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

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IV.3

In which the arrival of a newcomer thoroughly changes the dynamics between two very old friends.

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157 - 44 years ago (1401 - 1514 S.A.)

And Celebrimbor was fine. More than fine, even, judging by his increasingly long and elaborate letters detailing his latest exploits with the Maia who had obviously become his new favourite colleague. Celebrimbor never called the Maia 'friend,' but his growing admiration – adoration, even – for this creature was unmistakable. Fundin could see it in every word, every sentence, every line, that Celebrimbor wrote. The elf went on and on about how much the stranger knew about history and language, mathematics and physics, smithing and metallurgy, and what a joy it was to work alongside the Maia.

It is as if we understand each other even without words, he wrote one time. Even at times when I myself struggle to put into words what I mean or intend to say, he grasps my intention effortlessly and always answers in as concise and detailed a way as anyone could wish for. Talking to him is less effort than it is joy, and I am learning so much with every hour, every day we spend together. I have never felt so understood. Sometimes I feel almost as if he's the long-lost brother that I have never had, so like-minded are we at times.

The more Fundin read of those exuberant thoughts and their like, the more sour his mood became and his letters in response became shorter and more evasive concerning the Maia. In the beginning, Fundin had politely asked about the newcomer, but he soon discovered that at even the slightest prompt Celebrimbor would go on and on about the stranger for multiple paragraphs, which Fundin soon took to skipping. At some point he just stopped asking about the Maia entirely, and instead resolved to ignore the gushing treatises on how greatly the creature contributed to seemingly everything that was going on in Ost-in-Edhil.

However, as time passed the mysterious stranger began to take up more and more of Celebrimbor's correspondence to Fundin, until the creature pervaded the entirety of Celebrimbor's letters. Fundin's letters became shorter and curter, and ultimately he stopped replying to Celebrimbor entirely. Lately, he had found it brought him more annoyance than joy to write to the elf, whose entire mind seemed to be taken up with the Maia, if his letters were even a remotely accurate reflection of his thoughts.

Maybe it is just the initial enthusiasm, which is understandable, Fundin thought. Give him a few weeks, a few months, and perhaps we can speak of other things again. If he writes to me in the meantime, I shall reply, but otherwise I will just let it rest for the time being.

He was content enough with that resolution and even if there was still a twinge of annoyance every time Fundin thought of Celebrimbor, who had so suddenly and utterly turned his attention to a different friend, the dwarf resolved to ignore it and turned his own mind to other matters.

If Kurfinni has so many other things to keep him occupied, it is only fair that I should do the same, rather than postponing important tasks in favour of a distant friend who is otherwise busy.

And thus weeks passed, and then months, during which Fundin did many things he had not done in a long time. For one thing, he visited Baldur in the library and found a few older manuscripts in dire need of copying to new parchment. The old scrolls were brittle enough that Fundin feared they would turn to dust the moment he unrolled them, and when he did open them, the ink had faded to a point as to be almost unrecognizable. He busied himself copying those old texts to soft new vellum pages whenever he had some time to spare, and also added a few illuminations here and there. Baldur was overjoyed to receive the new copies and thanked Fundin profusely. Fundin in turn reassured him that he would gladly copy other manuscripts if the other illuminators and scribes in the scriptorium were too busy with more urgent tasks. Fundin, of course, was no professional and as such, no scrolls of great importance would be entrusted to him for that matter. He was mostly only allowed to copy old ledgers and lists of trade exchanges, but the content of those scrolls mattered little to him. He was satisfied enough if he could only sit at his desk and transfer those old, faded numbers and words to new, soft vellum. The knowledge of preserving something that would otherwise be lost, and losing himself in the joy of bringing something to paper with precise, neat strokes of his pen, better than before, was enough for him.

He also visited Floki, and once they even went to visit the Sapphire Dell together. It was strange with just the two of them sitting at the table. Whenever Fundin had gone out with Floki in the past, they had been accompanied by a raucous horde of Floki's friends, who filled the pub with their excitable chatter and bawdy jests. Without those friends now, the room appeared much too big, much too empty, and for some reason his conversation with Floki never lasted longer than a few strained sentences before lapsing back into silence. They exchanged the usual news – how their families were doing, how work was going, how more and more Elves were coming into Khazad-Dûm – and then it was as if they did not know what to speak of anymore.

“Strange, it is,” Floki said finally, wiping the back of his hand over his greying moustache. “For ages it has been only us, and now suddenly there's Elves and Men and stranger folk coming to knock at our gates and we're letting them in.”

Fundin stared into his tankard. “Yes, the times are changing.”

“Aren't they just,” the older dwarf hummed. “Then again, I guess it's only fair that we're letting them in, now that our own kind is travelling all over Eregion as well to trade and work and learn. Falda says she's enjoying her time in the Elven city greatly, and I wonder if I will ever get to see her again, properly, before I make my way into the Halls of Waiting.” He chuckled, but the sound was only half in jest.

“I'm sure you will,” Fundin said. At Celebrimbor's invitation, Floki's daughter had left for Ost-in-Edhil sixty years ago, and while the young Dwarf had returned to visit her family from time to time, it appeared that she had no intention of returning to Khazad-Dûm permanently in the long run.

“I doubt that. She's still as excited about being there as she was during her first week. You'd have to see the letters she's writing me – they could fill an entire library by themselves! And no matter how often I tell her that I'm no good for reading and that she should just come to visit in order to talk to me in person, she just says that she can't for fear of missing this colloquy and that guest lecture, and all of them way too important to be missed. So I guess I must take a back seat to my daughter's work.” Floki grunted. “How's Kurfi doing, by the way? I know he was always writing letters to you. Anything new from him and this Maia he's picked up off his doorstep?”

Fundin tensed. “Not that I know of. They appear to be very busy and we haven't exchanged letters in some time.”

Floki just chuckled. “Our Kurfi appears to be really taken with this new friend of his. Still, he's always had too much of a liking for writing letters for my taste – he's one of those people who just need to talk about everything that's going on inside their heads at all times. I'm sure you'll hear from him soon.”

But Celebrimbor didn't write, either in the week after Fundin and Floki had been to the Sapphire Dell, or the months after that. Fundin hadn't really been expecting any letters, and he himself hadn't written to Celebrimbor in turn, but still. Every day that passed without news from Ost-in-Edhil – and from Celebrimbor specifically – made that tight black knot in his chest pull just a little tighter and sprout a few more thorns.

Fundin resented himself for the fact that this should matter to him so much – after all, Celebrimbor didn't appear to take any issue with their current situation either, so why should Fundin? And yet, the matter was always there in his mind. Even if not at the forefront, it was always lingering somewhere in the back: a curious mix of disappointment and anger that Fundin didn't know whether it was directed at Celebrimbor or at himself.

The matter was mundane, and not at all important, and yet Fundin's mind refused to let it go.

Until his brother Narvi fell ill, that was. From there on out, suddenly nothing else was important anymore.

 

44 years ago (1514 S.A.)

 

Fundin watched as the heavy stone plate slid in place over the tomb. His eyes were dry and burning, and although Fundin was blinking rapidly, it didn't seem to help much. His gaze was fixed on the stone plate. The grinding sound as it slid into its final position made the insides of his skull vibrate. He didn't look at the stone bust that stared back at him empty-eyed from a pedestal behind the tomb, which looked nothing like Narvi had ever looked in life.

He felt the pressing presence of his family standing behind him – aunts and uncles, cousins, more and less distant – but he didn't turn around. They all kept their respectful distance in turn, giving Fundin his allotted space at the front as the closest remaining kin of Narvi. Fundin knew that he should talk to them, but even thinking of turning around and opening his mouth to speak made him feel ill.

They would not approach him, he knew. They would give him as much space as he needed in his grief, and he was glad to use it as an excuse to forgo all courtesies and just remain standing there, his eyes fixed on Narvi's tomb without seeing it. He could not say how much time passed as he stood there. Eventually, he more felt than heard them move away and he was alone. The cold of the surrounding stone seeped into his fingers and through his boots into his feet, until Fundin himself felt like he would become one with the stone, cold and unmoving. In this moment, he would have welcomed it.

For now, he was cold and stiff and comfortably numb, but he knew that as soon as he moved away and up into the city of the living again, his body and mind would thaw again, leaving him vulnerable against the onslaught of grief that was now only just building, like a far-off storm. If there had been a way to escape this, he would have been sorely tempted to take it.

But in the end he wasn't stone, and when his back and feet were hurting so much that he could no longer stand straight, when his tongue was sticking to his try palate, when every movement made his body ache as if he had to break through a thick crust that had laid itself about his bones – Fundin took a step, and then another, and slowly walked away. His steps echoed across the cavern in which the mausoleum of his family lay. The torches down here in the Halls of Waiting burned with a cool, blue flame that gave off only cold. He saw a few priests moving to and fro when he crossed the main halls, but other than that, the city of the dead was deserted.

Back in his office, he slowly and methodically prepared himself a can of kófi, although he had no intention of drinking it. He briefly considered alcohol, but quickly discarded the thought. In the mausoleum he had briefly entertained various plans of escaping his feelings when they finally made themselves known in their entirety, but he knew that he would not give in to this weakness. He would face the deluge, no matter how brutal it would be or how long it would last.

The worst was knowing that he would survive it. That he would forget. Heal. Get better. The thought should have made Fundin feel better, but all it did was put into perspective how momentary and marginal his grief would be, and thus rob him of any reasons and justifications to wallow.

And yet. Right now, he still felt numbed. He stood in the middle of his office for a moment, thinking of what to do. In the end he decided to sit down and work. He might as well get some of his duties done while he still could. When the realization finally hit him, Fundin knew, he would spend enough time as it was paralyzed by the grief, so there was no need to laze about while he was still able to get his work done.

He worked for three days straight, quick and efficient, but always keeping his senses heightened for the first indicators that he might lose his composure. Strangely enough, the signs didn't come until almost a week later. When they did, King Durin offered to entrust someone else with the steward's duties for the time being, but Fundin declined. His work was the only thing keeping him together and he could not lose that lifeline now.

And so the storm came.

For weeks on end, Fundin would see no one and barely left his office. He had food and drink brought to his solar, and he took to spending the few hours of sleep that he could achieve each night in his armchair, slumped to one side and plagued by tempestuous dreams. When he awoke from one of those nightmares, he would take a few moments to ground himself, and then immediately immerse himself in his work again to chase away the lingering shadows of the latest dream and its shadows of loss and loneliness.

With time, even the worst of the storm passed. Although the pain never went away entirely, it gradually lost its acuteness – or perhaps he simply got used to it after the greater part of his heart had turned to numb, insensitive scar tissue – and Fundin eventually realized that he would survive. He didn’t return to anything resembling his old life, and his days still seemed to consist of shades of grey bleeding into each other, but eventually the dark moments (when a wave of blackness would roll over him and bury him beneath its suffocating weight, leaving him petrified and gasping for breath) became less and less frequent, and Fundin knew then that he could, if not heal, then at least move on in a way.

