Shaped From Rock by Fuin  

I scratch my beard that is itching from sweat, then I once again shoulder my own heavy pack and urge my entourage – ten porters and twenty mercenaries – to get moving. Not many miles are left to carry our packs and push our carts until we reach our destination, and still the different kinds of southern heat amaze me. We have passed the scorching sun of the desert and the humidity of the deep jungle that did not offer any cooling. Now, in the mountains where green slopes alternate with sheer cliffs and harsh rocks of volcanic stone, the heat again feels different. Sometimes, in the afternoons after travelling for miles and miles and with another few hours of walking to come, I long for the cool depths of the halls of Tumunzahar and the ice-cold winds of the peaks and passes of the Blue Mountains. 

But we are Dwarves, we take pride in our perseverance and we are not known for complaining. Behind every turn of the road there is a new sight to behold that makes up for the sore feet and sweat-soaked linen sticking to aching backs. In the end, I deem the journey will be rewarded by the risks taken with my investments. My treasure vaults at home are quite empty right now, the carts are laden with wares from the north that I paid for with my own gold. 

‘The pelts‘, I think as sweat drips from my brow, ‘I will sell at a loss.'  But pelts, of course, are not the only goods I brought with me. Chests full of silver and jewels masterfully crafted by the Elves of northern Beleriand are what I foremost rely on. It has been many years since one of my folk traded with our southern kin. It is said that there had been frequent contact between our peoples, but that had been before Orcs spread throughout Beleriand like rats in a granary. Now, as travelling has again become safe enough, I am the first to try and rekindle those long-lost relationships. However much they might have changed in the meantime, they are still Dwarves. Dwarves of any folk cannot resist the Noldors' gemstones so intricately cut that they refract light as if a drop of sunlight had been caught in their crystal structure. They will pay a good price. 

There are many golden coins on my carts, too. The profile of some Elf is struck on all of them. All the coins the Elf-Lords pay me with show the same personage, even though I know they do own different-looking coins. I had thought they would have had it in mind to make themselves known amongst the peoples of Beleriand.

“Is this supposed to be you?“ I asked one of them when I had travelled to Thargelion and Himlad last year. They all look more or less the same to me, except sometimes for the colour of their hair, which grows on the top of their heads only (those poor lads!) and which is obviously golden on the coin. 

He scoffed at that. “No, Dwarf-Lord. A relative of mine.“

That was all he had to say about that and I realized that he might not want to spread word as much as get rid of the coins depicting his relative's face. I'd never press anyone for the secret details of their family matters, even if they are obviously quite public. I myself keep a secret from them, too, as it doesn't seem obvious to them: I am not exactly a ‘lord‘. 

All in all, there is little love between Dwarves and Elves, but the Enemy unites us. I was amongst the first to trade with the Noldor after we made contact when the siege they had laid to Angband made the roads safe enough to travel. Many of the goods of Tumunzahar still pass to them through my hands first, and thus I have won great riches.

Now, it is in the nature of wealth that it strives to grow. And it grew greatly with the Elves' demands for our swords and spears, for shields and chain mail, for horseshoes and belt buckles that they need to wage their eternal war against Morgoth's Orcs and to reinforce the siege of Angband. They are good at war-making, so good that it has turned into a watchful peace. 

I'll say it as it is: Peace, however brittle, is not good for my business. In each of the last five years, the amount of gold I earned has not been greater than the year before. That is indeed a crisis! It is the reason I left the deep and dark mines of Tumunzahar, its forges where skilled hands tirelessly craft the hardest steel and its great halls with golden ceilings, and instead endeavour on a long journey that will take me farther away from home than I had ever been. 

These long roads I travel to solve my crisis, because for all their haughtiness and unloveliness, the Elves have a trait that I can't name anything but adorable. They are very curious. Show them a thing they have never before seen in their immortal lives and they will pay a cartload of gold believing it is a bargain. I am set to find such new things here, in the south.

After another turn of the road and the last climb of a hill, we finally arrive at our journey's end.

The first I notice are the buildings situated between the defensive walls and trenches that surround the city like a labyrinth and the gates of the inner wall. Their flat roofs are level with the ground, I can see at first glance that they have been carved from the rock instead of built on top of it. My interest is sparked, but there is no time to linger and take a closer look right now. I need to find accommodation as close as possible to the market square for thirty-one Dwarves before nightfall. Then I will revel in the comfort of sleeping in a bed with a roof over my head for some hours, before I will visit the market early in the morning. I would not be named amongst Tumunzahar's most renowned merchants, if I did not put business first.

***

Frowning, I rub the brightly patterned fabric between my fingers, then I shake my head. 

“C'mon, M'lady! It's the best quality you'll find far and wide.“

I let the cloth fall back onto the counter and cross my arms in front of my chest. “And next you'll claim you've had dinner with Mahal the Maker himself!“

“Huh,“ says the vendor. From his expression I take that he understands I have called him a show-off, but naturally, he does not get the reference. The language of my southern kin did not grow apart from ours during the years of separation, but I have come to notice that both our peoples use sayings that are unfamiliar to the other. 

“This is not even worth half the price you're naming.“ 

We haggle for a time. In the end, I procure several bolts of cloth for a very reasonable price. They are indeed of excellent quality.

