A/N: An earlier part of the story. I'm sorry about the stupid lack of order of this thing, but that's just the way I've written it. The next part'll probably be in Gondolin, just to confuse things more.
At Tumunzahar
Eöl and Maeglin visit the city of the Dwarves, and Maeglin learns something new.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The sun was climbing slowly over Beleriand, in no hurry to bathe the land in her light. From the shadows of Nan Elmoth to the wide plains of Himlad to the shoulders of the Ered Luin, a pale glow of dawn was spreading from over the Western Sea, painting the clouds with gold and salmon pink and hazy blue. Yet there were some who were unaware of the sunrise, and cared little for it.
It was not yet the ninth hour of the morning, but already the day's peace was disturbed by the relentless noise from deep beneath the earth. The Elves in that region covered their ears, lamenting the unseemly racket, but deep below their feet, hundreds of Dwarves were unaware of the disturbance they were causing. In Tumunzahar, the sound of hammers and chisels on stone rang out from every corner, the rattle of chains as ore was drawn up from the deepest mines, a thousand deep voices singing songs for mining, and loudest of all, the roar of many forges deep beneath the earth. The halls themselves were teeming with activity, with craftsmen and miners hurrying from place to place without a care for the noise their iron-shod feet were causing. From the doorways lining the halls came a multitude of smells - hot iron, steam, roasting meat, and some pungent herbal stench drifting from the great kitchens. All around, the Naugrim were calling out to each other in their strange tongue, and shouted instructions echoed around the high pillars and roofs. It seemed that the only ones who were silent in the vast halls of Tumunzahar were the two black-haired Elves who had arrived that morning, and were now recieving the grand tour.
"So you have not run out of ore yet in that forest of yours?" the guide said to the taller of the two. "If I may say so, my Lord Eöl, a forest is a most unsuitable place for a smith to dwell. Why not come here, and dwell with us? Lord Sarin holds you in very high regard."
"My forest is dear to me," Eöl said. "I have dwelt there since before the sun was made. Besides," he glanced at the younger Elf beside him, "I would place myself in peril of many a banged head on your low doors."
The Dwarf stared at Eöl, then threw his head back and laughed. "We shall have to right that at once," he said. "Tumunzahar was not built for Elves, but I am sure you are more than half Dwarf."
Eöl smiled, or at least made the closest expression to a smile he ever did, turning his crooked mouth slightly upward. As they turned down yet another deep and winding tunnel, he spoke again to the guide, this time in the Dwarves' own tongue. Maeglin, who followed behind, knew little of the mysterious Khuzdûl. The change of language suggested that now the conversation had turned to him. He watched them talk, not understanding their words, but guessing at the meaning. Normally he would have burned with rage, but Eöl knew full well of his discontent in the forest, and he thought it wise to avoid a confrontation. He and his father had been on good terms for several weeks now, and he hoped that by agreeing to visit the Dwarves with him he had patched up the rift, at least for the time being. He was coming to understand that arguing with Eöl was futile, for the Dark Elf was too clever, and saw too deeply to decieve. It was better, he decided, to be what Eöl wanted him to be, for then he had the privelidges of trust at least.
Instead of trying to follow the conversation with the snatches of Dwarvish he knew, Maeglin thought back over the last few days. They had left the cover of the trees at sunset, and his mother had come to the very edge of the wood to see them off. Her farewell had been cool, not the lavish of tears and kisses he was expecting, and she had handed him his sword without speaking. He watched her, little defiant white speck against the shadowy woods, fading into the distance as they sped East.
They camped just before sunrise, resting beneath the shade of a copse of trees. Maeglin built a small fire, and they feasted on a piece of Eöl's bitter waybread. The dancing flames brought to mind the smithy, and Eöl, usually silent, consented to tell his son a little of his travels with the Dwarves when the world was young. He spoke of the great fire-pits which fed the mighty forges of Nogrod and Belegost, the orange flames that lit the darkness in the heart of the earth both night and day. He spoke of the mighty things they had built, and the time an age before the making of the sun, when the hottest fire the Dwarves could contrive had forged something stronger than iron, bright and fell. Maeglin listened enraptured as Eöl told him of the first swords of the world, and the first hands to wield them. After a time, he fell silent, wandering the paths of memories unknown. They laid down to sleep beside their dying fire, just as the first light of dawn began to infiltrate the trees.
