The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 26: Beyond the Doors of Durin

After a terse farewell to Elerína, Sámaril departs abruptly from Imladris in the company of a healer, Brethilion. They arrive at Casarrondo (later known as Moria) to exchange their skills for mithril and gems from the Dwarves. On the way to an audience with Durin the Fourth, Sámaril sees a mural hidden in the shadows and recalls an unusual observation made by Istyar Aulendil.

Thanks to the Lizard Council for pre-reads, to Darth Fingon for post-publication edits and to Surgical Steel for suggestions concerning the elven-healer. See end notes.

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The howling wind rattled the sharp leaves of the holly trees and muffled the rushing waters of the Gate Stream behind me, but it could not overcome the harsh complaint of my traveling companion.

“Get on with it, will you?” Brethilion snarled, punctuating his annoyance by jabbing me in the ribs with his bony knuckle. “I’m freezing my stones off out here!”

With exaggerated deliberation, I swiveled my head around to glance down at him, pausing to let him know that I intended to torment him further, and then raised my eyes to the sky where clouds scudded over the face of the gibbous moon. I waited until Isil’s face shone clear and bright. It was then that I faced the wall before me, ran my hands over the stone and chanted the verses that would reveal the hidden designs.

The lines of ithildin glowed in the moonlight: first Durin’s anvil, hammer, stars and crown, then the twining trees of my people and Tyelperinquar’s script. Last shone the Star of Fëanáro. I stepped back, slowly spread my arms, and then spoke the password.

“Mellon.”

The outline of the west-gate brightened. Then, silent as an owl’s wings, the Doors of Durin swung open. Golden light poured over us; warm air rushed out into the late autumn night only to be snatched away by the wind. A dozen Dwarves stood before the steps that climbed to the western levels of Casarrondo. Seven of them rushed out to aid our escorts from Imladris with unloading the pack animals while five important Dwarves –- the gems and gilt thread woven into the plaits of their auburn, brown and black beards displaying their high status –- awaited us.

Brethilion grumbled an almost inarticulate curse –- something about “buggering gold diggers” -- but straightened to his full height and attempted to cloak himself with elvish dignity. Together we walked toward the waiting Dwarves.

Brethilion bowed first: “Brethilion of Lothlórien at your service.” Then I followed his example as protocol demanded.

“Sámaril at your service and your families',” I said and then added in halting Khuzdul: “May the blessings of Mahal let your hammers strike true.”

“How does an Elf know the speech of our folk?” said one of the Dwarves, a burly young fellow with a red beard and hair, his gold and emeralds shining in the torchlight. He eyed me with suspicion.

Another Dwarf, an older black-bearded man more plainly dressed than the others but wearing a golden belt and necklace of extraordinary craft, then spoke.

“It is no surprise that this Elf knows at least some of our tongue for he is Sámaril of the Gnomes. He lives in Rivendell now but before that, he was of Eregion. His folk were our allies and friends in ages past.” The other Dwarves murmured to one another.

At that I bowed again. “So I am, but I know little of your tongue,” I said. “Hail and well met. I am at your service.”

All five of the important Dwarves bowed in return while their servants scurried to and fro, bringing in our luggage and the many items we brought for trade. The black-bearded Dwarf stepped forward, his voice stern but his eyes friendly.

“Sámaril of the Gnomes, I am Láki son of Már. I think perhaps my grandfather Onarr was known to you?”

“Why, yes! He was a lad when I last visited your halls.”

“And you?” Láki turned to Brethilion. “You are the healer?”

“I am.”

“I fear we already have work for you. A miner’s hand was caught beneath a fallen rock today. One of our healers had to cut off the hand to free him.”

“And you wish me to look it over.” Brethilion sighed, shaking his head, but turned to one of the servants and barked: “Bring me that pack, would you? Someone lead me to your injured miner.”

At the signal from Láki, one of the servant Dwarves picked up Brethilion’s pack and handed it to him while another Dwarf motioned for Brethilion to follow him. Brethilion turned to me, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. “Damn you for dragging me here and damn you for making me forego a flask of Dwarf ale. I’ve been craving the stuff for days, and now I most likely face a botched amputation that will lead to me revising the blasted stump. I will see you later...lad.”

