring – a golden ring, intricately engraved with flowers that sprouted one from another in an endless circle.
Bero knew nothing about jewelry. Master Dinodas traded in a little of this and a little of that, from pickaxes to buttons, asking for coin in exchange for news from around the world – something Bero never would’ve thought of, chatty as he was, too glad to wag his tongue for nothing – yet sometimes he did receive payment in the form of family jewels, from those of his customers who couldn’t afford the wares they direly needed. Bero had seen those pieces, for he was tasked with consigning what went in and out of the cart on the great, leather-bound ledger Master Dinodas had warned him to guard with his life. Bero doubted it would ever come to it, but he knew that nothing inside Master Dinodas’ cart – including the old, scratched bands the women slipped off their fingers in exchange for a potion for their babe’s aching stomach, was worth half as much as what this ring could cost.
It was heavy; real gold through and through. Bero itched to put it to the test just as he’d seen Master Dinodas do, but loath to leave a mark of his own teeth upon the surface.
It was beautiful.
Elven, if Bero had to wager, remembering Grandma Well’s stories. Inestimable in its rarity; a treasure Master Dinodas wouldn’t fail to get his pudgy hands on the moment he’d see it,
under one pretense or another. In fact, the longer Bero stared at the ring in his palm, the more his anger with the peddler grew. If not for Dinodas, he wouldn’t have found himself in the middle of wilderness, far away from the Shire and from Caramella who, no doubt, was having her shapely ears talked off by Saradoc at this very moment, and filled with pretty lies. He wouldn’t be standing knee-deep in freezing water, forced to comb through river-bottoms with his bare hands to have something better to bring back but foot sores and an a few measly coins.
But now, Bero had this ring.
Now, everything was possible. Brandybuck or no, Bero was yet to see Saradoc sport a better proposal gift than the one he, a lowly Bunce, now possessed. Only, he’d have to find a story to go with it, a tale of some dashing rescue and an elven maid’s gratitude for his bravery. The Thain would certainly be impressed, entrusting his only daughter’s hand with a hobbit so capable. Bero imagined the way Caramella’s rosy cheeks would flush with delight as he slipped the token on the only finger it was worthy of, and the sweetness of those smiling lips.
He closed his hand over the ring.
Their life together would be merry, filled with joy and children. With time, Caramella would even grow accustomed to a house quite smaller than the one she’d grown up in; Bero would
work twice as hard to keep her happy, he vowed, pushing down a surge of bitterness at the thought of her initial dismay.
This jewel…it was a blessing, a sign from above that those born in wealth weren’t privy to happiness. Bero didn’t spare a thought for the man careless enough to lose such a treasure.
Now, it belonged to him.
oOoOoOo
A.N.:
- Dates: “SA” = Second Age, “SR” = Shire Reckoning (Fourth Age).
- “Khâzash-menû” = Khuzdul for “my friend” (or so I hope).
- Artanis (meaning ‘noble-woman’ is Galadriel’s Father-name. Galadriel is the Sindarin version of the name Celeborn gave her, which means ‘maiden crowned with a garland of
bright radiance’.
Summary: A tale in which losing things is no misfortune, and finding them, no serendipity.
Characters: Celebrimbor, Narvi, Galadriel (mentioned), Sauron/Annatar (mentioned)
Rating: K
Warnings: none
“In Eregion long ago many Elven-rings were made, magic rings as you call them, and they were, of course, of various kinds: some more potent and some less. The lesser rings were only essays in the craft before it was full grown, and to the Elven-smiths they were but trifles--yet still to my mind dangerous for mortals. But the Great Rings, the Rings of Power, they were perilous.”
J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
oOoOoOo
Hollin, SA 1377
He arrived through the West Gate, alone and unannounced. The sun was setting in his back, over the distant Ered Luin and the much closer towers of Ost-in-Edhil. Should he choose to turn around, he would see its spires gleam through the mists of distance, calling him back home, and the waters of the Sirannon shine like molten gold; but Celebrimbor did not turn, leaving the beauty of his city unseen.