The next night they rode on, speeding across the plains like two shadows in the starlit dark. Names and places flashed through Maeglin's mind - this was the land of Celegorm, son of Fëanor, and cousin to his mother. Eöl rode hard and fast through the flat country, reverting to his usual silence as the line of the Ered Luin rose on the horizon. It was a clear night and the stars shone brightly, and Maeglin was intoxicated by the feeling of the wind whipping his hair and cloak. Keeping Eöl's quick pace they passed the Noldorin encampment undetected, but Maeglin felt his eyes drawn to the shadowed homesteads of his mother's people, and wondered.
As they rode on, he occasionally caught sight of small lights in the dark, flashes of fire between the trees. Sometimes there were many, like little flames far in the distance, and he thought he heard voices singing in a strange tongue, harsh voices and whispered laughter. He called his father.
"Are those the Laiquendi?" he asked, and the Dark Elf shook his head.
"No, the Green-elves make no fires, for they love wood more than warmth. Those are Avari," he said. But of the Avari he would speak no more, and fell quiet again as the stars set overhead.
They camped within sight of the gates of Tumunzahar, and Maeglin laid down gladly on his bed of soft leaves, easing his aching body from the night's ride. Soon he was asleep, and in his dream, he thought he saw many little candles in the dark, extinguished one by one. When he awoke, the sky was dusky with evening, and Eöl was sitting on a log at the edge of the thicket, keeping watch. His cloak was drawn close around his shoulders, the waning light of the glancing off his faded skin. He seemed to sense Maeglin was awake, and turned around suddenly. His eyes were ringed with dark. Maeglin guessed he had kept watch all night, but against what enemy, he knew not.
"You slept long," he said. "We must leave this land."
They had arrived at midnight through the winding mountain paths, and were led in silence to rooms where they could rest the remainder of the night. Maeglin was looking forward to meeting the Dwarves, but the forges had been especially busy that week and they had had to wait to be properly greeted. At first, he considered this an insulting lack of courtesy, but now he had spoken to some that had not been rushed off their feet with work, he began to understand their ways better. Had he not spent many hours at the forge when a particular blade caught his interest? Had his mother not beseeched him to ride out to the eaves of the wood with her, and he had refused? The Dwarves were coarse and unlovely in manner and mood, but truly they were masters of their craft, and that Maeglin had seen as soon as he entered their halls.
And what a craft it was! Since the Dwarf's customary tour of the city had begun earlier that morning, Eöl had often found himself giving stern words to his wide-eyed son every time they passed a workshop of particular interest. There seemed to be so much to learn, and Maeglin wondered if he would ever understand it all, like the Dwarves did. Despite their stunted, heavy bodies, they were remarkably agile and quick, and their blades were the sharpest, for beneath the mountains they built forges the size of houses, and their children learned the craft from the earliest age.
The guide led them to the foot of a great flight of stairs, carved from the living rock by mighty hands of the past. Maeglin ached to linger there, but Eöl touched his shoulder, giving him an unspoken instruction to move on. Their guide bowed and left them, and Eöl led the way up the stairs.
"Are we to see Lord Sarin?" Maeglin asked. His father nodded shortly.
"You will conduct yourself politely the Dwarf-lord's presence. Do not speak unless you are spoken to directly, and keep your hands to yourself."
