Whims of Time and Fate by QuillAndInkWrites

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Chapter 3

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The great city of Khazâd-dum stretches for miles deep within the heart of the Misty Mountains, beneath Barazinbar, Bundushathûr, and Zirakzigil. The noble quarters are near the middle, as are the courts, the treasuries, the nurseries; all that the Khazâd value deeply is protected within the heart of their Western-most kingdom, and Mhete’s family is, of course, included in this. Her ‘amad and irak’adad are second and third in line for the throne after her grandparents, after all, and she is the fourth — her ‘adad cannot rule due to his marriage with her ‘amad and his high status in the Blacklock court, for fear of less-than-noble reasons for marriage if such a ploy for power was allowed by the law.

The middle of the kingdom sits remarkably far from any of the stone-cut entrances to the sun-touched world, and Mhete curses this a multitude of times while she packs for the journey. She knows she must do this sooner rather than later, that much is made clear not only by her constant stream of waking visions and memories but by how often Kheled-zâram itself features in them; still, she can’t say she looks forward to taking such a long journey there and back again.

Such are necessary sacrifices, she supposes, and stuffs a tightly rolled dress into her pack.

The journey itself is one of laughing and talking, at least, her ‘amad, ‘adad, and irak’adad all accompanying her — her irak’adad said he would see this through for his own peace of mind if she would let him, and she readily welcomed another familiar face on the journey. The halls they pass through are awesome, the stairs up two levels equally so even if they are at least thrice as tiring and leave her calves burning by the end, and there is time enough in the day to arrive at their sleeping quarters by nightfall while still taking the time to stop and appreciate many things, including a passing Stiffbeard sculptur’s skill with stone.

Mhete buys a small carved statue of Durin the Deathless from her with polite words of thanks, and she swears that his sapphire eyes twinkle from within his well-carved and motionless face. She hides him away in her pack before he can start speaking to her and continues on.

The lodgings they arrive at that evening are comfortable and friendly, the Longbeard zatakhuzdȗn at the door welcoming them in with only the lowest level of blustering awe one could reasonably expect when faced with the second, third, and fourth Khazâd in line for the Longbeard throne all coming through one’s door to sleep there for a few nights. They had sent prior warning, of course, and two Khazâd travel with them for protection against any ill will on the road, but the kingdom-city is far too large and populous for every Khuzd there to have seen a member of the royal line with their own eyes.

Their beds are just as comfortable as the air of the inn itself, padding and pillows made of feathers and clean linen, and Mhete falls into her own almost as soon as she steps foot in the room, exhausted from a day of travel. Mhete is glad for the comfort that almost makes the unfamiliar lodgings familiar in their own small way, but just like the night before she cannot fall into slumber, try though she might — and does, for multiple aching, restless hours. The forceful vision in the sparring circle was the drop that broke the dam, it seems, and now the floodgates have fallen and Mhete feels as if all she can do is come up for air at every chance.

Who knew that learning so much in such a painfully short span of time could leave her knowing so little?

The visions give her a small reprieve only in that they refrain from bringing her to her knees again. They are incredibly distracting nonetheless, leaving Mhete to trail off in the middle of a sentence a handful of times during the journey as her ‘amad or ‘adad or irak’adad watch her in clear concern, but she is still aware of what surrounds her as they appear. The double layer, one physical and one within her mind’s eye and yet each as real as the other, is one of the strangest and most discencerting things Mhete has ever experienced.

Lying still in the dark of her room, alternating between staring at the ceiling and closing her eyes in hopes that she can trick herself into slumber, does little to stopper up the flow of such memories. They are memories, of this Mhete is now absolutely certain, and they come so constantly that Mhete cannot even tell them each to another Khuzd as a way to process them as they come — another would end and begin before she could finish speaking of the first, and she would be left with her mind swirling in worse confusion than it already had been throughout the day.

Sleep refrains from drawing any closer as she watches herself carve a living, breathing Khuzd from stone — she knows she is seeing a memory of Durin I, as while Durin II knew the art as well his hair was not coal-black in a way similar to her own — and eventually she decides that enough futile tossing and turning is enough and leaves the warm, comfortable bed to tug on socks and a robe and quietly wander out of her room.

The hall outside is mostly dark, no natural light finding its way into the city even this close to the Eastern gates, but clever angles and oil lamps give the hall a faint glow from the stairs. Her vision is somewhat undeterred by the dark regardless, and Mhete presses a hand to her mouth to silence an unexpected giggle when she spares a brief moment to wonder how blind a Man would be walking down this same hall with her. Blinder than a bat, she guesses, and without even the echolocation of one to help.

