A Candle for the Hollow City by Lordnelson100

Chapter 1 Discourtesy

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The events which led to a historic dialogue between two ancient and mutually distrustful cultures began with someone behaving badly over dinner.

 

January, Third Age 3021

Every people have their bores. What’s worse for the Elves, Elrond mused, is that ours don’t die. There were a few whom he, Círdan, and Thranduil had circulated among their realms for centuries, sending them back and forth to one another upon decades-long errands.

One of the marks of your true bore: upon discovering the most basic information about a new acquaintance, they invariably set forth upon exactly those topics which their poor listener must know best. So the great healer who has saved a plague-ridden city must hear how the bore’s sister cured her toothache; the mother of five children is lectured about infants by the bachelor scholar; and the warrior-bane of Balrogs is told how a chattering courtier once almost used a sword.

One fine night, while a guest in Thranduil’s halls, Elrond sighed as he glanced down a crowded feast table. He could not help but notice that Prestor, one of the great annoyances of his own household, was inflicting himself upon his neighbor at supper, rather to the lessening of Rivendell’s reputation for wisdom.

Elrond could hear only snatches of the conversation, among the interweaving voices of the crowd and the clatter of plate and cup and servants bustling. But Prestor was seated next to the dwarf Gimli of Erebor, and (ugh ) thought it fit to prattle of gems and jewelry, treasure and mines. Gimli’s face was courteously neutral. Likely he was inwardly deep in calculations about repairs to the walls of Minas Tirith or his other great projects.  

Prestor, with the expansive, poetic air of one who is wrongly convinced of his own sprightliness and charm, was fondling a tasteless chain, spangled with badly-woven tinsel, which he wore under the impression that it flattered his overlong neck. Now he was displaying it to his neighbor as an alleged treasure of Dwarven creation. More likely produced by a tinsmith in Dale, Elrond thought. With an inaudible comment, Gimli handed it politely back and took a deep drink from the winecup in front of him.

Then came one of those inexplicable gaps in the noise of the party, a sudden quiet in which a single person’s voice becomes extremely audible, and to his horror, Elrond heard Prestor cry coyly: “Ha ha ha! But perhaps I took a risk there, Master Dwarf! If you took a fancy to it, you might not have given it back at all, like your naughty ancestors and the famous Mîr na Nauglin in the tale!”

A look of cold distaste crossed Gimli’s face, so marked that it did not escape even Prestor’s observation.  “That is to say,” said the elf, belatedly dismayed. “In our tale. Your kind tell it differently, I suppose!!”

The dwarf had a deep, resonant voice, much used in great councils, and so every word of his reply was clearly heard down the table. “The object you mention, sir, was the cause of blood vengeance; and those deeds involved some whose houses sit now at this very table. It is no fit subject, therefore, for the feast of my host.”

“Oh!” said Prestor, rather crestfallen. “No offense, you know, meant to your revered kin! Keen is the honor of the Dwarves and so on!”

“Not my kin,” said Gimli, whose frown became, if anything, even deeper. “The Dwarves of Nogrod were destroyed indeed, and none living among the Khazâd can count them in their lineage. But while I am not learned, forsooth, in the lore of the Elves, do we not sit in the presence of your own lord Elrond, descended of the very hero who fatally avenged the cursed heirloom?”  

He bowed his head towards Elrond, and then towards the head of the table.  “And did not also Thranduil, Elven-King of this Woodland Realm, come with his father over the mountains long ago from the people of ancient Thingol, in whose realm these events took place? So we remember in the Lonely Mountain. I would you correct me, if this history we have wrongly.”

There was a snort from the high end of the board, where Thranduil lounged back in his great chair and said,  “And here we see that when a dwarf says I am not learned o n a thing, he means, Oi!  I have stored up a great deal of opinions about this,  prepare to be argued with .”

Prestor, unhappily aware of all eyes in the feast hall upon him, looked as if he would gladly sink gently under the table if only he could.

Here Elrond broke in, using what his sons called the Calm and Wise Voice.  “Gimli, you have our family ties to this matter of history correctly, I think. But I am dismayed to find one of my own household so ignorant of our near neighbors. For it is well known that you of Erebor are of the House of Durin, who have lived near the Misty Mountains since the Elder Days, and never in lost Beleriand, where lay the history of the so-called Nauglamír.  Nor, I would agree, is that sad tale a fit one for this night of good fellowship. Prestor, my friend, in the library at our home at Imladris you will find many texts that can help you remedy your faulty knowledge.”

He paused. Everyone who had a drink in front of them found it a good moment to swallow deeply.

“Do not delay your studies,” said Elrond sweetly. “Go now and get you started.”  The poor tiresome elf hastened out of the hall, robes flying.

At once there was a roar of mingled gossip, argument, laughter and calls for more wine. The rest of the feast went on with renewed joy, for most people are imperfect enough to feel a vivid sense of relief and well-being upon witnessing someone else make a public fool of themselves.

At the end of the night, as the hall emptied, Thranduil called out, “Gimli, come up here and have another drink.”  The dwarf swung himself up on a chair next to Elrond and the Woodland King, and sat cross-legged as Thranduil filled his cup.

“Ach, this is good stuff. King, you’ve kept the best vintage at your end of the table as usual!”  

“Of course I have. That shows me to be a wise monarch, for it surely would have been wasted at your end, judging by the conversation.” Thranduil pushed his long white-gold hair behind one ear, and continued with a touch more seriousness in his voice. “You must, it seems, hear from any elf who has something foolish to say about the Dwarves. I suppose it gets tiring. That’s the bride-price for my son, you know. ” 

Gimli snorted, though his brow creased,  and (it seemed to Elrond) he made to change the subject. “I am somewhat used to it. Besides, I thought the bride-price of your son, as you call it, was the work I am doing to fix your wretched leaky halls.”

“I am paying you something for that, aren’t I?” mused Thranduil, looking at the ceiling.

“For materials only and at a discount,” said Gimli. ‘Out of my purse comes the labor,  I’m throwing in the design work, and giving you family price on the stone, family price on a job this size,  O robber among monarchs! It’s like ripping my beard out by the roots.“ An attempt to look wounded was undermined by his lazily leaning back to cherish the excellent wine.

Thranduil waved his long graceful hands in mock-sorrow. “Ah well! You’re the one who said that Legolas was worth more than any treasure in your Mountain. I remember it well, you shouted at me right here in this hall. My people made a song about it, which they enjoy singing at me.”

Elrond, meanwhile, was thoughtful; a play of old memories was arising from the night’s conversation, the little follies of the event fading away in the light of grave and melancholy recollections.

“Do you know, Gimli, in all seriousness, I would one day be very happy to hear about your people’s memory of the Great Necklace, and the terrible dispute that led to the sack of Doriath. It was a tragedy of deep import. The happy end of the War of the Rings has brought renewed friendship between Elf and Dwarf kinds, and you and Legolas have done more than any to ensure that. But I would still do all I could to lessen the old distrust between our peoples. Much harm has come of it.”

Gimli grew serious as well; he sat up and looked at Elrond for a long moment with grave, dark eyes. “Forgive me, Lord Elrond, but I don’t think you would. Be happy, I mean, when you heard our account of the thing. It is a subject much discussed among the teachers of my people; a memory of great pain. Though it happened long ages ago by our reckoning, it is recounted with bitterness still.”

“I am a lore-master,” Elrond said simply. “It is my work to hear and to preserve much that is unhappy, even about my own people. Or my own family, as the case may be. Truths uncovered and shared bring healing to some old wounds.”

“Or reopen them, mayhap.” Gimli looked thoughtful. “I will study on it.  But meantime . . . “ He got down from his seat. “I must abed, so I can arise early to work on this old tyrant’s damp cellars.”

“Ah yes, sleep, the weakness of poor mortals. Go to your rest, my frail goodson! Elrond will bear me company through the night!” said Thranduil, throwing his legs over the side of his chair and pouring them both more wine.

To Elrond’s amusement,  Gimli made made a rude Dwarven hand-sign at the King on his way out, and his beautiful, haughty old friend returned it,  with something very like an affectionate smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

Chapter 2 Interlude Legolas and Gimli

Read Chapter 2 Interlude Legolas and Gimli

That night in bed, Legolas leaned his head on his hand and said, “You know you don’t have to do anything about it, if you don’t like. Certainly Elrond will understand.”

He angled his toes over Gimli’s shin. Since he’d just come back from a distant errand in the forest, his foot was especially cold and obnoxious. Gimli huffed out a laugh and shoved him in the shoulder.

