The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 28: A Shadow Dreaming

Sámaril prepares to journey with Láki to the northern mines to search for mithril but encounters Brethilion, distressed because he has been called upon to treat an important Dwarf-woman and her child. Sámaril and Láki descend into the roots of the mountain where an increasing sense of dread and disturbing dreams of shadow and flame afflict Sámaril.

Heads up for some medical stuff in the first part of this chapter (and thanks to Surgical Steel for helping out Brethilion's craft as well as a pre-read). Although he does not describe it in graphic detail, Brethilion mentions a grisly obstetrical procedure that was used in non-progressing labor before the advent of forceps for delivery; this might be disturbing for some readers. Other than that, this chapter is rated PG to PG-13. Many thanks for the Lizard Council for comments and nitpicking.

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The sharp retorts of chisels, the grate of diamond-edged saws, and the gleam of earnest brown eyes were the first things that greeted me when I emerged from the rough diamond that I cupped in my hands. The young gem cutter’s gaze was as steady as his hands.

“What do you think, Master?”

“Impressive,” I murmured, still dizzy from the trance that led me into the crystalline lattices of the diamond, its ancient substance humbling me. “If cut properly, it should yield a fine gem.”

“Be assured it will be cut properly!” the young gem-cutter replied with gruff emphasis.

“I have no doubt it will,” I hastened to assure him. “Master Láki tells me your skill surpasses that of Randr who supplied me with beautiful gems in the past.” I empathized with the young Dwarf, remembering when others questioned my abilities because of my youth.

“You knew Randr? But he was my great-great-great grandfather and died long ago!”

“Yes, I knew him, and his forefathers before that. I was born and raised in Ost-in-Edhil and often came here to work with your forefathers when I was a young man and long after that as well.”

“Ah! Yes, of course. I am sorry, Master Sámaril. Sometimes it is easy to forget that you’re a --“ He cut off his words, his cheeks flushing pink above his rusty brown beard. “If you’ll forgive me, you have an ease around us that sometimes makes me forget that you’re an Elf. Now if you had a beard and were of normal height. Oh! I am so sorry, I mean…”

“I understand your meaning and take it as a compliment.” I smiled, handing him the rugged gem. “I leave you to your task, Master Ragni. I am confident I will be more than pleased with the result.”

Ragni’s whole face brightened, eyes and mouth smiling in unison. “I will have it ready for you two weeks hence.”

Thanking him again, I bowed, took my leave, and made my way to Láki’s workshop, not far from the gem-cutters’ hall. Láki had requested that I meet him there to review the final plans for our journey to the northern mines. After supplying Durin’s treasury with many gold-plated items, I had at last been granted permission to seek mithril -- the ore that was the wealth and pride of Khazad-dûm. Láki would be my guide, leading me to the mines beneath Caradhras where veins of the precious metal snaked down into the depths.

I found him seated with two other Dwarves at a table where I joined them, maneuvering my legs to avoid adding yet more bruises to my knees. Láki tapped the unfurled map before him with his thick forefinger.

“It will take three marches to reach the northern mines, but there are halls along on the way where we may take our rest so pack only what is of utmost necessity. I will provide the tools: picks, shovels, and mells. If you have elvish rope, bring it. Sturdy boots, too, but you have those, Master Gnome. Bring your long knife, too.”

“Do you anticipate any danger? I was given to understand that your folk had eliminated the orcs from these regions.”

“Not orcs, but there are things that crawl in the roots of the mountains, and many are not friendly. Besides, a miner always should have a knife or two on hand, don’t you agree?”

“You’ll find no argument from me on that account. What time tomorrow shall we depart?”

“Before dawn. At four strikes of the bell, that is,” he said, referring to the clockwork that more often than light dictated the rhythms of the Dwarves in their mansions beneath the mountains.

When I left Láki’s workshop, I digested the information about the things that dwelt in the roots of the mountains. These were a vague rumor among most of my people, and the subject of fantastical tales in which slimy monsters crawled from darksome dens to prey upon the unwary, tales that were popular among the youth of Ost-in-Edhil, meant to be deliciously frightening when we gathered around small fires out in the hills under the autumn moon. Láki’s casual advice to bring my long knife reminded me that I might encounter the reality of my boyhood tales, which was a disquieting prospect.

Upon opening the door to my quarters, I found Brethilion kneeling on the floor, rifling frantically through his supplies. When he turned at the sound of the door, his strained expression startled me.

