The Unread Visions of a Higher Dream II: The Light Under the Mountain by Prackspoor  

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II.3

In which two friends go their separate ways.

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*

Annatar very much felt like leaving Celebrimbor to his own devices the next day – after all, why should he tag after his friend like a forlorn dog when he clearly wasn't wanted?

He considered going to the library, but the idea appeared stale and unappealing without the Celebrimbor’s brilliant mind leaning against his own. So instead, he wandered the mid-levels of Hadhodrond, allowing his feet to carry him wherever they liked while he brooded on yesterday's argument. As inconsequential as it should have been, it had remained stuck in his head and he kept revisiting the memory time and time again until he had considered it from all possible angles, though it left him in no better mood.

Lost in thought as he had been, it took him quite some time to notice how deserted the usually lively Dwarven city was. All shops and stalls were closed, the usually bustling thoroughfares nearly empty and even the street lights were shining dimmer than usual. Only here and there did he see a finely-dressed dwarf hurrying down the streets, obviously in a haste to get somewhere.

The reason for his hurry soon became apparent when the Great Clock of Hafnur chimed the sixth hour of the evening. All of a sudden, the doors of dwarven dwellings opened, and from every side street and on the walkways above and beyond, the trickle of a few travelling Dwarves soon swelled to a stream that made its way down the main thoroughfare through the Second and Third Hall. The Dwarves wore festive clothes and despite the sheer mass of them, the procession was utterly silent. Not even the usual hushed susurrus of whispered conversation that seemed to pervade a great assembly of people as a given was present. The Dwarves proceeded in silence, and each of them was carrying a candle of purple wax in their hands.

Durin's Day. Of course.

Annatar stepped into a narrow alley between two houses, watching silently as the crowd of Dwarves made its way past him in the direction of where one of the great staircases that connected the various higher and lower levels of Khazad-Dûm was located.

Annatar could see other foreigners watching the procession with great interest while keeping a respectful distance from the procession, knowing better than to disturb the sacred rite.

Then a familiar dark-haired person caught his eye, standing heads and shoulders above the rest of the Dwarven procession.

Annatar carefully made his way along the outer edge of the crowd.

Whenever Annatar had seen the elf sitting among the throng of his friends at breakfast, he had been unable to suppress the same strange stab of resentment that he had felt at Fundin's arrival yesternight. Not even the fact that Celebrimbor apparently neither enjoyed his meal nor partook in the conversation had done anything to soothe it. If Annatar made a distant assessment of the current situation, he was frankly surprised by the ungracious nature of his own thoughts towards Celebrimbor ever since yesterday's argument.

Now, however, Celebrimbor seemed to have lost his group of comrades that had surrounded him for the past few days. He looked pale and didn't seem like he had gotten much in the way of sleep last night. At that, something that had been taut-strung inside Annatar suddenly released its tension and he finally found it in himself to look at his friend in a more benevolent manner.

He caught up with Celebrimbor just when they stepped out of the Second and into the First Hall. Celebrimbor did not even notice him at first, and Annatar leaned over to say, “I hope you have your speech remembered.”

Celebrimbor looked up quickly and seemed thoroughly surprised to see him here. “Annatar! I didn't think you'd be here!” he said, quickly lowering his voice and shooting a furtive glance at Fundin, who had been standing at his side, unnoticed by Annatar until now.

Thankfully, Annatar was prudent enough to bite back the first response that had come to his mind when he noticed Fundin – which would have been as inappropriate as it was undignified. Instead, he gave a curt bow to the dwarf, then turned to face Celebrimbor and shrugged. “To be entirely honest, I did not know I would be here until a few minutes ago myself. But then I saw the procession and I caught sight of you, so here I am.”

Annatar noticed the furtive look his friend threw the dwarf at his side, and the way Celebrimbor apparently reined himself in. He was refraining from saying or doing something else that he otherwise might have done – censoring himself, taking something away from Annatar and himself that they might have shared, were it not for the presence of Fundin, who seemed to have an inexplicable sway over Celebrimbor.

