Dust in Desert Winds by Raiyana

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Chapter 2

“This is where we wait,” Erestor told him, coming to a sudden halt in a copse of trees that looked no different from the others dotting the land that had once belonged to Eregion – Glorfindel could feel the songs of his people running through the air and the ground, surrounding him with the feelings of peace and joy they had once felt here, before the Darkness had descended. He had not remarked on the feeling to Erestor, who seemed at once to tense and relax when they first crossed the borders of the land.

“Wait?” Glorfindel wondered, though he did not mind the pause. Beneath him, Asfaloth snorted lightly, stamping one hoof against the soft ground, wet with the drizzle that had soaked them for the better part of three days. Sheltering beneath the trees made little sense, as everyone was already wet through, but Glorfindel dismounted and led his horse under the branches anyway. He had already resigned himself to a damp and uncomfortable night – they had small tents, but the moisture hung heavy in the air and the constant drizzle meant no chance to dry out their gear. He had expected Erestor to complain – the Chief Counsellor was among the neatest of the Elves he knew in Rivendell, nary a hair out of place – but instead he had been the one biting back complaints as the humidity made his hair curl and frizz, while Erestor’s turned into a wetly gleaming sheet of black silk beneath his hood.

“Yes, Lord Glorfindel,” Erestor replied, seemingly ill-at-ease. “Wait.”

“And why, pray tell, are we waiting in this… wetness?” Glorfindel asked, trying not to be snide but probably failing; their people were largely unconcerned with cold, but it did not mean he enjoyed being clammy and chilled any more than one of the Edain.

“To be lead,” a new voice replied, laughing. Glorfindel whirled, his sword springing to hand as though it had a mind of its own, placing himself between Erestor and danger without conscious decision. He stared.

Blue eyes glittering with soft amusement met his gaze frankly. Her hair was light, a shining pale gleam in the low light; silvery-blonde, but different than Celebrían’s starlight hair. Finely pointed ears poked through a mass of braids, a few hanging loose to frame an oval face, the petal-pink lips stretched in a happy smile. She was dressed for travel, though the fur-trimmed clothes and her deep blue cloak were not decorated in the usual manner of elves; the swirling vines and leaves so common to ladies of their kind – for she was a Lady, he thought, dressed so richly – replaced with angular shapes and patterns creating a surprisingly pleasant if distinctly Dwarven whole.

Glorfindel boggled. The elf-maid – for she must be – was short, short enough he’d have called her a girl still, if not for the maturity in her eyes and body.

He did not see the elf move, but suddenly an ellon was standing in front of the Lady, longsword – wickedly keen edge managing to glint even in the low light – raised in ready defence. His stance proved him a capable fighter, Glorfindel thought, and then marvelled at the way the elf before him shared his companion’s Dwarven clothing.

“At ease, Captain!” Erestor snapped sharply behind him, his gloved hand landing heavily on Glorfindel’s arm and lowering his sword. Erestor stepped past him, hiding the sharp pinch he delivered to the inside of Glorfindel’s elbow and ignoring the light yelp he couldn’t quite hide in response.

The dark-haired ellon stepped aside easily, his grey eyes flashing a warning at Glorfindel.

“Erestor!” The strange elleth’s smile widened, her hands emerging from the indigo cloak to grip Erestor’s.

“My Lady,” Erestor bowed, pressing his lips to her gloved fingers. Glorfindel felt a flash of jealousy at the open smile on Erestor’s face; more relaxed than he had seen his companion since before they entered Eregion. “I am most pleased to see you.”

“As I am you, Ingolmo,” she replied, “you are late in your coming here.”

“We thought you lost,” the ellon teased, “if such a fate could ever befall you.”

“I see years of dwelling inside mountains has not curbed your tongue, sister-son of mine,” Erestor chided. Glorfindel’s jaw dropped. He had no idea Erestor had a sibling – let alone a nephew!

“In truth, I fear it has simply sharpened it,” the ellon replied, “but we are being impolite! Who is your companion?”

“Ah. My Lady, this is-” Erestor began, but the Lady spoke first:

“Lord Glorfindel of the House of Golden Flowers,” she said, “you are known to me through my Father, of course.”