“What is wrong?”

“Ai! Everything!” He hunched over, as if curling into himself; his hands, normally rock-steady, were shaking. Tentatively, I lay my hand on his shoulder. When it was not shrugged off, I lifted him to his feet and guided him to one of the chairs in our sitting area. I poured a dram of miruvor for him, which he gulped down at once.

“Tell me,” I said, sitting down in the other chair.

He sucked in a deep shuddering breath, but color returned to his face. “I was on my way back from the south mines when they found me. Messengers from the king. They led me to the royal mansion and to the family hall.”

“The family hall? So you saw…”

“Yes! I saw Dwarf-women and not just any Dwarf-women. Dwarf-women of the royal house!” Brethilion snapped. “More than that, they brought me there to treat one of their own. She lay in childbed, but for all the midwives’ care, she had not progressed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bah!” he spat. “Are you really that obtuse? I mean that she had been in labor for almost three days!” Brethilion held out his glass so that I might pour more of our dwindling cordial for him. He made short work of that and continued. “Whatever gives the Dwarf-women their beards also constricts their pelvic girdle. They may look broad and sturdy, but inside, the birth passage is narrow and perilous for both mother and child.” He shook his head, damp strands of his hair falling over his brow. “She was so weak. The midwife feared for both mother and baby and rightly so. Now a midwife of Men would have just perforated the infant’s skull and drawn out the body with…”

“Please, Brethilion! I do not need to know that!”

He frowned at me. “It’s a fact that mortal midwives do such things: they sacrifice the infant to save the mother. Why hide it? But births are so few among the Dwarves, much like our race. They were desperate to save both mother and child. The midwife knew that some elven-healers have skill with sectioning of the womb, and she presumed so with me. Of course, she was right.”

“Of course,” I agreed, relieved by the return of Brethilion’s gritty arrogance that came to him as naturally as breathing. “Go on.”

“I cut her open and took the baby. A boy. He was barely alive, but the midwife managed to get him to breathe and pink up.”

“That sounds encouraging,” I said, inwardly wincing at my bland remark, but Brethilion did not miss a beat to assure me that the situation was dire.

“It would be if there were a wet nurse nearby. The mother lost a large volume of blood so I had to inject her with saline. That helped but she is too fluid depleted and weak to nurse him, and he needs more than sugar-water. It may be days before they can find another nursing woman and…” He paused to take a deep breath. “I am worried about both mother and child, Sámaril. I thought everything was scrupulously clean – my instruments, my hands, the operating field -- but I fear she may be developing an infection of the womb.”

“You have treated mortals with far more grievous injuries and have saved them. The Dwarves are a strong people,” I said. “What has you so distressed?”

“That tiny boy? He is Durin’s heir. If his mother -- the King’s granddaughter -- dies…if that baby…” Brethilion held his breath, and then released it, his words racing. “If something happens, I’ll be out on my arse, or worse, and likely you along with me. For all their seeming good will, the Dwarves do not trust us.”

“Oh, come now, Brethilion! I believe you and I have more than earned their good graces.”

“Then why do they perpetually keep their guards trained on us? Old prejudices die hard. Maybe they never die.” Brethilion raked his fingers through his hair. “I should get back to packing.”

“Would you like some help?”

Brethilion’s mouth curled into a sneer, but then his expression softened. “I suppose I could use your help. You had best not drop and break any bottles or I will lop off what you hold most dear.”

I grinned at his admonishment, which suggested that he had regained a grip on his fear. He picked out the medicines he required while I wrapped them in soft cloth and packed them in the box.

“Ah! Here it is!” He held aloft a black glass bottle, its stopper sealed with red wax. “Colloidal silver. Douches with this will help stave off infection of the lady’s womb. I’ll have to get her to take it by mouth, too.”

“Silver?”

“Yes. We have known about its properties against infection for a long time. The Exiles told us that even in the Blessed Lands, a severe wound could still become infected and cause a fever. This treatment makes the hröa more comfortable while the fëa does the work to heal. The stuff worked well for many of the Men who had been injured before the Morannon, too. Now I expect the midwife has rosehips and yarrow, but I doubt that she has these.” He held up two vials filled with dry vegetation. “Coneflower and goldenseal. The Númenóreans brought these to our shores. Also useful for infection.” He continued to hand off glass vials and jars of various sizes, filled with dried plant material or extracts. “And none of her medicines will be as strong as mine. I do believe that little trinket on Elrond’s finger has an effect on the potency of the herbs grown in his gardens.”