Annatar looked at the dwarf and the dwarf looked back, and for a moment there was enough tension between them that it felt like the air itself might combust spontaneously. After a few moments of staring, the dwarf averted his eyes.

Well, if that is how you want to play this, then be my guest, Annatar thought darkly.

He made a furtive gesture at the dwarves all around them, pointedly ignoring Fundin. “Are you familiar with the meaning of this?” he asked quietly.

Celebrimbor blinked, obviously thrown off his train of thought by the question, but he quickly gathered himself back together. “The – ah. Well, the formal beginning of Durin's Day is when both the sun and the moon are in the sky, which has been predicted by the astronomers to happen at six hours into the evening. This is when the normal activities of daily life are abandoned and all dwarves join together to travel to the necropolis in order to find the tombs of their relatives, where they will honour their dead. The king himself opens the formal beginning of the rituals by unlocking and opening the doors to the necropolis at the seventh hour of the evening.”

“There is an entire city of the dead under this mountain?” Annatar asked.

“There is. They are called the Halls of Waiting, and all Dwarves of Khazad-Dûm find their final resting place there.” Another one of those furtive glances at the dwarf, as if he was a censor, and Celebrimbor had to weigh everything he said twice, unable to speak freely. Annatar felt a dark anger growing inside him.

“I can't tell you any more right now,” Celebrimbor said. “We have to make our way to the necropolis in silence.”

“Ah. Well, lead and I shall follow,” Annatar replied with outward nonchalance.

Celebrimbor briefly looked like he would object – another spike, another stab, and Annatar had to bite down the white-hot wrath that was building up inside him – but then the elf just nodded slightly. “Stay close to me. Do not speak.”

Together, they made their way down to the grand staircase, the greatest and most well-known connection of the numerous levels of Khazad-Dûm. Annatar was aware that both Celebrimbor's presence and his own were drawing many stares, not all of them well-meaning. He ignored them, just as he ignored the dwarf walking at Celebrimbor's left side, who in turn spared him neither glance nor greeting.

The staircase led downwards, turning left at a right angle every fifty steps, so that its descent marked a square spiralling into the depths of the mountains. Annatar watched the subtle changes in the etchings on the walls as well as the surrounding stone as they climbed down the steps. This was the old heart of the mountain, and they were descending directly into it. He knew that the part of the mines that the Dwarves called Deep Paths must be around here, but how deep did they lie? He was not unfamiliar with mines and mountain dwellings, but he did wonder how deep the Khazad of Dwarrowdelf had dug.

It was not long before he could feel the change in the air as well. The entire atmosphere had shifted, and if the procession had not started out silent, Annatar knew the last wisps of conversation would have died by now at the latest. This part of the mountain was old, truly old, even by the oldest reckonings of Middle-earth. This deep, the mountain did not allow for laughter and loud voices. The very stone above their heads seemed to weigh down on them and stifle all desire and ability for talking. The flames of the candles burned lower, almost snuffed out by an invisible presence in the air.

One look at Celebrimbor told Annatar that his friend felt it as well. His face was sombre, but drawn, as if he was labouring under a great weight.

They must have gone a mile under the mountain before the procession finally reached their destination. The stairs ended and the tunnel around them opened up into a great cavern, dimly lit by torches that shone only few and far between. The walls of the cavern were solid, raw rock – untouched by hammers and chisels. The only exception was the gate at the far end of the tunnel: it stood about twenty feet tall and looked as if it had been hewn from one piece and directly from the mountain side. Its stone was smooth, but worn and cracked in places, and chisellings showed a great many Dwarvish runes engraved in the archway, as well as a stylized imagery of sun, moon and stars. The gate was closed.

Annatar looked at Celebrimbor. The elf's eyes were fixed on the door, and Celebrimbor did not blink once in the entire time Annatar watched him. The procession was utterly still and silent. Annatar had never once in his life seen such a great mass of mortal beings standing so still and disciplined without any apparent ordering force from the outside.