It was almost the beginning of spring when he suddenly found a letter from Ost-in-Edhil on his desk one day, bearing the sigil that Celebrimbor had taken to use for his correspondence. Fundin blinked at the letter, not truly understanding what he was seeing until a few minutes had passed. He had finally, actually completely forgotten about the Noldo. For the last few months, his life had held space for nothing more than restless nights and busy days, amply filled with the affairs of Khazad-Dûm. To see Celebrimbor intruding upon this space all of sudden, after Fundin had gotten so used to not thinking of him, was strange and disconcerting. Fundin grabbed the letter opener and sliced the envelope.

The message inside was very short.

 

Fundin,

I have heard the news from Floki. I am so sorry that I have only heard of it now after months have already passed, but I had no word from anyone from Khazad-Dûm during the winter. Do you need me to come? Please tell me, because if so, I will prepare my journey immediately.

Kurfinni

 

Fundin blinked. No courtesies, no asking how he was, no offerings of condolences. He slowly laid the letter aside and wondered how this was supposed to make him feel.

It was a good letter, actually, if he thought about it. It wasn't lengthy, full of bloated hollow phrases and assurances that Celebrimbor's misery was just as great as his own must surely be. Instead, the elf had just cut directly to the core of the matter, offering to drop everything and come to Khazad-Dûm. Celebrimbor hadn't asked how Fundin was because the elf knew what it felt like to lose family. It would all have been ornamental, courteous, and ultimately, useless. In fact, the offer to come and visit him was nothing short of insightful and caring, and spoke volumes about the lengths Celebrimbor would go to in order to offer Fundin some comfort.

So why didn't that make him feel good, touched, or any other reasonable emotion? Why did he feel upset, even angry?

Fundin stared at the letter.

Because he wasn't here.

It was a ridiculous thought. There was no way that Celebrimbor could have known of Narvi's illness and death, for Narvi himself had insisted upon not telling the elf. And yet Fundin couldn't shake his anger. The thought that the elf had walked through sun-flooded workshops in his high towers, filled with even higher ideas and plans, laughing and working, while Narvi had lain dying and Fundin had watched the last of his rattling breaths pass from his brother’s body –

What good will your words do now? Where were you when we needed you? Where were you when I needed you? Gallivanting about with that Maia in those high spires of yours, philosophizing about even higher dreams, sparing no thought for –

Fundin didn’t realize that he had crumpled the letter and moved to throw it into the fireplace until he was already standing before the hearth and felt its heat scorching the underside of his trembling fist. His right arm was stretched out over the crackling flames, his fingers digging into the crumpled ball of paper, already moving to loosen their grip, to let go. He only stopped himself at the last possible moment and hastily pulled his hand back. He stumbled backwards and had to close his eyes for a moment because his mind was reeling, faced with what he had almost, almost done.

Fundin let out a deep, slow breath. He knew that he was being rash and illogical. He knew that he was not being fair. And yet. He could not fight the anger. It was simply there, regardless of whether it had a right or a reason to exist. He couldn't change that. However, Fundin would not let his feelings dictate his actions.

It took him weeks to work up the nerve and the calm to answer, but when he finally did, his hand was sure and his message betrayed nothing of his feelings.

 

Dear Celebrimbor,

Your offer is kind and I appreciate it. However, you needn't come. What is past, is past and this matter is resolved. Your presence here would achieve nothing, and no one will bear you any ill will for staying where your duties demand you to be. In fact, it was Narvi's own wish to keep his illness private and only inform his friends it had come to pass after he had passed on himself, so no blame rests on you.

If you ever want to come to Khazad-Dûm, its doors will always be open to you, you know that. Until then, take care of yourself and your friends.

May the Maker shine his fire upon your path.

Your friend,

Fundin

 

Fundin re-read the letter very often, thinking about changing it some way or another, but in the end he left it as it was. When he finally gave it to the messenger to be sent to Ost-in-Edhil, he had read its contents so often that he almost believed them himself.

 

33 days ago (22^nd of September, 1558 S.A.)

 

Ever since Celebrimbor had announced his upcoming arrival on the evening of the 22^nd of September, Fundin had been preparing the welcoming party that would greet him, planning for its members to meet in the early hours of the afternoon so that they could ready themselves. The Lord of Ost-in-Edhil was an esteemed guest and as such, Fundin selected Ari and Nali, two nephews of King Durin, to accompany him to the gates. As further companions he chose Buri and Bori, two of his own younger cousins. They had distinguished themselves as honourable members of their house in recent years and proven themselves as able servants of the king, so Fundin felt it was right that they should accompany him to greet Celebrimbor and the unspecified “friend” he had said he was bringing with him.

They went to the antehall, where Buri and Bori busied themselves talking to the gatekeepers, while Fundin went around greeting strangers and welcoming them into Khazad-Dûm, all the while keeping an eye and an ear out for the arrival of his old friend. He was feeling a strange combination of excitement and nervousness. It had been a long time since he had last seen Celebrimbor, far longer now than the time after Celebrimbor had left Khazad-Dûm and Fundin had visited him in Ost-in-Edhil. It was also to be the first time that they had seen each other since Narvi had passed away, and Fundin felt the absence of his brother almost like a tangible ache at his side.

What would it be like, he wondered, to see Celebrimbor again after all these years? Would Narvi's death stand between them? Fundin had firmly decided that he wouldn't let it – not after the four decades that they had each had to get used to the fact that the fulcrum that had first brought them together no longer existed.

At last Fundin heard a familiar voice over the din in the ante-room. A tall figure had walked up to the guards at the gate outside.

“Good evening,” the figure said, bowing in the customary fashion of Dwarves. “Celebrimbor of Ost-in-Edhil, at your service. I know it is bad manners to ask something of a host before you have even stepped over his threshold, but I have a request to make in favour of my friend: would it be possible – ”

He was interrupted by one of the guards. “Celebrimbor of Ost-in-Edhil? The Celebrimbor?”

With a polite excuse, Fundin extricated himself from the conversation with a young Dwarven traveller from the Blue Mountains. He signalled his four young companions and they made their way over to the gates just in time to hear the elf say, “If you are talking about the friend of Narvi who lived here for nearly three decades and made these doors with him, then yes, that Celebrimbor. At least, there is no other I know of. Elves are not usually in the habit of giving away a name more than once.”

“Says the third Curufinwë,” Fundin said wryly as he stepped out of the gate, his cousins and Durin's nephews behind him.

Both Celebrimbor and the guards turned around in surprise.

He still looks the same, Fundin thought. He hasn't changed one bit – and yet, something is different about him. He couldn't pinpoint what exactly the difference might be, though. Just as the Celebrimbor whom he had seen in Ost-in-Edhil had been nothing like the Celebrimbor he had gotten to know when he had still been an apprentice, the elf appeared very different now – even though he had not changed outwardly, nearly untouched by the course of time and age.

Fundin stepped forward. “Maker's fire upon your path, and firm stone below your feet,” he said, in the way of formal greeting for high-ranking guests.

“And may your hammer strike ever true,” Celebrimbor replied, following proper protocol too as he returned the bow. “I was wondering whether it would be you to welcome us into Khazad-Dûm.” When the elf straightened again, he was smiling. It was the same smile that had first shattered Fundin's impression of the elf as an irredeemable ill-tempered grouch, and had later begun to touch him in a very different manner.

Fundin swallowed those old feelings with decisive firmness, smothering them before they could bud. And yet, he did allow the joy to well up inside himself, because this was his old friend, and by Mahal, he had missed him. It had been so long.

“Not for the world and all the mithril hidden in its depths would I have missed it,” Fundin said and smiled.

At those words a broad grin broke over Celebrimbor's face, and with a quick motion the elf pulled Fundin into a firm embrace. Now that wasn't proper protocol at all, and naturally Celebrimbor didn't care. “It is good to see you again, Fundin,” the elf said.

Fundin mentally gathered himself. This is fine. We are very old friends, after all. And – as he suddenly discovered – nothing more. His chest wasn't aching, his heart wasn't skipping a beat like it had done all those years ago whenever Celebrimbor had caught him off guard with a nudge, a jostle, an embrace. He felt a familiar fond warmth when he looked at the elf, but nothing more than that. Not anymore. And – Fundin realized – it was fine.

“And you, Kurfi.” He laughed and clapped his hands on Celebrimbor's back, then pushed him back at arm's length, his eyes searching the elf's face. “Would you look at yourself,” he said. “The sun and the wind have done you good. You look well.”

And he did. It reminded Fundin of the change that had gone through the elf after he had left Khazad-Dûm. He had looked healthier and happier then, and today, it was much the same in a manner Fundin couldn't pinpoint. There seemed to be a radiance to the elf that hadn't been there before. It was beyond a visible change, but seemed to be on another plane of existence, as if there was an aura to Celebrimbor that Fundin was entirely unfamiliar with.

“I do hope so,” Celebrimbor said, “Living in peaceful times and surrounded by friends must be good for something, after all.”

“Indeed.” Fundi stepped back, his eyes wandering past Celebrimbor's shoulder and coming to rest on the second newcomer, who was standing a few steps behind the Noldo. He was likewise tall, but otherwise looked very different from Celebrimbor. He was leaner, fair-haired, and wore simple white robes that, although finely-made, were quite nondescript in appearance. Their cut couldn't be attributed to a particular fashion of either Men or Quendi, and they bore no coats or ornaments that would allow a guess at the stranger's provenance or family.

“And I see you have brought one such friend with you today.” Fundin stepped around Celebrimbor and bowed to the stranger. “Fundin, Son of Finli, at your service.”

“And at yours, Master Fundin,” Celebrimbor's friend replied and inclined his head.

“And who might you be, Lord Stranger?” Fundin asked after the four younger Dwarves had introduced themselves in turn. “Our mutual friend has been very secretive about your person when he announced that there would be someone coming with him. As such he has not informed us of your name, or your titles and ancestry.” Fundin paused briefly. “I would call you 'Master Elf', but I see that it would be amiss, because upon a closer look it seems you're missing their pointy ears.”

The stranger laughed softly. “Not too far amiss – and no offence would have been taken. I am sure our mutual friend can remedy the missing introductions very quickly.” His gaze flicked over to Celebrimbor, a strange glint in them, then back at Fundin and for a heartbeat his amber eyes flashed golden. For an instant it felt as if a veil had been pulled back from the stranger and Fundin nearly floundered when he saw – no, felt – the true nature of Celebrimbor's friend, who had briefly revealed themselves.

