New Challenge: Twenty-Five
It's been twenty-five years since the release of the "Fellowship" film transformed Tolkien fandom. This month's challenge looks back on iconic lines and scenes from the film trilogy.
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Cultus Dispatches: Revelations from Marquette's Fanzine Dataset
In September 2026, Marquette University released a dataset about their Tolkien fanzine collection. Analysis of the data reveals what these fanzines contained and show how pre-internet Tolkien fandom responded to the publication of "The Silmarillion."
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Choose a prompt from our selection of misheard, miswritten, and misrepresented unquotes that are in no way part of the actual "Silmarillon."
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[Writing] The Unread Visions of a Higher Dream II: The Light Under the Mountain by Prackspoor
Celebrimbor and Annatar stopped before the steps leading up to the throne, and the steward who had brought them here bowed deeply before the king. “Greetings to you, Durin, the Wise, and Father under the Mountain – my king. As you wished, I went to the gates to welcome our old friend Celebrimbor…
[Writing] The Unread Visions of a Higher Dream III: This Dreamcrossed Twilight by Prackspoor
“I want to know you,” Celebrimbor said. “You and all that there is to you.”
Beneath his hands, he felt Annatar tense, his skin growing colder as if every part of him, including his blood, wanted to withdraw from Celebrimbor’s touch.
“You don’t know what you are asking for,” Annatar said…
[Writing] The Unread Visions of a Higher Dream I: Equinox by Prackspoor
“I had settled for salvaging what was left out of the ashes of the old world and rebuilding what had been lost,” Celebrimbor said. “But then you came, and your arrival changed everything. We have learned and achieved so much in such a short span of time. And we've indeed created a Middle-earth…
[Writing] Give A Whistle by Prackspoor
After the sacking of Ost-in-Edhil, the Dark Lord Sauron ordered his prisoners crucified and carried at the head of his army as banners so that their approach would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. At least that was the idea. No one could have imagined that the last resistance of the…
[Writing] The Many Faces of You by Prackspoor
The universe is still new, its stars and planets have barely settled into their revolutions, and the world has only just cooled off enough to allow the first rain to fall on the dry and cracked planet when you meet the fallen Vala for the first time. You are young and proud and you have always…
[Writing] Duplicity by Prackspoor
duplicity [n];
1. deceitfulness in speech or conduct, as by speaking or acting in two different ways to different people concerning the same matter; double-dealing.
2. the state or quality of having two elements or parts; being twofold or double.
…
[Writing] The Road Not Taken by Prackspoor
Mairon looks at Melkor incredulously. “If you did not intend for any of this to happen –,” he makes a wide, sweeping gesture, encompassing Melkor and himself, the fortress, the world, “– if you cannot be anything of what you were before, if you cannot bring about what you intended for this world…
Current Challenge
Twenty-Five
It's been twenty-five years since "Fellowship" debuted in theaters, and we commemorate the occasion with daily quotes and scenes from the films. Read more ...
Random Challenge
Tengwar
A daily prompt of a Tengwar letter per day. Read more ...
New in References
Fandom before the Time of the Trees: Revelations from Marquette's Fanzine Dataset by Dawn Walls-Thumma
In September 2026, Marquette University released a dataset about their Tolkien fanzine collection. Analysis of the data reveals what these fanzines contained and show how pre-internet Tolkien fandom responded to the publication of "The Silmarillion."
Across the history of the "Silmarillion," Eönwë's role settles on a character who leads without taking upon himself the power to mete out justice and who acts with equanimity across some of the most harrowing conflicts in the early legendarium.
Speak Friend and Enter: Trends in Fandom Entry Year by Dawn Walls-Thumma
Across three surveys and ten years, the Tolkien Fanfiction Survey has document when authors began writing. These data reveal trends in how film promotions, the films themselves, the books, and other historical contexts have influenced not only who writes but how long they stay.
Featured Themed Collection
Beyond the Silmarillion
[Writing] Pentacles and Rings of Power by Prackspoor
I felt the summons reach me where I dwelt in the Other Place, bonds of magic wrapping themselves about me like a vice. With all the grace and friendliness of a kick to the behind, they flung me into the mortal world and into the confines of a pentacle.
I wasted no time searching for any…
[Writing] Die sonderbare Erzählung von Lobelia Sackheim-Beutlin und ihrem Zauberring by Prackspoor
Es begab sich im März des Jahres 2989 des Dritten Zeitalters, 1389 nach Auenland-Zeitrechnung, dass Bilbo Beutlin, mit einigen Freunden trinken ging und später an diesem Abend nicht nach Hause zurückkehrte.
Selbstverständlich wurden Ermittlungen von mehr und weniger großer…
[Writing] The Curious Tale of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and Her Magic Ring by Prackspoor
It was in March of the 2989th year of the Third Age, 1389 by Shire-reckoning, that Bilbo Baggins went drinking with a few friends and did not return home later that night.
Of course, investigations of more and less seriousness were conducted by people with more and less authority…
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The Unread Visions of a Higher Dream II: The Light Under the Mountain by Prackspoor
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IV.1
In which we turn back the wheel of time.
IV.
433 years ago (1125 S.A.)1
The boom that reverberated through the forges was deafening. Fundin's quill slashed a thick black line right through the construction drawing of the flange that he had been sketching for the last five hours with painstaking care.
He and all other apprentices looked up searchingly to Master Naugrin, who had been overseeing the drawing exercise. Naugrin had turned around as well, looking down the tunnel that led out of the classroom and around a turn to the greater forges.
“What in the deepest pits of—” His rust-red moustache quivered and he broke off in the middle of the sentence. Master Naugrin turned back around and faced his pupils, all of whom were staring back at him.
“That sure sounded like the entire ceiling just came down in the forges. I'll go and take a look to see what the ruckus was about. You wait here and finish your sketches. If I catch anyone copying someone else’s drawing or trying to leave before I come back, it will be the last day that person is apprenticed to me.” And with that he turned on his heel and left.
Fundin turned to his right where his friend Branka was sitting. The other young dwarf answered his questioning glance with a shrug, then dutifully went back to her sketch. Fundin looked back to the exit of the classroom again and tried to fight down the rising worry in his chest.
He knew that Narvi had been working in the forges. Fundin's older brother was an excellent smith and had never so much burned a fingertip while handling the most volatile and flammable alchemic elements in his experiments, and yet Fundin couldn't help but worry. Because if the entire ceiling had indeed come down – and it had certainly sounded that way – then all of Narvi's smithing prowess would not guard him against tonnes of stones coming down atop his head.
However, Master Naugrin's orders still rang in Fundin's ears, and he knew that Narvi would not approve if his younger brother lost his head over a minor incident and got banned from Naugrin's prestigious apprentice class for disobeying orders. Naugrin had promised to throw out everyone who left the classroom before he returned, and the master was not known for going back on his word.
Naugrin was an excellent teacher, but he was as stern as he was able. While all of his former students excelled in their respective fields of mastery without exception, many of Naugrin's apprentices didn't even last through the first year of his tutelage. The master engineer tolerated neither failure nor disobedience.
Fundin knew that Narvi was counting on him to complete his apprenticeship and bring honour to their house. Thus, despite wanting nothing more than to see for himself what had happened, Fundin stayed where he was and kept on drawing, even though his sketch was likely beyond saving and would award him a failing grade, no matter how much he tried to tidy it up. He sighed. Even if the ceiling of the forge had indeed come down, he doubted that Naugrin would accept it as an excuse for a badly executed assignment.
Annoyed, Fundin finished his sketch and rolled it up, long after most of the other apprentices had finished theirs. When Fundin placed it on Master Naugrin's desk to be marked, he just hoped that whoever had been the cause of the ruckus had gotten a heavy piece of the forge's ceiling dropped on his head.
*
When Naugrin finally returned and allowed them to leave the day had progressed well into the seventh hour of the evening. The apprentices quickly gathered their satchels and pencils and left the classroom. Fundin followed, but while his comrades quickly made their way through the forging halls in the direction of the main halls of Khazad-Dûm, he suddenly stopped.
He was sure that Master Naugrin would have told him if something had happened to his brother, and it didn't look like something had caved in or exploded in the forges. Since Narvi was sure to work late into the evening, despite any disturbance during the day, and because Fundin did not particularly feel like returning home on his own, he decided to take the detour through the forges to fetch his brother.
He crossed the long hall, walking past big-bellied furnaces of brown steel and huge bellows standing more than six metres high. The monstrous machines were abandoned and still now, the fires in the furnaces quenched and the worktables tidy and empty, waiting for the next shift to take up its work. It was curious to see the hall, usually so busy, silent and empty now. Only a few odd smiths were still walking to and fro, cleaning up or preparing plates of tempered steel on wagons so they could be brought to the metalworks first thing during the evening shift.
Fundin had crossed almost the entire hall when he suddenly saw what could only be called a veritable crater in the floor next to one of the furnaces. He stopped dead in his tracks. Sitting in this crater was one of the huge counterweights that were used to operate the bellows, the cement cracked and broken. The big belly of the furnace was dented as well and the iron scaffolding of the bellows next to it was broken in some places, whereas in others it looked as if a giant had taken hold of the thick iron bars and bent them into a strange piece of abstract art. The bellows of the adjacent furnace were scorched in places, obviously caught by an escaping stream of flame from its damaged neighbour.