But then he sighed in frustration. “Mahal’s great balls. Have not we worked hard enough already, to make things right between you and me, first off, and then between our true friends? Why shall I make it my business to fix what fools believe? And then, this old history is so full of sadness and hatefulness and blood.”

Legolas watched his face. “But you’re thinking about how you would go about it, nonetheless,”

Gimli stared at the ceiling. “I suppose it’s not so much the fools I want to answer, as the would-be wise.”

A few days later, Legolas answered a question from his father. “Oh, he is up at the Mountain. They are having a great council, you know, and arguing about whether they are going to share with us their tale of the Great Necklace and its doom, and if they are, in what form it is permitted to do so.”

“For all love, save us from Dwarves and their secrecy and all their thousand ways of being offended with us. You have stirred the ant-hill with a stick, Elrond,” said Thranduil, exasperated.

“Have I?” said the Lord of Imladris, serenely. “That is quite interesting in itself.”

Chapter 3 The Speaker and the Chorus

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It was a winter evening when they met once more in Halls of the Woodland Realm, as arranged, to hear the telling.  For the performance, they had had settled on an old hall, deep under the roots of the forest. It was paved in great river stones and vaulted with dark beams carved into intricate patterns of knotty branches; an enormous hearth flanked by marble stags took up an entire end of the hall.

In the hallway outside the hall waited Elrond and Thranduil. The King, it seemed, had dressed to honor the event: he wore the Woodland Crown of silver thorns and branches, intermingled with fir-tree sprigs wrought in red gold, and a long cloak lined with white lynx fur. Just as the appointed time was nearing, they were joined by Celeborn.  

“Galadriel sent you by yourself, did she?” asked Thranduil. “As you see,” he answered. Clad in grey travel clothes and with his silver hair tied tightly back, Celeborn, who generally seemed grave and reserved, looked doubly severe.  Elrond thought: He is unhappy to be here . The Lord of Lórien, out of all of them, had the closest ties to those who died in the battle between Elves and Dwarves at Doriath long ago.

Elrond brought with him a few of his household who he thought might most benefit: his learned archivist, a musician with a passionate taste for beauty,  and several of the more idealistic Elves who had not exhausted their love of Middle Earth, and still cared for travel and the company of other Peoples. Thranduil had gathered a select few of his court, too, chosen on some principle of his own which he (characteristically) did not state. Celeborn was alone.

They filed into the hall. The group of Dwarven visitors were seated on the floor, cross-legged in a semi-circle; about a dozen of them. Several more stood in back, assistants of some kind, it appeared. The hall was dark, the only light coming from the crackling fire on the great hearth, and from crystal candle-bowls of oil, lit with floating wicks, placed by each Dwarrow. To Elven eyes, the row of stony faces seemed unreadable, sternly set and mask-like amid their beards and thick eyebrows and long, elaborate braids. Their eyes glittered in the gloom.

The troupe all wore like gear, dark cloaks with deep hoods, trimmed with black fur, the hoods cast back over their shoulders. Otherwise, their garb was starkly simple: leather tunics that left bare their muscular arms, wound with elaborate inked designs; plain leggings or long skirts of deerskin, and high leather boots. They wore no elaborate gems or ornaments, only the most simple of jewelry: there the glint of nose stud or earring; here, beads fasted in braid or beard; the small, essential markers of personal identity, marriage or mourning.

On their laps were musical instruments. But these were not the famous, beautiful make of present day Erebor: no silver harps and viols inlaid with mother of pearl. In their place were simple objects that might have been carried by their earliest fathers and mothers in the Days of the Stars: a primitive lyre and bow, carved flutes, wooden claves, thin hand drums made of stretched skin, the curved horn of a mountain ox, a rattle carved from yellowed bone.

An open space seemed to be left in the very center of their little group.

Legolas and Gimli were there, seated likewise, but a little to the side. A few tall chairs were set along the wall, but Elrond waved away the court esquire who made to set one for him. He seated himself easily on the floor, cross-legged like the visitors. Celeborn accepted a chair, sitting tall and quiet with his hands on his lap, gazing downward. Thranduil, after a moment’s assessment, seated himself on the flagstones by folding his long legs to the side, and spreading his white cloak in a graceful pool around him.

All at once,  one dwarf began to work the claves, a solitary, hollow tock of wood on wood. From the shadowed back of the hall came a final figure, an old dwarf led forth on the sturdy arm of a younger. They saw that she was a Dwarrowdam, with iron-grey hair gathered in a pile of small braids on her head and woven in a thick queue that hung down her back nearly to the ground. Her wispy beard, trimmed close, was woven with tiny jet beads. Innumerable wrinkles creased and carved her face; but her brows were still dark, and her eyes were black and piercing.

Her cloak, alone of the band, was trimmed in ink-black raven feathers; so likewise, her long skirt;  earrings shaped as a chain of ebony feathers trailed from her ears almost to her shoulders. She took her place in the center of her people.

The quiet percussion ceased.

Gimli said: “These come now from the Lonely Mountain, as the Speaker and the Chorus. While they do so, no personal names are given. For they speak as the Durinul , the Sons of Durin, and not in their own voice.”  The visitors stood as one, bowed deeply, and sat down again. One of the assisting dwarves circled the room and placed a wooden goblet by each listener and performer, and filled it with dark ale.

The sturdy dwarf who had given her arm to the eldest now spoke. She had rippling red hair, and a mellow, carrying voice like a bronze bell; elaborate tattoos of serpents wound down from her jaw to the low neckline of her tunic and between her breasts.

“Hear now the voice of the Speaker. This is the way that our great Teachings of old are delivered.  She will give voice to the Tale in our own tongue, the sacred Khuzdul, created for us by Mahal, in the words that do not alter, but are passed down from generation to generation, and so are not lost. I will render it into the Common Speech.”

Ifridîzun! Make ready!

Kult!  Listen now!!  

At first, it seemed strange to Elrond, to listen in this mode; first, the phrases one language and voice, and then the other. But he found that quickly his ear and comprehension adjusted, and he began to enjoy the style, for the Speaker had a voice of surpassing power, husky and expressive. The words in Khuzdul flowed: enigmatic, harsh, vivid, like the shapes of mountains.

She delivered the story standing, often pacing, and she seemed to shape and illustrate each line with gesture of hand and wrist, neck and face. She paused frequently, and the interpreter with sweeter voice followed after.

 

“Mahal made us.”

Here, the Chorus echoed the Speaker as one in their deep voices, agreeing: Mahal made us .

 

“Making is our nature. Our nature it is also, to treasure and defend those things which we have made, and into which our spirit is poured.

But there are things that are greater even than treasures of the hand. For these things come from the First Gifts, of our bodies and our hearts and our free will, and these gifts cannot be made at the forge. Nor can they be destroyed or unmade by hand, or hammer, or sword.

And these are our children, and the parents’ love for them. And friendship,  loyalty and honor, such as we give to our truest friends and to our chosen rulers. And such is the love that true heart gives once, and only once, in a lifetime, to the One which their heart recognizes. 

The defense of these is the heart of honor, greater than any gold.”

The Speaker halted, and let silence hang in the air. All breathed.  

The Chorus made then a tune on ancient strings; they beat the hand drums, and sang with deep voices, first thrumming in their throats, voice without words;  then their song rose into whisper-singing, and slid finally into language, lyrics of primitive joy and strength that were not translated for their Elvish listeners.  

Such was the music overheard by the earliest Quendi, echoing among the feet of the great Blue Mountains, when their people first met the Khazâd in woods long vanished. But the Elves had not understood what they heard, and those mountains were ruined long ago.

Chapter 4 The Makers

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The drums flourished and were still.  The dwarven helpers refilled dark ale into everyone’s cups. The Speaker took up the story once more.

Once upon a time, it was the Ancient Days of the World. In the Days of the Stars, the Fathers of the Dwarves awoke. Under the sky of starry night, we spoke to each other for the first time in the words Mahal gave us, and discovered with wonder the strength of our bodies, the invention of our minds, and the use of our hands. Strong and unyielding we were made, stone-hard, stubborn, fast in friendship and in enmity: fit to live and endure both joy and peril in this Middle-Earth.

With the teachings of Mahal, we became the Masters of Stone, of crafts and delving, and even before the rising of the Sun and Moon, we knew how to devise arts of great beauty and cunning, and we wrought from rock our wonderful fortresses and hidden homes, high in the mountains and in the deep places of the world.

