Smith of Nargathrond by Lipstick

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Breaking and Entering

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“Still,” said Maedhros, “I should be interested to know of one who conjured Fëanor in the flames.”

It was morning, or it felt like morning. There was a ghost of a feeling of brightness, of gold in the air and new things to be done. Tyelpe even felt the curious memory of a yawn. He felt suddenly aggrieved to find himself back in the grey corridor, to the senseless stone walls and the pointless talking.

“I thought it was ill manners to tell another’s tale.”

“Is he here?” Maedhros looked around.

“No,” said Tyelpe quietly, “he will not come back. He was cursed by blood and nightshade and the ancient magic of a forest in twilight.”

“We are all cursed,” said Gwindor, looking into the shadows. To Tyelpe’s mind they seemed to leak around the feet of the speakers, coiling like ink in water. Instinctively, he drew his feet up onto the seat.

“He was personally cursed,” said Tyelpe, “His father cursed him at his death that he should follow him, and refuse the judgement of Námo. He died as his father and the curse was fulfilled.”

“He was of the Avari then?” Gelion asked.

Maedhros’ disconcertingly inquisitive soul pressed at the corner of Tyelpe’s mind.

“An Avarin smith who could rival Fëanor?”

“Half- Ñoldor,” said Tyelpe, “I do not know what the other half was. I do not think he rightly knew himself.”

“The darkness is heavy today,” said Finduilas, “but your story is getting interesting. I think it falls on you once again to keep the warder at bay.”

“What happened next nearly sunk everything. Rôg had an unexpected visitor, and the news she brought was not good.”

*

The visitor had a gentle, soft-as-silver voice, and Tyelpe would have recognized it anywhere. He ducked down beneath his anvil, thankful that the apprentices had been sent home.

“No Rôg, I can do nothing about the lack of iron, nor would I,” she paused, “are we alone?"

“We are. Let me take your cloak, my Lady, and let me get you a glass of wine. You look pale as snow.”

There was a rustling as the occupants of the study re-adjusted themselves. Tyelpe slunk to a position of greater concealment beneath a work bench.

“I would not have what I must tell you become talked of, at least if it can be helped.”

Rôg’s warm laughter rang out.

“Everyone talks of everything in this city,” said Rôg, “Truly, My Lord your father, has created the very image of Tirion within his shining walls.”

“My dear Lord of Blacksmiths, please do not say so, because it was out of the gossips of Tirion that we were condemned.”

Tyelpe surveyed the knees of his breeches. One had found its way into a puddle of oil. He cursed softly in Khuzdul. It would be just his luck if Rôg led the Princess of Gondolin in here to show off some of his latest hireling’s skill.

“What must you tell me, Lady Itarillë? Because people are already talking of the laziness of black-smiths?”

“That I believe our worst fears have come to pass. Lord Maeglin has succeeded in drawing the enemy upon us.”

“Is this why King Turgon has ordered Anghabar closed but will not let me speak of it to my dissatisfied customers? People are already saying there was a rock-fall.”

This was true. Tyelpe and Rôg had been sitting on their hammers for the last four days, with nothing to do but melt down some of the apprentices’ early work for urgent jobs.

“It was not the rock-fall that is the trouble. It is what preceded it. Maethavein and Cirion are still with the healers, although they will probably live; Celegwaith has already given a report to my Father,” she paused. “He was working the face with Eradan, who is still lost. What happened was not a rock fall, but a rush of air beating against the shaft sides and stones being pulled down by great whips of flame. He tried to temper his words, saying that he must have been sickened by smoke, but when pressed he said beneath him, he had seen a creature of fire.”

“Celegwaith was with Maeglin at the Nírnaeth, he knows of what he speaks.”

“Then you think it true? That a Balrog has been drawn into the Echoriath?”

“Maeglin has not been building a Balrog.”

“Maeglin has been delving too deep.”

Tyelpe was beginning to get cramp from his confinement. He felt he would gladly have faced a Balrog if only to get his cousin to leave.

“It is getting more difficult to study his plans now he knows we have no iron with which to build them.”

“The King will not re-open the mines, even to an exploratory party. He has over-ruled my cousin on this, although he put all his art into persuading him otherwise.”

