Shadows of Us by Artano  

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Shadows of Us

The title comes from the lyrics of the song

"Thank you for the report; I am grateful for your people’s help."  Finrod's voice sounds foreign to his ears, too steady, too even for the fear wrapping around his throat and threatening to suffocate him.

The Greater Dwarf turns and leaves, the heavy wooden door thudding closed.  Finrod stares blindly after him, his heart pounding in his ears.  This city was supposed to be a refuge for his people.  He had expanded it so there would be enough room for every single person, so they would finally be safe, far from the deadly ice flows of the Helcaraxë and hidden from the fury of Morgoth's forces.  So many people had been lost, so many friends and followers left behind on the ice.  His jaw tenses, grief tightening around his throat.  But he had thought they were finally safe here.  A sharp laugh escapes him.  Little had he imagined that danger lay so close to home, with those whom he had counted his friends.  But now the Petty-dwarves, no longer content with the wealth he had given them in exchange for use of their lands, were plotting to murder his people.  And for nothing more than the remainder of their riches! 

He stares at his desk, his mind racing.  He couldn’t risk moving to a new location and starting over.  They had spent so many years building this place into the hidden stronghold it was now.  If they left, they would be exposed and all their effort would be for naught.  Yet he could not ignore this threat: the Petty-dwarves had built these halls and knew every inch of them, every nook and cranny.  They knew places the Elves were unable to go.  If they wished to harm his people, they had a decided advantage.  Finrod’s expression hardens.  And he could not let that happen.  He must eliminate the threat before they could harm his people.

Finrod pulls a blank piece of paper towards him and dips his pen in the inkwell, a brief pang of sadness stinging his heart.  Mîm would never forgive him for this.  But he would never forgive himself if any of his people were harmed.

- - - - -

Mîm's fist slams into the table, rattling the glasses.  "How dare Felagund accuse us of betrayal!  We Dwarves do not turn on our friends!"  He glares at the paper crumpled in his fist.  "And 'in consideration of our friendship', he exiles us.”  Mîm scoffs bitterly.  “As if exile is some reward!"

The Dwarven chiefs gathered around the table mutter in agreement, scowling at the public notice.  Burly arms fold under flowing beards and furrowed brows.  Across the table, Lóni shoves back his chair and stands.  His grip tightens on the axe at his belt, and anger flashes in his eyes.  “Let them come!  We will fight for our homes and show these Elves the might of the Petty-dwarves!”

Beside Mîm, Ibun shakes his head.  “How?  They outnumber us.”

“We have fought Elves before,” Lóni snaps.  He glances at Mîm.  “We know these caves.  We can disappear into them, striking from the darkness and vanishing back into the maze of tunnels before they can retaliate.”

“To what end?”  Ibun interrupts, frowning.  “Do you actually think we could last longer than a few months?  We don’t have the stores necessary to survive even that long.”  His lip curls in disgust.  “With the Greater Dwarves helping the Elves, they could follow us into our tunnels and bring the fight to us.  We would have to fortify all except a few entrances.  And Amon Rûdh is too far away to stage attacks from.  The Elves fill the plain now.  It is not as it once was.”

Lóni’s jaw tightens. “We cannot just let them exile us!”  He turns towards Mîm. “We cannot give up and let them steal our homes!  You know that is a death sentence for our people!”

“I know.”  Mîm’s fist tightens and he scowls at the notice.  “But Ibun speaks well.”  Lóni scoffs and Mîm glances at him, a warning in his gaze. “Lóni, if we are to do this, we need a plan.  But make no mistake.  This is our home, hard-won and hard-wrought; we will not leave without a fight.”  The Dwarves murmur their agreement, and Lóni sits back down, mollified. 

“Do you have anything particular in mind?” Ibun asks.

Mîm shakes his head, lips pressed together.  “Not yet.  I need time to think.  Ibun, Thekk, and Lóni, gather all the maps of the caverns and tunnels and bring them here.  Perhaps some older ones may reveal something helpful.  The rest of you, return to our people and tell them to prepare.  We must pack only what we need to survive, however this turns out.”

