For Tobiramamara because she liked the 'avalanche' of updates but was sad they were all old stories reposted. So here's a new one.

Chapter 1: The commission

'Master! He's here! The King's guest!'

The forge doors were thrown open and Hallvarðr Odresson looked up to see his youngest and stupidest apprentice, Gûthrim, rush in excitedly, letting in the cold air and irritating Hallvarðr with such unruly and un-Dwarvish behaviour. He squinted over his half-glasses at the apprentice and harrumphed grumpily.

Runí looked up anxiously from where he was working the bellows, as if waiting for Hallvarðr to explode in annoyance over the interruption and that irritated him further. They were, after all, setting the weld on the second of seven bars of carbon steel and nickel alloy for a damascene blade intended for Dwalin Bonecrusher himself, Hero of the Battle of the Five Armies and the Siege of Erebor, and one of Hallvarðr's oldest friends. He owed Dwalin many times over, he thought and his annoyance with Gûthrim's clumsiness and Runí's inattention made him unreasonable.

'I do not care who is here, guest of the King or no,' he growled, turning back to the long billet that glowed molten in the forge.

'But Master,' said Gûthrim. 'He's…'

'Have I not spoken?' roared Hallvarðr over the whump of the bellows and flare of the furnace. 'I will not be interrupted in my work. If he wants to speak with me, he will wait.' And he turned back to the billet, sliding it carefully through the furnace to weld the layers of steel.

Gûthrim stood indecisively for a moment and fidgeted until Hallvarðr shouted, 'Stop standing there like some Mahal-forsaken dekhen-gamêsh! Either come here and help or fuck off.'

Gûthrim scuttled over, scooping up a box containing the powdered borax and a wire brush. With great care, Hallvarðr drew out the molten billet and placed it on the anvil, passing the tongs to Runí whilst he lifted his forge hammer and tapped at the billet to begin shaping it. Now and again, he paused for Gûthrim to sprinkle borax on it and then scrub away with his wire brush to remove any scale.

'Right. Back into the furnace,' he instructed Runí and watched critically as the apprentice lifted the billet with the tongs and placed it carefully in the furnace. 'Yes. Steady, steady,' murmured Hallvarðr. 'You can do that until it is welded.'

They all watched for a moment as the metal heated to red and then molten once again and then Runí slid it out and placed it again on the anvil. Hallvarðr nodded to Gûthrim to take up the hammer.

'No! Too hard!' He snatched the hammer from Gûthrim and glared at the apprentice, who cowered. 'You will shatter it again and yet again will I have wasted steel,' he snapped.

Gûthrim hung his head with shame and that made Hallvarðr angry, with both himself and the boy.

He sighed heavily and shook his head. He could almost hear Thorin Oakenshield laughing at his conflict, could almost see him leaning against the forge wall, arms folded and those dark, passionate eyes gleam with amusement. Ah, Thorin, he thought. Too long have you lain there in your cold tomb.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm. Thorin had been just as clumsy when apprenticed to Hallvarðr for he was no Firesmith. He was destined for the battle axe and sword.

Shaking his head at himself, he realised that he was being unfair to his newest apprentices. How could they learn if all he would let them do was apply the flux and wire brush, to clean up the forged metal? Perhaps he was just too old to have apprentices anymore? Perhaps he was just too heartsore for Thorin was not the only apprentice he had lost to War. There was Tharkîl.

But the thought of Tharkîl was too bitter, too sore and he silently asked Mahal to grant him the Patience of Stone and the serenity of the Mountain to help him with his grief. Breathing in, he thought about the heat of the forge and how Mahal the Maker himself had taught the Seven Fathers who could do nothing at first.

'Like this.' He demonstrated again but more carefully, taking the time. 'Now, Gûthrim, look, hold the hammer like this. You have more control over it.' He showed him, opening his hand and manoeuvring so both youngsters could see what he did. Then he watched critically as the apprentice tapped gently at the billet and sure enough, the weld began to take..

'Good. Yes. Now you have it. Now, put that aside and we will let it rest to reduce the pressure on the steel. And while I go to greet our visitor, I want you to practise on these scraps. When you can show me a welded billet, then we will come back to this.'