Continuing down the hall, Mhete watches herself — Durin I but herself all the same, and she is too tired and frazzled to think about this more now but she will soon — tap layers of stone away, piece by piece, as the shape in her — his? — deep wishes reveal themself within the hard canvas. Her feet follow the stone floor even as she watches her waking memory, and they guide her to the inn’s second story balcony almost without hesitation.

Her ‘amad is already there, leaning against the stone railing with her back to the door and the lights of the perpetually lamplit city surrounding her in a warm glow.

“Amma?”

Thenis’ copper head turns to look behind her at the sound of her child’s voice, and when she sees Mhete she smiles softly, reaching a welcoming arm out towards her and tilting her head to wordlessly beckon her closer. Mhete approaches with a smile of her own, ignoring the arm she — Durin I, as she has to continuously remind herself — is chiseling to perfection in her mind’s eye to instead look upon her ‘amad’s warm face and take in the small wrinkles between her thick, elegant brows.

“Are you upset?” Mhete asks.

Thenis’ arm curls gently around her shoulders. “Not upset,” she soothes, “only worried for you. You carry such a heavy burden, kurkarukê. No ‘amad wishes to see their child this way. Do you see a vision now?”

“I think I’m carving— Durin I is carving one of his children,” Mhete says, pursing her lips at her stumble. “This is all so overwhelming, Amma.”

“I so wish I could help you,” Thenis murmurs, smoothing her hand up and down Mhete’s shoulder in a slow, soothing manner. The divot between her brows has deepened, and Mhete wishes it would disappear entirely but knows there is little she can do to further that wish tonight. “Did you come find me for a reason?”

“I didn’t come find you,” Mhete says, leaning her head on her ‘amad’s shoulder.  “I didn’t know you were awake or on the balcony at all, only that I couldn’t sleep.”

“A lucky chance, then.” Thenis rests her head atop Mhete’s, the two of them gazing out across the ever-bustling city together for long minutes. The soft noises of Khazâd going about their business is far more soothing to them than silence has ever been, carrying with it a familiar life and presence that is seldom absent from Khazâd-dum on any level either of them frequents.

“I want to guess who Durin I is carving,” Mhete murmurs into the gentle un-silence. “Would it be more truthful to say who I’m carving instead?”

“I think your ‘adad has done a good job of telling you this himself lately,” Thenis says wisely, and Mhete can hear the amused smile in her voice, “but only you can decide that. Does it feel right, calling Durin I or Durin II yourself?”

“I think so,” Mhete says after a moment of deliberation. “Only… I don’t want to confuse you.”

“Then we can find a compromise,” Thenis suggests. “A small one. You speak of your memories or visions however you wish to speak of them, call them whatever feels right, and if I find myself confused I will simply ask you for clarification so I may better understand my child’s experience. Does that seem fitting?”

“Yes,” Mhete says. A small smile curls across her mouth, quiet and sleepy, and she watches herself step back from the half-carved figure to assess its overall shape.

Thenis kisses her forehead. “Then I will listen to your words and ask for more if I find myself needing to ask.”

“I think I will tell you if I can decipher who I might be carving,” Mhete says. Her voice has slowly begun to trail off, and it becomes quieter still with each breath. Standing on the balcony with her ‘amad is exactly what she needed, it seems, a way to convince her brain that not all is unfamiliar and unmoored as it may seem. Her family is still with her, and they will keep her safe in all the ways they can.

“I’m tired,” Mhete says, once another small number of moments has passed.

“Let me take you back to your bed, then,” Thenis says, and the arm around Mhete’s shoulders begins to gently guide her away from the railing. “It’s late, and you have never seen Kheled-zâram before. It’s a sight to behold and a sight I think a good night’s sleep will only heighten.”

“I have seen Kheled-zâram,” Mhete says as the two of them trail back through the hall to Mhete’s room. She is half asleep already, and she blinks hard to keep herself on her feet as Amma steers her into her room. “In another life, and a life after that. I can see it when I close my eyes and think of Durin’s crown, but it isn’t always clear. The memory looks almost like the surface of a rippling bowl of water.”

“You will see it in this life, then.” The correction is made with such ease that Mhete could weep, and Thenis sits on the edge of her bed as Mhete toes her socks off and puts her robe away to slip back under her covers. “You can find new angles and new memories, ones with this family and in this life.”

