Elves and Dwarves

[thrihyrne]

I don't know what it is about disparate cultures within the Ardaverse that appeals to me. I believe I went on and on about that before, so I won't do so again.

I had really great hopes to work on the R/S story, but I went for a walk after work and it was absolutely frigid and I went (happily!) back to my multi-era Elf/Dwarf story.

Should anyone care, the first part is a few posts back ("Speak, Friend, and Enter") and I've made some progress. Our intrepid unexpected heroine is Narvi, the Dwarf who worked with Celebrimbor ("silver-fist") to make the doors to the entrance of Khazad-dum, commonly known as Moria by the end of the Third Age in Middle-earth when bug-eyed Elijah Wood-Frodo shows up (please don't kill me, febobe).

Anyway, the cultural clashes between Elf and Dwarf, even during what is probably the heyday of understanding between the two, is almost more fun than that of Rohirrim and Hobbit, which I enjoy pondering with Eowyn-as-Dernhelm and Merry in my fanfiction.

If you're bored, read more. It amuses me, though I'm afraid of becoming Queen Of Adjectives.

Part Two- Dwarves

I keep to myself such
measures as I care for,
daily the rocks
accumulate position.

Eregion, Second Age, (? Year- prior to working on doors)

Narvi had never felt cold like this. Though wearing layers of linen, leather and wool, much less the self-insulation of warming body hair, the Dwarf was chilled to the bone. She was grumbling to herself every other step, teeth chattering in the frigid wind, sure that the King had sent her not because (as she knew) she was by far the best engineer in Khazad-dûm and, therefore, the most logical choice to send to look for an Elvish counterpart that could both be endured for months on end, but someone that the other masons would tolerate taking suggestions from. No, Durin had sent her because he felt that she would be charming.

“Proxgróg!” she swore, remembering her appearance with the King. His manners had been impeccable, to be sure, but deep within herself, Narvi knew that he was getting his vengance because she had shown no interest in his son, and Durin had wished for exactly such a match. Pulling the cloak more tightly, the Dwarf contemplated other choices that she could have made. It wasn’t that Thwalin was unattractive, nor was he unskilled. Truth be told, his bronzeworks seemed to be half-alive, his very breath somehow pounded into each cup and shield. It was more that he was a poorly cut gem. She knew that in the right hands he would be fiery indeed, but she was not interested in being the tools involved to hone him.

As she mulled this over, Narvi also acknowledged that she had been sent because her knowledge of Elf-speech was at least passable. But now, her bright orange braids full of ice and her eyebrows freezing even under her tawny hood which signified that she was a high-ranking member of the stonemasons, she wished she were back in her workroom, the feel of silver under her fingers. Her ability to plan out large, carved structural projects was second almost to none, but when she could, her passion was to work with silver. Not as pure as mithril, but silver was more pliant, less harsh. It responded under her delicate hammers and incessant humming, almost as though the metal could hear her love for its substance. From time to time the Dwarf discovered that she was jealous of the Longbeards who wore hoods of dark green, the Silversmiths, but she had made her choice.

Looking up, Narvi could see the houses of Ost-in-Edhil not far in the distance, and was grateful. The Dwarf’s glance journeyed briefly upward to the darkening sky, her gaze captured momentarily by a sicle-shape of stars newly blooming in the heavens. The evening hues seemed cold and brittle, like ill-tempered steel which would crack with the first resolute hammer-blow. She lowered her head again against the bitter wind and plodded forward until she reached the tall gates of the Elvish city.

Standing guard were four Noldo Elves, their hawkish gazes focused on her. Despite the cold, they wore the same garb as they did in summer, at least that was how it appeared to her. “Unnatural,” she thought to herself, though on second glance, their capes did seem to reach further down than those she had seen on the few Elves passing through the Dwarvish kingdom when the weather was warmer.

Though a cursory look would deem the doorwards unarmed, Narvi knew much better. Relations between the Dwarves of the Misty Mountains and the Elves of Eregion went far beyond civil; it was positively accepting. And yet, the cultures of the two remained somehwat shrouded in mystery despite their goodwill, and no one worth the iron in their axe or the steel of their sword travelled defenseless between the two realms. Narvi shuddered against the nipping winds as she opened her cape to show that her hand rested on her axe, then bowed to the gatekeepers.

“I am Narvi, of the house of Oban, messenger of King Dain, here to attend the presence of the King Silverfist of Eregion,” she said in stilted Sindarin, mostly to the frozen ground. As she stood upright, all four Elves strode forward two steps, and placed their hands to their left hips. Their capes, the color of moonshadow, fluttered in the breeze, making immediately visible the previously hidden sheathed knives at their waists and daggers buckled to their thighs.

“You are expected, Narvi Longbeard.”

The Dwarf narrowed her eyes, but none of the guardsmen before her had opened their mouths. Then another Elf, clad more warmly against the cold in a thick brown cloak, stepped between the two gatekeepers to her right and walked toward her, then knelt.

Narvi blinked. Twice.