But that was not all we learned to make.

For in the First Age, we became the original and greatest artists of sword and axe, armor and helm. Our armor was strongest, against blade and fire; our weapons cut keenest, biting flesh and spilling blood. Our mail and blades did not rust or blunt, but stayed bright: they could be ever renewed and repaired across long centuries of war.

We had need of them.

The musicians gave a low, deep shout, and made a long trailing sound of rattles, like a warning of serpents.

For it was also the Age of the Old Enemy: Morgoth. He was Askad Aznân , the Shadow in the Darkness, the Flame of Despair.

He hated all peoples that walked free on the Earth or delved within it, and He hated the Powers that protected them. But we remember that He hated most of all Mahal, Aulë in Elf-speak, the great Maker and Smith, for Morgoth himself could make nothing beautiful or new, but only steal and corrupt that which others made first.

And He loathed and envied that the Khazâd had the gift from the Maker himself to invent and forge new things. And the Dwarves used their talents to fell purpose against Him, destroying the Enemy’s Orcs wherever they found them, hewing His Wargs and Werewolves and Trolls. And our Fathers were the first who learned how to stand against the great Dragons.

But  spies were everywhere, and many creatures He turned to His own purpose. The Elves also called Him Bauglir, the Imprisoner, the Lord of Fetters. Well-named. For He came in the dark and stole, taking away Dwarves from their stone halls and Elves from the green woods and Men from their fields, into deep and terrible prisons.

The Chorus cried aloud, as if in a memory of many voices lifted in sorrow and fear. One made a long keening note with her bow, atonal and eerie.

It was known that in his pits, He and His servants tore apart the bodies of many Dwarrow, hoping to uncover the secret of their making, or how He could steal their free wills and enslave them. But Mahal had hidden our hearts from the Enemy; He never found what He sought.

And so from those early days, the Dwarves learned to be secret. We did not teach our tongue to strangers; we kept hidden our ways; few guests were had into our halls, and those saw only that which we chose to show.

When you see the she-fox on the mountain side, and she sees you , she speeds away by clever paths, and ever she feints and dodges, and leads you farther and farther away from her den. The wise do not show to strangers the secret place where their hearts’ dearest lies.

The Chorus made their agreement known, with call and answer of warning and reply. A lone flute sang, a note brave and sad, as if to represent the heart of the mother, treasuring her secrets in the snow.

Now you must learn,  there was still at that time a mighty and beautiful land west of the Blue Mountains, Beleriand of the Elder Days. And in that Age, our people made the first ancient and wonderful cities of the Khazâd, both in the East and in the West.  Our story concerns two that lay in Beleriand, lost home in the West. These was Tumunzahar, the Hollowbold, which the Elves called Nogrod. And there was her sister city, Gabilgathol, the Mickleburg, which they remember as Belegost.

In this land lived also two Elven kings of fame:  one golden, and one grey.

The Grey Elf King of this story lived deep in the woods called Doriath, and he had always lived there, since the beginning of days: Thinkol, the Grey-Cloak. The Golden King of Elves was Felakgundu, the Maker of Caves, that the Elves also called Finrod. He was one of the Exiles that came over the Sea.

The ways of the Golden King and the Grey in dealing with our people were very different.

Now Grey-Cloak was wary of the Enemy’s snares, and he came to the Dwarves for help in creating a great keep under the earth, where his people could sit safely. The Dwarves of Tumunzahar and Gabilgathol created for him great gates and a mighty bridge, and halls so vast they were named Menegroth of the Thousand Caves, deep in the forest of Doriath.

And likewise, the King of Wood Elves sought to buy great store of wondrous Khuzdul weapons and matchless mail: they made for him long coats of steel rings and high helms, axes and swords, so excellently forged that they were never equalled, even by the greatest smiths of the Elves. And through such craft and trade with the Khazâd, his kingdom became well-protected.

But to Grey-Cloak, the Dwarves remained mere hirelings, to be paid and dismissed. And Thinkol and his court scorned the Dwarves as to their bodies and faces, calling them unlovely and stunted, and misused or forgot their names and ways, which his people could not be bothered to learn properly. Even more offensive, these Elves in their haughtiness told each other that Dwarves had no souls, and turned to stone when they died, as if they had not the protection of the Maker who gathers their spirits to the Halls beyond the grave.

Ever Thinkol and his folk ever spoke their words of dishonor and insult,  even within the hearing of the Dwarves, as if they were people of stone indeed, and had not ears. But the Dwarves had learned the language of the Elves, even as the Elves had not theirs, and they heard and remembered.

Still, Elves and Dwarves were alike the enemies of Morgoth. And Thinkol had as his wife a great sorceress and wise-woman, Melian. She made around their kingdom of Doriath great protections of mysterious magic, woven with wisdom, and she was willing to trade with the Dwarves some of her learning and art. Some say it was from she and her bards that we learned letters in those ancient days, in which to capture the wisdom of our fathers.

And so the Dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost held themselves paid, and continued to trade with Thinkol. But they did not count him a friend.

It was elsewise with King Felakgundu. It is remembered by our sages that he was loved even by all the troublesome tribes of Elves, who spoke a confusion of different tongues and were in strife with each other. He likewise befriended the Houses of Men and taught them his speech, and learned theirs.

Certain it is that he made bonds of friendship with the Dwarves. He, too, made contract with them to build a great mansion beneath the earth. But Finrod delighted to learn about the skills of Mahal’s folk, and even what they would tell him of their language and lore.

Together, they explored a set of marvelous ancient caves that had formed beneath a river, and they shaped them, making stone flow as it had been gold made molten, forming it at will into delicate column and arch, carven pattern and spiralling stair. Together, the artisans of Nogrod and Belegost joined with the Elves, and achieved the splendid palace of Nargothrond, the Nulukkizdîn of many wonders.

In this place, the two peoples, Elves and Dwarves, wrought together in joy and friendship, learning much from each other, and creating that which was greater than either could have made alone. The Dwarves gave to Finrod the name of Felakgundu, Shaper of Caves, and even his own people often called him by it.

With the tapping of wood on wood, thump of drum, and rapid shaking of rattle, and a quick, shrill piping on the flute, the Chorus called up the idea of many hammers and tools at work, amid eager voices singing at their work.

Now Nargothrond was not only beautiful,  but well-hidden. And the Dwarves that helped him build it never told the secret of that guarded place. Even those that fell into the hands of the Enemy in later dark days, and were tormented: they held silent about Felakgundu’s secrets, as they did their own. No vow or magic bound them to silence: only that they counted this Elf King as their friend.

It came to pass at the height of this friendship, that Finrod asked the Dwarves to create for him a great work of art. He had brought with him splendid gems out of the Elves’ fabled Land Across the Sea, such as did not exist in Middle-earth, and he wished to have them set in a work that would help him remember the wonders of that legendary place.

The Dwarves of the West were unwearied in those days, eager for new works, still warmed by the Fire of their own awakening. Taking on the task,  the Dwarves made for him a work of craft beyond any they had created before, pouring into it the joy of making and inventing and learning which was then poignant in their hearts.

It was the Great Necklace,  woven of gold, set with the gems of the Undying Lands, but imbued with a gentle power so that it rested lightly on its wearer as spider’s silk; and whoever wore it, if they had grace and loveliness within them, the light of their spirit shone clearly forth.

Though this work was made in contract for Felakgundu, and he made rich payment for it, yet did the Dwarves give him back a creation much greater than the price. For they surpassed themselves, out of love and out of their fierce longing to excel, and made such a work as they never had before, nor since. It was the most renowned of their works in the Elder Days.

For us, it is remembered as the Khajmel , the Gift of Gifts.

But the Elves of latter days have ever called this work Nauglamír,   the Mîr na Nauglin , in their older words: the Necklace of the Stunted Ones.  Fah! For this is true of the Elves and the Dwarves: even when they look upon our greatest works with awe, there is spit from their mouths upon the name of our people. And so they join ugliness to beauty, even in the naming of the world.

The Chorus made a low growl, rebellious, resentful. The string-player came in with a passage of anguish, regret; yet ending with a sweet theme, as if recalling happiness long lost.

There is now one more piece of this tale you must hear to understand this history.

In those days, the crown of the Dark Enemy held three Great Jewels, beautiful beyond mortal ken, but corrupt with destructive power. All that our people knew of them came second-hand, for no Dwarf made them, or had ever held or looked upon them. Except, perhaps those poor victims who had seen His face when He tormented them. But the Enemy’s victims never came back to us.

