Smith of Nargathrond by Lipstick

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Smith of Nargathrond

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Once, in a time so long ago it was as unreal as light through stained glass, Tyelpe's grandfather had slammed his door in the face of the mightiest being in Arda.

In the dungeons of Barad-dûr, the bleeding remains of the House of Fëanor slammed his mind shut before that creature's chief lieutenant.

He was not forgiven.

Gasping for breath, choked by the fumes from the boiling of his own skin, he spat bloodied sputum in the face of a Maia and whispered:

"Not you."

Even as his mind reeled before the next onslaught of pain, the needles, hot in the fire against his flesh, he thought: not you. Not you made them, not you have taught me, not you that I loved.

His skin was shattering, he was flying apart like a brand struck with too great a force. In the midst of his torment Tyelpe smiled:

To heavy-handed Annatar; too much power and not enough art.

The Maia realised his mistake too late even as he withdrew his might from Tyelpe's broken body. The elf felt his heartbeat stumbling his chest; felt the last silver thread of breath escape and was no pain anymore only darkness.

*

The touch on his cheek was too gentle to be flesh, it was more warmth and care and knowing.

"Hush Tyelpe, hush."

Tyelpe felt molten in the relief of no longer fighting for breath.

"You have been tortured to death but it is alright. It is all over now."

Tyelpe was not sure he had opened his eyes, but he could see the elf beside him was his eldest uncle, addressing him with an amused look on his face.

"Welcome to the ward of the Ñ-specials, Tyelperinquar Curufinwion. I hope you find us pleasant company, when you get used to us."

Tyelpe sat up, or did whatever it was spirits do when they wish to show a greater sense of alertness. He took in Gwindor, Gelmir, Ai Eru! Finduilas. What happened to her?

"Sauron has the Nine, he has Six  - he has a weapon that-," a ghostly echo of a braid whipped against his cheek as he spun his head around.

"It is not your battle anymore, nephew," said his uncle, pushing him - somehow, back into his seat.

"Do we get any news?" Said Tyelpe, finding his fëa had arranged itself in the familiar ball of arms and knees.

"Only when an elf dies especially horribly," said Gwindor.

"Did you not die at the Nírnaeth?" said Tyelpe.

"No such luck," said Gwindor, "taken alive."

There was a brief rustle of acknowledgement at what those words meant.

"You do not know what I have done."

"Yes we do," said Maedhros, reaching out again with that eerie non-touch.

"But how, if you get no news?"

His uncle smiled, Tyelpe knew what was behind that smile now.

"Because we have all done those things too."

*

So there was no escape, there was only time and the ghastly grey walls cold as memory. When a memory ripped out there was nothing to be done but survive it. He had no flesh to tear, no stomach to vomit and no eyes to cry; though he wished for all these things with a hopeless, gnawing longing. He did not have the respite of sleep.

Forever in his head, that voice:

"It does not always have to hurt Tyelpe."

The one who had put his hands on him. The one who has stilled the pain, given him his craft back, given him the will to make and forge back; at such a cost.

"You monster, you burned me alive," shouted Tyelpe, and was answered by that gente, amber laughter, louder than his uncle commanding him to hush.

*

"You were not in Nargathrond when I returned," said Gwindor.

Tyelpe nodded, too busy being flayed by memory.

"But you were not taken then?"

"I was taken to Gondolin," said Tyelpe.

"Gondolin?" Said his uncle, "but Turgon never forgave -,"

"He did not know."

"That is all very marvellous. Perhaps you could tell us? We really do get so little news."

Those ghostly elves had a terrible way of inflicting their presence. Tyelpe could feel them beginning to huddle round, their bright spirits burning with that vicious, unquenchable, Ñoldorin curiosity.

"Not at the moment, uncle. I do not think I have the strength."

"You have the strength," said Maedhros, "spirit of fire."

Something cold and whimpering came out of Tyelpe's soul.

"Hush," said Maedhros, "spit out some of the poison. It will make things easier I promise."

