Iron Cleaver by polutropos

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Chapter 1

Sindarin
Golodh (sg.), Golodhrim (class pl.) - Noldo, the Noldor (not derogatory, but used especially to mark difference)
Lachend (sg.), Lechind (pl.) - flame-eyed (Sindarin term for the Noldor, here derogatory)
Edhel, Edhil - Elf, Elves (who set out on the Great Journey)

Faenor - ‘correct’ Sindarization of Fëanáro (used by SkyEventide and adopted for this Remix)
Balannor - Valinor
Adareg - Sindarization of Curufin’s mother-name, Atarinkë, 'Little Father’
Belegorn - ‘Great Tree’

Khuzdul
Khazâd - Dwarves
Tumunzahar - Nogrod

Weapons mentioned
galvorn - metal devised by Eöl from a meteorite
Anglachel - sword of galvorn that Eöl gave to Thingol in exchange for Nan Elmoth; Beleg’s, then Túrin’s sword
Anguirel - sword of galvorn that Eöl kept, later stolen by Maeglin
Angrist - Curufin’s knife made by Telchar; per SkyEventide’s headcanon in Shining Black, it is also made of galvorn in this fic.

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Anguirel thrums a shrill strain of disquiet, echoing the mood of its master. Eöl clutches at his sword’s hilt until he senses that the Lords of Himlad have crossed beyond the borders of his forest. When they are gone, he slowly peels his fingers away and caresses the sword’s pommel with his palm. He has encountered others of the Golodhrim before but none has ever entered Nan Elmoth; but that is not the reason Anguirel whines. Before this meeting, he has heard no other Edhel speak the language of the Khazâd. Before this, no other Edhel has carried a weapon of galvorn.

Even in the cold shadows, Eol’s skin burns with hatred of the Golodhrim. The tree on whose great root he stands groans and he turns abruptly to grip its trunk with both hands, pressing his forehead to the gnarled bark where he can hear the life coursing through it.

“So,” Eöl breathes heavily against the tree, “Telchar has beaten the last of my ore into submission and gifted it to the Golodh.” The creak of straining wood draws his eyes up, throat bent back to the tree’s crown. “Belegorn,” he whispers hoarsely, “bid the forest keep watch over Curufin. I believe it will not be the last time he comes here, and there is much he hides from me.”

Before Curufin, Eöl has never met a mind he could not pierce.

*

Eöl’s home has been burrowed into a hill near the centre of the forest. Entering through the door of tangled vines that part before him, he inhales the familiar scent of loam and listens for the continual drip of moisture carried on the living roots that form the structure of a domed ceiling. He removes his armour and sword and lights a candle. Sitting on a smooth, round stone, he presses his palms together and taps the forefingers to his lips.

He closes his eyes and sings a song to bring together the fraying threads unravelling in his breast. He calls to mind all that he knows of Curufin Faenorion. So little – but it is a beginning.

*

As bidden, Belegorn sends vibrations through the earth when the Golodh returns to his borders, and Eöl follows them. Curufin squats on the ground over a rabbit carcass, slicing up its stomach with his knife and cutting away the skin.

“Well met, again, Lord of Himlad.”

Curufin lifts his head and rises, the colourless glint of his eyes dulled by the sun on his face.

“Well met, Lord of Nan Elmoth,” he says, squinting.

“I am not unsurprised to find you still probing at my borders,” Eöl says. “To know me better, no doubt?”

Curufin drags the back of his forearm across his mouth and casually slashes the air beside his hip with Angrist. “You think highly of yourself, Dark Elf. I did not stay for your company, but to understand better what enchantment lies on this forest.” Eöl feels the sting of Curufin’s mind searching. “For I too have a realm to defend,” he continues. “One on whose defence the safety of yours depends.”

Eöl laughs, three precise and distinct notes. “I do not think so. I was safe here before the Lechind arrived and will remain so when you have all fallen.”

“We shall see,” Curufin says.

A cloud passes over the sun and the shadows deepen on Curufin’s face. His form is well-crafted: straight lines accented by the play of light and shade in the spaces between, hair as black and shining as the knife that now hangs from the loose grasp of strong fingers. Not unlike himself, Eöl notes – save for the eyes.

Eöl reaches out to the forest, summoning it to wrap its breath around the other Elfl. Curufin shudders slightly and a flicker like twin flames splits the white light of his eyes. Their heat brushes against Eöl and he strives to enter through the crack, but it closes as quickly as it opened and the Golodh’s gaze is as distant as starlight when he looks away. Eöl exhales heavily through his nose and commands the forest to withdraw.

Released from the forest’s pull, Curufin relaxes and smiles. “Impressive. And I believed these enchantments were to guard your realm. Now it seems rather that they are to draw others in, even against their will.”