“Then Gondolin must do without iron.”

“I do not know what to think, Lord Rôg, but my heart fears Maeglin. Have you read nothing into his plans?”

“My under-smith has had some thoughts on them.”

“I would rather you did not discuss this with others.”

Please, thought Tyelpe, do not go calling me in for my opinion. I have no blood left in my legs and I do not think my re-introduction to Lady Idril would be improved by falling into her lap.

“He raised concerns about Maeglin’s manner of working the minute he noticed the designs. I said nothing, the curiosity was all his own.”

“I am not sure we have need of more curiosity in Gondolin.”

“He has some Naugrim knowledge, which I think would be of use to us. I have said nothing of you.”

“Lord Rôg, you make us sound like conspirators.”

Here I am again, Tyelpe thought, stuck in another web of politicking and intrigue when all I had wished to do was study some outlandish looking designs.

“My Lady, if Lord Maeglin’s designs are harmless, which they may well be, he is free to do as he wishes. I know neither you nor I would restrain him, and neither you nor I have spoken our concerns to any other.”

“You have spoken to Enerdhil.” Idril sighed. “No, it is probably for the best that you have one you trust to speak with. I am afraid I am of small help except to worry you.” There was a scraping of a chair being pushed back. “Thank you for the audience, my Lord Rôg, I think I should come apart if I did not unburden myself to someone who did not think me foolish.”

“No one could think you foolish, my Lady. It is my pleasure to give you what help I can. I am sure we will solve your riddle.” Tyelpe heard the study door open. “Now, travel safely, Lady Itarillë, and do try not to worry.”

Tyelpe was still beneath the table when Rôg entered and worked the bellows to puff the flame to yellow tongues. Rôg took another of the poorly made knives from the countertop and set them to the fire, turning round to pull a gauntlet from the shelf.

“Oh Enerdhil, whatever are you doing down there?”

*

“Oh dear, that is going to cause you problems,” said Maedhros.

“Itarillë?,” said Finduilas, “But she was such a sweet girl. She is not going to push your Tyelpe off Gondolin’s walls.”

“Idril was a very sweet girl,” said Maedhros, “Our Tyelpe was not such a sweet little boy. By the time we were all on speaking terms again, he had blossomed into a fully fledged Fëanorian brat.”

“I taunted her,” said Tyelpe, “In her ragged white dress. Father was still enraged by Uncle Maedhros surrendering the crown to Fingolfin, and I thought it hilarious to taunt this waif-princess in my Fëanorian finery. I am sorry for that.”

“A Fëanorian saying sorry?” said Gelmir.

“It does happen,” said Maedhros.

“The coils of darkness are almost at my throat,” said Tyelpe.

“I cannot see them,” said Maedhros.

“It must be my own then,” said Tyelpe. “I would rather another voice took over now.”

“Very well,” said Maedhros, “although you do have us quite intrigued, you know.”

*

“Have you finished your sulking?” asked Gwindor.

“I am not sulking, I am thinking,” said Tyelpe, “Is that not what I am supposed to be doing here?”

“By Varda, do not do that!” said Gwindor, “thinking will quickly have you sucked into the blackness.”

Tyelpe surveyed the walls. Even they seemed to be covered with a filmy mist, as if they were covered in heavy frost. Looking at them made Tyelpe remember the sting of cold, hard bites inside his nostrils, standing on top of a snow-tipped mountain peak; the light harsh, his uncles calling.

“Maedhros, did you really throw a snowball at my father?”

“Do not question your elders,” Maedhros said.

“You did, didn’t you?"

Maedhros rolled his eyes.

“Yes well, Mereneth had just thrown a snowball that hit Celegorm. She had been aiming for one of her little friends, and I was not about to have my brother demand I discipline a ten-year-old. So I threw one at your father.”

“He thought you had lost your mind.”

“He thought that at least twice a century. It didn’t stop him retaliating though.”

Tyelpe laughed.

“I notice you stood aside.”

“I really do not think my father would have seen the funny side, had I joined in.”

Gelmir looked in curiously.

“Is that how you resolved your Fëanorian differences?”