Fundin stared at the scene of destruction, then caught himself and walked on. Now he really wanted to find his brother, if only to find out what in the Maker's name had happened here.
He walked on and then he suddenly heard his brother's voice.
“ – cannot let yourself be provoked like that.”
Fundin quickened his pace but came to a sudden stop when his brother's form came into view, standing behind the last furnace on the left side of the long hall. For Narvi was there, his back turned to Fundin, but he was not alone: sitting at a small table shoved up to the wall, half-hidden from view where Fundin was standing, was an elf.
Fundin had often heard of this strange guest they were housing here in Hadhodrond, but he had not seen him up until now. He was tall and dark-haired, though Fundin was certain that his current posture cowering at a worktable belied the elf's real height, which had to be even more imposing. The elf reminded Fundin of a wolf that had been backed into a corner, every muscle tense and ready to lash out. His face was stained with soot and grime and his dark locks fell wildly around his face, no longer held back by the red bandanna that he had tied around his brow to keep his hair out of his face. His fingers were gripping the table so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.
Fundin took an involuntary step backwards into the deeper shadows between the bellows when the elf's eyes briefly flicked over to where he was standing.
“Pray, how else am I supposed to react when he says something like that?” the elf snarled. “I will not be taken for a fool!”
Narvi, however, appeared unimpressed. He was leaning against the worktable and if the black anger seeping from the elf frightened him, he didn't let this show in the slightest. “So what do you plan to do in the future?” Narvi asked sternly. “Do you plan to demolish a venerable old workspace every time someone so much as looks at you the wrong way?”
“That is not what I meant and you know it,” the elf hissed. “Besides, it was Floki, who – ”
“Don't you start putting the blame on someone else now,” Narvi interrupted him. “It was you who raised your voice first, and it was you who rose to Floki's bait, however misplaced it might have been. He has his share of the blame to bear – but you have yours and it weighs just as heavily.”
“What? He started it, why is it suddenly me who is at fault here?” The elf leaned forward and grasped the edge of the table. His grip was so tight that Fundin wouldn't have been surprised to hear the wood crack under his grip. “Why do I have to defend myself, when it was him who spoke out of turn?”
“Are you a Dwarven prince, Noldo?” Narvi said, his voice hard.
That seemed to actually baffle the elf into stopping his growling and snarling. “No, why – ”
“Is Floki a servant of yours, sworn to obey? Is he only allowed to look you in the eye when you permit it, only speak when you give him leave to do so?”
The elf gritted his teeth and actually made as if to stand up. “No! Why are you –”
“Good. Then stop acting like he has risen above his station by giving you a piece of his mind, ill-thought though it might have been,” Narvi said sharply. “Spoke out of turn – if you say that once more, I'll have you thrown out from my shift. I will not have any pompous would-be princes working with me. We are comrades and equals, and like equals, we shall deal with any issues that arise – I won't have any of this ridiculousness on my shift, either from Floki or from you.”
The elf leaned back and crossed his arms, his face haughty and full of wounded pride, while his dark eyes were fixed on Narvi in a glower. “So what do you suggest, then?” he asked acerbically. “How would you, as a comrade and equal, deal with this situation?”
“Me?” Narvi said. “Do you really want to hear that or do you just want me to throw you some arguments that you can barrel over without even considering them?”
The elf's glower deepened. “I want to hear your honest opinion,” he said after a while, barely managing to get the words out from between his clenched jaws.
Narvi put one hand on top of the table and turned to face the elf fully, thereby turning his back on Fundin, who was still waiting in the shadows, not daring to move. “Good, Kurfi, then you shall have it. I think that Floki was wrong in bringing your father into the argument. However, I also think that you of all people should have known better than to descend upon him like a furious hellhound for mentioning your family.”
“He had no right.”
“He had no right to insult you, no. But he had every right to his opinion.”
At that, the elf rose so suddenly that the chair he had been sitting on tipped over backwards and crashed onto the floor behind him. “He had no right!” he repeated, more hotly now. “He doesn't know anything, anything at all about the First Age, about my family, or my father! He has never met them, he has only ever heard stories like all the others who keep throwing me these suspicious glances out of the corners of their eyes – as if they were just waiting for me to go up in flames like Fëanor or turn to slaughter innocents like my father did! They never knew them, and yet they have already judged them – just like they do not know me, but have already judged me!”
Narvi held up a hand and miraculously, the elf snapped his mouth shut. Narvi let out a deep sigh. “I know only of the few things that you have told me, but even that is enough that I can say this with certainty: you are right that no one here knows what you or your kin have lived through, suffered, and endured. We Khazad have different fates and histories, and some might be just as hard in their own way —but no one here can imagine what it is like to be you. On that I agree with you completely. However,” Narvi added after a pause, “that does not mean that others are forbidden from comparing you to your family. You cannot take that away from them. They watch you, of course. They expect certain things of you, and they would be foolish if they dismissed what they know from history or their own experience.”
“They shouldn't! Why can't they just take me for myself?” The elf's voice cracked. “I am not my grandfather and I am not my father!”
“Then how about you stop acting like them?” Narvi said. The words were softly spoken, but they impacted with all the precision and brutal force of a javelin.
The elf froze. He opened his mouth as if to grasp for words or gasp for air – but no sound came out.
“I do not know very much about your family,” Narvi continued. “The only things I know about your father are the few tidbits you have divulged to me, and even that little tells me that you are trying to escape the shadow of your family by treading the exact same path that your father has walked down before you.”
The Noldo had gone deathly pale. His hands, which had been balled into fists before, now hung open at his sides, gone nerveless and numb.
Narvi seemed to have noticed this as well, and when he continued, his voice was softer. “You will never convince them that you are not your father so long as you keep up the aloofness and pride that are the trademark of Curufin in every legend of Beleriand. You will never manage to step out from your father's shadow so long as you are acting exactly like he would do.”
“But what am I supposed to do then?” the elf asked, his voice cracking. “Just take the insult and give the impression that I will never defend myself, no matter how unfounded the accusation?”
“I did not say that, though you must begin acting contrary to their expectations at some point.”
“How?”
“Apologizing to Floki would be a good start.”
The elf bristled. “I am not so weak as to let others walk all over me and then ask them for forgiveness.”
Fundin could not see his brother's expression, but all the same, he was almost certain that Narvi was raising one eyebrow, just like he did every time when he had Fundin cornered in one of their arguments. “Are those your words or are they the words that your father has taught you to say in situations such as these? There is never a weakness in apologizing, and if you do not realize that, I feel sorry for you,” Narvi said.
Fundin was glad that looks could not kill, otherwise his brother must have dropped dead on the spot from the venom in the Noldo's glare. “I won't apologize for something when I'm not in the wrong.”
“Do you truly believe that you have had no part in the situation that would warrant an apology?” Narvi asked. “I would suggest that you take a long time thinking about yourself and the way you look at the world, if you think that the fault for issues with your family history always lies with others.”
The elf's expression did not change. He stared Narvi down with a dark, mulish sort of stubbornness that suddenly made Fundin understand why Floki of the Foundries would have felt compelled to drop the counterweight of a bellows onto the Noldo's head. The elf's self-righteous, haughty expression was hard to stand – and Floki had always hated abundant pride with a passion.
Narvi watched the elf, who was obviously debating with himself about what to say, then sighed. “Go to bed, Kurfi, and think about what you have said and done today. If you come to me in three days and tell me honestly that you don't see anything that you have done wrong, I will take it upon myself to resolve this argument between the two of you. But I warn you, it might not be pleasant for either of you. If you change your mind about having no fault in the situation – well, there is something to be said for a man who can own up to his mistakes. Now go – this day has been too long and exciting already. Sleep – sleep, and think less about how others see you and more about why they might see you as they do.”
The Noldo did not answer. He just stared Narvi down for a few more moments, then he nodded stiffly and stood abruptly. “Good night, Narvi.” He walked around the dwarf with long strides and Fundin had to duck back into the deeper shadows behind the bellows and between two crates when the elf passed him. However, his caution was unwarranted. The elf stared straight ahead as he walked, his stride as long and sure and swift as if he was marching to battle instead of going to bed.
When he was gone, Fundin stepped out from between the crates.
Narvi was standing with his back towards him. The dwarf sighed then ran his hands down his face.
Fundin approached him carefully.
“What do you think of our adopted elf?” Narvi asked, then turned around to face his younger brother with a tired, wry smile on his face.
Fundin tried not to look too guilty at having been caught eavesdropping. He floundered a bit, wondering what kind of answer his brother might want to hear. The elf was Narvi's friend, Fundin knew as much, however unlikely that might seem judging by the scene that he had unwillingly overheard.
In the end, he settled for honesty, because he knew that Narvi would care more for an honest answer than a friendly one. “I don't like him very much, I think,” Fundin conceded.
“Well, then you and Floki would agree, although I doubt that Floki would be as polite about it as you are.”
Fundin frowned. “I can understand why. What I don't understand is why you remain so patient and friendly with him, even when he is nothing but haughty and rude.”
Narvi sighed. “Not always, but often enough, I must admit. Celebrimbor has a harsher temper than some of the Bristlebeards, and he is even more impatient. Sometimes I think I would have an easier time arguing with a piece of rock than to persuade this Noldo to do as he is told.”