Then Durin, King under the Three Mountains, stepped forward. He raised his hands, a candle held aloft in his right hand, and then he started to chant what had to be an old magic invocation. The dialect was so old that Annatar had trouble understanding its meaning, despite his recent Khuzdul lessons. It was a language that the Dwarves of Khazad-Dûm from a thousand years ago must have spoken¹, standing at a crossroads between Valarin and Khuzdul that made it almost impossible to understand from either angle. He caught a few words, though, that seemed to refer to the concept of opening and the lowering of old wards. His assumption was confirmed when the leaves of the great stone doors opened slowly and in complete silence, without so much as a scratch of stone on stone as they were given their first view of what had to be the Dwarven necropolis of Khazad-Dûm.

Durin lowered his arms and then, with his son and his two nephews following behind him, he led the way into the city of the dead.

The procession followed, the Dwarves falling into orderly rows of two guided by no organizing force except their own discipline, and filed under the archway.

Celebrimbor hesitated, so Annatar stopped too. A few Dwarves passed them, some throwing them glowers but most ignoring them utterly.

Celebrimbor exhaled. His breath came in a cloud of white smoke, and the sound was strangely muffled. Then he stepped forward. Annatar followed, and they passed under the gate and into the city of the dead, walking side by side once more.

Annatar had expected some kind of resistance, but he still nearly misplaced his foot when he felt the sheer unexpected strength of the magic of the gate. It felt like walking through thick spiderwebs, and for a moment he wondered whether he would be able to pass – and then he was through, the tearing at his body gone.

Beyond there lay a long hall that led towards another stone gate, with a broad walkway in the middle, filled with light by the candles of the procession. To the left and right, there were niches hewn out of the stone and in those niches stood great stone likenesses of Dwarves in helm and armour, each at least ten feet tall, and all of them resting their hands on the pommels of war-hammers or war-axes.

The old Dwarven Kings, Annatar thought and although he was not usually impressed by such things he felt a quiet reverence as he saw the effigies of the noble Dwarven rulers of old lined up in silent, solemn majesty.

As they slowly walked down the hall, the blind eyes of the stone likenesses of the long-dead Dwarven kings seemed to follow them.

At the end of the hall the procession before them passed beneath the second gate: a stone archway etched with runes and symbols that must have been inscribed thousands of years ago, and yet appeared newly-made in this grey underworld of stone where nothing ever changed. The path behind it took a turn and hid from the view of the beholder that which lay behind.

All of a sudden, Celebrimbor stopped in his tracks.

Though he was nearly on the threshold already, Annatar looked back over his shoulder, then turned around to look at the elf, a wordless inquiry passing between them.

This time, Celebrimbor did not look at Fundin – and yet it could not have been any clearer that anything, everything that would come out of the elf's mouth after this was tainted by the dwarf's presence, his expectations –

“You cannot go any further.”

And yet he had not expected this. Annatar opened his mouth. “I – ” He frowned. “What about you?”

Celebrimbor's expression was pained. Fundin was a dark, stifling presence at the elf's side, waiting and watching.

How had it come to this? Why was it suddenly the dwarf and Celebrimbor standing on one side, and Annatar on the other? How had he been so close to the elf only a week ago, and now someone else had wedged himself between them? Now Annatar was facing down two mortals, whose every movement signalled that he was not welcome, that he was not wanted.

“I have been invited to take part in the Wake,” Celebrimbor spoke suddenly, his face etched with something akin to guilt, and in this moment Annatar despised Fundin for leaving the unpleasant explanation to Tyelperinquar, even though this was a Dwarven custom – one they were supposed to defend themselves, including all the asinine reasonings why a Maia should not cross that threshold.

“It is a sacred rite, and it takes place in the innermost sanctuary of Khazad-Dûm,” Celebrimbor continued. “Outsiders are not allowed in the Halls of Waiting.”

Their argument had drawn attention. A few Dwarves had stopped, and they did not walk on or around them. Instead they were watching, waiting, just like Fundin was.

Suddenly Annatar knew what this was about: it was a public gesture, a demonstration. It was about taking sides. It was about making Celebrimbor choose – and when Celebrimbor met his eyes, Annatar knew that the elf had made his choice.

