The Old Road Under Stars by bunn  

Young and fiery stars glitter against a sky that is always dark; a world before Sun and Moon. Sharp, unseasoned mountains reach up, as if holding out eager hands black against the star-dazzle.

Zirak sings as he walks the grey land, wide and empty down to dark bright waters singing secret songs to the stars.

His kin work with fire and rock, with thought and voice: shaping the stone to build their mountain-homes, while Zirak seeks wood for fires, for tunnel-props and hammer-handles.

Now distantly he hears new voices, lifting song out of the shadowed land in praise of trees and wild starlit waters running.

The fierce elves of the woods have hunted Zirak’s lesser kin, slain them like beasts with their long wooden arrows.

But Zirak is brave, his heart bright with flame. He fears no woodland shadow-elves, nor even the horror of the walking trees.

Zirak’s voice rings out, daring,

Here am I!
Clad in mail, 
Spiked with steel,
I, Zirak!
Barter I bring
To prosper us both!

The elves are coming from behind the dark trunks: their hair is long and their eyes are strange.

Zirak stands his ground; Firebeard fearless under the stars.

At last, an elf approaches, head on one side, curious.

Zirak holds out a knife, hilt-first, gleaming, and sees the elf, understanding, hold out a pearl, shimmering in starlight.

It’s not what he really needs, but it’s a start.

The stars turn; the world changes. Within the mountains, great forges burn: smelting, working, creation and life in their hot breath.

The scattered people of the elven-woods send messengers to their King: creeping figures have been seen, coming down into Beleriand from the North. They are cruel: they steal children and carry them off. Yrch, the elves name them.

Zirak has walked this road many times now. The fords are paved, the streams bridged, and the woods near the mountain-gates have all been felled.

He shouts, impatient, at a clumsy student, glares at an elf watching in wonder as the Dwarves pass, shimmering in their mail-coats.

He’s often angry, these days. He’d like to move faster, build better, and so he teaches his kinsfolk.

But it all takes precious time, for all that they need the wood, the cloth, the food, the many skilled hands.

The wooden carts bump along the road, laden with spear-heads, axes, helms: defences for elvenkind against thieves out of the North.

They aren’t the best that Zirak can make. He’s proud now, and suspicious. What’s in the carts is good enough for trade, but not as fine as the works he hoards at home.

The stars turn; the world changes.

The road is old now, aged by Sun and Moon, by grief and anger, and rarely trodden any more.

Under the mountain, Zirak is old too, Gamil Zirak of long memory. Many years have passed since last he walked the road to Doriath or Khazad-dûm.

Zirak the Old lies deep, deep in the mountain, surrounded by the things that he has made. He does not teach, nor trade, nor make new things.

He could, of course. Perhaps he will, tomorrow, or the next day.

But first, he’ll count his gold.

His hide is scaly and his eyes are red and cunning. His voice is fire and smoke.

Zirak’s heart is hot with the flame that the Maker set within him, but it burns low, red as embers.

But Zirak’s last and greatest student has taken an Elvish name: Telchar.

Telchar walks the road. Makes gifts, gives them freely: to Azaghâl of Gabilgathol, to the new Elves from across the Sea, to Doriath.

Helms, swords, knives of Dwarven steel: the finest Telchar can make with all his skill. Each made with one eye looking backwards at Zirak, the burning secret held within the Deeps: the dragon, waiting.

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