"Of course, father," Maeglin replied. Sarin son of Grundin was the oldest Dwarf in the city, and had been its lord for many sun-years. He and Eöl had been friends, if their relationship could be so called, since long before the first rising of the moon. From what he could glean from his father, Maeglin guessed that it had been a shared love of metals that drew the Dwarf and the Elf together, and each had gained much benefit from the other. In truth, he had trouble imagining his taciturn father having friends, at least not in the way that he imagined them. But then again, he would not know, having none himself. The forest was a lonely place, with only his mother and her sad stories, or the silent smiths who were half-frightened of his father. Once he had told Eöl that he would like a friend to play with, a long time ago when he was young, too young to know better. He long remembered his father's reply.
"Have I not provided you with companionship?" he had said. "Have I not kept you occupied with your smithwork? Ask not for a friend! Is my house not enough for you, ungrateful son?"
And now, his father walked ahead of him, the black tendrils of his hair fading into the dark around them, the weak lamplight finding shadow in his angular face, deep in the night beneath the mountains. Maeglin never quite knew what to make of his imperious father - for him, love was obedience, and nothing more. A difference of opinion was an act of rebellion, so he must keep his mother's stories of her kin secret, and disguise the accent that had slipped into his voice from learning her tongue. That was easy enough, for while no-one in Elmoth really knew where Eöl came from, his smiths were simple Sindar, of darker mood than their Doriathrin kin. By day he spoke their tongue, but with Aredhel, he spoke the strange, beautiful trilling Quenya she had brought from over the sea.
By now they were come to the top of the stairs, where the stone branched out into a wide platform set with gold. There was a wide, heavy stone door, engraved with runes and starred with a single red gem. Even in the dark its many facets shone brilliantly, and Maeglin wondered what it would be like to touch it, but he did not dare, remembering his promise to his father. Eöl knocked, then pushed the great door open as if it was made of light wood.
Maeglin had expected Lord Sarin to be somehow bigger than other dwarves, greater in stature for his greater years, but he was the smallest Dwarf they had seen, old and grey-bearded, with hooded eyes and work-worn hands. However, when he saw his old friend, he put his work aside and struggled to his feet to greet him.
"Eöl?" he said, reaching for a short oak walking-cane. "By Mahal, it is good to see you again! I was starting to think that you had left us for Gabilgathol and their jewels."
There was a long-running rivalry between the two Dwarven cities, and recently Nogrod had gained the upper hand by discovering a long seam of glittering green stones, earning much wealth from, as Sarin put it, the jewel-hungry proud people. Eöl smiled, and bent down to accept his friend's embrace. Maeglin watched his father from the doorframe, observing the unlikely friends greet each other. He wavered, half in the shadow and half in the light, unsure of what to do.
"Jewels are of no interest to me," Eöl said. "It is a matter of metals that brings me to your halls. This year..."
"Wait, wait!" the old Dwarf interrupted, and Maeglin marvelled at his audacity. He had never seen anyone interrupt his father before.
"You have much haste for one who is as old as the very mountains themselves." Sarin said, leaning on his stick. "My time may be growing short, but surely you would not leave your guest unmet by his hosts?" The old Dwarf turned then to Maeglin, who stood behind his father.
"Come closer, young master. My eyes are not what they were, and I cannot see your face."
Obediently, Maeglin stepped into the light. Sarin looked on him for a long time, and it seemed his eyes glittered slightly, as if touched by strange sight for a moment. Then, his expression changed. He drew back, almost recoiling, as if Maeglin had made to strike him.
The light faded. He smiled as if awakening from sleep, and turned to Maeglin's father.
"You have a fair child, Eöl friend," he pronounced after a time. "He has your eyes, and I fancy he is even more keen-sighted than you."
"I call him sharp-glance." Eöl said. Maeglin looked at the old dwarf, and wondered what part of him the sharp glance had pierced, and what he had seen in his moment of foresight.
"His mother must be a lovely maid indeed." Sarin went on. "Long has Eöl journeyed to our house in the mountains, but not once has he brought his fair wife. If she would visit us, we would be greatly honoured. Never has a lady of the Eldar ventured beneath these halls."
Eöl tensed almost imperceptibly, but his eyes darkened, and Maeglin noticed his father's change in mood. Suddenly, he was no longer friendly. His answer was short.