The Elves told how they had originally created these Jewels, and that Morgoth had stolen them long ago, in their legendary Undying Land across the ocean, and so the Exiles had come to Middle-earth in pursuit and vengeance. They said, too, that the Great Jewels, or Silmarils as they named them, were holy, and contained the light of the Powers who made the World, just the same light that kindled the stars.

If it be so, it seems the Enemy had the power to poison even so sacred a thing.  For by the days we speak of, these Silmarils, sitting long on the head of cruel Morgoth, had on them a most terrible curse.  

Morgoth got the Jewels by theft and murder, as he got all things, and those Elves from which they had been originally stolen never forgot; the lust to regain them burned in their hearts. And so the Great Jewels had a power that grew from hate: they caused any who sought them or kept them to go gradually mad with desire, and to turn on one another with violence, forgetting honor, forgetting even the truest love of their own hearts.  

Woe came to us through these Great Jewels, though we never wrought them.

Chapter 5 Kings of Gold and Grey

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Now it happened that Grey-Cloak the Forest King had a beautiful daughter, called Nightingale, most dear to her father and mother and people. Nightingale was herself strong and powerful, wise and magical like her mother, and she could turn herself into the form of a bird or an animal, or turn her long black hair into a shadowy cloak and run invisible when she willed it. So she travelled through the deep woods alone without harm,  and went where she wanted.

Journeying one time in the wilderness she met One-Hand, a brave warrior of the people of Men, and both being mighty and courageous they liked each other well, and fell in love. They danced and hunted in the woods and shared a horn of mead, and chose one another freely under the Moon and stars.

When King Grey-Cloak heard of this, he was furious that his daughter should chose a mortal warrior, and not an Elven lord, as a husband. Not surprising! So have many a father and many a mother stamped in anger,  and shouted at their children’s choices of the heart, thinking them foolish, and wishing it otherwise!  Yet it is not given to parents to part any who have chosen their One freely,  in true love. Not even for Kings.

But there came into the head of Grey-Cloak a very wicked idea. He imprisoned his daughter, and swore she and her love should never be together, unless the Man sought out and obtained one of the Cursed Jewels from the very crown of the Enemy.

And this was a murderous and treacherous vow! For he purposed One-Hand should die in the doing of this seeming impossible deed, but that the blood would not be on Thinkol’s own hands. He seemed to think that he could hide his thoughts even from the Powers. But they cannot be fooled. They saw his wicked purpose.

In deep sorrow, but filled with brave intent, One-Hand went then to Nargothrond to seek Felakgundu, the Golden King, because that Elf had been the friend of his father and grandfather before him, and there were sacred vows of service and  shield-brothership among their families.  And in loyalty and loving friendship, Felakgundu went together with hero One-Hand, and sought their terrible foe, with only a few brave warriors behind them.  

The Speaker paused here for a time. One in the Chorus used the ancient bull’s horn to make a call both noble and melancholy, and the Dwarves sang for the setting forth of that journey. And they filled all cups and drank together for so brave and impossible a quest.

But after a mighty struggle,  these good warriors all fell into the hands of the Enemy’s terrible captain, the Lord of Wolves (who was our hated foe Sauron under another name), and were like to die. But the Maker Mahal and his Sacred Brothers and Sisters did not allow that.  

Instead, Nightingale, being s a mighty sorceress, had a dream sent to her of her spouse’s great peril, and she broke her prison, and flew to his aid in the form of a bird. And together they threw down the Lord of Wolves, and fought their way even into the castle of the Enemy himself, and knocked him down and took one of the Great Jewels from his crown, and flew away, for the Powers willed it so!

But brave Felakgundu was not with them. For he had been slain by the terrible Lord of Wolves, defending his friend. His blood stained the stones of the dark prison, and the bright King went never home to Nargothrond of the beautiful caves.

And the Enemy, though he was for the moment struck to the ground, was not truly wounded. Soon he arose. In his rage, he sent his armies against the kingdom of lost Finrod, and without their bright king, the power even of these fair Elves of old was naught, and his fortress was uncovered and broken. For the Enemy’s host was lead by a dragon, Glaurung the Terrible, whom our own great King Azaghâl wrestled in the Battle of Uncounted Tears. And Nulukkizdîn’s people died or fled away. The dragon entered into the empty house, and crouched upon the treasures there.

All this came in great part of the wicked vow that Grey-Cloak had wished upon his daughter and her husband. For if the Enemy had completed these dooms, it was Thinkol who sent the heroes to their fate.

Chapter 6 A Thousand Caves

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Now came a moment of dark fate and woe to the Dwarves.

After One-Hand and Nightingale gained the Great Jewel and their marriage was accepted of their peoples, they had many strange adventures of which the Elves sing, and they later lived in peace on a green island hidden away on a far-off river. So our people heard, for this was beyond our own knowledge.

But Grey-Cloak still ruled in Doriath, and he had in his keeping the mighty Silmaril that he had demanded. At first he was abashed, and hid it away in his hoard, for he was ashamed of what he had done to his daughter and goodson, and of his hand in the death of Felakgundu. And he was wary of the curse upon the Great Jewels, and feared lest the desire of other powerful Elves be inflamed against him. But the call of the magic gem grew upon him, till he forgot the curse, and he wished to have it with him at all times and wear it before the eyes of his kingdom.

In this year, by a strange and awful chance, a wanderer came to Felakgundu’s empty halls.  The dragon was no longer there, for he had gone forth to do other wickedness, and at last a hero slew him. But people avoided ruined Nargothrond, for the cloud of fear and foul filth that lay about the place from the dragon was still very great. But now a lonely traveler ventured in, and he discovered in the gloom the Khajmel, the shining necklace made for Finrod in ancient friendship, and he took it away with him and put it into the hands of Thinkol Grey-Cloak.

The mind of the King had already been twisted by possessing Morgoth’s gem, perhaps. Now his thoughts grew stranger still. For he decided at once that he would keep this thing, and not deliver it back to the heirs of Felakgundu. But more, it came to him that he would have it remade, and set in it the Silmaril.

Alas! Once all who saw the Khajmel had found in it an artwork perfected: an achievement whole and complete, whose great worth lay in its grace and lightness, which created a lens for the spirit of he or she who wore it. Understanding this excellence, the Dwarves had never tried to make the same thing again, so that it was unique among all their works of that Age.

Now this vain King wished to unmake what had been perfect, and burden it with the alien light of the Enemy’s spoil. He sent for Dwarrow craftsmen and ordered them to use their arts to join together the two stolen treasures into one.

The Dwarves had been working with Grey-Cloak so long, and he needed so much from them, that he had a hall in Menegroth set apart for them. In the guest hall that year were a large mission of craftspeople from Nogrod, with their lord.  The times had grown very dangerous, through the Enemy’s many victories, and the Khazâd were wary. They went nowhere except in force, and well-armed. So it was with the Dwarrow present in Menegroth: they were the greatest craftspeople of their time,  ingenious artificers and armorers, learned architects and silversmiths who delighted the eye with jewelry and gems: but they all also bore their axes and swords and went about in mail.

And now these Dwarves looked upon the great creation of their fathers, shining in the Grey King’s hands, and were astonished.  

For how had Thinkol come by this thing? They recognized it at once: it was famed to all Khazâd, despite the centuries flown since it left their workshops. It was none of Thinkol’s making or purchase. They knew how the true owner had been lost: that Finrod left it behind him with he set forth with Beren One-Hand to fulfill the errand of the King of Doriath.

We Dwarves hold it a terrible thing, to ravish treasure from those who have died, and not to strive to return it to their heirs. For murder does not destroy rightful ownership, we think. Though Elves and Men oft hold differently, shaming not to claim the hoards of dragons, and profit by the slaughter of the people the dragons destroyed. But the case was even worse than if the Nauglamír had merely been stolen from Finrod’s strongroom!

For the Silmaril had been gained only when Grey-Cloak sought the death of his daughter’s One, the true beloved of her heart. In doing so, we hold that he sinned against the Powers themselves. For no father or mother, nor no King or Lord, has the right to break or destroy such ties of love, which come from our hearts and our bodies and our free-will, which were the First Gifts to us.

So it seemed to them now that the work Grey-Cloak asked of the Dwarrow of Nogrod was of profound dishonor.

The hearts of the Dwarves were filled with dismay, and inflamed with insult. They crowded round their own King, crying aloud: “This miserable Elven King has no honor and no shame! Does he ask this contemptible work of us, because he thinks we are too low to resist his will, and too greedy to refuse any rich contract, however foul the task?”

