From Tirion to the West-Gate by Kaylee Arafinwiel

Tirion to the West-Gate

Going to the market...it is such an ordinary part of any person's day, undoubtedly. With my market-basket on my arm, I have lingered at the side of my ammë, perusing Tirion's wares, or Vanyamar's. I have walked the courts of Aulë, strung with the bright webs of Telperion and Laurelin, under trees too varied to recall. Apprentices, journeymen, Aulenduri of all ranks brought forth their wares to trade or sell in Valmar.

I never thought to see such sights again when I followed at the heels of my twin brother Ñolofinwë, keeping Arafinwë's children close. What knew we of the wider world? The echoes of the Doom assured me we were making a grave mistake, yet my brother would not be denied, and what was I to do but follow? I followed my brother to his death, I, Lalwen Finwiel. It was my greatest sin, my deepest mistake. From then to this, I am Niniel, she who weeps. Would even Nienna pity my tears? Who can say...

Yet, I am always drawn to Aulë's folk. Telchar welcomed my charge, my lady Artanis in his hall. I saw there his greatest craft, the Dragon-helm, and shuddered with foreboding. Artanis spoke fair of his craft, but in private she wept over its future. She saw and understood. Still, she persisted, and I with her.

In the Halls of Khazad-dûm, crystal lamps just as bright as any my half-brother crafted lit our way. The mansions of the Dwarves bustled with activity, bursting with life, and joy. We walked the marketplace in comfortable, utterly normal silence amid the chattering Naugrim. Artanis' hand landed on my arm.

"Niniel."

"Yes, hina?"

She scowled at me, sighing. "We must warn Durin's Folk, Niniel. These mansions seem fair, but feel foul. Doom is coming for the Dwarves."

"In what form does it come, then?" I asked, for I had long ago learned to listen to my niece.

"I cannot say, for I do not see it as yet, but I feel it," she replied.

I sighed in exasperation. "You know the Dwarven King will not listen to vague notions and half-baked interpretations. Stubborn, the lot of them, not unlike the house of Elmo."

Her temper flared. "If you speak ill of Celeborn again--"

"I did not mean Celeborn particularly."

She remained unconvinced. "I still think we should say something."

In the end, though, we said nothing to anyone except Celebrimbor.

He hmm-ed to that. "I shall speak to Narvi," he said quietly. "Perhaps runes on the gate will seal out whatever danger threatens."

So the West-gate of the realm was fashioned, and all was well and peaceful - for a time.