Slight Air and Purging Fire by mainecoon

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Chapter 3

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Narvi was not satisfied with the way things were going.

She hadn't expected this venture to be a pleasure trip. The whole annoyance about not being corporeal had been predictable, the urge to touch, the constant itch of seeing things in their raw form and not being able to perfect them. Also, while she chided herself to be grateful for what they had, she wished she could share more with her elf than a spiritual bond. He was in danger; that had not been part of the plan, certainly not her plan, and whatever were those creatures that hunted him? Who, by all that was holy, would still hurt Celebrimbor after all he had endured? Did they want to kill him, to torture him again, or -

She watched him as he slept, unfocused grey eyes that had almost lost their light, a strand of black hair brushing over a cheekbone, and thought of the faceless shapes of his hunters. Maker, you belong with us.

I thought you sent him back out of mercy, she prayed to any deity who might listen. If you let this happen, then your cruelty knows no limits.

Perhaps it had been divine interference that sent Celebrimbor's odd murder uncle to his rescue. A strange choice for a saving angel, she thought with wry amusement, and one she was not comfortable with. Celebrimbor had never talked much about his family, but mentioned enough to make her wary of the in-laws. Had he not cut his ties because he disapproved of them? Had he not attracted hostile glances and whispers among his folk, he, the purest and most well-intentioned being she had ever encountered? Were not their crimes so terrible that even he had suffered by association?

All she saw so far was how this strange elf could weave magic into song. His mind seemed not entirely clear. Often he wandered off into the woods, much to Celebrimbor's worry, although Narvi was inclined to think that since he had survived several millennia without them, he would surely endure if they lost him. But he always reappeared eventually. He talked little, in his slow, halting way; but deep in the night, when Celebrimbor slept, he often stayed awake and spoke in a language she did not understand, and then it was swift and fleeting like a song. He was very sad, old and weary as a light that dimmed when a flame flickered and died.

For her husband's sake, she tried not to dislike him, but something about him set her on edge. An aura of ancient grief and longing clung to him like a dark, lifeless halo. It reminded her of the shadow wraiths.

It must be a spiritual connection after all that bound Mahal's children to the rock. Narvi could still feel the song of stone call out to her as they approached the Blue Mountains, her spirit soared when the flat woodland gave way to rocky hills and cliffs - mostly granite, hard to shape but very durable. What wonders lay still in the hearts of the snow-clad peaks, ever waiting to be shaped by skilled dwarven hands? In the olden days, the times of Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar, it had been iron and gold.

Higher and higher the path led them into the mountains. They passed pretty valleys and meadows that smelled of spring flowers, waterfalls that sprung from rock and made her dream of underground cave systems, and here and there a settlement of Men. Celebrimbor, who after all this time still lacked any sense of subtlety, always marched straight up to them to inquire after dwarven whereabouts.

"How are we supposed to find them if we don't ask?" was his exasperated reply when she berated him one fine evening after they had received another vague answer and far too many disbelieving stares. She did not like the way they looked at him. Had they never seen an elf before?

I thought we were hiding, Narvi snapped even as Maglor, who leant against a tree trunk sewing a tear in his sleeve, looked up and shrugged.

"I didn't say anything," he remarked, "though I thought we were hiding."

Celebrimbor rolled his eyes and leant his forehead into his hands.

"The dwarves will be near impossible to find if they don't wish to be found. It would be helpful to get directions."

Maglor went back to his stitches, slowly, accurately, and did not reply for several minutes. This was a common occurrence, as though he frequently forgot about his companion before he remembered they had been in the middle of a conversation.

"Why do you want to meet the dwarves?" he asked then.

Celebrimbor grabbed a branch and began to trace patterns into the moist ground. Narvi watched, mesmerized, as flowing shapes twisted and turned in effortless beauty. On a fresh spring evening in Eregion she would have asked him to work this design into a necklace, and he would have laughed and said that he could do better for her. It was a small comfort that Sauron, for all his cruelty, had not been able to quench the spark of creation that was so much the core of him.

He had not told Maglor much about his journey, and his uncle had not asked. Apparently it had not occurred to him before.

"How much do you know," Celebrimbor asked eventually, though she knew the subject caused him pain, "about Sauron and the Rings of Power?"