Over the next few days, I sell the wares I brought with me and business goes well – except for the pelts – and I acquire lots of goods in the same manner as the cloth: Colourful vases, fragrant spices, leather made from snake skin, ivory of oliphaunt-tusks, uncut rubies, and samples of iron and silver ore I will have inspected more closely at the smelter back in Tumunzahar. 

I have a good idea of what the Elves will be inclined to buy, although some of it remains a gamble. In contrast to that, I can never decide on what to buy for myself. I do want to treat myself with a keepsake of this journey. It can't be a large thing, as I do not want to waste any of the space on my carts. A gold studded belt, maybe, some broad copper bangles with a geometric pattern, or those ivory beads to decorate the braids in my beard with? 

I decide to put the decision off and my feet carry me outside the inner city walls. Until now, there has not been the time to visit the strange buildings I had noted on my arrival. Carved directly from the volcanic rock, their outlines are straight and cubic and they have small and few lancet windows in their upper stories. It does not seem as if anyone lives in them.

It's not hard to find a local who will show me around and tell me their history. He had even worked in the construction of some of them and is filled with such pride, that it seems almost impossible to interrupt him after he has started talking. It turns out, the buildings are temples dedicated to Mahal the Maker. After a while, I don't actually want him to stop telling me about them.

“See the trenches over there, eh?“ asks my acquaintance and points down to the city's defensive structures, “They've never been overcome, for Mahal has made the ground so we can build strong cities from it, he buried iron in it for us to forge sharp weapons and heavy mail and he raised us from it, with steadfast minds and bodies. Each time we throw back a damn Orc raid, “ he spits, “A place is chosen where we deepen the trenches til a large block of stone's left. Then we chisel the doors and halls and windows. We sing while we work, we praise Mahal and that's when I feel closest to him, you know Don't you have any temples in Tumunzahar?“

“No, we don't,“ I answer regretfully. As I run my hand over the warm stone facade, I'm too embarrassed to tell him that I mostly invoke the Maker's name when I swear at my neighbour, when I swear after I hit my thumb with a hammer, swear as my head aches from one ale too many, swear when again the workers at my warehouse have toppled over a shelf and ruined valuable goods …

“Can I look inside?“ I ask.

He clicks his tongue. “The completed temples are for Mahal only, his own houses, you know? Well, and for some selected few who take care of maintenance. But consider yourself lucky! We're building a new one by the eastern wall. If you're not afraid to get your hands dirty, come back tomorrow morning and see for yourself while you help.“

I'm a Dwarf. Sure as the depths of Angband, I'll get my hands dirty. 

I return the next morning at sunrise. They hand me a shovel and a wheelbarrow and I start clearing away the rubble that others generate with their work on the second floor. I move in tune with the work songs and in remembrance of the Maker's voice in the creation of Arda, the singing is just as important as the shovelling and chiselling. 

On the ground level, the halls are almost completed. As I pass them over and over again with a fully laden wheelbarrow on my way out and with an empty one when I come back in, I marvel at the murals and reliefs that decorate the walls. They depict Dwarves in all the situations that Dwarven life is about: miners with pickaxes, smiths in their forges with hammers and anvils, warriors fighting Orcs and Trolls, great cities above and beneath mountain ranges. In each room, on the wall across from the door, towers the mighty image of Mahal the Maker, arms spread wide as he raises the mountains from whose stones he carved our seven forefathers. While I take part in building this house for him, returning the favour he did us in creating our bodies, I do indeed feel as close to him as I seldom do in other aspects of my life. 

Creating things of wonder from stone with our own hands – this is, what he has made us for. Mahal himself loves the act of creation and we as his Children cannot do anything better than this to honour him. 

Shovelling the rubble becomes a routine and my mind wanders to many places that now all seem to be connected to our Maker. 

Naturally, this also takes me back to my trade. I think of all the wares I procured for the Elves and I think of their shameless blasphemy.

“So, you really claim not only to have met Mahal the Maker himself, whom you call Aulë, but sat at his dinner table?“ I once asked one of the Noldorin lords, uncaring that he looked down on me like I was not only shorter but also far beneath him. 

“I did.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “And would you swear that on your grandfather's beard?“

He frowned for a moment and then had the gall to say: “Well, yes. I would indeed swear it.“ 

It is a very dangerous thing to swear a false oath on your grandfather's beard. But for him, it will stay without consequence, because as every child knows: Elves can't grow beards.

Now, their bold statement seems more absurd to me than ever. I can no sooner imagine Mahal to step into the door of one of his half-built temples right now and take up a chisel himself than voluntarily invite those Elf-Lords for dinner.

I keep on working until night falls quite unexpectedly. Only then do I set down my shovel and wheelbarrow. I feel tired, but also content, and I know that after a good night's sleep I'll be ready to start my journey home in high spirits on the morrow. 

Before I leave, I donate to the temples a generous amount of gold coins depicting some Elf-Lord's relative's face. 

And I have decided on what to take home to Tumunzahar with me. I carry the revelation that the Maker's song is still in the ground and the rocks and the mountains and that he has never stopped shaping us, his Children, as we in turn shape the gifts he gave to Arda.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to Elrond's Library for beta-reading!

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