Slight Air and Purging Fire by mainecoon

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Chapter 9

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Narvi had conceived a very sensible strategy for Celebrimbor to approach the dwarven delegation. First, according to her instructions, he inquired of Elrond their identities and purpose. This rendered interesting results, as Elrond not only confirmed that Thorin Oakenshield was indeed Dís' brother, but also the exiled King of the Lonely Mountain. His company was rather less illustrious than his status suggested, with few warriors among them; also their clothing had seen hard wear, with no small amount of patching. They were accompanied by a halfling, a creature foreign to Narvi and Celebrimbor, whose folk, as Elrond explained, valued comfort and hated adventure. By the time they had approached Imladris, they had been pursued by a horde of orcs.

Unfortunately, Thorin being King required a rather complicated protocol. You will need a written formal introduction, Narvi told her husband, twirling a braid around her finger as she tried to recall the exact procedure. On parchment, three copies, two to be sent to the person acting as Thorin's seneschal, that will be Balin from what Elrond has said, you will keep hold of the third. Each document will need to be no less than a foot long in black ink with all titles of both yourself and Thorin in red ink. Be respectful, show your interest but do not overstep boundaries...

“Look,” interrupted Celebrimbor, pointing at four dwarrows gathered on the far end of the plaza before the long bridge, “they’re playing dice! Let’s see what we can make of this.”

Narvi swore as he strode off towards the group and asked - in faulty and entirely inappropriate Khuzdul - to be included into the next round. Sometimes, she thought sourly, insolence did pay off, for these unfortunate fellows were too gobsmacked to refuse. All four eyed him warily as he as he dropped to the floor beside them, but then one of them - Narvi recognized the Broadbeam with the fine singing voice and the pretty brown eyes - grinned and handed him the cup. By the time Thorin the King approached the group, Celebrimbor had lost two iron beads and one silver earring he had crafted in the Ered Luin, won a small stack of coins, and acquainted himself with Bofur, Nori, Ori, and Fíli.

Thorin placed himself beside them, not interfering but rather impressively impersonating a thundercloud. To his left and right hovered two more dwarves: one a huge warrior, scarred and tattooed and overall bearing a striking resemblance to Narvi's sister-in-law, the other a white-bearded scholar. All three wore the insignia of Durin's line.

Remember to mind your manners, Narvi hissed as Celebrimbor looked up. He had just removed one of his bracelets to offer it as a wager, and was now holding it rather awkwardly between two fingers. Still he flashed the King his most winning smile, rose in one fluid motion, and offered a formal bow.

"I am deeply honoured to meet Durin's Heir, the rightful King Under the Mountain," he said. "Celebrimbor Curufinion at your service, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. May the bards continue to sing of your deeds and your beard be adorned with mithril!"

Thorin gave him a very strange look.

"May I ask, Master Elf," he growled, not trying very hard to sound polite, "what interest you have in my kinsmen?"

"Dice, Your Majesty," Celebrimbor said cheerfully, "and a general liking besides. I lived in Eregion when Khazad-Dûm prospered. Among your folk I was known as Silverfist."

All seven of them stared at him, clearly incredulous. The white-bearded dwarf to Thorin's right drew a hissing breath.

"Not to be disrespectful," he drawled, "but Silverfist is long dead. The times you speak of are faded pages in the history tomes of our people."

"So I observe," Celebrimbor returned, "and it grieves me greatly to see the how relations between our people have suffered. Lord Elrond will confirm my words, or…", he hesitated briefly, "your wizard, if you are inclined to believe him."

Manners, snapped Narvi.

Ori and Fíli exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Nori eyed the beads in his hand with renewed interest. Thorin's frown had only deepened, while his companions exchanged a few fleeting signs in Iglishmêk: liar, no believe, what purpose gestured the warrior, answered by the scholar with wizard, ask. Celebrimbor's sharp eyes followed the movements, but for once he held his tongue.

"That is an outrageous claim," Thorin stated the obvious.

"Of course." Celebrimbor had grown serious, and Narvi understood that he knew precisely what he was doing. "I thought it better to be direct and honest. I would like to make the acquaintance of your fellowship, not least because I have a great liking for your kin."

"So there are other reasons."

"That matter I would prefer to discuss in a more private setting. I also do really like to play dice."

