Stone and Light by Fernstrike

Stone and Light

Read Stone and Light

Before - The Dwarves

The Silmaril glittered through the Thousand Caves, borne to the treasury on a cushion. The procession was solemn, noble, and punctuated by the heavy steps of the dwarves of Nogrod.

“Set it in the Nauglamir,” King Thingol had told them, a touch of arrogance in his brow, before leaving them to their work.

Ensconced in a hall of crafting, they meshed the wires and jewels of the necklace, creating a bower of silver flowers for the divine gem to rest upon. It glittered brighter than the treasures of the earth, gleamed fiercer than dragon-fire, and their eyes glowed to look upon it, entranced and ensnared. They held each other, weeping at its beauty, and dreamed the dark dream that it could be theirs.

And why should it not be? They made the necklace in the first; they were given the jewel to set within. What did this Elven-king know of the beauty of the deep wonders of stone and light? Did he think they, the dwarves, were just creatures of service, with no hold of love over their own creations? Indeed, why should it not be theirs?

They knew what they would say and do. Between the strikes of their hammers, they whispered their plan, their golden chance to bring their finest work back to their home. They knew what they would say, so that their kinsmen would be proud of the fell deeds they would have to commit. They knew what they would have to sacrifice, to get the necklace out of the vast halls.

They were ready to do that. The Nauglamir and its crowning jewel was theirs, and no other had the right to claim it.

After - The Elves

 

The gates shook and the pounding echoed through the caverns. Today, Thranduil stood not beside his captain, Ferion, but beside his father. This would be no small battle, no footnote of violence in the peace of Doriath. The Girdle had perished, and the dwarven army had passed through their forest unhindered. Blood and slaughter already lay beyond the gates.

All of Menegroth was emptied now to the Lower Halls, the assembled Sindar host ready to guard their kingdom and their families, waiting for the great doors to break.

A crack appeared in the gates, and a despairing rage seeped into Thranduil’s mind. Spare months before, when he and his company had returned from their duties on the marches, they’d been greeted by the anguished cry that had rung out from the treasury.

“The King is dead!” a guard had shouted, and every ear in Doriath heard the fell words.

“Forward!” Captain Ferion had ordered, and Thranduil had unsheathed his blade, running forth to avenge his sovereign.The stunted folk stormed up through the halls, their axes swinging wild as they fled for the gates. The company of returned wardens needed no order to ask any fierceness of them. Thranduil and the other soldiers had drawn the blood of dwarves in their golden halls that day.

This hour, he would do it again, beside all his assembled kin, though fear darkened his heart. Never before had Menegroth felt defenceless. The bright helms and swords seemed so pale now, compared to the glowing lure of the Silmaril that they guarded, at all costs, for their dead King, for their departed queen, for the trials of their princess and her husband that had brought it here, for the glory of a kingdom whose days were slowly failing.

“Tangado!” Mablung’s cry rang out from behind them, and the assembled hosts bristled in anticipation, as weapons were drawn and positions were made firm.

Oropher raised his blade. “Tangado in philin!”

His host of archers lifted their bows. A second later, the gates burst open, and the vast army of dwarves poured through against a forest of spears and a hail of arrows.