“Sometimes,” said Maedhros with a smile. “Now Tyelpe, where were you?”

“Up to the King closing the iron mines, and Gondolin being filled with talk of requisitioning, which made blacksmiths as popular as ever.”

“I thought blacksmiths were very well regarded?” said Finduilas.

“Yes well you might have been quite sensible,” said Tyelpe, “but to the others: ‘Where there is trouble, there is a blacksmith’ was a Gondolin truism.”

“I think you can thank your grandfather for that,” said Gwindor.

“Probably,” said Maedhros, “although he would never have minded had I hit him with a snowball.”

“If you had hit him with a snowball it would have melted before it touched him,” said Gwindor.

Maedhros laughed.

“You were saving us from this madness Tyelpe.”

“Oh yes, and maddening it was, to sit on your hands with unreadable plans and nothing to distract you. So one day I pulled on my cloak and headed off to find Maeglin.”

“And how did you find this Mole-Lord?” said Gelmir.

“Away,” said Tyelpe.

*

Tyelpe had no clue what he was going to say to the Lord of Moles, but as he hurried through the crowded market place, he reckoned that his family always had a skill for thinking on their feet. He was not even sure that Maeglin would open the door to an under-smith, but his will - his damned Fëanorian instinct, was pulling him eastwards as the streets narrowed to the iron gateway in the Echoriath mountains.

When he arrived at the wrought-iron forest whose branches met above the crest of a sable mole, he found the door locked. He sighed.

After knocking and calling had proved useless, Tyelpe steeled himself, and brought to mind a trick of his uncle Maglor’s. He did not have the command of song of his uncle, but he had managed to pull the trick off himself, once or twice.

Tyelpe pressed his hands against the iron doorway where he guessed the lock would be. He closed his eyes and let his palms sense the presence of the bolt before beginning a low hum that opened out into a wordless chanting. For a moment, he felt nothing, and then slowly, pushed by the sounds of the song, Tyelpe felt the bolt begin to loosen and slide.

His back was sweating by the time the iron doorway moved beneath his shoulder. Maglor would dart his eyes as if the clumsiness of the attempt embarrassed him, but secretly Tyelpe knew it was his uncle who was embarrassed to hold so great a gift. Tyelpe pushed the iron door open and stepped into the blackness.

The first room he entered was deserted, lit only by the light escaping from a deeper chamber. In the weak light he took in long, empty benches lining the walls, discarded picks and lanterns, harnesses and other mining tools. He did his best not to trip over it as he made his way through the anti-chamber, following the tang of heated metal to the forge of the Moles.

When he got there the forge fires were burning low and there were as many smiths present as there were miners. They must have been sent to their homes too, Tyelpe thought. He turned to walk back to the door and then stopped himself.

Celebrimbor Curufinwion, child of Curufin the Crafty, whatever is it you are doing? he thought. Of course you came here when the Lord of Moles was away, for here is a fine chance to learn something. Tyelpe took a lantern discarded on one of the benches, lit it, and headed back to the smithy.

Here at last were the missing pieces of the design. His eyes took in a forest of tree-trunk wide piston rods, cast iron tanks that could contain a small pond. He twirled his Khazâdrim braid between his fingers and tried to think as a dwarf. What pieces could he see that could be fitted together? Why was Rôg set the tasks of such delicate wheels when Maeglin was forging items on a truly dwarven scale?

So he does not see the whole, Tyelpe thought. Lord Maeglin has set him the task of embroidering the edges of a garment, to distract him from the image of the whole cloth. Tyelpe knelt before the cylindrical chambers, feeling awed at the strength of the iron beneath his fingers, knowing many a dwarf of Nogrod who would give his beard to smelt a metal that fine. He could smell the quality, hard but not brittle, for when he struck it with his fingertips he felt it sing and give.

But that does not make sense at all.

Seamlessly as the doors of Nogrod shut to, the image of Maeglin’s design fell into place in his head. He saw vividly every turn, every tooth clicking within the gear work, every massive drive shaft. It fitted together perfectly, the only way it ever could.

But there was no use to it. Unless the Lord of Moles had a liking for weaving together cogs and clockwork, the whole design was intricate but useless.