“They may do either, depending on my needs.” Eöl paces, weaving between the trees to quell his rising agitation.

“If there is something of mine that you need,” Curufin says, “tell me. You already know what it is I would learn from you. Perhaps we could help each other.”

“I would not willingly help a Golodh,” Eöl spits through his teeth, “though he promised me all the lore of Balannor.”

“Very well,” Curufin says. “I have other ways.”

“Oh?” Eöl asks, coming to a standstill.

“Observation, inquiry.”

“Indeed,” Eöl says, now his turn to smile, “how methodical. Tell me, is that how your father became so great, Adareg?”

Curufin flinches but does not respond, and Eöl keeps his eyes fixed on him as he crouches over the rabbit again, returning to his work with a pinched expression.

“Struck a nerve?” Eöl says. “Perhaps I will find you more forthcoming the next time we meet.”

*

Master Telchar:

Greetings from Nan Elmoth. I regret that I was unable to attend your most recent banquet in Tumunzahar. I intended to come but I was kept at home by the sons of Faenor, those who call themselves Lords of Himlad, who at last decided to pay me a visit.

One, Curufin, rather overstayed his welcome, stalking around my borders and seeking to learn of my spells of concealment. I confess I was surprised to hear him speak your tongue, and yet more amazed to see he carries a knife of galvorn of your making. You show him great honour in this gift. Angrist, he called it. A fitting name, no doubt one given by its maker? Yet it seems you left him ignorant of its material, for which I am grateful.

I cannot say I share your regard for him or any of his people. Though you know I admire any craftsman with a keen sense of curiosity, I do hope he gives up his pursuit of my secrets – and I trust I have your support in this.

I look forward to paying you a visit not long from now.

Eöl

*

The halls of Tumunzahar are a second home to Eöl. Like the towering trees of Nan Elmoth, the tall pillars stretch up towards a canopy of hewn rock. Beneath the rolling tones of Telchar’s voice, Eöl distinguishes the soft slide of water over stone. The mountains have a different music, less alive but mightier.

“I received your letter,” Telchar says. “I am pleased to know you and Curufin have become acquainted. I believe you could learn much from each other.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. In fact, I thought he came to Tumunzahar in your company. I believe he has gone looking for you now.”

Eöl’s hand is splayed tensely over the surface of the table. “He is here?”

“He is.” Telchar takes a long draw on his pipe and speaks through the smoke. “Why would he not be?”

“So I guessed rightly,” Eöl says. “There is more than a network of trade between your people and the sons of Faenor.”

With a flicker of his eyes, Telchar lifts the side of his mouth and the thick mass of his beard trails behind the half-smile. “Certainly not all of them.”

Eöl curls his fingers and massages his palm. “Why did you give him that knife?”

“I do not have to explain to you why I give away the works of my hands, and to whom.”

Two Khazâd in low conversation walk past them where they sit, nodding at the master smith. Eöl watches them round a corner.

“The Golodhrim have no place here,” he says, shifting away from Telchar to rest both arms on the table.

“In Tumunzahar?”

“In Beleriand.”

“Hm.” Telchar pauses, snuffing out his pipe and slipping it into the pocket of his coat.“That is not the concern of the Khazâd. What are the quarrels of the Elves to us? As for Tumunzahar, we may choose our guests and friends as we please. Curufin is a talented craftsman, worthy of our friendship, and of such a knife. But think not that the favour in which we hold you, Eöl, will endure should you decide to bring your strife into our halls.”

A glance is the only apology Eöl offers. “But you might have given him any other weapon of your making, why the blade of galvorn, the last of that metal remaining?”

“There is no other material that can so easily cut through iron.” The timbre of Telchar’s voice drops below the trickle of water. “The son of Faenor will have need of such a blade.”

Eyes stretched wide, Eöl turns to face Telchar. “Then you expect that they will succeed in fulfilling their oath?”

“I do not know. But surely you understand as well as I? You gave up Anglachel as tithe, and I know your heart grieves for it still. If Anguirel were taken from you also, would you not pursue the thief as ardently as the sons of Faenor pursue Morgoth?”

At the mention of his sword’s mate, Eöl tightens. His mind races to conjure an image of where he last set Anguirel – it rests beside the bed in his chambers here under the mountain. The blade calls to him, and he wishes he had it at his side now.

“You see?” Telchar says. “You will find none worthier of Angrist, or of your friendship. Inasmuch as one might call the acquaintance of Eöl friendship.”

The barb does not prick him. Telchar knows him well. “You say he looks for me? I had best arrange for him to find me, then.”

Eöl imagines other ways he might delve inside the Golodh’s mind. Mine it for what it is worth and discard the rest.

*

On the journey back to Nan Elmoth, the openness of the sky offers Eöl no comfort, and his agitation festers. But even under his dome of coiled roots, he is still chafed by a sense of lack.

