Dwarvish Thinking by Himring

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Dwarvish Thinking (main story)

(Names: Carnistir=Caranthir, Feanaro=Feanor, Findekano=Fingon, Russandol=Maedhros, Tyelkormo=Celegorm)

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Maedhros:

‘I could order my smiths to make you a coat of mithril, prince Maedhros’, says Azaghal, ‘that will shimmer like silk and be as light as thistle down, and yet neither blade nor arrow will penetrate it.’

Seated on his throne in the great domed cavern of Belegost, dressed in purple and gold, he is clearly trying to appear calm and majestic, but there is a slight film of sweat on his forehead.  I observe it and wonder whether he’s just uncomfortable because, standing, I have the bad manners to tower over him to about four times his height or whether there is more to it. I’ve already refused my own weight in gold and a diamond the size of my head.

‘That is, truly, a most generous offer, your majesty’, I reply. ‘I am greatly honoured that you should consider such a minor act of assistance worthy of such recompense. But, of course, I could not possibly accept.’

 

I’m not only refusing him to be polite. I’m partly refusing, because it seems wrong on several levels to be rewarded by a dwarf for killing orcs, however convenient the time and manner of their killing happened to be to him.

Orcs are orcs.  I kill as many as possible as cleanly and quickly as possible and tell myself that at least I’m putting them out of their pain. They seem rather less than grateful, which is hardly surprising. At night, I lie awake and wonder why, when we had the chance, we never insisted on a straight answer from Namo to the question whether he was able to cleanse the evil of Morgoth from orcs’ souls. Admittedly, it was more difficult to extract a straight answer to a question from the lord of Mandos than the whole set of teeth from his jaw, wisdom teeth included, still, surely we had enough time to work on it! Surely we wanted this particular answer badly enough! Was it that those who had been on the march from Cuivienen preferred to forget and those who had not were convinced such a thing could never happen to them? Did we flatter ourselves that those of us who had fallen victim were somehow weaker, more prone to evil? Or was it simply that we feared that the answer would be ‘no’ or at least ‘not yet’?

Not that I am about to mention anything of this to Azaghal. And in any case, it is not the only reason I am refusing to accept a reward from Azaghal for saving his life. Although he and Carnistir have been getting on well enough and the trade relations they have set up have been very profitable to both sides, I haven’t seen the slightest sign that either Belegost or Nogrod might come to our support, when Morgoth launches another major attack, as he surely will. If Azaghal feels he is indebted to me—whether the debt involves killing orcs or not—maybe he will consider giving up his carefully maintained position of neutrality. It is not a very unselfish calculation, certainly, especially considering the noble and pious sentiments I’ve been mouthing.  On the other hand, I don’t think the dwarves are nearly as safe in their mountain fastnesses as they consider themselves to be, so I suspect neutrality is not really as attractive an option as it appears. In fact, Azaghal’s near-fatal encounter with Morgoth’s orcs on the road itself might have given him to think.

Just now, though, he seems positively distressed at my refusal of the mithril coat. He is actually chewing his beard.  Then his eyes light up.

‘Not for yourself then? For your cousin, the one who rules in the north-west, the one that recently fought the dragon? ‘

I force myself not to react too obviously and regard him closely. Is he about to make me an offer I cannot refuse? Clearly, he thinks he is, but if so, does he know why? No, he doesn’t have the air of someone about to taunt anyone with a shameful secret. In fact, he looks as if he’s sure he’s hit on the ideal solution.

‘Are your mithril coats proof against dragon fire, then?’

His face falls for a moment. Then his jaw sets, as if he’s made up his mind.

‘No, not the coats.  But there is a helmet that I could offer you. It would protect your cousin against dragon fire. It would protect him against anything!’

He really, really needs me to accept, I realize. He will resent it deeply, if I don’t. It is as if being indebted to me for his life, without being able to give me anything concrete in exchange, chafes him both physically and mentally. If so, presumably he believes that I feel the same about my debt to Findekano—that is why he thinks his solution is so ingenious. He cannot know that I could not give Findekano anything—anything at all, whether made by Dwarf, Elda or Vala—that could weaken the triple bond that binds me to him by a single jot. And even so it is not that bond which truly chafes me...  On the other hand, anything that increases Findekano’s safety...

‘Then I will most gladly accept your offer of that helmet for my cousin’, I say formally.

Azaghal’s relief is palpable. He takes a deep breath.  

‘You won’t regret it! It’s one of Telchar’s works, perhaps the greatest he ever made. I swear it will withstand even the flame of a Balrog!’

He mutters something in Khuzdul to one of the by-standing courtiers, who speeds off into the shadows at the far end of the cavern. Clearly, I’m not going to be given the time to change my mind. Azaghal is grinning at me widely now and talking about the banquet he’s planning for tonight, which promises to be impressive. Despite the failure of my plan, I find friendship in my heart for him, glad that I was able to set him free. I find I do not like holding anyone bound against their will, even if I have persuaded myself that it is for their own good.

