The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 29: A Kiss in the Dark

For saving Durin IV's heir and his mother (Durin's granddaughter), Brethilion is awarded with unusual gifts. With their departure from Khazad-dûm imminent, Sámaril and Brethilion are the guests of honor at a celebration in Láki's mansion where Sámaril is faced with peculiar Dwarven cuisine, finds himself the object of attraction by a Dwarven-lady and then plays matchmaker.

Many thanks and bows of "at your service" to the Lizard Council -- Jael, sanna, Aeärwen, Surgical Steel, Raksha, klose, Drummerwench, Russandol and Darth Fingon. Special thanks to Darth for linguistic assistance. See end notes for that.

Some mild sexuality in this chapter: soft R-rated at the most.

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Naked, I stood ankle-deep in new snow while I watched a solitary goose trail after the flock that winged its way south. It honked mournfully as it flew, becoming a speck in the distance and then disappearing. I wondered if the bird had lost its mate and if it might find another or remain forever bereft.

“Come, Master Gnome! Your stones will freeze off! And then what shape will you be in for the feast tonight?” Ribald laughter snapped me out of my melancholy. I dropped to the snow, rolled three times, and then leapt to my feet, sprinting back toward the sauna to complete my preparations for the evening’s festivities.

My time in Khazad-dûm drew to a close. Gold- and silver-plating continued apace with no need for my guidance. With superlative skill, Ragni had cut the diamond into a rounded form with hundreds of glittering facets. The gem was locked away in the treasuries along three ingots of pure mithril that I had smelted in Láki’s forges, all ready to be retrieved when I left the mansions of the Dwarves.

Brethilion, too, had triumphed, having brought Durin’s granddaughter back to health. With his medicine and vigilance, she had fought off the infection, and her milk had come in with abundance. Already Durin’s young heir had blossomed from a pale little creature into a pink lusty babe with fine golden-brown hairs on his chin.

So we were to be honored before I was to depart to Imladris and Brethilion to Lórinand. Láki had announced his intention to host a feast for us at his family mansion, and the day had arrived.

When I returned from the sauna to our quarters, I found Brethilion dressed in trousers but barefooted and bare-chested. He sat on the edge of a footstool in the parlor, brushing out his hair.

He stopped in mid-stroke when I entered the room. “Ah! Here you are! I was wondering when you’d be back. Don’t know why you went off to the sauna when you could have bathed here.”

“It’s politic, Brethilion. Going to the sauna with the rest keeps me in good favor with the craftsmen.”

“Even when you’re leaving so soon? Well, good for future trade, I suppose. But that rolling naked in the snow? Madness. Pure madness, I tell you. Are you certain you haven’t worked with quicksilver?”

“I’m certain.” I had nearly entered our bedchamber where the doors of the large armoire that held our clothing were flung wide open when he called to me.

"Say, would you mind braiding my hair? I am not as adept at it as you.”

“Certainly.”

In fact, Brethilion had deft fingers that were fully capable of dividing his brown locks into dozens of plaits if he so desired, but he refused to admit that he enjoyed being groomed. I edged in behind him.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes when I ran the brush through his hair.

“So when do you think you will start work on that trinket for the young king?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call it that,” I admonished him. “The Elendilmir means a great deal to Valandil’s people.” I set aside the brush and splayed my fingers around the dome of his head. “I will begin work on it as soon as I return to Imladris, I expect. Valandil will be crowned six years hence. Wait. Maybe in five years. I have lost track of time here.”

“Five or six years hence, that is hardly any time whatsoever. You’d best get cracking.”

I rubbed his scalp, making small circular motions with my fingertips, applying pressure where I felt tension. Just when I thought I had massaged him into silence, Brethilion spoke up again.

“What will you do after that?”

“What I have always done. Work on my projects. Implement improvements for Elrond’s house. Study. Read. Hike. Maybe hunt. I will probably fish.”

“May I ask you something personal?”

“You’re asking for permission this time?”

“Have you considered taking the Straight Road?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“I doubt that I would be welcome among those who dwell in Avallonë. What about you?” I turned the question back on him, hoping to deflect his probing.