Refusing to be unsettled by his goading, I merely smiled at Brethilion. For all his irascibility, I knew that my reluctant traveling companion was now in his element. He and the Dwarf walked up the stairs and disappeared into a hall.

The Dwarves invited our escorts –- guardians of Imladris –- to join them for ale and meat, but the Sindarin men tersely declined, reluctant, I assumed, to step into the great mansions of the Dwarves although it was unlikely the Dwarven hosts would have allowed them further than these western antechambers of their great mansions. That Brethilion and I had been allowed past the Doors of Durin was exceptional enough. I bade our escorts farewell after which they had melted into the night. The gates swung shut, closing tight with a soft nick. A brief moment of sadness welled up in me when I remembered the days of peace and friendship between our peoples when the gates had remained open.

Láki and the others then led me to a side chamber to take refreshment. I sat in a chair by the long oaken table, stretching out my legs so my knees did not bump against the table’s underside, and made light conversation while servants brought in flagons of dark amber ale and silver platters layered with sliced cold, cured meats and smoked fish.

~*~

My decision to come to Casarrondo had been an abrupt one. Previously, I had considered writing to my contacts here to specify the ore I required and asking the Dwarves to select a suitable gem, but Lindissë’s accusation had shocked me into making an impulsive decision. Elerína had been compromised because I could not rein in my feelings for her. I did not wish to be the source of such pain, but at heart, I was ashamed of myself for my inability to adhere to the discipline of mind and body expected of my people. I concluded that I must leave Imladris for a time, hoping that in my absence, speculation as to the nature of my association with Valandil’s mother would fade and that Elerína might even return to her people in Annúminas. It was cowardly to flee, but I could not face the reality of what my friendship with this mortal woman had become.

The morning after I had overheard that searing conversation, I had knocked on the door of Elrond’s study. Elrond bade me enter. There I found him in discussion with Brethilion over documents that Elrond was drafting.

“My lord, I would like to speak to you about a matter of craft that will entail my traveling to Hadhodrond.”

“What matter of craft is this, Istyar?” Elrond folded his hands on his desk, giving me his attention while Brethilion looked put out that I had interrupted their discourse.

“I mean to replicate the Elendilmir for Valandil's coronation when he comes of age. I have spoken to the Lady Elerína; she has given me her approval to do so.”

“That is a fine idea, Sámaril. Likewise, I approve of your plans. I had hoped you might craft a new fillet for the king, but why not send for the ores and gems? That is what you usually do.”

“Because I require mithril and a diamond of surpassing clarity for this, I prefer to select the materials myself.”

Elrond frowned. “The people of Durin have become even more secretive and suspicious these days. Do you think they will allow you into their halls?”

“Oh, they will allow me past the Doors of Durin. I possess skills that they do not, and they are well aware of this. I thought to offer my services for a time to them in exchange for the materials although that may not be enough. They will want much in exchange for mithril and a diamond of the caliber I desire.”

“No matter how much they can use your skills, those likely will not be enough, given that you desire mithril. They hoard that more than gold.” Elrond rubbed his chin in thought, glanced at Brethilion, and then continued: “However, there may be something else you might trade in addition to your knowledge. Besides gold and mithril, the Dwarves desire medicine. Their healers are not always skilled...”

Brethilion interjected, “Not always skilled? Their best are barely adequate!”

Arching his brow, Elrond eyed his fellow healer. “If I may continue. I will send medicines with you toward payment for the gem and the ore. In addition, I think that Brethilion ought to go with you so that he might aid in applying those medicines and his talents in surgery as part of the trade.”

“What?” Brethilion snapped. “How in blazes did I become an item of barter? Master Elrond, I thought you might wish me to add a few more diagrams and notes to the treatise.”

“Brethilion, the accounts of your surgeries at the Battle of the Dagorlad are complete. I thought you wanted to return to Amroth’s realm so there is no reason to linger here. It’s not as if you are unfamiliar with the Dwarves. How many times have I heard you complain that their bones...”