The King of Nogrod at this time was himself a powerful and proud craftsman and mighty warrior. When the Elves tell this tale, they call him Naugladur , which means in the Wood Elves’ tongue, Leader of the Stunted , for they have forgotten his very name.   Nótt was his use-name among our people, meaning Night in the old common tongue of the North. A name of ill portent, though the parents who gave it to him knew it not.

Long into the evening, the Dwarf King of Nogrod and his people argued.

Here the Chorus used their voices to imitate the sound of confused arguing and strife, of rising anger and concern. The Speaker stroked her chin, and strode from side to side, the very picture of a leader brooding with heavy responsibility.

The lamps burnt low. The cold stars rose overhead.  And Nótt  and his folk came in the end to a fateful decision.

That they would create the work that Thinkol bid them, joining the Elves’ Silmaril into the Great Necklace, the Gift of Gifts of the Khazâd: but only then turn, and tell this King of Dishonor that he had no right to the fruits of their work.

What they did was folly.

If the work was unjust and the doing of it loathsome, they should never have taken the King’s task into their hands. If they would throw the insults of Thinkol back into his face, they should have done so in the open workshop, and refused to light their forges. But Nótt and his people sought to take two roads at once.

In their blindness, they marched forward into the abyss.

Tock. Tock. Tock.

Chapter 7 Ruin

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The fire has been let to burn low, and the Chorus put out all but a handful of candles.  The winter wind is heard in the great chimney over the hearth.

A veil is drawn over the final scene between Thinkol of the Thousand Caves and Nótt , Dwarf King of deep Nogrod. For none who saw it lived to tell the tale.  When he heard the work was complete, Grey-Cloak went alone among the craftsmen to take up his prize. But neither he, nor they, ever recounted that day to their children. For none of them saw another sunrise.

Some say the Dwarves tried to take by force the now-welded Nauglamír and Silmaril for themselves. Some say that they only challenged Thinkol to give up his wrongful claim, and to surrender the heirloom to a rightful keeper.

Perhaps both these things are true: that the Dwarves sought to hold the treasure in the name of justice, and that Grey-Cloak did not believe their words, and accounted them only thieves.

And who can say what truth lay in the heart of King Nótt?

If the treasure passed into his hands at that moment, would it ever have passed out again? Perhaps he, himself, did not know.

For the beautiful heirloom had lain long under the belly of a dragon. And dragons, as all our people know, cast a wicked magic upon the treasures they hoard. The dragon’s infection makes gold speak inside our very minds:  a silent, sick and relentless voice.

First, it whispers that the treasure recovered will be sufficient and more to right great wrongs, to repair all losses, to heal disputes, to rebuild and make all whole.

A steady note is struck upon the wooden claves.

But soon, the voice of the worm urges caution and suspicion. Too many are the claimants and the pleaders for help. Perhaps there is not enough for all. Perhaps there are schemes disguised in the arguments of allies. Perhaps there are hidden knives, concealed behind the loving eyes of friends.

The hollow percussive notes speed up. They are joined by the fast whine of a bow, and by the dry rattle.

Finally, the heart of the dragon-sick is pierced and wounded with desire. His will bleeds away in the terror of loss, and he must need grasp all for himself, turning on rival and ally alike, twisting all promises and claims into hateful, selfish betrayal. And so he is lost. And so destroys himself, in the very hour of winning what he sought.

Voices wail from the Chorus of Erebor. The music hastens, and the abruptly stops.  Some rock, shaken by memory. The ancient past and living recollection blend.  

And so this Dwarven King fell into unwisdom, long ago; and took with him all who followed him.

For one wrong does not justify another. If a work is stolen from its rightful owner, it does not, thereby, return to the ownership of they who made it and gave it. And it was not for our people to punish wrongs that Elves may have done to one another.

In the end, this we know: that Grey-Cloak turned on Nótt and on the Dwarves of Nogrod,  and tried to cast them out without payment or heirloom alike, insulting them with great contempt.

Then Thinkol was slain.  Whose hand dealt the blow? The answer is lost.

Taking up the Necklace, Nótt and his folk fled his halls into the wilderness. But the Elves of Doriath came hotly after them. Greatly grieving Grey-Cloak’s death, in their turn they killed the craftspeople of the mountains. They did not stop to ask which one dealt death to Thinkol. They hewed down Nótt, and while he lay wounded, floundering in the mud for his axe, they cut his throat, and took the Necklace back again from his neck.

For many years, our people had journeyed their Great Road to work in Doriath. The Doriathim surely knew faces, a few mispronounced names: people with whom they’d bargained, or worked at building a new hall, or commissioned to make jewelry or a named blade for a beloved child’s coming of age. None now mattered.

Only two escaped the slaughter; and they made their way through the mountains to the fortress of Nogrod.  Then did doom wind ever more bloody around both Elves and Dwarves.  

At the news of the slaying of Nótt and their craftsmen, the Hollowbold City of Dwarves rose up in wrath and lamentation. They wailed and tore their beards, and called for vengeance for their friends and their lord.

Ai! Ai! Ai!  Wailings are mixed with pounding drums. Some in the Chorus press their foreheads to the floor, while others raise clenched fists.

Messages flew to and from their sister city of Belegost, who counseled them to pause for better wisdom: for already many saw in their hearts that Nótt with his rash acts had tangled the claims of justice and honor.

Too late. The Dwarf Host of Nogrod poured forth on the road to Doriath, loaded with gear of war.  Their axes gleamed. They masked themselves in their grim helms, created to fend off even hot dragon fire itself. Their war cries echoed through the mountain passes.

Thinkol’s death broke the heart of his wife, Wise-Woman Melian, and she vanished away. The spell-wrought fence that had long protected their kingdom vanished like ice in a sudden spring. The army of Nogrod ran through the woods of Doriath and raged against Menegroth, a wildfire set loose in a coal shaft.  With bloody blades Elf and Dwarf clashed together in the Thousand Caves.

The Elves of old were mighty, tall and dangerous, and the Dwarves themselves had armed them, to their woe. But the tall ones faced Dwarrow fighting underground, in caves they themselves had created, with the blood of their own dead king in their nostrils. The Khazâd had the victory. They sacked Menegroth, where long they had labored in honorable contract, if not in friendship.

Mahal turned his face away from them.

Their day of triumph was brief. Far off on their enchanted isle, the great warrior One-Hand and his wife Nightingale heard of this bloodshed and rapine against her father and onetime home, and they came flying over the land to burning Doriath.

Perhaps, in their last hours, the Dwarves of Nogrod were even surprised at this, their fate.  Among our people, the acts of Grey-Cloak would have broken forever the ties between daughter and the father who threw her husband into the torments of the Enemy. Did these Dwarrow think, therefore, that Doriath would go unavenged by the heirs of Thinkol?  It was not so.

The folk of Nogrod set out for home, laden with all the spoils of Menegroth.  Already their numbers were much reduced, for many fell in the Thousand Caves.  Late in the day, they came to the Stony Ford on the deep River Gelion, fed by ice-cold streams that ran down from the mountains. Suddenly, all the woods were filled with the sound of elven-horns, and arrows sped upon them from all sides.

It was mighty One-Hand of the clans of Men, and with him all the Woodland Elves. Together, they delivered blood vengeance on the Dwarves, and ended them all. Not one of those Dwarrow escaped the shadows under the trees, or ever climbed again the high passes that led to their homes.

In their blood lay the army of Tumunzahar, the ancient Hollowbold. Their fire-forged mail had failed them, and was rent with wounds; their keen axes lay beneath their bodies; their beards were soaked with blood, and on their brows lay cold death; their strong arms would never lift hammer in the workshop again.  

That Dwarf who could carve stone like living flower, and his Dwarrowdam who was artificer of marvelous weapons; the warrior who set marvelous gems like stars, and his brother, the wanderer of many journeys. All lay dead, in their hundreds, and they who loved them would never see their dear faces again.

Someone among the Elves knew a little of Dwarven ways, and their deep-held beliefs about the sacred treatment of the dead. So they did not burn their bodies, or dig even a pit in the dirt. They stripped them of arms and mail and left them naked carrion for the beasts and Orcs to devour. Such is vengeance.

The Chorus stood, and they reached their hands up towards the roof of the hall, and beyond it, the invisible sky. They remained standing for the remainder of the Tale.