The chiefs rise from the table, downing the last of their drinks, and leave to do as he had ordered, the door thudding shut behind them.  Mîm remains sitting, glowering down at the notice.  With a sharp turn, he violently hurls it into the fire.  He watches as the flames lick at the edges, consuming the paper.

- - - - -

The minutes seem to crawl as the time-keeping candle burns lower and lower, the flickering flame inching ever closer to the dark line marking the end of this late hour.  One week.  Candlelight shines on Mîm’s motionless body, burning in his dark eyes.  One week before they would be exiled.  One week to leave peacefully, or Felagund would force them from their homes.  Mîm’s jaw tightens, his teeth clenched together.  They had been accused, tried, and convicted without any opportunity for defense.  Felagund had not even sought his counsel before passing judgement.  He was stealing their homes, their refuge and safety from the world, and forcing them into the wild mere weeks before winter.  His hand tightens around the handle of his knife.  How dare he treat them this way!  Felagund would pay for his betrayal.

As the flame reaches the mark, Mîm stands and blows out the candle, plunging the room into darkness.  It is time.  Silently, he moves towards the wall, pressing his hands against the stone before him.  The wall swings outward under his hands, and Mîm steps forward.  The black tunnel swallows him as he enters.  One hand trails along the wall as he stalks down the small corridor, the stone cold under his fingers. 

Several turns later, the passage ends abruptly.  Mîm listens for a few moments, ears straining to catch any noise.  But he hears nothing except the whisper of his own breath.  He reaches up the wall, fingers feeling for the catch.  Releasing it, he presses lightly on the stone in front of him.  It eases outward, but Mîm stops it before it can go far.  He peers through the crack into the room beyond.  For several minutes, he remains frozen, watching and listening for any movement.  But the room remains dark.  He pushes softly on the stone, the fissure in the wall widening under his touch.

Mîm slips into the room, his steps noiseless on the woven rug.  He moves cautiously, alert for any alarm of his presence.  The bed grows in his vision as he nears.  He pulls his knife from its sheath, but stills at the soft whisper of metal against leather.  His eyes dart towards the figure in the bed.  It remains motionless.  Again Mîm advances, knife raised. Felagund’s face glows softly in the moonlight, pale eyelashes fluttering against his cheek in quiet slumber.  He looks so peaceful.  How can he be calm with what he is doing to my people?  To me?  Grief and anger twist Mîm’s heart.  Does my friendship mean nothing?!  His hand clenches into a fist, fingers digging into his palm.  How dare he betray me!  Mîm drives his knife towards Felagund’s chest.

A hand shoots out from the blanket, its iron grip clamping around his wrist and halting the blade inches from its target.  Felagund stares up at Mîm, eyes gleaming in the dark room.

As he sees Mîm’s face, his eyes widen.  Mîm’s free hand drops towards the spare knife in his belt.  Felagund shoves Mîm's wrist away, rolling to his feet off the opposite side of the bed as Mîm buries a knife in the mattress.

"You too?" Felagund asks, his voice low.  "I thought you of all people would not have betrayed me."

"You are the one who betrayed me!"  Mîm jerks his knife free of the mattress and springs over the bed, a knife clenched in each hand.

Felagund leaps back, eyes hardening on the knives Mîm holds.  He grabs a chair and blocks a strike from Mîm's blades, then swipes at him.  Mîm dodges and sneers.  Cunning Elf.  He strikes, but Felagund twists aside and backs away.  Mîm presses forward, relentlessly striking again and again, forcing Felagund backwards across the room.  Suddenly, Felagund feints forwards with the chair.  Mîm leaps back and Felagund swings again.  The chair catches his foot, and he tumbles to the ground.  Felagund springs upon him, pressing his arms to the floor.  Mîm thrashes, bucking and kicking to escape his grasp.  But Felagund pins Mîm to the ground, his hands clenched like vices around Mîm’s wrists, and Mîm finds he cannot move.

Eventually, Mîm stills, glowering up at Felagund.  "I’ll kill you for your treachery! You and your people are no longer welcome in my halls!"

