Knife-sharp by heget

Chapter 1

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Gamil Zarik is old for a dwarf when he makes his final journey to the Halls of Menegroth to complete one last commission for its king. Many times before has the master craftsman worked for King Thingol, filling the king’s vaults and armories with wondrously sharp and beautiful tools, each more marvelous than the piece before. No other dwarf is so often employed or as highly paid by the elven king than him, and the rulers of Belegost look upon their preeminent smith with envy. Gamil Zarik has made swords and knives for the King and his soldiers, sharp blades as small and fine as any heron or kingfisher’s beak for the queen to snip the threads of her tapestries or for the great loremaster Daeron to whittle into musical instruments and tools, and even arrowheads for the quiver of Beleg Strongbow. He has crafted brooches and goblets inset with pearls and gems, fine hair ornaments to dangle from the head of Lúthien the Most Fair like tinkling flowers of a tree in spring-bloom, pins, bracelets, buttons, and other small items of peace and beauty in-between his larger crafts. Gamil Zarik likes these small commissions most, for they allow him to venture into skills he has not conquered. No one challenges Gamil Zarik on the sharpness and balance of his blades, unless it is his final apprentice, Telchar, who is still young and has not forged his masterpiece yet. That his knives and swords are pinnacles of beauty and efficiency are expected, but to hammer out thin plates of steel and curve them so as to be mistaken for the most delicate petals of a flower and to see and hear Princess Lúthien’s peal of delight as she dances for the old dwarf to display her appreciation and gratitude for the new hair decoration is what truly brings Gamil Zarik pride. 

The small baubles and delicate items he crafts in Menegroth itself, borrowing the royal forges, while he drafts the knifes and scissors and swords, or after he has presented the main commissioned work and thus has time before he make journey back to Belegost. The forges of Menegroth were planned for the hands of both dwarf and elf, and they are as familiar and advanced as those under the mountain.

The king has guest rooms made especially for Gamil Zarik for when he visits Menegroth, and the queen herself brings him meals and sits beside him to shares stories. Sometimes, rarely when the king is not preoccupied with his advisers and petitioners seeing that all the scattered people of his vast kingdom are listened and attended to, these quiet mealtime discussions play host to three instead of two. King Thingol will sit with the master-smith as he does none of the other dwarven craftsmen under his employ. Still stiff and formal - but Gamil Zarik will see glimpses of the person behind the kingly posture and crown. King Thingol asks after his apprentices and laughs at Gamil Zarik’s stories of their triumphs and incompetencies, delighting in secondhand pride. The king has a love for stories of pranks and sharp wit, even if he can never keep track of the names of Gamil Zarik’s many students. Except for one, an elf, the kinsman of King Thingol who now lives most of the time in Nogrod. After these stories of welds gone array or broken handles or bruised egos, the king inquires of which apprentice will fulfill his mantle when the old mortal dwarf dies. Here both the elven king and Maiar queen will grow uncomfortable at the reminder of Gamil Zarik’s mortality. To change the subject, King Thingol will once again share stories of meeting Mahal in Valinor, and Queen Melian with her greater acquaintance will add depth and detail to these tales. Gamil Zarik eventually realizes that the royal couple are trying to reassure the dwarf of the existence and love of his creator. Gamil Zarik does not fear Mahal’s Halls or doubt that his soul will not journey to meet Him after death. And the old dwarf tries not to read into King Thingol’s statements of how the elf no longer wishes to go to the Valar when he has the light of their country here in Beleriand, staring sappily into his queen’s eyes. Gamil Zarik never married and has never felt the desire to, so these displays of affection irk him. But he cannot tell the king and queen that it does not matter their wishes or his, Gamil Zarik cannot stay forever in Beleriand. He will die one day, and that day approaches close now. Too soon he will no longer be on this side of the shore. Then, he will miss sipping tea with the queen, the princess laughing with jewel flowers in her hair, the king bowing low to accept a sword and testing the sharpness against the strands of his own hair. Those strands of hair the king gives to the dwarf with bemusement. Gamil Zarik likens them to the shine of mythril. Carefully he places the hairs in a star-shaped locket of the self-same mythril wire, enjoying this private keepsake of the elven king kept on a chain close to his heart. In a similar locket on this same chain is a lock of hair from his mother. Gamil Zarik toys with the idea of leaving a locket with his hair for the royal family; he had made several for his apprentices to be bequeathed upon his death. Princess Lúthien would understand the meaning of the gesture and appreciate it. But it is too intimate a gesture, Gamil Zarik decides. King Thingol is a friend, and the king will have enough physical reminders of the dead smith in his treasuries and person. It is Gamil Zarik’s blades that King Thingol wears at his waist, his hands that made both armor and sword-belt. In this, Gamil Zarik will always be at the king’s side. If he says such a sentimental thing, the tall elven king will grown even more uncomfortable and stiff. Perhaps that is why Gamil Zarik makes this final journey to Menegroth, to make that last joke and see the man beneath that silver mask.

He does not intend to die in Menegroth’s halls, fading swiftly in the gentle bed of his private guest quarters, Master Daeron playing a soft tune on a freshly carved flute while the princess croons as she holds his shaking hand. The queen watches him with bright eyes, almost as if she is waiting to see his soul depart his body and use her powers to snatch it back and force it back in. Gamil Zarik hopes that she does not. Queen Melian is a tall woman and goddess in her own right, but she is not powerful enough to arm-wrestle the Smith. In the doorway King Thingol lingers. Gamil Zarik lifts a quavering voice, hoarse from coughing, to make an apology for not completing the commissioned piece. It was to be a new blade, sharper than Aranrúth, a long dagger to match the kingly sword. “I no longer desire it,” the king snaps. “I have daggers aplenty. You were a fool to come, too proud. You should have sent one of your foolish students. They could have made the trinkets.” The king’s eyes are as bright as his queen’s with unshed tears. 

“I have cut you deep,” Gamil Zarik whispers in the secret tongue, apologizing. “I thought I would leave before my end came for me. I did not want you deathless ones to see me go.” He is comforted that the other dwarves in the city have sent word to Belegost, so that his kin may come to collect his body for burial. King Thingol’s nephew rides with them, knows the proper words and customs. 

Princess Lúthien clutches his hand, her long slim fingers engulfing his.

“Are you afraid?” she whispers, the jewels of her hair ornaments glimmering like stars in her black hair.

“Of course not,” Gamil Zarik whispers back to her. “I have the opportunity to go before Mahal Himself and brag of what I have made. And I have made many beautiful and useful things, and brought joy and satisfaction to the most lovely of ladies and mightiest of kings. I look forward to this journey, Princess.”