Thorin gave him a long, cold look. His clear blue eyes were familiar in an unsettling way. It was not hard to imagine him in the throne room of Khazad-Dûm, with beads of diamond fastening his braids, the silver strands in his hair reflecting the light cast by a thousand crystal lamps. Instead his thick dark locks were dried and frazzled by the summer sun. These dwarrows were terribly out of place, here in this airy elven realm, and consequently even less approachable than their kin in the Ered Luin. Narvi wished she could reassure them.

"We will take council," Thorin growled eventually. "Fíli, go and help your brother with the weaponry. The others can do as they will, but I expect all of the company at lunch." Thorin fixed an eye on Nori, who had been regarding one of the distant buildings speculatively. "All of the company."

"Wouldn't want to miss that," Bofur said cheerfully, twinkling in response to the stern glance his king leveled at them. Fíli rose with a reproachful look at Thorin, but followed him obediently back into the building. Nori had already plucked the dice up and was now dancing them across the back of his knuckles.

"Who wants to play another round?" he inquired, giving the bracelet in Celebrimbor's hand a casual overview.

"Is it true, though?" young Ori chimed in, while Celebrimbor nodded and placed the jewelry before him. "The old tales say he was murdered."

"Yes; and it is a long story," Celebrimbor admitted, "but let your King make up his mind first! Then I will gladly share it with you. Now, my dear dwarrows, I have shown you my offer; let me see what the game is worth to you!"

"I don't know what they want," said Erestor, carefully picking a few crumbs of peach tart off his immaculate sleeve. "But if I had to take I guess, I would say it has something to do with Erebor."

"The Lonely Mountain." Celebrimbor shifted in his wicker chair. From the way he was eyeing the low table, he was fighting the impulse to put his feet on it. There was no one here to mind, in this remote part of the gardens that provided a marvelous view towards the Misty Mountains, but apparently, he considered such a behaviour disrespectful towards Elrond's hospitality. "But there's a dragon in it, isn't there? The folk of the Ered Luin weren't exactly forthcoming with information."

"It is a tragic tale." Erestor looked honestly aggrieved. "A recent one, by our standards. I once saw the Golden Kingdom, back when King Thrór had brought it to splendor. It was like the gems they dug from the earth: Covered by rock, but of stunning beauty within. You would have loved it."

"So did the dragon, apparently."

"His name is Smaug. He came upon them with fire and death, almost a hundred and fifty years ago. Thorin must have been a young prince at the time. The dwarves fled, or those who survived." Erestor narrowed his eyes at Celebrimbor, looking unusually hesitant. "Some say it was Thrór's lust for riches that attracted the dragon."

"Some have always said that, about the dwarves."

Some of your folk, you mean to say, Narvi interjected drily, stirred out of mind-numbing boredom by the change of topic. Up to this point, the two elves had been discussing the political implications of isolationism in the late second age, and she had very nearly left to retreat into the cave again.

"True enough," admitted Erestor, "but some say that there was something wrong about it. Something unnatural. Like a sickness."

Celebrimbor speared a piece of tart onto his silver fork. Narvi regarded it wistfully.

"They wonder if it is hereditary," continued Erestor.

"They always do."

"Have you heard of the battle of Azanulbizar?" When Celebrimbor nodded, his friend continued: "Thrór fell there, and Thorin's brother. His father just disappeared; gone mad with grief, most assume, and probably dead by now. That's why Thorin is generally accepted as King."

Celebrimbor leaned back in his chair, idly letting the fork spin between his fingers. His eyes found Narvi's for a moment, before he asked: "But does he call himself such? His sister does not believe in their father's death."

"I don't know," Erestor said, surprised. "But you see the implications."

"Oh yes." Celebrimbor's voice had taken an unusually sharp note. "I know all about hereditary madness."

"I didn't mean that…"

"Nevertheless. Mad grandfathers who bring doom upon the family! Descendants who are always questioned, always mistrusted, no matter how valiant they prove themselves…"

"Celebrimbor…"

"Until one day they break -," he snipped his fingers, violently, "and those who have always known were right all along!"

"You don't have to shout at me." Erestor shook his head, absently dissecting the remains of his tart into tiny pieces. "I am your friend. And in any case, as you very well know, I wasn't talking about you."

Besides, said Narvi, who had followed the conversation with rising interest, you have company.

"Sorry to intrude," said the blonde-bearded youngster who appeared from where the path emerged behind a large, green bush. "Just heard your voice and wanted to talk to you. I wasn't trying to be quiet."

He really wasn't, Narvi supplied when both elves stared at Fíli as though he had materialized out of thin air. Trampled through the bushes like a young boar. You have a loud voice, my jewel.

