Songs of Stone and Mountain by pandemonium_213

Chapter 1: Grave News

Many thanks to Elleth for coining the word calahyama, "light-cleaver" in Quenya, which is a Second Age equivalent of an interferometer.  The opening chapter takes place not long after Mélamírë sees Dísa in Chapter 4 of The Writhen Pool when she is experimenting with materials and methods in her efforts to craft a scrying device for Galadriel.

Read Chapter 1: Grave News

Mélamírë tightened her grip on the tongs' handle and eyed the distance between the crucible and the ceramic mold set upon the low stone pedestal.   Searing heat seeped through her leather apron, and the molten metal within the crucible glowed golden, bronzing Thornangor's face like the light of sunset. 

 

"On the mark of three, we shall lift," she said to her apprentice, who held the opposite handle of the tongs.  Thorno acknowledged her instructions with a subtle nod of his head and tightening of his lips. 

 

"Right then.  One…two…" 

 

She never reached three.  

 

"Master!  Master!"  

 

Small boots thumped on the stone floor of the foundry while they carefully lowered the crucible back onto steel framework.  Mélamírë released the handle and rounded on the unwelcome interruption.

 

"Stars' blood, girl!  Can't you see I am at work?"

 

Lárasel flinched and looked down at her feet.  For a moment, Mélamírë felt sorry for the young assistant, but the girl needed to learn to obey her orders. 

 

"Didn't I tell you that Apprentice Thornangor and I were not to be interrupted?"

 

"Yes, my lady, but there are Dwarves here to see you."

 

"The Dwarves can wait.   Take them to the dining hall and have tankards of ale drawn for them."

 

"Their leader, my lady — he insists on seeing you immediately.  He says he has grave news."

 

That gave Mélamírë pause.  She turned to stare at the molten metal in the crucible, its edges darkening as it cooled.  An amalgam of copper and iron, it was not precious by any means, but she had hoped to test the tolerance of the new mold, the first she had made since she improved the resolution of the calahyama.

 

"Then I had best meet him.  Thorno, would you…?"

 

"Yes, Master.  I'll take care of it."

 

Mélamírë wiped her hands on her apron as she strode toward the massive double doors of the foundry.  There at the entry was a party of five Dwarves.  A figure slighter than the others stepped forward.  The Dwarf had a neatly trimmed beard and honey-brown locks that were elaborately braided and bedecked with gold and agate beads.  The richness of the Dwarf's leather trousers, well-turned boots, and a dark blue cloak spoke of a noble house.  Mélamírë recognized the leader of the party at once.

 

She, not he.  Lárasel could be forgiven for mistaking a Dwarf-woman for a Dwarf-man.  It was not easy for the young among Firstborn to discern the difference. 

 

The Dwarf-woman's amber eyes were reddened, as if she had been weeping.  Mélamírë's heart sank, for she had been awaiting sad news from the House of Narvi for these past few weeks, but she schooled her face into impassivity and bowed deeply from the waist to greet the Dwarves.

 

"Master Naryen at your service."

 

In turn, the Dwarf-woman bowed.  "Junior-Master Aldís at yours."

 

"What brings you…'

 

Aldís did not let her finish.  "It is Grandmother.  She is dying.  She asks for you."

 

"I shall come."  Mélamírë called to Lárasel, "Send word to the stables to have Hawk ready within the hour." 

Chapter 2: Pall of Sorrow

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 The light of silver lanterns exalted the opulence of the bedchamber, its stone walls decorated with tapestries and its floor covered by patterned wool rugs, but it did nothing to dispel the pall of sorrow that darkened the room.  In the middle of the chamber was a large bed, its wooden posts carved with an elaborate array of vines and leaves and its damasked curtains pulled back to reveal a small lump beneath an embroidered coverlet.  Mélamírë always admired the mastery of Dwarven-craftsmanship, but now, their artistry reduced the once-mighty woman who lay in the bed to insignificance.

