Writ in Ash by silmalope  

Year 52 of the Rising of the Sun. The High Faroth on the River Narog. Winter.

When first snows arrive with the new moon, Finrod cannot greet the change of seasons with a full heart. Cold, cold. Always cold. Some mornings he wakes and expects to see nothing in any direction but the boundless expanse of cruel, blinding white — and no matter how close he sits by the fire, it feels he will never be warm again.

Self-pity does not become you, brother, is what Artanis would tell him, if she were here and not in Menegroth, for she had always been the better soldier. Look at you: All the wonders of Beleriand at your fingertips, and still you aren’t contented.

Are you discontented with my discontentment? he would ask, if she were here and not in Menegroth — and she would smile with courtly grace and answer in one of the vulgarities they had learned as children on the docks of Alqualondë.

Yet even as a figment of his imagination, his little sister is worth listening to.

Compared to the Grinding Ice, there is nothing to complain of in his camp-site on the banks of the Narog. To be sure he spends rather less time than he had hoped surveying and excavating, and rather more time foraging and fishing; gathering and drying peat; and wading out into the sluggish river-waters to wash his hair. But there is forage and fish and fuel to be had, and he will never again be ungrateful for it.

Finrod had first settled there a little less than a month ago, when the March-wardens of Doriath had guided him south from the Aelin-uial, where (they said) he would find a series of most promising caves in the High Faroth. Promising indeed! They proved expansive and extensive, of good carving-stone, well-situated between Doriath and the Sea.

And yet one sticking-point could not be overlooked: The caves were occupied, and the occupants had little liking for elves.

Bristle-bearded scouts watched him from the shadows for several days before daring to approach his campfire, knives in hand. It was only after considerable time spent on diplomatic overtures — and the generous distribution of several Valinorean jewels — that the dwarves of Nulukkhizdîn accepted his incursion with begrudging tolerance. The detente could not have come soon enough, for the weather began to sour. Finrod was glad to secure permission to shelter in one of the unoccupied caves, where he might continue his mineral surveys with less risk of frostbite.

Today his day’s work of city-planning has barely begun when a visitor interrupts him in the middle of rolling out his topographical maps: Mîm drops down from the stone outcropping by the cave with scarcely a sound.

Finrod startles, narrowly rescues his dropped stylus, and bites back an oath. “By the — stars above, Mîm, must you always walk so soundlessly?”

The dwarf is ever doing that, especially now that he knows it makes Finrod uneasy. So many creatures in the world are loud and ungainly compared to elves, but Mîm and his folk step lightly and silently, as though made of shadow. Even their fëa is a strange, flickering thing, always out of focus. When he tries to reach out and sense it, all he gets is a headache.

“Is your head stuffed with clay?” the dwarf asks, disregarding Finrod's comment entirely. “Or do Elves not fear the cold? Maybe that has been your ploy: You will freeze to death on our doorstep, and the Gray-king’s wardens will set these hills to the torch."

Mîm it was who first approached Finrod’s campfire on silent feet and requested his departure in no uncertain terms — something along the lines of no sooner would we harbor an orc at our doorstep than treat with one of the izûl. He carried a sharp, rune-worked blade and seemed quite ready to use it to reinforce his point. Now, having been overruled by Nibun his chieftain, he serves as Finrod’s watch-warden. But the weeks of casual proximity to an elf (or izîl, as Mîm sometimes calls him) have not softened his tongue.

"I will not die, I hope," Finrod replies with a laugh, leaning back to massage stiff fingers. "I have seen crueler winters with less hope of springtime."

"And little would the spring mourn your passing," mutters Mîm. "Alas, Nibun thinks we should not let you perish of your own stupidity."

"For which I am grateful. But come, sit!” He turns back to his fire and prods at the pan of frying catfish and watercress that will break his fast. “You must be cold standing there. I’d like to hear your opinion on these surveys.”

"Still you insist! What is there in these hills that you cannot find elsewhere? Ay, ay, the Wild-elves claimed the riverlands, and the Gray-elves claimed the woodlands, and over the seas come the Proud-elves of the West to take even Mahal's good earth from his children? Glad were the days when it was beneath the dignity of izûl to delve!"

Mîm, Finrod has learned, is given to rhetorical flourish.

"I have never been accused overmuch of good sense," he replies, although he does not add that he credits that to the fact that his relatives, by and large, abhor sensibility. "And yet I would hardly be the first Elf to build a stronghold beneath the earth. Surely even here, your people have heard of the Thousand Caves of Doriath, the finest wonder east of the Sea — and they too were built by Dwarf-masons and Elves working side by side, were they not?"

"Ay, the eastdwellers find fair footing among Elves," says Mîm, with some sourness. "And small wonder — for they and you are of closer kind than we.”

In spite of his words he settles by the fire. It is an uncommonly cold day, and as long as Nibun feels that Finrod must be kept under watch, Mîm will be subject to the travails of watching him. He would not have entered the cave at all if he was not willing to tolerate at least a little converse, and Finrod dutifully reciprocates by not drawing attention to it.

Instead he makes space by the maps and goes to add kindling to his fire, while Mîm squints at the surveys in silence. Mostly his expression is stony. At times he barks a laugh, which Finrod takes to mean that he has encountered an entertaining mistake, and does not plan to elucidate it.

When the pan over the fire begins to smoke and hiss, Finrod scrapes out half the catfish into his only bowl and sets it before Mîm. For himself he takes the still-sizzling pan and rests it on the cold stone, and begins picking at his breakfast between the bones.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“Could do with more salt.”

“Of the surveys, I mean. You know these caves better than I, surely?"

“Mîm is your watch-guard, not your architect,” says Mîm carelessly, rolling the surveys up in one sweep of his hand. “If you want to hire masons you can pay for them; you drop pearls like a rabbit drops dung-pellets.”

As ever, he has a knack for barbs that strike true. Finrod touches the frame of his harp, which lies to the side. By the standards of the East, it is admittedly a bit overwrought, with whorled waves of silver and gold cresting around iridescent pearls.

“My sister told me much the same when we left our home, and my uncle. ‘Needless baggage’ he called it. But I have had cause to be glad of such baggage — for their beauty as well as their worth.”

He expects another sharp retort to this, but instead Mîm hums low in his throat, eyes skimming the harp with interest. “They are wondrous, your pearls,” the dwarf says after a moment. “Never before has Mîm encountered an uncut jewel so lustrous and full-formed.”

In three weeks with Mim, this is the first and only statement to come out of his mouth that remotely resembles a compliment. Miracle of miracles. Heartened, Finrod reaches into the pocket of his cloak for a little canvas bag.

“In my childhood, my mother and I walked the great oyster-flats of Alqualondë, and the pearls harvested there were as large and luminous as the moon. There were so many we had little notion of what to do with them all. Some we used as beads, and others as inlay, and still others we left scattered on the beaches like shells."

From the bag he produces a small, irregular saltwater pearl, tilting it in his open palm. "This one is not so lovely, of course — but I found it when I was young, and was then very proud of my discovery. Such trinkets have become more precious to me now. The world here moves quickly under the Sun, and we no longer have the leisure to spend centuries in the cultivation of beauty."

He has not spoken of Valinor in many years. Not since the early days on the ice, when they told tales of happier times to raise their spirits — before they understood the true weight of exile. Now as mourners shouldering a shared grief, the Noldor hold their homeland in a silent vigil: too raw and precious to be remembered aloud, and too cruel to inflict on each other.

Finrod finds himself offering his outstretched palm to Mîm, the little pearl rolling from side to side. "But here is my thanks, for you have returned to me a memory I cherish."

The dwarf shakes his head. “Mîm cannot accept it.”

“It is a gift, not a hiring-fee,” says Finrod. “Rest assured I am not attempting to extort your services as an architect.”

“Nevertheless, Mîm will not accept it. Such a gift can be given only between friends."

If he will not, then he will not. With a shrug, Finrod returns the little pearl to its bag and its place in his cloak-pocket, thoughts wandering. “You have not dwelt long in Nulukkhizdîn, have you?”

The dwarf eyes him under dark brows. “Why do you think so?”

“There are pearls enough in the south of Middle-earth, though not so large or so fine as those in Valinor. Even had you no trade with the Falas, surely you would have encountered them. But the thought came to me before: Your people wear some linen, and it is well-woven but not new, and I have seen here no flax-fields.”