Felagund's jaw clenches.  "They are my people's halls now, Mîm."

Mîm scoffs bitterly.  "So you force my people to risk our lives by exiling us?  Winter is only a month away.  You might as well just kill us."

Felagund stares down at him, his expression stony.  "For the sake of our former friendship, I will not kill you, even now."  He shifts off Mîm and flips him over, pulling Mîm’s hands behind his back and jerking him to his feet.  "But I will not tolerate the danger you and your people pose to my people any longer.  You leave by dusk tomorrow or I will hunt you and your people down and drive you from the city."

Mîm’s hands clench, his fingernails cutting into his palm as he struggles to break free.  He should have killed him the moment he set foot in Nulukkizdîn.  But Felagund’s strength is greater, and he drags Mîm to the door.

"Take Mîm to the prison, and keep him there until tomorrow morning," Felagund directs the guards outside the door, his voice cold. "And gather the guard; I want sentries stationed throughout the Dwarven sections of the city.  If any Petty-dwarf attempts to leave their home, stop them.  Use whatever force necessary."

“How dare you treat us like this!”  Mîm yells.  “We’ve done nothing to deserve this!”  He thrashes to break free, glaring back at Felagund as the guards drag him away.  The Elf grows smaller and smaller in his vision until they turn a corner and he disappears from sight.

- - - - -

Mîm’s neck prickles with the hard stares of the guards watching him from the door.  His jaw tightens, but he continues packing chisels and hammers into his bag.  Across the room, the door he had taken last night to Finrod's quarters gapes open.  Earlier that morning, the Greater Dwarves had flung it wide in their hunt through the hidden tunnels, exposing the passages and ousting all the Petty-dwarves from them.  As they had moved on down the passage, Mîm had noticed their silken shirts, too large for their short bodies, and pearl necklaces draped around their necks.  Once more, he curses the betrayal of his kin.  All it had taken to buy their loyalty was a few pretty trinkets.  He shoves the last hammer into the pack and buckles it closed.  Swinging it onto his back, he stands, scowling at the Elves invading his home. 

Mîm glances around one last time to ensure he has packed all he can take.  Grief twists his heart.  He was leaving so much behind.  His eyes drift towards the tapestry hanging on the far wall and his throat tightens as his eyes trace the familiar colors and patterns.  There is no room for his father’s tapestry in the one small chest he’s allowed to take, and he couldn’t carry it with him.  His father had given it to Mîm when he came of age.  Now it would remain here, left behind.  Abandoned.  He glances away from the large trunk at the foot of his bed, his vision blurring.  And he would have to leave his wife’s belongings behind.  There was not enough room.  Not enough room for the chest he had carved during his betrothal that now held what remained of her belongings.   

Mîm blinks away the tears and swallows, his lips pressing together and fists clenching. So many possessions, so many memories, left to these invaders to plunder, to barter away for trinkets.  Stolen from him, just like his home.  Just like all his people’s homes.  Jerking the small chest he had already packed towards him, he hoists it onto his shoulder and stalks towards the door.

Clamour greets him as he steps into the hall, Petty-dwarves surging around him as they carry their belongings down the passage towards the room where wagons wait.  Mîm follows them towards the hall, his guards coming behind.  Despite the number of wagons gathered, there are still too few, and he sees small heaps of belongings littering the room as Dwarves discard what they could ill-afford or were loath to spare.  Stationed around the room, Elven sentries survey the chaos, sharp eyes watching.  Mîm feels the pair assigned to him step closer as he stalks towards a nearby cart and secures his chest inside it.

Mîm tightens the rope holding his chest down.  Suddenly, a loud crash sounds from behind him.  He whirls to see Lóni yelling at an Elven sentry.  A chest lies on the ground between them, its contents scattered over the floor.  Mîm’s hands clench into fists.  How dare that Elf trip Lóni?!