“...are thick as oak and harder than granite. Yes, yes, you’ve heard that a thousand times, I am sure. Well, if it is your will that I am to travel to Hadhodrond with this whelp of a smith, then I had better see to my kit, hadn’t I? I’ll have that other whelp take a look at my bone saw and make sure it’s sharp. At least Thornangor is half-competent at crafting surgical instruments.”

I rolled my eyes at his insult, but thanked Elrond and went about my own preparations for departure. Among these was speaking to Valandil. I found him in the stables tending to his horse and falcon and took him outside to talk. We walked out into the courtyard and over to a low wall where we sat, looking out over the river that surged through the gorge below.

“How long will you be gone, Istyar?”

“I don’t know, Val. Several months. A year. Maybe longer. It depends on my success in finding the gem for your crown and paying my debt to the Dwarves.”

Valandil swung his legs, knocking the heels of his shoes against the stone, while he studied the river rushing through the gorge. He picked up a loose rock from the wall and flung it into the current. Then he spoke, keeping his eyes fixed on the swift waters.

“Will you come back?” Val’s voice trembled with anxiety, and then I knew. He feared he would lose me like he had his father and brothers. I placed my hand on his shoulder. He lifted his face, and I looked him straight in the eye.

“Of course I will come back, Val. I will always come back to you.”

His tension melted away, but he still looked worried. “Who will go fishing with me?”

“Galfaron will. You might ask Master Thornangor, too. But you must promise not to catch all the best trout. Leave some for me.”

“I will, Istyar.” Then casting aside adolescent awkwardness, he leaned against me as I put my arm around his shoulders.

My farewell to his mother had been less affectionate. At dawn on the morning of my departure, I prepared to ride, tightening the girth and adjusting the stirrups of the saddle, and making sure the saddlebags were secure on my horse when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around to see Elerína, her hair unbound and her cloak wrapped around her against the chill of the morning mists.

“Did you intend to leave without saying farewell?” She hugged herself against the cold morning air.

“I am in a rush to depart, my lady. I wish to reach Hadhodrond before the winter sets in.” I continued to adjust the saddle, paying attention to minute details in each strap and buckle. My horse stamped a front hoof and snorted impatiently.

“Would speaking to me have delayed you that much?”

“No. Perhaps not.”

“Then what is wrong, Sámaril? Have I done or said something to anger you?” The plea in her voice tore at my heart, but I continued to focus on the horse.

“You have done nothing of the sort. I am of a firm mind to leave. That is all. I have no time for niceties.”

“Niceties? Is that what I am?

“No, my lady. You are the king’s mother. Please forgive me if I have breached protocol.”

She was silent for a moment while I checked the saddlebags one more time.

“When will you return?” she said.

“Before Valandil is crowned king.” I led the horse out into the courtyard in front of the stables with Elerína following me.

“You speak with the guile of your kind.” Her voice now trembled.

It took every measure of my strength to prevent myself from dropping the reins of the horse and taking her into my arms. Instead, I stopped, holding the reins of the horse’s headstall tightly. I faced her. She pressed her lips together, her chin set, but her eyes glittered with rising tears.

“Yes, my kind,” I said, pausing to let those words cut into her heart. “There is truth in what you say. We are of different kinds with different fates, but strange fates have afflicted those of the Firstborn and the Followers who have become too close. Better to avoid such things, my lady.”

I swung up on to the saddle. “Farewell, Lady Elerína. May the stars shine down upon you.” Chirruping to the horse, I rode toward the waiting guards and Brethilion. I did not look back.

~*~

“Master Sámaril!” Láki’s deep voice jolted me out of the mire of regret, bringing me back to the chamber of the Dwarves. “Are you ready to take your rest? We shall leave early in the morning.”

“Yes, please. Thank you for the ale and food. I had nearly forgotten how good Dwarven ale is.”

Láki chuckled, his brown eyes twinkling. “Then we shall make sure you drink enough while you’re here so you do not forget it again! Hafr, escort Master Sámaril to the guest rooms. I wish you good-night. Well met, Master Gnome. I look forward to our collaboration.”