Mîm casts Finrod a look that he is reasonably sure can be read as disgust. He is getting better at deciphering the face behind the beard. “It is true what they say: Khazâd carve the past in stone but the izûl write it in sand. You live long but remember little. Ay, my people built many halls in these lands. Many lie empty, for there are fewer of us than once there were. Shall Mîm tell you about them, Elf-lord?”

The offer is no more sincere than the bared-teeth smile, Finrod guesses, and thinks better of it. “Perhaps some other day.”

Excerpt from a letter to Turgon of the house of Fingolfin, dated F.A. 53, early spring.

I know now this letter will not reach you, cousin; tidings arrived from Doriath a fortnight past of your unheralded departure from Vinyamar. You certainly know how to make an exit. Wheresoever you have gone off to, you would do well to stay there awhile — you will have no shortage of irate relatives to face when you return. For my part, however, I do not begrudge you. Perhaps that is because I share in what I imagine to be your feeling: that restlessness that torments me still, in working or rest. Or perhaps not. In either case, I write now only to exercise my thoughts, and perhaps provoke my mind into dispensing some good counsel.

My own hermitage looks to be shorter in duration than I feared. A little after midwinter, I reached an accord with the chieftain of Nulukkhizdîn, in which I secured both approval for my expansion and the assistance of his masons in excavating the initial halls. Again I regret that I cannot send you my drafts, for the architecture I envision is more preposterous even than those we invented as children, and it would surely infuriate you. Yet I am determined to realize them fully. It is good to have work to occupy my mind again. I have been ill at ease since the completion of Minas Tirith.

I had thought myself well-equipped to begin my excavation. According to Mîm (who, upon seeing my designs, appointed himself my instructor) I am not. Dwarves are harsh schoolmasters, Turno, especially in the field of stonework; and yet none are more thorough. It is something to be lectured by a lad of scarcely half a century, though I know he is grown by the reckoning of his own people. I feel as I did when I tried to teach my sister the sword.

"Your masonry is almost serviceable," says Mîm. “Though it is not dwarf-work, it is not the worst I have seen.”

Finrod sits back with a sigh, brushing the hair from his brow. It is the first dry spring day in some time, and the cave in which he has resolved to carve out the passage to the main hall is bustling with dwarf-masons. His negotiations with Nibun had gone rather well — still better when he determined that the dwarves’ direst need was not of jewels, but of grain and oil, which they could not secure easily without trade.

Mîm, however, is not among the employed masons. Nor is Finrod entirely sure that he is still assigned to serve as a watchman, or indeed in what capacity he is present at all, other than an unsolicited critic. Judging by the scroll he holds open on his lap, he appears to have found some fault with the planned banquet-hall.

"I should hope I can manage this much — inexpert though I am, I learned the rudiments many centuries before you were born. But are you a mason? I had thought you a warrior."

Mîm tosses his head. "You speak in ignorance. Mîm is the son of Zîm of Zigilzâram, whose art with stone outshone the stars in the sky. If you saw the works of his hands you would not speak so lightly — and if you have had centuries to pursue your craft, you have not used them wisely. These designs are very ridiculous.”

"By all means, enlighten me!" says Finrod. "Let none say I am unwilling to accept lessons from a master."

“These caves are mortar-stone, ay? That is kharaz — what is the word? It is in many fine-grained pieces, which may be broken and do not shear. Like sandstone, but not basalt.”

“Sedimentary, I suppose? Or clastic?”

“Ay, clastic. Good for carving, bad for cave-ins.” Mîm presses a thumb pointedly on the schema, eyebrows drawing together in an expression Finrod can now identify as exasperation. “This will look very nice until the spring rains bring it down on your head.”

“In Menegroth there are halls still larger. I consulted with the masons there.”

Mîm waves this away. “You call it the Thousand Caves because there are many: some big, yes, but many small. The big were big before your Gray-king began his burrowing; he has not altered the nature of the earth. The stone there is not so soft. And the caves ran deep. Here they are shallow, and any king foolish enough to dig a banquet-hall without pillars shall be buried in it. Ay?”

“… I suppose.“

“Ay,” the dwarf repeats firmly. “Now, these trees you want …”

His designs are scrutinized, thoroughly critiqued, and ultimately remedied. As the halls take shape under their coordinated assault, even Mîm is forced to name him an acceptable student. "I should not call you izîl, for you take to tunneling like — well, not like a khuzd. But like a mole, perhaps, or a rabbit."

"Pray do not call me rabbit," says Finrod. "I fear what would become of me should my brothers hear of it.”

Cave-hewer is what they settle on in the dwarven tongue, Felakgundu. Perhaps it is Finrod’s imagination, but he thinks Mîm says it in a warmer tone than he called him "elf."

Excerpt from a letter of instructions to Edrahil, acting-seneschal of the house of Finrod in the north, dated to 59 F.A.

... two or three master masons (I hope especially to engage the services of Dringil if she will come) and at least a dozen apprentices. I have sent already for personnel from Doriath. Alas, small liking do the dwarves here have for Gray-elves, and I will not test Nibun's patience (nor sacrifice what little goodwill I have earned) by inviting all of Menegroth to guest with me.

It may be that you will prefer to remain yourself at Minas Tirith, and I would not begrudge you, for the halls here are yet rough-hewn. But if you are moved to come, I have great need of your skill. Over the past year I have been at all ends managing our trade with the Petty-dwarves and the coordination of the masons - and have been, I fear, less successful than I would have liked. I miss the days when I could devote myself wholly to the excavations.

So too do I miss your company, and greatly desire to show you the progress we have made. With the Iathrim everything must be compared to Menegroth. Marvelous as Thingol's palace is (and such cannot be denied) it has made his masons a somewhat tiring audience ...

The spring rain brings elves in its wake. Scarcely a day goes by that there is not a little trail of carts or horses dotting the horizon or making their way along the gray ribbon of the Narog, busy as ants in an anthill.

"Never is there one izîl but there is a flock of them waiting to gather," Mîm had observed to Lakhîth, in one of the moments he retreated back to Nulukkhizdîn to spare his eyes the sight of so many elves talking and working and (Mahal be merciful) singing. "Mîm said it from the first! Better had we collapsed the cave-mouth on Felakgundu than open our door to the rest of them."

"But then the tales Mîm brings Lakhîth from beyond the Halls would not be so strange nor so diverting," she had told him with a laugh. "Day and night her brother's lasses and lads beg her to relay them: 'What news of the burrowing izûl? What treasures are unloaded from Felakgundu's carts today? When will Amûnd and Khûnd be old enough to go up with the stoneworkers? Tomorrow? The day after?'"

That had softened Mîm's mood. Well he remembered his own eagerness as a lad to escape the safe confines of the Inner Halls. No matter how many times his mother had chastised him, he crept out of the tunnels on soundless feet to pick flowers in the heather, or swim in the shimmering shallows of the Silvermere under the light of the stars. That was before Zigilzâram burned, and the open sky became a curse, and every shelter a blessing.

In the decade since Felagund's delving began, Nulukkhizdîn has become a place where children once again yearn to walk beneath the Sun. Of that, Mîm can be glad.

Regrettably, his good spirits had not lasted.

When Mîm’s errands next take him across the river to Nargothrond, he has not set more than a single foot into the latest excavation-site before he must circle around a throng of Gray-elves. They pay him no heed at all, taking him for one of the masons, and he hears snatches of their conversation — the restriction to the western bank is somewhat inconvenient, says one, and another murmurs but surely that is temporary; Felagund has proven already that the noegyth nibin may be reasoned with …

Mîm is not the only one to overhear it. Ishar, the chief stonemaster, pauses briefly in issuing directions to his apprentices; his jaw tenses. One of the apprentices surreptitiously makes the hand-sign for deer-fucker before his senior slaps it away and cuffs him on the back of the head.

But none of them speak out. Of course they do not. An elf at ease may be arrogant, but an elf in anger is merciless. If Felagund laughs off Mîm's sharp tongue, it is only because he knows he cannot be hurt by it. (That, and because he is self-evidently an addlepated eccentric, Mîm thinks.) But now elves have begun to gather in Nargothrond, and the khazâd of Nulukkhizdîn are not fools. There is no question in whose favor a dispute would be decided.

So it is that by the time Mîm has managed to track down the wayward King, his temper is wholly soured, and the radiant smile with which Felagund greets him does little to assuage it.