"Never mind," said Celebrimbor with a fleeting smile. "Erestor, let me introduce to you Fíli of the company of Thorin Oakenshield. Fíli, this is my friend Erestor. Would you care for a piece of tart?"

"Nah, I've eaten." Fíli eyed the cake with longing, but remained standing. "At your service. So, are you really Silverfist? Tharkûn says it's true."

"I said so, didn't I?" Celebrimbor dropped his fork and leaned back in his chair. "I take it that Thorin finds it hard to believe."

"What would you say-," the young dwarf broke off. "No, you're probably used to it. But it has been - gosh - how many thousand years? And our stories say he died. They're really gory, by the way. Like how Sauron used his body as…"

"Yes, thank you, I remember," Celebrimbor interrupted. He had suddenly lost all colour in his cheeks. "That wasn't the worst part. If you're dead, they can't hurt you anymore."

Fíli shoved his thumbs into his belt and eyed Celebrimbor critically. He did not seem intimidated, Narvi noticed with approval. Also, he looked a little like their new friend Varli. They were probably related, even though Fili's beads showed the pattern of the Line of Durin.

"Yes, I died," Celebrimbor admitted. "I was sent back. It happens to us, sometimes. Now I'm trying to undo some of the damage that my rings brought upon this world." He took a deep breath. "It is the subject I most need to discuss with your leader."

"Thorin is my uncle." Fíli's gaze had softened a little, but he did not look entirely convinced. "I'll talk to him. But I warn you that he doesn't like elves. Not since those of the Woodland Realm left us to our own devices after the dragon came."

"I heard." Celebrimbor exchanged a quick gaze with Erestor, who had watched the conversation with rapt concentration.

"Thranduil?" his friend chimed in. "Anything else would have surprised me. The wood elves have fallen on hard times, and he had a pretty exclusionist strategy even before… also, he's from Doriath." His smile had a slightly bitter note. "If my friend here showed up in his realm, he'd be lucky to be ‘left to his own devices'. He'd probably be sent straight to the dungeons."

"I wasn't involved in Doriath!" Celebrimbor protested.

Erestor shrugged. "You look like your father. You see," he continued towards Fíli, "elven memory goes a long way back, and we were never as united as we like to pretend nowadays. Still aren't, in fact. It's downright embarrassing."

Fili nodded slowly. His gaze travelled back and forth between the elves, always gliding right across Narvi, oblivious to her presence. For a brief moment she was tempted to jump up and shout into his face. In the Ered Luin she had always restrained herself, but now the frustration returned: they were so close, those of her folk, and she longed to be among her own, to talk and laugh and feast with them and share in their perils. But as the tools of her craft passed through her fingers, they remained forever out of reach.

"I'm not saying I believe you," said the young dwarf. "If you are the one you claim to be, you'll understand that and won't be cross. But... somehow, I'd like it to be true."

From somewhere afar a deep voice called Fíli’s name, and he smiled briefly before he turned and walked back the way he came. Narvi watched him for a moment, then rose and followed him.

The crescent moon painted shadows onto the floor when Narvi returned to the guest rooms. For long hours she had lingered with the dwarves, feeling like an intruder even though she had kept her distance and avoided private conversations, but still oddly comforted by their presence. She had hoped to find Celebrimbor and Maglor asleep, or at least one of them, as sometimes they fought each other's demons with soothing words and gentle songs. It was why they had chosen to share their quarters. But Maglor was nowhere in sight; his harp leaned, uncovered, against the wall beside the door. Celebrimbor sat huddled on his bed, shivering, his hands clenched in the unbound waves of his hair. Before him lay his sketchbook, held open by a piece of broken charcoal. Several pages were torn out and scattered on the cushions around him.

Narvi rushed to his side. Celebrimbor, she called to him, calm down! I'm here now. You are in Imladris, you're safe!

He looked up at her with large, unfocused eyes.

"Narvi?" He reached out to touch her face, his hands heavily smudged with charcoal. In the dim light the black marks looked like charred flesh. "Narvi, will you help me? I must find them. They are mine. He took them from me!"

Ghivasha! She moved away from his touch, unsettled by his strange behaviour. You aren't properly awake. Come to your senses!

"He took them all. But they are calling to me!" Celebrimbor twisted his fingers into his hair again. “I must take them back...”

Narvi cursed softly, and then she saw his drawings, raw sketches of forms that were horribly familiar. Worry swept through her like flood water churning through a tunnel. There was something wrong with the flickering light in his eyes, the unguarded feelings that radiated from him - fury, anguish, horror, want -

Where is Maglor when you need him? she groused. Come on, Celebrimbor, get back to your usual self and stop the theatrics!