"My wife has no wish to leave the forest."
"Very well, then," Sarin said, oblivious to the change in his friend's tone. "Come, come! I must apologise for my hospitality, we have become so engrossed in our new works that we have not offered you a solemn dinner, friend-of-Dwarves. We shall lay a great feast for you, in honour of your son's first visit to us. Afterwards, I will take him to the forge. We have much to teach one willing to learn."
Forgetting himself, Maeglin said eagerly, "Will you teach me?", earning himself a glare from his father.
"But of course!" Sarin laughed. "Our craft has many intricacies of which your sire surely knows nothing." Maeglin looked worriedly to his father, but Eöl merely gave a thin smile of acknowledgement at the jest. Maeglin found himself beginning to laugh more freely, warming to the old Dwarf's company. It had been long since anyone had shared a joke with him.
Eöl's cold hand on his shoulder silenced the laughter. "My apologies, good Lord Sarin, but my son and I have not broken fast this day, and we shall be of little use in the smithy if we are weak with hunger," he said, in that strange tone he had, somewhere between amused and threatening. If the Dwarf noticed, he paid it no heed, but at once he put down the gem he had been polishing and bowed quickly.
"But of course! We shall provide you with much food presently. Gabilgathol keep their jewels! We have the finest meat in this land!"
With that, the Dwarf-lord hurried off, hobbling slightly on his bent stick. They watched him leave, and Maeglin felt a strange tightness in his throat, a feeling almost akin to what he felt when with his mother. By their next visit, Sarin might not be there to greet them and laugh with them. Before long, he would be sleeping the long sleep with his fathers in their halls of stone, and his pleasant manner would be no more than a memory. On an impulse, he wished that the Dwarves could have the immortal life of the Elves, and their skills would stay in the world, ever growing, ever bettering...
"You would do well to hold your tongue," said Eöl, leading his son from the room.
"I did not raise you to indulge in idle chatter. We have come here to work."
Maeglin nodded, and they began to descend the stairs in silence. Yet now, the younger Elf's mind was racing. For the first time, he felt he was beginning to think in a new way, and for the first time, he found himself questioning his father. The Dwarves had not been unfriendly or cold, indeed they had shown a genuine interest in his questions. Why should he be silent when he wanted to speak? Their lives were too short to waste with silence, so why should he waste his?
Because it is what he had always been taught.
Did Eöl want to make his son so much like himself? Must Maeglin be silent because his father was? Must he never see the sun because his father hated and feared her light? When they returned to the forest, would his father chain him to the forge with his new skills, so he could never journey outside the wood again?
Maeglin shivered and suddenly felt the need to be outside in the fresh air, although the sun was riding high and Eöl had forbidden it. Then, the thought came to him, an idea he had only played with before, never daring to try it. Could he lie to his father?
All his life he had believed that Eöl could not be tricked, and to an extent it was true. His father was deep-seeing and his long ages of life had given him a kind of wisdom to look into minds and pierce any veils of deceit. But Maeglin was growing, in both years and skill. More than once he had felt confined by the forest, and now in the halls. He was not artless in stone-craft, and yearned to explore the high paths and rocky gullies of the mountainside, all bathed in Vása's warming light. And maybe, some time, he could suggest a ride to the eaves of the wood with his mother when they returned to the forest. She would be delighted, and all it would take was a little practice from him. He was coming to understand that to decieve Eöl, all he needed to do was to slip on a different face - a face of willing submission, of obedience.
"Father?"
Eöl turned to his son. "What?"
"Is it not meet that I should change for dinner? I have no wish to offend our good hosts." Maeglin spoke quietly, yet earnestly, as if he truly believed in what he was saying.
And it worked.
Eöl smiled.
"You have your mother's good manners," he nodded briefly. "Go on, then. Do not be long. I shall meet you outside the feasting hall in an hour."