“Me? No, I have no desire to see my wife until the Final Battle. “

I had to chuckle at his acerbic remark. I continued to work my fingers over his scalp. “They say Aman is a vast country, truly a world unto itself. It should be easy enough to avoid her.”

“It would be my luck to wind up living in the same city as she. More likely the same neighborhood!” He paused but continued with a more subdued tone. “I am not certain I would be welcomed either.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s just say I am circumspect because of my associations with the House of Carnistir.”

“It cannot be worse for you than me.”

“Because of Aulendil?”

“Yes.”

“You have a point, although I’m not sure being associated with the Fëanárians is much better.”

“Others of the Fëanárian Houses have returned to the West. Laurefin says some have been accepted.”

“’Some’ is the operative word here.” Brethilion sighed with pleasure again when I moved my fingers to his temples. “Maybe you and I are fated to remain here for some time yet. Frankly, I have mixed feelings about leaving. I have not known anything other than Middle-earth.”

“True,” I agreed, “but it is also fated that Men will take our place. How will we continue to function in a world of mortals?”

“You and I manage to deal with them well enough. In fact, I’d think you’d be anxious to return to Imladris considering your…” his breath caught when I ground my fingers into skull, “…considering your close friendship with Elendil’s folk.”

“How about you? Are you eager to return to Lórinand?”

“Yes and no. Yes, because I am sick of the darkness in this place. The Dwarves can light it up with their marvelous lanterns and carve high windows to let in the sunlight, but it is not the same as walking under the sky. And no, because there’s not much left for me there. My wife took everything, and our talan passed on to one of Amroth’s captains.”

“You will be able to rebuild your life.”

Brethilion moaned when I rubbed his scalp firmly enough to move the skin of his forehead.

“Great stars, man, but you have strong hands! Must be all that smith work.”

“Probably. Now shut up and relax, Brethilion.”

His grumble turned into a hum of pleasure, and at last lapsed into silence. He remained so while I divided his hair into strands and plaited it, but a sharp knock on the door made us both jump. I answered, opening the door to find a pair of Dwarves, one holding a polished wooden chest bound with brass.

“Lófi at your service.”

I bowed. “Sámaril at yours and your family’s.”

“We are here for Master Brethilion.”

“You have found him.” Brethilion stepped forward, shrugging his dressing gown over his shoulders.

“We bear a gift for you from King Durin.” Brethilion tilted his head toward the round table in the middle of the parlor. The Dwarf bearing the chest placed it there while Lófi unrolled a small scroll and read from it:

“In gratitude for your skills that saved the lives of our heir and his mother, we present these tokens of our appreciation. Signed Durin the Fourth.“ Lófi extended the scroll to Brethilion so he could check its authenticity.

“Thank you,” Brethilion replied. “Please convey my deepest gratitude to the king.”

The Dwarves bowed and left. As soon as the door shut, Brethilion tossed aside his composed demeanor. He ran his hands over the smooth surface of the chest.

“I wonder what this could be? ‘These’ I should say. More than one. More jewels, perhaps? Maybe gold. Hopefully none of your plated stuff. You’d know if it were solid gold, wouldn’t you?”

He unlatched the chest and lifted the lid. What we saw rendered us both speechless. There, nestled in crimson fabric, lay neither jewels nor gold but six phalluses carved from what looked to be stone. Three resembled life-like erections with bulbous heads and prominent veins snaking over the shafts, but the others were more abstract, covered with curious bumps or ridges, but nonetheless obvious as to what they represented and what their purpose was. We stood gaping in silence. Then Brethilion whooped with glee.

“Praise the Valar! I am saved!” He picked up one of the life-like cocks, running his hands over it, a most disconcerting effect.

“Do you have any idea what these things are worth? They will fetch a fortune in Lórinand. This is truly a kingly gift, more than gold even! Here take it.” He waggled the phallus at me. “What? Haven’t you ever seen a tiutarincë?”

“I have heard of them, but I...well, I have never seen one.” Curiosity replaced my shock, and I took the phallus from him. It was carved of soapstone: smooth and cool to the touch. The craftsmanship was excellent.

