Burning Bright: The Road by Keiliss

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Part 6/12

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6. Unlikely Encounters

The Road to Lórien

By mid morning the day’s early promise had faded. The sky was overcast and the cold had begun to bite in earnest. Galadriel glared up at the clouds, defying the threat of rain. They were not equipped to deal with ice on the path. Celebrían had said nothing since realising her mother was in earnest about crossing the Redhorn Pass, but finally she broke her unaccustomed silence.

“People come over here to trade with the men who live beyond elven lands, don’t they? As well as to visit the tree realm? I wonder what it’s like? I’ve never met anyone who’d been to Lórien.” 

She spoke quietly, but even so the words sounded loud in the clear air. As though the mountain was listening, Galadriel thought, before telling herself not to be fanciful. “People come and go over the Pass, though it’s long since I was last in Lórien,” she said, not slowing her pace. 

“You’ve been there before?” Celebrían sounded impressed.

“Yes, it was about – oh, five hundred years ago now. There’s nothing much to see except trees and Silvan elves really. It’s a good, peaceful place to meditate, but not exactly a hub of activity. When I travelled before you were born, Lindon was always more attractive… old friends to visit. Or sometimes I went north to Lake Evendim, to see how the men living along the shore fared.  I liked living there.” 

They reached a series of broad steps cut into the road to soften the incline. The way was narrowing to a path, overgrown in places, the marks of winter neglect everywhere. 

“What are they like? In Lórien, I mean. And why didn’t they put a hand rail here? It would have been so much easier. The pack’s making it hard for me to balance.”

“When we stop I’ll take a look. Perhaps we can move a few things around. The people of Lórien? Quiet people, they like to keep to themselves. Singers. The nights are beautiful, filled with song. They light little lanterns under the trees and sing and talk right through till dawn.”

“So – when do they sleep then?”

Galadriel hoped Bri would outgrow this habit of asking awkward questions, something that amused Celeborn vastly as he said the child had it from her mother. “They sleep when the spirit moves them, when they’re tired, be that day or night, but they’re more night people I suppose than we are – were – in Ost-in-Edhil. Daylight is when the work gets done; night is for enjoyment.”

“Even the children?”

She compressed her lips briefly. “Yes, Bri, even the children. It’s their way, not ours. When I was a child we were expected to go off to bed and leave the night to the adults, which still seems right to me.”

The steps – step, walk several paces, step again – were tackled in silence while Celebrían digested this. “How did you know it was night if the Trees gave light all the time?”

“Yellow light, day, silver light, night.”

“But did you call them day and night, or…?”

“Time of work and time of rest.” She had no idea what they used to call them; it was a very long time ago and other cultures and experiences had overlain the memory, but she had to say something.

“You’re making that up, aren’t you?” Celebrían asked shrewdly. She wasn’t normally this direct, at least not with her mother, but it was just the two of them and would be for some time. She seemed to have taken that knowledge to heart.

“Well, it was something along those lines. There was a division between what we did at which times, just as there is here with the sun and moon to shape our days, though the Trees were more reliable, they never varied. At least not that I recall. The most beautiful time of all was when both lights mingled – that was the best, the time for singing and dancing.”

The drop on the far side of the trail was increasing and the paving had become progressively uneven underfoot. Low, greenish-grey plants and straggling bushes with strange, hard flowers grew alongside the path and down the tumbling slope, clinging to the spaces between the rocks. Galadriel found herself agreeing with Celebrían about the need for a handrail of sorts. They were at the wrong angle to see across to the city so the view was minimal and the air was bitter cold, the snow disturbingly near. 

“I never liked the idea of it being light all the time. Was that why everyone was so upset when the Trees were killed? Because they didn’t understand dark?”

“Celebrían, we weren’t ignorant savages, we knew most of the world lay under dark skies. All we had to do was leave Tirion and travel along the coast, or go to the other side of Tol Eressëa…”

“Well there’s no need to get cross, I was only asking.”