"I came to Gondolin-," said Tyelpe, and something soft broke against the bubble of hurt,"blindfold, upside-down, like a sack of oats on the back of a blacksmith."

"A most dignified entrance," said Gwindor.

"Go on," said Finduilas, "I can tell this will be an interesting story."

Tyelpe willed himself to stop seeing. In the dark, he dragged up words and pinned them to the spikes driving against his soul. He should have liked to bite his lip, rend his Khazâdrim braids, take a deep breath and swallow. But he could do none of these things, so he willed himself to unsee and in the darkness mined for words from the depth of his soul.

~*~

"I did not know any of Gwindor's company got out alive."

His first thoughts were hazy; I have been drinking, my bed is on fire. The smell of charred cloth, the muffled nature of sounds above him suggested some weird calamity. He could smell metal heated and rapidly cooled, his mouth tasted of iron as it did after days shaping - no, his head reeled, he could not have been drinking like that at the forge.

"I am not sure this one is going to get out alive. As foolhardy a dolt as the rest of them. I had to put hands on him to stop him hewing his way after - he who fell."

He could smell burning flesh. He opened his eyes.

"Yet he would retreat to Gondolin?"

"He did not get the choice. I imparted some wisdom with my hammer and carried him here."

Tyelpe raised his head off the - grass, certainly grass, and tried to look at his hands. He caught a short glimpse before being roughly forced backward. They were not harmed.

"Ai! A craftsman!" The elf laughed. Tyelpe coughed and spat out a mouthful of frothing blood. He blinked. The elf was as red as Maedhros and near enough stocky as a mortal man.

"A blacksmith," said Tyelpe, letting his mind wander through the rest of his body. It hurt, although it seemed to be all there.

"Well met then! My name is Rôg, keeper of the King's Forge."

Tyelpe smiled with as much of his mouth that could move.

"And who do I have the honour of rescuing?"

"Do not ask," said Tyelpe and blacked out again.

*

The next time he woke, it felt like the morning after the emptying of the cellar. The air was jangling with voices and spurred feet shook his bones as they trampled.

"My Lord, he is not of our company, should we chance taking him to Gondolin?"

If they go away and leave me alone, at least I might have air, Tyelpe thought. The tent was stifling.

"Would you have me slit his throat here or abandon him to die in the wilds, Lord Maeglin?"

He thought at first it was Fingon, even though he had not reached him and a fire of Balrogs descended.

"If it were not for Gwindor's charge we might still have carried the day."

"Gwindor did not defeat us, Morgoth did."

"Yes Rôg," his bones shook as the speaker walked closer to the bed. "Morgoth and an Oath that has cursed us all. A union made with bloodstained hands will all to easily break." Tyelpe could smell the turf beneath the bruised grass. "An elf of Nargathrond will be welcome in my city."

Tyelpe thought someone was sponging at the muck on his face. Fëanorian luck shone as bright as ever.

"But unable to leave."

"He may judge that a fair price for his life, Maeglin. Rôg, you are a blacksmith not a healer. Leave his face be or he will be as marred as that crazed dog who got us into it. You know what to do."

"Yes, my Lord."

The tent flap sighed in relief as the others departed. Tyelpe's respite was short lived. He had barely taken a breath of air when he was being shaken. The King had a point about Rôg's gentleness.

"I am awake," said Tyelpe, to prevent further injury.

"Then sit up," said Rôg,  "before I drag you. We ride for Gondolin at dawn."

"I do not think I am riding anywhere," said Tyelpe, gingerly peeling his shoulders off the grass. Something was sticking in his chest when he moved. He hoped it was only his breastplate.

"Of course you are, now drink this."

Rôg forced a flask to his lips. Tyelpe braced and prepared to retch, but the burn of wine never came. Something softer and yet much warmer flowed through his throat instead, something that made him ache less, though it did not stop the pain altogether. Rôg was smiling.

"When I caught you, you were swordless, helmless and attempting to scythe a Balrog with the cloven edge of your shield. I do not think the fire within you is exhausted yet. See, you smile."

Tyelpe looked awkwardly at the flattened grass.