Riddles within riddles, thought Tyelpe, turning his Khazâdrim clasp between his fingers, to think I thought I might grow bored in Gondolin. This is the most interesting puzzle I have seen yet.

He was still pondering his discovery when he heard a polite cough behind him. He turned around.

The elf-shaped creature was leaning against the wall. Tyelpe’s eyes had grown too used to the lamplight to pick out features on the shadow in the dimly lit doorway.

“I must say house-breaking is a new one.”

It was Maeglin.

“I was curious,” said Tyelpe. “I am afraid attracting the incurably curious is an ill-effect of a deep love of secrecy.”

“Thank you for your gracious apology.” Maeglin pulled the cover from a lamp, a Fëanorian lamp, and examined Tyelpe’s face in the blue light. “For your Ñoldorin habit of invading all places without welcome or leave.”

Tyelpe looked into the black eyes of Maeglin, fierce in the light of the treacherous crystal. Dagor Bragollach, he thought, the Battle of Sudden Flame.

The battle before the eyes of a dragon.

“I should take you for judgement by the King,” Maeglin said softly.

“So you should,” said Tyelpe, “I am sure Turgon would be most pleased to hear how well your plans are coming to fruition.”

Maeglin narrowed his eyes.

“You could not read the designs.”

“I have worked amongst the children of Aulë,” he said, bowing his head so the gold of his clasps glittered in the lamplight and reflected back in the eyes of Maeglin. Maeglin did not seem to have been made with an iris, unless it were of the same jet black as his pupils. He reached his gloved hand up to examine Tyelpe’s braid-work.

“I have never heard of them permitting an elf to wear their braids.”

“I spent twenty years beneath the earth as an apprentice in smithcraft to a Nogrod master.” Maeglin’s eyes widened, “and when I completed my tutelage I was braided as any other master-craftsman,” Tyelpe said, and added more deferentially, “In my hair, lacking the more traditional beard.”

“I can see that,” said Maeglin, releasing the braid to knock against Tyelpe’s cheek.

“I can read your designs, Lord Maeglin.”

“So is that the secret of Enerdhil’s overconfidence,” said Maeglin, “and you did look so very confident, for a smith I have never heard of heard of, giving up the jewels of your wisdom.”

“The Khazâdrim too value secrecy. It was among them that I learnt it is not always ill to keep knowledge close to the heart.”

“You do not wish to know my secrets, Smith of Nargathrond. My blood is steel not silver.”

Tyelpe took a step backwards. He felt like a bayed animal, with his nerves twitching to break and run.

“But I will keep the secret of your designs, Lord Maeglin, unless it were to harm those I hold dear.”

“By what right do you judge me? Why should you think I hold them any less dear?”

Tyelpe flinched from the foolishness of his own words.

“Because you, as I, have seen the defeat you speak of on the field of the Nírnaeth. And you, as I, know the scar on the hearts of the Eldar that caused such tears.”

“Because I am Moriquendi.”

“I did not say that.”

“You did not need to.”

“Lord Maeglin, I swear – I swear – on the grave of my father, I shall not reveal your secret.”

Maeglin laughed softly and stood aside. Finally released, he stilled his nerves to walk towards the doorway as slowly as he were perfectly calm, resisting the uncoiled spring within his belly instructing him to bolt.

“Your father is not dead,” Maeglin whispered softly to his retreating back.

Eyes of a dragon indeed.

*

“Explain.”

Tyelpe ignored Rôg in favour of the cheese. He had assembled a miniature fortress of food on the table before him, and was slowly hacking his way through it. The bread of Gondolin was light and tasted so subtly like hearths. Tyelpe wondered why he had not noticed this before. He wondered why he had not noticed how good everything tasted before.

“Breakfast,” said Tyelpe.

“Not that,” said Rôg, eyeing the ruination on his dining table warily, “this.”

Rôg threw a scroll down beside the pot of pickle. Tyelpe picked it up with buttery fingers, and noted the broken seal in the shape of a mole.