“I’m not cross, I’m just… All right, yes, it was unnatural, but we had nothing to compare it to at the time. Our fathers did, though, or our grandfathers. They lived over here under starlight and hid from monsters until the summons came. It might have been sensible to create the sun and the moon right then and get it over and done with, but…”

“Mother? Over there.”

Although curious and full of questions, Celebrían seldom interrupted her elders without good cause. Galadriel stopped mid-heresy and looked, then resumed walking. “Oh really, Celebrían, you startled me. It would be strange not to see a few dwarves on the mountain.”

“Well, they live under it,” Celebrían said sensibly, “not on it. And he’s not doing anything, Nana. I think he’s watching us.”

The dwarf sat on a flat rock at the side of the path and made no attempt to engage them when they came level with him. Galadriel inclined her head politely as they passed. “Good morrow and good fortune, son of Aulë. May it be well with you and yours, and long life to your king.”

Celebrían picked up her cue and said softly, “Good day and good fortune, Master Dwarf.” It was a fair greeting from a young person to one long in years, although Galadriel wondered if the dwarf could tell an elf’s age on sight. She would be hard pressed to make such a distinction amongst dwarves. 

He nodded to them and placed his hand casually over the centre of his chest, but said no word. They continued along the path, aware of his eyes on their backs until they rounded the next bend. Privacy restored, she and Celebrían exchanged looks. 

“Creepy,” was Celebrían’s verdict, with which her mother could find no argument.

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They travelled through the day with regular stops to snack on the waybread Galadriel had packed or drink the water they carried. She also had some of the cordial they used to make in Nargothrond that gave the extra strength the body called for at the end of a hard journey, but that was for emergencies. At one of these stops they rearranged Bri’s pack, and Galadriel finally dispensed with the fashions of Eregion or any previous home and bundled her hair up on the back of her head in a loosely fastened heap. At least it was out of the way, she pointed out when Celebrían laughed.

At each stop, the snow grew nearer, the air colder, the path steeper and more treacherous. “How do we manage when we get up there?” Celebrían asked, pointing to where the mountain rose almost sheer against the sky, grey streaked and crowned with white. 

“There are steps cut into the rock at places, almost like ladders, and there’s a rope to hold onto on the steep parts,” Galadriel told her. “We’ll go slowly and stop every time we find a sheltered spot. The main thing is not to think of the destination, just to take each stage as an experience in and of itself.”

Hearing herself she cringed. She sounded just like her grandmother.

Celebrían was sitting close to her, sharing one of the little squares of waybread. The wind had been growing steadily since their last stop and when it gusted strongly she shivered and seemed to draw deeper into her clothes. Galadriel mentally catalogued the contents of both their packs and knelt to go through hers till she came up with a brightly embroidered sleeveless jacket. “Try this on,” she said. “It’s padded, it’ll keep out the worst of the wind. Go on,” she added as Celebrían hesitated, “I won’t need it, I feel the cold less than you.”

Which was true, but she had not been prepared for how quickly the weather worsened after that. Mid-afternoon saw them tackling the ever-increasing incline with heads bowed against the wind and the damp flurries that soon turned to rain. Their packs would keep out the water but it was a bad start to the journey, with worse to come when they reached the snowline. 

For the first time Galadriel wondered if it was possible the dwarves had reneged on their agreement with Brim to keep the pass open in all weather. She also started to watch her daughter carefully. She had maintained to Celeborn that Celebrían was young and strong, the child of two hardy lines, and would have no trouble with the ascent, but she had expected to leave closer to spring, not with winter still sitting heavy on Caradhras’s slopes.

They were taking another break out of the wind when they saw the dwarf again, trudging up the trail behind them. He had sensibly chosen a stick to aid him on the steep parts and was heading towards them with the steady gait that was the signature of his kind. Celebrían looked at her, her brow lightly furrowed. “We’re allowed to cross here, aren’t we, Nana?” she asked in a low voice. “This isn’t their land, is it?”

“Everyone who needs to reach the other side uses the pass,” Galadriel reassured her. “Elves cross here on the road to Lórien as do mortals heading south. Dwarves have no need of it, they can pass under the mountain in the safety of their city.”