What grace Eregion had once possessed had left it through the very gate he was about to enter.
No guards to greet him; the gate needed none. Already, the delicate etchings were starting to shimmer, the ithildin within – the very one he had wrought with his own hands – longing for the touch of the moon.
“Mellon,” Celebrimbor called out and was rewarded as the wall of granite broke open, swinging inwards with a resounding crack that shook the threshold, announcing his arrival into the very depths of Khazad-dûm.
There would be feasting and drinking, that night, for the dwarves that had made the Hithaeglir their home were a merry and generous folk, wont to welcome lord and beggar with the same munificence and abundance of both. While there had once been bad blood between their races – blood spilled in greed and anger – Celebrimbor was proud to count their king, Durin III, as a friend, just as his father and grandfather. Yet it was not Durin’s help Celebrimbor was coming to seek.
Narvi’s quiet wisdom was what he needed most.
Already, a delegation was hurrying to meet him, warned by the ruckus of the gate, and he grinned when he recognized the intricate braids adorning his friend’s tawny beard. There was
a reason why his people were were called Longbeards, Narvi had once explained. To cut a beard short was a sign of laziness, for any self-respecting individual would first take the time to braid it safe from the many fires that blazed inside Durin’s halls. A lush beard, adorned with precious metals and rare gems, was a sign of success, and Celebrimbor was pleased to see that his friend’s status had further improved since their last parting.
“Khâzash-menû,” Narvi exclaimed and opened his arms wide just as Celebrimbor put a knee to the stone to embrace him.
“Narvi, my friend. How long has it been? A decade?”
“Two’s more like it,” a dwarf exclaimed beside them, his weathered face crinkling with amusement, “not that we blame you. You tall folk walk one step where we need two, and so
your journey feels twice as short as ours.”
“So it may be,” Celebrimbor conceded, noticing with a pang of sadness the lines that age and laughter had carved out at the corners of Narvi’s eyes. The mysteries revealed by Annatar had kept him busy, of late, but he had not realized just how swiftly time had flown, outside of his forge. “But I gave my word I would return, and return I have. You short folk drink twice as much as us elves, and so your time flies twice as quicker as ours.”
“Heh,” Narvi chortled, and rose to clap a bejeweled hand upon the other dwarf’s shoulder. “You remember Rûmi, my apprentice?”
“I remember him well.”
Was this truly the young, eager dwarf which had followed their every move when last he had come here, his dark eyes shining with the fires of the forge and those secret fires within, of curiosity and ambition?
“…Married,” Narvi was saying, his voice bursting with pride as though Rûmi had been of his own blood, “and a little one on the way. Tonight, my friend, we shall drink it be a son, a
strong lad to perpetuate his father’s line!”
Celebrimbor’s stomach dropped, as though Narvi had poured cold water into a vat of molten lead, right beneath his heart. Narvi’s own children were of iron and stone, magnificent yet
unfeeling…just as Celebrimbor’s own heritage was like to remain. “May the stars shine upon you and yours,” he ground out as he pushed himself off the ground, ashamed of the envy that stirred inside his chest.
Rûmi merely shrugged; if he had noticed Celebrimbor’s dismay, he said nothing of it, mayhap chalking it off to the strangeness of elven nature that either began, or ended, the majority of dwarven jokes. “If Mahal wills it, I’ll be content if the child is hale and the mother, unharmed.”
“Of course, of course. Now come, let us not stand here idly. A guest has arrived, he must be fed! Before long,” Narvi confided to Celebrimbor as they crossed the vastness of the lower halls, “I’ll be losing him to the joys of fatherhood, left to man the bellows all by myself….”
“…Which is why I am here,” Celebrimbor quipped. “I have felt your distress from afar, my friend, and came to share this new burden.”