“Uncanny timing, as ever,” says the King, and then turns to the fair-haired elf beside him and claps him on the shoulder. “Edrahil, this is the very same dwarf I had mentioned to you: Mîm of Nulukkhizdîn, who has been invaluable to me as friend and counselor. Edrahil has been acting as my seneschal in the north, and has consented to renew his services in Nargothrond. I do not doubt you will see much of each other in the days to come.”

Felagund looks altogether pleased with himself, like a cat with her kittens all in one nest; evidently he has been eager for the two of them to meet. Mîm does not share his enthusiasm, and if they were not surrounded by izûl, he would say as much openly. But elves abound.

"At your service, and your family's," he says curtly.

“Well met and likewise," says Edrahil, eyes flicking over him with similar skepticism.

After some stilted conversation, during which Mîm speaks very little, Edrahil begs leave to attend to other duties. With a rueful sigh, Felagund steps aside from the main hall and tilts his head in an invitation for Mîm to join him.

“I should know better by now than to expect you to make small talk," he says, as they take the familiar path from the excavation-sites to the finished halls. "That is my own fault. But I think you would like Edrahil, if you only came to know him. He is rather like you: unwavering and sensible, and at times exceedingly blunt."

"Was Mîm not courteous?"

"If courtesy consists of a few words separated by long silences — as in your case it does, I suppose." He waves a hand. "No matter. There will be time later to improve upon first impressions. For now I am only glad to have a trusted friend to whom I can delegate my work, that I may once again make myself a nuisance to the masons. What do you think of Nargothrond? It changes so greatly day by day I scarcely know what to make of it.”

“Mîm did not come to heap compliments upon your head. You have had enough of that for a lifetime. For even an elf’s lifetime, I think, and that is no small feat.”

Felagund laughs. “Gladly will I accept the compliment thus implied. But come, you are dissatisfied with some detail — I can see it in your manner, and it will trouble me until I have uncovered the reason.”

“How could I be dissatisfied? Your Narkuthûn is the work of the khazâd as much as the Elves, if not more so. Naturally the workmanship is good.”

That, at least, he can say without compunction. Half-formed and skeletal as it is, Nargothrond carries itself as a masterpiece in the making — and having been privy to Felagund’s plans, he knows there is no detail that the king will overlook. All must be engineered with precision, honed and polished to perfection; and if necessary, Felagund will spend all his years left in the world making it so.

“True enough. Maybe I am the one who cannot be satisfied, and seek to ferret out dissatisfaction in others,” says Felagund with a sigh. “Always my mind returns to Tirion, and to Valimar of the many bells — those are cities in the West — and the masters of their craft who dwell there still. So much skill and beauty, and nowhere in Middle-earth shall I find the like.”

Mim snorts. “Sorrowful indeed for the Elf-prince who prefers this palace to that. However did he wrench himself from the surpassing wonders of the land of the gods?”

“You jest, I know,” says Felagund. Then the wry smile falls from his lips. “In truth we were exiled.”

“What?”

“Me, my people. We were —  are — exiled. Although we left by choice in the beginning. We came to wage war against the Morgoth; we believed the East was our birthright, for our forefathers were born here, and dwelt here of a time.”

“Your birthright!” Mîm says, and cannot wholly swallow the bitterness in the word. “As if your kingdom begins wherever you set your feet! Ay, if ever I begin to think izûl are capable of sense, I need only consult you and be reminded.”

“Perhaps. But it was something to hope for, and hope we sorely needed. We were so frightened, Mîm. Never before had the Shadow reached into the very heart of the West; and the Valar had not been able to stop it. We departed in anger and bloodshed, in a great force of arms — and when we looked back we found our home fenced against us. But there was no way forward. Only the ice.’’

In that Mîm can find nothing to laugh at. It brings to mind too many nights better forgotten, walking under the stars in unfriendly lands: a time when there were more deaths than could be had funerals, and despair was an unceasing refrain.

“Mîm’s people too are exiles,” he says. “The children of exile, rather, for many died in the years of wandering when our forefathers were cast out from the east. We sought to build a new home here. At times we have succeeded.”

“I had not heard this tale.”

Ach, he had forgotten Felagund’s fascination with such things. He holds up a hand in the vain hope of forfending the inquiry. “Nay, nay — do not ask Mîm to recount it. He is no loremaster.”

“What!” That diverts his attention entirely. “Have you loremasters in Nulukkhizdîn, and never introduced me?”

“Have we loremasters! Ay, I should say we have,” Mîm says, with a bark of laughter, “for I am wed to her.”

Not often does he succeed in rendering Felagund speechless – but now, the elf opens his mouth once, then again, but says nothing, looking so utterly poleaxed that Mîm thinks he will cherish this moment for the rest of his life.

“You — you — when on earth did you marry?” Felagund manages at last. His shock begins to subside, and he looks almost wounded. “It cannot have been before I knew you — can it? And why did you not tell me?”

“Four years past, in the springtime. But weddings are —” But it is fruitless to try to convey the concept of weddings belong to the Inner Halls to an elf who neither understands the purpose of the Inner Hall, nor has ever set foot within. “A private matter. It is not our custom to announce them to outsiders, however well-meaning.”

“That is well enough, I suppose.” Felagund sighs. “Yet I am doubly eager to meet her — both to learn whatever she may tell me of your lore, and to offer my congratulations.”

For a nonsensical moment Mîm imagines it: Felagund and Lakhîth meeting. He would tower over her, all golden hair and shimmering silks, and she would come hardly to his knee, bright-eyed and bronze bells in her beard. But they would be alike in some ways — they would find a way to talk about history and language and myth for hours on end, for all Felagund’s Khuzdul was nonexistent and Lakhîth’s Sindarin faltering at best.

The image is preposterous, but surprisingly pleasant. Is this how Felagund felt, pushing him towards Edrahil, in high hopes of common fellowship?

So it is with true regret that he must say it: “Alas, you cannot meet her.”

“Whyever not?”

“As I said, it is our custom. Lakhîth is a lorekeeper. She dwells in the Inner Halls, where it is safe, as do all children and many women in Nulukkhizdîn. They do not go above the ground, where danger abounds, nor speak with outsiders unless the need is truly dire. For my lady and her students are the keepers of our past, and the children are our future.”

Felagund exhales. “You told me once the Hadhodrim write the past in stone. Now I understand you better. Such caution is necessary, I guess, in times of hardship."

"And bitterly do I regret the need," Mîm says. "But perhaps ..."

“Yes?”

He thinks of children dreaming of the Sun, and nights in clear water under the stars. “Perhaps it will not always be necessary.”

Excerpt from a letter to Círdan of the Falas, dated to the year 80 F.A.

… find enclosed some bottles of brandy I lately secured from a distiller of Ossiriand, which I hope will prove to your taste. If not, I am sure my dear aunt will not let them go to waste.

Loath as I was to depart Eglarest and your hospitality, I was glad to return to Nargothrond, for homecoming is the chiefest delight of travel. When I am impatient to be gone, nothing pleases me, and everyone is determined to quarrel; but upon my return I find all to my liking, and fairer and more harmonious than I left it. Here there are dwarf-masons and Noldor carving out caves together; there, tapestries from Brithombar and Doriath hang side by side. If there is hope for Middle-earth, would it not live in a home such as this?

Finrod is not given to nightmares, blessedly, though many in his family are. Turgon, for one. He remembers distinctly his confusion and distress as a child when, on a visit to his uncle in summer, he would wake to find his cousin (his brother, as he thought of Turno in those days; for he alone of Finwë's grandchildren had no siblings, and dearly wished he had) sobbing into his blankets in breathless, hiccuping gasps.

No, Finrod sleeps dreamlessly for the most part, and his dreams do not follow him into wakefulness. Rather, it is in falling asleep that he must grapple with his memories.

Tonight, all the soft-woven bedding of the King's chambers does little to gentle his restless mind. The matters that bored him to distraction by daylight have likewise lost their numbing power: When he begins to compose lists in his mind of required supplies and letters that must be written, he finds his wayward thoughts drifting instead to Argon’s wide and wondering eyes under the light of the moon — to Elenwë’s still hand and Turgon’s stiller shoulders — to Amarië’s crooked smile as she looped his hair around her shoulders, laughing at the difference in their height —

— the last expression he had seen on his mother’s face —

He knows that Aegnor and Angrod have long resented the name of kinslayer, unjustly thrust upon them. But Finrod cannot. In the moment Eärwen of Alqualondë watched her children turn their backs on the torch-lit docks, he saw the life leave her in a single stroke.