Annatar looked at the elf, then the dwarf at his side. His gaze was cool and unaffected. They would not see anger or frustration from him. “I understand.”

Celebrimbor paused and then nodded. It was stiff, unhappy, altogether unnatural. “I see. I am … glad you do.”

They looked at each other for a moment, wordless, and although Annatar's eyes were fixed only on Celebrimbor, the Dwarves might as well have stood between them, so intrusive was their presence.

Annatar took a step backwards, then another, and circled back around Celebrimbor and Fundin.

It was easy to head back the way they had come now, as the stream of the procession had thinned out to a trickle of a few stragglers, who were just now passing beneath the stone gate and out of sight.

Following a sudden impulse, Annatar stopped in his tracks. Without knowing what he was hoping to see he looked back, and saw that Celebrimbor had turned around as well. The elf was looking at him, obviously wanting to speak but unsure what to say, even though he had never been lost for words around Annatar before.

Celebrimbor opened his mouth. Tried to say something. And didn't.

“Kurfi,” Fundin said quietly. “We have to go.”

Celebrimbor did not look away immediately. He seemed to plead for something with his gaze alone, but for once, Annatar could not understand him and he did not care to.

And because he did not want to be the one left staring, because he could not bear – out of anger, and out of pride, and nothing else – to watch Celebrimbor turn away from him, Annatar turned his back on them and walked backwards through the hall, past the statues of dead kings, at whose feet someone had placed wreaths of flowers, now withered and dead and nearly mummified by the cool, dry air down here.

The echo of his steps was too loud as it bounced back from the walls, every footfall almost like a drumbeat.

He did not turn around. He did not turn around.

Until he did.

Just in time to see Celebrimbor and Fundin passing underneath the stone archway side by side, and into the darkness beyond where the city of the dead lay hidden.

Briefly a vision flashed before his mind's eye: Celebrimbor, who was kneeling before the stone likeness of his old friend Narvi, whose face was hard and grey like the stone around him, his hands stiff and cold as they were folded in prayer – and then it was Celebrimbor himself who had been cast into a stone likeness, and around his tomb there was a sickly green light that spoke of death and decay, and Annatar knew that beneath that slab of stone at the cold heart of the mountain, lay his brother, his friend –

And then they were gone.

Annatar stood in the middle of the empty hall, alone save for the monuments of the Dwarven kings towering above him. His arms hung stiff at his sides as the cold of the old heart of the mountain bloomed within him, together with an ache he could neither place nor name.

He could have pushed the chill and the numbness away, of course, for his body would only feel what his mind allowed, but.

He didn't.

He did nothing as the cold slowly took hold of him and the numbness crept from his fingers and legs into his chest, curling around the hollow feeling in his heart.

*

He could not have said how much later it was when Durin found him. Some time ago, Annatar had moved from his spot in the middle of the hall and leaned against the wall at the edge of a niche. He had been lost in dark, brooding thoughts concerning tombs and loss and death, and as such, he only noticed the Dwarven king when Durin had approached quite close to him.

“Aulëndil.”

Annatar looked up, then uncrossed his arms and indicated a formal bow. “Your Majesty. You are back early.” He gestured at the still empty hall around them.

“Old age does have its advantages, one way or another,” Durin replied. “The official ceremony of Durin's Day is over, and what follows now is the Wake, which is private and personal for each of us. It lasts three days, and at my age, it becomes more of a pain than a pleasure to conduct the ceremony. My son is now old enough to oversee the Wake and so I am stepping back to make room for him, much as the old have always done so that the young might carry on and one day take our sceptre from us.”

“Three days?” Annatar repeated. “Quite a time to spend this deep under the mountain without food or water,” he added, hoping to distract from his dismayed tone a moment before.

Durin gave him a shrewd look, but did not comment on it.

“You will have your friend back before long,” he said. “Do not begrudge him that he left you here. This is a rite for us mortals. We live, we die, and we say our farewells, which is something very far removed from your own nature,” Durin said. “Let him have this today, and let him have it alone. Come, I will show you something else in the meantime.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Annatar followed and they walked back through the hall and under the gate alongside each other.