“As do I. Well met,” I replied, rising up, my legs cramped, but I bowed to him as custom dictated. I followed the servant Hafr out of the chamber and down a dark hall, where my Dwarven escort opened a wooden door to a room where our packs and bags were piled. Beyond that was another room with two chairs and a bulbous ceramic oven, its door open to reveal a small fire burning in it. Opposite the chairs and oven were two elf-sized beds piled with blankets and pillows. The sight of the room and small fire was cozy but the odor of mildew hung in the air. I resisted wrinkling my nose.

Hafr waited expectantly. I reached into my belt pouch and pulled out a small green beryl, placing it on his outstretched palm. His brown eyes alight, he thanked me, tugged at his russet beard, bowed, and then left.

I pulled off my boots and stockings, wriggled my toes, and stripped off the rest of my clothing. Seeking warmth from the unremitting chill of stone, I burrowed deep beneath the thick but musty blankets and promptly fell asleep.

A crash and a stream of cursing woke me. Disoriented by the sudden waking from deep sleep, I sat bolt upright with my knife in my hand, my eyes straining against the inky blackness.

“Bauglir’s balls!” exclaimed the voice in the dark. “Don’t stab me, man. It is only I, Brethilion, the faithful healer of Dwarves!”

Brethilion reeked of ale. Evidently, he had found what he craved after he had tended the injured miner.

He grunted when he hit the bed. “Such fine, fine ale. And with a lovely head of foam on it, too. I tell you, Sámaril, that half-arsed amputation was bloody awful. Poor fellow will certainly need a revision but he’d best recover a bit first. Takes quite a lot of poppy to knock back a Dwarf. I wonder how long I will be stuck into this chasm? Ai, it’s as black as an orc's cunny! Don’t ask me how I know that! It’s no matter how long I remain here, I suppose. There is no one in Lothlórien to really care if I arrive sooner than later. I’m sure my wife took whatever of value she could with her to the Havens. Might as well earn a bit here so I can find a nice little talan at the edge of the city. Say, did I tell you about the first sutures I made in live flesh?”

“Yes, Brethilion, many times. Go to sleep!” I groaned, turning away from him and his drunken chatter. Oblivious to my admonishment, he plowed ahead.

“The Lady Culinen had me stitch up Lord Caranthir after he cut his hand with a paring knife. My first live sutures and she had me stitch up her own father! Imagine that! I swear I was so nervous that I nearly pissed myself while I was stitching the laceration, but my hands stayed steady. Lord Caranthir thanked me.” Brethilion paused, belched loudly, and sighed. "Poor Culinen! Fell in love with the wrong man, she did. I thank Elbereth’s stars her lord father did not live to see that.”

From there his babble descended into maudlin tales of his past and by default, some of my own. I pulled the pillow over my head and crushed it against my ears. At last, Brethilion’s meandering words transformed into snores.

~*~

We traveled through the mines for three days as best I could tell. Although the Dwarves had set shafts through the mountainsides to bring natural light into their halls, the tunnels and corridors were in shadow, but lit by many lamps crafted from bronze and tin. Servants quenched and lighted the lamps with a rhythm that gave a semblance of day and night, but it was still strange to me, a creature of open skies and air. We passed through many halls, climbed many steps, and took our rest in musty quarters made for outsiders, where we were none too subtly guarded.

At the end of our third day of travel, we reached the expansive eastern halls of the city. There Brethilion and I were escorted to a suite of rooms, hewn into shining black rock and richly appointed with fine furniture and carpets. Unlike the other guest quarters, these did not stink of mildew but were fragrant with the scent of pine and spices. The most welcome feature was a bathing chamber where steaming water already filled a tub sunk into the stone floor.

“I call the first bath!” exclaimed Brethilion, dropping his pack on the floor. Hopping on one foot and then the other, he pulled off his boots, then stockings followed by his tunic, leaving a trail of clothing to the bathing room door which he closed. A gratified sigh and splashing soon followed.

Láki smiled. “Master Brethilion apparently appreciates the tub.”