Mhete smiles at her ‘amad, her head resting on her pillow now with her hair wrapped in silk to protect it through the night, and Thenis squeezes her hand between both of her own when Mhete reaches out for her.

“Sleep,” Thenis says, squeezing once more and leaning forward to kiss Mhete’s forehead. “Tomorrow will come when it chooses, and I will stay with you if my presence helps you think past the flood of memories.”

“You will? You haven’t in so long, Amma.”

“Not for a few years, if my memory doesn’t fail me,” Thenis chuckles, gesturing for Mhete to scoot over to make room for her on the wide bed, and when she does Thenis slips under the covers to curl her arms around her child as she had on the balcony. “ ‘Adad will understand, even if he may be cross that we didn’t make room for him as well.”

“He won’t be cross for long, and only playfully,” Mhete says, and her eyes drift slowly shut. “He never is.”

“Indeed he isn’t. Now sleep, kurkarukê.”

Mhete sleeps, deep and full, and she dreams of the slow, rhythmic chipping of stone under her own unfamiliar chisel.

 

The next day dawns, and Mhete and the other Khazâd on the journey with her stay at the inn only long enough to break their fast before heading out into the city to gather ingredients for lunch beyond the East-gate of Khazâd-dum. They may have two royal guards with them, with armor hidden beneath their clothing and watchful eyes Mhete has grown up with since she was a pebble and even before then, but there has been peace since the vanquishment of Sauron and Morgoth centuries ago. There will be no danger in the vale of Azanulbizar.

Once food is found and bought and tipped, despite the wide-eyed protests of the Khazâd selling their wares within the markets, the group continues on to the East-gate. The West-gate is a small thing, despite friendship and trade between Khazâd-dum and the Elven city of Ost-in-Edhil in that direction, but the East-gate is another story entirely.

The East-gate is magnificent.

Mhete has never crossed through the East-gate herself — though she sees a memory of it centuries ago overlaid across her waking sight — and she cannot help but stare up in awe, marveling at the beautiful, sturdy stonework that is synonymous with talented Khuzd craftsmanship. The gate is rectangular with an arched top, wide enough for five or more Khazâd to walk abreast, and great stone doors are held open during the day with heavy ropes and a smart pulley system that makes Mhete’s heart swell with unsurprising pride for her people. She remembers when they were planned and built, when the pulley system was installed with care and shouting commands, she remembers watching the first time the doors were opened and—

Mhete blinks back to herself and glances around, grounding herself in the present. She finds Amma waiting patiently with her, Mhete’s hand held safely in hers.

“Did you see something?” Thenis asks, gently guiding Mhete forward to continue on at a slow pace.

“I saw the carving of the East-gate,” Mhete says, staring up at it again with new eyes as the gateway itself nears, many Khazâd heading to and fro and passing under the arch as if they see it every day. They may very well, for all Mhete knows; her experiences at the heart of the city are not the same as the many lives and experiences here. “The addition of the great pulley system for the doors, too. I knew the Khazâd that led both.”

“That must have been a sight to behold.” They are so close to passing beneath it that Mhete almost feels as though she should hold her breath, but she doesn’t slow or stop as the two of them catch up to the rest of the group — she has to guess that Brisum is in the crowd somewhere nearby, sharp eyes watching their every move while trying to enjoy the trip for herself as well, but she can’t quite see her ‘adad, irak’adad, or their other guard yet.

Ah. There, standing out of the way just past the mouth of the gate.

“It was,” Mhete says as she remembers what her ‘amad was just saying to her, giving Thenis a smile and feeling it widen on her dark face when Thenis smiles back, warm and cheery in a way that wrinkles the corners of her eyes and makes her cheeks bunch up. “I was there for the first use of the pulley system once it had been sufficiently tested, as well. I was king then.”

“Did the surrounding area look very different to how it does now?”

Mhete takes a moment to answer, the current image of the same space in her mind’s eye thankfully so much less distracting than many other recent visions of hers have been.

“Not very,” Mhete says. “It does look different, but not so much that it would be unrecognizable without the East-gate front and center, if that makes sense.”

“It does,” Thenis says, and squeezes her hand as they near the waiting Khazâd. “Thank you for telling me of it.”

“I didn’t tell you much, Amma.”

“But you told me some, kurkarukê, and answered my question to the extent you could, and if you want to tell me more on our walk then you are more than welcome to do so.”

Mhete smiles as the two of them reunite with Mhorbok and Thalvir, both guards nearby and watching them closely as they travel. “I think I will.”