“The Wake – an unusually fitting word even in the Elven tongue,” Durin said as they ascended the stairs together. “Watch. Wake. It implies alertness and sleep, and the promise of waking once more.”

“A hopeful belief,” Annatar commented with a look back over his shoulder where the entrance to the sacred necropolis lay.

“True, particularly if you believe in the old myths of Aulë, who put the Dwarves to sleep one time already, and later awoke them in Middle-earth.”

Annatar gave a slight hum, which could mean anything from assent to mere acknowledgement that Durin had spoken. He was in no mood to discuss the Valar and their past achievements – or failures, respectively.

“In any case, it is one of the rare instances where such great meaning is preserved across the divide of different languages,” Durin said. “Speaking of which, I have heard that you have acquired a passable proficiency of Western Khuzdul during your time here?”

“I did,” Annatar replied. “Although as for the passability, I will let Dwarves be the judge of that.”

“Show me, if you would,” Durin said. “It has been a long time since I spoke my own mother-tongue with an outsider who was not your friend Kurfinni².”

Annatar hesitated, which was not something he did very often, before continuing in Khuzdul. “Tyelperinquar is a good teacher. But although he speaks like one of the Khazad himself, I fear I might not quite match him in that regard, though through no fault of his.”

“Rest assured that I understand you quite as well as one of my own brethren, and better than some of my cousins from the Iron Hills,” Durin responded. “That being said, you might be one of the Beautiful Ones, but modesty is a garb that does not suit you, Aulëndil. I am surprised that no one has yet commented on it.”

“Not every people is as direct as the Khazad,” Annatar replied.

“True. We appreciate straightforward speech.” Durin hummed pensively. “And yet. If anything, I counted on Kurfinni to tell you. If anyone would dare to make sure that an Ainu's head is screwed on right, it would be him.”

“He has been nothing but polite to me as well, I fear.”

Durin gave a non-committal grunt. “Well, the years seem to have mellowed him somewhat. I for my part have not forgotten why two furnaces in the Northern Forges are unable to be used to this very day, save as an example to disobedient apprentices.” He started climbing the great stairwell that led back to the higher levels.

“I keep hearing of this story,” Annatar commented, “as well as the insinuations of many others like it. Tyelperinquar seemed to have had quite a reputation in your kingdom, Your Majesty.”

“Let us hope that you don't hear too many others, lest his reputation take a bigger dent than the one he and Floki made into to the floor of our forges,” Durin said. “I was tempted more than once to throw him out on his ear.”

“And yet you didn't.”

Durin threw him a quick glance. “No, I did not,” he said in Sindarin. “He might have been angry and troubled and his temper might have been quick to snap, but no matter his shortcomings, he was also honest and loyal. He worked as hard as any Dwarf during his time in the forges, and in his free time, he was interested in our culture in a way that the Dwarven peoples had not seen since Finrod Felagund himself. In exchange we taught him what he wanted to learn. We gave him a new name, and we gave him a home – for a short while at least.” They reached the landing of the stairs and the hall from where streets led to the city of Khazad-Dûm and the palace.

Durin took another turn and led them down a passage that was so well-hidden behind a slight outcropping of rock that it was almost impossible to find its entrance if one did not already know to look for it there.

“I guess Tyelperinquar has given you a tour of your city already,” Durin said.

“He did. But he did not show me this passage, or mention it,” Annatar replied.

“No, he would not,” Durin said, and although Annatar was tempted to ask why Celebrimbor would not do that, he kept quiet, waiting for the king to elaborate. But Durin did not explain any further, simply waving for Annatar to follow him. “Come. I will take you to a place that you haven't seen yet.”

The path was narrow and winding and only intermittently lit by sputtering torches. It neither looked nor felt as refined as the rest of Khazad-Dûm at this level, and no dwarf passed them by the entire time they were walking down its length. The path seemed to be far older than the elaborate walkways and bridges and highways that spanned the entire city, and it did not seem to have been created by any mortal hand. In a way, it felt like descending the stairs to the City of the Dead – they had crossed an unseen threshold and passed from one discrete space into another.