“Allow me to introduce Princess Norindel,” Erestor offered quietly, “daughter of Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion.”

Glorfindel tried not to stare; she looked a bit like a Fëanorian, perhaps, the eyes, maybe, but he had never heard talk that Celebrimbor left behind issue, and surely someone would have mentioned that at one point or another during the centuries since his arrival on these shores.

And then Erestor continued his introduction and for the second time in two minutes, Glorfindel lost his jaw, staring at the strange elleth:

“And of Narví, Lady of Eregion and Princess of Khazad-dûm.”

 

 

The Dwarrow were reasonably polite, Glorfindel decided – he hadn’t had much to do with them in the War, though he had fought beside some throughout the centuries since his arrival and had cause to experience their valour first hand – even if they watched him with some suspicion.

Erestor, however, they seemed to consider a friend as far as he could tell, if his experiences with Eldar or Edain body language could be translated into the motions of these short stocky people who possessed far more hair than could reasonably be expected.

They had constructed an amazing underground city, however, he had to admit, walking through the vast spaces and colonnades their guide led them by, passing mithril waterfalls and gem mosaics of such skill and intricate beauty that Glorfindel was reminded of his home in Tirion and the murals his mother had commissioned for the walls there, great maps of the stars made from diamonds and precious gemstones.

The beauty and bright light obtained by the skill of Aulë’s Children in this stronghold did not, however, make him forget that there was a whole mountain over his head, and the longing for the sky made his enjoyment of the journey less.

Asfaloth seemed perfectly at home walking through the stone, and Glorfindel watched him with some envy, wishing that he shared his serenity.

 

“Your Lord Glorfindel does not say much,” Norindel remarked softly on the third day of travelling; they were almost at the central Palace of Durin, where they would be meeting the King himself, passing the letters and gifts Elrond had chosen to send along for his friend and neighbour.

“I believe Glorfindel to be pensive, my Lady,” Erestor replied, “not unappreciative. He has not seen the inner halls of the Dwarrowdelf before, of course, nor much Dwarven architecture I imagine…  – I remember, Norindel, when your Ammë first allowed our people to see the works done here, how awed we were at the skill of the ancestors of those who craft here now… and the Children of Aulë have not grown poorer in skill since those days.”

The Princess Norindel – she might not go by that name within the Mountains, but Erestor would always remember a small toddler begging for stories and tugging on his robes until he gave in, secretly spoiling the girl she had been with all the tales he could remember learning – grimaced slightly.

“It is my hope that this new Age will prove to be one of greater friendship between my peoples,” she said quietly, “though I admit that I fear that once Uncle Durin dies this time, the Longbeards will become even more reclusive within these fortresses of stone – the losses of the Great War weigh heavily, here, and pebbles are few.” She did not have to tell him that Glorfindel’s uncustomary silent appraisal of their home was less likely to endear the Eldar to the Dwarrow at large, but Erestor heard the words regardless.

“We shall be souls of courtesy,” Erestor promised, nodding solemnly, part of him wondering if he’d need to scold an actual Lord of Gondolin for his manners.

He did not look forward to that eventuality… much.

 

 

In the end Erestor’s worries were pointless; Glorfindel knew how to be charming and courteous to a fault. His unease at being beneath so much stone was slightly ameliorated by their short guide taking them up what he was informed was Durin’s Tower; a wonder of stonework crafted by her mother’s hands, in fact, which still threw him at times, realising that Fëanor’s grandson had married a Dwarf – and had a daughter by her, however that was even possible.

He’d have liked to know what the High Prince of the Noldor would have had to say about that – or Curufinwë, for that matter! – and the topic kept him entertained for more than an hour of walking up the stairs that were surely not made for Elven legs; the steps were too low for comfort but taking two was equally uncomfortable.