And the Elves took up again the Nauglamír. The re-made home of the Silmaril was new to their eyes, being but fresh from the hands of the craftspeople. They gazed with admiration on the Jewel that had been cut from the Enemy’s crown, now shining set amid gold and gems by the cunning of the Dwarves. It was smeared with the blood of those skillful artists. They washed it off in the cold stony stream, and they bore the famous heirloom away.

The voices of the musicians made a low droning note in their throats, which continued on and on through the last of this passage.

The Dwarven host had died, at least, in the way of warriors. Seeking revenge for a dead king and for their friends, striving to reclaim the Great Gift of their people as a weregild, revolting against dishonor, they took the blood road. They had chosen, and they had lost, and so they fell, and their souls went to the Halls beyond the world. There lies judgement beyond our knowing.

But now came the hour of the greatest sorrow: the hour when the innocent without choice would pay the price for those who took up the sword.

Now came on night, indeed.

Alas, alas. Lamentation.

When the hawk grasps the thrush in her flight, who will look to the nestlings that call for her in vain?

Alas, alas. Lamentation.

When the she-fox is slain in the snow, then what becomes of the cubs in their den?

Lamentation.

For when the Host of Nogrod marched away to war, all that city’s mightiest Dwarrows and Dwarrowdams went with it.  But the mountain was not empty.  There remained behind all those who did not bear arms, either because of their crafts or their age, their weakness or their gentleness.  

The very old and the very young, the child and the grandfather, the mother and the babe in arms, the sick and the halt, were at home; and with them, some each of loremasters and weavers, jewelsmiths and musicians, cooks and healers. For though Khazâd love and value skill in arms, yet even among us, not all are warriors.

A handful alone of stout fighters remained with the peaceful folk; for in their rashness and wrath, too many of the people of Nogrod had rushed to avenge their king; too few, they left behind to defend their true treasures of their hearts.

The Enemy of All knew at once what had befallen in Doriath, and how Beren One-Hand  and the Wood-Elves had slain the warriors of Nogrod. And laughing, faster than thought, He sent forth his cruel creatures, and they flowed through the dark woods and filled the valleys around the great mountain city, now empty of defenders.

In desperation, the survivors shut and barred the doors of the city, and barricaded themselves into a few small halls deep within. In desperation, they sent ravens to their neighbors in Belegost in the northern mountains, and even to the distant people of Durin, in Khazad-Dum far away in the East.

The Speaker with her hands uplifted in the firelight, made as if to release a bird on the wing.

But it was too late. The world was dark, and full of the Enemy’s terror in those days, and no help could come to them in time.

Foes surrounded them. Wolves howled through the night, and the wind bore their voices even into the inmost halls of the mountain. Hordes of orcs, great trolls and servants of the Enemy still more foul, assailed the ancient city. All too soon, they broke down the outer walls and gates.  

Then Morgoth’s creatures pounded on the doors of the last deep halls where the people of Nogrod still hid, and in wicked voices taunted them with their coming death. Then the too-few defenders raised their axes, and many who had rarely held arms picked up weapons,  so that they could make a better end.

Mothers held wailing infants to their breast and tried to comfort them at the last. Old wives and husbands, grown grey together working at the forge, clung to one another's’ hands. Friends turned to old friends, and bade them farewell, and promised to seek each other in the Maker’s Halls,  where souls fly to safety beyond death.

And at last the enemy had down each door and gate, and devoured every person within. And Night, unending darkness, fell utterly on that great city.

A hollow note strikes over and over, tock, tock, tock, futile and empty, and then stills. The musicians throw up their deep hoods all, and cover their faces in shadow.

If here and there, throughout the ancient lands, there still strayed lonely sons and daughters of this city, far from home at the hour it fell, they must have taken refuge in distant mansions of other Khazâd clans, pitiful guests with empty hands. And thus they faded, and their names and their fathers’ names were utterly lost.

For no Dwarf alive today claims lineage of lost Tumunzahar, of great Nogrod deep beneath the Blue Mountains of old.

 

Chapter 8 Inheritance

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But that is not the end of the story.  Not quite.

The news of the destruction went out among all the houses of the Khazâd, East and West, North and South. And counsel was given and taken. At last, the Wise seers of each House joined together and made this decree.

“We hold this thing accursed. In the mouths of the Elves it may still be the Necklace of the Dwarves, but it never again shall be accounted an heirloom of any of our Fathers or their folk. Let no Dwarf seek it. Though we created this treasure in joy, and gave it in friendship, it has become stained and ruined with our own blood.

It has passed away from us.

As for the people of Nogrod: if there is justice to be dealt for them, our hands are too small to make it. Into the care of They who dwell beyond world’s end, we place their cause.”

And so we watched from afar, and listened, to the later history of the Elves who bore away Thinkol’s legacy.

It became an inheritance of death. Whether it was the curse of the Jewel that sat in Morgoth’s crown that awoke; whether the unjust deeds done by those who grasped at these treasures called down their own punishment; whether the spilled blood of the Khazâd children in the mountain cried out, who can tell?

But certainly, death pursued the Elves who held the thing. Elf slew Elf, kin turned again kin. High lords and generals of the Eldar, whose faces we once knew, who fought in battle beside us long ago against the Enemy, fell into madness, and sought the now thrice-cursed heirloom through blood and fire. Doriath was sacked again, and Thinkol’s grandson slain upon his throne, and his children and people killed or driven forth.

Yet they who held this patrimony clung to it beyond even the weal of their own loved ones and children, unwilling, perhaps unable, to surrender it, even to save themselves. From place to place they fled, from one refuge to the next, and each time they were pursued, for the terrible possession of the Jewel could not be hid, and drew doom after it.

At last, after many years,  a great-granddaughter of Thingol, grown to womanhood, was driven to bay in a refuge by the sea. She was wearing the Silmaril, set in its well-crafted necklace, as foes chased her even onto the high stones overlooking the ocean.  And turning, she saw that her pursuing enemies were like to slay both she and her own small children in their fury.

And in her heart, her mother’s love rose up at last, more wonderful and powerful than any treasure of the hand, and to save her children, she threw herself over the high edge into the sea,  leading her greedy pursuers away from her cubs, as the vixen draws away the hunters.

But the Powers had pity on her, and changed her to a white bird, and she was not destroyed, but flew away over the ocean in that form. And the Wise Ones took at last the shining treasure that had wielded so much woe, and removed it from the world.  They made it into a new star of Evening. Men have many names for it, and the Elves see in it a ship, steering through the heavens. We name it Thatr Danak , the Candle Star, that is carried through the Heavens in memory of those we have lost, but will see again.

Of this sad story of the downfall of Hollowbold, our Elders have made this Teaching, that it may not be forgot. For through the long ages of the world, even stone will wear away. So much more do we lose, who are not stone but flesh, the prey of enemy and of exile.

We have our teaching, and the Elves have theirs. Through countless years, they have continued to tell their own version of events about the Nauglamír. Ever they turn the story against us, saying it reveals the greed of the Dwarves, and our treachery.

They say that Elven memory is perfect. And yet it seems not so. For they have forgotten much.  They remember the beauty and power of this great work, yet not the friendship in which it was crafted and given. They remember how one of our Kings fell into folly, but not the sins of theirs.

Strange to say; for even in their own telling, the thing does not reflect well on them.

For the children of Nogrod died when the wolves of Morgoth fell upon them. But the children of Grey-Cloak’s house were slain by wolves in the shape of their own kin.

Here the Chorus and the Speaker ended their work, and the last candle was put out.  Silence and darkness fell in the hall for a long moment, until at a signal, torches were lit, and all became as it was.

 

Chapter 9 Lore

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As the great hearth warmed up again with a newly-built fire, and bright lanterns and torches were placed, people of Thranduil’s court brought silver cups to the Chorus, with words of thanks and interest..

Conversations quickly began, Dwarf and Elven voices mingling.  “That was marvelous , can you show me the bowing on that . . . “ “Aye, but I’d give good gold for a proper description of the Necklace, not to mention the metallurgy involved . . .” “Is there external evidence that the Khazâd learned Cirth runes at Doriath? Because I’ve always speculated that . . .”

But the Woodland King and the Lords of Rivendell and Lorien sat in quiet thought for a while. It seemed to Elrond  that his two friends had each been deeply moved, as he had been himself.

As the crowd swirled, the Speaker of Erebor came forward, and to Elrond’s surprise, she came and squatted before him, looking up into his face with a searching look. The firelight gleamed on her trailing earrings of ebony feathers and shadowed her solemn face. It came as a shock to hear her speak in Common Tongue.