And even before Celebrimbor spoke again, Fundin suddenly knew just who he was looking at and his insides froze.

His head whipped around to the elf. He wouldn't, he thought. He couldn't. Of all his friends whom Kurfi could have brought – not him.

But his last shreds of hope died when he saw the stricken look on Celebrimbor's face, like a child who had known all along that he would be caught in the act of doing something forbidden, and now saw with resigned fear that the moment of discovery – and of reckoning – had come.

“This is Annatar Aulëndil, a dear friend and colleague of mine.” The elf turned towards the four younger Dwarves, who as of yet still did not understand the nature of their second guest. “He came to Middle-earth as an emissary of the Lords of the West, and has since wandered its farthest and most remote corners, offering up his knowledge and his skill at all ends of the world, before he came upon my doorstep one hundred and fifty years ago. He has stayed with us in Ost-in-Edhil ever since. I took him with me since he expressed his desire to see the marvels of Khazad-Dûm for himself.”

“Aulëndil?” Ari repeated, his brows raised. “And an emissary of the Valar?” He looked at Annatar, more closely this time.

There was a strangling sensation welling up in Fundin's chest. His joy at the reunion was gone, evaporated in a fire of feelings that he didn't care to evaluate and dismantle right now. For centuries in his position as a steward he had kept a calm and courteous facade in the face of demanding and difficult guests, his true feelings never once shining through. Today, he didn't succeed. This was simply too much.

When he was sure that his voice wouldn't crack on the first word, Fundin turned on Celebrimbor.

“What were you thinking? You might as well have sent us into a dragon cave without warning by not announcing the nature of your friend! Had we known that you would bring a Maia to our gates, the king himself would have come to deal with you!”

The elf actually shrank back, and a grim satisfaction welled up in Fundin's chest when he saw it. Good. Let him know that he has done wrong. By Mahal, I thought he knew enough about us to know that this was simply not done, but I was mistaken. He is not one of us, he has no idea what he has done by bringing this creature here.

The four younger Dwarves looked on with shock on their faces, still not grasping the magnitude of the insolence that the elf had committed.

I must explain it to them later, he thought with gritted teeth. For now, he had to go through the motions, no matter how angry he might be.

And so Fundin turned to the Maia.

The creature was regarding him with an expression of detached interest that might almost have seemed arrogant. As if an argument between an elf and a few Dwarves would usually be far beyond its notice, but it couldn't help but being interested in their petty squawking and squabbling nonetheless.

Although everything in Fundin balked at the idea, he bowed deeply. It wouldn't do to offend one of their guests, especially not if said guest was powerful enough to level the entire kingdom with nothing more than the blink of an eye. He felt ill averting his eyes from the Maia, though, even when just to bow. It felt wrong, similar to presenting his neck to a dragon. Still, it wouldn't do to anger a dragon, much less an emissary of the West.

“Forgive us our ignorance, Lord Aulëndil,” he said, as calmly as he could. “Had we known who you were, we would have greeted you differently, in a manner befitting your rank and nature.”

Fundin's heart nearly stopped when the Maia stepped forward and placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“No need for such formalities,” the creature said, and if he had not known already what it truly was, then Fundin could never have guessed its nature from its voice alone. “Mahal himself wished for children, not servants, when he gave you life at the Dawn of Days ere the first sunrise. No father would demand that his children bow to him, and neither would I, calling myself only 'of Aulë', and not Aulë himself. Rise, Fundin, Son of Finli, so we might look upon each other as equals and – if you will – friends.”

Fundin righted himself quickly and took a small step backwards, out of the Maia's reach.

The Maia still fixed him with his golden eyes, his gaze following Fundin's every movement, much like a cat might stare down a mouse.

Do not let it see fear, Fundin told himself, willing his body to calm. And do not anger it. It might already be offended enough by how we reacted.

“If there is any way I can be of aid to you, you need only speak,” Fundin said, carefully neutral. “Finli's House is at your service. I am afraid there is no fixed protocol for such an event, because there is no known instance of any of Aulë's people ever coming to a kingdom under the mountains.”

The creature smiled, baring its white teeth at him. “In this case, I feel honoured to be the first of my kin to be allowed into your halls.”

Fundin did not smile back, but bowed again.

“I am sorry, I should have warned you,” Celebrimbor said quietly.

“You should have,” Fundin said curtly. “And yet you didn't.” The elf flinched. Fundin's eyes flicked back to the Maia. “But there is no changing the past. What has been done has been done.”

“Fundin, I – I am sorry,” Celebrimbor said. “He wanted to be received like any other traveller. It was his wish to remain unnamed until such a time as introductions were inevitable. I apologize if I forced you into a quandary.”

“That you did indeed,” said Fundin. “I understand that you were bound to respect your friend's wishes, but your obligations are not only to your friend. You should have told us!” He couldn't hide the bitterness in his tone. You do not only have duties to that Maia, Kurfi. We are your friends as well.

But he didn't say this out loud, of course. “You of all Elves must know that it is no light matter to bring one of Aulë's people to our doorstep. You have forced the hand of the king himself tonight, Celebrimbor, and you will have to answer for that.”

“I know,” Celebrimbor said quietly. “Believe me when I say that neither he nor I meant any harm by coming here. Annatar is an admirer of the arts and crafts, and a master of both. I told him much about my time here, and he wanted to see the halls of Khazad-Dûm and the Dwarven Kingdom for himself. To be honest, he told me that he would have preferred not to be introduced at all if his nature should rouse trouble or suspicion, but I explained to him that you cannot go nameless among Dwarves if you ever want them to trust you.”

“In this case you also should not surprise them with a Maia,” Fundin replied.

“He did not come here as a messenger of Aulë,” Celebrimbor said quickly. “He has not acted in that role for a long time. He came here as my friend. I had hoped you would receive him as the person he is today, no matter who or what he might once have been – just like you have done with me, all those years ago.”

Fundin sighed and closed his eyes briefly. Those were reasons, but they weren't Fundin's – or his people's. “Well, it is as good an explanation as one could hope to receive in such a situation. In any case, it will be Durin you'll have to answer to, not me.”

Speaking of which, the king needed to be informed of this new development, and quickly. Fundin lifted his gaze and looked over at his younger cousins, who were speaking quietly to Durin's nephews. “Ho, Ari, Nali! Come here when you are done! We must inform the king of Celebrimbor's arrival – and tell him of the friend that he has brought with him!”

The two younger Dwarves walked over to where Celebrimbor and Fundin were standing, and Fundin gave them quick instructions to go ahead and inform the king of the arrival of Celebrimbor and an unannounced Maia. As his younger cousins quickly took their leave, Celebrimbor stepped forward a little.

“Do you think I could show Annatar the closed doors while your cousins tell the king we are here?” Celebrimbor asked, some of his eagerness of old shining through, despite their preceding conversation.

Fundin frowned. “You are asking a lot of me tonight, Celebrimbor,” he said in a tone that should leave no doubt that his patience was coming to an end. “You will always have a right to these doors, since you are the one who built them, but you gifted them to the King of Khazad-Dûm, and he alone can decide whether or not your friend can be allowed to learn their secrets. Be that as it may, we should not let the king wait – come now, and when you talk to him you can bring before him all the strange requests that you have brought with you.”

When they entered Khazad-Dûm together, Fundin's joy at his reunion with Celebrimbor had turned entirely to bitterness.

 

19 days ago – 7 days ago (6^th of October - 18^th of October, 1558 S.A.)

 

Fundin rubbed briefly at his eyes as the last Dwarves filtered out of the council chamber, muttering quietly among themselves, a few of them throwing dark glowers over their shoulders in his direction.

Fundin was too exhausted to care. His eyes were burning and his shoulders and back were aching from another endless night spent sitting in an uncomfortable chair and having barely-veiled insults and accusations thrown at him. He couldn’t have said when he had last slept properly. For what must be every night in the last two-and-a-half weeks, Durin and Fundin had spent conferring with the heads of the noble houses of Khazad-Dum, discussing and arguing, both making too many promises and too many assurances for Fundin's liking. And still, for all their efforts, they had made little to no headway to show for it.

Most of Khazad-Dûm's noble houses had accepted Durin's decision to allow Celebrimbor and the Maia in under the mountains, but a few of the more conservative families (mostly those who had also opposed the decision to open the Dwarven Kingdom to the outside world) had taken grievous offence. The Bristlebeards first and foremost had risen up in outrage at those meetings, with Harko Bristlebeard going as far as questioning Durin's sanity for allowing an elf and a Maia into their realm, both of whom had apparently little to no respect for Dwarven customs and culture.

Fundin had risen from his seat and sharply reprimanded the Bristlebeard patriarch to mind his tongue, but if he was honest, he couldn't entirely disagree with Harko. He knew Durin's reasoning, of course. The king had explained himself at length to his steward and council – something Fundin knew not every ruler was willing to do, and he was thankful for Durin’s actions on this count. And yet, when Fundin looked around at the dark faces glaring at him, some of them his old friends and good acquaintances, he couldn't help but wonder if Durin had made the right decision this time.

After the last of the other Dwarves had left the room, Fundin slowly packed his notes together. As usually, they had not even gotten around to breaching many of the important day-to-day topics, like taxation, funding, and external relations. Lately, everything seemed to revolve solely around Celebrimbor and his impertinence in bringing a Maia to Khazad-Dûm, leaving no room for anything else.

Durin watched him silently, then they left the room side by side. For a while they backtracked their way through the long, straight corridors back to the central complex of the palace in silence.

“What do you make of this all, Fundin?” the king asked with a side glance.

Fundin was silent for a while. “They are angry,” he said.

“Yes, I know. But what do you make of it?”

Again, Fundin thought long and hard about what to say. “I understand them,” he said at last. “But I also understand you, my king. There was a noble intent in inviting Celebrimbor of Eregion and Aulëndil to stay with us. And yet – I fear that for some of us, this intent might not be enough.”

“Some of us?” Durin asked with a shrewd glance sideways. Before Fundin could answer, though, the king turned his head to look forward once more. “But yes, I understand you. As it is, I understand the elders as well. How could I not? We are Khazad, and we share the same past that binds us all to our Maker. And yet, I have often thought that our kin is focused too strongly on the past, forsaking what might yet be in favour of clinging to what has been. The past is a sharp knife that cuts deeply if you let it.” Durin's gaze was hard. “I intend to take the edge off this knife.”

Fundin threw his king a side glance. “Then I would advise you to take care not to cut yourselves on those edges as you do, Your Highness,” he said at last.

*

Fundin himself continued observing from afar, horribly tense inside, watching the Maia, waiting with apprehension for something, anything, to happen… but it never did.