“Why do you keep him company then? Khazad-Dûm has provided him with work and a place to stay. If his way of repaying this kindness is acting with insolence and pride, then perhaps he doesn't deserve your friendship.”
Narvi threw him a long look. “When a sword is all sharp edges, that might be because it has always been that way. Perhaps it was badly wrought from the start. But then again, perhaps it was once well-made and smooth, but bits and pieces have been chipped off and broken with wear and time – until its balance was off, its edges had become vicious and it had become almost impossible to handle.”
Narvi turned around and started packing his toolkit that had been laid out on the table. His hands hovered briefly over one of his cutting knives, then he slowly pulled it out, regarding its blade. “With great care, these edges might be sanded down again, but one has to be careful and patient. Lose patience and you might cut yourself – or break the sword.” He slowly placed the knife back into the loops of leather that held it in the kit. “There is a great deal that could have happened to a sword that has been broken,” Narvi said quietly. “Try not to judge too quickly, little brother.”
Fundin didn't know how to reply to this. He only said, “Don't cut yourself on his edges then.”
Narvi laughed loudly. “I've dealt with worse. Besides, I am too smart and too stubborn to let a few papercuts wear me down. Now come, let us go home. Supper awaits.”
Fundin followed him quietly and while they walked, he thought a lot about brothers and pride and broken things. He also thought of the sullen, dark elf who had so inexplicably gained the friendship of his brother Narvi, who was usually so reluctant to grant it, and he wondered what Narvi saw in the elf that made his brother think the effort was worth it.
***
It was only a week later when Fundin met Celebrimbor again. He had been assigned the task of attending to some maintenance works on the bellows' mechanisms, which left him working under the various masters in the forges as he progressed from one bellow to the next. He was currently taking a break from oiling the gear unit in Narvi's forge when a familiar tall figure made its way down the central aisle between the busy forges and the dwarves walking to and fro, and over to them.
Fundin set down his waterskin. “Brother,” he called, half aloud.
Narvi turned around and his gaze immediately homed in on the elf walking over toward them, his stride quick and determined. “Ah.” He wiped his hands on a rag and waited until the Noldo had reached them. Celebrimbor gave a curt bow, which was the most polite that Fundin had ever seen him act around his fellow workers.
Narvi acknowledged it with a nod. “Kurfi, what brings you here?”
The elf looked at the furnace across the street, as if there was something particularly interesting going on there that only he could see, then scratched his head. “I apologized,” he said quickly, as if he wasn't keen on talking about it, much less having anyone hear it. He fixed Narvi with a glare, challenging him to say something in response.
Narvi appeared confounded at first, but when he understood what the elf was talking about, a small smile tugged on his mouth. “Good. I am glad that you did. Did Floki accept it?”
Celebrimbor glowered. “I don't know and I don't care. I didn't wait around to hear him gloat and make another snide comment.” He crossed his arms. “I hope you are content,” the elf said. “Because that is as far as I will go to cooperate with Floki.”
“I would not ask any more of you,” Narvi said. “I don't need you to become friends, I only want both of you to be capable of working side by side without bashing each other's heads in. Do you think you two can do that?”
Celebrimbor frowned. “That depends on Floki. I will try to get along with him, but if he so much as mentions my family again, I won't refrain from giving him a piece of my mind.”
“As long as it is only your mind and not your hammer,” Narvi said.
“I won't make any promises,” Celebrimbor replied.
Narvi sighed. “I am sure you won't, Kurfi. If I would bet on anything concerning your person, it would be that.”
The Noldo raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment on this. “I have to go,” he said after a few moments of awkward silence. He turned around stiffly and then made his way back along the central aisle, quickly being swept up in the bustle of workers, smiths, and carriage dwarfs.
He was almost out of earshot when Narvi called after him. “Kurfi!”
The elf didn't stop in his tracks, but turned around, walking backwards. “What?”
“I am proud of you,” Narvi told him.
It was quietly spoken and the elf turned around too quickly for Fundin to know for certain, but he was almost sure that he saw a small smile on the elf's lips before he turned away from them.
427 years ago (1131 S.A.)
Fundin had just finished his first year in the mines after graduating from Naugrin's class to become a mining engineer in his own right, when King Durin III called upon him. The king's calling didn't come unexpectedly, all things considered. However, when Fundin found a royal missive on his desk one day, asking him to present himself to King Durin in the throne room, it still managed to take the young dwarf by surprise. The House of Durin had always been close to his Fundin's own family, and yet he had not expected to be noticed so soon.
“I have heard of your prowess in the mines and the workshops,” Durin said when Fundin was standing before his throne. “And yet Dwarves who know you well tell me that your true calling has always lain elsewhere.”
Fundin bowed deeply. “To work where my talents are needed is honour enough in itself, Your Majesty,” he replied. “My mind grasps numbers well enough, just as my hands feel comfortable working with tools. After a long day of hard work, I can look back upon it with contentment. But if you were to ask where my heart's desires lie, I would tell you that it would be with languages, history, and economy.”
“What would you say if I told you that there might be a post where these interests would not only come in handy, but – I daresay – be necessary to distinguish an acceptable steward from a formidable one?” Durin inclined his head to one side and watched him, his eyes sharp and calculating.
Fundin righted himself again. “I would leave it to your wisdom to decide upon a fitting applicant, Your Majesty,” he said. “As for myself, I could only tell you that I would give my best and strongest efforts to attend to your tasks as diligently as I can.”
“Your speech honours your name and that of your ancestors,” King Durin said. “I ask you then: do you want to serve Khazad-Dûm as a steward instead of an engineer? Think well before you answer, for the post will demand much of you and you will get to see your family less than you are used to. Your task will demand that you are present during all formal occasions, that you proofread or even write my letters to our distant cousins in the Blue Mountains and Erebor – or to peers such as the Lord and Lady of Eregion and Lord Círdan of the White Towers. You will share many of my and my family's secrets and be expected to bear their weight without confiding in anyone else. You will no longer be able to travel, except to accompany me on my journeys. You will work both days and nights and you will be my closest confidant and present during all meetings of the Lords of Khazad-Dûm. I will ask much of you, sometimes more than you might be willing to give. And while I will give my greatest effort to be fair with you always, sometimes you will bear the brunt of my failures, just as someone standing close to a great fire will at times get burned.”
The king shifted in his seat and the flickering flames in the sconces on the pillars of the hall seemed to shift with him. “If you would rather go back to your engineering in the forges and the mines, you need only say so and I promise that the royal line will bear you and your family no ill will for refusing us. But know that to say yes means to bind yourself for a long time.” King Durin leaned forward expectantly. “What do you say?”
Fundin felt like he should beg for some time to consider such a momentous decision, but strangely enough, he felt no insecurity or doubt when he looked inside himself. Deep down he had always known that he could live doing many things, be it mining or engineering, but he had only ever really wanted to assume one particular post. And now that he was being offered this very opportunity on a silver platter by none other than the king himself, he felt that he did not need to consider at all.
“I will gladly take you up on your offer, Your Majesty,” he said. “It would be an honour for me and my house to have me serve as your steward. Thank you.” And he bowed once again, even deeper than before.
When he looked up, he found to his surprise that King Durin was smiling at him.
“I need to thank you, Fundin Finlisson,” King Durin said. “Your answer was quick and steadfast and you do not shy away from responsibility, despite my warnings of what the post might demand of you. You should know that your answer makes me glad, for I do not think that there is a Dwarf more suited to this task than you are.”
Fundin did not know what to say. He was at a loss for words, so he just bowed again. “You honour me, Your Majesty.”
“Only as much as is your due, and only as much as befits the occasion,” Durin said. “All further praise will be hard-earned, I promise you, for your tasks will be as manifold and as demanding as my own. But we can talk about that when the time has come. I expect to find you here in the throne room in seven days so we might discuss the obligations of your office and equip you with the steward's attire and brooch. In the meantime you should get your affairs down in the mines in order and prepare yourself for your new office.” Durin's expression became a bit softer when he added, “Also, I feel like this is a festive, honourable day for your entire family, so perhaps you should return home and celebrate this occasion.” He smiled again, almost imperceptibly. “You are allowed to go.”
Fundin thanked him once again, and then turned to leave. As he walked down the long gold-and-black carpet between the rows of columns, he felt strangely heavy and self-assured, as if any step now he might begin to become one with the firm stone beneath his feet. He glanced aside as he passed the tapestry hanging from the Western wall of the throne room, where the emblem of his family’s house hung,ever since Durin the First had awoken under the mountains and the old Dwarven houses had sworn him their allegiance: a silver hand on a blue field.
Fundin allowed himself a small smile, then turned his head forward again and exited the throne room. He thought about telling Narvi about his new post and something in his chest clenched with excitement and joy.
426 years ago (1132 S.A.)
It had been a long time since Fundin had had the time to attend a real family dinner at home, and when the invitation came, he was very happy to return to the familiar stone mansions of House Silverhand in the Eastern part of Khazad-Dûm. As always, the gathering itself was quite a formal affair, but after dinner was finished and the first few rounds of Blue Mountain Strongbrew had found its way into the stomachs of his uncles and aunts, there was laughter and jesting aplenty. As was to be expected, Fundin's younger cousins ran up to question him about how he was faring in the king's service and Fundin tried to answer them as well as he could, until Narvi stepped in and rescued him.