What is more, he seems to be regarding me with more respect than before, almost affection. He is convinced I intentionally drove a hard bargain, I realize, and so I did, I guess, except not quite as he thinks. But perhaps I’m nearer to achieving my original aim as well, nearer than if I’d gone on refusing...

 

 

Fingon:

I wake up and of course he’s sitting by my bedside, watching over me. On second thoughts, it occurs to me that, in fact, he’s not supposed to be there, but my head aches so much that I can’t remember why. Maybe I shouldn’t think too hard about it—not only does it hurt, but he might take the hint and disappear.

But he seems reassuringly solid. He notices I’m awake, leans forward, and his expression changes. In days of yore—when I lived under the roof of Feanaro, that is—this expression on Russandol’s face used to translate as: You’ve scared the living daylights out of me again, but I’ll forgive you one more time, because you managed not to kill yourself. I’m not even yelling at you, because I know you’re already feeling rotten anyway.  I wasn’t on the receiving end of that expression quite as often as Tyelkormo, but it is still familiar enough.

‘I drop by to congratulate you on your skilful handling of whopping big fiery lizards,’ he says, his voice pitched considerately low to avoid aggravating my headache, ‘and find you’ve meanwhile knocked yourself silly by jumping off a mountain or some such thing.’

‘I didn’t jump off a mountain,’ I say with all the dignity I can muster, which currently isn’t much, ‘I got caught in an avalanche.’

‘And did nobody remember to warn you, valiant cousin, not to tangle with avalanches, because they usually win?’

‘There was a fool shepherd that dashed right in to save his flock.’

‘You father didn’t mention the shepherd. I might have guessed. And so you in your turn dashed in to save one of your flock? Did you succeed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

After a moment of silence, I say: ‘Anyway, that dragon business was some time ago. If you’ve come about that, you’re rather late. Besides, you wrote a letter, as I recall.’

‘Ah, yes. But I hadn’t yet acquired this, then.’

‘This’ seems to be a big lump wrapped in sacking which is resting on his knees.

‘What is that?’

Looking almost embarrassed, he removes the covering, lifts the object up and puts it down on the bed next to me.

‘What is that thing?’

‘It’s a helmet.’

‘I can see it’s a helmet. Do you mean you actually expect me to wear—that?’

‘I didn’t know it was going to look like that. Azaghal claimed it was proof against dragon fire. He claimed it was even proof against the flame of a Balrog—although I admit I don’t see how he could know, for he surely hasn’t tested it...’

My cousin is clearly remembering the death of Feanaro.

‘Russandol, it’s made in the image of the dragon.’

‘Yes, that’s dwarvish thinking for you, I’m afraid. It’s supposed to protect against the dragon, so they made it look like one. I don’t know whether they think the dragon is afraid of its own kind... If I’d known, I could have asked Azaghal to depict an avalanche instead. Not that I imagine anyone could persuade you to put on a helmet before you charge right in to rescue shepherds... I suppose I ought to have told Azaghal how terrifying you can be when you are just being yourself.’

That last bit has to be a joke, right? He’s not smiling, though.

‘Anyway, I’ve already talked to you more than is good for you, I expect, or at any rate rather longer than I was permitted to.’

His eyes wander over to the left, to the other side of the room, beyond my line of sight. He gets up. Gritting my teeth, I manage to shift my head slightly and realize my squire Berion, made bold by the authority he feels the orders of the healers have conferred on him, has all the while been silently signalling to Russandol to stop talking to me and leave. I catch him in the middle of a most expressive grimace. Russandol has already reached the door and is reaching for the latch.

I’m sure that it’s only my vile headache—that and the resurgence of childhood memories—that makes my voice sound quite so plaintive, as I ask: ‘Will you still be here, next time I wake up?’

He turns around and looks at me for a moment. Now he’s coming back and bending over me. I feel the touch of his fingers on my forehead, light as a leaf and very warm, driving away pain. The insufferable Berion lets out a mewl of protest.

‘I’ll ask your father whether he would object if I stayed on a little’, says Russandol, ignoring him. ‘Now rest.’

This time, the door shuts behind him. I open my mouth to give Berion a piece of my mind, but the headache returns in full force and I haven’t got the energy. I’m left staring at the dragon helm perched beside me on the bed. There’s no way I’ll ever wear that thing, not even for Russandol.

I remember what it was like to meet Glaurung in reality and shudder. Whopping big fiery lizards...  Russandol is clearly worried, but he hasn’t actually seen Glaurung.  Dwarvish thinking? It’s for dwarves. No elf who knows what he is doing is ever going to wear that helmet to confront Glaurung—or anything else.

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Chapter End Notes

 

For other and rather different fanon accounts of the Dragon Helm see The Oddest Gift by downtide and Finch's Under the Curse. It is downtide who points out the way the helmet tends to get passed around like a hot potato (her account is much the funniest!) and Finch's idea that Fingon might have not been as unimpressed by the encounter with Glaurung as he seems in the Silmarillion and so the helmet might be an unwelcome reminder.

Since I mention a letter by Maedhros to Fingon on the subject of the dragon, I can't resist cross-referring to the well-known A Letter to Fingon by Oshun (which is completely incompatible with my story-line here, but I love it anyway!).