 

Mélamírë had not changed her clothes since she left Ost-in-Edhil. No doubt she reeked of sweat, for she had ridden hard and fast to the West Door, and then with no sleep, had marched with unrelenting speed to the Mansion of Narvi in the eastern halls of Khazad-dûm.  Time was of the essence, and she was relieved to see that she was not too late.

 

When Aldis and Mélamírë arrived, Dagr, Dísa's brother and the head of the household, rose from one of the chairs placed by the bedside.  Rising with him were his wife, Bera, and Dísa's son, Sefi, and his wife.  Two other Dwarf-women stood nearby, one clad in the deep red robes of the healers' society.  Dagr walked to the door to greet her, his deep voice husky with grief. 

 

"Lord Dagr at your…"

 

Mélamírë dared to throw all proprieties aside and, placing her hands on his shoulders, stopped Dagr in mid-bow.  "There is no need for such formalities between us, old friend."  She leaned down to whisper:  "I am so sorry, Dagr.  She is…?" 

 

"Yes, she is still aware and has been asking after you." 

 

Propped up by thick pillows, Dísa had deteriorated even more since they had last seen one another a year ago.   Her snow-white beard and hair had thinned considerably, so that her scalp and chin were plainly visible, and she had wasted away to little more than skin stretched over bones.  Her skin was sallow, a sign that her liver was failing as the Crab gnawed through her once strong body.   Yet, the Dwarf-woman had enough strength to open rheumy eyes, and a ghost of a smile fluttered across her lips.

 

"You came."

 

Mélamírë swallowed the sob that threatened to emerge.  "Of course, dearheart. How could I not?"

 

Dísa smiled weakly and made a gesture with her gnarled hand, still bedecked with glittering jeweled rings. "Come closer so that I can see you.  Sit."

 

A servant slipped out from the shadows to push a chair beside the bed.   Mélamírë gently lowered herself to sit on it.  Fortunately, the robust girth of Dwarves ensured that her hips were not squeezed in the undersized furniture, but her knees threatened to hit her chin.  It was ridiculous to dwell on her discomfort when her dearest friend lay dying.

 

"You look like a stork in a robin's nest," Dísa said, her chuckle ending in a fit of coughing.   The healer leaned forward and offered a goblet of what looked like dark wine, but Mélamírë caught the bitter scent of poppy extract.  Dísa waved it away, and when she recovered her breath, she rasped,  "Closer, my jewel.  Sit here beside me. I want you to be comfortable."

 

Uncertain that this was advisable, Mélamírë looked at both the healer and Dgar, who silently gave their permission.   She settled herself on the bed beside her friend and took her aged hand in hers.

 

"I have something to ask of you," Dísa said.

 

"Anything."

 

"Will you sing to me?

 

"Of course.  The Lay of Sigga?  You have always liked that." 

 

With no small effort, Dísa shook her head.  "No.  Not a Dwarvish song. I want you to take me into the enchantment that Elvish songs weave.  You remember?  The way you sang to me so long ago?"  She squeezed Mélamírë's hand. "I want you to sing a dream.  Sing a dream about us."

 

Mélamírë closed her eyes and was swiftly pulled back to a secluded grotto, where, cushioned by thick furs, she lay entangled with Dísa, spent and happy.  It was their secret place, that garden of stone, where crystalline minerals of many colors and fantastical forms glimmered in the lantern light, and where an underground stream warbled a sweet seductive melody as its waters flowed into a clear pool.  

 

It seemed only months ago that Mélamírë had idly smoothed Dísa's tossled hair and trailed her fingers across the soft skin of her broad shoulders.  Still fuzzy from the afterglow of passion, Mélamírë had not thought much about the song she sang to her lover — a lullaby from the first memories of her childhood.   It was a song of stone and mountain, of granite and obsidian, of quartz and topaz, of garnet and sapphire. And her words had not been those of the Grey Elven tongue, which was what she and Dísa spoke together since they first met. Nor had she sung in Khuzdul, for Mélamírë did not know enough of that language for such subtlety. When she ended the song, Dísa's eyes stared ahead in a trance, and spittle trickled from the corner of her mouth.

 

Alarmed, Mélamírë had called Dísa's name and gently shook her.   Awareness brightened in her lover's amber eyes

 

"What did you do to me?"