Annatar sensed the change in the air even before the path ended. The air became cooler and more damp, and the sound of his footfalls suddenly gained an echo that hurried ahead of him and Durin, to be lost and fade in some gigantic hollow space straight ahead.

“Watch your steps,” Durin said. “The path ahead is rough and uneven, and more than one careless fellow has broken a leg down there because he favoured gaping over paying attention to where he was walking.”

Annatar would have been amused at the warning, but then they rounded the last turn and what he saw next – for all that he did not need to breathe any more than he needed food and water to exist – made his breath catch in his throat.

In front of them there opened a wide cavern, so broad and vast that its walls were only visible as smudges in the distance. Usually, such a wide space underground should have been pitch-black, but this one was filled with glowing crystals. There were clusters sprouting like wild bushes on the floor, some of them growing in great columns up to the ceiling a hundred feet above, while veins and bushels of crystals grew from the columns like branches and leaves extending from tree trunks.

The crystals were glowing in every colour of the spectral light, from the colours of sunrise to the deep blues and violets of dusk, intermingling and overlapping, creating soft spheres of light that surrounded the clusters like an otherworldly nimbus. Annatar turned and saw landscapes – hills and forests of crystal, and dark paths strewn only with a few glowing pebbles winding between them. He even saw bridges crossing a softly gurgling subterranean river that was likely a tributary to the Sirannon. It cut through the cavern, dividing the landscapes of hills and caverns, before its looping course was lost between the walls and cliffs rising in the distance. Other flecks of light danced like orange fire-flies in the few spots of dusk between the glowing crystals, and when he looked closer, he could discern torches that had been driven into the stony ground.

“These are not ordinary lampstones,” Annatar said, looking around in wonder.

“No, they are not,” Durin said. “No mundane magic binds light to these stones – in fact, light is not something that was bound to these crystals by force, but something that has always been part of them. They do not deteriorate, either in brightness or colour, and they grow like a tree or a bush would grow: not along saline structures, but branching and thickening and growing from a central node. We have long studied them in the attempt to unravel their mysteries, but it seems that it is not a riddle we can solve—simply because it might not be a riddle at all. It might be a leftover of the divine powers that created this world, a piece of old magic in a land where wizards and spells have long since lost the power they once had.”

Durin led the way down the stone steps and Annatar followed, noting the uneven path underneath that sometimes twisted this way and that, tilting or dropping suddenly without warning. Durin had been right to advise him to be careful: the path was difficult enough to make any mortal stumble in his steps, be it with awe or a treacherous turn ahead. And yet this did nothing to take away from the ethereal beauty of the place. Everything seemed weightless in the sheen of the crystals, entire halls with pillars of diamond-white appearing to be suspended in the soft darkness.

Durin led him to a small clearing in the midst of a meadow of tiny, sparkling green crystals and turned around, gesturing at the cavern around them. “What you see here is one of the greatest and yet most unknown treasures of Khazad-Dûm,” he said. “These are the Shimmering Caverns, the Light under the Mountain. They have no equal in this world anymore ever since the crystal caves of Nargothrond and Menegroth were drowned under the seas when the Old World ended.” Durin bowed his head, as if weighed down with grief by the memory of the lost beauty of a bygone age. “Khazad-Dûm and Aglarond alone remain to give us a glimpse of the wonders that must have been ever-present in the olden days, now lost, never to be recovered. Ah!”

Annatar turned on the spot, tilting his head back, his eyes following the intricate patterns the crystals drew on the ceiling, rendering it a canopy of light and colour, as beautiful as evening and morning themselves.

“This is a marvel, your Highness,” he said, still unable to tear his gaze away. “Of all of Khazad-Dûm's countless treasures, this must be among the greatest and most beautiful.”

“It is,” Durin agreed. “And yet it is unknown to many, for the path is not found unless you know how to look for it, and we do not normally bring outsiders here.”

That made Annatar turn and face Durin. “You do not? Then why would you bring me?”