“There are lonely wives in Lórinand whose husbands’ minds have turned to other pursuits: lore, poetry, sometimes other men,” said Brethilion. “A number of these wives are married to men of means and can afford to pay handsomely for such pleasure toys. Quite handsomely. Dwarven-crafted tiutarinci are highly prized. Why, it is rumored that the Lady of the Galadhrim has an impressive collection of...”

“That’s more than I need to know!”

“Don’t be such a prude!”

“I’m not! It’s just that the thought of Lady Galadriel in that manner makes my stones shrink.” Although beautiful, Artanis was a fearsome woman, and I could not summon one shred of desire for her.

I placed the tiutarincë back in its nest. An unexpected wave of sadness washed over me when I thought of those whose spouses had turned away from them. I knew of couples like that. The sadness deepened when I thought of my own loss, my lovely Nierellë, taken from me by death, and wondered how any man could lose interest in a loving wife.

“Why so solemn?” Brethilion clapped me on the back. “Those stone cocks will make my life very comfortable: a wide talan among the mellyrn with a new house on it, fine clothing, good wine. Who knows? Perhaps even I might comfort a lonely wife or two! Mine’s warm at least.”

“Brethilion!”

“You need to loosen up, young whelp. Now make yourself presentable! I’m ready to celebrate!”

With haste, I slipped on my clothing, perhaps not the finest I possessed, but once I draped myself in gold -- thread twined through my hair, chains embedded with jewels around my neck, cuffs about my arms and a belt of hammered disks -- I doubted that the Dwarves would take much notice of my garb. Two Dwarves arrived at our door to escort us to Láki’s family mansion.

Our guides led us along twists and turns on our way to the feast, but we never took a flight of stairs, indicating that Láki’s mansion was on the same level as the King’s -- a sign of high status hitherto unknown to me. We stopped before a pair of stone doors, carved with the stylized reliefs of lakes, forests and mountains. Runes tracked across the lintel, and columns with surfaces carved to resemble tree bark bracketed the doors. Without the announcement of any sort of bell or knock, the doors opened, silently swinging inward, much like the action of the west gates of Khazad-dûm. Golden light and the sounds of laughter and music flooded over us.

Láki stood in the wide entry of his domain, his black beard glittering with jewels on mithril clips that held fast a pair of thick plaits. Flanking him were two others, dressed as finely as he and with just as many or more jewels decorating their persons, but rather than trousers and jerkins, they wore gowns, revealing the swell of full breasts beneath gem-strewn beards.

“Sámaril of Imladris at your service and your family’s.” Brethilion followed suit with the accepted greeting.

“And Láki at yours. May I present my lady wife, Birna.” The Dwarf-woman with the tawny beard bowed, the creases around her green eyes deepening when she smiled. “And this is my dear sister, Valka.”

The younger black-bearded woman bowed, lowering her dark brown eyes. “At your service, Master Sámaril.”

“And at yours, Lady Valka.”

“Master Sámaril, it is a pleasure to meet you at long last,” said Birna, her voice deep as a man’s. “My husband and his sister have spoken of you so often.”

Láki’s sister had spoken of me? I glanced at Valka, wondering if I had seen her in the smithies where some Dwarf-women were rumored to work but were difficult to discern from the men because of the way they girt themselves. Here, though, clad in her gown and her gleaming hair as carefully groomed as an elf-maid’s, Valka was decidedly feminine. Except for the beard.

“Come, let’s go to the hall,” Láki said. “You must get a tankard of ale in those empty hands.“

Láki and his womenfolk escorted us to an expansive hall where a fire roared in a huge hearth at its far end. On one side of the chamber were long tables of dark polished wood with many cushioned chairs; one table sat upon on a dais above the others. The opposite side of the hall was open with chairs and benches shoved up against the walls where tapestries hung. About three dozen Dwarves congregated there in the open space -- mostly men whom I recognized from the smithies and workshops but women, too, about a third as many as the men. Servants hustled to and fro, carrying trays with tankards and food on them. An ensemble of musicians played an understated yet pleasant tune with flutes, fiddles, viol, harp and drums.