Finrod sits bolt upright, gasping in air so desperately his vocal cords catch and make a terrible rasping croak, and stares sightlessly into the dim-lit room —

“Ach!” cries a familiar voice. “Maker be good — do not shout! It is Mîm, only Mîm.”

Finrod blinks rapidly, trying to clear his spotting vision as his blood and heart and breathing work belatedly to adjust to his change in posture. His hands swing in clumsy arcs when he attempts to push hair out of his face. “What —  Mîm? Have you — have you no notion of the time?”

“The time is the point,” the dwarf says, sounding a bit disgruntled. “We have a ways to go tonight, and we would do better not to be seen. But see I have lost my knack for stealth, if I lumbered loudly enough to wake you.”

“No, I did not — I was not —" Finrod shakes his head to banish the numbness in his tongue. “I did not hear you at all, rest assured. And I see my guards did not either. But what do you mean by this? Go, you say — go where?”

Then he looks at Mîm, looks properly — and sees the dwarf grinning at him with a kind of fierce, wild joy.

“Mîm has a son,” the dwarf says, and looks like he might go mad with happiness. “Ay, Felakgundu, by all the riches of Mahal’s good earth: Mîm has a son! Khîm Mîmul is his name, and it is carved in the stones of Nulukkhizdîn this night!”

“A — a son. A son! Mîm, that is —”

“Ay, ay — but enough dithering! Up! Tonight your wish is granted — you shall meet Lakhîth, the jewel of Nulukkhizdîn. But you shall not have another chance, and Mîm’s lady is weary, so he will not keep her waiting.”

There are a thousand questions tumbling over on Finrod’s tongue, but he manages to swallow them all and stumble out of bed to find clothing. It takes altogether too long for Mîm’s tastes, if his pacing is any indication. But among the privations and privileges of kingship is a lack of easy access to one’s own wardrobe, and Mîm will not let him call for an attendant.

“Would I have come by nightfall if I wished all the elves in the world to know our errand? Do not be a fool!” the dwarf says with a scoff. “No matter — a cloak will do, come! We will take the south passage.”

Edrahil would doubtless be horrified to know that Finrod’s bedchambers are accessible by not one but two hidden passages: one near the fountain in his study, and the other behind his currently lit fireplace. Finrod himself is not overly concerned, for the passages are known only to him and Mîm. He had carved this room himself, wanting it to suit him in every particular, and no other masons had a hand in its work.

They take the passage out of the study, moving in silence. Mîm seems, as ever, to fade into the shadows as if he and they were made of the same matter. To Finrod’s surprise, however, they do not follow the tunnel that would lead to the river crossing and the east bank. Instead they venture deeper into the earth, until he has entirely lost his sense of direction.

“If I did not know better, I would be certain we are lost,” he says as Mîm leads him purposefully down a narrow tunnel he has never seen in his life. “Indeed, if you were not with me, I would despair of ever finding my way back.”

Mîm snorts. “That is good! Better that you do not know this way — it is not one you should take alone, or again. But we are nearly there.”

Nearly there entails another quarter-hour of winding tunnels, many of them alarmingly narrow, and a handful of passages which must be crawled through on hand and knee. But it is easy to tell when at last they have arrived at their destination, for Mîm lets out a crowing exultation in Dwarvish and forgets Finrod entirely, dashing across the cave to greet Lakhîth.

She is small even for a dwarf, with dark curls and a plaited beard; and although such a person is in every respect alien to the elvish concept of loveliness, Finrod thinks he can see why Mîm would call her the jewel of Nulukkhizdîn. Her braids are lustrous, her figure sturdy, and she carries herself with serene, straight-backed poise.

In her arms there is a carefully swaddled baby, and for a moment she and Mîm both gaze at the infant with suffusing affection. Then she murmurs something to her husband, bronze bells dancing in her beard, and offers Finrod a smile.

“Might I have the honor of an introduction?” he says, pushing his hood back.

“Ay, you may,” says Mîm. “And must, for Lakhîth’s Elvish is not so good — albeit far better than your Dwarvish. This is my Lakhîth-lady, heart of my heart, mother of my firstborn.” Then he rattles off something in Dwarvish to Lakhîth, and Finrod does not need to understand the words to guess that his own introduction is considerably less effusive.

“It is the greatest of pleasures to meet you at last,” he says, returning her smile with one of his own. “And this, I guess, is little Khîm.”

“Ay, indeed! No finer lad shall there be anywhere under the Maker’s earth.”

If dwarf-children grow as elf-children do, then Khîm is older than Finrod guessed he might be — perhaps even a month old, and by no means a newborn. He has only a little hair, dark and wispy on his skull, and his face is round. “How old is he?”

“He was born at midsummer, and his name carved in our halls tonight. Such is always done at the full moon.”

A little under a month, then. “He is beautiful,” Finrod says, and discovers to his surprise that he means it. The small pinched face is lovelier than any pearl, and he feels his chest swim with warmth and wonder. “May he grow healthy and strong, with the blessing of the Valar.”

To Lakhîth he says earnestly: “I am honored by your trust.”

She looks a little pleased and a little shy, he thinks, and dips a small curtsey. “Mîm tells Lakhîth much of Felakgundu. She wished to meet him.”

“Likewise I have long wished to speak with you!” But no, he is speaking too quickly — he checks himself and slows his pace, though interest and curiosity itch at his tongue. “I understand that you are Nulukkhizdîn’s loremaster, and it has been my heartfelt desire that we might exchange tales of our peoples.”

She raises her eyebrows and turns to her husband, reproachful. “But Lakhîth has not heard this!”

“How could it have been done? We cannot have an elf traipsing through the Inner Halls, and even such a meeting as this is not safe —" Mîm begins, and then switches to the Dwarvish tongue in a string of quick words that sounds (even to Finrod’s ears) rather apologetic. He has never in his life seen Mîm make such a beseeching expression, and doubtless will never see it again. He files it into his memory with interest.

“Da, da, that is enough,” she says, cutting him off. “Lakhîth can write, ay? And a letter may walk where it likes, whether it is an Elf-palace or the hadar tamûn. And the Sindarin she does not know, Mîm may read for her, ay?”

She looks so expectant that Finrod is not at all surprised when Mîm clasps her free hand in his: “As Lakhîth-love says, it shall be.”

Pleased, she nods and looks to Finrod. “Glad will Lakhîth be to learn the Elf-histories,” she says, composing the sentence with care. “For she is the loremaster as you say, and she is — she is —”

“The lore-gatherer,” Mîm supplies, when she turns to him and speaks in Dwarvish. “For our knowledge of the world erodes over time, and must always be bolstered anew. But it is hard to gather new knowledge when one must rely on —” He makes a face, but she nods insistently and repeats her sentence. “— when one must rely on one’s hot-tempered husband. Nay, nay, enough. Mîm will not translate the rest!”

She laughs then, bright and ringing as a hammer-struck anvil, and Finrod finds himself laughing too — laughing until he is breathless, wiping tears from his eyes.

Never had he imagined himself here: deep in a tunnel with three dwarves, clad in only a traveling cloak to cover his night-clothes. And yet he feels very keenly that it was perhaps for this moment, as much as any hard-won battle against the Shadow in the North, that the long crossing to Middle-earth was worthwhile.

Excerpt from a letter to Lakhîth Nibunul, dated to the year 91 F.A, late autumn.

Long have I pondered your last missive, in which you recounted the tale of the making (or ill-making, as you say) of Mahal’s final creation. You ask me, ‘Is it not the same with Elves?’ A just question: How indeed do we account for the sundering of our peoples? The philosophy of the Marring, as we call it, preoccupies us greatly […]

I have appended my further notes. I know your husband grows impatient as our translator. Would that I might learn your tongue! But no; as you say it is Aulë’s gift to his children, I will strive to be satisfied with my own. Mîm tells me that Khîm walks well with the new leg-brace made for him. I am glad indeed. I have entrusted to Mîm also some children’s toys procured in Doriath …

Finrod has known Mîm far too long to be affronted (or indeed at all surprised) when, upon returning to his study after a long morning’s headache-inducing council, he discovers the dwarf perched quite comfortably at his desk, flipping through one of his travel-journals.

No, it is not surprising, but it is quite welcome. Finrod has not seen his friend at all since his return from Doriath in autumn. With Lakhîth aiding her father in a growing share of his duties, it falls to Mîm to tend to their now eleven-year-old son; and Khîm, possessed of a weak constitution, needs more care than most.