“Share?” Narvi turned a skeptical eye towards him, slowing down as he studied Celebrimbor in the light of the many lamps that hung from the nearby pillars, enshrined in many-colored
glass like captured stars. “You bring your own troubles, then?” And, as Celebrimbor did not respond, watching instead as the night coalesced under the ceiling, shrouding the pillar tops in darkness, Narvi added: “Let us drink to our woes, then, and hope that a trouble shared between two weighs twice as lightly upon our hearts.”
oOoOoOo
“This Annatar…he’s not only skilled and clever, you say, but also affable and generous.”
Narvi looked up from the anvil, the iris of his right eye magnified tenfold by the intricate, lens-bearing contraption tied at the back of his head. He raised a hand to turn a miniature wheel on the side of the lens; the size of his eye deflated. “I would call it a blessing to count one such amongst my kin, though we boast many a master amidst our ranks already.”
While he had not asked explicitly, the underlying question was clear.
Celebrimbor sighed. “He is affable indeed, but I do not trust him,” he admitted through clenched teeth, understanding that on his answer – any answer – depended the continuation of
Narvi’s work, which he was impatient to see achieved.
“Why? Do you have reason to suspect him of some hidden motive?”
“None whatsoever.”
Narvi studied him again, his mismatched eyes blinking slowly as though it was no elf he was looking at but a bar of steel, wondering what to make of it. At length he harrumphed and
fiddled with the thumbwheel once more, returning his attention to the golden shape that lay upon the anvil. Without looking, Narvi seized the pliers that hung from his toolbelt and placed the object upon the nose of the anvil. “Almost done,” he announced, “come and see.”
Celebrimbor rose from the low stool he had huddled upon after Rûmi’s departure, and came to stand by Narvi’s side. The forges of Khazad-dûm never slept, and silence had no place in
this realm of toil and creation; yet even in the heat of the day, Narvi’s workshop was quieter than the rest of the halls, and more so in such small hours of the night, when most of the mountain-dwellers dreamt in their beds of stone. Here, only the clang of his hammer disturbed the steady hum composed of all the noises Celebrimbor had grown so accustomed to: the low, almost inaudible crackling of the furnace, and the creaking of the giant iron wheel, somewhere far below their feet – the very wheel that powered the forge itself.
But what powered the wheel? Celebrimbor found himself wondering once more.
Despite their friendship, Narvi had proven unusually secretive on the matter, and he was starting to suspect that the ‘nothing unnatural’ he had been offered was more than fire and
hydraulics. Celebrimbor’s only hope lay in the certainty that dwarves were a reasonable folk, and that the source of their prosperity was likely some unfortunate mountain troll, caught and enslaved until it expired of exhaustion.
“Grab a glove,” Narvi grunted as he soldered the piece together before filing the sharpness off its edges. “Not my best work, but….” He shrugged, before dropping the object into
Celebrimbor’s awaiting palm. “You tell me if this is what you seek.”
Celebrimbor held his breath as he brought the thing up towards the light.
Nested in the folds of well-worn leather, the ring shone dully, reflecting the glowing coals of the furnace. The surface, yet unadorned, was silken-smooth; a promise of spells engraved to reinforce the intention he had infused into the metal, whispering into his cupped hands the purest emotion of all.
Yet the ring was empty. Dead. It held nothing of the rawness that had seized Celebrimbor by the throat, choking the words out of him for the third time that night.
Useless.
He closed his fist with a grimace, relishing how easily the metal bent to his strength.
Hours of hard work, for nothing.
First, he had attempted to achieve what Annatar had promised to be possible – twice – before allowing Narvi to try and wrench some magic into a soulless roll of golden wire. To no avail. Had Annatar lied? Or was he, Celebrimbor, unable to achieve something Annatar could with those slender, golden-nailed hands of his?
“Eh, I’ve been thinking…it might be we’re doing it wrong,” Narvi offered as he watched Celebrimbor toss the ball of cooling metal into the furnace. He stood and shook off the bits of golden wire that peppered his beard, before pulling on a lever placed at arm’s height. The furnace roared back to life; the heat it spewed all but singed Celebrimbor’s eyebrows.
“What do you mean?” Celebrimbor huffed, rubbing the sting off his skin with his ungloved hand.