Under the pretence of cleaning up the remainder of the feast, both brothers stole away into the kitchens and sat down at a simple stone table. The din from the party was diminished here, softened by thick stone walls and a flight of stairs.
“It is hard to find a bit of quiet with the entire family around,” Narvi said.
“That it is,” Fundin agreed. “I should thank you for rescuing me. When did our little cousins grow up to be so tenacious? I was on the verge of either not answering or else divulging the king's secrets!”
Narvi laughed as he went over to the pantry and found a bottle of Elven wine for both of them. “As the king's advisor and steward this is to be your fate, for as long as you hold your office and even afterwards, I fear. But come now, let us drink and enjoy a bit of peace and quiet.”
Fundin nodded and let Narvi pour him a small crystal glass of wine. Above, one of their uncles broke into raucous laughter and the whole family followed suit. For a while, both brothers just sat in silence and drank, each following his own thoughts. It was Narvi who broke the silence at last. “How are you faring?” he asked. “I got to see so little of my younger brother for the last year that at times I am in danger of forgetting that I have one!”
The shock that Fundin felt at this must have passed over his face, because Narvi immediately became serious again.
“That was a joke, little brother! Now you wound me, if you think that I could forget you so easily!” He leaned forward and clapped a hand down on Fundin's shoulder. “Ever since you left, no single day has passed when I didn't think of you. So tell me, how is your life in the palace?”
Fundin looked at the blood-red wine glittering in his glass, then up at his brother. “Hard,” he admitted. “The king warned me when he offered me the post, but truth be told, I couldn't have imagined the work and effort that goes into keeping a kingdom safe and prospering. I work day and night, with ten assistants to help me, and still there is no end to the tasks that are to be done. Even now, I am already thinking of the letters that I must still write to our cousins in the Iron Hills – and I don't even speak their dialect perfectly.”
“I am sure you speak and write it more than adequately,” Narvi said.
Fundin gave him a long look. “Was it not you yourself who told me that 'adequate' is no longer enough at a certain level?”
Narvi chuckled and leaned back. “There he is, my little brother! You must truly have grown up and I must truly have grown old if I have my own words thrown back at me now. But you are right, of course. 'Adequate' does not serve, either when you are calculating the structural statics of a tunnel or when it is the king himself whom you work for.” Narvi regarded Fundin with a solemn expression. “But that does not matter, as long as you feel like you can fulfil your responsibilities to your king's content.” The unspoken question hung in the air between them.
For a moment, Fundin did not know what to say, but then he smiled. “He asks a lot of me. I must know the ins and outs of everything, from trade and economics to the mining expansions, the treasury, and familial relations across the kingdom. I must be his eyes and ears, his advisor and his diplomat, his proofreader and, at times, even the poor soul who has to contradict the king if he has gotten it into his head to do something I find inadvisable.” He paused. “I expected to grow overwhelmed, I expected to get tired at some point, but – ” He looked at Narvi, who was holding his gaze intently. “I found that it has made me love our kingdom all the more, brother. I know it now, as intimately as only one can know it. I feel almost as if it is a crystal that is growing under my protection and supervision, and as it grows bigger, more stable, more beautiful, I know that I have done my work well.” He looked at his hands. “At times I almost feel that one cannot truly appreciate the home they have until they have seen it at both its best and its worst. But if they have … they must come to love it unconditionally.”
At those words, a broad, radiant smile broke over Narvi's face, making his auburn beard bristle and his eyes crinkle. He reached out and laid his hands on Fundin's shoulder and then he said the words that Fundin had so hoped to hear, years ago, in the forges, when they had been spoken to another.
“I am proud of you, little brother.”
Fundin smiled and laid his hands on Narvi's shoulder as well. For a while they remained this way, then they pulled their hands back and looked at each other, full of pride and love. They remained in the kitchen for the remainder of the evening, drinking and talking about everything they had missed out on in each other's lives throughout the last year. When Fundin went to bed later he could not recall when he had last been so content.
***
After the celebration Fundin was allowed to remain a few more days at his family home with the king's express leave. He spent some time wandering the grounds and visiting the stone garden, but in the end, his work would not wait forever. Thus, one afternoon, he excused himself and went to find a quiet, unoccupied reading room. There he unpacked the correspondence to the Lord of the Iron Hills that he had brought with him, as well as a few dictionaries and phrase-books, and started to translate the king's missive into the dialect of their remote brethren. He worked for hours without interruption, as no one disturbed him. The day had progressed late into the evening when a small knock came at his door.
“Enter!” he called without looking up.
The door opened with a click and someone entered the room.
Fundin finished translating the sentence, then laid aside his pen and looked up – only to nearly jump to his feet when he recognized his visitor.
“Kurfinni,” he said, surprised, and rose from his seat.
The elf quietly closed the door behind him, then turned around. “Good day, Fundin. I hope I am not disturbing.”
“No, you are not. Are you looking for Narvi?”
“Actually, it was Narvi who sent me here. I was looking for you,” the Noldo said.
Fundin raised both eyebrows. “For me?” He didn't have the slightest idea what the elf could want from him. Their acquaintance didn't extend beyond the few odd times they had coincidentally run into each other, mostly with Narvi serving as the connecting nexus they both revolved around. Now that Fundin worked as a steward for the king, he hardly ever saw the elf anymore. “What can I do for you?”
“Well.” The Noldo looked aside and scratched his head, and at the gesture Fundin was reminded of the time when Celebrimbor had told them that he had apologized to Floki – only that the elf didn't look angry or irritated this time. In fact, everything about him today was quiet, almost sheepish, as if he wasn't quite sure about himself or the cause that had brought him here. It was an oddly different side of Celebrimbor that Fundin hadn't seen before, and yet it made the elf a lot more likeable than his angry, haughty persona from a few years ago.
At last, the Noldo looked back at Fundin, seemingly gathering his courage before he said, “I have been trying to learn Khuzdul for a while now, and even though I think I can comprehend the gist of it, the language is too complex and nuanced by far to study all by myself. I have been looking for a teacher for a while now, but I wouldn't want to impose myself on the miners, who have better things to do. Baldur the librarian seems reasonably competent, but he, er, has a tendency to …”
“Ramble,” said Fundin in the same moment that Celebrimbor said, “Get carried away.”
There was a brief, confounded silence. The elf blinked. “Why, yes. The long and short of it is that I talked to Narvi about it and he said that he doesn't have the time or the nerve to teach an outsider the finer details of Khuzdul. However, your brother also told me that you are the undisputed master of Dwarven languages and dialects in Khazad-Dûm. You work with Dwarves from all ends of the world and know the language like hardly anyone else. I know that you have a lot on your mind, and hardly any free time, but I was just wondering if I might sit by your side when you do your translations and you could, perhaps, just think loudly, so that I could learn why you would translate it that way.”
Fundin stared at him. For a while, no one said anything. Thoughts were whirring in Fundin's head. His bafflement that Narvi considered him to be the highest authority on language in Khazad-Dûm was only barely surpassed by the strangeness of the Noldo's actual endeavour. “You are learning Khuzdul?” he said, baffled.
“Yes.”
“Why?” asked Fundin. “Everyone here speaks Sindarin, you should have no problems making yourself understood.”
Celebrimbor shrugged. “It is not about making myself understood. But I have been living here in Khazad-Dûm for years now. I have been given shelter and food and work, and I think it is more than time that I show my appreciation for everything that has been done for me. I do my work as best as I can, but those are just my usual obligations and I want to do something beyond that, something to show everyone that I don't take what has been given to me for granted. A gesture, if you will.”
Fundin thought that he had heard it all when Celebrimbor had said that he was studying Khuzdul, but now he only barely managed not to let his jaw drop and gape. Whatever it was that he had expected the elf to say, this had not been it. Fundin regarded Celebrimbor from head to toe. There seemed to be a softer light about the elf today, and less shadow, rendering his face less hard and more open. Not all sharp edges after all, Fundin thought. Celebrimbor seemed to be honest about his request and Fundin admitted to himself that there might be more to the proud Noldo that he had initially suspected. He was still baffled, but outwardly, he schooled his face into a calm expression. “An outsider learning Khuzdul is unheard of,” he said. “Besides, the sheer difficulty of the language for someone who hasn't grown up speaking Khuzdul would make any success worth mentioning highly unlikely.”
Celebrimbor's expression fell, but Fundin held up his hand. “That being said, I know of no rule that would forbid a stranger from learning the language. I cannot let you attend while I translate the king's missives, for they have to remain confidential. However … I might be able to make some time in the evenings. You could come to me and we could try to converse in Khuzdul and I could try to answer any questions you might have about the language.”
Celebrimbor and Fundin stared at each other, and both appeared equally surprised about the suggestion that Fundin had just made. Truth be told, Fundin hadn't known that he would make this offer until the words had already left his mouth.
The elf was the first to find his verbal footing again. “That is a most generous offer, Fundin, but I know how much you have to do, and to impose upon you in addition to your daily tasks...”
Fundin knew Celebrimbor was right, but to his own surprise, he found that he did not mind the prospect of teaching the elf during what would otherwise have been his rare free evening hours. Among the things that he enjoyed doing most was teaching, but unfortunately he had spent most of his younger years being a student himself, then a young master not yet fit to teach, and after that his steward's post left him with no time and opportunity to find someone he could impart his knowledge to.