Lóni glowers at the guard, anger flashing in his eyes.  “I’m done with you Elves!” he shouts.  “Ever since we allowed you to live here, you’ve acted like you’re better than we are!”  He turns towards the crowd of Petty-dwarves.  “Why should we endure their arrogance any longer?  Is this not our home?!  And shall we again be exiled by our faithless kindred?  Will we let them take what is ours by right?!”  He sneers.  “I refuse to stand by and do nothing while our kin betray us and these Elves force us out because of nothing more than a bloody rumor!”

The crowd of Dwarves surge towards the guard.  The Elf retreats, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.  Mîm pushes towards the altercation as angry shouts pour from the crowd.  How dare that Elf treat his friend with such contempt!  Lóni could have been hurt!  Arrogant dog!  Several guards begin shoving through the mob, yelling for the Petty-dwarves to back away.  As they reach the beleaguered sentry, Mîm nears Lóni.

The wave of muttering rises, surrounding the small island of guards.  “A curse upon the Noldor!”  Lóni shouts.  “Home-stealers!” cries another.

Mîm grabs a chisel from his bag, letting the leather sack fall to the floor as he presses forward.  The tumult of grumbling rises, drowning out the threats of the guards.  It hangs in the air for a moment.  Then Lóni grabs a hammer from a cart and leaps towards them.  The Dwarves follow, the wave bursting upon the rows of golden armor with crashing shouts of ‘For the Petty-dwarves!’ 

Mîm leaps towards the closest Elf, rage twisting his face.  He plunges the chisel into his leg.  The guard screams in pain and slashes at him.  Mîm dodges.  He hears a shout and turns to see Lóni attacking the first guard alone.  Fear flashes through him.  Not alone, Lóni!  Mîm rushes towards Lóni and drives his chisel toward the Elf's knee.  The sentry dodges and strikes at Mîm.   Mîm ducks, the sword whistling above his head.  Lóni swings his hammer at the guard, forcing him back.  Recovering, Mîm joins the attack again.  He strikes down at the guard's foot, driving his chisel through the boot.  The elf screams and recoils.  A sword flashes towards Lóni’s head.  No!  Horror shoots through Mîm, and he shoves Lóni away from the blade.  Fire flares along his shoulder.  Mîm stumbles forward from the blow.  Agony sears through his back, filling his body.

He cries out, his legs crumpling beneath him.  Mîm falls, his head striking the stone floor.  Fire surges through his body and he gasps for air, staring up at the ceiling.  Dimly, he hears Lóni yelling his name.  Up. Get up.  Mîm tries to rise.  Pain lances through him and he collapses.  Safety.  I need to find safety.  With a second try, he manages to regain his feet.  Mîm stumbles away from the Elves, his head swimming.

A hand grabs his shoulder, and he jerks backwards.  Lóni.  Lóni’s arm wraps around Mîm’s back.  He gaps as pain overwhelms the heat searing through him.  Lóni murmurs something in his ear.  Mîm sags against him, letting himself be helped away from the battle.  Suddenly, bitter iron floods his mouth.  He gags, coughing and spitting out clear liquid.  What is-?!

Lóni lowers him to the ground.  Mîm coughs up the last of the liquid and finds himself resting against a wagon.  Warm liquid flows down his back.  I’m bleeding.

“My back…I’ve been hurt,” he gasps.  He turns to the side, his head throbbing.  Lóni needed to bandage the wound.  Fingers touch the gash.  He winces.  But he remains still as Lóni peels his shirt off and starts tending to the injury.

Cold slowly seeps into him and he shivers.  His head aches.  Soon, he hears booted feet thudding against the stone floor.  Mím’s heart drops.  Reinforcements.  He looks up as Elves swarm into the room, their swords glinting in the light.  Grief curls within his chest, tightening around his throat.  His people weren’t going to win.

A familiar burnished helmet flashes amongst the golden armor.  Felagund.  Hatred flares within him and he struggles to his feet.  Gripping the wagon for support, Mîm glares at the Elf, his face twisted in rage and despair.  He shivers, but straightens.