 

"I am so sorry, I didn't mean to…"

 

Dísa rolled over to press her weight on top of Mélamírë and cupped her face in her broad hands.  "No! Do not apologize, my love!  It was extraordinary. I felt that I was in the song. I became the stone and mountain.  I felt as if I were as beautiful as the topaz and sapphire that you sang of." 

 

"You are as beautiful as those and more," Mélamírë had said as she wrapped her hand around the back of her lover's neck and pulled her lips to meet hers for a lingering kiss.  The edges of Dísa's beard had tickled, a prickly contrast to the wet silkiness of her lover's tongue that never failed to thrill her.

 

"But the language?" Dísa said when they caught their breath. "It is not Elvish, nor is it Khuzdul, and yet, I understood."

 

Mélamírë was then compelled to explain it away as a song in the language of the Valar that her father learned from Aulë when he was one of the Aulënossë.

 

"From Mahal himself," Dísa had said dreamily.  "How I should like to have seen what your father has, but your song lets me see."

 

Dísa's clear eyes were now clouded with age and illness, and the once strong Dwarf-woman was trapped within this wasted body.  How could Mélamírë deny her this last wish?  Yet she hesitated.  What would the others think when they heard the strange words?  Dísa wanted her to sing of their long, deep friendship, of their love for one another.  How could she sing honestly of such intimacy with others present?

 

Dísa solved the problem for her.  "Leave us," she whispered to Dagr. "I wish to be alone with my friend.  Just for a little while."

 

"Mother, I do not think that wise…" Sefi started to protest, but Dagr interrupted him.  "Dísa is in good hands."  His dark eyes sought Mélamírë. "You will summon us, yes?"

 

"I shall."

 

The Dwarves silently left the bedchamber.  When the heavy door shut and the latch clicked, Dísa said, "Now sing of us, my love.  Take us to what we once were."

 

"Yes, my dearest," said Mélamírë. "All that and more."   She cleared the sorrow from her throat and began to sing.

Chapter 3: The Elf-child

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After her mother left the nursery in the company of that impossibly tall elf-woman, Dísa sized up the much smaller elf-child who stood before her.  Clad in a stiff dress, the little creature's dark hair was pulled back into mass of tiny plaits, so tight that the skin of her forehead was stretched, giving her a surprised look.   That made Dísa glad that old Gulla did not braid her own hair so tightly.  Bright flecks of silver glinted in the girl's grey eyes.  They looked like mithril shards catching the moonlight.

 

Dísa crossed her arms in front of her and tried to look stern and important while the elf-child glared back at her.  Her brother, Dagr, as the heir of their House, had been invited to go along with Father and those even taller (and scary) elf-men, but Mother firmly told her she was to remain in the nursery with Gulla.

 

Mother had scolded Dísa after she complained about being left out.  "Have I not taught you that it is not proper for our women and girls to mingle with men of the Others?  You shall remain here and entertain the little girl."

 

It was so unfair!  Father often took her with him to the forges, but now it seemed that Dagr was more important.  She did not want to be nice to this girl, whose lips were pursed and eyebrows scrunched, looking like she was none too happy to be left here with Dísa.

 

"You shall be kind to her," Mother had whispered in her ear.  "This child is kin to Celebrimbor, who, I don't need to tell you, is a loyal friend to the House of Narvi.    Her parents are important people in the Elven-City, and your father wishes to make a good impression on them.  So you behave and mind Mistress Gulla."

 

The elf-woman also eyed her daughter. "The same must be said to you, young lady. Comport yourself properly and no mischief." 

 

Mother's cheeks flushed, and she looked startled that this stranger overheard her, but the elf-woman was not flustered in the least.  "I am sure they will be fine, Lady Hlín.  Now, shall we be off to your herbalists' guild? I am most interested in hearing of their success with burn wounds."

 

"Certainly, Lady Culinen.  Let us be on our way."  Mother led her out of the nursery, but shot Dísa a sharp look before she closed the door.

