10. Pipelines

"Gross shit!"

Sim's strong voice cut through the outburst of a general hoot around the table and rolled through the hall, making people at the other tables look up. Yazir guffawed, spitting wine through the three holes in his dentition, and even old Morda chuckled merrily. Only Bolg remained silent, staring into his beaker of ambor[1] with a bleak expression on his face. I leaned back and basked in the spotlight of attention that my story had earned me.

I had woken up sometime in the early evening hours, alone and with an erection the size of the tower of Barad-dûr. Kasaksma must have left me only moments before, because her place next to me had still been warm. She had covered me with a blanket which she had tucked meticulously in around me. I had curled into a foetal position and stuck my nose into the sheets where she had been lying, imagining them to be her soft hair. We had fallen asleep in each other's arms, not talking or caressing, just being there with each other in that fragile moment. It had been a strangely uplifting, but at the same time sad feeling, and as unreal as a dream.

I had touched myself to release the pressure from my erection, but it had been to no avail and I had decided to leave the snug confines of the warm bed and go in search of a whore. My steps had taken me directly to the washing rooms. The women doing the laundry did always have soft clean hands and a willing nature. My regular had been there; she had grabbed me by the belt and had drawn me aside to the boiling room where we could lie undisturbed among iron cauldrons and heaps of dirty clothes. She had spread her legs and pulled me close, and I had taken her without any kissing or foreplay. Afterwards, she had run her hands caressingly up my neck, calling me her king and her mighty warrior. I used to like that, but now the words had sounded hollow, and somehow her features and eyes had been all wrong. I had turned her around and taken her again, closing my eyes and imagining her skin to be smooth and white, her hair to be black and her lower back to be more narrow and muscular. Despite her loud protests, my thrusts had grown harder and more violent until, at last, the final wave of pleasure had washed through me. I had, however, found no joy in the act, and I had left her whimpering from pain on the floor without a word, knowing that I would never fuck her again.

I had gone through the rest of the evening as if wading through a thick haze. The counsel of captains had drawn up a plan on the surveillance of our borders and had been recounting the number of warriors needed for the job over a period of three months. I had only been listening with half an ear. Then, I had gone back to my chamber, but Kasaksma had not been there and I had found no solace in being alone. So, I had made up my mind to seek out the company of Bolg, Sim, Morda and Yazir. I had figured that talking with them could clear my head and bring some distraction to my mind. After the second cup of wine, the humour and absurdity of kissing an Elf had suddenly hit me, and I had decided to tell them about it.

As expected, the incident had grossed them all out, but I could see in their eyes that – like me – they thought the act to be strangely teasing, as well. As far as I knew, all of us had taken women of other races by force, but making romantic advances towards one was considered to be in a quite different league and most certainly taboo. Of course, we had all grown up listening to the tales of Beren and Lúthien, a great part of the thrill of the stories lying in the unusual, forbidden romance between two different races. We had always considered them to be just that: fictions of a fantastic and unrealistic union, never to be taken literally. In a very down-to-earth manner, kissing Kasaksma had turned this whole notion of separateness upside down.

"What was it like?" Sim continued, now in a much more hushed voice.

The company around the table fell silent and looked expectantly at me. I shrugged.

"Soft, I guess," I said with a smirk, "And warm and sweet."

"You're sick, man!" Sim said, shaking his head, "She could have bitten your tongue right off with those creepy flat teeth of hers."

Yazir rubbed his stump of an ear with a pained expression.

"I think she liked it," I said, deciding not to tell them that she had slapped me in the face a moment later, "She laughed a lot."

Actually, it dawned on me that I had liked it, too. Not just the kissing part, but the way we could finally touch each other, the way we could talk and play and laugh together – our tacit agreement never again to feel awkward, strained or afraid in each other's company. How would I ever make my mates understand?

"Isn't she a bit too small and scrawny for you?" Sim asked, slurring a bit because of the amount of ambor he had consumed, "I mean, compared to Alia…"

For the first time, Bolg looked up with a glare like bolts of lightning.

"I like small women," Yazir squeaked, cutting Sim short before he would get himself into trouble.

"Shut up, Yazir," Sim went on, unaffected, "Nobody asked you. What I mean is…"

"But I do, really!" the small warrior exclaimed.