Maglor's hands stilled. For a long moment he sat in silence, lost in dark reverie which Narvi could feel with a force that unsettled her: the shadows around him grew denser, colder, an ancient echo of hurt and terror that resonated in her mind. When he spoke, his voice was lifeless in a way that made her spirit shiver.

"He serves Morgoth."

Celebrimbor grimaced. "You could say he runs his own business now. The rings? Have you heard...?"

Maglor shook his head. "Bad things happened. There was war. But not for a long time."

"He's still out there." Celebrimbor's hand clenched around the branch. She wanted to pry it off and hold it in her own to stop it from shaking. "He made weapons, magic rings. We helped him... I helped him. The dwarves must be warned."

He broke off, and for a moment there was no sound but the soft knocking of a woodpecker somewhere in the distance. Maglor stared at his nephew, at his pale face and trembling hands and the sickly flush in his cheeks, and Narvi could see comprehension dawn in his eyes.

"He hurt you."

"Only afterwards. When I saw what he was and tried to oppose him, but it was too..."

"He hurt you."

Celebrimbor bit his lip and nodded. He could not meet Maglor's eyes and Narvi understood, for they were burning with a light she had never seen before. For the first time, she believed that he was a murderer.

"How did you get away?"

That was too much to ask. Celebrimbor hugged his knees and hid his face in his sleeve.

Narvi's spirit rebelled. She felt his anguish and terror, she remembered his screams, his pain, his bloody corpse hanging from a pole and did he even know? - and now she could not even protect him from his demons.

He didn't get away, she shouted. He was tortured and butchered and his legacy violated! Leave him alone, can't you see he's suffering?

A wave of panic hit her out of nowhere. Images and sensations flooded her mind - fire and pain and terror and red hair clinging to blood-streaked skin and darkness and despair and NOT HIM NOT HIM PLEASE NO...

She gasped and pulled away, and the onslaught stopped as suddenly as it had come. Maglor drew a sharp breath and reached out to embrace his nephew, who buried his face his uncle's tunic and wept. Narvi could only stare at them. Her heart ached for her husband, whom she had never seen so distraught, but this strange elf seemed to carry a darkness in his soul that easily matched Celebrimbor's. She wondered what tales he might tell.

So she watched, unable to comfort either of them, while Maglor ran a trembling hand through Celebrimbor's hair and muttered in his foreign tongue that blurred the lines between speech and music. It had to be the language of Valinor, a gateway to memories her lover would never speak of. They could not be more terrible than the fate that had befallen him in their own time.

Long they sat like this while all around them the setting sun made the mountains glow like gold and rubies. Once, so many lifetimes ago, it would have filled her heart with joy.

It took them a week to find traces of dwarven craftsmanship in the Ered Luin. No doubt anyone not familiar with her people would have missed them entirely. While the menfolk in the area spoke of dwarven traders who brought fine goods to their villages, no one knew where they came from. But both Narvi and Celebrimbor could tell a man-made path from a dwarven one, even if it was barely a path at all, and so one fine afternoon they passed through a narrow valley and crossed a ford only to face a solid wall of rock.

"A door," Celebrimbor observed as he ran his nimble fingers over the stone. "No doubt secured by a clever mechanism... a password, perhaps..."

"I don't see a door," Maglor remarked. He stood back to hold Bumblebee's reins and watched his nephew curiously.

"That is the entire point of dwarven doors." Celebrimbor sighed. "If only one of us had a helpful idea..."

I didn't make these doors, Narvi snapped. And go ahead, try to open them without their consent - mellon.

"True," he muttered, before hollering at the top of his voice, "Oi! Shamukh Khazad! Mukhuh turgizu turug usgin!"

Have you lost your mind? she spluttered, but then fell silent to listen. Only the sounds of nature disrupted the quiet.

"We'll make our camp," Celebrimbor decided. "Now they know we're here. We can only wait till they come to us."

"I hope they will not bring their axes," Maglor said doubtfully, though he bent to hobble the horse's legs. "That did not sound friendly."

"They will surely bring their axes, but no ill will, or so I hope." Celebrimbor set his pack down and looked around. "I blessed their beards, after all."

Beard, Narvi corrected, singular. But your pronunciation is improving.

He did not reply, not aloud, but the smile that lit up his face was answer enough.