Finrod lets out a deep sigh and falls into a chair opposite, stretching his shoulders for a moment in companionable silence.

“The mantle of kingship begins to chafe already,” Mîm observes after a few minutes, closing the journal with a snap. “Heavy is the head which wears the crown, ay?”

“Which formulates supply chains, rather. It is all roads today; roads and wells. I am tempted to write to my cousin Curufin, for he would thrive on the minutiae of it all. But then the artisans from Doriath would lodge a protest, or poison his tea more likely, and we would be back where we began.” He waves a hand. “It is all work of my own devising, and I shall not complain.”

That earns him a skeptical snort.

“No, truly: You have heard the last of it, I swear to you. How is Khîm? How is Lakhîth? I have scarcely had time to read her latest letter — but no, there I begin again.” Finrod rubs his eyes. “Would you care to go for a walk? I am restless.”

So it always is when the snows begin to fall. There is nothing in particular to preoccupy him, and yet his mind drifts to other snows and other winters. Then do the walls of Nargothrond begin to close around him, and he hears clear and far the song of unfettered Beleriand.

Mîm assents — or he says something along the lines of if the mighty King Felakgundu can be parted from his duties, how could Mîm do otherwise? But the traveling clothes he wears and the bag he carries suggest he had a similar plan in mind, and it is all the agreement Finrod needs in his current mood.

By now Finrod is practiced in the art of slipping out from his palace unseen. This time, rather than wandering deep into the earth, they turn east into a slightly narrow crevice, which leads to a natural cave with a little tributary that can be followed to the Narog.

Then it is a simple matter of walking on the far side of the ridge, where the rushing of the river melts away to a wide open sky vibrating with wind in the tall grass. The scrub-marshes south of the Aelin-uial are kept in check by seasonal wildfires, but it has been some time since they burned. The grass, yellowing in the first snowfall of the year, is tall enough that Mîm sneezes and swears under his breath as they walk.

When at last they are far enough from Nargothrond that Finrod feels the pressure in his chest begin to ease, he proposes they make camp in a sandy hollow, where a fallen tree makes a comfortable seat on which to catch one's breath. Mîm sets about emptying his boots, which have managed to accrue no fewer than five pebbles over the course of their expedition. Finrod offers him a water-skin, and he takes it, gulping deep from its contents.

"Nearly four decades it has been since we met," Finrod says, when he has persuaded a fire to take up residence in some dry kindling. Mîm sets his boots by it, and Finrod has already draped his cloak over a bare bush in hopes of drying the hem. "Yet here we find ourselves again sharing a campfire. I am only sorry I did not think to bring provisions, or we might have had shared a meal also."

"Then you are fortunate Mîm had more foresight," answers the dwarf. From his pack he produces two strange root-vegetables, which have been washed and trimmed; these (to Finrod's great interest) he deposits directly into the base of the fire, a little from the flames. "These will cook better when we have coals, but you will not find a better meal than roasted earth-bread."

"You are full of surprises! It seems a strange repast, but I shall take you at your word."

Finrod leans back on his hands, gazing up at the blue veil of the sky. Here the prick of cold wind on his face and bare shoulders feels welcome and not wearisome, as the brisk embrace of an old friend.

"You do not often come to Nargothrond of late," he says, after a moment. "Is all well? Or do other matters preoccupy you?"

"It is not for the likes of Mîm to come and go freely to speak with the King of Nargothrond," says the dwarf with sanctimonious gravity, and then snorts. "Nay, I fear my eyes will go blind from looking on so many elves and all their glimmering finery. Better to keep at a distance."

The joke is a version of one Finrod has heard many dozens of times before. Yet it troubles him more deeply than it might, for he feels there is truth in it. It is not Mîm alone who has become distant: Few and fewer are the dwarves he sees in Nargothrond of late, and they do not offer their counsel as freely as they once did. They cluster closer together, speaking rarely, and then often in hand-signs rather than speech.

It troubles him all the more because it is familiar. It is the queer silence that grew in Tirion in the years before the sky darkened; it is the division of two armies encamped across a still lake.

"Is the breach between our kindreds so irreparable?"

Mîm does not answer. He is silent for so long Finrod thinks he does not wish to answer; and so he turns his own thoughts away in search of a less solemn topic for a clear day and a good meal. But he has yet to contrive one when at last the dwarf begins to speak.

“You told Mîm once of your home by the Sea, which is lost to you,” he says. “You asked too, then, whether he had always dwelt at Nulukkhizdîn. He has not.”

It is rare of late for Mîm to fall into the third person. When they first met he had used it quite commonly — perhaps as a preservation of some style or grammar extant only in Dwarvish — but now only reverts to the old form when the mood takes him.

“Mîm was born in the north, at Zigilzâram — that is the Silvermere in our tongue, for we settled at the shore of a mountain lake. We had tunnels below the earth and a house of flat stones above. Ten tons to a slab, Mîm's mother once told him, which had to be moved from the mountains over a bed of iron bars and hauled into place with pulleys.”

Mîm speaks slowly, eyes half-closed, as if reaching for a memory and afraid it will vanish when grasped.

“In springtime the heather grew thick and dappled under the alder trees. The blossoming began just before Mîm was born, when the Sun had been several years in the sky. We had flax and barley fields then, and silos of grain under the earth, and a weaving-hall. As children we swam in the lake, which was forbidden to us, and the water was so clear you could trace the lines of the stars.

“Underground it was warm. The forge-fires never went out, and the songs of the craftsmen echoed through the stone and into one’s bones." He closes his eyes. "Still Mîm's heart is there! Still he sees his mother's nimble hands at the loom, and hears the clack-clack-clack of shuttles moving to the beat of a working song. Again he is a child creeping breathless into his father's forge, to see the clever fingers that could turn quartz into diamond.

"It was no land of gods and treasures, not the forge of Mahal, not a palace or citadel — not a match for the riches of Gabilgathol or Tumunzahar. But all the same …"

“It was your home,” says Finrod. “And it is lost.”

“Nay; it exists still, though its halls lie empty,” says Mîm. “We were driven out by izûl. They took us for goblin-kind, I guess, and put Zigilzâram to the torch — smoked out my people like vermin. My father was shot that night, and his body lay unburied above the earth until it burned with the heather-fields.

“For two years we journeyed south. At times we found shelter. Again and again we were driven from it, by Elves no less than Orcs. And then, at last, when we reached Sharbhund — when we discovered beyond hope the ancient delving in Nulukkhizdîn, far from Green-elves and March-wardens alike — how we rejoiced!”

Mim meets his gaze then, and Finrod is prepared to see anger. Instead he finds brown eyes red-rimmed and wet with unshed tears.

“Once I thought the world fair and beautiful; once I loved the stars and the flowers and wanted only to capture that love in the things of my making,” he says. “But it is lost to me. I can forge killing blades and hew tombs, but cannot shape beautiful things. A craftsman must put his heart into the things of his making, and my heart is a fire that will not be quenched until I die with it.”

As the smoke of the fire drifts up into the clear blue sky, Finrod thinks of gleaming docks and burning boats. He thinks of the many hurts that even the Halls cannot mend. That is the nature of Arda Marred, a philosopher would answer. There will be no healing in this world; it will break, and break, until at last it is shattered entire.

Then all shall prove the fulfillment of the true design, it is said. There is no knowing. Even the Valar do not know. There is only hope.

“You have said before that Elves write our past in sand,” Finrod says. “And I understand how it may seem so. We are bound to the world in life and death; we can be hurt by it, but not wholly changed. For one who has seen the griefs of many centuries must go on living the next. Nevertheless we carry their weight, and we understand loss irremediable.”

Finrod reaches into the ashes of the fire and retrieves a half-burned stick of kindling, a hand or two in length, its end still smoldering. He stamps it out, then rises and turns to the dead tree, where lichen grows over pale bark. In one stroke, then another, he draws the outline of a twining flower.

“Your fire is your own to do with as you will,” he says. “But in its ashes I hope you will find beauty.”

Excerpt from a letter to Artanis Galadriel, dated to the year 102 F.A.

It is with hesitation I pen the words: Nargothrond is complete. I know, I know — I am never satisfied, and surely I will contrive more to be done. But nevertheless the work of the past half century has proven fruitful beyond my highest hopes. It is lovely, Artanis. My only wish is that you will come and see it.

You will come, will you not? You will come. You must come — there is no excuse to be had, I’m afraid, when Menegroth is not a day’s ride to the North. You may bring your Gray-elf lord; and indeed anyone at all, if only you will consent to visit. I dearly wish to see you again.