His gaze wandered from the young Dwarves to Celebrimbor. Fundin had been watching his old friend often over the past few days and the more he saw, the more he felt like he couldn't understand the Noldo, whom he had thought he knew so well, any longer.

It was incredible how comfortable Celebrimbor appeared to be around the Maia. He didn't even seem to give a second thought to the fact that he was dealing with a creature that could destroy him with a flick of its finger. Celebrimbor showed no fear of contact, no discomfort: quite the contrary, in fact. They seemed so … familiar. He walked and sat close to the Maia, he talked to it and teased it without a sign of worry and concern. Once the Noldo even made a very pointed jest at the Maia’s expense and then laughed – a moment that had Fundin's stomach turning to ice. The creature, however, had only regarded Celebrimbor with a side glance, then smiled its slow, languid smile that revealed its white teeth one by one. Even watching from afar, it made Fundin's skin crawl.

And Celebrimbor? He showed not a sign of worry, not a sign of fear. He appeared to trust this creature unconditionally. There was no discomfort in his demeanour, no sign of an understandable respect or distance that one of the Lesser God's should, by all means, command. Did Celebrimbor not feel the power that radiated from this being, palpable enough that it made shivers run down Fundin's neck even from a distance? How did he even get so close to it? Does he know no fear?

Apparently not, because for all how Celebrimbor was acting around the creature, it was as if he was just dealing with a friend like any other, equal and approachable and not something to shy away from.

And the Maia? It did nothing. It appeared calm, and to a strange degree even approachable. It appeared to relish its interactions with the Khazad. Baldur had even told Fundin that Aulëndil and Celebrimbor were spending a great amount of time in the Great Library, which, after some thought, was to be expected. God-like and powerful though Aulëndil might be, Fundin couldn't imagine Celebrimbor growing so close to a creature that showed no interest in knowledge and books.

In all its time in Khazad-Dûm thus far, the Maia was nothing if not friendly and polite, and yet every time Fundin walked by it, he had a feeling of passing by a dragon.

In fact, the creature's presence reminded Fundin almost eerily of the tale of Malraug the dragon.¹

Fundin couldn't guess at the Maia's true intentions, but not for a single moment did he give himself over to the illusion that the Maia's friendliness was nothing more than a choice it was making over and over again every single moment, and every time the outcome of its decision was ultimately unpredictable. What if it ever chose to change its mind? The question was moot, though, because if it ever did, then all the Dwarves in Khazad-Dûm combined had even less chance of stopping the Maia than they did of stopping an earthquake.

 

6 days ago (19^th of October, 1558 S.A.)

 

King Durin had invited Celebrimbor to partake in the Wake on Durin's Day. Fundin felt like he should have seen this coming and he was angry at himself that he hadn’t. He tried to hide the resentment that he felt at his king for inviting the elf to partake in the rite. He knew that Durin only meant well: he allowed it only because Celebrimbor and Narvi had been very close, and because the Noldo had never had the chance to say his farewells before Narvi had passed away.

Still, it felt like yet another personal insult. Fundin knew that it was not his right, but he still felt that he as Narvi's brother should have been given a say in this. Lately it seemed to Fundin as if everyone was out to undermine him despite his dutifulness, whilst evening the path for Celebrimbor despite his impudence. It was not fair.

The meeting had ended a while ago, and Fundin was standing in a familiar hallway before a familiar door, his tired eyes burning, his shoulders and back aching from yet another meeting with the enraged Dwarven nobles, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, feeling utterly unhappy.

Why couldn't it ever just be easy? he wondered. Everything could have gone so smoothly if only Celebrimbor hadn't brought the Maia here.

Judging from past experience, the Maia seemed to tag along everywhere Celebrimbor went, and that probably also meant that the Noldo would be dragging him along to watch the sacred rites in the Halls of Waiting. Rites that only Dwarves were allowed to attend. Even bringing an elf down there was an exception that was unheard of, however long that elf might have spent in a Dwarven society.

But to allow a Maia into the Halls? And one of Aulë's flock at that? An immortal in a place of death and remembrance, from the fellowship of a god who had the most personal ties possible to the fate of the Khazad?

It was too much.

Fundin had spoken to King Durin about this, who had agreed that the Maia must not enter the necropolis. Fundin knew he needed to talk to Celebrimbor about this. But, he wondered, will he still listen to me? Prior to this visit, Fundin would never have called it into question. Celebrimbor had come to him for help in the past, and he had always cherished Fundin's advice and opinion.

But times had changed. Celebrimbor had gone from a lonely, angry outcast to a powerful, influential leader of the Noldor. He no longer desperately needed someone to stop him from falling and drowning in his own anger, guilt, and resentment, and after centuries of ruling, he no longer required Fundin's advice to govern his city either. These things didn't change that the Noldo would always remain a dear friend to Fundin. But, the Dwarf thought, I don't know him as well as I once did. And there is, of course, Aulëndil.

The Maia seemed to have changed something in Fundin's old friend. Celebrimbor appeared to be fixated on the creature, valuing its views above those of everyone else. Every decision he made Celebrimbor seemed to be weighing against his own and the creature's opinions, just like he had done in coming here to Khazad-Dûm, while no longer taking other people’s perspectives into consideration. There was no malevolent disregard in Celebrimbor, but … it was as if the Maia was outshining everything else around Celebrimbor with its brightness, entrapping both of them in its halo and making everything else, everyone else, fade into the background of unimportance.

Fundin didn't know whether he had simply faded away along with the rest of the world. Truth be told, he did not want to find out.

But he had to. He had already announced himself to Celebrimbor in the morning, telling him that he needed to have a word with him in private tonight.

And yet, now that Fundin stood before the door of Celebrimbor's rooms, he found that his feet wouldn't budge and his hand would not rise to knock on the door. There was a deep-seated dread unfurling inside his chest, fearing for what might happen if he told the elf that he just couldn't go on like this, that he couldn't bring this creature he cherished so much with him to the Wake –

Until this moment, Fundin had never truly realized how afraid he was of losing Celebrimbor as a friend. This conversation might well be what would lead to a permanent falling out between them, if Celebrimbor liked and defended that creature of his only half as much as Fundin expected him to.

If Fundin brought it up, he feared a discussion or even an argument was likely. However, if he kept his silence and Celebrimbor brought that Maia down into the Halls of Waiting, their friendship would break for certain. And not only that: Fundin only needed to think of the brewing resentment and the boiling tempers in the council rooms, of the barely veiled accusations and the deep divides that the Maia’s mere arrival had caused to open in the realm, to know that allowing it to enter their holiest halls might mean the sundering of the entire Dwarven kingdom.

At last, it was once again duty that pushed him past his fears. Fundin took a deep breath, then stepped forward and knocked on the door.

He only had to wait for a short time before the door was yanked open all of a sudden and Fundin found himself face to face with Aulëndil, the Maia’s golden eyes blazing with cold anger.

Fundin staggered back, but before he could do or say anything, the Maia had given him a sharp, almost dismissive nod and stormed off down the hallway.

Fundin stared after him, feeling like he had only barely avoided a brush with a roaring fire. Then he gathered himself and turned to look at Celebrimbor, who was standing in the doorframe, his face strangely drawn and his eyes wide, looking nearly as rattled as Fundin felt.

“I – ,” Celebrimbor said, then interrupted himself. “I'm sorry, we just had a … discussion of sorts.”

“Yes, that's what it looked like,” Fundin said quietly. “I'm sorry.”

“No need. Annatar can become somewhat... passionate about certain things at times, and if we don't agree on the matter at hand, our arguments tend to become a bit, well, heated.” Celebrimbor blew a lock of dark hair out of his face, seemingly lost in thought. Then his eyes cleared and they focused on Fundin. “Anyway. You told me that you would be visiting me tonight because you wanted to speak to me?”

“I did.” Fundin looked up at him.

“I'm glad you could finally make time. I had almost begun to fear that I wouldn't be seeing you at all as long as I was here, so I am glad we finally managed to fit it in. Though you certainly sounded like it was urgent.”

Fundin didn't reply to that.

Celebrimbor must have seen something in Fundin's face, because his own expression turned solemn, almost worried. “Is something the matter?”

“Yes,” Fundin said. “We need to talk.”

 

***

And talk they did.

Fundin couldn't remember when they had last spoken for so long without interruption.

Fundin was not usually one to get carried away in his own speeches, but tonight it was as if a dam had finally broken, and everything that he had been holding back ever since Celebrimbor had come to Khazad-Dûm – nay, even before that – finally came spilling forth. And Celebrimbor listened.

Fundin told Celebrimbor about his worries and the difficulties that the arrival of the Maia had caused, at which Celebrimbor blanched and apologized ten times before Fundin finally threatened to leave if he didn't stop.

Celebrimbor didn't even try to argue when Fundin said that Aulëndil could not attend the Wake. Fundin had prepared a long, winding explanation involving the history of the Khazad with Aulë, the implications of allowing the Maia into the Halls of Waiting, the breach it would mean, everything he could think of to make Celebrimbor see, to make him understand of his own accord – but it turned out he didn't need any of it.

He had barely finished the first sentence when Celebrimbor just kind of folded in on himself and buried his face in his hands. “Of course not,” he said quietly, his voice raw and hoarse. “Of course not. Oh Fundin, I am so sorry.”

A hard, aching knot that had been throbbing in Fundin's chest finally came loose at this. He felt a great warmth flooding his limbs and suddenly, it seemed as if all the walls, all the arguments that he had thrown up about himself in order to defend himself, started to crumble. He felt open and vulnerable and soft, but it was a good sort of openness, because he could at last believe that he didn't need his defences anymore around his friend and could let them go in good conscience.

And perhaps it was because of this openness that, although he had not planned to do so tonight, perhaps not ever, Fundin finally also opened his heart to Celebrimbor concerning his worries and fears regarding Aulëndil. When the realization finally bloomed on the elf's face as to why his Dwarven friend had been so distant, Fundin felt a huge burden drop off his shoulders.

Celebrimbor didn't get angry or defensive. It was just as if a veil of great confusion had finally been pulled off his face. He stared at Fundin, desperation and pain etched on his face. “But – why didn't you say anything?” he asked, his voice so full of disbelief that it hurt Fundin almost physically to hear it.

Fundin looked at his hands. “What was I supposed to say? That I mistrusted and feared a friend of yours, whom you respect and hold dear above everyone else? And due to what? Aulëndil had given me no reason I could name, safe for my own unease. Would you have understood?”

“I don't need to understand your reasons in order to respect them,” Celebrimbor said quietly. “They are your reasons, not mine. Who am I to judge the validity of them in your stead?”

Fundin closed his eyes. He felt like he was crumbling inside. He didn't say anything in response. He didn't think he could. He had not felt so raw and open ever since Narvi had died.

