Songs of Stone and Mountain by pandemonium_213

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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.

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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."