I looked around the large hall and up to its high barrel-arched ceiling. The stonework was beautiful but eccentric -- a melding of recognizably Noldorin design with Dwarvish geometry but also with sinuous organic elements: tree branches craved from stone served as sconces, the bases of columns with roots that dug into the floor. Stone foxes, squirrels and fawns peeped out from behind leaves and tree trunks. Butterflies were frozen in mid-flight. The hearth glittered with mosaics of glass in many shades of blue surrounding it, like the surface of a lake at sunset. The entire effect was like that of an ancient structure surrounded by a garden that had been reclaimed by the forest. Láki noticed my interest.

“Do you like the hall?”

“Oh, yes! The artistry is most impressive!”

“Come with me.” We followed him to an alcove where, sitting upon a black stone pedestal, was a bust carved of white marble. Much to my surprise, the sculpture was not that of a Dwarf, but an Elf with a short straight nose, an angular jaw and expressive eyes, all captured in stone. Carved into the base of the bust were Dwarvish runes.

“That is Felagund,” Láki said reverently. “I am descended from the chief stonemason who worked with Finrod to construct Nargothrond. Before Beleriand fell, my forefather came to Khazad-dûm and delved this mansion.” Láki pulled out a thin gold chain from beneath the collar of his shirt. An emerald, held in place by gold claws, caught the light. “This was a small gift among many that my ancestor received from your great Elven-King. It is said that it was made in Elvenhome. Do you wish to examine it?”

“May I?”

Láki reached behind his neck to unclasp the necklace and placed it in my open hand. The gem was remarkable and unlike any other of its kind I had seen save for one. No inclusions marred it, and like Tyelperinquar’s great jewel, Láki’s emerald seemed a living thing, giving the impression of filtered sunlight through green leaves. When I peered into the gem, I had a vision of verdant hills under strange sunlight and white waves crashing against a far rocky shore; longing filled my heart. Before I became immersed in melancholy on an evening to be enjoyed, I handed the necklace to Birna; Láki lifted his thick hair to let her fix the clasp again.

“Your family has a deep history with my people, Master Láki.”

“Indeed we do. Ah, here we are!” A servant appeared with a tray of five pewter tankards, filled to the rims with red ale. Birna and Valka each took a tankard before Láki, Brethilion and I reached for ours. Láki raised his in salutation.

“To Master Healer and Master Gnome! There’s no need to wish you health and long life, for you have that! So here’s to your good fortune and to our enduring friendship!”

“To friendship!” I repeated, raising my tankard.

“Hear! Hear! And to pleasure!” exclaimed Brethilion, who tipped his head back and drank long and deep.

Brethilion and I finished two tankards of ale each when the chiming of bells summoned us to dine. I offered my arm to Valka who looped her sturdy hand around the crook of my elbow. I escorted her to the high table where I sat between Láki and Valka.

“Lady Valka,” I said, as I pulled up my chair beside her after helping her into her seat. “If you do not mind my saying so, you look remarkably familiar. Have we met before?”

Round cheeks above her beard flushed pink. “I often work in my brother’s forges. Perhaps you saw me there.”

I examined her face closely, and she blushed even more. Then I remembered.

“You assisted with the first metal-plating! You stirred the solution.”

“I did.” She beamed, exposing square teeth as white as the pearls strung through her beard.

“I must apologize for not recognizing you straightaway.”

“There is no need, Master Sámaril. I know that it is not always so easy to distinguish us from our men folk, especially when we are garbed for the forge or forays out-of-doors. Ah! Here comes the first course!” Servants streamed, bearing large trays. The first dishes were set before Birna, Valka and Láki, and then before Brethilion and me.

It was the most unappetizing thing I had ever seen. A translucent gelatinous mass was piled on an earthenware plate alongside what looked to be boiled earth-apples and mashed peas. When the odor of rotten fish slammed into my nostrils, my hunger evaporated. Láki dug into the stuff with enthusiasm. I glanced to my right and met Valka’s limpid dark eyes. She plunged her fork into the ooze and lifted a blob.