 

For a long time, they just looked at each other while Dísa tried to think of what to say.  She had never met an elf-child before.  This tiny girl was so odd:  no wisps of a beard grew on her chin, and she was fine-boned and skinny, like a fledging bird.  Dísa's curiosity at last shoved her anger aside, and she spoke first.

 

"How old are you?"

 

"Seven.  Seven sun-rounds.  Years, I mean."  The girl spoke the Grey-Elven tongue, but with a different accent compared with what Dísa and Dagr had been taught.  Her words were rounder somehow, like water flowing over smooth rocks.

 

"You are so tiny!  You can't be seven."

 

The elf-child straightened, as if trying to look bigger.  "Am so."

 

"You're too short to be seven."

 

"Well, I shall be taller than you when I am a grown-up."

 

"And I shall be stronger!  Mahal made the Dwarves from stone!"

 

The elf-girl opened her mouth, but snapped it shut, as if she meant to say something but thought better of it.  Instead, she asked, "How old are you then?"

 

"Nine."

 

"Huh.  You may be bigger than I am now, but you're not that much older."  The elf-girl looked around the nursery.  "What is there to do here?"

 

Dísa pointed to the many books and clever toys on the nursery's shelves.  "I guess we could read, or maybe play with the clockwork toys."

 

"You have clockwork toys?"  The elf-girl's eyes were wide as saucers.  "Oh, yes!  Let's do that!"

 

Dísa and the elf-child played with the clockwork toys, winding them up and watching them march past and into each other.  Dísa forgot about being angry, and the elf-girl must have, too, as they laughed at the antics of the toys.

 

The elf-girl asked question after question about how this one worked, and that one, so she and Dísa took apart the wind-up raven and put it back together.  The child pieced the intricate gears back together, adept as any Dwarf-girl.  When they at last looked up, old Gulla was snoring, slumped in her chair, and her knitting had fallen from her lap to the floor.

 

"I have an idea," Dísa said. "Do you want to see one of the forges?"

 

"Yes!"

 

"We'll have to be careful.  I am not allowed to be in the forge by myself."

 

"Me neither."

 

"It wouldn't hurt just to look."

 

The elf-girl nodded with enthusiasm.  "Just to look, yes."

 

"We'll have to sneak out and squeeze through a tunnel.  You might get that dress dirty though."

 

"I don't care.  I hate this dress.  It's itchy."

 

Maybe this elf-girl wasn't so bad after all.  "Let's go then…what did you say your name was?"

 

"Didn't say.  But it's…well,  you may call me Mélamírë.  I mean, Mélamírë at your service."  The elf-child bowed. "That's what I am supposed to say, right?"

 

"Yes, that is what you're supposed to say.  Then I say, 'Dísa at yours.' Now follow me, and be quiet!"

 

Later, with their clothes torn and filthy, hair unbraided and tousled, they stood before Mother and Father and the grown-up Elves.   Dísa bore the brunt of Mother's disappointment.

 

"What are we to do with you, girl?  Why do you not do as you're told? Was your disobedience worth tearing up your new tunic and ruining Lady Naryen's dress?"

 

Dísa ducked her head while Mother scolded her, but she glanced up once and saw her great-grandfather's friend — Celebrimbor — looking down at her.  He grinned briefly and winked.  Then Mélamírë nudged her with her little hand.  Dísa saw the same fleeting grin on her face and a wicked glint in the elf-girl's eyes.  Oh, yes, it had been worth it.

---

Chapter End Notes

In the Pandë!verse, I adhere a bit more closely to the source texts (zounds!) with regard to Dwarf-women, i.e., from The Lord of The Rings Appendix A, Part III, Durin's Folk: 

They seldom walk abroad except at great need.  They are in voice and appearance, and in garb if they must go on a journey, so like to the dwarf-men that the eyes and ears of other people cannot tell them apart.

From a scientifictitious standpoint, Dwarf-women of the Pandë!verse secrete naturally higher levels of androgens, which may contribute to their beards (which are not sparse when they are adult women), heavier facial bone structure, and deep voices.  This may also account for the slow reproductive rates of Dwarves through reduced fertility.