“Well, wire’s a good place to start for an ordinary ring. Even the most unskilled of apprentices can do that and you and I, my friend, are anything but.” He smiled, relishing
Celebrimbor’s confusion, before striding to rummage in the countless shelves that lined the wall of his workshop. Drawers of all sizes had been fitted into the stone alcoves, engraved in Khuzdul to mark their contents. “Aha!”
He returned with a square object held between his hands – a mold, as Celebrimbor soon discovered, hollowed out in the shape of a ring.
“One of Rûmi’s first projects,” Narvi fondly chuckled, “before the lad knew better than to melt anything he could get his hands on. Yet it may just serve our purpose, my friend.” He set the mold onto the workbench between them, squinting at the crudeness of the design inside.
“A wire’s already been forged, aye? It’s been bent to the craftsman’s will, with the simple intention of becoming something else, something useful. Mayhap this project of yours
requires to start from scratch.”
And start again they did.
This time, Celebrimbor bent over the crucible where bubbled the purest gold Narvi could find – untamed and untainted, one he could alloy with a piece of himself. This time, he must
succeed.
If he did…oh, if he did! Artanis may yet return to Eregion, from the confines of Middle-Earth where she had fled in her unease about Annatar. Her wariness alone had been enough to wake his own suspicions regarding the newcomer, suspicions he could not assuage no matter how hardworking and generous Annatar had proven; and though Celebrimbor would never confess
to it, those suspicions he soon knew to name jealousy.
The heat that rose from the bright, shivering surface brought tears to his eyes but he ignored the discomfort of the flesh, concentrating instead on the ache inside his heart, the bleeding, hollow place Artanis had left in her wake.
A wound that would never fully heal.
Celebrimbor closed his eyes.
With time, he had accepted the immutable truth. Artanis would never be his, no more than copper could be turned into gold; even her new name, obtained from the lips of her lover, did not hurt as much as it used to. It was one thing, however, to admire her from afar, and another entirely to be deprived of her presence due to Annatar’s.
Him again!
Celebrimbor clenched his jaw. The other smiths valued Annatar’s counsel, and marveled at the knowledge he dispensed so freely. Celebrimbor could not help but marvel as well at the
possibilities he had yet but glimpsed, like a child peeking into his mother’s jewelry box. Yet where the others yearned to start anew, and make Middle-Earth into Aman reborn,
Celebrimbor desired nothing more than to continue.
Artanis had not chosen him; she belonged to another. He asked nothing of the Valar but to live as they had lived before: Artanis safe within his sight, unreachable but present. If
Celebrimbor succeeded, they would no longer have need of Annatar, and Artanis would return.
Those were the wishes he whispered over the gold before him, willing the metal to accept a love Artanis had not.
“I believe it’s time,” Narvi declared.
Celebrimbor opened his eyes to seize the pliers his friend had proffered. He poured the shimmering liquid into the mold before sealing the spell with one last, wordless prayer; and
then they were left to wait and drink to their troubles, just as Narvi had promised.
oOoOoOo
“It worked,” Celebrimbor muttered in disbelief.
The ring was heavy in his hand, more so than an ordinary trinket. The freshly polished surface bore an artless design of flowers and vines – Rûmi’s involuntary contribution to progress – but where it caught the light of the fire, it altered the world reflected within.
“Good,” Narvi nodded in approval as he looped his thumbs around his toolbelt, poking his large nose into Celebrimbor’s palm to better admire his creation.
“It worked,” Celebrimbor repeated in a hollow voice, “but not in the way I intended.”
The reflections in the ring warped and twisted, so that Narvi’s familiar features were contorted beyond recognition, and even Celebrimbor’s own face appeared to grimace until he
touched a hand to his cheek to ensure it was not so. And as he closed his fingers around the ring, he felt it.
Bitterness.
This was what he had imbued the gold with; his own resentment and weakness. The ring called out to him, a plaintive whine that found echo in the dull ache in his back from hours of
uncomfortable seating, and the grittiness in his eyes. It fed off the hunger that growled in his stomach, and the sudden annoyance at Narvi’s solicitous presence.