Maeglin raced off, and Eöl stood beside the great pillars of the staircase, fingering the hilts of Anguirel as he watched his son hurry towards the light.
End
At Tumunzahar
Eöl and Maeglin visit the city of the Dwarves, and Maeglin learns something new.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The sun was climbing slowly over Beleriand, in no hurry to bathe the land in her light. From the shadows of Nan Elmoth to the wide plains of Himlad to the shoulders of the Ered Luin, a pale glow of dawn was spreading from over the Western Sea, painting the clouds with gold and salmon pink and hazy blue. Yet there were some who were unaware of the sunrise, and cared little for it.
It was not yet the ninth hour of the morning, but already the day's peace was disturbed by the relentless noise from deep beneath the earth. The Elves in that region covered their ears, lamenting the unseemly racket, but deep below their feet, hundreds of Dwarves were unaware of the disturbance they were causing. In Tumunzahar, the sound of hammers and chisels on stone rang out from every corner, the rattle of chains as ore was drawn up from the deepest mines, a thousand deep voices singing songs for mining, and loudest of all, the roar of many forges deep beneath the earth. The halls themselves were teeming with activity, with craftsmen and miners hurrying from place to place without a care for the noise their iron-shod feet were causing. From the doorways lining the halls came a multitude of smells - hot iron, steam, roasting meat, and some pungent herbal stench drifting from the great kitchens. All around, the Naugrim were calling out to each other in their strange tongue, and shouted instructions echoed around the high pillars and roofs. It seemed that the only ones who were silent in the vast halls of Tumunzahar were the two black-haired Elves who had arrived that morning, and were now recieving the grand tour.
"So you have not run out of ore yet in that forest of yours?" the guide said to the taller of the two. "If I may say so, my Lord Eöl, a forest is a most unsuitable place for a smith to dwell. Why not come here, and dwell with us? Lord Sarin holds you in very high regard."
"My forest is dear to me," Eöl said. "I have dwelt there since before the sun was made. Besides," he glanced at the younger Elf beside him, "I would place myself in peril of many a banged head on your low doors."
The Dwarf stared at Eöl, then threw his head back and laughed. "We shall have to right that at once," he said. "Tumunzahar was not built for Elves, but I am sure you are more than half Dwarf."
Eöl smiled, or at least made the closest expression to a smile he ever did, turning his crooked mouth slightly upward. As they turned down yet another deep and winding tunnel, he spoke again to the guide, this time in the Dwarves' own tongue. Maeglin, who followed behind, knew little of the mysterious Khuzdûl. The change of language suggested that now the conversation had turned to him. He watched them talk, not understanding their words, but guessing at the meaning. Normally he would have burned with rage, but Eöl knew full well of his discontent in the forest, and he thought it wise to avoid a confrontation. He and his father had been on good terms for several weeks now, and he hoped that by agreeing to visit the Dwarves with him he had patched up the rift, at least for the time being. He was coming to understand that arguing with Eöl was futile, for the Dark Elf was too clever, and saw too deeply to decieve. It was better, he decided, to be what Eöl wanted him to be, for then he had the privelidges of trust at least.
Instead of trying to follow the conversation with the snatches of Dwarvish he knew, Maeglin thought back over the last few days. They had left the cover of the trees at sunset, and his mother had come to the very edge of the wood to see them off. Her farewell had been cool, not the lavish of tears and kisses he was expecting, and she had handed him his sword without speaking. He watched her, little defiant white speck against the shadowy woods, fading into the distance as they sped East.
They camped just before sunrise, resting beneath the shade of a copse of trees. Maeglin built a small fire, and they feasted on a piece of Eöl's bitter waybread. The dancing flames brought to mind the smithy, and Eöl, usually silent, consented to tell his son a little of his travels with the Dwarves when the world was young. He spoke of the great fire-pits which fed the mighty forges of Nogrod and Belegost, the orange flames that lit the darkness in the heart of the earth both night and day. He spoke of the mighty things they had built, and the time an age before the making of the sun, when the hottest fire the Dwarves could contrive had forged something stronger than iron, bright and fell. Maeglin listened enraptured as Eöl told him of the first swords of the world, and the first hands to wield them. After a time, he fell silent, wandering the paths of memories unknown. They laid down to sleep beside their dying fire, just as the first light of dawn began to infiltrate the trees.
