Ashes by Anne Wolfe

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Ashes

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Ashes

One of them (not Amras, they know) scrapes up as many of the ashes as he can, wraps them in a cloth, and either forgets in the commotion that he did it or lies when asked about it. A great amount of dirt gets mixed in too, but he tried.

 

Celegorm fashions a crude box out of a chunk of unburnt mast that washes ashore. They put the ashes in that.

 

They each have their own way of pretending not to worry when their oldest brother does not come back. Curufin’s is to steal the box and spend every spare moment carving it into something more likely to be called beautiful. On the inside of the lid he carves his father’s names (in Tengwar, of course), a brief list of immediate family, and, because only half the lid is left, a briefer list of achievements. (He stops with the Silmarils.) At the bottom he has more space left than he had thought, and spends ten of the sleepless hours trying to decide what to put there. In the end, as the moon arcs across the sky for the first time, he carefully carves, in small letters, The world is changed with his passing. He wastes a dribble of candle wax to seal it shut.

 

In Nargothrond, he sometimes thinks about gilding the box, or something. But a box that looks to be valuable is a box that many would covet, so ‘tis safer as it is.

 

It turns out a plain wooden box is also more likely to be left behind in a flurry of packing, and thus more likely to make its way into Celebrimbor’s hands. But they are hands that escaped sword and fire and madness all, so he sets the strange sealed box on a mantelpiece and sets to work.

 

~~~

 

The box has been disintegrating since before the sun shone, and though he knows not what it is Celebrimbor knows his father thought it of some significance. Celebrimbor does gild it, between more pressing projects, and sets specks of ruby where they best complement the original design.

 

“Whatever is this?” asks Narvi one day, when they are supposed to be taking a break from pondering the logistics of transporting ithildin.

 

“A box,” says Celebrimbor, who is not taking a break from pondering the logistics of transporting ithildin. “Please try not to touch it, it is nearly as old as I am.”

 

“What kind of box do you gild shut?” asks Narvi, inspecting it as closely as he can.

 

“I know not what is in it,” says Celebrimbor. “My father had already sealed it shut when I found it, and I did not attempt to open it for fear of breaking it. I sought perhaps to preserve it longer with the gold.”

 

“May I take a closer look with my own equipment?” asks Narvi. “This is a strange thing indeed, and my heart tells me it may be of some import.”

 

“‘Tis naught but a box of gilded wood,” says Celebrimbor. “More likely than not were I to open it I would find some illegible old love letters from when my parents were courting.”

 

“Do you then say no?”

 

“So long as you pledge to return it I do not; only be careful.”

 

Some way or another the box stays in Narvi’s possession until he dies, and when in the absence of wife or kin some enterprising young dwarf decides to auction off his possessions no one of import makes any note of a cheap little box of gilded wood.

 

At the very end of the auction the box is brought out, and though the dwarf who buys it claims descent from Durin he is perhaps the very farthest thing from royalty. His grandchildren, however, are very practical dwarves, and when the king’s archives prove better protected from thieves than their own quarters near the gate, instead of fighting over their grandfather’s most prized possession they donate the box to sit with a number of other disputed historical artifacts.

 

~~~

 

Smaug knows gilt when he smells it, and though he sweeps the solid gold and jewels into a pile and gathers it into the main hall, the Box of Narvi (as it is labelled) is left to sit among the rotting papers of the cold archive-room.

 

~~~

 

Ori has been happily copying down the documents onto stronger paper for hours when he notices the gilt box and darts over to see what it is. “I say!” he cries. “Somebody come here and look at this!”

 

Glóin is at the door in moments.”What is it?”

 

“Look!” says Ori, pointing at the label carefully pasted on the shelf next to the box. “It says Narvi owned this! The Narvi! Can you tell if it’s real?”

 

“If he owned it, he didn’t make it,” says Glóin. “That design’s elf-work.”

 

“Oh.” Ori deflates. “Do you think that Elrond fellow might–”

 

Glóin chuckles. “He’d hardly journey out here to look at a little box, Ori. Perhaps we can have some of those wood-elves take a look at it later.”

 

“I wonder what’s in it,” says Ori, peering at the seam where lid seems to meet box.

 

“It might not be a box,” says Glóin, reaching forward to gingerly pick it up. “It might just be made to look like one– no, that can’t be solid gold. Too light.”

 

“Interesting,” murmurs Ori. “I’ll make a note to do some research when I have time.”

 

He never has time, though, before he leaves for Moria.

 

~~~

 

Gimli comes back to the Mountain one last time before crossing the sea, and when he sees the box in the course of taking everything in he asks the young king if anyone had ever solved that mystery.

 

“Alas, no,” says the king. “The elves of Mirkwood told us it was Noldorin work, and even the least of those has gone now.” The king stops to laugh a little. “Gone west or gone mad, that is, and we cannot hope to gain any knowledge from a madman!”

 

“I go west myself soon,” says Gimli. “Would you account it a great loss were I to take it with me, and at least one of our kindred know the truth of the matter?”

 

“Many wondrous things we have under the mountain that were made by Narvi himself; what to us is some gift given to him by a friend? Take it if you will, Lord Gimli, and the blessings of Erebor go with you.”

