Arkenstone by clotho123

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Chapter 1

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Radsvinn, Lord of Khazad-dûm was not easily over-awed, but the object that lay on the table was fit to deprive even a Dwarf of coherent speech.

 

“Re.mark.able,” he managed at last.  “Astonishing.  And it was made you say?”

 

“It was made.  I should know,” his guest replied.

 

Radsvinn traced the object again with his fingers, still with reverence, but this time with a more observant quality to his touch.  He bent forward also, narrowing his eyes, as he studied the casing.

 

“You will not be able to imitate it,” the other remarked, in a tone shaded with irony.  “Even if you could recreate the casing, and none of us ever knew how it was made, even if you could do that, you could not catch the same Light.  That is gone.”

 

The Dwarf lord accepted the verdict with a sigh.  “Astonishing,” he said again.  “And you are quite sure this is what you wish?  It would be a gift beyond all recompense.”

 

“I am sure.  It’s no good to me, and your people know how to care for treasures.  As for recompense: your skill in healing burns is well worth an heirloom.”  He looked down at his left hand, scarred but fully usable again.  “All I ask is you keep quiet about this meeting.”

 

“No-one has ever said the Dwarves cannot hold their tongues when needed,” Radsvinn said.  “Besides, there is no need to court trouble.  Wars have been fought for this Jewel, I have heard.”

 

“They have,” the Elf said grimly.  “Fortunately the Oath did not say we could not give the Stones away.”  Radsvinn, examining the gem again, offered no comment.  By Dwarvish standards unbreakable oaths of blood-thirsty vengeance were perfectly reasonable things, so he would not have felt inclined to criticise even if his guest had not just presented him with the worth of a kingdom.  “Still there might be others who feel rather strongly about where it should be bestowed, even if they have no right to a say in the matter.”

 

“It will be an heirloom held in secret by my line,” the Dwarf King promised, “never spoke of at large, until perhaps generation on generation has passed, and its origins are entirely forgotten.”

 

The Elf smiled a little without much humour.  “It’s quite a shame I’ll never know what the Valar would make of a Silmaril in the care of Dwarves.” 

 

The only Vala the Dwarves felt any trust for was Aulë.  As for the turbulent, and now to a large extent defunct, Elf-House to which Radsvinn’s guest belonged; their reputation was not precisely trustworthy either, but it did speak of an unusual (for Elves) degree of affinity with his own kind.

 

“Where will you go?” he asked, with real interest. 

 

“Somewhere far enough that Beleriand is not even a name.  I have rather too much of a reputation, and I could never be mistaken by those who know the tales for anyone but myself.” 

 

“A judiciously spread rumour or two will help to cover your tracks,” Radsvinn observed.  “As well as concealing where this is bestowed.”

 

“I leave that to your judgement – with my thanks.”  He rose, lamp-light striking copper sparks on his long hair.  Dwarves were fortunately fond of ceilings much higher than they needed.  “May your heirs guard the Stone well!  Misfortune has a way of following when one of these is mislaid.”

 

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{Several millennia later}

 

The being known in this part of Middle-earth as Gandalf did not return immediately to his tent, but stood a while with his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the evening star.  His memory wasn’t what it used to be.  In fact he couldn’t even remember what his memory had been like.  So he really shouldn’t trust too much to what little he could recall of a certain Elf’s party headwear.

 

He’d not seen the Arkenstone Thorin had talked so much about before.  The tale was it had been dug up in the time of Thrain I, but how much were tales truly worth?

 Air, Sea and Earth.  Earth could, after all, mean a number of things.  Maybe he should raise it with Elrond if he went back by Rivendell….  Or maybe not.  Elrond was still a bit touchy on the subject of Silmarils. 

No, it must be pure fancy!  A trick of aging eyes.  Stay too long in Middle-earth and a mallorn started to look as fine as Laurelin.   All the same, that Arkenstone was making him uneasy.  He’d be glad when the business was settled.