“I would never have –” Celebrimbor interrupted himself. “Nobody in Ost-in-Edhil seemed to take any issue with him. I saw awe, surprise, curiosity, sometimes apprehension when new students met him for the first time. But fear? No, there was none.” He brushed his hands over his eyes. “In retrospect, I feel it should have been obvious, because now that you have told me I can see clearly how you might be unsettled by him. He is powerful … but I think I forget about it most of the time, because to me he is just … Annatar. A friend, a colleague, one of my brothers. Nothing more, nothing less.” Celebrimbor looked down at his own hands thoughtfully. “I admit I didn't even consider the possibility that anybody could be afraid of Annatar.” He paused.” Maybe I am too close to him to see him for what he really is.”

There was a long, deep silence that followed in the wake of Celebrimbor's words.

“Tell me about him,” Fundin said suddenly, surprising himself with the words.

Celebrimbor looked up. “What?”

Fundin floundered, trying to put his idea into words that would not come easily. “Perhaps,” he began hesitantly, “perhaps if I knew more about him, if I saw him through your eyes for once … then maybe – maybe I could understand him a bit better.”

Celebrimbor stared at him for a few moments, blinked. “I – if you want to, certainly,” he said slowly.

And he started to tell Fundin about the Maia – about Annatar, as he tended to call him. It was nothing like the enthusiastic tales that he had filled his letters from Ost-in-Edhil with; there was no admiration, no adoration in his tone as he spoke this time. Celebrimbor simply painted a detailed but surprisingly distant picture of this strange being that had been holding his attention and friendship for over a century now. He spoke calmly and didn't dismiss any of Fundin's questions or concerns. He also didn't jump to the Maia's defence at every turn or hold him above reprimand in every aspect, as Fundin had feared he would. Indeed, Celebrimbor seemed to be well aware of the failings and temper of his immortal friend. He didn't make excuses for Aulëndil, and while he admitted that he held the Maia very dear, he was not blind to his faults and moods either.

Celebrimbor also told him of the fire, the ideas, the possibilities that the Maia had brought to Ost-in-Edhil, driven by the same relentless desire for more and higher and better that pushed Celebrimbor in all things he did and thought. And, of course, the desire for healing. For making reparations. Creating great and good things from what had once been ashes and broken things.

In the end Fundin felt indeed as if he understood this strange creature better, how and why he had come to stay in Ost-in-Edhil, and why Celebrimbor might value Aulëndil as much as he did.

The Maia was, at last, someone who could match Celebrimbor's own fire.

Fundin had once hoped that this role might fall to him, but he had never let himself truly believe it. He had been too tied down, too fettered by his own duties and loyalties in ways that left no room for others, let alone the white-hot fire that burned inside Celebrimbor. Celebrimbor had always been someone who wanted nothing more than to cast off his roots and past – and soar. And now that Celebrimbor had finally found someone else who could understand him, who would not collapse under the burden that someone was expecting the impossible of them… Fundin couldn’t find it in himself to begrudge him for it.

“Thank you,” Fundin said in the end, long after the clock in Celebrimbor's room had signalled the coming and passing of midnight.

“You are welcome,” Celebrimbor said. “I hope I could help you, no matter how small the help might be. It is the least I could do after all the damage that I have caused. I only wish you would have told me sooner!”

“That's all it comes down to, isn't it?” Fundin said quietly. “Talking to each other, and sooner rather than later at that.”

“Yes, it seems that way. And it looks like I still have much to learn on that front. As do you,” Celebrimbor added with a slight smile.

Fundin couldn't argue that point and just smiled wryly back at the elf.

For a while they sat in companionable silence, until the tiredness in Fundin's bones told him that it was time to bring the evening to a close. He rose and they wished each other good night.

It was only at the doorstep that Fundin turned around once more. “Promise me you will not bring him with you into the Halls of Waiting,” he said.

Celebrimbor's face was solemn. Too late Fundin recalled that Celebrimbor did not swear any oaths, and that he even shied away from the comparably weak, forgiving binds of promises that didn't tie the soul itself. Fundin meant to add that he did not want to ask it of his friend this way, but then –

“You have my word,” Celebrimbor said.

***

And Celebrimbor kept his promise. Aulendil walked with them to the gates of the Halls of Waiting, and then he waited there as the procession continued on past.

It was as if the weight of a mountain had dropped from Fundin's shoulders after that. They mourned Narvi together, side by side once more, and this was, Fundin thought, as it should be. There was something inherently right in having Celebrimbor there beside him, his best friend who had been just as much a brother to Narvi as Fundin had been – and if not by blood, then in every other aspect that counted. It felt as if a wound that had been left raw and open far too long was finally, finally beginning to close and heal.

Afterwards, they returned to Khazad-Dûm and it seemed as if any barrier that had stood between them during the last several weeks had fallen at last. It was almost like in earlier times – Celebrimbor would be there, and like before, he would come to Fundin to talk and exchange ideas. He was also alone quite often now. He didn't appear to keep the Maia around as much anymore, and something appeared to have changed between those two as well. Fundin guessed it was because of Celebrimbor's refusal to let him attend the Wake, though whether the reason lay in Celebrimbor's rejection of his company, or the fact that the Maia felt unfairly shut out from something, Fundin couldn't tell. He didn't inquire further, though: it didn’t seem like his place to ask.

Celebrimbor came to visit him more often now – be it during meals or in the evenings, and he would not merely drop by for a short obligatory visit, but instead he’d stay for hours on end, telling Fundin of all the marvels that he had found or rediscovered in the Dwarven city of Khazad-Dûm, while Fundin asked about the goings-on in Ost-in-Edhil.

Fundin felt more content than he had in a long time. The few days after the Wake were probably the happiest he could remember, and suddenly he allowed himself to dream again about how it would be if things just stayed this way forever.

The notion was pleasant while it lasted, but like so many other dreams it came to an abrupt end after their excursion to the Deep Paths.

***

Fundin had felt a strange unease that morning when he walked to their agreed meeting place by the lifts, although at the time he hadn't been able to tell why.

Then Celebrimbor and Aulëndil joined them and Fundin's disquiet suddenly ramped up twofold. Celebrimbor seemed to be excited about their impending descent down to the lowest mining levels, but other than that he appeared as genial as ever. The Maia, however, was a different story.

He walked slightly behind Celebrimbor, with a distance between them that was slightly too wide for two people who used to be seen walking together so often.

And so, as soon as he saw Aulëndil, Fundin's stomach twisted uneasily. He knew more about the Maia now, and Fundin had believed that it would help him if he ever had to face the creature again. However, when Fundin had pictured this, he had imagined dealing with Aulëndil as he had come to know him until now: still unimaginably powerful, but with a calm attitude and a quiet, polite demeanour.

Today, though, the Maia was different. He was quiet and outwardly polite when he greeted them, but for all his forced countenance, Aulëndil's aura resembled a brewing storm. His posture was rigid, his gaze piercing and cold, and the very air about him seemed to crackle with barely restrained power.

All at once Fundin found that something as feeble as a few rationalizations and a handful of reasonable explanations were blown away as hopelessly as leaves in a storm when confronted with a force as powerful and primal as fear. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to run away. The thought of spending the long descent and their stay on the deepest and most dangerous levels of Habbad-Dûm in such proximity to this creature made him feel light-headed.

Once again, though, nobody else seemed to feel this unease, and when Fundin saw their beaming faces and heard their excited chatter about their imminent excursion, he lowered his head and kept quiet.

He continued to hold his silence while the elevator descended, and as they exited it and wandered the deepest, most ancient levels of the kingdom of Khazad-Dûm. He kept quiet when Aulëndil's mood grew ever more sinister, his gait more stalking, his gaze more restless and predatory. Fundin was aware that these were the outermost fringes of their kingdom, where the ends of Durin's realm flowed seamlessly into uncharted, primordial territory beneath the mountains that had never known light. No matter what the miners might say, they were far from home and Fundin felt it in every bone in his body. One glance at the Maia told him that Aulëndil knew it as well.

Fundin kept watching and waiting. He watched while the other Dwarves and Celebrimbor talked and exchanged news and waited with joyful excitement for the breakthrough, but all the while a cold, numb terror that he could not name began to creep into him. He kept watching Aulëndil, who was stalking the drilling chamber like a predator on the prowl, looking left and right, apparently waiting for something. But for what? What was he planning to do? The possibilities that came to Fundin’s mind made him feel ill.

It was only when the darkness and the flame erupted from the drilling hole that Fundin realized that he had been looking in the wrong direction all along. His fear of Aulëndil had blinded him to the true threat and by the time realization came, it was far too late.

Afterwards, there was only fire and then – darkness.

 

Now

 

Fundin sat in the throne room, his face in his hands.

This was the worst time after every catastrophe – the time after everything too urgent to postpone had been taken care of: after the survivors had been brought to the healers, after the corpses had been taken away and the families informed, after those who could still talk had been questioned, after the immediately necessary procedures had been agreed upon. It was a time when nothing more was left to do, and all that one could do was wait for something more to happen.

It was also the worst time of all because it left everyone with enough time to think and process what had happened.

The last of the heads of Khazad-Dûm's noble houses had left the throne room at least an hour ago, and ever since then, the great hall had been filled with gloom and silence. Even the fire in the bronze braziers seemed to burn lower, casting long shadows in every corner of the hall.

To the left of Fundin's seat, one step above him, sat King Durin. He had not spoken after he had all but thrown Harko Bristlebeard out on his ear. For a while, Fundin could almost imagine that his king had turned to stone, like the long row of his predecessors' likenesses down in the Halls of Waiting. Then King Durin shifted and turned to face Fundin. His eyes were dark, and yet somehow his gaze was burning right through Fundin as the king regarded him.

“Tell me, Steward,” the king spoke, and his tone was hard and cold as stone, “and don't lie to me about this, for I must know the truth. Did Celebrimbor or the Maia do this?”

Fundin was silent for a while, then he slowly shook his head. “No.” He breathed in, breathed out, forced himself to relive the moment in the drill chamber while simultaneously trying to blend out the details that would shatter his mind if he thought of them. “The … Aulëndil appeared to be angry and tense on the way down the elevator, and it got worse when we reached the drill. I … I myself feared that something had angered him, but … but looking back – ”

Fire. Darkness. A hulking, monstrous figure stepping forward from the billowing smoke, a whip of fire in its hand. Then a gust of wind, and Fundin had found himself thrown back more than a hundred meters and out of the drill's vault, alongside the other Dwarves and Kurfinni. Two leaves of a great door, closing slowly, inexorably.

“ – I think he might have felt it before it came.” Fundin looked up at King Durin. “He saved us and shut himself in with the darkness. Had he not closed the doors, we wouldn't be alive now.”

Durin nodded. “I see.” He brushed one hand over his forehead. “It will be hard enough to convince Harko, Velech, and Duma that this is what happened, even if the truth is on our side.”