Glorfindel suffered in silence, amused by the deference Erestor showed this slip of an elleth, whose face reminded him more than a little of her grandmother, the venerable playwright Telperína; her hair might have come from that Telerin influence, too, though there were white-blond strands in the silver locks, which he had never seen in an elf. Her legs, too, seemed too long for the steps to be comfortable although surely not so much as her silent companion, the elf that Erestor called nephew – and that was another strange thing to be surprised about; Erestor had not struck him as a person with siblings. Their race had so many only children it was more surprising to learn that Erestor had had a sister than Glorfindel would have liked – it spoke ill of his ability to read his companion, which meant he should spend more time studying Erestor before they reached Umbar; going into battle with an unknown quantity beside you was a recipe for disaster. For a moment, he sorely missed Ecthelion, but then he was once more distracted by the silvery – not silvery like Lady Celebrían’s, though close – hair of Princess Norindel.

“They call it mithril hair,” she told him, catching him looking, “the gift of Zantunalkhul’s daughters.”

Glorfindel startled slightly; the lady had not spoken much to him beyond pleasantries.

“Zantunalkhul was Durin I’s wife,” she added, fingering one of the long braids that framed her face. “Her hair was said to be mithril and gold – I always pictured it rather like cousin Galadriel’s, in fact – passed her hair to her daughters and daughters’ daughters. The eldest daughter of a direct matrilineal descendant has mithril hair; if there are others they will be golden like my mother’s – her older sister died very young.”

“I wondered simply that you look much like your father’s mother,” Glorfindel replied, well-aware that he wouldn’t be able to claim he hadn’t been looking, still confused by the fact that he had never heard of Celebrimbor’s daughter – surely, such a child ought to be as well-known as the Peredhels? A Half-Dwarven Elf seemed far less likely than a Half-Mannish Elf, after al – Glorfindel did not think he had heard of a coupling like her parents’ even in the First Age. “Who was of Olwë’s kin.” He was not entirely certain how Telperína connected to the Telerin King’s House, but it hardly mattered.

“I have my mother’s nose, I think,” Princess Norindel replied, “but Atto used to say the same.” She smiled, then, and Glorfindel did not question how Curufinwë – whom he remembered as a solitary ellon absorbed in his work and too reverent of his mighty father – had fallen in love with his playwright.

He smiled back, almost without meaning to.

“Your mother who made these stairs?” he asked, managing to keep the word ‘interminable’ unvoiced through skills he had once honed in the Lords’ Councils of Gondolin and perfected in various councils of war since.

The sparkle of amusement in those blue eyes told him the Princess – he had realised that this must have been the one Erestor and Elrond had meant when they spoke of sending word of the journey – was in no way fooled by his bitten-off complaint. Turning her face upwards, following the stair case that wound around and into itself in a mass of stone that confused his eyes, she smirked, her eyes bright despite the gloom. Dwarven eyes somehow seemed to glow slightly in the darkness of their underground homes, and Norindel’s eyes shared that gift, reminding him of Pallando in human form with a slight shiver.

“These are the Endless Stairs,” she told him, eyes glittering in the low light as she reached out to run her fingers softly over the carving – the image might have made more sense to a Dwarf, but the craftsmanship was superb, “part of a gift from my mother to King Durin II – my uncle – upon his 200th Name Day. It is carved with the history of my people from the Waking of the Seven Fathers – the Stairs are extended downwards with each opened mining level and carving it is a great honour among the Clan.”

“But we’re heading up,” Glorfindel said, suddenly experiencing a moment of vertigo and doubt; they had been climbing the steps for so long he’d half-forgotten ever doing anything else.

“Stairs go in either direction, my Lord,” she quipped, and Glorfindel had to smile at the way she perfectly copied Erestor’s tone, including the familiar tilt of the head that he was certain she must have picked up as a child in Eregion; it was clear to him that Erestor had been her teacher at one point, which was only natural now that he thought about it. “Far above us is the great Zirakzigil – Celebdil, in Sindarin – where Durin’s Tower was built to allow the King to look upon all of his realm from above.”

“We’re heading to this tower?” Glorfindel asked, trying to calculate how many steps they had already taken and how many could possibly be left. He did not like any of the estimates.

“You have been beneath the Stone for some days now, Lord Glorfindel – do you not long for the stars?” she returned teasingly, skipping ahead with a light laugh. “Don’t worry – the way down is far less arduous. Even for an Elf.”

Suddenly, as though her words had awakened something in his soul, Glorfindel felt a strong desire fill him, clamouring to look upon the cool light of Varda’s heavenly creation, to feel his fëa bathed in their glow.