"I shall have to blindfold you, of course."

"I am in no position to stop you."

The drink, whatever it was, had cleared the splinters out of his head at any rate. Which was good as Rôg was now wrapping cloth around his head with all the tenderness of pounding steel.

"That is very peculiar braid-work."

"It is in the manner of the Khazâdrim. I worked with them for a while - in Nargathrond."

"Then you must be a very interesting smith indeed. I shall be honoured to have your better acquaintance. Now we are all done."

"Thank you," said Tyelpe, "no really, thank you. But I still do not think that I can walk."

"Who said anything about walking?"

Tyelpe stared wide-eyed into the dark until he was lifted up and, in the next moment, slung ungraciously over the blacksmith's wide shoulders.

Oh father, if only you could see me now, he thought as he bounced upside down in the blackness.

*

"The blindfold was quite unnecessary in the end," said Tyelpe. "I passed out again the minute Rôg sat me before him on his horse. That is how I came to Gondolin."

"I thought my scars made me look quite distinguished," said Maedhros.

"At least you did not hide away in a hole at the first sign of trouble like some of our lords," said Gwindor.

"Hush," said Finduilas, "we shall never hear this tale told if all it does is make you bicker."

Tyelpe's soul shivered, it was a most disconcerting feeling. There was a draught from somewhere, thin and shrill, but not corrupted like the foul airs in the dark tower. Tyelpe became aware that he could see nothing more than the corridor he sat in, to the left of the little group was darkness and to the right was stingingly bright light.

He would not like that. He had always been hurt by bright lights.

"Yes, well he is new here, the words come hard at first. " said Gelmir.

"But still I would hear more of the exploits of the noble House of Fëanor," said Gwindor.

"I will go on," said Tyelpe, "but not today."

"There are no days here," said Gelmir.

Nor where I came from, Tyelpe thought, nor where I came from. In the dark I had to tear everything from my thoughts to stop Him seeing. The Two Trees, The White City, the lamplit halls of Nogrod brazen with gemstones. If he held on, if he clung to a single shard of brightness, that would be a hook, a claw for Him to wrench secrets from his mind. That was how he found his way to the Six-,

Now, accidentally, he had fallen upon days again. Flying out with the word, what it was to feel sunshine, to watch it ripen and fade as Arien's chariot sailed across the sky. He wrapped himself up in his sun-memory, cherishing it, resting in it for as long as it stayed with him.

*

"Woken up at last, Smith of Nargathrond?"

When Tyelpe woke, it was to the scent of charcoal and cooled iron. He lay still, breathing in the calming scent of oil and metal, slightly acrid but so comforting, so marvellously familiar.

He rolled on his side and took in the room around him, cluttered, overflowing with scrolled parchment and misplaced parts of iron machines.

"What in Arda are you are doing here?"

"Oh these," Rôg picked up a curiously interlocking tangle of wheels, "mostly work for the Moles. That is Lord Maeglin's house. They are in charge of mining in this city, although Maeglin will be charmed to find another smith in Gondolin."

"Does he not like smiths?" Tyelpe surveyed the iron work on the desk, the structures looked similar to Nogrod winches, but these were more delicate, more intriguing.

"Possibly not, although he is one for all that. Get back in bed, I'll let you play with one of you do not get oil over the sheets."

Rôg threw the knot of wheels towards him, Tyelpe ran his fingers over the intricate discs, feeling the slender metal warm beneath his fingers.

"And you, you forged this?" He stared at the heavy-handed elf in wonder. "You are certainly gentler with your iron than you were with my bones."

"Yes well, these are important. Or so Maeglin says. He will hate you, by the way."

Tyelpe turned his head and stared at the gearing, it was some kind of gearing, although he could not yet see its purpose.

"That is a pity. I should really like to ask him about these devices."

"So would I," said Rôg.

"You mean he has you make parts but does not tell you it's purpose. How do you know the machinery will even fit?"

"He provides me with very specific designs."

Tyelpe stared at the overflowing desktops.

