Slight Air and Purging Fire by mainecoon

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Chapter 15

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The reflection of ithildin rippled on the water of the lake. On the black surface quivered a mirror image of the Gate, gently broken by a warm breeze that stirred the water and Narvi's beard. She turned her face towards it, let it caress her cheeks, and as she leaned back against the wall, she felt the vibrations of the mountain itself.

She had not known her own body for a very long time.

The spicy scent of pipe-weed tickled her nose. It was Jari's particular brand of pipe-weed, and sure enough her friend was squatting next to her, cross-legged, watching delicate tendrils of smoke float from their pipe and dissolve into nothing.

Narvi allowed herself a moment to watch them. Jari smiled, as if they felt her gaze on their skin. Their bright green eyes shimmered pale in the moonlight.

“Work to last for ages, indeed.” Their voice sounded deeper than she remembered it. “That is what you boasted about when you drafted these gates. But you were right! Your name is still set in stone.”

“So it is.” Narvi picked at a blade of grass that had found hold in a crack in the ground. It would be nice to believe this. Nice, but delusional. “Last time I checked, we were both dead. This place is not real.”

Jari chuckled. “As real as you make it, from a certain point of view.”

“And you?”

“Oh.” Jari rolled the stem of their pipe between their fingers. “Perhaps slightly less so.”

Did the dead dream? She could not remember what had happened after Lofar had welcomed them into his home, after the elves had fallen asleep -

“Are you Lofar?” This should concern her, but it did not. Wherever she was, wherever her friends were, she felt with absolute certainty that no evil could touch them here.

The dwarf who looked like Jari leaned their head back against the rock and laughed softly. It was a brilliant illusion, down to the silver ornaments in Jari's dark hair. It hurt, but Narvi could not look away.

“I thought you would appreciate a familiar face! Well, perhaps I am. But we are not here because of me. I mean help you find your part in the story, among other things.”

“Which story?”

They made a vague gesture. “The story of Arda.”

Narvi rolled her eyes. “A small part, surely.”

“Yes and no. This alone is enough to shape history –“ Jari's thick thumb pointed at the Gate “ – but you deal with matters that most of your kin never dream of.”

“Elvish matters?”

“Certainly not,” snorted Jari. “Elves merely happen to be long-lived and believe themselves wiser for it. Matters of history. You are involved by your own choice. The outcome is yet unclear.”

“You talk about Celebrimbor's quest for the Rings.”

“Your quest.”

“I don't want those rings.”

“And yet our choices will shape the course of the future.” Jari rose and extended a hand towards her. It felt strong and warm and alive. “Come and see.”

The Gates swung open when Jari spoke the password. The elvish word sounded strange in their deep voice, but familiar all the same. The tunnel that opened before Narvi was shrouded in darkness: the entrance chamber was gone.

Jari pulled her along, and as soon as Narvi set foot into the tunnel, the Song of the Mountain crashed through her like an avalanche. This was not the song of Khazad-Dûm. The composition of rock and metal was all different, and it was deeper, older, resonated in the very essence of her dwarven soul. She knew this place, even though she had never been here. Every dwarf knew it.

Beyond the measure of time they walked, their footsteps crunching in the darkness, Jari's strong hand in hers. For dwarven eyes, the darkness was not absolute, but there was nothing to see except tunnels that no mattock had ever touched. They were not exceptional, those tunnels, not like the Deep Caves of Khazad-Dûm. That was not why Jari had led her here.

At the end of their road lay a small chamber. It was a natural cave shaped in a perfect circle. No artisan had ever disturbed the stillness of this place, the smooth granite walls, touched here and there by sparkles of silver. The song was quiet here, very quiet. But quiet was not the same as distant: Narvi still felt it tremble in her bones. It was as if the mountain itself was holding its breath in awe.

Jari let go of her hand and looked at her, as though they were waiting.

Narvi drew a deep breath, savoured the sweet rush of breath in her lungs, the echo of old, stuffy, sacred air on her tongue. Then she stepped into the chamber.

There were no words to the harmonies that rippled through the core of her being. It was not a song, or not one that an earthly mind could comprehend. Narvi was torn apart, her spirit melted into granite and silver, every ounce of her existence joining with the fabric of the universe. But there was no fear, for this did not mean destruction.

It was an act of creation.

And while her mind was one with the world around her, while time and space did not exist, she saw.

She saw a Dwarrow in the center the chamber, familiar features relaxed in sleep - she would recognize Durin in any incarnation, but this one was the First. As she watched, his eyes flickered open and he looked around in wonder. Soon he would find his way out of Mount Gundabad, would wander a world that was fresh and new, he would look into Kheled-Zâram and behold a crown of stars –

But Durin faded from view, and instead she saw a broken figure on a blood-stained cot, the same high forehead, the same straight nose. Thorin’s eyes were wide open, his lips stained red as he tried to speak but could not. Beside him stood Bilbo the Hobbit, white-faced but trying to smile, and Dwalin, who was holding his friend’s hand, his features unmoving as if they were carved in stone.