The next night they rode on, speeding across the plains like two shadows in the starlit dark. Names and places flashed through Maeglin's mind - this was the land of Celegorm, son of Fëanor, and cousin to his mother. Eöl rode hard and fast through the flat country, reverting to his usual silence as the line of the Ered Luin rose on the horizon. It was a clear night and the stars shone brightly, and Maeglin was intoxicated by the feeling of the wind whipping his hair and cloak. Keeping Eöl's quick pace they passed the Noldorin encampment undetected, but Maeglin felt his eyes drawn to the shadowed homesteads of his mother's people, and wondered.
As they rode on, he occasionally caught sight of small lights in the dark, flashes of fire between the trees. Sometimes there were many, like little flames far in the distance, and he thought he heard voices singing in a strange tongue, harsh voices and whispered laughter. He called his father.
"Are those the Laiquendi?" he asked, and the Dark Elf shook his head.
"No, the Green-elves make no fires, for they love wood more than warmth. Those are Avari," he said. But of the Avari he would speak no more, and fell quiet again as the stars set overhead.
They camped within sight of the gates of Tumunzahar, and Maeglin laid down gladly on his bed of soft leaves, easing his aching body from the night's ride. Soon he was asleep, and in his dream, he thought he saw many little candles in the dark, extinguished one by one. When he awoke, the sky was dusky with evening, and Eöl was sitting on a log at the edge of the thicket, keeping watch. His cloak was drawn close around his shoulders, the waning light of the glancing off his faded skin. He seemed to sense Maeglin was awake, and turned around suddenly. His eyes were ringed with dark. Maeglin guessed he had kept watch all night, but against what enemy, he knew not.
"You slept long," he said. "We must leave this land."
They had arrived at midnight through the winding mountain paths, and were led in silence to rooms where they could rest the remainder of the night. Maeglin was looking forward to meeting the Dwarves, but the forges had been especially busy that week and they had had to wait to be properly greeted. At first, he considered this an insulting lack of courtesy, but now he had spoken to some that had not been rushed off their feet with work, he began to understand their ways better. Had he not spent many hours at the forge when a particular blade caught his interest? Had his mother not beseeched him to ride out to the eaves of the wood with her, and he had refused? The Dwarves were coarse and unlovely in manner and mood, but truly they were masters of their craft, and that Maeglin had seen as soon as he entered their halls.
And what a craft it was! Since the Dwarf's customary tour of the city had begun earlier that morning, Eöl had often found himself giving stern words to his wide-eyed son every time they passed a workshop of particular interest. There seemed to be so much to learn, and Maeglin wondered if he would ever understand it all, like the Dwarves did. Despite their stunted, heavy bodies, they were remarkably agile and quick, and their blades were the sharpest, for beneath the mountains they built forges the size of houses, and their children learned the craft from the earliest age.
The guide led them to the foot of a great flight of stairs, carved from the living rock by mighty hands of the past. Maeglin ached to linger there, but Eöl touched his shoulder, giving him an unspoken instruction to move on. Their guide bowed and left them, and Eöl led the way up the stairs.
"Are we to see Lord Sarin?" Maeglin asked. His father nodded shortly.
"You will conduct yourself politely the Dwarf-lord's presence. Do not speak unless you are spoken to directly, and keep your hands to yourself."
"Of course, father," Maeglin replied. Sarin son of Grundin was the oldest Dwarf in the city, and had been its lord for many sun-years. He and Eöl had been friends, if their relationship could be so called, since long before the first rising of the moon. From what he could glean from his father, Maeglin guessed that it had been a shared love of metals that drew the Dwarf and the Elf together, and each had gained much benefit from the other. In truth, he had trouble imagining his taciturn father having friends, at least not in the way that he imagined them. But then again, he would not know, having none himself. The forest was a lonely place, with only his mother and her sad stories, or the silent smiths who were half-frightened of his father. Once he had told Eöl that he would like a friend to play with, a long time ago when he was young, too young to know better. He long remembered his father's reply.