“Don’t speak of that trinket lightly, Brethilion. Remember what Elrond said. Sauron may be defeated, but one never knows…”

“Always the optimist.”

“Look who is accusing me!”

He made a noise halfway between a grunt and a laugh and continued sorting through his pharmacopoeia. After we packed the last of his medicines in the wooden box, assuring all were secure and padded, Brethilion hoisted the pack over his back and grabbed the rope handles of the medicine box. His keen blue eyes were softened with worry.

“I know that you are no more observant than I am, but offer words of supplication to the Healer, would you? Oh, and to the Weeper, too. I need all the help I can get.”

“I will pray to the Healer and the Weeper. And the Kindler for good measure. I have confidence in you, Brethilion.”

“I have confidence in myself which is more important.” His mouth cocked in a wry smile. “But your confidence doesn’t hurt either, young whelp. Let’s hope I can pull the Dwarf-lady and her baby through this. I will see you, well, whenever we are both here again. Farewell!”

~*~

Just as Láki said, it took three long marches to reach the northern mines. We trudged over roads that ran through vast caverns and across arched bridges that spanned subterranean rivers roaring far beyond the reach of lamplight. We passed by granite colonnades that lined long halls and through arched tunnels that opened into chambers with vaulted ceilings where the light of the outside world poured through openings high above.

As we traveled, I recognized landmarks of previous journeys taken shortly after I had passed my mastery examination when Teretion, Mélamírë and I had accompanied the Istyari to the northern mines as part of trade delegations. But much had changed since then, casting an element of the unfamiliar even when I recognized a particular set of columns or entry to a hall.

We stopped along the way to enjoy Dwarvish hospitality at what amounted to inns carved into the stone: welcoming places where fires roared in hearths, ale flowed freely, and where the beds were invariably too short, which I remedied by tossing linens and blankets on the floor where I slept fitfully, the chill of the stone seeping through carpets and bedding.

Late on the third evening, Láki asked to speak with me privately so I invited him to my room where he made himself comfortable in the Dwarf-scaled chair while I sat on the edge of the too-small bed.

“We will descend into the mines early tomorrow morning. You and I, that is.”

“Won’t Haddi and Darri join us?”

Láki’s black beard swung to and fro like a hairy pendulum. “No, they will not,” he said, his voice low. “I am taking you to an offshoot of the primary vein. It is my private claim where you are guaranteed to find high-grade ore. I will guide you there personally.”

This was an extraordinary gesture on his part, taking me to what amounted to be his own hoard. “Are you quite certain that you wish to take me there?”

“You enriched my family treasury when you taught me the craft of gold-plating. I have already made good trade with the settlements of Men who dwell along the river. I owe you.”

“Ah. I see.”

“It is more than that, Master Gnome. You have been a most welcome colleague and, if I may be so bold, a friend.”

“I count you as my friend, too, Master Láki.”

“That is good,” he said, rising from the chair, “because you must put your trust in me when I lead you into the deep, for you will never find your way out without my guidance. Meet me outside the inn tomorrow morning at three bells. Be discreet!”

~*~

If I thought I had been disoriented before, the twisting route that Láki took thoroughly turned me around, but that must have been his intent. The path that led through the upper part of the mine was wide and its ceiling high, but as we progressed, the tunnel narrowed, its walls closing in around us. Láki had been singing a miner’s tune, but when we went further down, he ceased his song. Only the dripping of water and our footfall broke the solemn silence.

“Not much longer now!” Láki said intermitently. Although my sense of direction had failed me, when we passed a wall of rock that glimmered with crystals, I thought it looked familiar. Had I seen this part of the tunnels before? I said nothing but raised my lantern and followed Láki.

Further beneath the mountain we trudged. The air remained fresh albeit damp. Occasionally, a scratching noise like claws raked against rock reached my ears, my sense of hearing heightened, but I could not pinpoint the source of the faint sounds. I remembered Láki’s offhanded remark about the things that gnawed at the roots of the mountains and wondered if I heard their activity. Tension built behind my eyebrows, threatening to become a headache. I wondered if the air was bad, but the currents that wafted through these depths bore no trace of foulness. Láki tramped along with vigor, apparently unaffected. I attributed the growing ache in my head to disorientation.

