Súlimëo Quentar: March Stories by Elleth

Out of the Dust

At the end of his life, Durin remembers his creation.

Hands gather him out of the dust.

Two great, gloved hands, so calloused and corded with sinew and muscle that it can be felt through the fabric. But more than that he recalls the pulse of blood, the warmth of living flesh, the nimbleness of the fingers passing over his still-closed eyes.

Of course, at that point he has no word for any of it, has none of it yet – not hands, gloves, muscle, callouses, blood, flesh, fingers – which leaves him, only, with the understanding from beyond himself that these things exist, and that he exists in answer to them, is their creation.

Once more the fingers pass over his eyes, polishing cloth follows chisel over bone and brow and beard, and understanding is followed by elation that his unshaped form is assuming shape, lovingly wrought. It is thus that each of them, all of them, are wrought, they understand later, and it is thus, the wise say, that the memory of their loving creation has instilled the same love for their creations in them. And, perhaps, to forge one more link in the chain, that their creations, though inanimate and insensate, respond to them.

He himself, as craftsman, recalls the pride and anxious joy at the fulfilment of the labour, the rumble of words like thunder, and like lightning into sand, the command that sears through his eyes, leaving glassy clarity in its wake.

See, says the command, and he has sight.

It is as though peering into an endless mirror, for the creator is looking closely at him, at the creature he created and that his mind animates, back and forth from different eyes at something not yet entirely other. For how, unless he possesses a semblance of being, is he to understand that there are words that pour from Mahal's mind and into him? How else, unless he possesses a semblance of independence, is he to understand that his fingers yearn to close around chisel and hammer and make, now that the making of him is near-complete?

Then, for a while, he only remembers that there is nothing at all – not words, thought, sight, hearing, smell, touch, movement – until love, and terror, wash over him to the exclusion of all else, the great hammer uplifted, and the impulse, his own, very own, to try and ward it off, for he is.

He does not recall the long sleep, and wishes now that he did, does not remember asking Mahal if they shall meet again, to ward off the terror of the dark that is grasping for him with clawed, black hands, to press him down into the mire of dust and blood.

Sight, through no volition of his own, is leaving him. He can feel his fingers, old fingers, joints bunched and swollen, skin crinkling like leather, callouses of a long craftsman's life, slack around the helve of his axe. It has done its last service, and served him well to cleave the orc archer whose arrow found its mark in him. It is a better death than to have mourners and weepers clustered around his bed with false pity and none beyond the obvious purpose. Far better to fall in battle with the wind on his face and there, over the brow of the hill and the dark trees against the sky, his crown bursting alight among the stars. His heart swells with pride even as the axe slips from his grasp.

Before his mind's eye, the great hammer falls.

Hands gather him, broken, out of the dust. Two great, gloved hands, so calloused and corded with sinew and muscle that it can be felt through the fabric. Mahal looks closely at him, smiling bids the Deathless welcome, and passes a finger over his eyes before he begins mending the wounds.

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

I18: Book Titles: Out of the dust, Dwarves of the First Age: Durin the Deathless remembers coming to life and his maker Aulë, First Lines: When shall we meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain?, In a Manner of Speaking: For pity's sake, Injuries: Arrow wound, Landscape: Hil