But he said nothing more, just cowered in the darkness, consumed by a power she did not recognize. She pushed against it and plunged right into its pull as she reached out to him, and for the first time she felt his thoughts, his mind, his fëa brush against her own - glittering mithril taking shape in his hands, Ost-in-Edhil lit by thousands of candles for the midsummer feast, Narvi, grinning, throwing her thick braid back over her shoulder as she worked - a foreign landscape bathed in silver - beads of coloured glass in the brown curls of a woman whose eyes sparkled like his own, and beside her a man who had to be... - but something dark and dangerous pulled at him, and the touch scorched them both. Narvi held on regardless, but he was slippery like a freshly oiled cogwheel. Perhaps, if she went deeper still, she could merge her thoughts with his own - possession by a spirit was said to be a harmful thing, but surely, to draw him out of this state...

"Celebrimbor!"

The door to their quarters slammed open and Elrond strode in, Maglor following on his heels. The Lord of Imladris hurried to Celebrimbor's side, took his face in his hands, and began to speak intently in the strange language of Valinor. There was power in his words that made the darkness recoil. Celebrimbor collapsed into Elrond’s embrace. When Narvi tried to hold onto his spirit, something else touched her mind: a rush of power, bright and pure and benevolent, that pushed her gently from her husband’s thoughts. Enough, it seemed to whisper in Celebrimbor’s voice. He is safe.

She drew back, confused. The ring on Elrond’s finger sparkled in the moonlight. For a long while there was no sound beside Celebrimbor's shaky breathing and the steady rush of the falls in the distance.

"You must sleep now," Elrond said, and Celebrimbor slumped against his shoulder. "We can talk tomorrow." With his free hand he took the sketchbook to look at it, then snapped it shut with an expression of disgust. Alarmed, he turned to meet Maglor's eyes, but Maglor was looking straight an Narvi, tight-lipped and frowning. "Yes," he said, and she understood that he addressed her as much as Elrond. "So we should."

Celebrimbor slept soundly until the sun had climbed high over the mountaintops. Narvi approved, for he still found too little rest at nights, even though she knew that Elrond had a hand in it. Maglor had hovered beside his nephew for some time, then fetched his harp and plucked out disjointed tunes, like drops of water from a cavern ceiling that ripple on an underground lake. His ghostly shadow prickled with nervous energy, which was more unsettling than Narvi cared to admit. As they waited together in the sunlit rooms, she wondered who it was, and why it could not manifest itself the way she did. But Maglor would speak of it if he chose to, or he would not.

Her husband was in good spirits when he awoke, if a little puzzled by the charcoal smudges on his hands and face. Elrond arrived shortly after, carrying a tray with spiced eggs and mushrooms. He, too, hovered beside the bed in what he likely believed to be a casual way. Celebrimbor’s gaze travelled to each of them in turn while he chewed on his food.

“Fine,” he said at last. “I’m sure there’s a reason you all think me unfit to leave my bed for breakfast, although I am perfectly capable to do so.”

“You were unwell last night,” began Elrond. Celebrimbor shrugged, not looking particularly concerned.

“I often am. I do appreciate the mushrooms, mind you, but…” He broke off and smiled at Elrond. It was the sort of smile all three of his friends recognised: it usually meant his verbal opponent, unless a dwarf, had already lost their case. Elrond shook his head fondly.

“We worry about you, my friend,” he admitted. “You spoke of Sauron’s rings, and you were not lucid. Maglor fetched me when you became agitated – and you drew these…” He opened the newest page in Celebrimbor’s sketchbook. Celebrimbor’s face went blank.

“You know of my nightmares,” he said. “Surprising as it may be, they often involve rings.”

Surprising as it may be, you are not surrounded by idiots, Narvi informed him. I know your nightmares when I see them. This was something else.

He narrowed his eyes at her. The look was achingly familiar, though in times past it had usually involved the distribution of laundry duty or the whereabouts of her favourite tool set.

“A hallucination, then,” he said obstinately. “Not unheard of, either.”

Elrond crossed his arms, frowning. “Apparently not,” he conceded. “Celebrimbor – I don’t need to tell you how dangerous these rings are. You have told us of your plans, and we mean to help you in any way we can, but I fear you’re playing with fire.”

Celebrimbor grimaced. “You are the one who’s hosting a Maia.”