When we rounded a bend in the tunnel, Láki’s lantern set the wall to his right aglow. He stopped and beckoned me forward to his side. He held his lantern aloft, its white light breaking into a thousand rainbows from the many crystals embedded in the walls of a small cave that opened into the main tunnel.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? I found this when I first went prospecting for a new vein. It is one of the entries to the Garden of Crystals. Shall we have a brief look?”

My stomach lurched when a suppressed memory threatened to boil up to the surface of my thought. My head throbbed, but I shook it off. I could not afford to quail now.

“No, Láki. Let’s press ahead.”

“Very well,” but he sounded disappointed.

My discomfort turned into dread when our path plunged down into a spiraling tunnel. The vague unease was now a distinct awareness of something, but what, I did not know. A waking dream of eddying smoke and shadows stirred in my mind. I attempted to push the vision aside by imagining the west wind blowing away smoke in a clear blue sky, but the dream only intensified as we descended, resisting my rejection of it. I strained to see beyond the torchlight, and wraiths of orange flame flickered at the periphery of my sight.

The air became warm, and my sense of dread worsened. The memory clawed at me again, insistent that I stop and return to the upper halls. But I never would find my way back without Láki, and I dearly wanted that mithril. I called up Valandil’s young face before my eyes, remembering that I did this for him, the boy as dear to me as my own son, the boy who would rule a kingdom of Men. But the flames at the edge of my vision roared into fire and burned Valandil away. The reek of brimstone filled my nostrils.

The air in the tunnel was now hot and close. I concentrated on Láki’s broad back, wresting my mind away from the strange dream. Sweat that had been a trickle now poured down my neck and soaked my shirt. I could not tell if the dream of fire and shadow was my own or if it came from another.

Then I felt it: a slumbering presence that turned beneath the stone like a somnolent snake stretching itself when the hot light of the sun hits its cold flesh. I stopped, stilling my thoughts, and pushed away the presence, my guts in knots for fear of waking this thing.

“Sámaril? Is something wrong?”

“Yes. Don’t you feel it?”

“Feel what? I am hot, yes, but that is not uncommon at these depths. Barazinbar may have been an ancient fire mountain.”

“It’s more than heat. There is something down here. Something that is a threat.”

“Ah!” Láki stood still, listening. Again I heard the faint scratching noises, joined by an occasional muffled grunt and chattering. Then Láki sniffed, wrinkling his bulbous nose. “The elvish senses of hearing and smell are indeed keen! If we went further down, we would encounter the tunnels of the things that gnaw at the mountain’s roots. Like great naked moles they are and ruled by their cruel queen. It is she whom you must sense. She is a malign creature and does not wish my people well. But truly, we do not have much farther to go, and we are still well removed from the queen’s domain. Do you trust me, Sámaril?”

I swallowed hard. Was it the queen of these mysterious creatures who was projecting dreams of fire into my mind? Perhaps he was right, but then another tale, one whispered among the survivors of Beleriand Lost, ignited my imagination, made wild by the darkness and disorientation. Yet I dismissed the thought as superstition for I wanted that mithril, and we had come so far.

“Yes, I trust you, Láki.”

We continued our descent. Shadows and smoke resolved into jumble of images: three high mountains that reached to swallow the stars, belching forth fumes.

“There!” Láki’s cry pulled me out of the vision. Our lanterns’ light gleamed off streaks of white-silver that ran through layers of red and grey rock. We pulled off our shirts, brought forth our picks and set to work. The physical labor and sound of iron against rock banished the dream of shadow and smoke from my thought, and I felt relief while we worked to free the ore from the stone that trapped it. I lifted the mell and struck the stone hard, its strike reverberating off the walls of the tunnel.

Then, with terrible force, the dream returned: anger and fear flared like dry tinder set afire. Jagged words, their sharp rhythm weird but also familiar, formed in my mind, even as I concentrated on pummeling the stone.

They approach from the West, my lord. No! The light, the terrible light! I cannot see. The master calls. I cannot, I cannot. Forgive me, master! I must flee. Forgive me!

I had exposed a large chunk of white-silver ore, but it remained trapped.

They come. Hide, hide. To the mountains.

I pulled out a small pick to work loose the fingers of rock that still grasped the mithril, as if reluctant to let it go. The sleeper tossed and turned when I tapped the stone.

Into the depths. They will never find me here.

At mid-strike of the pick, I froze when a sensation of cold water washed over me, followed by the crushing pressure of rock.

Lost! All is lost! I am quenched.