“This is a great delicacy, Master Sámaril, Master Brethilion,” she addressed us both, and then took a bite. Then she whispered to me. “We call it ‘lye fish.’ It’s cavefish that has been dried, cured in birch ash and then soaked in water.”

I looked over her head at Brethilion who eyed the plate with his fork poised in his steady hand. He met my eyes, shrugged, and then dug into the mess, eating the stuff with as much gusto as Láki. Brethilion maintained that after the offal he had eaten during the campaign of the Last Alliance, he could wolf down anything. He proved his claim when he made short work of the repulsive fish. I made a conscious effort not to breathe through my nose and thrust a glob of slime into my mouth along with earth-apple. The taste was bland and not nearly as awful as its smell.

I managed to eat about a quarter of the lye fish before servants whisked my plate away and brought out great joints of boar, crowns of venison roasts stuffed with apples, and roasted grouse surrounded by herbs. These were more to my liking, if heavy. As swiftly as my tankard emptied of ale, it was filled again, and likewise, the evening was filled to the brim with laughter and music. With each tankard of ale, Valka became increasingly charming and her dark eyes struck me as lovely. I lost myself in their depths more than once while she told me about her approaches to steel alloys, forcing me to wrest my attention back to the particulars of what she was saying.

After the last plates were cleared, and we celebrants had time to digest our repast, the musicians picked up the beat of their tune. The Dwarves began to clap in time. Láki stood and took his lady’s hand.

“Let the dancing begin!” he declared, his voice booming over the music.

At that point, my bladder was near to bursting. Before I could ask, Láki perceptively said, “It’s down that corridor. Make two left turns and watch your step on the stairs.”

The corridor was long and dark, lit only by a few dim lamps. Following Láki’s directions, I found the latrine chamber where the sound of rushing water welled up from the holes carved into the stone bench. Upon hearing the water, matters became more urgent. I flung back my robe and unlaced my trousers, sighing with relief while I discharged my burden of borrowed ale. My vision spun. To steady myself, I leaned forward, balancing myself against the wall behind the latrines, until I had wrung my bladder dry. After putting myself back in place and washing my hands in a basin of warm water, I made my way back into the dark corridor, confidently walking in the dark, until I tripped on a low step and went sprawling, hitting my forehead sharply on the stone floor. I lay stunned, trying to get my bearings. I propped myself up on my elbows but another wave of dizziness hit me. I groaned and lay my head back down on my crossed arms.

“Master Sámaril! Are you hurt?”

Valka’s strong arms lifted me, easing me to a sitting position in the dark corridor. I leaned against the wall, my eyes closed while I concentrated on making the dizziness stop.

“No, I don’t think so. I just need to rest for a moment.”

Sitting in silence, I closed my eyes and focused on making the throbbing pain in my head dissipate. A hand moved to my shoulder, then to my neck, massaging me. With Valka’s hand kneading my muscles, the pulses of pain fluttered away. I had almost opened my eyes, ready to thank her when soft lips pressed against mine.

One kiss. Then another and another. Sensual tugs of lips became passionate with caressing tongues fired by ale-fueled recklessness. In my mind’s eye, I beheld a dear face -- a face that had been so full of hurt and disappointment when I had given her such a cold farewell that morning in Imladris. I pulled her to me, trying to make up for being such a brute, and whispered her name. A familiar tightness pushed against my trousers, but when my face tingled from the brush of her beard, my reason returned and crushed my body’s need. I put my hand on Valka’s shoulders, gently pushing her away from me.

“My lady...I am sorry. Please forgive me.”

She gasped. “No, I...I don’t know what came over me. Too much ale, I think, but you are so...I couldn’t help myself.” She reached to stroke my cheek, but her other hand slid up my inner thigh. For a moment, I wanted her to touch me, but I clasped her hand before she reached my now obvious response.

“No, we cannot.”

She turned away from me. “You think I am ugly.” Her voice wavered at the verge of tears.