They fell silent, Celebrían taking her cue from her mother’s waiting attitude. When he reached them, the dwarf stopped to study them, frowning. Galadriel returned look for look. He had a broad, ginger-brown beard and hair of the same shade with a sprinkling of grey in places. His eyes were the colour of slate, but with little gold speckles in them. They seemed to twinkle, belying his solemn expression.

“Where do you go to, elf woman?” he asked in a gravely voice. “The snow lies thick on the passes still. The way you seek is within your strength but too harsh by far for the young one.”

Celebrían twitched but kept still. In her young life she had met a wide assortment of beings through her parents and had learned to watch and listen. “We leave before the Darkness,” Galadriel replied quietly. “I take word and warning to the King of Lorien-wood. My bones tell me to make haste, there is no time to wait for the thaw.”

He studied her then grunted. “You are kin to the Smith.” It was a statement, not a question and Galadriel nodded agreement. “My father and his grandfather were brothers,” she replied, “both fallen long time past. Celebrimbor brought me here during his work on the doors.”

He nodded as though this were not news to him. “My great-grandsire met you,” he said. “He spoke well of you, said that your tongue knew wisdom.”

“My respects to your great-sire for his courtesy,” she replied politely. She thought dwarves might live a bit less than three centuries, but no one knew for sure and she had no idea if it would be normal for an adult to have great-grandparents still living.

He grunted again and lapsed into silence. Galadriel waited. Celebrían moved restlessly and tried to catch her eye, but when she deliberately looked away took the hint and stilled. Finally the dwarf roused himself from a contemplation of the landscape and cleared his throat. “Time to be going then,” he said. “Come along, ‘tis a treacherous path after nightfall.”

Galadriel reached for Celebrían’s pack and turned her round with a hand on her shoulder. “Put this back on. Where are you taking us, son of the mountain? I thought to walk a little by night and rest in the hollow around the third bend from the first stairs.”

“That mountain is not for young elf maids,” he replied firmly. “This I have already told you. Durin says that your errand is urgent indeed if you climb the Red Pass with your youngling at this time of year. Durin says that for the sake of your kinsman, the doors he inscribed will be opened to you. Come. Tonight you will eat at our hearth and sleep safe out of the wind. Tomorrow will take care of itself.”

On the Road

“North-west. If we keep moving north-west we have to hit the river in the end.”

“The ford’s a bit more north. We need to angle over - that way a little…”

“I know where North is, Lindir.”

Erestor and Lindir stood glaring at one another in the scant shelter from the drizzle offered by a pair of giant boulders. A short distance away their mounts waited, determinedly cropping the sparse grass. It had been raining steadily for two days now, and they had kept on regardless except when lashing wind forced them to seek temporary shelter. Somehow in the poor visibility they had lost the faintly discernable trail that traversed Eriador between the Gwathlo and Baranduin fords. 

Lindir was pacing a circle half out and then back into shelter, fingers threaded through damp curls the colour of dark honey, massaging his scalp as though to excise a headache. Turning back to face Erestor, he held up a placating hand. “Right. Let’s think this through logically. We were definitely on the track what, two days back? Before the last stop and this morning’s guesswork, yes?”

Erestor leaned against the rock and let the rain drip down on him. So much for all the talk about Eriador being a delightfully unspoilt and largely uninhabited wilderness. The weather explained all that. “If we go too sharp north, we’ll miss the river altogether. Walk north far enough and all you’ll find is ice.”

“Might run into some ice giants?” Lindir said dryly, his expression eloquent. “No, I don’t believe in them either. Wolves though, yes. So – what do you want to do then?” 

Erestor gave the sky a disgruntled look. “Well, this won’t stop any time soon, so there’s no point in waiting till the weather clears. I think we should just keep west, myself. When we reach the Baranduin we can follow it north till we find the ford. After that there’s even something close to a road in places.”

Lindir nodded. “That sounds like the best idea. Get along now or let the horses rest longer? I’m not happy with Urvaer’s leg, he’s limping ever so slightly.”