“I think I will, too,” I replied, looking around the quarters.

“Do you like these rooms?” Láki asked to which I agreed. He then said with some pride in his voice, “It has been many a year since any of your people visited us, but I am glad you approve of these quarters. Narvi had them carved and furnished especially for your folk when they visited. Who knows? Perhaps even Celebrimbor slept here!”

“It’s likely he did,” I said, not adding that it was equally likely that Sauron had, too.

“I recommend that you follow Master Brethilion’s example,” said Láki. “You will have an audience with the king this evening and after that, a feast to attend. I intend to wash away the weariness of our travel myself. Then I will give my beard a good combing! I will return for you in two hours.” He pointed to a sideboard where a hourglass sat, its golden grains sparkling as they trickled through its narrow neck.

After Brethilion emerged from the bathing chamber, I took my turn. My companion had courteously drained and refilled the tub. I sank down into the hot water, a luxury that had been denied me since we had left Imladris. After I bathed and dressed, layering gold finery over a robe of damasked blue fabric, I returned to the parlor where I found Brethilion sitting in a cushioned chair, tying yet another knot in a fine thread – one of what must be hundreds – that hung from his clothing.

“Manwë’s stiff rod! You’re wearing that?”

“Yes,” he said, unfazed by my judgment of his apparel. He fixed me with his pale blue eyes beneath arched brown eyebrows before returning his focus to the thread, in which he tied a knot deftly with the fingers of one hand. “What is wrong with it? This is one of my finer robes.”

“It’s just that...oh, never mind! It is your choice.”

I looked over Brethilion: his dark brown hair had been combed to a smooth shine and fell neatly down his back; the peculiar but striking white streak that started at the hairline on the left side of his broad forehead gleamed like a silver stream as it flowed through his darker locks. He would have cleaned up reasonably well had it not been for the many threads that he had tied on to his clothing – to his belt, eyelets, hooks and loops, whatever purchase he could find. All the threads had tiny knots in them, and all of his clothing had such threads dangling from the fabric.

I recalled his response when a visitor from Lindon had asked about his habit of knot-tying. Brethilion had snapped at Gil-galad’s soldier, “I am a surgeon. Tying knots is what I do. You damn well better be grateful if I ever have to stitch you up!”

The threads were just the most obvious of Brethilion’s idiosyncrasies, but he had been Elrond’s most skilled and trusted field surgeon during the War of the Alliance and the subsequent siege of the Barad-dûr, treating Men and Firstborn alike. Thus, his eccentricities were often overlooked.

A knock at the door informed us that our escort to the audience with the king had arrived. There was Láki, his beard gleaming blue-black and entwined with mithril thread, dressed in rich clothing, and dripping with mithril finery. Two other Dwarves were with him, also black-bearded, whom he introduced as Lafsi, his son, and Lagrr, his nephew.

In silence, we followed the Dwarves from our quarters to a long corridor, which led to the Hall of the King. I knew this, for I had passed this way once before.

On that occasion, Teretion and I had accompanied Tyelperinquar and Aulendil on a visit to then King Durin the Third. Murals made of precious gems, metals and glass lined the corridor then as they did now, depicting scenes from the history of the Dwarves. At one of these, Istyar Aulendil had paused, beckoning me to come to his side.

“Take a good look at this, lad,” he had said. I examined the mural, dim in its alcove but its details visible to my eyes. It was a creation story: behind a looming mountain were the open hands of Aulë and at the roots of the mountain was a naked Dwarf with a long beard extending to his belly. Surrounding him were other Dwarf-men, but also naked Dwarf-women with large pendulous breasts that rested on their round bellies.

“That is the awakening of Durin the Deathless by Mount Gundabad,” said Aulendil and then almost inaudibly he had whispered, “Open your mind to me. There’s more I want to say but it must be done discreetly.”

I did as he requested and had followed him back to the center of the corridor, continuing our conversation through mind-speak:

“Did you notice the Dwarf-women in the mural?” asked the Istyar.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you notice anything odd about them?”

“All Dwarves seem odd to me.” I knew that Aulendil was trying to pry reasoning from me, but I did not grasp his point.