My Dear Lord Rôg,

I must once again apologise for the dearth of iron and the inconvenience this has caused you with the city’s gossips. I am sure the self-same fonts of all wisdom have furnished you with some idea of the difficulties we have been having at Anghabar. It is my deepest sorrow to report that one elf died and three took serious hurt in our recent misfortune, although mining has always been a dangerous business and my House remains as eager as ever to return to our work.

Unfortunately, it seems we have become the victim of some malicious gossip of our own; I believe credulous fools are imagining all manner of horrors lurking in the mines, even to naming a Balrog of Morgoth (presumably on a holiday tour.) The King, wishing for the well-being of his subjects, has justifiably ordered Anghabar closed. There are others who are already braying that it should be sealed. I do not need to tell you how disastrous this would be to both our interests.

  Fortunately, I have been able to convince My Lord the King of a better solution. I will attend Anghabar and investigate this myself. However, in order to stay the tongues of the aforementioned gossips, who will all too readily imagine that I falsify my claims in order to return to mining (clearly such wits believe I hold my miners as worthless) I have requested that I take an independent witness. Someone of your house, given our shared interest in mine-craft would be the obvious choice. Indeed, your under-smith informs me he has considerable knowledge of the workings at Nogrod, furthermore he has faced Balrogs in close combat, and as such would make an excellent witness to Anghabar’s safety.  He seems an unusually fearless elf, and I doubt a deep mine or an audience with our King would daunt him.

  Let me know your thoughts on this plan by nightfall,

  Yours with deepest Regards,

  Lord Maeglin

Tyelpe looked up.

“What have you been saying to Lord Maeglin?”

“Nothing,” said Tyelpe, debating briefly whether the next slice should be covered in honey or ham. He settled for both. Rôg stared at him.

“It’s good, you should try it.”

“What,” said Rôg, “have you done to give Maeglin cause to believe an audience with the King would be undesirable?”

“Nothing,” said Tyelpe, wondering if a slab of cheese would make or mar his creation. . He wavered, knife in hand, “although I did dissemble a little when he threatened to drag me before King Turgon for house-breaking.”

“Were you house-breaking?”

“No,” said Tyelpe, deciding to risk the cheese. “Well, I entered his house without permission, but he was away.”

Rôg groaned and buried his head in his hands.

“He is not named sharp-glance for nothing, Enerdhil.”

“I needed to look at the designs.”

“What do you know of Maeglin?”

Tyelpe took a bite of the heavy-laden bread and decided the cheese overall made the taste slightly too chalky.

“What you have told me. He is a blacksmith, he is a miner, he is the son of Aredhel Ar-Feiniel and that he is of grim mood. The last I worked out for myself.”

“Then you do not know his father was Eöl,” said Rôg.

Tyelpe put his knife in the pickle pot and tried to remember where he had heard that name before. His father, fuming. A dank forest, all briars and tangle, as inscrutable as chaos of Arda Marred. And a rider, bowed low in the saddle, twisted somehow, with a face covered in ink.

“Varda Elentári!” said Tyelpe, accidentally flicking pickle across the kitchen, “If his father is Eöl then this is bad.”

“That is not the freshest of news my strange accomplice.”

“He was from Nan Elmoth. What lived there shunned the light. They were Avari who escaped, mine-thralls of Morgoth, and they had already began to twist to his design before they delved their way to freedom. They lit fires in the deep forest, staining red into the starlight, and forged black metals and swords that could speak.”

Tyelpe reclaimed his knife and wiped it on a napkin before broaching the pickle again.

“They used skill they had learnt from the hands of Morgoth in their craft, and the whole forest reeked of charcoal and sorcery.”

“They say Morgoth instructed Fëanor in the crafting of the silmarils.”

“They lie!” said Tyelpe.

Rôg lifted his eyebrows. Tyelpe pulled the cheese-knife from out of the table. Rôg still had not lowered his brows.

“That is a very spirited defence.”

“That is a very wicked untruth.”

“And of course, you are a Fëanorian,” said Rôg.

Tyelpe gaped around his mouthful of cheese-and-pickle. He swallowed, attempting to regain his composure.

“You knew! You brought me to Gondolin knowing the King’s hatred of Fëanorians, and you knew?”