“Lord Elrond. It is —difficult for us Dwarves to grasp the differences in time and age between our folk, even for those of us who are loremasters, and make history our study. Impossible as it may seem to my mind-—from our studies, I find that you yourself are one of the children in this ancient story, whose mother stood on the cliff-top by the sea in another age, and made such a perilous choice. And so her choice was rewarded, after all!  Is it so?”

“It is true,” said Elrond gently.  “And I lived, not only by my mother’s choice, but also, unlikely as it seems, by the mercy of those very enemies. So did my brother.”

“Then this is a strange meeting. For I myself as a mother owe you a debt, for you sheltered my sons once, in a time of peril long ago. For that I owe you service, I and all my family.” And she knelt to him.

Elrond looked carefully, and began to find something he knew in her withered face. “Lady, if it permitted to ask now, who are you?”

“Ask rather who I was.  Many years  have I stood as a loremaster and teacher to my people. But once I was a mother to sons. A loved spouse. The daughter of a King.  And sister of another King. But for countless years, I have been none of these: they whom I loved were lost to me. For I was born Dís, daughter of Thráin. My sons were Fíli and Kíli, and Thorin Oakenshield, my noble brother.”

Elrond bowed his head to her, and took her hands in his.

“And the Companions of Thorin who lived remember how you treated them with gentleness in their need, and aided the Quest for Erebor with your wisdom, discovering the secret of the map that guided them.”

Old grief stood in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “In that Quest, I lost even all the treasures of my heart. But our people regained the Mountain. And I will not repine. For see the mercy that the Powers have shown. We hear in this Teaching how some of our ancient kin, your folk and mine, came to a worse ruin: they lost not only their lives, but all their honor, and sacrificed their people’s lives and homes. Because they could not put love over treasures which, in the end, are but made of the hand.”

Her eyes were wet, now. “But Thorin, my brother and King, though he was sore tested by the seduction of the dragon, overcame desire at the last in his love for his people,  and died to gain them their home, though he was King Under the Mountain but a day. As your Lady Mother was freed by the love in her mother’s heart, at the last, from that dread Jewel’s power.”

Elrond smiled sadly, and sighed; but if he had some different thoughts about the story of his own childhood loss, he did not say. Instead, with his hands on her shoulders, he raised Dís to her feet, and kissed her forehead. And then he smiled.  “There is no talk of debt between us, Daughter of Durin. I honor the memory of Thorin, and I remember clearly your merry, brave sons, who were then my guests in Rivendell.”

Nodding to the other side of the hall, where the guests still mingled, he added: “And now your young kinsman Gimli here has fought with great courage at the side of another King you have heard of, who reigns with my daughter Arwen in the South in great joy. And so let our peoples go on, in renewed friendship, doing good for good, without stopping to keep count!”

She returned his smile.  “If it is likewise true that you will soon cross the great sea to that Green Land in the stories, where you will meet again all those whom you lost, my blessings to your mother.”

And now it was her turn to be surprised, because Thranduil, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping, stood up to his full appalling height, and was offering her his arm out of the hall.  She took it, looking up at him with something of sternness coming back into her brow, and drawing herself up straight and full of dignity. As well as she could, with two full feet difference in their heights. But the Woodland King braved her dark look, and they walked out arm in arm, speaking in low tones. Whatever they said to one another went unheard by others.

 

Chapter 10 Epilogue

Note: I have come down with a case of Tolkien-Jackson syndrome, in which my story is already ended, and yet I have broken out in an eruption of Epilogue. In which there is breakfast, a ride in the woods, an exchange of views on Thingol, a connection to the Ring, and an Author’s Thanks.

Read Chapter 10 Epilogue

Breakfast

They met in Thranduil’s private chamber for breakfast the next morning; the King, and Elrond, and Celeborn, three Elven lords of tremendous antiquity and power, shaped by victory and loss, having coffee in the world that they helped save. It was changing swiftly all about them now.(1)

It was a winter dawn, with blue-black dark just beginning to give way to late-coming light. Frost traced intricate patterns on the windows of the chamber.

In the center of a round oaken table stood a lamp: its base,  a silver stag so delicately caught that it seemed in the instant of turning its head and listening, lifting one hoof as if it would leap away at the next sound. In its antlers was set a crystal globe, in which soft lamplight played. The globe was etched with small frosted stars, so that the light as it fell on nearby objects held the stars’ shadowy outline, wavering slightly with the flame.

Elrond reached out to it and touched the warm globe with one finger: he could feel a little spell of long-burning and restfulness built into it: a simple, ancient magic.”Yes,” said Thranduil, answering his glance. “An actual Dwarf-made treasure, as it happens. True-silver. The Lonely Mountain folk sent it me as a token, upon the end of the War and the safe return of our sons.”

Celeborn said, staring down into his steaming cup: “That performance last night was not what I expected. I thought it would be just, well, an excuse-making. A mirror image: reversed, with all the wrong on our side, and none on theirs. But that was truly, in its way, a reckoning.”

“I readily admit it was well-worth hearing. There was power in it, and much to move the heart. Even wisdom.”  He gave a half smile aimed at Elrond:  “And it was very cleverly done, if the intent was to interest Elves. We love to have our heartstrings plucked, and they did so movingly. And they provided us also with a great store of history, and language, and music that is new to us. It’s practically bribing Elves to put all that in their way! Your Rivendell scholars and musicians must be in an ecstasy.”

The cold sun was now gleaming through the windows, and glinted on his silver hair;  the Lord of Lórien seemed to study the bare trees beyond the frosted panes.  “And yet—I am still not sure that I can change my feelings towards their people,  or that I should .”

He rose and paced. “Of course, Galadriel’s been after me for a long time to soften my feelings about the Dwarves, and forgive old ills; going back as far as Eregion. She thought she shouldn’t come last night, because it would be, well, putting a thumb on the scale, as the market-people of Dale say.  She said if my mind was going to be changed at all about the tragedy at Doriath, I would have to decide for myself.’

“Not only for the sake of others. “ Elrond came and stood beside him, pulling his cloak around him; the cold was deep, and by the windows, it crept even into the warm chamber. He put one hand on Celeborn’s shoulder.  “She would have this old wound of yours healed, if it is possible.”

“Yet consider!” Celeborn said. “Their telling of history is as unbalanced in its own ways as some of our have been. Did not our historian of those times write, “ In all ways, Morgoth sought most to cast an evil light on things that Thingol and Melian had done, for he hated them and feared them ?” (2)

His face was troubled. “I knew Thingol far better than the Khazâd ever could. Elwë was a great King to his people, and protected them for centuries uncounted, preserving generations of lives in terrible times. His errors were tragic, but his motives were never so dark and bad,  as their story makes him.”

Thranduil, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, said, in a considering tone:  “Well.  My family owed Thingol  much. I owe him much. Here I am, the King of a mingled woodland realm of Sindar and Sylvan Elves. There are a hundred  ways in which I am still carrying out lessons he gave long ages ago. But he also made awful mistakes.”

“In fact, it’s being kind to call them mistakes, and not give them a worse name.” The Woodland King knitted his brow. “It cannot be denied that as things went wrong against Morgoth in Beleriand,  Thingol  began to act like a reckless fool.  Oropher and I both told him so, when he and Fëanorians began going from bad to worse. Which is why my father and I withdrew from Doriath and sought Círdan before the disaster. Elwë didn’t deserve to go down like that, but there were many who sinned less than he, and fared far worse.”

Thranduil brooded over folded hands. “It was mad of him to deal with the Dwarves in that way, and then leave his family to deal with the bloody huge curse of the Great Jewel and the Vow of Fëanor’s sons.  What in the name of the Hunter did he think would happen?  So the Dwarves might have been onto something there about the Silmarils’ power. I think Thingol was out of his right mind in that last year, though we refused to see it.”

He made a gesture of disgust. “Sindar am I, and of this Middle-earth. Not being a Noldo, the whole subject of Fëanor’s gems makes me sick.  Ancient light be damned.  We were well shed of them, and I never understood why the Host of the West wouldn’t come and help us,  till we sent them one of the cursed things . . . I know, I know, blasphemy.   Well,  if the Valar don’t like it, they’re welcome to come and tell me about it. I have a millennium's worth of questions for them.”

“The hour is late for both questions and answers, old friend,” Celeborn sighed.  “It might have been well if this Tale of the Dwarves was shared long ago. Perhaps it would have led to better understanding,  back when both our people held more of Middle Earth’s fate in our hands. But now the Age of Man is arriving. Our people are slowly on our way to depart Middle Earth, both sooner and later.  And the Dwarves will diminish as well. Already they are few, compared to the great days of this history.”