"That seems - to me, - that seems likely to be disastrous."

Rôg quirked an eyebrow at him.

"And what do you know of disasters?"

"Other than we just lived through one, nothing." Tyelpe put his hand to his braid and worked the dwarven gold between his fingers. "But a dwarf may forge a small piece of a furnace, but he still knows what the whole will be. What if there is a flaw in the design? The whole design that cannot be seen until all the pieces are assembled?"

Tyelpe rubbed his eyes.

"Forgive me, I think I may be still dazed. "You are free to work as you wish, of course."

"Very kind of you," Rôg smiled. "Now before you burst yourself open again, yes I had thought it a rather haphazard way of working. That is why I took on an under-smith who was familiar with Naugrim devices."

Tyelpe lay back on the pillows before Rôg's enormous hand forced him back.

"What did they make of it?"

"I do not know, Smith of Nargathrond - what do you make of it?"

Tyelpe felt the warmth of the bed gradually overpowering his sense of wonder. He was still sore and singed, but most of all he was sleepily safe.

*

Tyelpe found his strength returning quickly. He had not realised how much he had missed the light of the sun, and Gondolin - the White City on the hill seemed bathed with it; a golden light that made him feel very small and very new.

Rôg would often find him walking in the gardens behind the halls of the blacksmiths, among the holly trees and blackthorn that would grow so close to the furnaces, one hand reaching towards the red berries, jewel-like as the autumn light struck their prison of dew.

"Careful Smith of Nargathrond - they are poisonous."

"But they shine," said Tyelpe, then smiled, "I know they are poison because when I was very young I tasted a few. I think father nearly cut of my uncle's ears."

"He sounds like a perilous elf."

"He planted them for me, because he saw how I loved the sun on their bright leaves and red berries, even in the depth of winter." Tyelpe withdrew his hand from the spiked leaves. "Auta i lómë. Aurë entuluva.

"That is the first time I have heard you speak of your father."

"There are many here who do not speak of those that are lost."

Tyelpe felt the forge master's wide hand rest against his shoulder."

"Then we shall speak of better things, like what it is you shall  answer to if you do not permit me to know your name."

"I was growing rather fond of Smith of Nargathrond," Tyelpe smiled as Laurelin's fiery memory bathed the city in its sinking light, turning the marble to dusky gold and the gemstones to fire. "So fair, and yet so aflame."

"One could say the same of you," said Rôg chuckling. "You should probably ask Ecthelion for a name, he is much better with words than I."

"Still, you have thought of one."

"How does Enerdhil fit you?"

*

"I thought I hurt then," said Tyelpe to the shadows around him. But in truth, the word that floats back is happy.

That was another word detached from meaning, cleaved like hot metal. He wondered if happiness had a colour, red like forging heat or blue as the wide ocean. He wondered if it was delicate like the deliberate strokes of a hammer tempering a blade or powerful like the heat of the sun.

There was something here that was sucking the meaning from him, gold tipped claws snatching it away, even as it teetered on the edge of his mind. Curiosity. That was a word, like picking scabs from slipped arms agains hot metal. They all had them, the workers at Rôg's forge, although he had fewer than most. Curiosity killed the quendë, but he had ached to know back then.

Now he just ached to sleep.

"You are doing very well you know," said his uncle, "all Gwindor was capable of was curses and grunts, for a wearyingly long time."

"You were not much better," said Finduilas, "and we have still not heard the tale of who you have betrayed."

"Maglor," said Tyelpe. "It would have been Maglor."

"You always were a know-it-all brat Tyelpe," said Maedhros, "Do you know it all now?"

"Please," said Gelmir, "some of us wish to get out of here. We shall never do that if you keep on fighting like this."

"I see you have not picked up Ñ-special etiquette yet."

"Is it worse than the barbed dance of Gondolin?"

Finduilas smiled:

"It is very poor manners to reveal another's tale before they are ready to share it.

Tyelpe would have liked to have rubbed his eyes. Manners he thought, manners even in Mandos. The eldritch breeze caught his face again.