 

 

Looking out across the Hithaeglir like this – a view not offered many Elves, Erestor knew, and only granted to them because of their Royal guide – was breath-taking. Leaning against the stone buttress, he felt the wind whip at him, howling around the tower as the stars shone calmly far above them, still so far though it felt like they ought to be closer, here, at what he believed to be the highest point of Middle Earth. The cloaks they had carried – Nurtalëon had quietly discouraged him from leaving the heavy garment behind with the horses that had been given into the care of a Dwarf who seemed to speak no language Erestor recognised, even though Norindel understood him perfectly. It was not Khuzdul as he knew it, bits and pieces picked up during trade negotiations – or Narví cursing at an uncooperative slab of marble, admittedly – but the dwarf whose hair had been gathered in a multitude of tiny braids and then clasped in an intricate pattern seemed friendly and knowledgeable enough about horses that Erestor did not worry overmuch for Yáressë’s wellbeing.

 

Erestor’s dark hair blowing in the wind, the stars whirling above him, the backdrop a collection of craggy snow-covered mountain peaks made Glorfindel’s fingers itch for charcoal and paper. The stairs they had traversed, wrapping around a massive central pillar carved with patterns he could have spent days studying had not held this level of fascination.

“You like him.”

Glorfindel was certain that his still limbs did not give away the sudden clarity of vision – Erestor’s hair wrapped around his fingers or spread out on pillows as he posed for Glorfindel’s canvas, holding one of his ever-present books negligently in one hand.

“He is a boon travelling companion,” he replied instead, turning his head to look at Princess Norindel, whose smile had grown knowing.

“Oh, yes, Erestor is very good at travelling…” Raising one eyebrow, she considered him keenly, something in her sapphire eyes softening slightly. “You will keep him from harm, Lord Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel found himself nodding before he had even decided to do so. Obeying the same tone of command that had once fallen from Turgon’s lips felt only natural, even if the request had not been one he would do his utmost to fulfil regardless, suddenly more than aware that his own heart was at stake in the answer.

“Upon my oath, Princess.” Bowing lightly, Glorfindel rose with a nod.

“No oaths,” she replied softly, “I will accept your promise, Lord Glorfindel, but I shall have no oaths sworn in my presence. In that, I am my Father’s daughter.”

“Then I promise to do my utmost to safeguard Erestor on our journeys,” Glorfindel said, and even if it was not an Oath, still it was in his mind as good as sworn. The Princess smiled, sadness lingering around the corners of her mouth, and nodded once.

“Thank you.”

 

 

“I did not know how to tell you of her,” Erestor confided shortly after they had descended the Endless Stairs – at once exhilarating and terrifying in a way that made Glorfindel both want to try the slides along the Stairs once more and forget they ever existed at all. “Most Elves believe she is a myth – some think she is an abomination, some sorcery of Fëanor’s devising, perhaps, or Dwarven witchcraft.” Erestor’s expression spoke eloquently of his assessment of the intelligence of anyone who thought such nonsense, which made Glorfindel want to smile despite the serious topic. “Her life was never easy; those of us who know, now, tend to guard her from afar, as my sister-son guards her from up close.”

“I would not have believed you if I had not seen,” Glorfindel admitted, feeling slightly sheepish, “but I see her kin in her – there is more Telerin than Noldorin, perhaps, and a good part of what must be Dwarven mannerisms and traits – but there is no doubt in my mind that she is Celebrimbor’s daughter… by a Dwarf.” Turning, he smiled at Erestor, amused by the slight worry his companion could not hide. “Is it not a wondrous world that such a union is possible? A Dwarf with an Elf – and a child to boot!”

“Wondrous, yes,” Erestor agreed, giving him a soft smile that made Glorfindel’s heart warm along with his cheeks.

 

 

The aging King Durin greeted them happily, accepting a kiss on the cheek from Princess Norindel whom he called Geira and pressing his forehead against hers in greeting. It was odd, Glorfindel thought, to see one of their kin embraced so wholly by the Dwarrow of Khazad-dûm even if she was one of them. As they journeyed, he had noticed distinctly Dwarven traits in the Princess, even if she still looked mostly like a short elleth, her youth belied only by the age-old eyes in her fair face.

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