He turns to the trees for solace, but he finds them less responsive; for when Eol sets his mind to obtaining something, his powers contract on that point and all else fades. Then he will sacrifice whatever he must to achieve his desired ends. So it was when possessing Nan Elmoth drove him to give up even the most precious work of his hands. So it is now that the Golodh’s defences hold strong against him.

The next time he meets Curufin, he will succeed.

*

The next time is at a banquet held at the house of Telchar.

Curufin’s long fingers surround his mug of ale like an embrace and his pale eyes slide in Eöl’s direction now and then. Eöl does not envy the Lechind the light in their eyes, for they are ever vulnerable in the darkness. He waves his head from Curufin to the unnatural blue light of the lamps hanging above Telchar’s board.

“An impressive innovation,” he says. “Your own work?”

Curufin huffs and does not dignify him with a response.

The dwarven craftswoman seated beside Eöl noisily chews and drags her bread through a bowl of thick soup. “What of your own work?” she asks. “I have not seen the handiwork of Eöl since the gift of galvorn many years ago.”

Telchar lowers his chin and eyes her from beneath his brows. “And a generous gift it was.”

With a quirk of his lips, Eöl spins the tips of his fingers around the mouth of his mug and glances at Curufin, who has not touched his food in a long while. “Indeed. And generously given again.”

He is grasping at a fraying cord of Curufin’s thought, but it snaps in the clamour of laughter that rises around them.

They do not speak again until the meal is over and the board cleared in a bustle of moving bodies. Words are cast about in the concise, clear language of the Khazâd, a secret Eöl and Curufin share.

From where Telchar is still seated at the head of the table, the smoke of his pipe twists through the air and rolls in until a dense haze fills the space between the two Elves. Eöl stands to leave and Curufin follows not far behind.

*

As they ascend the stairwell to Eöl’s room in Tumunzahar, he feels the heat of Curufin behind him; his mind is closed tighter than ever.

“I was not aware that the material was of your own making,”* Curufin says when they have come to his door.

Eöl turns to him and Curufin stands so close that he can only focus on singular features of his face. He scans from bright eyes to flared nostrils to straight lips, piecing together the whole. One hand grasps at the door’s handle, poised to push it open.

“And I suppose you wish to learn of its secrets also, dear lampwright?” Eöl says, returning to his eyes.

“No,” Curufin says. “I do not need your secrets.”

“I am glad we agree on that,” Eöl says, and swings the door open to his darkened room.

Curufin does not step through at once, but waits for Eöl to light the lamps. They are ordinary oil lamps, in need of replenishing – but he will not have need of light for long.

“If not for secrets,” Curufin asks, his eyes darting around the room, “why have you brought me here?”

“Brought you here?” Eöl replies, sitting at the table and gesturing for Curufin to join him. “Was it not you who followed me?”

The chair legs scrape against the floor when Curufin sits, and he makes no further response. In the silence that stretches out, they are no longer striving against one another – only waiting to see who will speak first, who will venture a guess as to what the other is thinking.

“I do not have the knife on me,” Curufin says at last.

Eöl laughs sharply. “I do not want that knife. Angrist will respond only to you now.”

Curufin sets those fiery eyes on him. “The metal is not fashioned to enact your will then?”

“You overestimate my power, Lachend. A part of me went into its making, and so I will be ever with you in that sense. That is enough. I can bend nothing, living or material, to my will. I only leave space for the thing to enact its own desires.”

They grapple for each other’s thoughts one last time, to be sure that no other option remains.

Curufin rises first and walks around to close his fists around the fabric of Eöl’s tunic, lingering over his lips. “You may have me, then. But let it be perfectly clear, Avar, that you will take nothing from me.”

"We shall see," Eöl says, before his mouth covers over Curufin's sneer.

Eöl takes little physical pleasure in driving himself into the Golodh's body. As he expected, Curufin's mind does not open for him.

But after he has taken him, Eöl drops to the ground and satiates his own lack. Mouth encircling him to the hilt, he drinks up the metallic taste of Curufin’s release and swallows hard, the full length of him still pressed to the back of his throat.

Eöl withdraws, looks up, and commits to memory this image: leaning back on his hands with eyes pinched shut, lips curled and twisted as the last wave of his pleasure jerks him forward.

It was another sacrifice for an incomplete conquest, but Eöl does not regret it.

*

Master Telchar:

I write to thank you for your recent hospitality and for your encouragement regarding relations with Curufin. I found the conversation I shared with him most fruitful and I return home with greater knowledge than when I left, that will no doubt be of use to me in future.

In friendship,
Eöl

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Chapter End Notes

* This line of dialogue is a direct quotation from Shining Black.

Thanks to cuarthol, moni_the_honey, and shores_of_esgalduin for beta.