Nargothrond full-wrought is beautiful — even Mîm must admit it. There is more of Elvish sensibilities in its design than he would like, the crystal-lanterns almost garishly bright, casting the smooth pillars and twisting vines and jewel-eyed snakes in light reminiscent more of the sun than the lamps to which he is accustomed. But Felagund is nothing if not an aesthete, and it is reflected in the halls of his creation.

“I am honored you could attend, my friend,” says the King of Nargothrond, gazing over the banquet-hall with an artist’s pride. “Just as I am sorry your chieftain could not.”

Mîm recalls that when he first met Felagund as a youth, he could not read the elf’s expressions. They were foreign to him, as one who had seen elves only from afar, through a lens of terror and hatred. Now, after decades of converse, he has seen the elf at his happiest, his bitterest, his most contented and impatient and tired, and he knows the topography of that beardless face as well as he knows any dwarf’s. Better, perhaps.

“Nibun is now in his fourth century,” he says. “Yet he would have come had Lakhîth not strictly forbidden it. His health has been bad since spring.”

“And you will be his successor, I deem,” agrees Felagund with a sidelong glance. “With you to guide the people they will be well-tended.”

“Tell that to the counselors,” says Mîm in a mutter. “They think I am too young and too rash by half.”

“And so you still are!” He laughs. “But there is a place in the world for youth and action, as much as age and experience – and I will say that I have known many far older with far less good sense.”

“Which you know from the wisdom of long experience?”

“Now you sound like my sister,” he says, and his smile warms somewhat at the words. “She has come to attend the feast as well — she and my brothers both, and my nephew. It has been many decades since my kin have been gathered so.”

“I do not doubt it.”

In the past fifty years Mîm has seen more of elves than perhaps any other dwarf in Beleriand, and still it is hard to believe that this many exist in all the world. He cannot help but feel on his guard, walking among them: It is reflex to quell his inner fire and go unseen. Though he wears no knife at his belt, there is one hidden under his shirt, and it is an effort to keep his hand from hovering over it.

All of them are very, well — elvish. They are uniformly gigantic and step lightly, like deer. Some, but not all, have the same keen light in their eyes as Felagund. And while Mîm can identify those who have spent time in Nargothrond — Edrahil and the masons, bearded Círdan, haughty Guilin and narrow-faced Orodreth — the others are indistinguishable to him.

But it is easy enough to identify Felagund’s siblings — not only from their golden hair, but from the way his entire body seems buoyed when he sees them.

“Sister,” he says, taking the hands of a willowy woman whose hair is braided in a shining crown around her head. “If you have critiques, I will not hear them – I sent designs to Doriath half a dozen times and received no emendations. How are the King and Queen — and cousin Lúthien?”

“They send their regards, of course.”

Then one of the other elves steps forward, with braids tangled in a leonine mane and dark eyes, and he clasps Felagund on the shoulder. “My brother the king,” he says. “I suppose we ought to be happy that you invited us at all, and did not vanish into the night taking Artanis with you, as our cousin did.”

“Were I to abscond with anyone it would be Orodreth; Artanis is much too pragmatic,” says Felagund. “But yes, I had heard. More pity to Fingon! I suppose he must now shoulder all his father’s hopes without remittance. But I cannot say Turgon’s departure was unexpected — I am only surprised that his sister consented to go with him.”

Another elf snorts. He is tall, with wiry golden hair bound back into a high tether; it flows behind him like a flame. "We shall see Aredhel again in fifty years, I guess, when she has grown sick of him."

There is laughter, a response.

Mîm does not hear it.

He does not hear anything — nothing but the sudden rush of blood in his ears. His palms prickle, then go numb.

There is a small sigil embroidered in the elf’s cloak of a radiant sun wreathed in flame.

Felagund has told Mîm the names of his brothers more than once; this is Aegnor, the sharp-flame, who with his brother settled in Dorthonion and Ladros. In Tarn Aeluin, perhaps, as the elves name Zigilzâram the Silvermere.

Mîm has seen it a hundred times over in waking nightmares: the elves in armor marked with gold and ocher heraldry, always with the same pattern of flame. At times he had wondered if it was only his confused imagination, for he had been only a child — not yet thirty. But if there was one memory he could never forget, it was the heather fields of Zigilzâram ablaze under the full moon.

He can never forget.

Slipping unseen from the banquet is simplicity itself. Felagund is elated with the completion of his labors, and eager to hear the approval of his brothers and sister and old friends. Naturally, his delight in reuniting with them supersedes any concern about Mîm’s sudden absence. Nor are any of the other elves likely to miss him, for they had always been happy to treat the khazâd of Nulukkhizdîn as mere wage-workers. Only Felagund in his oddity had condescended to make them his allies.

Down Mîm descends, deep into the old halls of Nulukkhizdîn where dwell his people. In all the long years of excavating Felagund’s palace they have expanded their own little: It remains ancient and rough-hewn, stripped of finery by necessity but serviceable. Ay, they had some profit of their work. Their granaries are full, their store-rooms stocked. Even now a Valinorean pearl weighs heavy as sin in Mîm’s pocket.

Little Khîm would never have to forage for stems and roots and earth-bread to fill his plate as his father once did. As his father had no choice but to learn, walking on burned feet in the snow from the ashes of Zigilzâram.

Was it the brother of Felagund who loosed the arrow that slew Mîm’s father? Or was he far away, heedless, as scouts bearing his crest secured the shores of Tarn Aeluin, purging its caves and stone halls of vermin? Had he known they were not orcs or goblins but mere noegyth nibin, that petty, stunted, primitive folk, would he have thrust them from their home more kindly – with gifts of pearl and platinum ingots, with harp-song and promises of treaty?

Felakgundu has not cast us out, Mîm tells himself, as one might tell a child a fairy tale they are too old to believe. He is our ally; he bade us live freely in halls beside his own.

He is an izîl, says another voice, weary and old. It sounds like his mother’s. They write the past in sand, and leave the tide to wash away their sins.

By the time he reaches his work-room he is stumbling, as if the remembered pain has the power to cripple him anew. The table is littered with half-finished attempts at craftsmanship: the work of a foolish dwarf who sought to reclaim what time and hatred had long stolen from him. He stares into the forge until his eyes are half-blinded and sweat drips in his beard. In the same way he had stood just on the cusp of the pyres they burned on the road south, when they had no deep tombs in which to lay their dead to rest.

Even the forge’s heat cannot match the fire trapped between his ribs, scorching and blistering. He curses in a string of the foulest blasphemies he can muster — curses the Maker for filling his children with fire, curses Elves and their blight upon the earth, curses Felagund and his scarred hands and the stone-dust under his fingernails, curses his smile in the snow-drenched cave that made Mîm think perhaps — perhaps! — this one elf might be trusted.

Blindly he knocks his tools from their bench, crushes a paltry effort at wire-work in one hand, overturns a bin of ash scraped from the furnace. It billows into the air and falls around him as snow, choking and stinging. It is the taste of smoke in the heather, flames licking the carcass of halls cut from stone, coals hot underfoot as he fled.

In its ashes, I hope you will find beauty again.

He falls to his knees, paralyzed by grief.

It is perhaps minutes later, perhaps hours, that he hears the fine chiming of bronze bells and feels strong arms pull him into an embrace.

“Lakhîth,” he croaks.

She must know. He must tell her. But the telling does not come easy. Each word he must say aloud is wrenched from deep within, and scalds in his throat, as he speaks his fire into the the world in bitter fragments.

She listens, her temple pressed to his, and does not speak for a long time.

But when the shaking of his shoulders subsides, she sits back and traces her fingers over his trembling fists. At first he does not understand why — but then he meets her eyes and sees in them weariness and pain, but not surprise.

“Love, Mîm, heart of my heart — Felakgundu has always been an izîl,” she says. “Mîm knew it from the first, did he not? Did Felakgundu not ride from Doriath with March-wardens at his side?”

She tilts her head, and his eyes catch on the dancing light of her earrings: a pair of many-faceted fire opals which glow from within. They are an heirloom from her mother, their maker long dead, and the skill of their crafting gone from the world. Such a lovely and useless trinket is now beyond the craft of any jewelsmith in Nulukkhizdîn.