She saw fire fall from the sky and water crash through the halls a Khazad realm. Dwarrows in old-fashioned clothes were stumbling through the tunnels, some clutching their possessions, others shouting the names of their kin and friends, but none of them would find way out. This was the end of Gabilgathol, home of the Broadbeam clan.

She saw the wide halls and spiralling staircases of Khazad-Dûm, and the Gate as it slammed shut against the Sauron's fury while his armies gathered in the valley. The remains of Celebrimbor's body were rotting on a pole among them, and the universe around her twisted.

A lone figure, twin swords clutched tightly in his fists, facing a huge creature in pitch black armour. Celebrimbor and – and Sauron, but then Celebrimbor cried out in a language that ripped into the fabric of the world, and the Nine arose behind him to obey his command. This was wrong, this was not how it was supposed to happen –

Maglor's body, shattered, in a pool of blood. A wail of despair as Maedhros' ancient fëa lost itself, no longer tethered to the world by fierce love and reckless hope.

The plains surrounding the Lonely Mountain, covered in bodies: orcs, Khazad, elves, all slaughtered and mutilated beyond recognition.

Celebrimbor's face before her, very close, but terrible to behold. His lips were twisted in a smile that lacked any of his usual warmth, the light in his eyes was blinding, and his fëa burned, white-hot and cruel. Mine, it whispered. My precious. He caressed her cheek, and the Ring on his finger scorched her skin.

NO.

Narvi lashed out and tore away. The images disappeared. No eyesight remained, no sound, no scent, no touch. For a while she drifted, existing in the structure of stone and the movement of the wind, in the rush of waves against a shore, the tremble of a blade of grass. There was no concept of time.

But something was changing: slowly, slowly, a prickling sensation arose in her fingertips, moved up along her arms and spread through her body like hot, spiced mead. She opened her eyes and found that her sight had returned; actual sight, not visions of things were long gone or yet to come. It showed her the room behind Lofar's forge, two sleeping elves tucked neatly into striped blankets, and Lofar, larger than life and older than the world itself, watching her with an expression that was both solemn and very fond.

Speaking of her body –

Narvi dropped to her knees, overwhelmed with awe and dread and wild, uncomprehending disbelief.

“Maker,” she breathed. “Mahal.”

The Maker of the Khazad smiled and offered his massive hand.

“There is no need to kneel, my daughter.”

He pulled her to her feet and held her close, and Narvi buried her face in his ginger beard and wept.

There had been, Narvi found, no finer food in the banquet halls of Durin. No honey-glazed slice of roast mutton, no stew fragrant with herbs and cooked meat, no steaming mulled wine at the midwinter feast had ever tasted better than the first bite of goat cheese after four thousand years of abstinence. Oh, how it melted on her tongue, leaving a lingering sensation of spice and salt! The prickling bitterness of ale washed it away, cool liquid sloshing down her throat, and nothing had ever felt so perfect.

Mahal had shrunk again to fit into the chair at the opposite side of the table and watched her eat. He looked intensely pleased with himself.

“I appreciate what you did for me,” said Narvi, when she had stuffed herself as much as she could and re-discovered the feeling of faint nausea. “You shall have my eternal gratitude and everlasting adoration -”

“Noted,” said Mahal, his beard twitching. “Get to the point, dear.”

“Why, though? This is not supposed to happen to us.”

Mahal nodded slowly and filled both their tankards from a large jug.

“I was not, in all honesty, meant to do this,” he admitted. “But your situation is most unusual. I am merely attempting to adjust the course of the world a tiny bit. I'm a creature of Eru's making, so who is to say it is not part of the Song?” He shrugged, not looking particularly apologetic. “Subtle as a thunderstorm, my wife would say. Which would be the pot calling the kettle black, of course, but you know how it is with spouses.”

“Uh.” Narvi blinked, feeling uncomfortably out of her depths. “Aye, you tell me. Are you going to get in trouble for this?”

“Perhaps a little. But most of us tweak the rules here and there… even Namo, though it haunts him to this day. I may have to remind him that you're none of his business.”

The casual familiarity with which he mentioned the Vala of Death made Narvi's insides clench.

“But I have not answered your question. Why did I give you a new body? Let me think how to explain this.”

Narvi shrugged and turned her tankard in her hands. Her fingertips were unusually sensitive, no callouses from stonework and carvings – yet.

“Well, first things first, you are a Khazad. You should not be kept from making. They could not expect me to watch this for long, and since I happened to be in the position to change it…” His dark eyes were twinkling. They were no ordinary eyes: there were bright lights in them, like sparks from a forge fire or an infinity of stars.

“No, Narvi, you did not need a body for this quest. But I figured that, since the fate of the world may be influenced by your decisions, it is only fitting that you do. Consider it as a recompense for the task that has been dumped on you.”

“But it is Celebrimbor's task.”

“I am not sure we are talking about the same thing.” Mahal reached out and caught Narvi's hand with surprising gentleness. “I worry about Tyelperinquar. His fëa is badly damaged. If only we had stopped Mairon while there was still time – ah, well. It is too late now for regrets.”