“If you would trust my judgment for once…”

“I just want them gone.” Celebrimbor waved his hand, a quick, elegant gesture. It reminded Narvi of heated discussions over blueprints and dinner plans and charming strangers with mysterious knowledge. “The world will be a better place for it! You worry too much, my friend.”

“I heard that from you before,” Elrond said curtly, “and it was the last time I saw you alive. Would you not be concerned if you stood in my place?”

“But you need not be concerned this time.” Celebrimbor smiled, but his smile was too bright, too cheerful, and did not reflect in his eyes. “Getting tortured leaves you a little shaky. I need to recover, that is all.”

“I wonder,” said Maglor slowly, staring at his nephew as if trying to read his thoughts, “how badly I failed my little brother. I see his face when I look at you now - only he would have lashed out with scathing words, not laughed at his own pain. How desperate he must have been...”

The spoon clattered to the floor.

“Excuse me,” Celebrimbor spluttered, quickly bending to retrieve it and, Narvi could tell, to hide his burning face behind a curtain of hair. “I am not like him! Everyone always said we were different…”

“I wonder,” Maglor repeated softly. He sounded tired and sad. ”If only we had seen behind his elaborate lies.”

Celebrimbor frowned and stared at his food. Elrond placed a light hand on Maglor’s arm, a gesture of comfort and affection, but neither of them spoke. Once again, Narvi observed, the mention of Maglor’s brothers resulted in awkward silence.

Senseless slaughter, sins beyond redemption. Maybe it was time to ask for the full tale.

Her musings were interrupted by heavy footsteps in the corridor outside, followed by a knock that made the door rattle in its hinges. Elrond strode to answer it, while Celebrimbor, demonstratively avoiding Maglor’s eyes, slid into a morning gown. He looked around wildly for his slippers, but had only located one of them when Elrond led Thorin Oakenshield and his white-bearded advisor into the room. Maglor, apparently prompted by a habit established in ages long past, quickly gathered his nephew’s hair and fixed it with a clasp.

“I apologize,” Celebrimbor said smoothly, as if it were not even slightly embarrassing to greet a dwarven king half-dressed, uncombed, and wearing only one shoe. “We were so involved in our discussion that I completely forgot the time. Oh my, is it midday already? But I am overjoyed that you are willing to talk to me… would you like something to drink? I can send for coffee, or maybe a strong blend of tea, if you prefer it.”

Thorin Oakenshield observed him coolly. His companion gave the resigned smile which, combined with a desperate little headshake, universally conveyed disapproval with the declining morals of today’s youth.

“No, thank you,” the dwarf king returned, not sounding particularly courteous. “This is my kinsman Balin, son of Fundin. We would speak to you in private.”

“Of course,” said Celebrimbor. “If you would excuse us, my friends…”

I won’t, Narvi chipped in, amused despite her worries, and don’t think you’ll get out of this so easily!

Maglor’s lips twitched, but he touched Elrond’s arm, and both elves left the chamber with a few polite words. Celebrimbor offered his guests seats, which they declined, before settling into a comfortable chair himself and waiting for King Thorin to speak.

“Gandalf says you tell the truth,” Thorin stated. “He also says that you are accompanied by the ghost of the great stonewright Narvi, daughter of Noris, the chief architect of Durin III. I have heard him make many outrageous claims, but this must be the largest stone to swallow. Still, my folk have never known him to lie - who then should I believe? The words of a wizard or my own common sense?”

“I will not advise you on your dealings with wizards,” Celebrimbor said a little stiffly, “but in this case, he is telling the truth. Narvi is here by my side. Very annoyed, I might add, that she is unable to speak for herself.”

You know me well, my heart, she sighed. At least they don’t reject my existence at once!

Thorin watched him through narrowed eyes, then inclined his head a little. “If that is so, well met, Narvi Norisul,” he said reluctantly. “I shall not pay insult to one of our famous forebearers out of disbelief; though surely she would understand, given the circumstance! Some legends claim that you were bound in marriage.”

“We are.”

“It is hard to imagine.”

“It is uncommon, but times were kinder when we met.”

Thorin fell silent for a while. Celebrimbor knew enough of dwarves to meet the scrutinizing gaze with calm composure.

Tell them I am honoured to meet them, and very happy to see a few proper beards around here, Narvi suggested, when the silence threatened to turn into a stand-off. And for the love of all that is holy, don’t be more secretive than one of us. Tell them your story and see what they make of it.

Celebrimbor’s mouth twitched. “I am to tell you that my wife is delighted by the sight of your beards,” he said. “She wishes to convey cordial greetings to you both, and admonishment to me. Apparently it would be a wise idea to say my part and leave the judgment to you. Do I have your permission?”

