The Legend of Fasta and Nykr by Raiyana

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The Legend of Fasta and Nykr

Once, there was a Fossegrim, who lived beneath a waterfall in the Grey Mountains, a very long way away, and every day he played his fiddle, making the river leap with joy or thunder with anger, making the land blossom and green around him, or soothing it to sleep through winter. For though the Fossegrimen are like Dwarrow in stature, they are creatures of a different race, spirits of nature as playful and swift as Nessa, and as joyous as Vana whose steps bring spring to the world.

The Fossegrim lived by the river, born of its swift eddies and laughing currents smoothing rocks in a path of never-ending music. He was alone, except for the creatures who dwelled in the forest, for Fossegrim are born of nature’s music and have no family as the Peoples understand the word.

The Fossegrim was happy, living by the small waterfall; he had never thought of leaving the place where he had come into being. He was alone, but for the animals that came to the water and danced with him, for the river was hidden by rock and tree, and no one knew it was there.

Until one day, a Dwarf found him; his name was Fasta.

 

Fasta was walking through the forest, hunting for deer, when he first heard the strange music. Following the sound, he reached a river, and in the river, he saw an unfamiliar creature.

It was slender of limb, though not much taller than he; not an Elf-child, for he had seen those. Long-fingered hands held a fiddle with seeming carelessness, the other running a bow across the strings with such skill that Fasta was entranced. He remained there, half-hidden behind a tree as he stared at the creature, dancing from rock to rock, the sunlight making rainbows appear in its wake from the spray of the waterfall that seemed to follow the music. It was playing to the audience of the waterfall, and Fasta could not see its face, only the long red hair flowing down its back.

Fasta stared for a long time; entranced by the fiddler’s skill – he knew that this was no mortal soul, knew that he was looking at a piece of nature made flesh as though the fiddler had stepped from a story of the Elder Days when spirits of creation roamed the natural places of the world.

“Such beautiful music,” he whispered, taking a few steps away from the shelter of the tree.

The fiddler stopped at the sound of the words, turning around to stare at Fasta.

For a moment, neither moved. The fiddler’s eyes were green, set in a face that seemed to have been carved from smooth bark – and then he jumped across the stones away from Fasta.

“No! Don’t run!” Fasta cried out, wishing he’d never spoken. The fiddler disappeared behind a rocky outcropping and Fasta wanted to weep at the loss of the music. “Please!”

“What do you want?”

“Hello,” Fasta whispered, staring after the fiddler who now peeked out at the Dwarf who held out a hand to stop him from running away. “Who are you?” Fasta asked.

“Nykr,” the fiddler replied, blinking his large green eyes. The spray of water had drenched his fine clothes, but Nykr did not seem to care. “What does a mortal want with the Fossegrim of this place?”

“Hello, Nykr,” Fasta replied, “I am Fasta.” He paused, knowing he should be on his way; there were mouths to feed and he had yet to find more than a pheasant on his hunt. And yet leaving Nykr’s glade seemed an impossible sorrow, even to consider. “…Will you play some more? Your music is beautiful.”

Nykr seemed to consider it, before nodding slowly. Raising his bow, he put it to the strings, coaxing a light melody from the instrument as he stood beneath the falling water.

Fasta smiled.

 

Hours later, the sun was setting, and Fasta got to his feet. Nykr had not left the water at all since Fasta had found him, taking up space on a small rock in the middle of the river as he played his fiddle.

“I have to go now,” he murmured, feeling sad that he would have to leave; he had enjoyed the music, but he had enjoyed looking at Nykr, whose looks seemed less foreign the more he looked, even more so.

“Will you return?” Nykr asked, putting down his bow and staring at Fasta. The Dwarf nodded. Nykr smiled, revealing sharp teeth.

 

Weeks passed, and Fasta kept returning to the waterfall, spending hours listening to Nykr’s enchanting music and speaking to him of all things and no things, as the mood struck him.