Just then, Bolg stood up, pushing his stool back with a force that knocked it over. He was fuming with rage, but he didn't say a word. We all watched him stomp away in silence.

"I shouldn't have mentioned Alia," Sim said in a low voice, looking at me with apologetic eyes.

"It's alright," I sighed, having a feeling that it really wasn't, "He just needs some fresh air."

For many years, I had felt an excruciating remorse at any mention of my late consort, but somehow today I didn't. It seemed, however, that it was only a matter of time before I would have to confront my son about this whole affair.

I went to bed alone that night. Kasaksma had been given the freedom of leaving our chamber at her own will after I had taken her out to her first lesson with Morda. I was rather nervous by the thought of her roaming Moria on her own, but my slight loss of control was made up for tenfold by the happy look in her eyes each time she returned from her small excursions. I had almost fallen asleep, when I heard the door open and close quietly. A few moments later, the Elf slipped under the covers behind me, put her arm around my chest and pushed her lips against my back, depositing a warm wet kiss between my shoulder blades.

"Hey," she whispered.

"Hey," I answered, taking her hand in mine and giving it a light squeeze. It had been a long time since I had felt such peace.

The next three days, the whole of Moria was on its end with preparation and excitement, resembling more an anthill than a stately kingdom. Hinds, boars and mountain goats were dragged to the kitchens, barrels of wine, liquor and ale were hoisted from the basements, and bunches of spruce branches and other evergreens were hauled from the wood-clad valleys outside our northern gates. The celebration of the Winter Solstice was always a damned big thing. Luckily, I managed to escape most of the bustle, claiming to be busy with the defences and the negotiations with Elrond and the Goblin king respectively. Kasaksma, on the other hand, threw herself right into the middle of it. Half of the time, I had no idea where she was and what she was doing.

I bumped into her and Yazir by accident one evening in the dining hall. They were sitting at a table by themselves, their heads stuck together in deep conversation. I sat down next to them with my supper.

"Where have you been?" I asked, looking them up and down, "I haven't seen you all day."

Their hands and faces were dirty and scratched as if they had been in a mud-fight with a dozen mountain trolls.

"At the Water Levels," the Elf said, stuffing a huge piece of bread into her mouth, "And further down."

"Are you crazy?" I exclaimed, "You can get yourselves killed down there!"

"Don't worry," she said smugly, swallowing her food and nodding towards Yazir, "I'll look out for him."

Both of them erupted in a hearty laughter.

"That was not exactly what I meant," I growled, but couldn't stop smiling myself, "What were you doing down there?"

"We were just having a look at the old pipelines," Yazir said, "It was Kasaksma's idea."

"You were what?!"

"Listen," the Elf said eagerly, drawing a dirty folded-up piece of parchment from the bosom of her tunic and smoothing it out on the table, "The upper pipelines are in a pretty good condition; but three of the lower ones are blocked."

I looked at the parchment presented to me. There was a sketchy ink drawing which most of all resembled a random heap of straight lines. On closer inspection, however, it revealed a map of the four lowest levels with the old stone pipelines drawn in. Three blotchy crosses marked the places they were broken or blocked by rubble. Kasaksma explained the details of their explorations:

"This one, on the third level, is blocked by rocks, and two of the small side pipes are broken," she pointed at the map, her finger tracing the lines, "This one, on the fourth level, is broken along with the access bridge, and this one is blocked by a ruined wall. With a hundred workers it'll take about one month to clear up and rebuild them."

"Hold on!" I said, "You want to restore the pipelines?"

"Yes."

Kasaksma and I locked eyes, and Yazir shuddered, glancing nervously from her to me. The boldness of the Elf left me absolutely speechless.

"You'll get twenty workers," I said in a hard voice, finally regaining my wits.

"Seventy," she said without blinking.

"Fifty. And you'll deal personally with any Balrog you'll happen to disturb."

"Alright," she shrugged, returning her attention to her supper.

Yazir and I stared at each other with wide eyes, both of us flabbergasted. If this restoration project failed, it could not only end up costing me my reputation as a ruler, but also the actual lives of my subjects. If Kasaksma succeeded, however, I would go down in history as the king who had rebuilt the splendours of Moria. To my surprise, I found this was a risk I was more than willing to take.


[1] Liquor.