The grip around her fingers tightened.

“But he is recovering!”

“Aye, he is. He's a brave lad, and it does him a world of good to have you by his side. You and the two rogues you picked up on the road! Someone must be keeping an eye on them, too… But he's still in danger, and I think you know it. And if things come to the worst, he may become a terrible danger himself. He is one of the Calaquendi, who possess the power of the Old World.”

Narvi remembered her vision, glittering eyes, a cruel smile. My precious. She frowned. “There's something about those rings. He wants them. It is only natural to be possessive of your own work, but Celebrimbor never was. Ambitious, yes. But he was always so careful.”

“And with good reason.” Mahal's gaze softened as he looked towards the sleeping elf. Celebrimbor's eyes were closed, as if, for once, he had allowed himself to let go completely. In the soft light of the torches he looked utterly relaxed, and very young. “He is one of the best, our Tyelpë. But those rings he crafted with Mairon are no ordinary trinkets. They are Rings of Power. We have yet to see whether he's strong enough to handle them. Perhaps he is. Perhaps he is not.”

“And if he is not?”

“Then, my child, it may come down to you to save Middle Earth.” A great thumb ran soothing circles on her wrist. “You are the one who is closest to him. Your souls speak to each other. If he falls –“

Mahal paused. His eyes suddenly looked very old, and very sad.

“If he falls, you must catch him. And if you cannot catch him, you must destroy him.”

Narvi's new lungs suddenly seemed to have forgotten how to draw a breath. “I couldn't.”

“You must. But I hope it will never come to that. Not to mention that he plans to confront the Deceiver first, and that alone may be his undoing… but I fear that if he triumphs over Mairon with the aid of his Rings, he may simply replace him.”

“No. Look.” Narvi snatched her hand away. “This is Celebrimbor we are talking about.”

“Yes, but those rings are evil. Evil, do you understand?” A roll of thunder echoed in Mahal's words, and his brow was shadowed, as if a dark cloud had drifted in front of the stars. Narvi suppressed a shudder. Mahal's affectionate familiarity made it easy to forget that he remained a deity. “Tyelperinquar cannot turn them to his own purpose! May Eru grant him strength to resist the temptation.”

Narvi twirled her braid in her fingers and tried to quench the cold fear in her gut. He had already tried once, and it had nearly killed him. Now it dawned on her that it could have been much worse.

“He was allowed to join the fight against the Deceiver because we thought it would help him heal, and because it was well within his rights. He is a valuable ally, indeed... but right now, he is treading on the edge of a knife. I need you to be aware of that.”

“Fine. I am aware now.” Narvi clenched her teeth. Later she would notice how deeply her nails had dug into her palm. “Very well. How am I supposed to stop him, if it comes to the worst?”

“I cannot say. But you are strong, my daughter, and you are not alone. You have friends and allies. Do not be afraid to rely on their help.” Mahal rose and placed a hand on her shoulder. It was warm and surprisingly light. “Join him now and get some rest. You will need your strength tomorrow.”

Narvi let go of a deep breath. Her giddiness had passed, and the cheese and bread were a heavy weight in her stomach. She rose to her feet and felt the first twinges of weariness in her limbs. Strange, that this new body should already feel it.

The worry lines on Maglor's face had eased, and he looked almost careless in sleep. Celebrimbor's chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Maedhros' presence simmered in the background, little more than a gentle glow in the shadows. Had he heard what Mahal told her, or had he been dreaming, too?

As she watched her sleeping friends, fierce love exploded in her chest: hot, defiant, angry love. She would never give up on them. Certainly not Celebrimbor, who had never needed her more than now; not Maglor, nor Maedhros, who had suffered too much to be abandoned again. There must be a way to save them all.

And afterwards -

“Maker,” she asked, because an unsettling question crossed her mind. “Will this body age and die?”

“Oh. That depends.” The pause that followed was slightly too long to be comfortable. Then Mahal reached out to gently turn her face towards him. “I meant to let you get used to it before I told you that.”

“Told me what?”

“You will have to make a decision, when the time comes.” He sighed and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “If it ever comes. It will not be an easy choice, but it is one that you deserve to make.”

“But I -,” Narvi started, but as she looked into his calm face, his deep, unsettling eyes, she understood that there would be no more explanations. Not today.

The bed looked too narrow for them both, but the usual dimensions did not apply in the presence of a Vala. The mattress creaked under Narvi's weight when she slipped under the blanket. Celebrimbor grunted and turned in his sleep, slid an arm around her torso, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. He did not wake. Narvi breathed in his scent, ran reverent fingers through his hair – soft it was and flowing like a gentle stream, and oh, how she had missed it – and his fëa touched her mind, sleepy, questioning. I am here, she thought, and he slipped off again in a vague cloud of contentment.

There would be a time to deal with doom and danger, and it would be upon them soon enough. But for now, Narvi decided, she would hold her beloved close to her heart, and be glad for the gift she had been granted.