The Elf stood, his plaited silver hair tied behind his neck. “The chill is biting. Please follow me to Celebrimbor’s study; our evening meal will be served shortly.” Looking at the Dwarf’s axe, still resting under her hand, he said gently, “You may retain your weapon while we walk the streets, but once we reach the inner city I must ask that you entrust it to my keeping.”

Narvi stared at him, her olive-colored eyes seeking subtle warning. Finding none on his calm face, she nodded, gathering her cloak around her again for warmth.

“My name is Hithuldîr,” the respectably-clad Elf intoned.

“I am Narvi, though you know that,” the Dwarf replied.

They passed down the impossibly quiet street in silence, Narvi absorbing the organic shapes of the buildings, the thwarted artisan within herself trying to commit every curve, every terrace, every serpentine turret to memory. As they walked toward the town center, the structual craftswoman within herself rioted, drawing her vision far beneath the exteriors of the houses and public buildings. Suddenly she saw the living skeleton of the city as a whole, the unexposed rock thrumming with joyous life as blood in the vein. The carvings and curvature, so Elvish, were unfamiliar to her, but she could read the beauty of the underlying bases, so inherently Dwarvish in the way that the rock had been treated; not as something dead, but a substance which could whisper hidden mysteries in the night.

Narvi found herself on the verge of tears, and, to herself, used the excuse of the knife-sharp wind to wipe her eyes.

Soon they climbed several steps to the king’s dwelling, and two more guards appeared, their light eyes raking over the Dwarf, focusing on her axe hidden under her cape which she clutched under her chin. Coming to herself, she stood straight and withdrew Gormgloine, turning it until the blade was horizontal and parallel to the ground. “May he reside faithfully in your care,” Narvi said reverently, then handed it to the Elf who walked forward, ensuring that the immortal had looked her in the eye before reliquishing her axe.

Then they were in a building more beautiful than any the Dwarf had seen, and Hithuldir motioned Narvi toward a door with scripted markings above it.

“Celebrimbor is still at work, but he assured me that you were welcome in his study.”

Narvi stood stock-still, horrified. “But that is déandorkh.”

The Elf didn’t seem to understand.

“Makes dark. Unacceptable. We don’t show such things to outsiders!”

Hithuldir patiently shook his head. “Our lord awaits you.” He turned and went down a side corridor, leaving Narvi no other choice than to enter the silversmith’s private domain. She walked to the wooden door,then paused, her hand fisted, intending to strike it, but unable to do so.

Within Dwarvish custom, artisans were given the widest of berths. It was not out of lack of respect, but rather of awe. Only if one chose to take on an apprentice, or if one had a child, did a dwarf share his workspace with another. Tools, always handcrafted, and metalworks in progress, were held in highest esteem, not to be used or seen by anyone other than their creators. To walk into the sanctum of even a fellow smith, or forger, was unheard of.

Narvi hesitated, swallowed, then beat on the door.

“Enter, messenger of Dain!”

A melodious voice carried through the sturdy closure, and the Dwarf opened the door.

Narvi walked through, her eyes taking in every detail of the warm room. An Elf sat on a well-made bench, his upper body curled snail-like over his work, an apron draped appropriately over his blue tunic. Long braided auburn hair lay flat between his wide shoulders, his gaze fixed on an impossibly delicate silver brooch. As she heard the resonant tang of hammer on tracer, the silversmith in her knew that the pattern he imbedded came from within his mind’s eye, and not from something previously drawn. The Dwarf sank to her knees and closed her eyes, her heart throbbing with the sound; repetitive, and yet each stroke of the hand unique.

She sat for awhile as the Elven-smith worked, then there was silence.

“You are Narvi, I take it?”

The Elf was arching backward, stretching tired back muscles, loosening his head, and wriggling his aching fingers.

The Dwarf scrambled to her feet, then bowed as low to the floor as possible. “Yes, Lord Silver-fist.” Raising her bearded face only slightly, she added, “Your work sings, Elf of Eregion.”

To her surprise, Celebrimbor began to laugh, husky and deep.

“So why has Dain sent you, if you know such of silverwork? In his letter he said I should expect an engineer, not a sycophant.”

Narvi knew a lot of Sindarin, but she was unsure of exactly what this silver-singer had just uttered. She was sure only that it was uncomplimentary, based on the tone.

“I was sent to secure an overseer for the project of the Doors,” she replied crossly. “I am not included in Guild of Silverworkers, but the material is not unfamiliar to me.”

The Elf smiled, all intrigue fleeing from his features. “Then you shall not mind if I take just a few moments more to finish this? It begs for completion.”

The Dwarf allowed a shimmer of a smile to cross her face. “One would be strong, indeed, to resist the song of an unfinished work.”

Celebrimbor raised an eyebrow. “Do Dwarves truly sing, then?”

Narvi walked to a bench and sat down, mouth twitching. “Perhaps King Dain should be the one to answer such a diplomatic question as that.”

She quickly memorized each of the Elf-lord’s gestures, his furrowed brows, fingers cradling his tools, a lone tear of sweat making a long trail from his temple down to the hollow of his neck as he began to hum a tune of unspeakable melancholy.