“They will blame it on Aulëndil and Kurfinni,” Fundin said dully.

“Of course they will, because it fits their narrative and because the alternative is too terrible to consider.” Durin rested his chin on the back of his hand.

“What are you going to do, my king?”

Durin hummed, a joyless, deep sound. “Watch. Wait. It has always served me well in my long life not to rush head over heels into a battle. I will wait for them to make the first move, and then consider my counter.”

Fundin opened his mouth to say something more, then closed it again. He turned away from the king and looked down the length of the great, empty hall, suddenly aware that they might well be witnessing the last hours of the kingdom of Khazad-Dûm.

“I need you to close the gates,” Durin said after a long while.

Fundin's head jerked around. “The gates of – ”

“The outer gates of Khazad-Dûm.” The fire of the braziers was reflected in Durin's eyes as he turned to look at Fundin. “The Doors of Durin. The East Gate. Both.”

“Ever since the opening of Khazad-Dûm, those doors have never been closed,” Fundin said quietly.

“They have been open as long as there has been peace. Now we are at war – inside our own kingdom.” Durin gave him a hard look. “Give the order to close the gates. No one is to enter or to leave Khazad-Dûm before this matter is resolved – one way or another.”

Fundin's throat was dry, but he nodded stiffly and then walked out of the hall.

***

As quickly as he could, Fundin found two messengers, both of whom he sent to run to the entrances of Khazad-Dûm as quickly as possible to relay the king's orders to close the gates. What kind of message will this send? he wondered, and then forced himself not to dwell on it, because every alternative seemed to end in bad outcomes.

As soon as this had been done Fundin turned and hurried back to the throne room. He did so, he told himself, because he had to be there in case Durin needed him, more than for the actual immediate necessity for action. He couldn't go somewhere quiet and dark and sit down to think, Fundin knew, because if he did, then he might never get up again.

He was on the last intersection of hallways before the throne room when he all but ran into Celebrimbor. Both of them had been walking quickly, and both of them had been lost in thought, so they only narrowly avoided crashing into each other.

“Kurfi!” Fundin exclaimed. “What are you doing here – and by Mahal, what happened to you? Where have you been?”

Celebrimbor just shook his head impatiently. “I need to see the king, Fundin. Now.” His face was ashen-pale under smears of ink on his forehead and cheeks, his eyes had a feverish glint to them, and his voice trembled with urgency.

Fundin hesitated, then nodded. “Come with me.”

Together they walked down the long corridors, then turned a corner, and found themselves on the last stretch of hallway that led straight to the throne room. The doors were closed, and before them stood three great groups of dwarves, clad in blue-and-red, black-and-purple, and green-and-bronze. Their coats of arms showed the insignia of the Houses Bristlebeard, Blackhammer, and Deepdelver. The dwarves carried arms, including spears and long warhammers, and they had moved into position, guarding the doors to the throne room. Durin's own guards were nowhere to be seen.

Fundin and Celebrimbor froze in their steps for a moment, but then Fundin hurried forward as fast as he could without breaking into a run.

“What is going on here?” Fundin shouted as he approached, looking for a familiar face among the group of conspirators. His heart plummeted when he recognized his old friend Branka Deepdelver among them. He and Branka had attended Naugrin's apprentice class together before different callings had divided them: Fundin had become the king's steward, while Branka had become part of her house’s elite guard.

“Branka, what is the meaning of all of this?” He tried to fight down the desperation and fear that threatened to leak into his voice.

Branka stepped forward. “Our heads of house are having an urgent word with the king.”

“And they need you blockading the doors and guarding it with weapons in order to do that?” Fundin asked.

“They're not to be disturbed,” another dwarf with a wiry red beard said, and Fundin recognized him as Brento Bristlebeard, a nephew of Harko Bristlebeard.

“By whose orders?” Fundin said.

“Harko's. Duma's. Velech's,” Brento said. “Take your pick.”

Fundin walked up to him until their faces were very close. “Last time I looked, it was still King Durin giving orders in his halls, not Harko Bristlebeard, Duma Deepdelver, or Velech Blackhammer.” In his chest, his heart was beating erratically. It's happening, he thought. But so fast!

“Last time you looked, you might not have had the newest information,” Brento said. “Old Durin has taken leave of his senses. We've been fearing it for some time now, but tonight's events seem to have sealed it. Now our elders are trying to talk some sense back into him. I suggest you turn around and leave, steward. And take that elf with you. You're not needed here.”

“That's not yours to decide,” Fundin said. “Step aside, Brento, or be guilty of treason.”

Brento just gave him an ugly grin. “Is it treason to care for one's home and house? If so, I'll gladly take that guilt upon me. Begone, Fundin, the time for soothing and delaying, for trading pretty words and empty promises is over. Tonight, we'll set Khazad-Dûm on the right path again, and I won't have you ruin it with your whispering and secret-mongering. Perhaps if you're not there, the king will finally listen to reason when it is presented to him.”

Fundin stepped back as if he had been slapped. The sheer audacity and wrongness of these accusations made his head swim. What has happened? Why do they think that I am working against them? Gods, what have I overlooked that I didn't see this happening? What have they heard and seen that they came to these conclusions?

“Those accusations are entirely unfounded. Everything I ever did was in my duty as a steward and advisor, and for the good of the realm,” Fundin said, but it sounded feeble even to his own ears.

“Certainly,” Brento replied. “And I might even give it to you that you believe everything you’ve just said – but the fact that you have this damned elf tagging at your heels even now belies everything that you could say to convince me.” His gaze was hard and unforgiving, his teeth bared in an ugly snarl.

Fundin felt more than saw the movement by his side, and he quickly held his hand up. “No,” he hissed, his hand pushing Celebrimbor back slightly. This was going nowhere, he could see that now. No matter what he might have said, Brento would never believe him. He couldn't waste any more time arguing. He needed to get into the throne room, and he needed to get in there now.

Fundin turned back towards Branka. “Branka, for the youth and friendship we shared – you know that this is not true. Let me in, and I will not hold it against you that you have refused me. But you have to let me to the king – I need to go to him.”

Branka hesitated, made to speak, but then didn't say anything. More than anything that Brento had said, the doubt in Branka's eyes hurt Fundin like nothing else. Her eyes flickered to Celebrimbor, then back to Fundin. She doesn't believe me. She believes that what she is doing is the right thing.

“We have orders not to let anyone in,” she said slowly, looking uncomfortable. “I am sorry, Fundin.”

“I – ” Fundin stopped, closed his eyes, and came to a decision. “Let us go, Kurfi.”

“What?” Celebrimbor said.

“You heard me,” Fundin said, turned around, and began to walk away.

“You can't – ” Celebrimbor started again.

“Come with me. Now.”

Mirthless laughter burst from Brento's lips. “You heard your master, elf! Go – or we will make you.”

Fundin prayed that Celebrimbor wouldn't do anything stupid, and he only released the breath that he had been holding when the Noldo fell into step beside him.

“How could you just let that go?” the elf hissed and the echo sprang back loudly from the stone walls around them. “These accusations, the laughter! They think that they can keep you out of the throne room of your king!”

“Yes,” Fundin said calmly. “And more fool them.”

Celebrimbor's pace hitched slightly, then evened out again. “You have a plan?”

“Of course I have a plan.” Fundin threw him a sideglance. “You didn't think that a few guards posted at the main entrance would be enough to keep the steward of Khazad-Dûm out of the throne room, did you? I pride myself on the fact that I know the hallways and corridors of this palace a bit better than any sword-swinging rascal who just happens to come running up and tell me I can't go where I please.”

Fundin could almost feel Celebrimbor's baffled gazed on his back as they turned a corner and walked down the length of a hallway that was running parallel to the length of the throne room. The lampstones threw a warm orange glow upon the tapestries hanging on the wall. Fundin stopped before a tapestry embroidered with a golden dragon on a black field, then touched the four lampstones in its immediate vicinity in a quick sequence of thirteen steps. He had never needed them before tonight, but he had had the steps memorized since the first day after his appointment as a steward.

There was a slight sound of stone sliding on stone from behind the tapestry. Fundin pulled it aside, revealing the hidden passage behind it, and then turned around.

Celebrimbor was watching him with wide-eyed astonishment. “I didn't know you could do that,” he finally said.

Fundin allowed himself a wry, humourless smirk. “You aren't the only one who had a few centuries to get very good at what you're doing. Come, we don't have much time.”

They both hurried down the short, dark tunnel, Celebrimbor close behind Fundin. The secret hallway was only two metres long, corresponding to the thickness of the walls surrounding the throne room. At the other end of a tunnel there was another small lampstone, which Fundin only touched once before a stone slab in front of them slid soundlessly aside.

Fundin pulled another tapestry aside. It was the great house banner that bore the emblem of House Bristlebeard, and considering the situation, this filled Fundin with grim satisfaction. He and Celebrimbor stepped out from the tunnel, about halfway up the length of the throne room.

Fundin immediately looked towards the throne. Durin sat upon it, and crowding in before him, feet already upon the steps that were leading up to the throne and the steward's chair, stood the leaders of the three noble houses whose guards were assembled outside: Harko Bristlebeard, Duma Deepdelver, and Velech Blackhammer. All three of them were clad in battle armour.

Fundin gritted his teeth, then waved Celebrimbor to follow him. They both passed by the great stone pillars like ghosts, flitting between light and shadows, then stepped upon the long carpet that led up to the throne and marched up to the four Dwarves assembled there.

When Durin spotted them over the heads of the three Dwarven nobles, he sat up a bit straighter. “Ah, Fundin. I was wondering when you would come. What has been keeping you?”

The looks upon the faces of the three nobles as they whirled around would have made Fundin laugh were the situation any less dire.

“The well-intentioned but misled enthusiasm of a few house members of the noble lords and lady in here, who are currently guarding the doors behind me,” Fundin said dryly, pointing backwards over his shoulder. “I apologize, taking the roundabout route has cost me some time.”

Harko's eyes were bulging so hard that they appeared to be in danger of popping from his skull. “What – how did you get in – I gave orders!” he sputtered.

“I am sure you did, and I am sure your guards followed them diligently,” Durin said calmly. “It just so happens that my steward seems to have taken another route that they didn't guard.”

Harko's face went a dark shade of purple when he spotted Celebrimbor walking by Fundin's side. “And he brought the elf!” He whirled around to face Durin. “After all of this, you are still in league with this thrice-damned Noldo and bring him here into your throne room? I can't believe this!”

Durin frowned. “I must say, I am quite surprised by Celebrimbor's presence here as well. I am sure that he will explain his reasons for coming here shortly.”