It was a hopeless endeavor to beat the dwarves in obstinacy. Elven presence at their doorstep might inconvenience them, but Narvi knew they would simply wait a few days - unless Celebrimbor had roused their curiosity. If it took too long she would risk a peek behind the stone, but for the time being it would be better to adhere to the rules of courtesy. Usually Celebrimbor, who had ample experience with dwarven idiosyncrasies, would have settled down in good cheer, taken out his sketchbook, and driven Maglor to despair with merry but tuneless whistling. Now he spent the evening with carving work that was inferior for his own standards because his hands were blunt and his mind was not on his task. Ever since the attack he had been radiating tension, and there was little she could do to reassure him. The danger was real. Only Maglor seemed unworried, but then she could rarely tell what he truly felt.

Their foes returned at nightfall.

She was the first to feel the chill that wafted through the air, like a breeze brought by the setting of the sun. It was not the same but colder; the sort that froze hearts and made them forget that joy existed. She could not see them, not yet, but they would arrive soon.

Ghivasha, she said sharply. Prepare for battle. They are coming.

Celebrimbor lowered his carving work and looked up at her, calmer than she felt herself. As she met his eyes she prayed for Mahal to protect them. Her husband gave her a slight smile, such as he had often done but harder and less joyful, and reached for his swords. It was Maglor who first rose to his feet and drew his blade in one fluid motion. Perhaps he could sense them too; he gazed towards the ford with a cocked head, almost as if he was listening. He still did not look particularly concerned.

Malice surrounded them as it had on the beach. She could see it whirl through the air like black smoke as the wraiths appeared, more this time, six, no, seven, and their power lay in the terror brought about by ancient evil.

She was neither ancient nor powerful, not compared to their enemy, but one thing she had never lacked was courage. They were not entirely of this world, so maybe she could fight them in their own. Perhaps being a ghost would be of use after all.

Escape was not an option. Celebrimbor dragged his nervous horse towards the dwarven door, and both elves stood armed, with their backs to the rock. But they were only two and the others were many. Slowly their enemies approached, faceless shadows clad in the black armor of Mordor.

Maker, they spoke, the master is waiting for you.

"He can wait past Dagor Dagorath," Celebrimbor spat. "He won't get me alive this time!"

Nor any other way, Narvi thought fiercely.

The elf's next words to the dark riders were among the foulest Khuzdul curses Narvi had ever heard.

She sensed the chill of their dark magic and moved between the wraiths and their prey. If their presence alone could harm, then maybe hers could protect? Their cold could not touch her, for anger kindled a fire inside her that radiated heat like the forges of Khazad-Dûm. The dark mist recoiled from where she stood. She concentrated hard on the heat, fanning it, bundling it, just like she had made herself visible through sheer force of will. A faint shimmer began to surround her. It seemed to confuse the riders for a moment, but it would not be enough; there was no time to practice, and it drained her quite thoroughly. If her friends attacked, perhaps, while their foes were taken aback...

But suddenly the flames inside her mind surged high. White fire filled her entire being, and then it was as easy as if she had done this a hundred times before. A hot, bright glow engulfed them, burning away the cold, and the creatures of shadow withdrew in distress. Celebrimbor's eyes were huge and glittered in the orange light, and Maglor...

For the first time since she had met him, Maglor was smiling.

There was no reason whatsoever to smile. The shielding might take little effort, but they were trapped; there was no way to go except into the mountain.

It was unspeakably helpful that right in that moment the rock behind them opened into a doorway. "Come quickly!" called a harsh voice, and the elves did not need a second invitation. Within seconds they had retreated behind the invisible door, which closed behind them as seamlessly as it had been before. Narvi lingered for a moment to make sure that they were not followed, but apparently their foes had no ability to walk through stone.

The other side of the door lay in near absolute darkness. Like all dwarves Narvi could see regardless, but the same was not true for her companions.

"Well met, and take our deepest thanks," Celebrimbor said, sounding only slightly out of breath. "Would it be terribly inconveniencing to light a torch? I would be honored to greet our saviors face to face."

A flame appeared in the dark and illuminated four grave, bearded faces. Narvi wanted to weep with joy. For so long she had not spoken to any of her kind. These dwarves were clad in rough clothes and leather, and they were armed; guards, apparently. The dwarrowdam who held the torch stepped forward and eyed the two elves without sympathy.

"Who are you," she growled, "and what devilry have you brought to our doorstep?"