Again, instead of giving him an answer, Durin walked on and waved for Annatar to follow. “Come, and I will show you.”

They walked further down the path, down a hill and into a gentle dale where flowers of crystal bloomed from the ground in bright colours. One would almost expect them to nod and sway in a soft breeze, but in this at least they were different from real flowers: they were cold and hard, forever frozen in shape and time.

They also passed one of the numerous torches that illuminated the darker patches of the cavern, and Annatar spotted a team of four Dwarves a ways off the path, apparently taking probes and examining the crystalline growths. They were so lost in their work that they did not even look up when Annatar and their king passed them by. This had to be one of the groups of scientists who still tried to unravel the mystery of the crystals, undeterred by the superstitious assumption that there was no underlying explanation except magic.

The cavern grew brighter the further they progressed. They followed the path to one end of the hall where it rounded a rock formation that only revealed the crystal structure within when one was almost about to run into it.

Annatar stopped.

“This is – ” He interrupted himself, then turned around and looked out over the vast expanse of the cave, only to find his idea confirmed. He turned back and looked at the tower that rose before him: it was entwined by vines of glowing golden stones that climbed to the top of it, whereupon sat a crystal that dwarfed all others in the cavern in size and outshone their light. It was a crystal the size of a dragon's egg, and it shone with the golden light of the sun itself. And suddenly it occurred to Annatar that it would not be as bright in the hall only with the hazy glimmer of the other, smaller crystals, and that the notion of increasing brightness came from the fact that he had, quite literally, walked from evening into bright day.

He turned and looked out over the cavern once more. Far off, at the other end of the hall, the glimmer of light was less bright. More patches of dusky rose-and-violet darkness lay there, and there rose a second tower, and resting upon it was a second great diamond, and its light was gentle silver.

“Two lamps,” he said, and his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” Durin said. “I know that you do not look kindly upon rites and beliefs, and you seem awfully fond of scientific explanations for a being of magic and spirit—but perhaps you need to see that there is still magic left in this world that is not diminished. I brought you here because we are both children of Aulë the Maker, and it was he who wrought the towers of the Two Lamps, back when the world was still whole. I would not be so foolish as to believe that these lamps are in any way equal in splendour to the original ones, but I do think that there is a reason why they are here, and meaning to their existence. They certainly mean a great deal to us Khazad. They are a mirror image of a great work of our Maker, and they have been placed here by someone, so perhaps it is a sign of goodwill, a sign that we are not so abandoned after all. You are a child of Aulë just as we are, and perhaps you may find meaning or even solace in their presence as well.”

Annatar did not answer immediately. He stood still, trying to sort through the torrent of conflicting thoughts and emotions that tore through him. He slowly reached out and touched the pillar of the lamp. Immediately he felt the surge of ancient magic rush through him, hot and bright enough to make him pull his fingers away instantly. A dull pain settled in his chest in the aftermath, though why, he could not say.

“It is truly of him,” he said quietly, his voice barely more of a whisper. He did not name his old master – but then, perhaps he did not have to.

Annatar looked at King Durin who was staring out over the landscape of light and diamonds, his back to Annatar and his gaze lifted to the lamp of moonlight. He couldn't tell whether the king had heard him or not. He intended to ask, but then something else occurred to him.

“Why did you say that Tyelperinquar would not bring me here? Does he not know of this path?”

“He knows of it,” Durin replied. “But I never showed him this place.”

“Tyelperinquar would want to see this,” Annatar said, touching his hand to the lamp-tree once more.

“No, he would not,” Durin said simply without turning around.

Annatar frowned, suppressing the spike of anger that had flared up at this statement. Who was the dwarf that he believed he knew Celebrimbor better than he, Annatar, did? Then again, maybe Durin did know the elf better. The thought gave him pause.

There was so much that Annatar did not know, so many layers to his Elven friend that he had only ever gotten a brief glimpse of. Celebrimbor appeared so content and at ease with himself and his place in the world most of the time that it was easy to forget that there had been a time when he had been fighting in the great wars of the world – and after that, a time when Celebrimbor had had no place to call home and no kin to call family. Celebrimbor did not speak much of those times, but Annatar had gathered enough from the rare, odd conversation to gain an idea of the years his friend had spent drifting between places, torn in heart and soul.