Duma Deepdelver, a serious-faced Dwarven woman with short, white-blonde hair and beard, looked at Celebrimbor, then at Durin. “We do not have time for this, Durin. The realm is in upheaval, and your persistent refusal to take action is worsening the situation even further, as we've told you countless times tonight. Khazad-Dûm needs a leader in these dire times. We need someone who acts on behalf of those who died and were wounded today, and steps forward to bring those to justice who are responsible. I would go so far and say that it is a stroke of good luck that has brought the elf here – this means that we can resolve this now, Durin. Do it.”

Durin slowly stood from his seat. “And as I have told you countless times, Duma, I believe Celebrimbor to be innocent. Statements of witnesses can corroborate this. For all it matters, the casualties were due to an unforeseeable calamity, caused by a dark entity that dwelt in Habbad-Dûm, unbeknownst to any of us. Tell me, are you so eager to draw blood in vengeance that you do no longer care whether it is the blood of an innocent?”

“Innocent? Innocent?” Harko shouted. “He threw our realm into disarray when he came here! Every step, every breath, that he has taken in our kingdom, has tainted and defiled our realm, our culture, our history! He has shown nothing but disrespect and disregard for us ever since he and his damned Maia came here! Then they visit the Deep Paths, and after we've been mining them for centuries without incident, a demon of the Old World suddenly awakes and kills over fifty Dwarves, not counting those who might still be trapped down there, and you want to tell me that this is coincidence?” Harko's voice was nearly cracking at the end.

Durin scoffed. “Surely you don't believe that Celebrimbor could not have caused a Balrog to awaken.”

“Not him, maybe,” Velech Blackhammer growled. “But what about that pet Maia of his?”

“Why should Aulëndil have done this?” Durin asked. “He has been naught but friendly and respectful of our ways. I see no reason for him to have done this dark deed.”

“How would you know what is going on inside the heads of these creatures?” Velech snarled. “He is of Aulë, who himself lifted his hand against us once. Who's to say that one of his flock hasn't come to finish what Mahal didn't end back then?”

“This is blasphemy!” Duma Deepdelver snapped. “Don't tie this to the Maker! For all we know, this creature has gone renegade. Why else would it have left the West? Who can tell what its true agency is? Mahal has cared for us, but this one could have renounced its old master and come to destroy us out of spite!”

“Whatever!” Harko barked. “I told you, I don't care about your theological squabbling! The facts of the matter are that we let a strange Maia into our midst, allowed it to roam the realm, and all of a sudden a Balrog awakes in our mines and starts killing our people! I want the ones who are to blame to be held responsible. I want justice!”

“Enough!” Durin said loudly, and surprisingly enough, the other Dwarves fell silent. “I know you want to see this matter resolved, but pointing fingers and not caring where it lands is not the way we will do this. We cannot run headfirst into this, Harko, we must wait and see how – ”

“My son was down there!” Harko roared. “And you keep talking to me about patience? You want us to keep our feet still and wait, while a demon is rampaging down there and it is only a matter of time before it might decide to climb up the elevator shafts and destroy us all?”

Durin rose from his seat. No doubt his patience had run out and he was about to give an angry response, but then a voice that had not yet been heard suddenly rang through the hall.

“Lord Bristlebeard is right.”

All of a sudden, there was complete and utter silence in the throne room. Durin, Duma, Harko, and Velech alike all turned to look at Celebrimbor, who had as of yet been silent, but had stepped forward now.

“He is right, Your Majesty,” Celebrimbor repeated.

Durin raised one eyebrow. Harko was opening and closing his mouth repeatedly, as if not quite able to believe that the elf had spoken – and spoken in agreement with him at that. Duma was watching with an expectant, yet distrustful expression. Velech just glowered.

“If there is anything that we don't have, it is time,” Celebrimbor continued. “If we want to control the damage that has been done, we must act, and we must do it quickly before the demon decides to attack the city or the lower levels collapse.”

“And why, pray tell, do you think it is your place to speak up on this matter?” Velech snarled.

“Because – because I am to blame,” Celebrimbor said hesitantly in the same moment that Fundin and Harko both said, “What?”

Durin's eyebrows rose even higher. “How would you be to blame for what has happened in the Deep Paths, Celebrimbor?”

“I am not,” Celebrimbor said. “And neither is Annatar.” At that, he shot a quick look at Harko, who immediately set his mouth in a grim expression. Celebrimbor took a deep breath and continued. “But I don't deny that I am to blame for everything else that Lord Bristlebeard has held against me. I was mindless of your perspective and disrespectful in my demeanour. I should have consulted with all of you before bringing a Maia of Aulë here. It was wrong, but it is done. I can't change what has happened.”

Celebrimbor raised his gaze to Durin. “But I might still be able to help you in this. If I cannot make amends for my disrespect, let me aid you in the aftermath of this catastrophe. I cannot change the past, but I think I have a plan to rescue those who might still be saved.” He looked at Harko Bristlebeard. “I didn't know your son, my lord, but I am sure that he was as valiant in protecting his home and his comrades as you are. I don't know where he is or what happened to him, but I can assure you that if you give me your aid and permission, I will do everything in my power to retrieve him from Habbad-Dûm, be he alive or dead.”

Harko Bristlebeard was staring at Celebrimbor. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You want to – save – my son?” he sputtered.

Celebrimbor nodded. “If I can. And as many others as I can find.”

“This is ridiculous,” Velech snarled, but Duma held up her hand.

“You spoke of a plan, elf. Does that mean that you have a way to stop the Balrog and save those who might have survived down in Habbad-Dûm?”

“I can't fight a Balrog any more than I can fight a thunderstorm,” Celebrimbor said. “Annatar has stayed behind and –” Celebrimbor's voice wavered. He paused briefly, closed his eyes, then went on, his voice firm once more. “Annatar has sacrificed himself in order to save me and many others. I must trust that he has taken care of the Balrog. There is no one else here with the power to stand against it. But I can try to find the survivors and bring them back to Khazad-Dûm.”

“How would you even go about finding them?” Duma asked skeptically.

“I cannot do it alone,” Celebrimbor said. “I would need your help for that.”

Velech scoffed and averted his face with a muttered “Of course.”

“How?” This time it was Durin who spoke.

“I would need something particular to find them by,” Celebrimbor said slowly. “Then I could create an artefact that was imbued with this Dwarven trait and could respond to it at the same time. Through that artefact, I could search for identical traces of this trait, and I could look for the whereabouts of the Dwarves that way.”

“So – like an item that carries a personal meaning for each dwarf?” Duma said.

“No,” Celebrimbor said. “Not something that means anything to them – but something that is part of them. Every single one of them. A tie that they all share, a bond that they all have.”

The Dwarves shared long, confused glances. Durin frowned.

“I need something of Aulë the Maker,” Celebrimbor said. “It is the one tie that all Dwarves share, a bond as old as time and as strong as stone. If you can give me anything of Aulë, I will imbue the artefact with it, and I will make it into a searching device that finds all those who share the same bond to Aulë.”

“We have nothing of Aulë here, not on this side of the sea,” Duma said hesitantly.

Durin's frown deepened. “No …” he said slowly. “That is not right.” He looked at Celebrimbor and Celebrimbor looked back at him. The elf nodded almost imperceptibly. Durin's face slackened ever so minutely with the realization.

Fundin looked between them, trying to discern what was going on, but Celebrimbor didn't leave him much time to guess.

“If I am to help you, I must do it quickly. I have no time to lose,” Celebrimbor said. “I must go to the Light under the Mountain.”

The three Dwarven nobles traded long glances.

Fundin stared up at Celebrimbor: his pale face, the hard set of his jaw, the darkness in his eyes. Then he looked back up at Durin. The king of Khazad-Dûm seemed to consider this, then – at last – he slowly nodded.

“I will bring you there.”

***

Durin and Fundin as well as the three nobles accompanied Celebrimbor to the Shimmering Caves. Then, after the elf had gotten splinters of the diamonds from the two lamps, they followed him into the forges.

“You don't have to stay here and watch me work,” Celebrimbor said when they reached the quiet, otherwise abandoned forge. His voice told Fundin that the elf would very much prefer to work alone, unwatched

“We don't mind waiting, elf,” Velech said with a mirthless smile. “I daresay seeing your … Ring-magic for myself will be quite worth my while.”

They want to keep an eye on him, Fundin thought. And no matter how much Celebrimbor might have wanted to, he knew that they couldn't send the nobles away – not if Celebrimbor wanted them to trust him. He had to play his hand open now, however little he might like to do so.

“If you wish,” Celebrimbor said, his voice brittle. “But it will take a while.”

“I am a patient man,” Velech said evenly.

For a moment, Celebrimbor looked like he would give a cutting answer in response. A shadow passed over his features, briefly casting them into a semblance of a younger version of his own face – a short-tempered, angry Noldo with no patience for anything besides his own work.

Then the shadow passed and Celebrimbor shrugged. “Fine. Just stand over there on the side and don't get in my way.” Then he walked away over to his workdesk, the crystal splinters clutched in his hand.

“How dare he talk to me like that?” Velech hissed, but King Durin held up his hand.

“Lord Velech,” he said, and that was enough. Durin turned towards Duma and Harko. “You must understand that what Celebrimbor is about to create is a piece of craft and magic of supreme difficulty. It is of the utmost importance for the success of his endeavour that we do not disturb him in any way.”

Harko nodded grimly. “Fine by me. If he only manages to conjure some damned ring to find my son, I'll be standing here still as a statue for however many days he needs me to.”

Duma nodded her assent as well.

The five Dwarves retreated into a corner of the workshop and watched as Celebrimbor began his work.

True to the elf's word, it took a long time.

First came the long and arduous task of sanding the diamond splinters broken from Aulë's lamps into a form that was fitting for the artefact that Celebrimbor wanted to create. He spent hours upon hours sanding and cutting the diamonds, then comparing what Fundin guessed were their refractive indices, before returning to the work table and continuing to sand and polish them.

At one point, Celebrimbor walked over to a huge blackboard that took up almost the entire left-hand wall of the room, which Fundin now saw was all covered with formulae, diagrams and complex coordinate systems. Celebrimbor unceremoniously dragged the heel of his left hand over the second half of a formula that was meant to execute a Furir transform of an oscillation curve that he had described above, wiping it out. With a piece of chalk he changed a few numbers and then returned to his work desk. He picked up the diamond shards again, held them up to a lampstone, marked where the focused beam of light landed on another coordinate system that he had drawn to the wall in front of him in chalk, then scribbled something on a scrap of paper.

All the while the elf ignored them completely.

“What kind of sorcery is he doing there?” Velech muttered.

“I don't know, but for sorcery it seems to involve an awful amount of mathematics,” Duma commented.

Fundin nodded absent-mindedly.

“Do you understand any of it?” Duma asked all of a sudden.