“It is no trouble at all,” he said quickly. “I would gladly teach you the basics of the language, though you will have to put in a lot of time and effort into your studies by yourself, if you ever want to make any notable progress. That being said, I won't guarantee that even your hardest effort will get you anywhere.”
“I'm well aware,” Celebrimbor said. He looked down at his hands, then up again at Fundin and all of a sudden, a lopsided smile worked its way across his face, although the elf appeared to be trying to bite it back.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You're welcome,” Fundin replied flatly, while his brain was still trying to keep up with this sudden turn of events and failing.
The elf stood. “Should we say… I don't know. When are you free?”
Fundin thought about it for a moment. “When do you finish your work?”
“That depends.” Celebrimbor shrugged. “Tomorrow I have the night shift, so I will be finishing at around six in the morning. Then I will be working the late shift for two days and after that, I will be in the early shift for a week.”
“Hm.” Fundin tapped his pen against his chin. “As a steward, I must mostly adhere to the diurnal days of our visitors from the outside world, so I am most often free in the late evenings and early mornings. What would you say if we met in five days, ninth hour of the evening?”
The transformation in Celebrimbor's expression was amazing. Where before he had been guarded and almost sheepish, his expression now lit up, a broad smile spreading over his face. Without forewarning he reached over the desk and shook Fundin's hand vigorously. “That is perfect! Thank you so much!”
Fundin stared at him, then down at their hands, then back up at the elf, resisting the urge to pull his hand back while trying to keep a straight face. “Well,” he said and politely tried to extricate himself from the Noldo's tight grasp, “I am glad that this arrangement is to your liking.”
“Yes, yes it is.” Celebrimbor nodded. Then he jumped to his feet all of a sudden in an abrupt motion that made Fundin jerk back in his seat and almost topple over in his chair. “I must get back to work now – but thank you so much! See you in five days!” The elf strode over to the door, then actually turned around and waved, and then he was gone.
Fundin just stared at the closed door for a few more moments, not blinking.
Quite flustered, he sat back down in his chair. This evening had brought far too many surprises for his liking, and all of them had come in the shape of this strange elf. He's like a storm locked inside of a mortal body, he thought. Wild and unpredictable and quite unable to sit still.
Teaching him Khuzdul would be interesting indeed.
***
Teaching Celebrimbor Khuzdul was, as it turned out, a challenge of its own kind. Fundin had always believed himself to be a good and patient teacher, but working with the elf was unlike anything that he had had to deal with before.
It was not the fact that the elf was not a native speaker of the language – Celebrimbor was more than making up for that with his sheer and endless tenacity – but the fact that the elf was a complete stranger to the cultural ways of the Khazad. He had not grown up with the various registers of the language, he was unfamiliar with the finer customs of rank and address, and more than once Fundin found himself at a loss at how to explain to him why he would never use this address with a higher-ranked dwarf or that form of address with a peer. It was simply something he had grown up with and never questioned, and now that he was supposed to explain it to a student, Fundin found that a lot of the finer points of his own mother tongue eluded him as soon as he sought to put them into definite words.
More often than not, both of them vanished into Khazad-Dûm's Great Library for hours on end, sifting through dozens of books on the tiniest details and finesses of the language, until one of them would suddenly cry out triumphantly and run over to the other, shouting “I found it!” loud enough that the librarian Baldur would descend onto them like a haggard bird of prey and angrily hiss them into silence.
Celebrimbor didn't make it any easier with his constant questioning. It was enough to strain even Fundin's patience, but even when he was growing noticeably fed up with Celebrimbor's constant asking of Why at every turn, the elf was undeterred. Fundin was sure that Celebrimbor must have noticed his annoyance at being interrupted and challenged at every turn. The Noldo was neither dumb nor unobservant – he simply didn't care as much about annoying his teacher as he cared about mastering Khuzdul.
When Fundin had agreed to teach him, he couldn't have imagined even a shred of the fixation and single-mindedness with which Celebrimbor would follow through on his near-impossible mission to learn the language. To say that the elf was holding himself to high standards would be a laughable understatement. He was a perfectionist, in the truest and purest sense that Fundin had ever seen. He had seen many Dwarves who worked diligently, trying to do their best at what they were doing. Celebrimbor, on the other hand, did not accept anything less than the absolute best. If his abilities kept him from achieving perfection, then the elf would work on with a stubborn, dogged determination that put even the most stiff-necked Dwarf to shame – night and day, at the cost of sleep and food, until he was able to do whatever he had done well before perfectly. It was almost as awe-inspiring to watch as it was frightening.
“Why are you doing this?” Fundin asked him one day.
Celebrimbor looked up from his conjugation tables, and it took some time for his eyes to focus on Fundin. “Doing what?” he repeated slowly.
Fundin gestured at the fifteen tomes that lay open around Celebrimbor, his countless meticulous notes in their margins, noting down even the slightest mistakes that he tended to make, as well as the proper solution and variations in different registers. “This. You do not have to speak the language perfectly. It would already be considered a miracle if an outsider like you could even hold a daily conversation in Khuzdul without a major mistake.”
Celebrimbor's eyes narrowed briefly at the word outsiders and for a moment Fundin thought that he would see the same angry Noldo again that he had not glimpsed ever since the incident at the forges six years ago.
But then a strange smile appeared on Celebrimbor's lips. He did that often, Fundin noticed, when the talk was of something that the elf didn't agree with or was uncomfortable discussing. Instead of anger, he now preferred to meet such conversations with a bland smile. It was a smile that let nothing slip, a smile that let everything just roll off the smooth, polished surface of his soul without touching the angry black feelings underneath – feelings that the elf kept under a tight lock at all times now.
“I was taught to never aim for anything less than perfection,” Celebrimbor said, not quite curtly. His face was friendly, but his tone was devoid of inflection.
“Then you were taught to set yourself up for a series of lifelong disappointments,” Fundin said. “It is impossible to achieve true perfection. You have come so far already, further than I could ever have anticipated. Must you really torment yourself with an impossible ambition?”
Celebrimbor's smile didn't change. “Nothing is impossible. 'Impossible' is just an excuse to build a hurdle in your mind that you tell yourself can't be overcome, so you can stop trying in good conscience.” And then he went back to his books.
Later Fundin talked to Narvi about this and when Fundin finished telling his brother of the incident, Narvi looked at the same time fond and sad.
“Is he the same when he is working with you?” Fundin asked.
“I do not think he knows any other way, to be honest,” Narvi said. “I feel like he must do everything he does with all his heart, or otherwise not do it at all. Just let him be. If this is his way of showing respect and remorse, let him.”
Remorse? Fundin had wanted to say. For what? But he had never asked. The sad look in Narvi's eyes had stopped him then, and somehow Fundin didn't think he was ready to hear the answer.
***
Fundin and Celebrimbor's study nights soon became a regular occurrence.
Celebrimbor would turn up as surely and reliably as clockwork, every Thror's Day at the ninth hour of the evening when his shift schedule allowed it – or on a different day when it wouldn't. He would knock on Fundin's door and Fundin would already await him with a jug full of hot black kófi and a plate of bread and cheese to last them through their discussions.
Without either of them realizing it, the frequency of these meetings slowly started to increase from weekly sessions to twice-a-week meetings, and sometimes Celebrimbor would even knock on the doors of Fundin's chambers in the palace randomly and without prior announcement, more or less inviting himself in. Fundin was surprised every time, but strangely enough, he found that he didn't mind.
The more he got to know Celebrimbor, the more Fundin found himself taken by a weird mixture of fascination and bewilderment. Never in a million years would he have thought to spend time willingly with this elf, let alone befriend him. But like so many assumptions that Fundin had initially had about the Noldo, this one, too, turned out to be wrong.
Fundin learned that Celebrimbor was not only an eerily perfectionist student, but he was also a quite pleasant and stimulating conversational partner. In hindsight it surprised Fundin that he had never noticed this, but the elf was far from a one-track specialist regarding smithing. Celebrimbor was incredibly knowledgeable about a sprawling variety of topics and sciences, and it seemed strange to Fundin now that he had never noticed this before. No matter the topic, no matter how specific or outlandish or theoretical, Celebrimbor seemed to be familiar with it – or to at least have an informed opinion on it. He was knowledgeable and talkative without being overbearing or showing off – and indeed, there seemed to be a careful reluctance to the elf not to go too overboard with either his gestures or the extent of his remarks. Now that Fundin knew how to look for it, he saw that careful reluctance everywhere – especially when Celebrimbor interacted with other dwarfs.
For whatever reason, the elf seemed to prefer not to be seen for who he really was. Instead, he seemed to have crafted a mask of indifference and middling intelligence that he wore whenever he was around other people.
And yet, somehow, Celebrimbor was less reluctant around Fundin. For one, the nature of their conversations didn’t allow the elf to keep up the pretence of mediocrity for long; in addition, the longer they knew each other, the more that Celebrimbor seemed to grow comfortable with opening up around Fundin. However, even though Celebrimbor spoke readily of things that interested him, and always with great enthusiasm, Fundin noticed that the elf was still holding back somehow. The mask might have cracked, but it still stayed in place, firm and immovable – except for one memorable occasion, that is.