 

“Will you teach me to play like that?” Fasta asked one day, staring at the clouds from his prone position on the rock Nykr liked to sit on when he played.

“To learn will cost you,” Nykr replied softly. “All skills have a cost. It is Old Law.”

“I will pay it,” Fasta swore, turning his head to look at Nykr.

Nykr smiled, but this time he seemed sad. “Meat, it will cost,” he murmured, “meat of the finest kind and cuts.” He looked straight at Fasta. “If you do not pay the proper price… I cannot teach you.” One of his long thin fingers traced one of Fasta’s; the Dwarf’s hands were broad, his fingers thick and scarred with the marks of his trade. “Do you still wish to learn?”

 

For months, Fasta learned from Nykr, paying him the best cuts of the deer he killed when he went hunting, and in return, the Fossegrim taught him how to play the fiddle, better than any other Dwarf.

Fasta quickly became famous, and soon enough people followed him to the river. Some people asked to be taught, but they offered Nykr less fine cuts; meat of old animals that was tough and stringy. To those people, the Fossegrim did impart skills – but he only taught them to tune a fiddle, and they were forever cursed to long for the music they had heard but could not reproduce, feeling no satisfaction in the music they could play.

That is the Old Law of the world, and the spirits are bound to it as a Dwarf to the laws of his people.

 

 

 

“Marry me,” Fasta asked, one evening when he was preparing to leave his friend for the night. Nykr stiffened, falling off his rock.

“You… want to marry me?” he spluttered, when Fasta pulled him out of the river.

“Yes.” Fasta’s face felt hotter than fire, but he soldiered on regardless: “I love you.”

“You love the music, Child of Stone,” Nykr soothed, but Fasta could see the sadness in him as he set the bow back on the rock along with his fiddle.

“And you,” Fasta swore, “…mostly you.” Nykr shook his head, guiding Fasta back to the brink.

“Soon I will have taught you all you need to know,” Nykr sighed, “then you will see it was only the music you loved.”

“I will not; I swear to you,” Fasta cried, but Nykr did not listen, heading back to stand beneath the waterfall as he played a slow tune; a mournful song that spoke to Fasta’s heart of longing and gave him hope.

 

 

 

“I have taught you everything, now,” Nykr revealed one late spring evening. “It is time for me to depart this place, leave behind those who will not pay the price.”

“Stay with me.” Fasta blurted it out, catching Nykr’s long fingers with his own stocky fist. “Stay with me, marry me, love me…”

“I am not a Dwarf,” Nykr muttered, but Fasta did not care, waving away his protest. “I cannot stay with you.” Trailing drops of water, he ran a single fingertip along Fasta’s eyebrow.

“Do you… not care for me?” Fasta asked, tortured.

Nykr’s eyes widened. “I will always be your friend,” he swore, “but you should save your love for someone of your own kind.”

“Dwarrow only love once. I shall love none but you,” Fasta admitted, “even if you leave and never return, I shall remain devoted to you.”

“I…” Nykr hesitated.

Fasta squeezed his hand. “It is alright, Nykr,” he whispered. “Just remember that… I love you.” Pressing one kiss to the slender fingers, tasting drops of water left behind on his lips, Fasta let go of Nykr’s hand, the salt of his tears mingling with the water from Nykr’s touch as he walked back towards his home.

 

It was said that Fasta could change the weather when he played, or even make the trees grow legs and dance; the King of his people paid him handsomely for his music, and offered him a place in his court.

But Fasta still returned to the river every week.

 

 

 

“Why do you keep visiting me?” Nykr asked one day, staring at Fasta who had created himself a bench by the riverbank months ago where he could sit and watch Nykr play in the water, see the way the spray made rainbows appear in his hair and listen to the music he would play from time to time. “You’re not supposed to keep visiting when I’m done teaching you,” he admitted, “I did not expect to see you again,” he continued breezily, but Fasta knew him well enough by now to see the way the thought pained him.

The Dwarf’s heart beat a little faster.