It had been March-wardens who drove the wandering khazâd out of Brethil, he knew. Lakhîth’s mother had died that winter; that too he knew. The March-wardens are the reason that only one of Lakhîth’s three brothers, half-blind Barkhûnd, yet lives. How could he not know? He had carved their tombs deep in the roots of the earth with his own chisel. He should have known.

But he had been willfully blind.

“Mîm has been a fool,” he says. The words grate from his throat like gravel. “He should have known. He has been a weak-hearted, dull-minded –”

“Ay, Lakhîth knew it too,” she says, resting a hand on his lips. “She wondered at her Mîm-love, so sharp-edged and stubborn, who came to find friendship with that strange izîl from the West. Yet she left the Halls to meet him, this Felakgundu. Why would she do such a thing?”

Because he had asked it of her.

“Mîm was wrong,” he says, reaching up with a hand to press hers — but there is no strength in his fingers. “Lakhîth, he was —”

“Because she saw hope,” she continues, speaking over him. “Because it is her duty to keep the past alive; but what is a past without a future? As long as the fire burned in her love’s heart he would never be free from it. Ay, Mîm Zîmul, it has been seventy years since we fled Zigilzâram, and still we stand in its ashes. If we do not begin rebuilding, when will our journey end?”

Her words flow steady and cool as icemelt. He cannot bear to hear them. He wants to cover his ears; wants to close his eyes as they sting with bitter cinders. “Mîm cannot leave the heather-fields,” he says. “Even now, Lakhîth, he sees only ash. And the past is carved in stone.”

“Let the future be writ in ash then, for that is what we have.” The light of her earrings dances with her smile, and she reaches up to tangle her fingers in his hair, brushing away the heat on his cheeks with calloused thumbs. “We have always been resourceful, have we not?”

Ten weeks later. The end of summer.

Nargothrond is everything Finrod hoped it would become, and feels poised on the edge of metamorphosing into something lovelier still.

The halls are radiant as daylight, alive with elves of all kindreds dwelling together in — well. Perhaps harmony is too much to ask. But Edrahil is being civil with Guilin, who is being civil with Círdan’s folk; and the diplomats from Hithlum have not started any wars with the Sindar yet; and if Celebrimbor’s latest letter is any indication, he may well be persuaded to take up residence in the spring.

And yet.

“Has there been no word from Mîm?” he asks Edrahil, tapping his fingers restlessly on his knee. “Or messengers from Nulukkhizdîn? If Nibun’s health has taken a turn for the worse, I imagine they would have notified us.”

“None, sire.”

It has been nearly ten weeks since the feast, and still the dwarves have been unusually silent. At first Finrod had let it be, supposing that the many strangers traveling in and out of Nargothrond might have set their nerves on edge. After decades of quiet work on the riverside, even he needed time to adjust to the change.

But days became weeks, and Nargothrond settled into its new pace, and still Mîm had not visited — had not even written. Had there been some offense, some altercation at the feast? With Mîm’s temper, surely he would not have borne it in silence. But perhaps, amid so many guests, such an incident might have been suppressed.

Finrod closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. Now he recalls why he first left Mithrim to go wandering with his cousin, far from family squabbles and politics.

“Pray send him a letter on my behalf. Or a gift — something for Nibun’s health, maybe, or for Lakhîth …” he sighs and presses a hand to the bridge of his nose. “No, no, that won’t do at all. Mîm would never accept it. He would mock me, and rightly.”

“Sire,” says Edrahil tiredly. “Or Finrod, if you will let me speak as your friend. Nigh on a month you have been talking in circles, and at this rate I do not doubt you will go on prevaricating forever to no profit. Had you not better go and speak with him?”

Finrod exhales.

In truth, he had taken thought to go. But always his heart misgave him. Had it not always been Mîm who approached him, at his own inscrutable whims, and not the reverse?

Mîm had been for many years now his companion and confidant. But even before the dwarf had told him of Zigilzâram, Finrod had known there was a fire in his heart that flickered to life in his moments of fey anger — and over that dark, blistering flame Felagund of Nargothrond held not even the slightest sway. He had never dared to wake it, nor draw near when it was wakened.

You are a coward, Felagund, he thinks to himself. If you are a friend, you must be so always — not merely when it suits you. And if Edrahil must bludgeon you with good sense for you to heed it, then heed it you must.

“Yes,” he says at last. “I think I must go to Nulukkhizdîn.”

The Inner Halls of Nulukkhizdîn are, as they have always been, barred to outsiders. Finrod, who had not expected otherwise, waits patiently in the Outer Hall: cognizant of the considerable inconvenience to which he is putting the unfortunate gate-guards, as they decide what to do with a King who has arrived without retinue or appointment. He regrets their distress, but it cannot be helped.

Some time later, a messenger arrives and escorts him to the caves where the smiths work at their forges. An unexpected venue — for though Finrod has been to the forges aplenty, he has never been with Mîm.

To his astonishment, however, he sees Mîm at a work-bench. His beard is braided tight and hair drawn back in a riotous bundle of curls, hands stained in ash. It is almost a preposterous picture: For all his years working alongside Mîm, poring over designs, fine-tuning architecture, Finrod has never seen the dwarf so much as touch a chisel. He himself had declared his craft was lost to him.

“My friend,” Finrod says. “I hope I am not overstepping my welcome; I only thought —” He stops and tries again. “I wished to see you.”

Mîm does not look up from his work. “A king has many duties. I would not trouble him.”

“But a friend’s sole delight is in being troubled, and in troubling others; thus you find me inconveniencing your gate-guards today,” he says, with a rueful laugh. “But if you do not wish to see me, you may say so, and I will return another day.”

At that, amusement sparks in Mîm’s eyes, and he snorts. “Ay, you would at that. A fool so stubborn he would camp on the Naruk in winter cannot be reasoned with. But it is as well you have come, for you spare me the headache of wading through the Elf-lords that clog up your court. I have a gift for you.”

Of all the receptions Finrod had guessed — or feared — this had not been among them. “A gift? I —on what occasion?”

“What occasion is needed for a gift between friends?”

So saying, the dwarf turns to his work-bench and plucks out a little silk-wrapped parcel amid the scattered tools. It is Iathrin water-silk: Finrod recognizes the fabric at a glance, for it had been one of his own gifts to Mîm over the years. Mîm offers it with one hand, carelessly, as one might hand over a hammer or a pick.

“Then,” says Finrod, taking it. “I thank you.”

Mîm says nothing.

With a bracing breath, Finrod looks down to the bundle in his hands and gently lifts up the corner of the silk. It falls away in a shimmer, and therein he finds a flower.

Delicate petal-bells of deep amethyst and carnelian, lined in spiderweb-thin wire, each leaf so thin it could be snapped with the lightest touch of a finger. So exquisite is its make that it might have been plucked from a living plant — if living plants grew in jewel-bright hues that flickered in the firelight.

It is a masterwork, to be sure — but it is flawed. The flower is unlovely, distorted, withered. Its leaves are stained in ash, bleeding gold from burnt edges. A bitter and ruined beauty.

Gingerly, Finrod cradles it in his hand, feeling dawning wonder. “This,” he says slowly, “is a piece of your own crafting?”

“It is a gift,” says Mîm. “You may do with it what you will.”

“I will treasure it.”

“You may do with it what you will,” the dwarf repeats, wiping ash from his fingers with an old rag on the work-bench. “It is fragile and easily broken. Mîm doubts it will last long. But we shall see.”

“Then,” Finrod says, looking up from the flower in sudden relief, “all is well between us?”

“Did you think it was not?”

“I had thought — it seemed to me that you had been distant of late. I feared that some offense had been made to you during the banquet, or … but no matter. If all is well, then it is well. And so may it remain.”

“Ay, perhaps.” Mîm offers a smile that does not reach his eyes. “Soon this land will be a kingdom of elves, and your hope of a mighty stronghold realized in full. Shall the courtiers of Nargothrond not find Mîm’s people an eyesore among such finery?”

“No more of an eyesore than you find them, I am sure,” Finrod says with a laugh. Not that it is funny, exactly; but he feels almost shaken with relief: There had been a dark foreboding in his heart, and he had not known it until it lifted. “But that we can overcome in time.”

Mîm hums. “Can we?”

“Nay, we must — for foolish is the king who sets out to build a banquet-hall without pillars. As ever, I shall rely on you, my friend. And ever shall you and yours have a home in Nargothrond, as long as it stands."