“Good,” Thenis says, and she smiles in return. “I look forward to hearing it.”

 

Once they leave the East-gate behind — which Mhete spent five minutes staring at from the outside in awe and nostalgia before she was truly ready to move on — the journey is short and simple. Mhete and her parents live closer to the West-gate than the East-gate, if only barely, but the West-gate is a small and simple thing, used almost entirely by Elven visitors coming from Ost-in-Edhil or by Numenorean visitors coming along that same road. The East-gate is the one used by Khazâd most, closer to the distant Orocarni Mountains and the clans and kingdoms there.

It is also, as Mhete has been unable to prevent herself from focusing on for the short duration of the walk outside to come upon their destination, the gate that opens to Kheled-zâram and the valley of Azanulbizar.

But she cannot find it in herself to worry and fret any longer when she catches her first glimpse of the lake past the crest of a small hill, a sensation of deep déjà vu flooding through her veins. She breaks off from her small party and runs ahead in the clear sunlight, shining through large, fluffy clouds to lay in a gentle haze upon the valley. When she reaches the crest she stops very suddenly, her heavy boots planting themselves in the waving grass as she stares.

Before her, the lake shines in the mid-morning sun, glinting and gleaming across the surface of the still water. The breeze picks up and sends ripples dancing across it, breaking the sunlight in a pattern that she feels she could glean and understand if she just looked for a short while longer. The mountains bracketing the vale are just as towering as they are from the small West-gate, but the snow-capped peaks are blinding in the sunlight and the effect of all this combined with the faint breeze and the waving grasses make Mhete wonder if she has somehow stepped into a fairytale, one her Amma or Adda told her when she was just a pebble.

It is all so beautiful.

Mhete finds herself continuing on without fully realizing her intentions, the lake calling to her heart and to her mind in a silent, whispering voice. There is no voice and yet she can almost hear words, and she suddenly wonders if the rock shaped similarly to a raven still stands where it once did along the northern bank.

She has never before stepped foot here, and yet coming here feels so much like returning home that Mhete wonders if it might bring her to her knees like her vision from before.

She stops a ways away from the edge of the lake, standing instead where the grass shifts into pebbles of all shapes and sizes, and stares nervously at the gently rippling surface until Mhorbok’s strong hand rests itself on her shoulder, comforting and paternal in a way Mhete has always treasured.

“Are you ready?”

“I couldn’t say,” Mhete says honestly, glancing at her ‘adad for a brief moment before returning her gaze to the lake that is said to offer no reflections save those of Durin’s Crown and of Durin himself. Themself, if all of her suspicions and outright surety are confirmed here, for while she may be zatakhuzdȗn she does not call herself ‘he’ like Durin I and Durin II, nor ‘they’ like many Khazâd she knows in this life. “But I am not sure I will ever be ready, and I cannot wait to be something that may never occur.”

Mhorbok is silent and does not speak again. Instead, he turns to the side to press his forehead against Mhete’s. There is a smile on his face, gentle and kind, and his forehead is warm against hers as she presses in return.

“Go,” Mhorbok says, quiet and close, and his hands squeeze her shoulders to give her strength and bravery beyond even what she already possesses as his forehead leaves hers. “We are with you.”

Mhete nods. She turns back to the lake and feels it beckoning her again with a gentle voice even she cannot fully hear, but for a moment she does not answer. An image rises to the forefront of her mind, unbidden as far as she knows: her hands are pale again, with dark hair on the spaces between knuckles, and the chisel in one is the same as what she saw the night before. The chisel did keep her from sleep for a time, and she can admit to finding some annoyance towards it, but a second thought and she realizes that a chisel is a poor focus of annoyance. Rather, the visions kept her up. But she fought the visions until she no longer could, and so the blame is on her in the end for stifling what she did not want to see.

I see now, Mhete thinks, and she feels more than hears a warm chuckle through her head as her pale hands from another life tap away at the stone. 

She is carving her beloved son, filled later with impatience that even she could not have foreseen, and the memory fills her with bittersweet longing so strong Mhete almost takes a step forward simply to steady herself. Why she longs if both Durin I and his son are dead, she cannot say, but some quiet surety tells her that she will realize — or remember, perhaps — in time. For now, the recent teachings of Scholar Nerar may yet bring other memories to the surface.

Finally, she steps forward onto the pebble beach. It crunches beneath her boots, more uneven by far than the gradually sloping, grassy hills of Azanulbizar, but despite this her footing is sure. She knows this beach.