“I have told you,” Fasta murmured, remaining on his bench and smoking his pipe, “you are my One, and I will not abandon you even if you could order me away. I love you, and that will not change.”

“How?” Nykr whispered, suddenly standing before Fasta. He moved swifter than any Dwarf, though he was not much taller; slender as an elf with the long fingers that so fascinated his former student when they gripped his instrument. “How can you love me, when I am not your kind?”

“I love you, Nykr, for your kindness and patience, for the wildness and joy that lives in your heart, the fire in your hair and the quickness of your mind.” Fasta spoke carefully, holding out his hand to catch Nykr’s cool fingers, dotted with droplets of water. “I love you.”

Nykr stared, his fingers so different from Fasta’s thick digits, which had proven to be surprisingly nimble as they played the fiddle.

“Does your kind… not love?” Fasta whispered, breaking Nykr’s fascinated gaze.

The Fossegrim’s fingers played unconsciously across the Dwarf’s skin. Fasta was warmth, the heat of him a remnant of Aulë’s forges, but it was his eyes that burned for all that they were a cool grey. “You have water eyes,” Nykr finally whispered, “like a river stone I once found. There is strength in you, and temper, and kindness. The way you look at me makes me want to play you beautiful music, makes me want to have you with me always so I can watch your face any time I like. The sunlight in your hair… I want to touch it; I want to make you long for my touch as I once made you long for the sound of the music.”

Fasta groaned, tugging on Nykr’s fingers until he could wrap them around one of the braids in his dark hair. Nykr ran a finger slowly down the length of the braid, following the twists with his eyes.

“I want to keep you, though I know you would not stay for long; I want to let you go… because it would be better for you if you did, even if I would wish for your presence when you have gone.” Nykr’s voice was dreamy as his fingers played with the dark strands. “I do love you, Fasta the Dwarf… my Fasta.”

“Marry me.” Fasta’s whisper made the Fossegrim stiffen, and this close Fasta saw the tears in his eyes. “Marry me and come back to live with me and my kin,” he pleaded, “you wouldn’t ever have to worry about me leaving you.”

Nykr closed his eyes for a long time. Then he nodded.

“Yes.”

 

For many years, Nykr lived with Fasta, teaching the children of the Clan to play music – not just fiddles, for he was skilled with all manner of instruments – though he continued to return to his river, to stand in the water and play.

Together, they were the most famed musicians in the Kingdom.

 

 

 

But Fasta grew older, and though the strength of his heart never waned, the power of his legs diminished, until he could no longer walk to the river where he had first met his husband. Nykr stopped going, claiming that he felt no joy in it if he could not play for Fasta, but the Dwarf worried. Something was different about his Nykr, who had changed so little since he had moved to live with Fasta inside the mountain, but who now began to diminish. His skin turned greyer and his hair lost some of its fire; even his music suffered, the tunes becoming melancholy and wistful.

“You need the water, my love,” Fasta whispered from his bed one evening. Nykr looked up, startled.

“I don’t want to leave you…” he murmured, looking down at his old fiddle. Fasta smiled gently, reaching for him. Nykr moved to sit on the edge of the bed, stroking Fasta’s hair. “You have grown frail, my beloved, and soon you will join your forebears in the Halls of your Maker.”

“I am sorry,” Fasta replied with a sigh. “I never wished to break my promise.”

“I know.” Nykr smiled sadly, pressing a kiss to Fasta’s forehead. “But I am not a Dwarf, and I am not mortal…”

“Will you go back to the river when I am gone?” Fasta asked, unsurprised; he had always known what Nykr was, after all. “Be my lovely water-sprite again?” Nykr shuddered.

“I love you,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it,” Nykr admitted. “I knew it would claim my life, in the end, but it will have been worth every moment we have shared.”

“No!” Fasta gasped. His objection was loud in the stone room.

