Song of Souls by Raiyana

Chapter 8

“I want to bury him.” Narví’s voice was steady, but Celebrimbor could hear the strained notes.

“Bury an Elf?” Durin replied, his voice less familiar and fainter as it whispered across the nothingness that surrounded him. “Hardly…”

“You just married two Elves, brother, are you going to tell me I cannot bury my… my friend?” Narví interrupted, her voice cracking slightly near the end.

Celebrimbor felt like the words were liquid sunlight poured into his soul. Narví’s voice was clear, clearer than it had been since he left her in the Council Chamber, and the thought that she would defy millennia of her people’s customs for his sake… Celebrimbor wanted to laugh with joy, ruthlessly banishing the small voice that wondered if she would have done that if he had been brave enough to ask her openly. Durin’s laugh – another familiar sound, though the King of Khazad-dûm sounded slightly weary – rang out into the void.

“Aye, that was a sight. Thought Erestor’s eyes were going to hop right out of his skull,” he guffawed, and Celebrimbor wondered if he understood their conversation; surely, the King of Dwarrow had not married two Elves, one of them being his own Erestor – had Erestor ever shown inclination towards anyone? – Celebrimbor’s mind boggled.

“I want to bury him out here,” Narví whispered, standing beside Durin as she stared across the small lake where they had stood so recently, staring down towards the spires of Ost-in-Edhil from the promontory outlook. “Khalebrimbur does not belong in stone; I will return him to the trees he loved as much as he loved metal,” she added, pointing towards the single holly growing by the lake. Durin nodded. “It has always been his tree, nadad,” she murmured, silently grateful for the silent support of Durin’s warm fingers squeezing her tight forearm.

“Should we call for the Cantor, nen’ar?” Durin asked quietly, but Narví shook her head.

“No,” she sighed. “Khalebrimbur was no Dwarf… I will bury him, and if there is to be singing, I shall do it, and hope my voice might reach him in the Halls of Mandos.” Durin knocked his forehead gently against her temple, kindly forgoing mentioning the tears sliding down her cheeks as she stared at the blurring holly.

“As you wish,” he acquiesced, turning to walk back towards the mountain. Narví sighed, but did not follow. Today, she had no wish to command, had no need to do… anything, really, feeling so horribly sad at what had befallen her Elf that she could barely muster a smile for the flushed cheeks of Erestor’s happiness when she saw him earlier. She was pleased that Glorfindel made him so happy, she was, but she also felt envious to her core.

“We saved them, Khalebrimbur, do you know? In your Halls, can they tell you?” she whispered the words into the air, expecting no answer and receiving none. “Your people, Izgilê, they are well. They are sad, and angry, but they are alive, I promise.” For a long time, Narví was silent, but then a quiet whisper passed her lips. “I miss you.”

He heard her clearly now, and he wanted to weep with gratitude. He could imagine her there, as she had stood so often with him, teasing him about the tiny tree he had stubbornly hauled up from his home and made to grow in the mountain’s sparse soil through sheer will-power. He liked the thought of his bones resting there, as a nod to both his heritage and their friendship. In his mind’s eye, it was early morning, and the first rays of the day played across Narví’s hair, the fantasy so vivid he almost thought it was true, wanted to reach for one of the loose curls that fell down her back. Lost in his own imagination, he didn’t hear anything else until the deep sound of a drum shocked him out of it.

She had dug the hole herself, refusing anyone’s help. Then she had wrapped his battered body in a large shroud hastily embroidered with the runes that spelled his name that she had stitched by candlelight, cursing her lack of experience with the needle. There was no doubt in her mind that she would have been better served by making a statue of him – she remembered every plane of his face, his body, and she was more than capable of rendering them in stone – but she also knew that she would not. It would hurt too much, having his face to look at like that, turning her longing too bitter with absence and grief. Instead, there would be the tree, and she would keep her memories in her heart, keep him alive there until she was returned to the stone herself and woke in Itdendûm. For a while, she indulged herself imagining what she would say to Mahal, how she would argue to be allowed to see him again before the Remaking, just… but her mental argument stopped there, knowing that she would never be satisfied with whatever came after the plaintive ‘just…’ and saying goodbye to him once more… Narví thought that would break her.

The Cantor did not come, as Narví had decided, though Durin did bring out one of the ceremonial drums that were used to play a heartbeat tattoo during the Dwarven funeral ceremonies. The young Dwarf whose hands played the instrument, tolling out deep sounds that echoed across the mountainside, did not seem to understand why he was out there playing, but Narví paid him no mind. She ignored the faint sounds of battle coming from the direction of the Stair Falls Gate too, all her focus on the wrapped body she held.

Glorfindel and Erestor stood behind her in silence when she lay the body down beneath the roots of the tree, curled up like a sleeping child. His wounds still stood out starkly against the pale skin, but Narví’s wrappings hid the most gruesome cuts from their sight.

“Here lies Celebrimbor, who was son of Curufin,” she said quietly. “He who was named Rathukhbatshûn and a Friend of Dwarrow, whose hands created beauty. May he find rest here, until the World is Remade.” Narví kept her voice steady as she spoke, but she could not bear to add a personal farewell before an audience, even an audience consisting of two Elves she was quite certain had guessed how she felt about ‘her’ Khalebrimbur. The beating heart of the drum stilled.

None of them spoke for a long time.

“Namarië,” Erestor whispered at last, “Tyelperinquar Celebrimbor.” Glorfindel repeated the words solemnly, but then the two Elves left her alone. The young drummer followed in solemn silence.

Narví wept.

Every sob tore at his heart, made him want to hold her until she stopped crying, cursing whomever decided what sounds came to him through the grey nothingness. They seemed to go on forever.

When Narví finally got to her feet, she was not surprised to see Durin standing by the Doors, alone. Stumbling into his arms, she sighed deeply, breathing in the comfort he exuded, even when he was wearing armour.

“Come on, Narví,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Let’s get home.” Narví nodded silently.

Durin stood by the Doors that bore their names, pausing to cast one look back towards the sole tree by the lake. With a final nod at the memory of an Elf, the King of Khazad-dûm stepped back into his Realm and shut the heavy door behind him.