Celebrimbor fought the urge to shove the dwarf away, to wipe the satisfied smirk off his face with a well-aimed retort. Could he not see they had failed? He flinched at the loud lapping that filled his ears as the dwarf downed the remains of his cup…and belched.
His grip on the ring tightened.
“What’s the matter, my friend?” Narvi barked out, “You look like you’ve seen a wraith.”
The angry words almost tumbled from his tongue…almost. This was not Narvi; this was not his long-time friend, whose voice was the gentlest he knew. This was not Celebrimbor
himself. It was the temper of his father, and his grandfather…a heritage he had vowed to overcome. Celebrimbor’s grasp on the ring lessened, until the disquieting bauble bounced off
the stone slabs and rolled towards the door.
Narvi stomped his boot, stopping its course, and bent to pick it up. “What’s wrong with it?”
Celebrimbor pulled off his glove and threw it onto the workbench, flexing his fingers before he raised them to rub his temples. “It is irritating.”
Narvi snorted; a kindly, pleasant sound. “I can see that.”
“No. I mean it is irritating – in the sense that it annoys those that would wear it.”
“Oh, does it?” His friend adjusted his lens to take a better view, scrutinizing the ring as though attempting to discern, beneath the clumsy adorning, the trouble brewing within the
metal. “Congratulations. You’ve created the first ever ring to bring a foul mood. Not quite what the world needs, I reckon.”
“Destroy it.” Celebrimbor waved a weary hand towards the hearth. He would have to start again. Tomorrow, and the day after, if need be. Time imported little; only mattered the result.
“As you wish.”
Narvi grunted as he bent to open the sliding door of the furnace. The ring glinted amidst the leathery folds of his hand like a yellow eye, slumbering yet watchful, biding its time.
Celebrimbor mused how strange it was, to think of a jewel in such a manner. In truth, it had felt alive….
Before he could speak up and warn Narvi, the ring had slipped out of his friend’s grasp.
It rebounded on the steely tip of Narvi’s boot with a triumphant tinkle, then off the pedestal the anvil stood upon, before tracing a golden trail across the room and into a crack in the stone, beneath the well that served to quench the pieces Narvi forged.
Celebrimbor leapt after it, wedging his fingers into the gap, encountering nothing but water.
“Eh, leave it,” the dwarf called out. “It has nowhere to go. The stream that fills this well runs deep under the mountains. Your ring will sleep there forever, and never again will it trouble a soul.” He lay a hand on Celebrimbor’s arm. “Now come. The dawn has risen, and my belly’s as empty as a bad minstrel’s purse.”
Celebrimbor reluctantly obeyed. With a baleful look towards the hole under the well, he wiped his hands on his thighs, reluctant to abandon what he had begun – his creation, and the
promise of more to come, until he could match Annatar’s skill. Feänor’s skill, a small voice whispered in Celebrimbor’s mind.
He smothered it.
“Very well. But….”
“I know, I know. We shall try again later, my friend, you have my word, but hunger is a lousy assistant. Speaking of which….” Narvi stalked towards the door, and threw it open with an impetuous shove. “Rûmi!” he bellowed, “Rûmi! By Mahal, where’s he run off to?” He caught a passing dwarf by the sleeve. “You. Watch the forge. I won’t be long.”
Celebrimbor had to concede that Narvi had a point. His own stomach protested against being thus deprived of nourishment, and his mind seemed diminished as well – a consequence,
mayhap, of his hunger. He smiled.