Fundin perked up and blinked. “I – er,” he squinted at the blackboard. “Parts of it,” he said truthfully.

While Fundin and Celebrimbor had both been working in the forges, Fundin had been able to keep up with the elf fairly well, even for a few years after Fundin had been made steward. But these formulae and calculations – they were something else entirely. Fundin could wrap his head around the basic function and intent for the formulae, but beyond that, his knowledge deserted him.

For the first time ever Fundin became acutely aware of how far Celebrimbor had come to surpass him since they had both worked alongside Narvi. The heights of knowledge that the elf had risen to in the centuries that he had been studying alone were incredible. Fundin had no illusions that he would ever be able to catch up even to a halfway point, even if he spent the rest of his life studying nothing else. The calculations were impossibly complex, and everything on the blackboard seemed to interlock and depend on each other – if one variable was changed, the change continued in almost a circular fashion into every other part of the equation. One part seemed to be the radius of a hypothetical lens in the formula for its curvature – and the same radius reappeared in the Furir transform for the oscillation of what could only be the waves of light that had to pass through the diamonds. Variables kept appearing and reappearing, the strangest and most complex relationships between them, but Fundin knew that he could only guess at the most basic connections and he was probably overlooking the deeper ones entirely.

Celebrimbor, however, moved through his workspace as if in a trance. The blackboard didn't even seem to give him pause. Whenever the elf consulted it, he found the part that he was looking for with an almost dream-like surety and precision. He changed the variables and formulae on the board more times than Fundin could count, and still he didn't show any signs of confusion or getting lost in his own work. If anything, the elf only seemed to become more grimly determined as the evening progressed into the late night.

The Dwarven nobles and even Durin himself left at various points to get some rest and a bit of drink, quietly slinking out of the workshop only to return an hour or so later. Fundin stayed. His eyes were fixed on Celebrimbor's hands at first, then his gaze wandered up to the frown on his face, and he couldn't stop asking himself what was going through the elf's head now. Is everything going according to plan? Does he feel the weight of the expectation of the nobles that he has burdened himself with? Is he calm or nervous, satisfied or despairing?

The elf's face gave no clue. It was as expressionless as a mask of stone and utterly focused.

After what Fundin felt must have been close to ten hours, Celebrimbor finally let out a nondescript huff, laid the splinters aside and moved to the kiln, which he had been heating up for the past four hours. In the midst of the coals, he had set an iron bowl, in which small ingots of gold, zinc, and silver had slowly dissolved into an alloy of a thick liquid state.

The elf looked exhausted and there were dark circles under his eyes, but if his body was tiring, then it seemed that his mind didn't notice it.

After a brief check Celebrimbor appeared content with the melting of the alloy and went over to another worktable.

As his next step, Celebrimbor created a wax model of a simple, unadorned ring. He did it very quickly, seemingly without even one wrong move and he quickly got the rough shape of the ring. Afterwards, though, the elf went back and forth between the blackboard and his worktable, adding in a bit of material there, taking a way a bit here, and rubbing out imperfections that weren't even there, as far as Fundin could tell.

After what seemed to be another two hours at least, Celebrimbor was finally content with his wax model and the way the polished diamonds would be set in the ring, and started to apply sprues to the wax model. When the process was complete he fixed the model to a base and put a metal cylinder on top of it, creating a metal flask that surrounded the wax model on all sides and was open on the top. At last, he filled the investment into the cylinder. The plaster would surround the wax models and harden there. Later, after the wax had been burnt out in the kiln, the hardened investment would provide the negative matrix of the ring into which Celebrimbor would cast the metal by way of the spruing channels.

Fundin must have fallen asleep at some point in time while he was waiting for the plaster to harden. He vaguely remembered hearing the spinning sound of the centrifuge at some point, but the next time he opened his eyes, the workshop was dark and abandoned. The coals on the kiln had burnt down to a glow of embers and the dark shadows were crowding in on them. Only a few candles were burning in odd corners of the room and on some of the worktables. No machines were whirring, no fire was roaring. Harko was leaning in a corner next to Fundin, snoring softly. Velech had left at some point and not returned, but Duma Deepdelver and Durin stood straight next to Fundin, their eyes fixated on something in the right-hand corner of the workshop.

Fundin followed their gaze and startled when he saw that the forge wasn't abandoned after all.

Celebrimbor was still here, but he was standing stiffly in front of one of the worktables, hunched over something that his back was shielding from the eyes of the Dwarves. A soft hum seemed to come from him and when Fundin strained his ears, he could hear that Celebrimbor was, in fact, talking. Not to them, nor anyone else in the room, but soft words, almost inaudible, streamed from his lips in ceaseless succession.

Suddenly, there was a rush of air and a flare in the room, and the candles burned brighter with a whoosh.

Fundin flinched and Harko woke, startled, looking around wildly for the sound that had woken him.

“What in – ”

Durin silenced him with a look, then turned back to look at the elf.

Celebrimbor was standing straighter now and his words were louder, though still not discernible. He was stepping back from the table, clutching something to his chest. His words were coming faster now, more urgent.

Again, the candles flared brighter. The shadows jumped; they fled into the darkest corners and hid between crevices and under tables. The room was suddenly bathed in a gold-and-red sheen. An invisible pressure was building, forcing the Dwarves back against the wall. Celebrimbor either didn't notice it or resisted it – the mounting force didn't even seem to affect him.

Fundin's heart was in his throat. He had no idea what was going to happen. He had seen Celebrimbor working in the forges before, but that had been raw work that demanded more strength than skill. It had been the simple, down-to-earth daily bread and butter of any smith, with nothing out of the ordinary about it.

Now he realized that he had never before seen Celebrimbor truly at work. The difference between what Fundin had seen other smiths do and what he saw Celebrimbor doing now was earth-shattering. This had nothing to do with the hard work between hammer and anvil, grime and soot, heat and iron that Fundin knew.

This was different. This was fire given life and power given form.

This was creation.

Celebrimbor spoke louder and now Fundin noticed that while the elf seemed to be speaking Quenya, he couldn't understand the words. Something in the air seemed to twist and blur the sound just enough to render the words incomprehensible – and yet Fundin thought that if he just listened a bit more closely, he would be able to understand them.

The candle flames were roaring fires now, consuming the wax by centimetres in mere minutes. The air itself felt heavy and laden, as if the energy of a building storm was mounting inside the room. Fundin found it hard to breathe.

“What is going on here?” Harko tried to shout, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was a strangled whisper.

He was drowned out by the roar of flame. Streams of fire were rising from the candles, circling under the ceiling of the room, and then spiralling in towards Celebrimbor, faster and faster. Currents of heated air rushed towards the flames, leaving the rest of the room almost devoid of oxygen. Everything was hot air and fire.

Fundin pressed as close to the wall as he could. Even the stone was turning hot beneath his palms. Harko's mouth had fallen open, and even King Durin's eyes were wide as he stared at the elf.

Celebrimbor was speaking louder now, but even his voice was drowned out by the roar of the fire. The fire was spinning closer to him, he had to be burning up by now, it almost touched him – then he yanked his right arm up and held aloft a golden ring, and with a blaze of light and a final churning roar, the streams of flames plunged towards the elf's hand, where they collided with the ring. For a moment everything was white hot heat, pain, hot air in Fundin's lungs –

– and then all of a sudden: darkness.

The candles had burnt out, and only their wicks were still glowing red. Wisps of smoke were rising into the air. The air was cold again, and the Dwarves drew long, gulping breaths, steadying themselves against the wall.

“… and in the darkness, find them.” Celebrimbor finished the incantation, and then lowered his arm. He didn't appear to be harmed and all signs of exhaustion seemed to have vanished from his form. Fundin suddenly realized that, although the room was dark, he could see Celebrimbor clearly. The elf was facing slightly away from them. He appeared different than he had before: taller, unbent, and there seemed to be a light around him that had no source, except perhaps the glowing golden ring lying in the palm of his right hand. Celebrimbor was looking down at it.

“And?” Harko asked suddenly, breaking the silence. “Did it work?”

Celebrimbor didn't appear to have heard him. He just looked down at the ring in his hand, then slowly, as if he was dreaming, he picked it up between two fingers and held it up to examine it. Fundin saw that an engraving of fine red-glowing script was running around the ring where before there had been none. For the span of a breath Celebrimbor just stood there, not moving, and there was a strange tension in his body that had not been there before.

Fundin took a tentative step forward, his heart still in his throat. Had the elf always been so still, always stood so tall? “Kurfi? Is everything alright? Did it work? Are you unhurt?”

Again, a strangely long time seemed to pass before Celebrimbor reacted. He slowly slid the ring onto the fourth finger of his right hand, utterly disregarding how hot it should have been for a thing newly-forged, and when he turned around to face the Dwarves fully, his eyes – just for a moment – flashed the same molten gold as those of Aulëndil.

Fundin stumbled back and Harko Bristlebeard flattened himself against the wall in shock, but Celebrimbor didn't even seem to notice. Power was coiling around the elf like thick tongues of light and flame, and his aura pushed outward with a radiance and strength that was a near-palpable force in the physical world. On his right hand, the Ring gleamed like a band of fire.

“Bring me to the Abyss,” Celebrimbor said.

---

1 It was a famous story that the Khazad of the Green Plains, the only tribe of Dwarves who used to live under the open sky in the old country of Ossiriand before the Old World was broken, used to tell their children.

Malraug is said to have lived in the mountains to the east of Ossiriand during the dawn of times, and contrary to everything that was to be expected of dragons, one day it took an interest in a farmer's herd of sheep that grazed on the plains near the slopes of its mountain range. It walked among the sheep and sniffed curiously at them, watching their daily business of grazing with strange interest. The sheep were afraid of the dragon in the beginning, but got used to it quickly and eventually even laid down to sleep beside it. The farmers had initially been afraid of the dragon as well, but later on they believed themselves blessed by it, thinking it a strange and godly protector of their herds. In the end, of course, Malraug lost interest in simply watching the sheep and devoured them all instead, before torching the farmers and their homesteads. The lesson to be learned from this story is, of course, that no one can hide their true nature forever – and, more prosaically, that a wild beast will remain feral and unpredictable, no matter how tame it might at first appear.

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Chapter End Notes

Did anyone see this coming? I'm curious, hehe.
Anyway.
If anyone was put off by the techno-babble during the smithing scene, here's a video of the so-called "lost wax technique", which should give you an idea how Celebrimbor made his ring. The only thing he did differently than the guy in the video is to use a centrifuge instead of a vacuum to cast the metal into the negative, but other than that the video illustrates the casting process very well!
What's more to say? A few things, perhaps.

This chapter finishes Act IV. We are back in the present, we know how we got here - and I guess a few of you already have an idea where we are going from here.