“Faithless Felagund!” he snarls.  “You shall rue this deed.  On your house shall the wrath of Mîm the fatherless lie forever.  For blood you shall render blood, and for the exile of my people shall evil shadow you so long as you remain in Arda.”

A hand tugs gently on his shoulder, and at Lóni’s insistence, Mîm sinks to the ground, letting him tend to his injury once more.  His heart pounds slowly in his ears, in rhythm with the boots marching past.  He shudders, icy tendrils sinking deeper into his body.

- - - - -

The light breeze ruffles Finrod's hair as he stares over the river winding below.   Overhead, dark clouds claw across the sky, harbingers of a spring storm’s approach.  With a sigh, he turns back to the grave beside him.  The Dwarves had buried Mîm at his favorite overlook of the Narog river last autumn as fading leaves withered with the grass, their vibrant colors leaching from broken veins.  Finrod’s heart twists at the memory.  Mîm had loved to sit here at the top of the bluffs and tell him tales of his people and past.  Now he was dead. A vision of Mîm’s burning eyes boring into him as Mîm struggled for breath rises in his mind.  Finrod swallows, his gaze falling to the ground.  Red flowers fleck the grass covering the grave, their scarlet petals dancing in the breeze.

A cloud crosses the sun and the wind picks up, announcing the arrival of the storm.  Finrod turns towards the trail leading down the bluffs to Nargothrond, the cool gusts rattling the branches above him.  He shivers, then continues down the path.

A moment later, he hears footsteps rustling in the grass behind him.  He turns, expecting a guard or advisor with some pressing matter to attend to.  But the trail lies empty.  "Just the wind in the grass," he murmurs.  His neck tingles.  Pulling his cloak around him, he hurries down the path.

Wind whistles down the ravine as the storm approaches, shrieking in his ears like the cries of dying Dwarves.  He shakes his head to dispel the thought.  A step later, birds startle from a bush in front of him, eyes glaring at him.  Mîm’s eyes burning-  Gasping, he recoils.  The birds dive down the gorge, their harsh cries reverberating from the bluffs.  He stares after them, his heart pounding.  Turning back to the path, he strides faster down the trail, footsteps echoing behind with his paces.

Finrod soon reaches the entrance to Nargothrond, the wind clutching at his cloak as he strides inside.  Making his way to his study, he hangs his cloak on the wall, then lights a candle to aid the dim light filtering into the room through a high window.  The familiar scents of books and dried plants fill his nose.  His shoulders relax at the comforting smell.  Finrod sets the candle on his desk, the flames flickering red on the wall.  Sitting down, he pulls a stack of documents and reports towards him.  He picks up the first one and begins to read.

A shadow shifts in the corner of his vision.  Finrod glances up as the candle gutters in a sudden draft.  He shivers, a chill curling down his spine.  He would need to ask someone to ensure the window was sealed properly.  Smoothing the papers, he refocuses on the report in front of him.  A moment later, his head snaps up as a step scuffs against stone from behind the door to his bedroom.  No one was supposed to be in there.  Finrod’s heart thrums in his chest as he stands.  Silently, he approaches the door.  Grasping his sword, he throws it open.  But his room lies empty before him.  A silken drape flaps against the wall with the breeze blowing through his open window.

"Just the curtain," he mutters.  Finrod steps forward to close the window.  His neck prickles.  A crash sounds behind him and he whirls, his sword leaping to his hand.  A spear lies on the ground, fallen from where it had been leaned against the wall.  His eyes dart around the room, ice slithering down his neck.  Silence greets his scrutiny.  After a moment, he approaches the fallen spear.

He nears it, then halts.  A dark crack splits the wall before him.  That door should be closed.  It had been shut this morning.  Finrod stares at the black fissure, his breathing shallow.  The tunnels had been sealed after the exile.  There was no way-  Finrod shoves the crack closed. 

Movement flickers at his feet and he leaps back.  On the floor lies a crimson flower, raindrops glistening on its petals like drops of blood.

Chapter End Notes

This was my first attempt at writing fighting scenes and at writing an eerie/suspenseful ending.  If you have tips on how to write them better int he future, feel free to them to me!

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