Even after all these years, dwarven wisdom never ceased to surprise him.
oOoOoOo
Hollin, SR 1505
Bero Bunce had never learnt how to fish or, rather, no-one had taught him, and he was too timid to try it out by himself. Stories went – awful stories, ofttimes told by Grandma Well, aptly named for both her appetite and her customary “Well, whatcha looking at? Scram!” whenever she wasn’t feeling talkative – about little boys and little girls who came too close to the water, and got whisked away by some water creature, never to be seen again. Grandma Well’s favorite illustration for the veracity of her tales had been the disappearance of some distant cousin of her mother on the occasion of a fishing trip, so long ago that no-one – not even Grandma Well – could remember his name. Once grown up, Bero had understood the aim had merely been to keep her flock of grandchildren out of trouble while she sat by her house and puffed on her pipe, wordlessly competing for the biggest smoke ring with old Melampus Pott that lived right across the road; but the tales had stuck with him just as Grandma Well’s nickname had with her. Even now, comfortably perched upon a sunny bank of the Swanfleet, high enough to be safe from the cold, creeping fingers of whatever lived under the surface, Bero remembered the stories, and kept his feet well away from the waterline.
Bero’s stomach grumbled.
Give a man a fish, his father used to say, and he’ll be sated for a day. Bero had forgotten the rest of the saying, and his father was no longer around to remind him. Master Dinodas, for his part, hadn’t seemed intent on sharing his fare with Bero, fish or otherwise, and now enjoyed a hearty meal, propped against the wheel of his cart, protected by the two fierce-looking dwarves he’d hired for the journey. Bero, who’d suffered from the first pangs of hunger shortly after they’d left Larnwick, hadn’t dared ask Master Dinodas for a bite.
Master Dinodas was well-renowned across the Shire and the Westmarch for his avarice, as well as the swiftness of his ire; but he paid well, and so Otton Bunce, Bero’s late and much
beloved father, had taken the matter of his son’s fate in his capable hands, and had approached Master Dinodas with the proposal of hiring Bero as an handyman. Whatever Otton had told Master Dinodas regarding Bero’s character had been lost to history, but the older hobbit had taken a long, hard look at the young Bero, and declared: “Very well, but I
shan’t supply his food.”
And so the deal had been struck. Ever since, Bero had accompanied Master Dinodas in his travels from the Shire down to Tharbad, and sometimes as far as Dunland, if Master Dinodas
thought he could sell anything there. Their present journey was a rare occasion, much to Bero’s relief; he knew from others’ experience that the rills and streams around the Shire
were free of water-dwelling folk, but hadn’t yet been acquainted with this particular river. He sucked on the stem of a marigold, trying to extract the sweet sap it contained through much suckling and slurping, but the flower provided a meager sustenance to the round little belly that strained the buttons of his vest.
In truth, Bero could’ve bought a bite to eat from the amiable taverner in Larnwick, the village of men they’d stopped at for the night, a little off the North-South Road, but he was saving his earnings for something far more important. Caramella Took, the fairest girl in the Shire and daughter of the Thain himself, had graced him with a dimpled smile during the Lithedays, and Bero had been smitten ever since.
He wasn’t the only one. Caramella was a merry girl, prone to smiling, which led to an abundance of suitors throughout the Shire, some much better off than a merchant’s handyman. Saradoc Brandybuck, for one. Bero scowled and tossed the now-limp marigold into the river, watching dejectedly as it slowly released its petals into the stream.
It was then that he saw it: a glimmer under the surface, some ten steps away.
Had Bero been a water creature lurking in search of a prey and tired of waiting, he too would’ve found a way to lure its victim closer to its reach. The creature would soon
understand, however, that a respectable hobbit from the Shire wasn’t so easily fooled.
And yet…if this was indeed something worth investigating? Had Saradoc been here, no doubt he would’ve gone to see what it was, and then bragged about his findings to anyone in the
Green Dragon willing to listen. Caramella, for instance, who’d rest her rosy cheek on one small hand and hearken, wide-eyed and enraptured, to the exaggerated tale of Saradoc’s
bravery.
Bero scoffed. Everyone in between Deephole and Little Delving knew that Saradoc’s grandfather, Meriadoc Brandybuck, had fought in the War and served the King of Rohan himself, despite an early reputation for laziness and trouble; Saradoc liked to recount his ancestor’s tale, hinting he was destined for the same glorious fate. That, and the great fortune
of the Brandybucks, was enough to make any girl sigh with hope.