"Have I not provided you with companionship?" he had said. "Have I not kept you occupied with your smithwork? Ask not for a friend! Is my house not enough for you, ungrateful son?"
And now, his father walked ahead of him, the black tendrils of his hair fading into the dark around them, the weak lamplight finding shadow in his angular face, deep in the night beneath the mountains. Maeglin never quite knew what to make of his imperious father - for him, love was obedience, and nothing more. A difference of opinion was an act of rebellion, so he must keep his mother's stories of her kin secret, and disguise the accent that had slipped into his voice from learning her tongue. That was easy enough, for while no-one in Elmoth really knew where Eöl came from, his smiths were simple Sindar, of darker mood than their Doriathrin kin. By day he spoke their tongue, but with Aredhel, he spoke the strange, beautiful trilling Quenya she had brought from over the sea.
By now they were come to the top of the stairs, where the stone branched out into a wide platform set with gold. There was a wide, heavy stone door, engraved with runes and starred with a single red gem. Even in the dark its many facets shone brilliantly, and Maeglin wondered what it would be like to touch it, but he did not dare, remembering his promise to his father. Eöl knocked, then pushed the great door open as if it was made of light wood.
Maeglin had expected Lord Sarin to be somehow bigger than other dwarves, greater in stature for his greater years, but he was the smallest Dwarf they had seen, old and grey-bearded, with hooded eyes and work-worn hands. However, when he saw his old friend, he put his work aside and struggled to his feet to greet him.
"Eöl?" he said, reaching for a short oak walking-cane. "By Mahal, it is good to see you again! I was starting to think that you had left us for Gabilgathol and their jewels."
There was a long-running rivalry between the two Dwarven cities, and recently Nogrod had gained the upper hand by discovering a long seam of glittering green stones, earning much wealth from, as Sarin put it, the jewel-hungry proud people. Eöl smiled, and bent down to accept his friend's embrace. Maeglin watched his father from the doorframe, observing the unlikely friends greet each other. He wavered, half in the shadow and half in the light, unsure of what to do.
"Jewels are of no interest to me," Eöl said. "It is a matter of metals that brings me to your halls. This year..."
"Wait, wait!" the old Dwarf interrupted, and Maeglin marvelled at his audacity. He had never seen anyone interrupt his father before.
"You have much haste for one who is as old as the very mountains themselves." Sarin said, leaning on his stick. "My time may be growing short, but surely you would not leave your guest unmet by his hosts?" The old Dwarf turned then to Maeglin, who stood behind his father.
"Come closer, young master. My eyes are not what they were, and I cannot see your face."
Obediently, Maeglin stepped into the light. Sarin looked on him for a long time, and it seemed his eyes glittered slightly, as if touched by strange sight for a moment. Then, his expression changed. He drew back, almost recoiling, as if Maeglin had made to strike him.
The light faded. He smiled as if awakening from sleep, and turned to Maeglin's father.
"You have a fair child, Eöl friend," he pronounced after a time. "He has your eyes, and I fancy he is even more keen-sighted than you."
"I call him sharp-glance." Eöl said. Maeglin looked at the old dwarf, and wondered what part of him the sharp glance had pierced, and what he had seen in his moment of foresight.
"His mother must be a lovely maid indeed." Sarin went on. "Long has Eöl journeyed to our house in the mountains, but not once has he brought his fair wife. If she would visit us, we would be greatly honoured. Never has a lady of the Eldar ventured beneath these halls."
Eöl tensed almost imperceptibly, but his eyes darkened, and Maeglin noticed his father's change in mood. Suddenly, he was no longer friendly. His answer was short.