“Well, I was going to ask if you were related to Ungoliant,” said Rôg, eyeing the havoc Tyelpe was wrecking on his dining table. “But yes, I knew. I do not have much family left this side of the ocean, and I would not see what remains be left on the battlefield to be scavenged by the beasts of Morgoth.”

“We are related?”

Tyelpe suddenly felt very remote from the breakfast he had previously been devouring. He poured himself a cup of water and sipped at it.

“Did the red hair not make you suspect? It is not common amongst the Ñoldor.”

“It is more frequent among the company I kept.”

“My mother was sister to Nerdanel and I grew up in the copper mines of Mahtan when Fëanor was his under-smith. I would recognise that face anywhere.”

“And the eyebrow, you look quite like Maedhros when you do that.”

Tyelpe turned the cup in his hands.

“So which one are you?” Rôg. “You are not Maedhros, nor are you Maglor; those two scamps I knew, but Fëanor had other sons which were not known to me.”

Tyelpe poured himself another cup of water. He was starting to feel violently thirsty.

“I am Celebrimbor.”

“That is a very long name.”

“My father had a lot to say,” he paused, “Most people call me Tyelpe.”

“I think it is wiser if I keep calling you Enerdhil.”

Tyelpe nodded as he swallowed down the cool water.

“My father was Curufin the crafty, fifth child of Fëanor. It is from him that I learnt smith-craft. But I am bound by no Oath and took no part in the kinslaying.”

“But you are Amanwyr?”

“Yes, barely. I think I was six or seven when Valinor lost the lights. When I was of age my father would not let me take the Oath as he wanted his descendants to have no part in it, although he changed his mind later.”

“You withstood him?”

Tyelpe sighed. “This is really more than I wish to speak of over breakfast.” He stood up and started to dismantle his elaborate citadel of breakfast things. “I need to get this back before your cook thinks you have been garrisoning an army.”

“Very well.” Rog paused, “I think Turgon will come round eventually, once he sees you have clean hands and many uses. But for now, as your master, I will read the report to Turgon, for it would be better your identity is revealed at a time of your choosing, not Lord Maeglin’s.”

“And I,” said Tyelpe, wiping away the escaped pickle, “will follow Lord Maeglin into his mines.”

*

“I know how this ends,” said Gwindor.

“Hush!” said Finduilas and Gelmir, “Do not ruin it.”

“I bet I do,” said Gwindor, “For all the prejudice against mine-thralls of Morgoth.”

“I revised my opinion,” said Tyelpe to the walls.

“I bet you did, when you realised you were going to end up here,” said Gwindor.

“In truth, I am probably lucky to have found my way to Mandos at all.” He looked at Gwindor gloomily, “You do not know how it ends Gwindor, even in your worst imaginings you could not dream of how my tale ends.”

“Really. Thanks to my stint as an ex-mine thrall, my imagination is now most vivid.”

“We are not going to play the game of my suffering-was-worse-than-yours,” said Maedhros. “it really is most wearisome, and completely unwinnable.”

“On the contrary, I think my fate was probably little more than I deserved.”

“So was there a fourth kinslaying?” asked Gwindor eagerly.

“Worse than that,” said Tyelpe, shifting his gaze to stare into the amorphous darkness blocking the corridor mouth.

“Nor are we going to play the self-laceration game,” said Maedhros, “We have all been carved up more than enough.”

“I still know how the trip to the mines is going to end,” said Gwindor.

“You did not give Rôg away, did you Maedhros,” said Finduilas.

“I doubted it was the elf I knew,” said Maedhros, “Really, he was the most frightful bore, seventy years old and full of his own importance.”

“He reminded me a lot of you,” said Tyelpe.

“Yes well, he certainly seemed to improve with age,” said Maedhros.

“Were you really a little scamp?” said Finduilas.

“I was a spirited child,” said Maedhros.

“So what happened on your great mine expedition?” said Gelmir, “Before my brother explodes.”

Tyelpe continued to stare into the darkness. It almost seemed to be waving at him as it circled in its endless swirls. It is calling me, he thought, and I should like so much to give in. There was something about ‘Eternal Darkness’ that had always seemed more soothing than peaceful to his furious mind, as if it were a place free even from the need of thoughts.

Maybe I should just have taken the Oath, he thought.