"What is that which waits in the dark?" said Tyelpe suddenly.

"So you have percieved it," said Gelmir.

"That is out gaoler," said Gwindor.

"It is our sorrows," said Finduilas, "it is what keeps us here."

"It stops me from thinking," said Tyelpe.

"Given how you arrived here, that is probably for the best," said Gwindor.

"So do not think, just talk," said Gelmir, "give us distraction before you are all at each other's throats again."

Gelmir paused.

"In a manner of speaking."

*

The days passed pleasantly enough, sat amid Rôg's ever growing collection of scrolls or, once Tyelpe was fully healed, instructing apprentices at the forge.

"Do not batter it so, Dúriel," smiled Tyelpe. "I know that you are strong, and I can see you hold your hammer well but - may I?"

The young elf stood aside so Tyelpe could take her place at the anvil.

"You must love it," Tyelpe struck the brand lightly, teasing the beginnings of an edge to the iron bar, "you must trust it to the path it would follow, for it knows it's strength better than you."

Tyelpe's clasps caught the glow of the heated metal before him as he swung his hammer.

"If it shows weakness, give it time to rest. If it bends beneath your hammer, lighten your blows. A sword cooled a hundred times will still be of more use than one shattered beneath the hands of his maker."

He inspected the half-forged blade and then laid it aside.

"Blacksmiths forge with the power of their hand; a craftsman tends with care and patience. If you love what you work with, it shall serve you well."

"You speak beautifully, blacksmith. But we are a city at war."

Tyelpe looked up from the darkening metal. At the other side of the forge an elf was standing, black against red, and his eyes glittered amber in the ruddy flame.

"You were washed up on the white walls of this city by a tide of unnumbered sorrows, that much I can understand. I too know what it is to gaze on the city of Turgon the Wise and think no power could ever defeat it."

The elf crossed the room. He stood as tall as Tyelpe himself, but his skin was pale as the city flagstones and his eyes were black.

"There is no asylum here, Smith of Nargathrond. We need our armories full. In these dark days, we must work swiftly. The iron in your hands is no mere plaything."

He bowed low towards Rôg and handed him the scroll of parchment that he carried.

"My Lord," I trust these to your skill as ever."

Rôg took a step back from the black-clad elf before nodding in return.

"Lord Maeglin, it is an honour. But could you have not sent a messenger? Why did you come yourself?"

The other elf looked at Rôg cooly.

"This work is between the Lords of Gondolin. Keep it so. For your apprentices have a greater matter with which to busy their anvils."

He nodded again toward Rôg and left the forge with silent steps.

"Dúriel, ignore him," said Rôg, "Lord Maeglin speaks much wisdom but there is still no use to be had out of pounding it to ruin. Enerdhil, take this to my study."

*

"You looked as though you had seen a ghost."

Tyelpe was seated on the bed staring at Maeglin's latest design when Rôg came to find him.

"I told you he would hate you. He hates everything new that comes here."

"It is not his words that troubled me."

"Then perhaps you knew the Lady Ar-Feiniel?"

Tyelpe raised his brows.

"Lord Maeglin is her son. The likeness to the White Lady is remarkable. Do not be too hard on him Enerdhil, for he came here under a grief greater than you, and I think you-,"

"Think what," said Tyelpe sharply.

"I think you have a grace to bear sorrow that he is lacking."

"I did know Aredhel," said Tyelpe, "but it was not her I saw in the flames."

Tyelpe felt the tender thud of  Rôg's hand on his arm.

"Get some air, sun-friend. Go walk among the green things that you love, for I do not think there is much smithing in your hands today."

"I do not think there is much peace either."

Rôg laughed.

"Then will you at least let me name your ghost?"

Tyelpe worked his finger around his dwarven braid before catching himself and stilling his hand.

"I do not think it wise to start giving names to my fantasies."

He was twisting the braid again. Rôg took his hand and held it, laying it gently in Tyelpe's lap.

"You saw the ghost every worker of iron sees, if his skill is great enough. You saw the spirit in the fire that haunts every one of us; for it is both our greatest fear and our greatest desire."