"The oath of an Elf-king is worth less than nothing,” Mîm says with a snort. “But the value of your word, I suppose, we shall appraise in time. You will not be so easily rid of us — neither Mîm nor Nulukkhizdîn. But you will not persuade me to love the Elves, Felakgundu, not though you had all the years of the world to try.”

“If you will let me try a little longer,” answers Finrod, “that is all I ask.”

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An Important Note on Timing: Writ in Ash takes place in 52-102 F.A. It is not a rewrite or fix-it of the canonical incident circa 150-200 F.A., where Mîm tries to assassinate Finrod and his people are exiled from Nargothrond. (The assassination attempt occurs after the Greater-dwarves return to Beleriand and begin working with Finrod in Nargothrond.)

A Note on Dwarf Ages: Mîm is stupidly long-lived for a Dwarf; canonically he’s got to be at least 400 by the time he dies in F.A. 502, and likely much older. Tolkien repeatedly describes Mîm as being older than most Dwarves (and sometimes “fatherless,” which is a very intriguing idea that I have not explored here.) For the purposes of this fic I posit that Mîm is a normal Dwarf, and Dwarves in the First Age just live longer — it’s a mythic era, the earth is young, et cetera.

A Note on Petty-dwarf Names: Canonically, Petty-dwarves are unlike Greater-dwarves in that they use their Khuzdul names with outsiders. (The dwarves in the Hobbit, for example, all have two names: "Thorin" is the outer name used with non-dwarves, but he also has a Khuzdul name not known to the reader.) But Petty-dwarves only have the one. This is also why the OC names in Writ in Ash may not sound like Dwarvish OC (outer-) names seen in other Dwarf-centric fics, such as Hobbit-fic. In creating OC names for this fic (Barkhûnd, Ishar, Amûnd, Khûnd, Lakhîth, Nibun, etc.) I borrowed from existing Khuzdul consonant-vowel structures and phonemes to match the very few Khuzdul names we have in canon (Mîm, Khîm, Ibun).

A Note on Zigilzâram: Zigilzâram is made-up, as is its burning and the odyssey of the Petty-dwarves south to Amon Rûdh/Nargothrond. There is no canon evidence (as far as I'm aware) to support the idea that Silm!Mîm ever lived by Tarn Aeluin. But there are some pretty neat fan theories that some Petty-dwarves once lived at Tarn Aeluin, specifically in the ancient house of tall stones where Barahir and his men hide out.

TIMELINE
*speculative date for a canon event
** fic invention, non-canon event

• 0 - After establishing the Siege of Angband, the Noldor begin settling and expanding in Middle-Earth.
• 10* - Turgon builds and settles Vinyamar.
• 12* - Finrod builds the tower of Minas Tirith (not that one) in Fingolfin’s realm in the north on Tol Sirion.
• 18** - Mîm is born to Zîm and Ikhûz in the Petty-dwarf settlement of Zigilzâram (“Silvermere”) on the shores of Tarn Aeluin. At this time the Petty-dwarves have been undisturbed in the area for at least a generation; the adults are still fearful but the children less so.
• 34** - A group of Elvish scouts bearing Aegnor’s heraldry are conducting a patrol of the area near Tarn Aeluin. They mistake the Petty-dwarves of Zigilzâram for orcs and drive them out. The dwarves flee along the fringes of Ered Gorgoreth; many are killed, and more perish in winter. Mîm is 26, roughly equivalent to a youth of 12 or 13.
• 35** - Seeking a new home in the south where Elves are fewer, the Zigilzâram folk wander south through the Pass of Anact, down the River Mindeb through the Dimbar region. They cannot enter Doriath, of course, and are driven out of Brethil by Thingol’s March-wardens. Two of Lakhîth's brothers are killed, and her mother dies later that year. At length they flee the woods and find shelter at Amon Rûdh, which they call Sharbhund. There they establish the settlement (Bar-en-Nibin-noeg) that will later become the House of Ransom.
• 44** - Fearful of increased sightings of elves traveling along the borders of Doriath, the dwarves at Sharbhund scout south and discover an abandoned Petty-dwarf settlement in the High Faroth along the Narog. Some remain in Sharbhund, but a greater portion of the dwarves decide to migrate there and establish Nulukkhîzdin, led by their chief Nibûn. Mîm is now closer to the human equivalent of 16 or 17.
• 50 - Finrod is visited by Turgon coming from Vinyamar on the coast, and they go travelling together southward to Beleriand; he leaves the keeping of Minas Tirith to his nephew Orodreth. While resting in the Aelin-uial, they both have separate dreams from Ulmo that made them begin searching for hidden places in which to build a keep.
• 50 - 52 - Finrod spends time as a guest of Thingol in Doriath.
• 52 - Enchanted by Menegroth’s beauty, Finrod mentions his dream of finding a hidden place to build something similar. Thingol directs him to the High Faroth on the west bank of the Narog, and had guides lead him there. He sees the openings of many caves, and finds the dwellings of Petty-dwarves, who agree to help him build his underground keep. This is where Writ in Ash begins. Based on this timeline, Mîm at Finrod’s arrival would have been 34 and just reaching adulthood, the equivalent of 18 or 19.
• 55 ** - Mîm and Lakhîth wed in the spring.
• 59** - Some dwelling-spaces have been firmly established in Nargothrond; a small portion of Finrod’s people, including Edrahil, reside there and assist with the work.
• 65 - Finrod and Círdan collaborate to build Barad Nimras, a watchtower west of Eglarest, designed to protect the havens from naval attacks.
• 80 ** - Mîm and Lakhîth’s first child, Khîm, is born. Lakhîth and Finrod meet for the first time and begin their correspondence, with Mîm as their translator.
• 102 - Nargothrond is completed; Finrod celebrates with a great feast, which his siblings attend.

GLOSSARIES

DWARVISH GLOSSARY
Words marked with * are invented for this fic (wholly invented, as I chose not to use Neo-Khuzdul.) All others are canon or semi-canon. Corrections and feedback welcome & appreciated!

• *da, enough
• Felakgundu, “Cave-hewer,” the Dwarvish origin of Felagund
• Gabilgathol, the Dwarf-city of Belegost
• *hadar tamûn, the Inner Hall of a Petty-dwarf settlement
• khuzd, a dwarf (including Petty-dwarves)
• khazâd, dwarves (including Petty-dwarves)
• Khuzdul, Dwarvish (as a general adjective), and also the language of the Dwarves
• *izîl, an elf, adopted from Sindarin “edhel” with no native Dwarvish etymology.
• *izûl, elves. The plural form of izîl.
• *Naruk, Dwarvish name for the river Narog.
• Narkuthûn, the Dwarvish name for Nargothrond. (Usage for this fic is slightly different from canon usage.)
• Nulukkhizdîn, the underground halls of the Petty-dwarves beside the Narog, which predate the Elvish Nargothrond. (Usage for this fic is slightly different from canon usage. Also spelled —kkizdîn, but the -kh spelling is said by some to be “more correct,” so that’s what I ended up using.)
• Sharbhund, the hill Amon Rûdh.
• Tumunzahar, the Dwarf-city of Nogrod
• -ul, suffix meaning "son/daughter of" (ex. Thorin Thrainul)
• Zigilzâram, literally "the Silvermere," the name of the Petty-dwarf, settlement on the banks of Tarn Aeluin. Borrowed from existing Khuzdul words zigil = silver and zaram = mere, pool.

ELVISH GLOSSARY (Not Exhaustive)

• fëa (Q.) spirit (as defined by Elves); the immaterial part of the self that inhabits a living body. What Finrod calls the fëa of the Petty-dwarves is what Mîm calls "the inner fire."
• Hadhodrim (S.) the dwarves, dwarf-folk, derived from “khazâd”. Singular is hadhod.
• noegyth nibin (S.) Petty-dwarves, literally meaning “the petty stunted-folk.” Singular is niben-nog.
  • In this fic noegyth nibin is a fairly rude (but common) term. The Petty-dwarves call themselves khazâd (“dwarves”, but without the double meaning of stature; derived from the Khuzdul word for “seven”), and Finrod likewise uses the polite Sindarin equivalent Hadhodrim.

* Succession is male-only but passes through the female line. This is why the role of the next chieftain is expected to go to Mîm (the husband of Nibun’s daughter) rather than Barkhûnd (the son of Nibun.) If Mîm had a daughter, she would succeed Lakhîth as lorekeeper, and her husband would be the next chieftain; otherwise, it would pass through the line of Lakhîth’s nearest female relative. (I am the only one who cares about this haha) This is only the general rule, of course.

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