Tearing my thoughts away from the awful distraction, I focused on my task, chipping away at the stone, trying to quell my rising terror, but the voice in my head became a horrible wail, weeping with fear at its entrapment. I aimed the tip of my pick at the last piece of rock that held the ore. One more tap and the mithril fell to the floor of the tunnel with a sharp thump. Then the crying ceased.

Who are you? Are you my brother?

At the verge of panic, I shoved the dream away but struggled to keep myself from answering it. Closer and closer it came to full awareness, writhing in its tomb of stone. Then, without thinking, I spoke the words of command, the same glittering phrase that had paralyzed the troll, and the same that Aulendil had used to prevent me from stepping over the cliff. The presence froze.

Unfortunately, the command had also rendered Láki immobile. Swiftly, I assessed our predicament: the Dwarf standing stock-still, the waking presence paralyzed wherever it lay beneath the stone, our tools scattered about, and the gleaming mithril at my feet. However, I dared not release the spell so I repeated the command over and over while I gathered the ore into my pack, which I slung over my right shoulder. Grunting with effort, I lifted Láki and slung him over the left, and then plucked a lantern from the hook where it hung on the wall. Thus burdened, I stumbled forward step by step, hoping to retrace our route. I continued to send the command deep into the stone where the presence now lay silent and stunned, sinking back into sleep. I stopped frequently, catching my breath and checking the signs along the stone walls. When the last vestige of the shadow-dream was gone from my mind, I put Láki down, none too gently, and sat beside him, panting. Soon, he emerged from the spell.

“What?” Láki gasped and wrapped his hand around his beard. “Where are we?”

“Hopefully on the same path that we followed on the way down.” I gave him my flask of water, which he gulped down. Clarity returned to his brown eyes.

“What happened down there? I remember that you loosened the ore and had such a look of terror on your face. Then I heard strange words but…well, whatever it was, that was my last memory.”

“I’m sorry, Láki,” I said, knowing I must choose my words carefully. “I used an elvish spell against...against I am not sure what, but something that lies beneath the stone in the deep. I had to command it to be still. The thing is evil. It was awakening while we worked.”

“I felt nothing.”

“I said it was evil! Is that not enough for you?" I snapped. "It likely could not have freed itself but I am convinced it would have done us harm if it could.” But it asked if I were its brother. “I warn you: do not delve too deeply in your claim.”

Láki's eyes narrowed and his round cheeks tightened. “Where then exactly does this thing lie?”

“I am not certain.” That was the truth. I could not pinpoint the source of the shadow-dreams, no more than I could the first sparks that ignite a brushfire.

“Then I have no idea where I should or should not delve, do I?” Láki’s voice crackled with impatience. “You Elves see phantoms everywhere. As I said, you must have sensed the queen mole. She is an evil thing, and there are others just as bad that crawl in the depths. We Dwarves know of such creatures. We do not flinch at anything that goes bump in the dark! Nothing will stop me from mining my claim, least of all a flighty Elf!” Then he rubbed his eyes and softened his tone. “Forgive me, Sámaril. We are both exhausted. I will admit that even for a Dwarf, a descent into the deep tunnels is always stressful. I think you are in need of ale. I know I am.”

“Yes, I believe ale is in order.” It was more than apparent that Láki would brook no more argument about his precious claim, and given that he had been so generous to take me there, I did not press further.

Long after we had returned to the upper halls, bathed and sat down to meat and ale, I retreated to my room where I dimmed the lamp to a dull glow. I lay down on the mattress flung on the floor, my pack with the mithril ore at my side, and folded my hands across my chest, freeing my mind of all thought and allowing the suppressed memory that earlier had clanged with warning to well up. In my mind’s eye, I saw a fire roaring in the huge hearth of the dining hall in the Mansion of Narvi, and laughter and song filled my ears.

~*~

It had been some thirteen yéni ago when Teretion, Mélamírë and I had drunk far too much ale at the feast held in honor of our delegation from Ost-in-Edhil. All those in attendance, Dwarf and Elf alike, had loosened their voices, including the Istyari who sang along with the master smiths at the head table. We three sat well off to the side with the younger Dwarven craftsmen, who included including Mélamírë’s friend, Dísa, the bold and headstrong sister of Dagr, one of Narvi’s descendants.

