Songs of Stone and Mountain by pandemonium_213

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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.