 

~~~

 

Gimli wraps the box as carefully as he can, for boats travel over water, and water wreaks havoc with such things as this. It is care well taken; though their knives rust in the damp and they lose a crate of waybread to salt water, the box loses no more than a grain of ruby from the tip of a carven flame on the side.

 

“I would like to find someone,” says Gimli after the seeming year of celebration is over and they have had a good long talk with Gandalf and the hobbits.

 

“Do you now?” asks Legolas. “I dare say that is easy enough; only step into the street and there are elves by the dozen to be found.”

 

“A specific person,” says Gimli. “Some time back we found a sealed box of elven make in the archives, and I should like to know who made it.”

 

“Let me see it,” says Legolas. “Perhaps I know its maker.”

 

“Noldorin make, I should have said! My kin had looked already to yours for answers before I brought the thing here.”

 

“Noldorin make,” says Legolas, and his smile is a little less broad. “The elves to ask about that are all on the mainland.”

 

“Yes, they are,” says Gimli, standing from his chair. “And I shall have to wrap the box up again for the voyage, and hope all the rubies do not fall out this time. It is older than you are, you know.”

 

“Is that what you were fussing over the whole voyage here?”

 

“Yes,” says Gimli, “and it is said Narvi owned it. Remember on the Doors–”

 

“Yes, I remember. Mightn’t that Celebrimbor fellow have given it to him? He was an elf, you know, and–”

 

“I will see,” says Gimli. “I think the elf I intend to ask will know.”

 

“We will see, you mean,” says Legolas, springing to his feet. “Did you think I would let you go on your own?”

 

~~~

 

“That is not the road to Tirion,” says Legolas, standing back at the fork.

 

“The one I want to see does not live in Tirion,” says Gimli, carrying the wrapped box along the northward road.

 

~~~

 

Gimli makes straight for the fort at the city’s heart, Márrómen that was Formenos.

 

He walks up to the front door and knocks. This prompts a great clatter from inside, which prompts something in Old Quenya that sounds like a curse, which prompts a higher-pitched reprimand in the same language.

 

“This is evidently not the best time,” says Legolas.

 

“If they do not want us to come in they will not open the door,” says Gimli, gesturing toward the miniscule window in the door at about the height of the average elf’s eyes.

 

“What if they cannot see you?” asks Legolas, for the miniscule window in the door is about the height of an average elf’s eyes.

 

“They can see you,” says Gimli. “Why did you think I brought you?”

 

“I was not brought, I decided to come.”

 

“Yes, and I decided to let you. I am not so frail as I look, especially after coming here— but listen, I think someone is unlocking the door.”

 

Someone is. He is shorter than most elves, though not so short as to be comical, and judging by his countenance he is quite out of sorts.

 

“When polite people wish to speak with us they make an appointment,” he says.

 

“I have heard it is easier to ask forgiveness than permission,” says Gimli, and the corner of the elf’s mouth twitches. “But tell me, has the master of this house no time even for such a little matter as this?”

 

“The master of this house does not concern himself with little matters,” says the elf.

 

Gimli is unwrapping the box anyway. “We will have to come inside to look at it,” he says. “It is an age old at least, and though it has survived two sea-voyages I do not think it would be happy about being dropped in the dirt.”

 

“Give it to me,” says the elf.

 

Gimli hands it to him, smiling slightly behind his beard.

 

“Come inside,” says the elf.

 

They do, perhaps more slowly than they would enter a different house.

 

“Well,” says the elf, setting the box and its myriad wrappings on a table. “Watch your step. Some fool broke a vase a scant few moments ago.”

 

The elf pulls the box out of the last layer of soft cloth and holds it up to catch the light.

 

“You said one ought to wear gloves when handling that,” whispers Legolas to Gimli.

 

“Some of us keep our hands clean,” says the elf, setting the box back on the table. “You shan’t mind if I pull the lid off, I hope.”

 

“May I ask why?” asks Gimli.

 

“The maker put no sign of his identity on the outside, so the next place to look is the inside,” the elf says, then produces a chisel from under a table that had not looked to have any drawers in it at all. He turns his attention to prying the lid from the box.

 

He takes a great deal of care with it.

 

At last the lid is off, looking like it had never been sealed in the first place. The elf peers at the inside of the lid— and bursts out laughing. He sets the lid down on the table, finds a chair to sit in, and continues to laugh, his face turning quite red.

 

Gimli steps over to the table, and reads what is written on the inside of the lid. “Well,” he says. “Shall I presume that all this grey dust is…?”

 

“It’s me,” says Fëanor. “Or rather it was me a few ages ago.”

 

Legolas begins to have his first headache.

 

“There’s some dirt in there as well, I think,” Fëanor continues, “but I can sift it out if I ever care to. Thank you for returning this, good sir.”

 

“‘Twas no trouble,” says Gimli, though Legolas thinks it was really quite a lot of trouble. “Though if you ever feel inclined to repay me, my old axe finds itself in need of some repairs after the sea-voyage here—”

 

The door in the west of the room opens, and a lady’s head emerges. “I hope someone’s cleaned up that vase by now,” she says, and then she sees Gimli. “Hello there!” she says in very much a different tone of voice. “Aulë is quite proud of how your folk have turned out, you know.”

 

Gimli’s beard fluffs up with pride. “We do our best,” he says. “I don’t suppose you could introduce the two of us?”

Legolas feels very left out— the conversation has turned to beards, and who in Valinor has them, which is not a topic with which he has much experience. Furthermore, the fact that Gimli is determined to befriend dangerous criminals is one that concerns the wood-elven side of him (which is to say all of him) to a degree heretofore unheard of.

 

As Legolas stands agonizing over this, and wondering if he is strong enough to simply pick Gimli up and run, a face appears near his left shoulder. The same face appears near his right shoulder.

 

“Do you like hunting?” say the faces.

 

Legolas begins to have his second headache.

 

~o~

 

The End

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Chapter End Notes

I shan’t promise a sequel, but this setting is simply too interesting for me to leave sitting forever.

 

A note for the curious: The reason Amrod and Amras (for that is who they are) are so desperate for hunting partners is because Celegorm has dyed his hair and moved to Tirion to finish his doctorate in Talking to Animals. Since he has assumed a false identity, however, he has had to start over at re-earning his bachelor’s degree, and has been gone for quite a while by now.