It happened roughly a year and a half after Fundin and Celebrimbor had begun holding their evening meetings. During one of their discussions, Fundin dared to breach the topic of blame and forgiveness, and before he could take back what he realized too late might be a breach of a sensitive subject, there was suddenly a torrent of words – of theological, ontological, moral arguments – gushing forth from Celebrimbor as if a dam had been broken and the water had only been waiting for the chance to pour forth.
He spoke quickly, his tongue almost stumbling over itself as if Celebrimbor was somehow afraid that he might not get everything out in time or else that he would be interrupted. His argument started in a linear fashion, but then began to split and intertwine as if Celebrimbor was drawing a tree from the trunk upwards, only with words. The elf became more heated and animated the longer he spoke, the different arguments started to circle around each other, measure themselves up besides each other, intertwine and merge and split again when they couldn't be reconciled.
When Celebrimbor was finished, Fundin could only stare at him. “You can not possibly know these arguments without having read Palathion's Apologia.” Which was, incidentally, one of the most challenging philosophical texts that existed in Khuzdul and widely deemed untranslateable due to the extremely specific linguistic connotations of exclusively Dwarvish philosophical concepts. Which meant that...
“You did read it, didn't you.”
Celebrimbor met his gaze, but didn't reply.
Fundin fell back against the backrest of his chair. “Well... the argument was well constructed.” He thought back to the torrent of words that had broken forth from Celebrimbor's lips, weaving concrete ideas and abstract concepts at a speed that most Khazad would have had trouble following what was being said, freely interspersed with vocabulary so outlandish and specialized that most Dwarves wouldn't encounter it unless they entered Khazad-Dûmʼs academy of philosophy. “But how, in the Maker’s name, do you know all these words in Khuzdul?” His tone was surprised, and in no small part awestruck.
But, to his astonishment, the effect of his words was as if Fundin had reached out and hit Celebrimbor. The elf immediately deflated and half-turned away from Fundin. His eyes, so burning and open only a moment before, were now shuttered and opaque and all that fire and enthusiasm, those high emotions, were once again tightly locked away behind a blank, insurmountable wall.
“I'm sorry,” Celebrimbor said, and that was it.
And Fundin finally understood why the elf was so reluctant to be himself around anyone at all. When he caught fire, he was as overwhelming as a force of nature. Anyone or anything in his way would be overwhelmed and thrown to the ground with the force and heat of his fervour, his enthusiasm, his fire. He was not someone who could lead a discussion with casual bearing: if Celebrimbor was fighting, he was fighting tooth and nail even over the smallest issue – Fundin had seen that from the very beginning when he had listened in on the argument that his brother Narvi and the Noldo had had about Floki. If Celebrimbor was ever allowed to catch fire, then he would burn and roll over everyone in his way with a heat and intensity that would leave the casual disputant bewildered or even put-off. If he didn't meet someone who shared his enthusiasm and wildfire-fervour, and who had the strength and intellect to stand their ground against him, then he would scare everyone else away simply by being himself. Thus, Celebrimbor had obviously chosen not to be himself at all.
Fundin watched him, not knowing what to say and not sure what he was feeling. It wasn't pity, though. He could pity the elf as little as he could pity a fire for burning too hot or a storm for being dreaded. But he felt… regret. Regret that someone like Celebrimbor should have to lock himself away for no other reason that he would overwhelm anyone in his vicinity with his force. There was, of course, nobody to blame, but Fundin's heart ached when he thought of all the thoughts and ideas that Celebrimbor had to keep to himself – that everyone was missing out on – because the elf was simply too much if unleashed.
But perhaps…
Fundin watched the elf closely. You couldn't unleash wildfire, of course. But maybe, just maybe, you could give it a safe space where it could burn and lose some of its strength.
“That was a very compelling argument that you made on the lasting guilt of one deed, but I am not sure I am yet convinced that the only way to to earn redemption is a lifetime of penance or death,” Fundin said. “It seems unreasonably unfair towards immortal races. Would you care to elaborate?”
Celebrimbor gave him a sideways look, as if he wasn't sure whether Fundin was making fun of him. Fundin thought of the images that Narvi had invoked for him – of broken, brittle swords.
With great care, its edges might be sanded down again, but one has to be careful and patient.
So he just sat there and waited patiently.
Celebrimbor kept eyeing him, then slowly, he righted himself again: unfolding, sitting straighter. “You want me to continue?”
Fundin nodded. “By all means. I was looking forward to seeing where you were going with all of this, and I would find it very bad form if you left me here with half an argument, wondering what your conclusion might have been.” He smiled to take the edge off the jab.
“All right, if you are really sure you want to hear it. It might get a bit long-winded, though...” Celebrimbor trailed off, still watching him intently for any sign that might hint at – bewilderment? Annoyance?
“I do want to hear it,” Fundin replied evenly. “I wouldn't have asked otherwise.”
Celebrimbor just stared at him, and then – slowly an indescribable change went through him. His posture unfolded from its cramped, hunched position, his eyes brightened, and his entire face lit up with a smile that made Fundin's chest ache because it was so rare.
And then Celebrimbor spoke.
***
As time passed, Celebrimbor's grasp of Khudzul got better and better, far surpassing any expectations that Fundin might have once held. But although Celebrimbor needed Fundin less and less as a teacher, somehow his visits didn't become any less frequent. Studying Khuzdul gradually became an afterthought during their meetings, though, and then fell by the wayside entirely when their focus shifted away from language learning and towards exchanging thoughts and ideas.
Celebrimbor kept showing up every Thror's Day at nine o'clock in the evening. He was always punctual and full of new notions and ideas that he was ready to share. At some point, Fundin realized that his weekly meeting with the Noldo was the one thing that he was looking forward to the most during his work week. He would still fulfil his duties with due diligence, but more often than not, he caught himself looking at a clock while taking minutes or proofreading ledgers and counting the hours until they would next meet again.
It was a fixed point in both of their weeks, and Fundin – who had never before lost himself in such single-minded enthusiasm – suddenly found that a mere pastime was taking up most of his thoughts now. Talking to Celebrimbor had filled his minds with ideas and possibilities that he had never had before. Indeed, talking to the elf had made him realize that he felt like he had never held a proper conversation before getting to know Celebrimbor.
It was so easy to speak with him, too. Fundin didn't even always need to find the right words, for the Noldo just somehow seemed to understand what he was getting at, often enough even before he had finished speaking. More than that – when Fundin spoke, Celebrimbor didn't simply wait for his next chance to get a word in himself. He listened. Whatever ideas Fundin proposed, no matter the topic, Celebrimbor never disregarded them in favour of his own thoughts. He patiently waited for Fundin to finish, then took up his ideas and ran with them, adding some of this own thoughts and developing them into shapes that Fundin couldn't even have imagined, before throwing them back at Fundin, analysed and regarded and altogether changed.
He had never felt so heard, so understood before.
Before long, it was Celebrimbor whom Fundin went to when he sought advice, and it was Celebrimbor that he asked when he wanted to have a second opinion. The elf was always ready to listen, and he never pried or tried to push his own views on Fundin. Conversely, slowly but surely, Celebrimbor started to open up to him as well. Not much, and only ever piece by piece, but it allowed Fundin to slowly and steadily gain a picture of the Noldo's past, and the circumstances that had brought him to Khazad-Dûm.
Celebrimbor never delved too deep into these topics, though, and he refused to think that he was in any way “haunted” by what was – in his own words – long past and forgotten. Still, it was more than anyone else besides Narvi knew about the elf, and Fundin was glad that he could, in some small way, be of help to someone who had done so much for helping him with his own problems. (That, and the thought that Celebrimbor had chosen him, of all Dwarves in Khazad-Dûm, to talk to, gave Fundin a strange feeling of satisfaction and happiness. But he didn't dwell on this overly much.)
421 years ago (1137 S.A.)
It was at some point, roughly five years after they had started to meet up regularly, that Celebrimbor invited Fundin to spend a night out with him for the first time. They had kept their meetings strictly to Fundin's quarters and hadn't strayed from the habit until now, so Fundin was caught quite off-guard by the offer to spend an evening out.
They were nearing the eleventh hour of the evening, when Celebrimbor looked at the clock and suddenly stood. “Ah, Maker's fire, I'm sorry, I have to go now,” he said.
“All of a sudden? You usually stay past midnight”, Fundin said and set his cup of kófi aside.
“Usually, yes, but I have another engagement tonight. I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you,” Celebrimbor said and put on his jacket. “I told Narvi and a few friends that I would play cards with them at the Sapphire Dell. They have been teasing me for years that I'm too scared to face them at the gambling table, so I finally gave in and said yes. Now I have every intention of squeezing every last gold coin from them.”
Fundin gave him a long look. “I wouldn't have expected you to be the gambling type.”
Celebrimbor threw him a quick grin. “Neither would I, but lo and behold, here I am.”
Fundin dragged a hand down his face. “Oh my. Well, good luck then, and have fun. Tell the others I said that they should let you keep at least enough money to last you until your next payday.”
“I will do that,” Celebrimbor replied, laughing as he fiddled with the buttons on his jacket. Then he stilled. “Come to think of it, why don't you come along and tell them so yourself?”