***

The guest engineer from Khazad-dûm was held in high esteem and sat the the right hand of Celebrimbor at the rather light evening meal. She spoke as well as she could, and embarassed no one of either race, at least not that she knew of. Afterwards, she was shown to a room with a bed of proportions appropriate to her kind. She bowed low to the chamber-servant, thankful that she could cleanse herself alone. Narvi soaked in the scented warm waters, clothed herself in her usual sturdy jerkin and trousers, and slept soundly.

During her morning appearance with the Lord Celebrimbor, she was astounded to learn that he had decided to take on the role of co-engineer with herself in fashioning and installing the Doors. He had made the original designs, and there had been no doubt that they would be followed, but Narvi was sure that all involved, Dwarf and Elf, had assumed that someone of lower rank would have been the actual representative from Eregion over what was sure to be a multi-year project.

But Curufin’s son would entrust no one but himself to oversee such a massive work. He knew the Dwarves of Dwarrowdelf to be extraordinary artisans; yet this had been his idea he proposed to Dain; his symbolic open gate for such historically sundered peoples.

His responsibility.

His potential failure.

He could not bring himself to be the bearer of an unsuccessful message to another who had been able to see the naugrim for the honorable race that they were.

***

Narvi the Dwarf returned triumphantly home, buouyant in her steps despite the midwinter cold.

***

to be continued

Beginning Author’s Notes:

Well, since I’m dealing with second age Dwarves and not Third Age Rohirrim, I’ve switched my reference books from Anglo-Saxon to Irish.

Gormgloine- “blue-glass”. My vision is that Narvi’s axe handle has two sapphires embedded in it. Tolkien’s characters always name their weapons, though I’m not sure that Gimli does. Perhaps he’s being coy.

déandorkh- déan (make, making) dorcha- dark. Yes, it looks like something-dork. I thought that a ‘k’ instead of a ‘c’ would look more Dwarvish. Ultimately I wanted the word to have the sensibility of “sacreligious,” something that just Would Not Be Done.

Guess that's all I have to say.

Off to reread tyellas's version of Celebrimbor, which, if memory serves, is rather different than mine. And yes, I made him a redhead, but it's canon, by golly. Nerdanel, his grandmother, is a redhead. Her father is a redhead. Celebrimbor's uncles (at least in most canon acceptance, when, in the revised editions, he is the son of Curufin) Maehedros (sp?) and his twin uncles Amrod and Amras are both redheads.

He doesn't even need recessive genes for it to be canon. ;)

Comments

[febobe.livejournal.com]

*glares at you in irritation*

We, m'dear, are seriously going to have to talk.

Ahem. SOME people's taste. . . .

Love,
Febobe ;)

[thrihyrne.livejournal.com]

Awwww... you know I love ya! And Mr. Wood's big, gorgeous, blue eyes... I just prefer some others, as you know. ;)

((hugs back))

[tyellas.livejournal.com]

I'm all for redheads, myself, and I love it that both Narvi and Celebrimbor are redheads in your tale. Enjoying the story, too.

[thrihyrne.livejournal.com]

Ooh! Yay! I'm glad you're enjoying it. I was going to email you personally anyway (and I did re-enjoy some of your hot Celebrimbor action last night!), because for the life of me, in looking at my copies of The Sil, UT, and Middle-Earth reference book (the title now escapes me) I can't find out when the West-Gate was actually made. Was it before Celebrimbor was working on the rings? Afterward? When during the high time of Eregion/Khazad-dum relations were the doors actually made and installed? Any help would be most appreciated!!

[tyellas.livejournal.com]

Nothing in canon says exactly when the West-Gate was made; just that it was during the Second Age, when Narvi and Celebrimbor were alive, and Eregion was going full tilt.

Glad you enjoyed my take on Celebrimbor. ;-D

It may be useful to consider that Khazad-Dum - the central place of the Dwarves in Middle-Earth, near Mirrormere where the Dwarves awoke - had been established for a full Age of Middle-Earth before these elves came and settled out behind their back door. In the FOTR movie I enjoyed seeing the gate, then was amused at the fact that it led through these mines, not through the established dwarf-halls. "Hey, there's elves in the backyard! And they've got food! Awfully convenient for the mines there, let's put in a door, we'll make it pretty, Elves like pretty..." Also, don't forget the similar magical mountain-door in The Hobbit - similar to the door in the walls but without the ornamentation of the gate in Hollin.

[thrihyrne.livejournal.com]

It may be useful to consider that Khazad-Dum - the central place of the Dwarves in Middle-Earth, near Mirrormere where the Dwarves awoke - had been established for a full Age of Middle-Earth before these elves came and settled out behind their back door.

Excellent points!! Oooh... more fodder.

Also, don't forget the similar magical mountain-door in The Hobbit - similar to the door in the walls but without the ornamentation of the gate in Hollin.

Another excellent point taken. *bows in gratitude*

Yeah, I need to revisit your whole story, especially now that I'm so much more familiar with a) slash and b)The Silmarillion.