The dwarrows exchanged a quick glance before Thorin nodded. Celebrimbor drew a deep breath, and told the painful tale once more. This time, among her people, he spoke long of Narvi, of her brilliance and wisdom and the delight of finding a kindred soul. “It is well to remember her name,” he said, “but the works of her mind were lost to the enemy, and so you cannot know her spirit, for that only shows in the things she wrought.” He told them of spiral staircases that defied the laws of gravity, of halls that seemed larger from within than the section of rock they were built in should allow, and of the splendor of Durin’s throne. When he spoke of their gate, his words evoked the bright glow of starlit ithildin.

Those had been good times. For all that came after, we must remember what we had, Narvi said, when he paused to steady his voice. We were happy then. We can be once again.

“Melmenya,” he muttered, before he moved on to the part that was much harder to tell.

He spoke of a handsome stranger, the allure of knowledge, the promise of divine grace. The dwarves, ever mistrustful of those they could not place, had been wary. But then Narvi had gone to inspect a building site and never returned, and her voice of caution had been silenced. Bereft, he had turned to others for guidance and inspiration, one above all whose true allegiance he had seen too late. He had hoped for a way to heal the wounds left by an age of war and loss, and make his people thrive again; but the powers he had trusted in were poisonous and not his to command.

Betrayal, torture, death. Durin had helped to save the survivors of Hollin; there were few.

A long silence followed when Celebrimbor had finished. Unable to draw him into a soothing embrace, Narvi settled on the armrest of his chair and placed a weightless arm across his shoulders. Thorin’s expression was hard to read; he looked very much like his sister had, while she had been trying to judge their worth. Balin Fundinul sighed deeply.

“I have never heard an elf speak so favorably of our kin,” he remarked.

“You rarely will, nowadays, from what I have heard” Celebrimbor admitted. “The elves of the wood do not understand the ways of the dwarrow-folk. My folk, the Noldor, we were students of your Maker! We built in stone and were skilled in the forge. Our two people had much in common, back in those days… But now only few of my kin are left, and most would rather forget about us altogether.”

Thorin gave a soft, bitter chuckle, drew up a chair and sat down. Balin followed his lead.

“Gandalf says you were sent back with a purpose.”

“I have no idea what the wizard knows of me, or wants from me,” Celebrimbor said, a little too sharply. “Frankly I would prefer him to stay out of my business.”

This time Thorin chuckled freely. “I share the sentiment. But he is helpful... on occasion.”

Celebrimbor’s lips became a thin line.

“You wanted to ask something of us, I recall,” prompted Balin, who was watching him curiously.

“Aye,” Celebrimbor admitted. “The rings we gave to the dwarves; they were corrupted by an evil hand, and do no favours to their owner. I wish to destroy them. Especially the one I gave to my friend Durin, for it holds the most power.”

Thorin’s expression became guarded. “No one knows where Durin’s ring is. Most likely it is lost, along with the others.”

Celebrimbor sighed. “Most likely,” he agreed.

Well done for now, but you can’t expect too much of them at once, Narvi reminded him when she felt his disappointment. Give them time. He acknowledged her with a slight nod.

Both dwarrows remained silent for a long moment, exchanging meaningful glances, as though they were engaged a wordless debate. Balin’s hands twitched; apparently he had to control his impulse to switch to Iglishmêk. But Thorin shook his head and rose from his chair.

“We are honoured to meet you and hear your tale,” he said. “Perhaps we can speak further during our stay. If you will excuse us for now, we need to return to our company.”

Ghivasha, Narvi interjected when the king and his advisor turned to go. I would formally request permission to visit the company for a while. It is not right to do so without their knowledge.

Celebrimbor smiled and leaned his head towards her, almost as if he was resting it against her shoulder. “King Thorin,” he said softly, “My wife asks if you would allow her to join your company for a bit. It is hard on her at times, being among elven kind only.”

Both dwarrows turned, and Narvi rejoiced to see their eyes soften in sympathy. They must not think the story so ludicrous, after all.

“It would be a great honour, Narvi Norisul,” said Thorin Oakenshield. “We have matters to attend to now, which we should keep among ourselves. But if you would join us for dinner, I shall ask Bofur to recite a few ballads that are too salacious for elven ears!”

Narvi laughed, and Celebrimbor gave her a fond look. “I can say with confidence,” he smiled, “that your invitation is enthusiastically accepted.”