Fundin tensed. “Me? Coming along to a gambling den? No, there is no way. That would be highly improper. I am the king's steward, just imagine what it would mean if I were seen out in such a place – ”
“It would mean that all the others got to see that you have some sense of fun as well,” Celebrimbor said, nudging Fundin amicably with his elbow. “Besides, I don't know what you were thinking the Sapphire Dell is, but it is a respectable establishment in upper Khazad-Dûm, near the Third Hall. Not some dingy dive bar on the lower levels. We are going to have some drinks and play a few rounds of cards – surely there cannot be anything disreputable about that.”
“I don't know,” Fundin hedged. “I should be translating those missives I received earlier today and –”
“Well, if that's going to be your excuse, you might as well lock yourself in your study forever.” Celebrimbor exhaled with a look of exasperation on his face. Then, without forewarning, he pulled Fundin to his feet, threw his waistcoat at him, and said, “Come on, get ready, we are going to spend an evening out tonight, you'll like it!”
Fundin, whose heart had nearly stilled when Celebrimbor had grabbed him without forewarning, gave his friend a disgruntled look as he plucked his waistcoat from his shoulder where the elf had unceremoniously tossed it. “You leave me no choice in the matter, do you?”
“If you're putting it like that, no.” Celebrimbor turned around. “Come on, it will be fun!” He smiled at Fundin and upon seeing that smile, something in Fundin's stomach seemed to drop.
He looked away as he put his arms through the armholes of his waistcoat. “Fine,” he muttered. “But not for too long, and we won't do anything ribald.”
“We won’t, cross my heart.” Celebrimbor threw him another grin and again, Fundin's heart jumped, but it wasn't the shock this time. “Are you coming?”
*
They walked out of the palace wing together and into the main city of Khazad-Dûm, crossing the Second Hall and entering the Third. Celebrimbor obviously knew exactly where he was headed, which was quite strange, considering that this was Fundin's city and he had no idea of where they were going. Besides, Fundin had never known that Celebrimbor was involved in social gatherings with his co-workers. The elf had never mentioned as much and Fundin likewise hadn't assumed it, as solitary and obsessed with his work as Celebrimbor had appeared.
As it was, Celebrimbor had apparently made some friends among the Dwarves besides Fundin, despite how abrasive he had been during his first years in Khazad-Dûm. It should have come as no surprise, since the elf was no longer as hot-tempered and moody as he had been in the beginning. It stood to reason that his enthusiasm and openness would draw in other people eventually.
And yet, somehow it did come as a surprise to Fundin, because he had – for reasons that he couldn't name – believed that Celebrimbor only ever met up with him outside of work, and vice versa. The mere fact that he had automatically assumed this annoyed him, because there was no proper reason to do so.
Still, Fundin almost stepped backwards out of the door again when they entered the Sapphire Dell. Fundin only had enough time to take in the warm, yellow lamps hanging in ornamental mesh sconces over every table, the dark wooden furniture, the stone bar, before a veritable uproar interrupted his thoughts.
“Finally!” someone shouted. “I almost thought you had ducked out at the last moment!”
“Indeed!” someone else cried. “I hear that the brood of Fëanor doesn't like to lose money or gems!”
Fundin threw Celebrimbor a shocked glance, but instead of getting angry the Noldo just laughed and stepped into the throng of friends that had risen from a corner table to greet him. It was startling to see the elf – who had for so long appeared to be too withdrawn and too angry to strike up a normal conversation, let alone spend a night out with comrades – surrounded by more than a dozen of what had to be long-time co-workers and friends, clapping down on shoulders, shaking hands and laughing.
Fundin stood and watched from the sidelines, unsure of where he fit into this picture. What was he, a steward of the king, supposed to do here? Celebrimbor's friends weren't even sparing him a glance. Merely the bartender gave him an odd look, taking in Fundin's noble finery and, Maker, he hadn't even taken off the Brooch of the Steward. Fundin hurriedly fumbled the clasp open and shoved the brooch into his pocket, then glanced over the where Celebrimbor stood. The elf was too busy shaking hands and exchanging greetings and japes to notice that Fundin hadn't followed him into the bar and was, for all intents and purposes, frozen on the doorstep and blocking the only entrance to the bar. No one paid Fundin any mind. The laughter and the noise felt almost like a wall that hit him, pushing him backwards and outside. He had no place here. He didn't fit in with these people. Didn't belong with them. They didn't even see him.
He knew that it would be impolite to vanish, considering that the Celebrimbor had asked him to come along. However, the elf appeared to be fully taken up with his other friends anyway. He wouldn't even miss Fundin. And even if he did, Fundin could always explain himself later.
Fundin was just about to turn around and quietly take his leave when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and he looked up to see Narvi standing next to him and smiling at him.
“Brother!” Fundin exclaimed, hoping he sounded merely surprised and not as if his heart was about to leap out of his chest from the shock. “I didn't see you, I'm sorry.”
“I thought not, riveted on the group as you were,” Narvi laughed. “I know they can be a bit overwhelming, but you know that the dogs that bark loudest don't bite. Don't let yourself be scared off by them.”
“I wouldn't,” Fundin lied, and gave a weak laugh.
Narvi didn’t look convinced, but thankfully refrained from discussing the topic further. “I must say, I am surprised to see you here,” he said. “I stopped asking you to come along with me years ago, for you never seemed to be able to make time. And now all of a sudden, here you are, with a Noldo in tow.”
“Change that around to the fact that Kurfi had me in tow, and you'd be a lot closer to the truth.” Fundin scratched his head and sighed.
Narvi chuckled. “I should have known.” He gave Fundin a warm look. “Be that as it may, I am glad to see you here, little brother.”
“Yes, me too,” Fundin admitted, and in that moment he didn't feel quite as out of place anymore.
After the cheer caused by Celebrimbor's arrival had subsided, everyone found their seats around the corner table. There was a bit of scuffing and shuffling, in the process of which Fundin ended up between Narvi and Snorri, a young dwarf who had once attended the same apprentice class as Fundin. Snorri was an easygoing fellow who wasn't hard to talk to, and for a while they asked each other about this and that, how they were doing and what was going on in their lives. Snorri told Fundin that he had recently completed Naugrin's master class and had moved into a house in the Fourth Hall of Khazad-Dûm with his wife. When Snorri asked him about his own life, Fundin hedged for a while, but in the end told him that no, he wasn't married, as his position as the king's steward wouldn't allow for much of a family life, but yes, he was still happy with his life.
“Well, we're still young, aren't we?” Snorri said. “You won't be a steward forever, I believe, and you will find yourself someone before you're old as stone. Just don't do as old Helkir did before you. Poor chap literally lived and died in the king's service and never got to know someone who wasn't an envoy or a royal entourage. All he ever saw of the outside world were the delegations that came traipsing into Durin's palace or the throne rooms of other kings, but he never so much glimpsed the sea by the Grey Havens or wandered Eregion to enjoy the air, the wind, and the trees.”
Fundin didn't know what to say to that. In the end he made a noncommittal noise and took a sip out of his tankard of ale. When he looked up, only the self-control he’d gained through his long formal education and current position prevented him from spitting it out almost immediately.
He swallowed part of the ale though, and doubled over in a coughing fit until the entire table was embarrassingly quiet and everyone was staring at him.
“Are you all right?” asked Narvi.
“I am,” Fundin wheezed, coughing as he waved it off. “Don't worry. Just – ” He righted himself again, then pointed at Celebrimbor and Floki, the latter having obviously arrived at the table while Fundin had been engaged in conversation with Snorri. Both were sitting next to each other, directly across from Fundin and giving him worried glances. “Since when are you and Floki friends?” Fundin asked incredulously. “You always used to fight!”
Celebrimbor looked befuddled. “That was years ago.”
“Aye,” said Floki. “And since then, Kurfi here's had plenty of time to get his head out of his arse and back onto his neck where it belongs. Turns out when he isn't throwing tantrums – or hammers – at colleagues, he's actually a decent chap.”
“You have an incomparable way with words as always, Floki,” Narvi said drily.
“Thanks.” Floki took a long gulp from his tankard.
“And a likewise incomparable talent to mistake a rebuke for a compliment,” Narvi added.
Floki slammed his tankard down. “Now that wouldn't be a problem if you could just be forward with your compliments and your criticism as any decent Khazad, and not do it in that backhanded, sarcastic Elven way. I think you've been around Kurfi too much – his way of talking has rubbed off on you!”
“I apologize,” Narvi said. “I will be sure to tone down the irony to match your mental capabilities next time, Floki.” Several of the Dwarves around the table as well as Celebrimbor burst into laughter.
“See! See!” Floki was red-faced and actually stood in order to point over the table at Narvi. The table's legs scratched across the floor as he pushed it forward. “That's just what I meant!”
“Sit down, Floki, or you'll shove over everyone's ale and no one will like you the more for that,” an older dwarf with greying streaks in his beard said. “I understood Narvi just fine, by the way, but if you're having trouble keeping up with what's being said, then you can just ask. I'm sure everyone here will be happy to help you out in a pinch.”
The other Dwarves only laughed harder and Floki sat down, his face blazing deep red and for a moment Fundin wondered whether the other dwarf would lose his infamous temper – but then that moment passed and Floki, too, threw back his head and joined in with the laughter.
All in all it was a pleasant evening. As always, it took Fundin a bit of warming up to the strangers before he started talking more freely, but in the end, they were an easygoing lot and they accepted him into their midst quite naturally. No one seemed to pay any mind to the fact that the king's steward was sitting among them.