Rôg smiled and pushed Tyelpe's disturbed braid behind his ear.

"You saw Fëanor. Am I right?"

It was now Tyelpe's turn to laugh although it sounded feeble and thin.

"Yes, you guessed well. That is the ghost I saw." He smiled. "It feels good not to be alone."

"You saw a great craftsman with a shadow in his heart. It is not in the least strange what you imagined," Rôg paused, "and he is interested in you."

"Me?" Said Tyelpe.

"Oh yes. This work is between the Lords of Gondolin, my hammer! He wanted to get a look at you."

Tyelpe stared down at the fine lines interlocking on the parchment.

"Word is getting out about your talent, Enerdhil. I should get used to interest."

*

Maedhros was laughing softly.

"You never really knew your grandfather, did you?

Tyelpe's memories of Fëanor were black braids with fire and shouting. He remembered darkness, and something lost, losing something so close to him that it felt a hank had been gouged from his childish soul. Tyelperin, the silver light that he had been named for, reaching his hands towards the falling, falling rays. He had loved best the silver light, the quiet light, as it made mountains and valleys in the lines of his tiny hands. Although he could barely babble, it was noticed.

"Tyelperinquar," he had said, a tall shadow against silver.

"Tyelperinquar," his mother had whispered against his fuzzy first hair. "Tyelperinquar."

Then the light, his first love, was gone. He remembered his father's arms, like tree-trunks of wrought iron, bundling him up in his bedsheets and carrying him out to a night of steel glittering bloody in the torchlight.

He never saw his mother again.

So Tyelpe's memories of his grandfather were somewhat muddled, even though a glance in the mirror would have reminded him the smith in the flames looked nothing like the child of Míriel Þerindë; the memory of the greatest spirit of the elves was etched into his face. It was often commented that there was a remarkable likeness, although Tyelpe had inherited the darker skin that some in his grandmother's family had.

The trouble was it was more than his bones that carried a likeness. The trouble was he inherited the whirlwind, the lightning-struck tower, the insatiable need to make, to do, to know. The trouble was he was to trouble born, it ran through his blood like silver through the rock.

To carry that, to walk the earth with such a ball of kindling within him; that had been the test. Tyelpe felt sure he had failed.

"No," said Tyelpe, "I saw almost nothing of him before he died. Is he here?"

"Somewhere," shrugged Maedhros. "Mandos probably has him entombed in rock and iron to stop him bursting out."

"That is sometimes how I felt," said Tyelpe.

"You are getting better," said Maedhros.

Tyelpe held what felt very much like knees to his chest. It was more the memory of touch which registered, the knowledge that this would be how his legs felt held hard against his chest.

"I do not wish to get better," said Tyelpe. "I wish to be forever of the sliver light." So I may never have flesh again, to burn, to destroy, to love so that it may be rended and broken.

Love was not a word he wanted to remember. It was filled with those cold, lifeless hands; not a body but a veil. Hands dead upon him but touching him, filling him with a warmth not of this world, blocking forever the meaning of love. It was not love but a sickness, a stupor, the crazed unreality of being the plaything of a god.

"I begged for death once," said Maedhros. "If I had known how bad Mandos would be, I think I should have taken my chances chained to the rock."

"I thought you said I would find it pleasant here?"

"In time," said Maedhros, "but first you must walk through the fire."

"What fire," said Tyelpe, "all my life has been fire. I am truly sick of fire."

"Getting better hurts."

"What are you two muttering about?" said Gwindor.

"Hush!" said Maedhros, "this is between Fëanorians."

Tyelpe remembered what it felt like to smile.

"Rest now," said Maedhros, "in the silver light. You only need walk as far as you can bear, and I think you have come far enough tonight." Maedhros bent forward and left the shadowy imprint of his lips on Tyelpe's forehead, as he had done many times when Tyelpe was a child. Uncle Maedhros, telling stories of how stars were made and kissing him into sleep.

Tyelpe fell back into unseeing, walking in the memory of Tyelperin's gentle light.