“They look to be conspiring,” Teretion said when he watched Mélamírë and Dísa leaning toward one another, speaking below the noise while the rest of the hall sang with ale-soaked mirth and the clear voices of the Istyari wove like strands of silver and gold through the sonorous iron of Dwarven song.

Dagr chortled. “If I know my sister, that is exactly what they are doing. But she is a good lass. So is your friend…I mean, your colleague.”

“She’s both friend and colleague. She’s a good lass, too. Just don’t let her hear you…”

“Did you just call me a lass, Teretion?”

“Ha! You’ve been caught out! You Elves can hear a pine needle drop in a windy forest!” Dagr laughed.

Mélamírë smiled in return. “Dísa has been telling me about a marvelous cave deep under the mountain.”

"Would that be the Rainbow Cave?" Dagr said.

“Yes!” said the Dwarf-woman. She wagged her honey-brown beard enthusiastically, her amber eyes shining from lamplight and ale both. “It is filled with crystals that break light into many colors.  I would be happy to take you there.”

“I wouldn’t mind escaping the racket,” said Dagr. “As long as we take a jug or two of ale with us.”

“A splendid suggestion!” agreed Teretion.

After assuring ourselves that the Istyari were ignoring us, we five snuck out of the dining hall. Our Dwarf friends guided us along a narrow road, up and down stairs, and then through an arched entry. Following Dísa’s will-o-the-wisp lantern with Dagr bringing up the rear, we careened through narrow corridors and descended into looping tunnels, ducking our heads under low ceilings and then emerging onto paths that skirted sheer walls, stone on one side of us and the cool black void on the other. We trusted the Dwarves entirely in this unfamiliar place.

As we went further down, the air, once cool with subtle currents, became still and warm. A vague sense of unease crept over me. Although the Dwarves continued singing, we, the three Firstborn, lapsed into silence. We passed a wall that glittered in the lamplight where Dísa stopped and ran her stubby fingers over the crystals embedded in the stone.

“We’re nearly there!” she said, and we started forward, but I was brought up short by the sound of retching behind me. Turning swiftly, I saw Mélamírë leaning against the stone. Dísa pushed past me to Mélamírë’s side. The Dwarf-woman reached up to lay her hand on my friend’s shoulder, but Mélamírë tried to wave her away.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry...” but then my friend turned abruptly and vomited over the edge of the path into the crevasse that yawned to our side. Dísa held Mélamírë’s hair back while she wrung out her guts, remaining bent over and panting.

Dagr muttered something about elf-women not being able to hold their ale. Dísa shot him a warning glance.

Mélamírë took a deep breath and straightened up, but her face was deathly pale in the lamplight. “Dagr is right. I drank too much.” She attempted to walk but stumbled. I was at her side in an instant, supporting her. She rested her head against my shoulder, and I could feel her heart pounding. Then she whispered in our own tongue, “Sámaril, take me away from here. Now!” The urgency in her tone alarmed me.

We made our way back up the circuitous route with Dísa leading us again. When we reached our quarters, Mélamírë collapsed on her bed. Dísa barked orders at the servants and saw to her comfort.

“Shall I fetch you some herbal tea?” Dísa adjusted a damp cloth on our mutual friend’s forehead.

“Yes, please, my dear Dísa. Sámaril will stay here with me.”

When Dísa had closed the door behind her, I was free to speak. “What happened? I have seen you drink far more without becoming so ill!”

“I…I am not altogether certain how to say this.” She searched my face. “I felt a presence of some sort. Something…dark. Monstrous. Did you not feel it?”

“I was uneasy, but I thought that might be due to disorientation.”

“It was more than unease for me. Fear. But of what, I am not sure.” She then pinned me with her gaze. “You must promise me something, Sámaril.”

“What is that?”

“Please do not tell my father about this!”

“Of course not. Why would I?”

“I don’t know why you would. I…just please do not tell him.” She turned away and then looked at me again. “I have felt this thing before. When I was with him.”

“You did? Then why did you not know where we were? That you might encounter this thing again?”

“It is easy to get turned around in these tunnels. When this happened before, it was in another part of the northern mines, and I was so very young.” She winced, knitting her brows, but then smiled wryly. “The ale we drank tonight may have had effects on my judgment, too.” She continued her tale:

“I was no more than four years old when Father and Tyelpo thought it would be a lark to take me with them to look at the old mithril vein under the North Slope, the same vein from which Narvi mined the ore for the gates. I would rather have stayed in the Mansion of Narvi and played with Dísa and the other children, but Father deemed the trip 'educational', and Mother agreed with him. So off I went.