It was easy to imagine that this group of people, loud and raucous though they might be, would also manage to coax a withdrawn, distrusting Celebrimbor out of his shell and make him a friend. Some dwarves of the group were difficult characters themselves, like Floki, but in the end, they were hard not to like and it was almost impossible not to feel comfortable around them.
They drank and soon several of those at the table, including Celebrimbor, began to play cards. The others kept drinking and cheering on their favourites. The atmosphere was warm, easy-going, and friendly.
Fundin kept quiet through most of it. He enjoyed sitting back and just listening in, happier when no one was paying him any direct attention. He looked around the table and watched a few games of cards, thinking ahead of what the players might do – but in the end, he always found his eyes drawn back to Celebrimbor.
There was no trace of the dark, angry Noldo who had come to blows with Floki over a minor issue all those years ago. Sometime and somewhere between then and now, Celebrimbor had shaken off his hard shell, his anger, his distrust, and the worst of his temper. Today, he was all smiles and glittering eyes and easy jokes, a friend among friends, as truly a part of the group as any of the dwarves.
Fundin watched him for a while, then lowered his gaze to his hands and the grainy wood under his fingers, cool and smooth and hewn and polished from a tree that he would never see. He ran his palm over the table, feeling the smooth texture of the grain and the way it rubbed softly against his finger pads.
Maybe Narvi had been right all these years ago. A broken thing could not be unbroken and it could never return to how it had been before; too jagged the break, too deep the wound. But vicious edges could be sanded down and even shattered things could be repaired in the end. They would emerge changed and perhaps even unrecognisably altered from what they'd been before. The deeper the damage had been, the more thorough and absolute the transformation would have to be: a shattered blade would have to be melted down entirely and cast into a whole new form. But even if such a blade was different in the end, it was no less well-made and able and good than it had been before.
Fundin looked over at Celebrimbor, who had stuck his head together with Floki, trying to hash out the remaining cards in the game, and a strange, beautiful ache bloomed in his chest. Fundin had to close his eyes to try and ride it out, and he had to hope, desperately, that no one noticed it. He was lucky. When he opened them again, everyone's attention was still on the current game.
Celebrimbor laid down his last card, and Narvi put down his own. A cheer went up from Narvi's side of the table. Celebrimbor groaned and let his face sink into his hands. Floki gave him a friendly jostle, then grabbed him around the shoulders and shouted something in his ear and laughed, until Celebrimbor raised his head again and then he was laughing too as he handed Narvi three gold coins.
Narvi accepted them gracefully, then winked at Fundin.
Fundin smiled back.
It was a good evening.
412 years ago (1146 S.A.)
And time went on.
Looking back, Fundin couldn't have said where the years had gone, only that they had flown by incredibly fast. There was always new work to be done, always something to be organised and built. On the side, he kept up his meetings with Celebrimbor, and – less regularly – went out with Celebrimbor’s group of friends, who had somehow become Fundin's friends as well. The days rushed by in a haze, and in a way they were all similar to one another. Maybe that was why Fundin thought that life as it was now would continue in this way forever.
So it was with surprise and disbelief that he found himself sitting at his desk one day, Celebrimbor standing before him and not quite looking at him.
“You're leaving?” Fundin repeated incredulously.
Celebrimbor nodded.
“But – ” Fundin made a helpless gesture. “So soon? So suddenly?”
Celebrimbor gave him a sad smile. “I know that it must come as a surprise to you, but I have been thinking about it for a long time already. It has been nearly twenty-two years, and believe me when I say that this has been the best and happiest time in my life ever since I have – ”
Celebrimbor exhaled, perhaps realizing what he had almost said. “In my life,” he amended firmly. “You gave me work, which was my meaning in life, and a place to stay. But I have been granted far more than that. I have found a purpose here – and friends. Better friends than I could ever have imagined. I found your brother and you, and although I didn't believe it was possible, all of you made me feel like I could belong somewhere again.” Celebrimbor's gaze wandered off into the distance, far further than the end of the room, then it returned back to the present time and place.
“But I can't stay here forever. Or, I mean, I could, but that is not what I should do.” Celebrimbor sighed. “I keep making excuses, I'm sorry. The real answer is this: it is not what I want to do. It has been a wonderful time, and I've felt as accepted and welcome among you as I could only wish for. But, truth be told, it isn't enough.”
Fundin sat, completely still.
Celebrimbor obviously felt some kind of internal pressure, and the fire of his temper must have been burning him up inside, because he started moving, pacing, gesturing, anything that allowed him to vent the pressure, to allow him to not have to stand rigidly and look at Fundin's face.
“I miss the sun,” he said. “I miss the sky and the stars, and the wind in the trees.” He stopped. Turned around. Faced Fundin, with an openness that made the dwarf hurt all over. “I miss my people, Fundin. It's been too long since I've slept under the open sky. Too long since I've run among trees and felt the rain and the stormwinds on my face. I want to go home.”
And home is not here, was what he didn't say, but both of them felt the words hanging in the air between them all the same.
Fundin watched him. He felt like there was something he should say, but for all his famed eloquence, no words would come to him. He felt a strange pressure in his chest, screaming there is something I must say, and I must say it now before it is too late, but he stayed silent despite the skirling and wrenching sensation that threatened to tear him apart from the inside.
“Then you should go,” he said instead.
“I will write,” Celebrimbor added immediately, as if that would make any difference at all. “I promise.”
“I thought you didn't make promises,” Fundin said and in the next moment, he could have punched himself. Was that the only thing that he was going to say to that?
“I usually don't,” Celebrimbor agreed. “I'll make an exception this time, though.”
Fundin knew that this meant a lot and that his reaction should demonstrate to Celebrimbor that he understood this and appreciated it. But all he could do was nod stiffly and force a smile onto his face. “I'll hold you to it, then. I wish you the best, wherever you may go.”
Celebrimbor looked relieved. “I think I will stay here in Eregion. My uncle and my aunt have started to build a dominion for themselves not too far from here. I think I will pay them a visit. I wish you the best as well, Fundin. You have been a true friend, perhaps the best that I have found here.”
Fundin nodded, because his throat was suddenly too tight for any words. “When will you leave?” he managed to get out at last.
“In three days’ time,” Celebrimbor said. “At sunset.”
*
Fundin did not want to attend Celebrimbor's departure. The entire day he kept looking for excuses not to go, but for once, there seemed to be no urgent work to do, no one wanted to speak to him or the king, no ledgers had to be proofread, no letters translated. And thus, Fundin found himself at an utter and complete lack of excuses to stay away.
In the end, he went and waited for Celebrimbor to show up at the gates, his travel sack packed with what few belongings he called his own. Naturally, his group of friends was also there to see him off. Narvi stepped forward as the first of his friends to embrace him and say his farewells. Then followed Floki, then Throndur, then Ólin and Órin and Runi, then Snorri and so many others that Fundin couldn't put a name to them all.
At last, Celebrimbor stood before him and it was time to say good-bye. Fundin congratulated himself, because like with so many meetings and delegations before, he managed to gloss over his own uneasiness and make his way through the expected protocol without a single hitch. When he smiled and embraced Celebrimbor his laugh didn't waver and his arms didn't shake. He kept up the embrace for exactly the correct amount of time, neither too hurried to end it nor too long to hold on. He stepped back into the line of Celebrimbor's many, many other friends and like them he expressed his best wishes. He told Celebrimbor to write and jokingly threatened what would happen if he didn't, and promised to visit, knowing fully well that he would never leave Khazad-Dûm, because he was sworn to King Durin before he was sworn to anyone else in this world.
Then in the end, everything was done and said and Narvi hailed the guard to open the heavy iron doors. The stone rumbled and the floor of the entrance hall vibrated as they did, and a strip of golden sunlight fell into the gloom of the antechamber, growing and growing until the dim entrance hall was bathed in red-and-golden evening light.
Cold air rushed in, fresher than anywhere inside the mountain, and the sound of birds and the smell of trees and wet grass and autumn flowers wafted inside. There in the doorway Celebrimbor turned around, and for a moment he just stood there, framed between the leaves of the great door and outlined by sunlight, the entire world beyond a backdrop to his dark silhouette, all edged in blazing red and gold.
Then he turned around for the last time.
“Well,” Celebrimbor said, and there was a smile on his face that he was keeping down, as if the elf knew that he couldn't show too much happiness in this moment of farewell. “It's time. Stay well, all of you. We'll meet again.”
“That we will,” Narvi said. “And now out with you before we change our minds and I tell the guards to lock you in here with us for good.”
Celebrimbor laughed, briefly and loudly – and then he turned around and walked out the doors. His back was straight, his cloak swished around his ankles, and his stride was long and sure as he took those first steps into the outside world.
He didn't look back.
Fundin watched him walk away, along the path next to the lake, until he vanished between the evening shadows of the trees and bushes, a shadow among shadows, and then Celebrimbor was gone.
1 Canonically, Dwarves who are alive during the Third Age live 250-300 years on average. Considering that both Narvi and Fundin were adult (if young) Dwarves at the time these events take place, neither of them would have lived into the 1500s S.A. The timeline of this story suggests that Dwarves – much like their human counterparts – had longer lifespans in the past, averaging 400 to 500 and sometimes even 600-700 years.