Celebrimbor seemed to wear his heart and feelings on the sleeve, and yet his openness for the problems of others only served to hide his own emotions and issues all the deeper, concealed behind his easygoing smile and even temper.

Who was Celebrimbor, this friend whom Annatar had thought he knew so well?

The patient teacher, or the hot-headed young smith who had almost come to blows with a Dwarven colleague over a minor issue? The son of a doomed dynasty, or the creator of a new world? A maker, a breaker, a seeker, or one who had found everything he needed in his life? Was Celebrimbor all of these things, or was he none of them?

In the end, Annatar did not know. So many things that he had been sure of until just recently had been turned on their heads—Celebrimbor turning his back on him to favour his petty Dwarven friend, Celebrimbor who had never before walked away from him, who had shared his mind and his ideas indiscriminately, Celebrimbor who was immortal like him and yet almost desperately seeking the vicinity of Death—

Annatar's voice was quiet when he asked, “Why? Why doesn't he come here?” The question was small in the greatness of the cavern, and he almost thought Durin had not heard him, when the Dwarf shifted his weight and answered.

“The Light under the Mountain is a distant echo of the Old World, and a reflection of its splendour before it was broken,” Durin said. “Do you think that it would bring any comfort to someone whose memories of that world are an open wound upon his heart?”

Annatar opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

“You know a lot about Tyelperinquar,” he said at last. He tried to keep his voice neutral, merely observant, but it came out flat and toneless, like the dull pain that he had felt inside his chest ever since he had touched the likeness of the crystal tree.

Durin looked at him, one eyebrow raised, his sharp eyes searching Annatar’s face, but didn’t say anything in response to this.

The next question was harder to ask – and perhaps that was because he at once craved the answer, while at the same time shying away from it. “What happened to him?” Annatar asked.

Durin looked at him and his eyes were deep and bottomless, betraying nothing of what was going on inside his mind. “There is much that you do not know about your friend,” the king said. “But it is not my place to speak of it. Kurfinni's past is his to share.”

And after that, they spoke no more of Celebrimbor. They lingered for a while, watching the light of the golden tree wane, while the glow of the silver tree was slowly waxing, dousing the hall into a soft dusk of pinks and lilacs. As dusk gathered in the great cavern, the strange ache in Annatar’s chest became sharper and stronger, and although he had full control over every molecule in his body – try as he might, he could not will the ache away.

In the end, he was glad when they left.

---

1 This is an actual and intentional deviation from canon. Tolkien notes that Khuzdul is a conservative language that has been passed down unchanged for generations in 12,000 years of its existence. In this universe, though, Khuzdul is the language that is most closely related to Valarin in mortal Arda. Unlike any other language, it stems directly from the language of the Powers and has been influenced very strongly by it. (Which is, incidentally, the reason why it also sounds so unpleasant to most mortal ears.) Despite the fact that it is a constructed language spoken by a notoriously unchanging people, it appeared way more appealing and logical to me to think that Khuzdul should also be subjected to the usual shifts and changes of a spoken, living language that changes and evolves over time (if slower than other languages). So while it was initially almost identical to Valarin from a grammatical and lexical standpoint, it slowly evolved away from its predecessor. So while the most fundamental linguistic principles (agglutination, sounds in the language) mostly stayed the same, the vocabulary and grammar have changed enough to render Khudzul a separate, distinct language by now, which also calls a great variety of dialects its own. As of today, speakers of Valarin would not understand Khuzdul and vice versa, though speakers of either language might still grasp the most rudimentary concept of a sentence that is being said in the other.

The Khuzdul that Durin is utilizing in this scene would be a very ancient version of High Khuzdul that is still a lot closer to Valarin, and at the time this story takes place it would be used exclusively in old, mostly ritualistic contexts.

2 This is the full name of the epessë “Kurfi” for use in formal contexts.