I could not respond in all honesty and tell her that the Dwarven women were simply too alien for me to find beautiful, but I would be lying if I said she had not stirred me. More than that, she was a woman, and like any woman, she had feelings that could be hurt. The memory of how I had hurt another stung me. So I told her what truth I could:

“Valka, I have no doubt that you are a gem among Dwarf-women.” I brushed a strand of hair away from her brow. “I think you have beautiful eyes. But your brother would castrate me if we carried through with this. Besides, I think you want another. Not me.”

Her eyes widened in the dim light. “How did you know?”

“I sat by you all evening and saw you glance whenever you could at Ragni.”

She hung her head. “He does not notice me.”

“Then he is blind.” I raised her chin with my fingers. “You are a lovely and talented woman.”

“Thank you.” She smiled shyly, but her expression became thoughtful and serious. “You love another, too. Who is she, this Elerína?”

Of course she would have heard me whisper that name when I had been lost in the heat of the moment.

“One whose fate is not mine.”

“I do not know what you mean by that, but it sounds sad. Does she not love you?”

“She loves me as a friend. Now I am not sure of even that. We are estranged now which is probably for the best.”

“Why should that be for the best?”

“For one, I am married.”

Valka’s brows furrowed. “But my brother said that your wife is dead.”

“She is, but by the laws of my people, I remain wed.”

“Those are cruel laws then. Widows and widowers among my folk may remarry, even if it is rare.”

“You would not understand. You are mortal. So is my friend.”

“Why should that make any difference if you love one another?”

“Don’t you see, Valka? Our fates are divided. My people believe that it is not fitting for a man of the Eldar to pursue the daughters of Men.”

“Or the daughters of Dwarves it would appear. I will not pretend to understand your folk, Master Sámaril. You all seem to want to be miserable.”

“Do we? If so, it is the outcome of long years of hard experience. But we are not always like that.” I stood up and took her hand, helping her to her feet. “I can still be a merry elf when the occasion warrants.”

“What occasions are those?”

“Tonight. I would be honored if you would be my dance partner.”

“Now that I understand!”

We returned to the hall where most of the Dwarves were dancing. The hall thundered with their footsteps while the fiddles and flutes carried the tune over the pounding rhythm of the drums. Brethilion danced among the Dwarves, the multicolored threads on his jacket standing straight out when he spun so that he appeared to be a tall exotic water bird among stout ducks.

I danced with Valka for much of the evening, but after she excused herself when the musicians took a break, I sought out Ragni who stood alone nursing a tankard of ale.

“Good evening, Master Ragni. Are you enjoying yourself?”

The young Dwarf-man grumbled. “I suppose it’s a good party.”

“You suppose? Why aren’t you dancing with the rest?”

“No partner. I do not wish to dance with my fellows.”

“Why don’t you ask Lady Valka for a dance?”

“Oh, I couldn’t!”

“Why not?”

“She is Master Láki’s sister! They are of a noble house.”

“Master Ragni, you come from a line of honorable men, and Master Láki speaks well of you. Ask her!”

“Well…”

“She will not say ‘no.’”

“Do you really think so?” He glanced from beneath his dark brows toward Valka where she mingled with the other women.

“I really think so.” I knew the hook was ready to be set. “Ragni, look at all this.” He followed my eyes around the expansive hall. “This is a beautiful mansion, don’t you agree?” Ragni nodded. “Láki does not have an heir,” I said. “But if Valka were to wed and have a son...”

“Say no more, Master Sámaril!”

At first, I thought he had taken offense at my nudging, but instead, he wiped the ale from his lips with his sleeve, set aside the tankard, and strode with determination to Valka. Just as the music resumed, I saw him bow deeply before her and take her hand.

She remained his dance partner for the rest of the evening. When Brethilion and I departed, she looked across the hall and silently thanked me with her dazzling smile. Then she returned her full attention to Ragni who grinned like one besotted.

~*~

The next morning, Brethilion and I dragged ourselves out of bed early to prepare for our departure. The rap on our door announced the arrival of our escorts so it was time to say our farewells. While the Dwarves hauled chests and boxes out of our chambers, he divided his attention between watching the servants and tying tiny knots in a string fixed to his belt. When the last of his gear had been removed, he looked up at me.