"My name is Celebrimbor... Curufinion. At your service, and your family's." He bowed with practiced ease. "This is my kinsman Makalaurë. We come in friendship."

Maglor imitated the bow, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Celebrimbor, on the other hand, was beaming. Narvi felt his relief and delight sparkle at the edge of her consciousness. It was quickly doused, though, by the dwarrowdam's next words.

"There has been no friendship between elves and dwarves for longer than anyone can remember."

Celebrimbor frowned. "But... Khazad-Dûm. It has been a long time, but surely you remember the friendship between Khazad-Dûm and Eregion?"

"You speak of ancient history, elf," the guardswoman retorted. "Now, what are those creatures, and what reason have we not cast you out again?"

"They are servants of the Dark Lord," Celebrimbor explained, now with greater caution. "They hunt us because they fear me, I believe. It is that I wish to speak about with the leaders of your settlement. I carry a warning."

The guards withdrew for a short conversation in Iglishmêk, which she got the gist of though it had changed significantly. They were distrustful, but not cold-hearted enough to throw them to the beasts. At last the spokeswoman turned toward the elves again.

"Looks like we have no choice but to take you in," she snorted. "Follow me."

Two of the dwarrows accompanied them into the cave. It was a long walk through narrow tunnels, roughly hewn, crafted for practicality and not for beauty. After all this time in the elven city and then under the open sky, Narvi finally felt the deep contentment that came from being underground. It was a reassuring darkness that called out to any dwarf, the steadiness of rocks that were not fickle and did not move in the wind or change with the seasons, and ever encouraged the children of Mahal to explore and create.

Only she could not create any longer.

They were made to wait inside the tunnels while one of the guards announced the uninvited guests. He returned a short while later without explanation, but gestured for them to follow. The sky had darkened already when they emerged on the other side. A steep path led them into a valley that was, in fact, more of a plateau, apparently inaccessible from either side. There was a modest entrance to the mountain carved into the rocky side of the cliff large enough to allow mining carts or three dwarrow to walk abreast. Several low stone dwellings were huddled in front it. The cave system that was part of any dwarven settlement must be inside; but houses? Why would anyone built a house if they could have a cave? And these were clearly inhabited, for lights were shining in the windows.

The guards led them to one of the larger buildings. At least, Narvi noted with a modicum of relief, the main floor was underground. They descended a stairway to a single room, dominated on one side by a fireplace, with tables and seats scattered before it. The walls were adorned with woven tapestries, musical instruments, and tools of steel and iron. It was a comfortable room, though, as far as dwarven dwellings went, very plain.

The elves had hardly taken seat when heavy footsteps descended the stairs behind them. Celebrimbor jumped to his feet. Three more dwarrows approached them, these clad in official-looking robes, though threadbare and hastily adorned. The decorations woven their braids and beards were of plain steel and iron. One was grey-bearded and elderly, marked in his face by scars and wearing a mighty scowl, the second a broad-shouldered fellow whose haphazard blonde braids undermined his dignified expression and made him look slightly boyish. But it was their leader who captured Narvi's attention. She was a tall dwarrowdam with raven hair and light blue eyes, and Narvi recognized her face, though it had been male when she had last seen those features. Many generations had left their mark, yet those were the same piercing eyes, the same long, straight nose, the same high forehead, and the beads in her hair...

"Greetings," the lady spoke. "I am Dís, daughter of Thráin. I oversee this settlement. These are my kinsmen Gróin, son of Farin, and Varli, son of Borli. You wish to speak to me, I am told."

Narvi felt Celebrimbor's shock radiate through her mind. For a moment, he stared in a most unbecoming manner, then he bowed as deeply as he could manage.

"Celebrimbor Curufinion," he repeated, this time without hesitation, "and Makalaurë, my kinsman. I had not expected this honour, daughter of Durin."

Dís looked at him through narrowed eyes, then towards Maglor, who had risen also.

"There is no reason to mock my heritage," she growled. "My guards tell me you carry a warning. Let us speak about the matters at hand."

The straightforward demand could not surprise Celebrimbor, but Narvi could tell he was taken aback by the open hostility. "As you wish," he conceded, "though I did not mean it as mockery. I was named dwarf-friend in another age. I have not forgotten, even if it appears that the world around me has."