Bero was the son of a farrier, who in turn was the son of a farmer himself; his family could boast little else than exceptional good health, and a notable circumference around the waist.
The glimmer appeared again, at the whim of the stream that rolled over submerged rocks.
Bero almost thought his eyes had deceived him, and that it was nothing but the sun’s play on the water, but a passing cloud proved him wrong.
There was something in the river. Something golden.
Bero cast a glance to where Master Dinodas was enjoying his lunch in the sullen company of the dwarven brothers. Should this truly prove a river monster’s trick, would they pull him
out? Bero reasoned they would, only to deduct the price of their troubles from his wages.
With small, cautious steps he approached the sandy bank, his toes but a thumb away from the water that lapped the shore. The glimmer remained, winking at Bero from beneath a
submerged branch whose shoots protruded above the surface, slippery with spray and rot.
Bero hissed as he stepped into the stream, splashing gracelessly until he reached the spot. He rolled up his sleeve with care, and plunged his hand into the sand.
It was a ring – a golden ring, intricately engraved with flowers that sprouted one from another in an endless circle.
Bero knew nothing about jewelry. Master Dinodas traded in a little of this and a little of that, from pickaxes to buttons, asking for coin in exchange for news from around the world – something Bero never would’ve thought of, chatty as he was, too glad to wag his tongue for nothing – yet sometimes he did receive payment in the form of family jewels, from those of his customers who couldn’t afford the wares they direly needed. Bero had seen those pieces, for he was tasked with consigning what went in and out of the cart on the great, leather-bound ledger Master Dinodas had warned him to guard with his life. Bero doubted it would ever come to it, but he knew that nothing inside Master Dinodas’ cart – including the old, scratched bands the women slipped off their fingers in exchange for a potion for their babe’s aching stomach, was worth half as much as what this ring could cost.
It was heavy; real gold through and through. Bero itched to put it to the test just as he’d seen Master Dinodas do, but loath to leave a mark of his own teeth upon the surface.
It was beautiful.
Elven, if Bero had to wager, remembering Grandma Well’s stories. Inestimable in its rarity; a treasure Master Dinodas wouldn’t fail to get his pudgy hands on the moment he’d see it,
under one pretense or another. In fact, the longer Bero stared at the ring in his palm, the more his anger with the peddler grew. If not for Dinodas, he wouldn’t have found himself in the middle of wilderness, far away from the Shire and from Caramella who, no doubt, was having her shapely ears talked off by Saradoc at this very moment, and filled with pretty lies. He wouldn’t be standing knee-deep in freezing water, forced to comb through river-bottoms with his bare hands to have something better to bring back but foot sores and an a few measly coins.
But now, Bero had this ring.
Now, everything was possible. Brandybuck or no, Bero was yet to see Saradoc sport a better proposal gift than the one he, a lowly Bunce, now possessed. Only, he’d have to find a story to go with it, a tale of some dashing rescue and an elven maid’s gratitude for his bravery. The Thain would certainly be impressed, entrusting his only daughter’s hand with a hobbit so capable. Bero imagined the way Caramella’s rosy cheeks would flush with delight as he slipped the token on the only finger it was worthy of, and the sweetness of those smiling lips.
He closed his hand over the ring.
Their life together would be merry, filled with joy and children. With time, Caramella would even grow accustomed to a house quite smaller than the one she’d grown up in; Bero would
work twice as hard to keep her happy, he vowed, pushing down a surge of bitterness at the thought of her initial dismay.
This jewel…it was a blessing, a sign from above that those born in wealth weren’t privy to happiness. Bero didn’t spare a thought for the man careless enough to lose such a treasure.
Now, it belonged to him.
oOoOoOo
A.N.:
- Dates: “SA” = Second Age, “SR” = Shire Reckoning (Fourth Age).
- “Khâzash-menû” = Khuzdul for “my friend” (or so I hope).
- Artanis (meaning ‘noble-woman’ is Galadriel’s Father-name. Galadriel is the Sindarin version of the name Celeborn gave her, which means ‘maiden crowned with a garland of
bright radiance’.