Elrond said: “It is never too late for wisdom. And what does Mithrandir tells us? Even the very wise do not see all ends.  Our sons and our daughters, and your granddaughter, Celeborn, have bound themselves up in these mortal peoples, through love. The Elder Race may be making our ways towards the Sea, but you two at least, are still staying, for a while. I hope you will have many years of joy in this Greenwood the Great restored.”

Then he added, gesturing to the world outside the windows: “And what of those who come after, whether our descendants by blood, or just by virtue of inheriting this dangerous and wonderful world? And even for ourselves, who knows what our needs will be, on the other side of the ocean? We three have never been there. For us, too, it will be an unexpected journey.”

He walked to the table bearing the lamp again, and gazed at it. “I will be glad to carry over the sea, a better understanding of our neighbors in Arda. Who is to say that our peoples will never meet again?”

 

Goodbyes

In the afternoon, the Elven visitors rode out to the edge of Thranduil’s realm to take their roads home. The King, Legolas, and Gimli came with them for a while for the pleasure of riding out on a frosty day.

Legolas rode on the great white horse of Rohan on which he had returned from the quest; as ever, he went without bit or bridle, using merely a guiding hand in Arod’s mane. Gimli trotted beside him had his sturdy mountain horse, Coal.

The Woodland King was in a merry mood, and so he rode his enormous elk-steed, Aras,  with its great sweep of antlers and trappings of silver. Much annoyed were his grooms,  who spent the morning trying to get the bad-tempered thing to take on its saddle. Elrond and Celeborn must have had horses, too, but they are not part of the story.

After a while, Thranduil and Legolas rode somewhat ahead together. Both were looking up with grace and wonder at the soaring snow-covered trees whose arms arched far above. To see Greenwood the Great cleansed of the Enemy’s darkness, Mirkwood no more, growing strong and mighty once again, made them jubilant. Snow flakes were in their white-gold hair, and on their shoulders. For that moment they looked, indeed, like Elves as pictured in the children’s stories of Men: ageless Fair Folk, free of care.

So Elrond thought, and looking to his side, he saw admiration and happiness very evident in the face of the Dwarf riding next to him.

“I think, Gimli, that you have more effrontery than almost any mortal I have met.” Celeborn said this courteously, and without heat.  “You’ve secured the love of this King’s son, and a token of gallantry from my wife, the Lady of Lórien, that she denied to  Fëanor himself, and begun the first new Dwarven colony in an age. Now you want, what, a dialogue among our peoples on our most ancient hurts and resentments?”

He continued: “I was born and raised in Doriath in the days of its beauty. Elu Thingol was my king, and my kinsman. Melian was the mentor of my wife. Elves that died fighting the Naugrim in the Thousand Caves were my friends.  Still, I strive to be just in my dealings with the Dwarves of this day. Need I also like you?”

Gimli looked the Lord of Lorien in the eye.  “I see your point. Your people were killed by those who looked like me. It’s hard to change the heart around that. How arrogant I may seem, if you think I’m trying to plaster over your old pain, or substitute our experience for your own.”

Brushing the snow from his thick beard, he rode on for a minute before speaking again.  “But this event was not made by me alone. The decision to begin this dialogue and share our Teaching on the Nauglamír was made by my people in the Lonely Mountain. I only went and asked the question.”

“It’s true, many were eager to ease their hearts by telling our side of a history that’s been so often held against us.” He continued,  “But quite a few other reasons came into it, many of them practical. This Great War  of the Ring taught us more of what we  discovered in the Battle of Five Armies. That the Free Peoples need each other. We could go on cherishing old hurts.  But many of us are eager to build a new era, in which we emerge from the Mountain far more often.”

The snowfall began to deepen. The woods were still except for the sound of their steeds’ feet and the faint jingle and creak of their tack. Gimli went on.  “And as for me,  perhaps what our critics say has a grain of truth in it. I am a stiff-necked, arrogant Dwarf, or at least an ambitious one. What are the Elvish words on us: quick to resentment, stone-hard, stubborn, steadfast in enmity? (3) I am no perfect Dwarrow; those faults are mine as well as any other’s.”

He cocked an eye at Celeborn: “Well I  remember the day the Fellowship came before you in Lórien. Your guards singled me out among the Company for suspicion, and would have handled me different than all the rest, had not Aragorn insisted we be treated alike.”

“We were all weary and heart-broken over Gandalf’s death. I was sick with seeing the bones of my dead kin in Moria, and the ruin of our ancient home.  And you threw on my kind, the coming of the Balrog to Khazad-dûm. By the dust! To be charged with the Balrog , that had murdered my forefathers and destroyed our great home!”

His glance was exasperated, even now. “You said we woke it by digging too deep.  Dwarves delve , it’s what we do! You might as rationally say that Elves of Mirkwood caused the monster spiders to attack them by dancing in the woods!”

“I hated you right then; hated your people, hated you all. I remember wanting to throw aside the Quest even, and rush blindly back into the wild to find my way home alone.” He shivered at the memory.

“But at that moment, when all hung on a knife’s edge, your Lady, the great Galadriel, spoke to me words of kindness that softened my heart. And then Legolas came to me after, with his hand out in friendship, and my life changed indeed.  And I have not forgotten that you yourself did after all host me, despite your own history in Doriath, of which I then knew nothing. It is hard to be patient and courteous, where there is disliking; and so I thank you.”

Somewhere in the winter woods, a raven cawed.  The Dwarf’s gaze was off among the endless aisles of frosted tree trunks, his expression serious.  “It was at that time that I recognized  the voice of Sauron’s Ring in my own mind. Trust them not , it said. They despise you.  They are using you, and will throw you aside when you are done. As other peoples have always done to your kind. You are alone here. “

“The Ring may be gone from this world, but ever since, I’ve found myself still hearing its echoes in the world. In myself, even. And  when I hear it, I try to—well, go the other way? Talk  back?” He shrugged.  “I don’t have a great plan, as it happens, for to make all Elves and Dwarves understand each other. I just keep doing things, feeling my way in the dark.  Trying to build if I can a new door—an echo of that which Celebrimbor and Narvi made—through which we both can walk and meet one another in friendship.”

They came to the parting of the roads. The Dwarf bowed to Celeborn and Elrond, as best he could from the saddle,  and turned his little horse. Legolas went with him.  They could hear the Prince singing as the pair rode away through the snow-silenced forest.

Celeborn said.  “Oh very well, he’s a fine fellow, for a Dwarf. My wife can say, I told you so. Again.”

Thranduil said: “He’s a great deal more than that, and you know it. My son chose him, and Legolas does not make wrong choices, not in the important things.”

Elrond looked at the Woodland King and began a retort, but then closed his jaw with a snap and smiled.

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Chapter End Notes

1 - Coffee, or whatever the Arda equivalent was.

2- “In all ways, Morgoth sought most to cast an evil light on things that Thingol and Melian had done, for he hated them and feared them.” The Silmarillion, “Of the Ruin of Doriath.”

3 - “Since they were to come in the days of the power of Melkor, Aulë made the Dwarves strong to endure. Therefore they are stone-hard, stubborn, fast in friendship and in enmity.” The Silmarillion, “Of Aulë and Yavanna”; “For the Dwarves were secret and quick to resentment . . .” “Of the Return of the Noldor.”

Author’s Thank You Note

The seed of this began with the wonderful Silmarillion writers who have taken on its mysteries and margins and contradictions, and made worlds out of them. I’m a total stranger but I wanted to celebrate how just the richness of their work helped spur me to an epic meditation on Dwarven antiquity and cultural memory.

There are more great  examples then I can cite,  but I wanted to thank these in particular who gave careful examination to those whom the text itself does not redeem. Arrogentemu and Emilyenrose and Prackspoor and Bunn And also, for the great chronicler of the Third Age Dwarves, whose work helped me identify my urge to take up the First Age Khazâd, Determamfidd

The Dwarves in the chapter “The Ruin of Doriath” are among the damned of The Silmarillion. None escape alive; they are assigned no viewpoint and no dialogue;  and all the fascinating threads that weave through the rest of the book and suggest a complex, vivid people and culture are simply cut short. And then there’s this:

Then Beren gazed in wonder on the selfsame jewel of Feanor that he had cut from Morgoth’s iron crown, now shining set amid gold and gems by the cunning of the Dwarves; and he washed it clean of blood in the river.

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