A Candle for the Hollow City by Lordnelson100

Chapter 6 A Thousand Caves

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.