“So, young whelp.”

We stood for a time, regarding one another with no words spoken. Then I reached out to embrace him. He stiffened at first, not being one to demonstrate affection easily, but then relaxed and returned the embrace.

“Take care, you cantankerous old man,” I said. “Thank you for all that you have done. Your skills as much as my teachings made it possible for me to gain the mithril and the diamond for Valandil.”

“Learning something new is always worthwhile,” he said. “And I certainly learned much about Dwarven medicine.” He pulled away and caught me with his intense blue eyes. “I have some advice for you. Not asked for, I know, but you’ll hear it all the same.”

“I would expect nothing less from you.”

“You should not over think your emotions, Sámaril. Do not let your past or the laws of those who remain so detached from us fetter your affections and deny them to someone who deserves your love. You know who I’m talking about.” I said nothing, but he squeezed my shoulder. “Farewell then. Visit me if you come to Lórinand.”

“I will do that. Please give my regards to Macilion.”

Brethilion smiled, turned on his heel, and then he was gone.

~*~

After three marches, I, along with my belongings, arrived at the threshold of the Doors of Durin. There, Láki and Valka along with other representatives of Durin’s court met me. Láki spoke the words of opening, this time in Khuzdûl. The doors swung inward, opening to reveal three elven-riders bearing torches and leading a riderless horse and pack animals.

While Dwarves helped load the horses, I bade farewell to Láki. We bowed before one another, as protocol demanded, but then we embraced: two craftsmen of disparate heritage who, by virtue of what we shared, had become friends. Then I bowed to Valka, but before I could move away, she stepped forward, motioning for me to lean over so she could whisper to me.

“Ragni has asked my brother if he may court me. I do not know what you said to him, but whatever it was, it worked. Thank you, Master Sámaril.” She pressed a small cloth-wrapped parcel into my hand.

I resisted the impulse to kiss her cheek, a gesture that would have been considered highly improper among the Dwarves, and instead bowed again. After tucking her gift into my pack along with my other treasures -- the ingots of refined mithril and the diamond -- I walked out into the cold night where ragged clouds fled across the waxing face of the Hunter’s Moon. Although my escorts strived to maintain elvish impassivity, in the torchlight I saw the flicker of contempt in their eyes as they looked upon the Dwarves. These men -- all Sindarin survivors of fallen Doriath -- would never understand the Khazad as I did, a son of the Eregion Noldor. I turned around just as the doors began to close and waved at my friends. Valka’s bright smile was the last thing I saw before the doors shut.

We traveled long into the night before we made camp. Later in the dark hours before dawn, when the small fire had burned low and the guard was set, I unwrapped my gift. It was a small figure of a squat woman, her hands crossed over full pendulous breasts with a beard hanging between them. Her cleft was exaggerated, swollen like a peach. I unrolled the small note that had come with the parcel, turning the parchment so I could read it in the dying firelight.

Dear Master Sámaril,

As a token of my thanks, I give you this small talisman. I know that your folk prize the more unusual artefacts of my people. I understand that Master Brethilion was most pleased with those gifted to him by our king. This figure is called the Mother, beloved of the women of my folk, and used in the most ancient of our ceremonies. Mahal may have given us life, but it was the Mother who gave us our substance. May She bring you good fortune, and may you forever remain in the Great Smith’s keeping.

Your friend always,
Valka

I cupped the little figure, feeling the fired clay warm in my hands. I had no idea what its use was, but that did not matter. It was a gift and apparently a rare one. The Dwarves were such a strange, mysterious people, but I counted myself fortunate that some named themselves my friends. I gathered my cloak around body, lay back on my bedroll and at long last gazed up at the stars in the dome of heaven.

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Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to Darth for the creation of the Quenya word for dildo: (s.) tiutarincë, (pl.) tiutarinci, meaning "little consoler or comforter". In characteristically wicked clever fashion, Darth derived the term from tiutalë (noun), which means "comfort, consolation, easement", thus linking it to the Spanish consolador, the word used in our primary world for the same sex toy.