“Noticed that, yes. All right, we can give it a while. Pity we can’t make a fire, but we can still…”

Whatever he had been about to say was swallowed up into silence as an elf rounded the side of the boulders and stopped in front of them. He had the alien look of one of the Avari, clad after their fashion in loose fitting trousers and a long tunic, all woven in a soft blend of greens, greys and misty violet and belted at the waist with a swirl of rose cloth. His hair was the colour of old stone, his eyes dark green. He looked from one to the other of them and shook his head. “Sea-elves lost?” he asked without preamble in a sing-song voice. 

They exchanged glances; Lindir looked as shaken as Erestor felt. Catching his breath, he was about to explain they weren’t Telerin, the shore dwellers, but Lindir spoke first, all careful courtesy. “We lost the path to the ford in the rain. Of your kindness, could you guide us? We have nothing to offer in return for your aid, but I could make you a song if that would answer?”

Sharp eyes fastened on him. “Song is good. Make music with the land?”

“With the river water, rather,” Lindir replied, “This is a new land to me, it would be a liberty to sing of it as though I knew its secrets.”

Erestor kept quiet and watched attentively. The answer appeared to satisfy the Avar, who nodded again then waited expectantly. Moving towards the horses, Erestor found his voice again. “We can start now, yes. How did you know we were here? You weren’t following us, were you?” The next thought brought with it a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. How many pairs of eyes might have been tracking us unnoticed through the rain.

“Not follow. Called. Find lost sea-elves.”

Erestor went ice cold. Lindir’s eyes met his thoughtfully across Urvaer’s back, then moved fleetingly to the covered pack that protected the instruments from the weather. “Called by who? Or what?” he said, his voice low.

“Let it go, don’t get into complicated conversations,” Erestor muttered. There was no need for more, his own thoughts were mirrored in Lindir’s blue eyes. “You’ll make a song?” he asked, speaking a little louder, aiming for discreet rather than secretive. “What made you suggest that?”

“They like music.” Lindir matched his tone, two Elves having a private conversation that might easily be overheard by a sharp-eared listener. “I met Avari before when I was travelling, they value songs as we do pearls. Haven’t had their taste corrupted yet.”

Erestor snorted softly. “Yes, I suppose. Though I don’t understand why he thought we were Telerin.”

“Huh? Oh, the ‘sea-elves’ bit, you mean? Noldor, people who came from the sea with the sky lights, and the land hasn’t been quiet since…”

“Maeriel says that rather a lot. She’s Silvan, too.”

“Maeriel? Your lady?” 

Erestor grinned as Lindir tried to hide his confusion. “I’m a realist, it’s not ladies whose names get linked to mine,” he retorted. “No, she’s Lord Círdan’s --- companion might be the right word, they’ve never bound, don’t know why. I’ve known her for a long time, she always says we Noldor would be improved by a touch of civilization.”

“Sounds right.” Lindir turned to the new arrival. “All right, we’re ready now. What may we call you?”

The Avar had been waiting patiently to one side, ignoring the rain which had diminished into a fine mist. “I am Badger in your tongue. Let the bearer walk, do not ask him to carry. He hurts.”

Lindir’s eyes moved from the horse to the stranger. Behind him Erestor offered quietly, “I was about to suggest that. Give him a rest. You’re no great weight, but still, he shouldn’t put extra stress on that leg.”

His face expressionless, Lindir considered for a moment. Then he reached up and removed the pack containing the fiddle and harp, slinging it over his shoulder with a simple, experienced motion. Fastening the carry straps, he nodded briskly. “All right, I’m ready now. Let’s go find the ford.”

 

Khazad-dum

They spent the afternoon retracing their steps, and Celebrían noted cheerfully that coming down was a lot easier than going up. Once she got the knack of leaning back a little to keep her balance, she proceeded to strike up a conversation with their guide, who gave his name as Thorhof, which he was at haste to explain was merely the one he used amongst outsiders. Content to let someone else deal with her daughter’s seemingly endless curiosity, Galadriel followed behind. 

“Yes, but where do you get your food from? You can’t grow it under the mountain, can you?”