"My wife has no wish to leave the forest."
"Very well, then," Sarin said, oblivious to the change in his friend's tone. "Come, come! I must apologise for my hospitality, we have become so engrossed in our new works that we have not offered you a solemn dinner, friend-of-Dwarves. We shall lay a great feast for you, in honour of your son's first visit to us. Afterwards, I will take him to the forge. We have much to teach one willing to learn."
Forgetting himself, Maeglin said eagerly, "Will you teach me?", earning himself a glare from his father.
"But of course!" Sarin laughed. "Our craft has many intricacies of which your sire surely knows nothing." Maeglin looked worriedly to his father, but Eöl merely gave a thin smile of acknowledgement at the jest. Maeglin found himself beginning to laugh more freely, warming to the old Dwarf's company. It had been long since anyone had shared a joke with him.
Eöl's cold hand on his shoulder silenced the laughter. "My apologies, good Lord Sarin, but my son and I have not broken fast this day, and we shall be of little use in the smithy if we are weak with hunger," he said, in that strange tone he had, somewhere between amused and threatening. If the Dwarf noticed, he paid it no heed, but at once he put down the gem he had been polishing and bowed quickly.
"But of course! We shall provide you with much food presently. Gabilgathol keep their jewels! We have the finest meat in this land!"
With that, the Dwarf-lord hurried off, hobbling slightly on his bent stick. They watched him leave, and Maeglin felt a strange tightness in his throat, a feeling almost akin to what he felt when with his mother. By their next visit, Sarin might not be there to greet them and laugh with them. Before long, he would be sleeping the long sleep with his fathers in their halls of stone, and his pleasant manner would be no more than a memory. On an impulse, he wished that the Dwarves could have the immortal life of the Elves, and their skills would stay in the world, ever growing, ever bettering...
"You would do well to hold your tongue," said Eöl, leading his son from the room.
"I did not raise you to indulge in idle chatter. We have come here to work."
Maeglin nodded, and they began to descend the stairs in silence. Yet now, the younger Elf's mind was racing. For the first time, he felt he was beginning to think in a new way, and for the first time, he found himself questioning his father. The Dwarves had not been unfriendly or cold, indeed they had shown a genuine interest in his questions. Why should he be silent when he wanted to speak? Their lives were too short to waste with silence, so why should he waste his?
Because it is what he had always been taught.
Did Eöl want to make his son so much like himself? Must Maeglin be silent because his father was? Must he never see the sun because his father hated and feared her light? When they returned to the forest, would his father chain him to the forge with his new skills, so he could never journey outside the wood again?
Maeglin shivered and suddenly felt the need to be outside in the fresh air, although the sun was riding high and Eöl had forbidden it. Then, the thought came to him, an idea he had only played with before, never daring to try it. Could he lie to his father?
All his life he had believed that Eöl could not be tricked, and to an extent it was true. His father was deep-seeing and his long ages of life had given him a kind of wisdom to look into minds and pierce any veils of deceit. But Maeglin was growing, in both years and skill. More than once he had felt confined by the forest, and now in the halls. He was not artless in stone-craft, and yearned to explore the high paths and rocky gullies of the mountainside, all bathed in Vása's warming light. And maybe, some time, he could suggest a ride to the eaves of the wood with his mother when they returned to the forest. She would be delighted, and all it would take was a little practice from him. He was coming to understand that to decieve Eöl, all he needed to do was to slip on a different face - a face of willing submission, of obedience.
"Father?"
Eöl turned to his son. "What?"
"Is it not meet that I should change for dinner? I have no wish to offend our good hosts." Maeglin spoke quietly, yet earnestly, as if he truly believed in what he was saying.
And it worked.
Eöl smiled.
"You have your mother's good manners," he nodded briefly. "Go on, then. Do not be long. I shall meet you outside the feasting hall in an hour."
Maeglin raced off, and Eöl stood beside the great pillars of the staircase, fingering the hilts of Anguirel as he watched his son hurry towards the light.
End