“All was well until we descended deep. I remember feeling ill. I fussed, but Father assured me that I was merely tired so he picked me up and carried me. We rounded a curve in a deep tunnel. There I saw mithril shining in the stone, but I also felt hot and even sicker. Father and Tyelpo had been talking non-stop with one another before, but they became strangely silent, as if each looked inward at something.

“Then it came upon me suddenly: I saw nothing but fire; I smelled nothing but fumes. Then it…” Mélamírë paused and shut her eyes tight. “It started to wake up, and I screamed. I was so frightened that I pissed myself. And Father’s clothing, too. I thought that he would be angry with me, but he wasn’t. Instead, he insisted that we turn back, commanding our guide to lead us with all haste back to the upper halls. When we retreated, the presence dreamed again, and all the fire and smoke became nothing more than shadows.

“When we returned to the upper level, I saw what frightened me most of all: my father was afraid. We were both a mess so Mother had her hands full. But his fear soon gave way to curiosity, and he wanted to return to the deep tunnel to discover what exactly had stirred beneath the stone. Mother was having none of it, so he gave in to her. But you know him. Once his curiosity is aroused, it does not die. So that is why I ask you not to tell him. He will...”

“You do not wish Sámaril to tell me what?” There in the door stood her father, holding a cup of steaming tea.

Mélamírë shot a sharp glance my way before turning toward her father and sighing: “That I made quite a fool of myself.”

“Ah. I have already found out about your little escapade, thanks to Dísa.  She told me all.” Her father came to the side of her bed and sat beside her. He helped his daughter sit up so that she could take the fragrant tea from him. “This should help settle your stomach. Dísa said you were quite ill.” She sipped it while he watched.

“The next time we attend one of these functions, you shall sit with me at the high table rather than with these young louts who think they are smiths. Obviously, they are a bad influence.” I withered when he eyed me. “Sámaril, I am sorely disappointed in you. I should think you have better sense than to swill so much Dwarven ale.” He returned his attention to Mélamírë. “Thanks to your carousing, my dear, you missed a fascinating discussion with Kali regarding a metal he has discovered. He says it is not as beautiful as mithril, but light in weight and flexible. I think it might be useful for creating an admixture with…”

“Father, please! My head aches terribly. I am in no state of mind to discuss craft just now. Please sing to me. Make the pain go away.”

“Yes, I can do that.” He removed the damp cloth and stroked her forehead, not taking his eyes from his daughter. “Sámaril, you may leave us now.”

~*~

Abruptly, I was back in my quarters, lying on the mattress, as if I had been dismissed from the painful memory. The dissonance of the tender scene between father and daughter with the horror of what came later was agonizing to recall, but my friend’s reaction to whatever lay in the depths had called out to me, as if she were trying to warn me these many years later. But the memory gave me no answers, only heartache and apprehension.

What was it that slept in the stone? The thing had not only frightened Mélamírë and me, but it had also alarmed her father, and that was no small thing. What could frighten him? Certainly not a queen-mole.

The tales said that none of Morgoth's most fearsome servants had escaped the War of Wrath, but the haunted looks in my parents’ eyes when the minstrels sang lays of the Fall of Gondolin came back to me. I knew who might offer more information of beings who wrapped themselves in shadow and flame, but would Laurefin wish to revisit that dark memory to answer my questions? Would it matter anyway? The Dwarves were obsessed with mithril, and warnings of what they dismissed as elvish phantoms would not deter them from mining the beautiful ore that was the foundation of their wealth. If I were honest with myself, I coveted the metal, too, and envied Láki his claim. My warnings would be taken as churlish affirmation of my own greed.

I tried to settle into the true sleep that I so desperately needed but continued to argue with myself, debating the merits of pressing the Dwarves to consider carefully where they mined, but realizing that I could not truly pinpoint where the dream had originated nor have any way of providing firm evidence to confirm my suspicions.

My spinning thoughts kept me awake for a long time. At last exhaustion swept me on to the dream-paths leading to the borderlands of sleep. Out of the mists, an image formed: Elerína, bent over picking apples from the ground, her dark hair mussed with bits of dried leaves and pulp stuck among silky strands. My need for comfort overcame the pangs of regret and longing that always surfaced when I thought of her. I went to her side in the dream and helped her gather apples, letting my voice join hers in song, and I fell into a deep peaceful sleep.