“No child, you are quite right. Grain does not grow without sunlight. We trade for it, offering one of the earth’s gifts for another, metals for grain.”

The questions had been going on for a while and he answered each with a gruff kindness that confirmed all Galadriel had heard of the Hadhodrim’s fondness for children. To her he was polite but firm and she would not have liked to overtax his patience, but Celebrían chattered away freely and was in her turn indulged. 

He led them upstream from the ford to where a series of well-placed stones crossed the Sirannon, after which they returned to the path they had ridden along with Celeborn, who was now long gone up into the hills with his fighters. At the fork they took the other arm this time and followed the red clay road, the sound of the little river that flowed alongside growing ever brighter and stronger.

They reached the holly hedge close to sunset. Beyond it the road narrowed and turned, turned again, leading them towards the sound of leaping waters where the river splashed and danced down a sparkling, rainbow-lit waterfall. The road led between two giant holly trees and stopped before a pair of great doors set within the sheer rock of the mountain, the entrance to Hadhodrond, the underground city of Durin’s folk. 

Late rays of sunshine peeked out from the clouds and glinted off the designs on the doors, making the ithildin shine like captured moonlight. Celebrían had fallen silent after exclaiming at the beauty of the waterfall and now turned wide, wondering eyes to her mother. 

Quietly Galadriel said to their guide, “Dark times indeed. I recall when these gates stood open to the world, back when your great-grandsire hung them and my kinsman made the marks.” 

“We keep to ourselves these days,” he replied glumly. “Less and less do we stray far from the sound of the Sirannon, and the word to open them is now known only to those of us with business in the outer lands.”

She smiled softly and walked forward to trace her fingers over the ornate whorls of the shining tree. Celebrimbor had been so damn proud of that tree. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes, making the silvery lines shimmer and multiply. She blinked them back determinedly. No one would see her mourn Brim. That was private, between him and her. 

Stepping back she looked up at the Feanorian Star, crafted in possibly the last place her uncle would ever have thought to find it. She remembered arguing with Brim about whether he would have been pleased or annoyed. She still thought his ego would have relished the idea of the sign of his house holding pride of place upon the entrance to a dwarf realm, although at the time Brim had said he doubted his grandfather knew there was any such thing as a dwarf. Neither of them could be certain; Feanor’s knowledge of the world had been wide-ranging and exceptional and not often shared.

She brought her thoughts back to the present. “Mellon,” she said in a clear, steady voice and the great doors instantly began to move, open and outward. She even managed a smile for Celebrían. “Celebrimbor never could resist sharing what he thought of as his cleverer touches.”

Celebrían hesitated for an instant, glancing back over her shoulder at the fading light of sunset, the beginning of the between time of dusk, then moved closer to her mother. Galadriel tried to recall if they had ever taken her underground anywhere before. No, this would be a new experience. Best be light about it then. 

She waited for Thorhof to cross the threshold ahead of her then took Celebrían’s hand and followed him. As the doors began slowly to swing shut behind them, Celebrían’s hand clenched convulsively around hers. She squeezed back firmly. “Look about you,” she said quietly. “We are beyond fortunate. This is not a sight many Elves can claim to have see - Khazad-dum, the deeps of Durin’s folk.”

Great lamps burned in a massively vaulted hallway. The polished floor retained just enough roughness underfoot to prevent someone in haste from sliding. From what they could see the walls were bare, but they had no need of adornment. A great staircase stretched upward to a level beyond their sight, lit at intervals by tiny lanterns set in intricately wrought iron brackets. 

“Welcome to the Halls of the Dwarves,” Thorhof said formally. “Just a short climb now, youngling, and you will be amongst my kindred. When we reach my dwelling, you can rest.”

“So many steps,” breathed Celebrían, enthralled, any fear of being enclosed clearly forgotten. 

“Two hundred stairs in all there are,” their host informed them. “Count them as you climb, it makes the task lighter and will take your mind from the weight of your journey. The road to the other side of the mountain is straight now and smooth.“

Galadriel nodded but passed no comment. One thing at a time. First, Khazad-dum.