One did not need to know much of dwarves to see that Dís did not believe a word of it.

"Very well," she grunted. "The warning?"

Celebrimbor looked at the doubtful faces that surrounded him and sighed. Maglor placed a comforting hand on his arm.

Be brave, ghivasha, Narvi told him. Your intentions are pure. And you have always known how to deal with us.

She knew that his smile was meant for her.

"This may take a while," he admitted, and then he told the daughter of Durin everything: about Eregion and Khazad-Dûm, about his friendship with Durin himself, about Sauron and the Rings and the betrayal. He was hard on himself when it came to his own part, much harder than he had any right to be, and did not shy away from the bitter end. Narvi noticed that Maglor had paled, and his eyes were shimmering strangely. He looked utterly horrified.

"So," Celebrimbor finished, "I have reason to believe that he still means to use these rings for domination. The wraiths that hunt us are somehow tied to them, though I am not sure how. I seek to destroy the rings if I can."

A very long silence followed his words. The flickering firelight illuminated Dís' grave face and those of her companions. Narvi attempted to enfold her husband in a cloud of comfort.

Hold on, she muttered. You did well.

"So," the dwarrowdam said at last, "You claim to be the legendary Silverfist, who was murdered by Sauron in the war of Eregion - four thousand years ago."

"I am the same."

"Can you prove it?"

He shrugged. "I do not see how, since all my possessions are long gone. Perhaps, if I were allowed to use the forge... but I am aware that this is a bold request."

Dís chuckled. "You surely are a bold one, and you do not engage in useless drivel. I can believe you had dealings with my folk before... but the rest of your story is rather fanciful."

"I know," he admitted, meeting her eyes. "I have only my word to give."

She watched him long and thoughtful. A falling pebble could have been heard in the silence.

"If it is as you say," she said at last, carefully, "what do you want of us?"

"We made seven rings for the dwarf-lords." He took a deep breath. "At first I simply meant to warn you against them, and to see a few friendly faces on our way to Imladris. But now - knowing that you are a descendant of Durin - maybe you can help us."

"How so?"

"I crafted a ring for him. It was one of the Seven. If you know its whereabouts, maybe you could see it destroyed." Dís' face darkened, and he added quickly, "I have no desire to possess it. I just want to be certain it is gone."

Again, there was a long pause. Narvi found Dís' expression difficult to read; it was far more guarded than Gróin's, who did little to conceal his contempt, or Varli's, who looked fascinated. The guards watched them with an identical expression of doubt. Maglor looked like he very much wanted to be sick.

Celebrimbor appeared calm and collected, though she knew that inside he was screaming. It always happened when he was forced to relive his torment.

"I will not decide today," Dís spoke eventually, "and not alone. For the time being, you are welcome in our homes. Consider it an honour, for no elf has ever laid eyes upon these dwellings." She smiled caustically. "Little though they may reflect the glory of Khazad-Dûm. Noni, see that our guests get a roof over their heads and some stew to fill their bellies."

The guardswoman nodded and stood aside.

"You are wise and gracious, Dís, daughter of Thráin, " Celebrimbor said. "We consider ourselves in your debt."

"Pretty words, elf-lord," she retorted, "but they mean little to me. We will speak tomorrow."

With that she left along with her companions. Celebrimbor and Maglor followed Noni the guard to a small building where they found dwarf-sized beds and a fireplace, and food was brought shortly after. Narvi watched them, unwilling to leave Celebrimbor's side after this, but anxious to explore the place as soon as possible. She had to know what lay beneath the door of stone. Where were the halls, the mighty forges, where was the golden treasure she had seen in her dreams?

If these were the descendants of Durin, then where was their kingdom?

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Chapter End Notes

According to The Dwarrow Scholar, “Shamukh Khazad! Mukhuh turgizu turug usgin!” means "Hail, dwarves! May your beard continue to grow longer!" I wasn't sure about the plural, but Celebrimbor isn't a native speaker, so I cheated and let him make a mistake.

Varli is an OC with a backstory. I'm not sure I'll be able to include it, since Dís probably won't tell. He is the brother of her deceased husband, thus another uncle of Fíli and Kíli. Like Dís, he didn't accompany them for political reasons (though they were both really pissed about Thorin's decision).

Gróin, obviously, is ”in's and Glóin's father and perfectly canonical. The name is Tolkien's fault.