A Candle for the Hollow City by Lordnelson100

Chapter 1 Discourtesy

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.