As Mhete nears the lake itself she realizes, with a jolt as it suddenly, finally seems real despite how she knew this much in theory since she was very small, that the surface reflects not the sun but the stars, perfectly invisible in daylight. The clouds are the same, as are the mountains reflected above, yet the coloration of light and the heavens themselves are undeniably changed from what she can see when she looks up.

Strange does not begin to describe this.

Mhete stops at the edge of the lake. The water is still, save for faint ripples when the wind picks up for a moment. She looks down and sees herself staring back: her smooth, dark skin, her ‘adad’s nose and her ‘amad’s eyes, the braid clasps that denote her a young zakatkhuzdȗn of the line of Durin. Her beard is still growing day by day, soft ringlets like her ‘adad’s, but it is full enough to not be a point of shame or mockery from her agemates.

Then she remembers that you are not supposed to see your reflection here. A shock travels through her, and she takes a half-step back before exhaling and pushing herself to move forward until the toes of her boots kiss the water’s edge. She looks at herself and her reflection stares back, following her movements to a tee as all reflections do.

But there is more.

A glance at the rest of Kheled-zâram’s surface, and Mhete’s eyes catch on a series of stars, shining so brightly that they stand apart from the other stars until they almost seem to be something else entirely. They sit in an even, curved line, and Mhete does not have to count them to know the number deep within her soul. Seven for the Dwarf-lords, for the Forefathers of the Khazâd, of which Durin I was the greatest. The Forgemaster Mahal’s favored son, if what the stories say holds any truth.

A second source of light begins to appear, and when Mhete follows the light her gaze returns to herself. There is a star, it seems, shining before the reflection of Mhete’s forehead. But that cannot be right, for the stars are behind her and above her. This is different, then.

The source of light glows brighter for a moment, then splits into three. They are centered on Mhete’s forehead, so clear she almost wonders if they are affixed to her above the surface as well. The three glow brighter like before, and slowly three becomes five, all equally bright, set in a line with a gentle curve.

Mhete looks away from her reflection to find the constellation of Durin’s Crown where she had spotted it before.

Only two remain.

Her heart catches in her throat, disbelief warring with the knowledge that she has known the truth since almost the beginning — well, perhaps she did not know, but she felt an affinity she could not explain and when she sought an explanation out further the explanation did not quite manage to surprise her as it did her her ‘amad, her ‘adad, her irak’adad. Scholar Nerar’s hunch was right, even when Mhete tried for brief segments of time to pretend that it was not.

Will this change everything?

No, she thinks, and while the thought is not her own it is hers and echoes within her head all the same. Some things, yes. But a strong heart means everything when something like this is concerned, and there is a strong heart here that will be the guide through this all.

And suddenly, gently, Mhete is not afraid.

The sixth and seventh stars appear on her brow, glowing with bright, otherworldly light. She can see and feel them pulse once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Then they are still.

They are warm and light, and when she reaches up she can feel them across her brow. They are not only in the reflection after all.

Mhete laughs, short and light. I stole Durin’s Crown from Kheled-zâram, she thinks, a little nonsensical in the face of everything, the humor of the situation aiding in her processing the rest of it. It is true, at least: Durin’s Crown no longer shines in the middle of the lake, but instead on her brow both within Kheled-zâram’s reflection and without.

There is only one truth she can take from this, and as she gazes down at her clear reflection that truth settles in her heart, heavy with promise and with the changes that it will bring. Her life will never be as it was before Scholar Nerar spoke of Durin I, but all the same, would she have wanted it to stay that way?

She does not know.

What she does know is much simpler, and is a promise of its own.

“My name is Mhete,” she says quietly, and watches her lips move on the surface of Kheled-zâram as the stars shine ever bright and ever clear. “My name is Mhete, child of Thenis and Mhorbok, Khuzd of the line of Durin and of the line to the Longbeard throne, and I am Durin III.”

And so she is.

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Chapter End Notes

Neo-Khuzdul Translations
Zatakhuzdȗn — The Khuzd concept of nonbinary dwarrow, lit. ‘one who embodies both’. As in Chapter 2, thanks to determamfidd for coining it.
Khazâd — Dwarves
'Amad — Mother
'Adad — Father
Kurkarukê — My tiny raven
Khuzd — Dwarf
Irak’adad — Uncle

Thank you, the reader, for reading this fanfic of mine <3 it means a lot to me! if you enjoyed, I would really appreciate and adore a comment saying as much. Did you have a favorite part or character? What do you think about my interpretation of the first three Durins?

I hope to see you again in the next installment!