Nykr shook his head, pressing Fasta gently back into the mattress. “Please, my love, do not struggle.” He smiled, and it was love tinged with sadness. “I chose this lifetime with you over all the ages of the world alone,” Nykr whispered, caressing his fingers, gnarled with age but still deft enough to play a merry tune, “and I do not regret that.”

Fasta scowled at him, but fell back on his pillows with a loud sigh.

“Promise me you will go back to your river when I am gone,” he pleaded. “I do not wish for you to die, too.”

“I cannot, Fasta,” Nykr whispered, and the Dwarf saw the truth in his eyes. “I bound myself to you, and if I do not follow you, I will become that which is not…” he swallowed hard. “I am a Fossegrim,” he smiled, caressing Fasta’s sunken cheek, “a river-spirit. We are mischievous, but kind, and we do not wish harm upon the Children of Eru, though we will trouble those who do not pay us properly for our teachings.” Nykr bared his sharp teeth in a grin that Fasta had to return, remembering the lamentations of those who had been left without the grasp of the music they sought, left to yearn for that which could only be taught by immortal fingers. “You asked me to be yours, to give you my love in return for yours and I have done so, husband,” he murmured.

Fasta’s eyes closed. “I love you,” he whispered. “But Nykr, please…”

“To ask me now to live without that love…” Nykr continued, his fingers playing over Fasta’s skin, “I could never return to what I was, for you have changed the very heart of me, my Fasta.”

“I don’t want you to die.” Fasta repeated his plea, staring balefully at Nykr, who smiled sadly.

“Without you, I will become something else, my love,” Nykr whispered sadly. “I will become one of the Nøkke, a twisted spirit of water and malice and grief. I would still play, from my home in a lake, but my music would haunt the ears of its listeners, would lure them to me… and I would kill them because they were not you, eat their flesh and build flutes from their bones.” He paused, voice shaky with fear as he continued, “I would have no love in me for anything, not even music, and I would not teach anyone to play; my life would be a cycle of unending grief and death until someone killed me, released the malevolence of my being into the void and I would be no more.” He shook his head, kissing Fasta gently, “No, husband, I would not wish to be so altered. I would not want to be a killer, would not wish to cause the death of our friends, of your kin, or anyone simply wandering by.”

“I’m sorry,” Fasta whispered, wracked with guilt he had not known he should feel, for Nykr had never told him how Nøkken were made, but Nykr hushed him.

“I have lived many seasons before you came, and I have lived all these years with you. I would not wish to return to my old life, even if I could, now that I have known this love. Do not apologise. I chose to follow you here, to this life.” Nykr smiled, squeezing his hand. “Now I will follow you out of this life.”

 

 

When Fasta died, his kinsmen built him a pyre as was their custom, intending to seal the ashes in stone as Dwarrow had done for millennia.

Nykr waited until it was burning, and then he walked into the fire, lying down beside his love, and gave up his life, becoming a cloud of steam above the pyre.

And as the fire burned, the Voice of Mahal spoke from the flames, and all the watchers fell to their knees in wonder and fear, for the Maker does not speak to his Children often.

‘Welcome to my Halls, Child of Ulmo,’ He said, and they all heard Nykr’s soft voice reply, asking the Maker what had happened. ‘He is waiting for you inside,’ Mahal’s Voice boomed, ‘You should join him before my Son worries too much about your fate.’

‘Can I stay with him?’ Nykr asked, and Mahal chuckled.

‘Were you not married to a Dwarf, Nykr, Child of Ulmo?’ He asked kindly. ‘And is it not true that a Dwarf may only marry a Dwarf?’

‘Yes…’ Nykr replied, seeming hesitant.

Mahal laughed again, happy like a scholar who has just made a convincing argument. ‘Are you not, then, a Dwarf?’ He said.

Nykr did not respond for long moments.

‘Go join your fretful husband, Nykr the Dwarf.’ The Maker boomed again.

‘Yes… Mahal.’ Nykr replied, and then the flames of the pyre died, and Fasta and Nykr passed into legend, and a Law was born.

He who weds a Dwarf is himself a Dwarf.

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