“Have you seen no Dwarf-women during your visits here? I thought you had at least met Náryen’s friend, Dísa.”

“Yes, I have met Dísa.” Then it came to me, slapping my face with cold deduction. “The women in the mural have no beards!”

“That’s right, Sámaril. Something has changed since Aulë created the Dwarves. Dwarven culture -- no matter if it’s that of the Blacklocks, Firebeards or the great Longbeards -- exalts the male. Strangely enough, that caused the Dwarf-men to seek mates – when they could be interested in such things – who looked more like them -- more masculine, in other words. After generations of such selection, Dwarf-women have grown to look much like Dwarf-men, at least when they are clothed!”

“How...how bizarre!” I responded, shivering from a chill at the thought of the alien Dwarves, so different from mortal Men and the Firstborn.

“Isn’t it though?” said the Istyar in my thoughts. “There has been a consequence of this. The Dwarves have fewer children now. Whatever gives the women those luxuriant beards has affected their ability to conceive and give birth. It is rumored that the Dwarves have devised elaborate fertility rites using talismans to counteract their dwindling ability to procreate. That’s nothing that you or I will ever be privy to, for if the Dwarves are secretive about most matters, they are extremely secretive about those ceremonies. But I think there is a lesson here, Sámaril.”

“What is that, Istyar?”

“The male and female principles must be balanced for life to be ordered. You and I may operate in a man’s world, but never discount the power and importance of women. Ah, here we are! Straighten up, lad, and carry yourself well before the king. Remain silent. Istyar Tyelperinquar and I will do the talking.”

While I recalled Istyar Aulendil’s remarks on the Dwarves, Brethilion and I passed by the same mural, hiding deep in the shadows, but clear to my eyes and to Brethilion’s, too. He looked at it while we walked by. He glanced sideways at me, throwing his thoughts to mine, just as Aulendil had:

“Now that is just damned strange!”

“What isn’t strange about the Dwarves?”

We arrived at the Second Hall where soaring pillars lined the vast chamber, their bases shaped like the roots of trees, their capitals carved with twining branches and leaves high above and illuminated by crystalline lamps of gold and silver. We approached the throne in the center of the hall. On a high dais with many broad steps was a black stone seat with the emblems of hammer, anvil, stars and crown of mithril embedded in its back. There a figure sat, hunched and bent, as if all the gold chains he wore weighed him down. Durin the Fourth, his long silver beard thick with diamonds, sapphires and opals threaded on gold twine and interlaced through its heavy plaits, stared at us with rheumy eyes, his gaze slightly unfocused. He raised a wizened hand, beckoning us forward, and there – gleaming on his right forefinger – was a Ring of Power.

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Chapter End Notes

Thanks to Darth Fingon for his ideas that hatched during our off-the-radar discussions on the implications of the apparent androgenization of female Dwarves, including his notion that the Dwarven women did not have beards in the earliest times but acquired them through sexual selection in the highly male-oriented Dwarvish society.

The document that occupies Elrond and Brethilion may very well be Elrond’s Treatise on Combat Injuries, seen in Surgical Steel’s The King’s Surgeon. Also thanks to Steel for the inspiration for Brethilion’s many threads and his habitual knot-tying. Although Brethilion has been vaguely floating around as a misty character in my 'verse (unwritten) for a while now, since meeting Steel's Serindë, I figured the Third Age/Fourth Age surgeon might like to meet one of her ilk, this one elvish, who was actually on hand at the Battle of the Dagorlad, so Brethilion may wind up visiting in her 'verse, too.

Hadhodrond – Sindarin, Khazad-dûm
Casarrondo – Quenya, Khazad-dûm

As with Laurefin/Glorfindel, Sámaril uses "Casarrondo" as narrator, writing in his mother tongue of Quenya, and "Hadhodrond" when speaking Sindarin with others. Khazad-dûm was not known as Moria until later in the Third Age when the balrog awoke and wrecked havoc.

Taking my cue from Tolkien, I have named the Dwarves using Old Norse. See Viking Answer Lady Webpage – Old Norse Names.