The furnace cast a red glow over their sweating faces and muscled arms under leather aprons but they had a different intensity in their deep eyes that pleased Hallvarðr. He turned away and dipped a cup into the pail of clear, clean water nearby and drank deeply. Then he wiped his face with a clean cloth and gave a cursory wipe of his hands on his leather apron for no Dwarf would mind that he smelled of metal and fire, nor that he had metal dust on his boots.

Having completed all the ablutions he intended, he opened the wrought iron doors between his forge and his hallway to meet this guest of whom the King had spoken, asking that he give this stranger all due consideration. Although of course Thorin Stonehelm would know better than to ask a Firelord to take a commission, the King under the Mountain was within his rights to ask Hallvarðr to consider it.

Even so, he did not expect a tall Elf to be standing in his hallway. Hallvarðr could not help but stare for everything about the Elf was too long, too thin, spindly arms and legs, neck too long, hair too long. Indeed he wondered how they stayed upright in the wind. But he had seen Thalos Sulûn-Baraz fight, and he had been in Dain's contingent in the Battle for Erebor; there was no question of their muscular strength and agility in fighting the enemy.

'Gonhîr.' The Elf bowed slightly. The firelight from the bronze braziers gleamed on his hair so it shone like molten gold, almost glassy. It was indecently long of course and mostly dangerously unbraided. Grey-blue eyes regarded Hallvarðr with unblinking intensity, like frighteningly bright labradorite, thought Hallvarðr. He didn't look real.

Gonhîr? How did an Elf know that archaic honorific that the Khazad themselves had not used since Narvi was in Moria.

'Tan menu selék lanun khûn.' The Elf bowed his head and opened his hand wide in the customary Erebor greeting to show he carried no weapon. 'It is a kindness that you agreed to meet me.'

Disconcerted that the Elf knew such customs and greetings, Hallvarðr grumbled under his breath, 'I didn't have much choice when it's the King that asks.' It was difficult to tell whether the flicker on the Elf's face was from amusement, anger or a fart, he thought. Did Elves fart? They were so inscrutable, their faces too smooth, expressionless. Cold. Aloof.

Hallvarðr needed to sit down and pulled out the large, comfortable carved chair at the head of his table. He waved a hand vaguely towards the wide oak bench that was pushed under the table.

With a courteous inclination of his head, the Elf pulled out the bench and stepped over it to sit but as he did so, he lurched forward suddenly, seizing the edge of the table with a strong hand to balance himself. He grimaced as he slid onto the bench that was clearly too low for one of his height, and then banged his knee on the underside of the table. He grunted and spat out a word in his own tongue. Hallvarðr thought he had probably sworn and liked him a little more for it.

'Forgive me,' the Elf said quickly, recovering and easing out his long legs under the table. 'This damned leg is taking too long to heal,' he said by way of explanation, and in the light cast by the braziers, Hallvarðr saw too that his face was not smooth at all: a scar ran down one side, puckered and raw.

Hallvarðr himself had been upon the Gates, defending them when it seemed Erebor was doomed. 'Where were you when you were wounded?' he asked. He had heard that Mirkwood had been attacked on three fronts.

'The West front, at the far edge of the Wood,' the Elf said ruefully. 'I took an arrow in the shoulder, and Uruks downed me, trussed me up like a chicken and had not Beorn and his folk come for me I have no doubt that I would not be sitting here now. A leg is a small price to pay for life.'

At this, Hallvarðr regretted his initially rather hostile reception then and gave a friendlier nod. 'Fucking bastards,' he said companionably.

'Fucking bastards,' agreed the Elf with a grin and his eyes, that Hallvadr had thought cold, sparkled with humour. 'My name is Laersul,' said the Elf in that forward way they had of giving away their names too easily and he held out his open hand, elbow on the table and leaning forward.

Hallvadr was taken aback again that an Elf should be so familiar with the way of the Khazad but then he grinned and gripped the hand offered. He thought that he could crush those long, delicate looking fingers but he found a strength that matched his own easily and he found it oddly reassuring. He thought he might have heard the name somewhere before, and the story of Laersul's capture rang a bell.*

'And my name is Hallvarðr Odresson.' He had been about to say may your beard grow long but Laersul's chin was completely hairless and Hallvarðr would never be so crass as to draw attention to anyone's misfortune, especially when he himself had such a beautiful luxuriant beard, oiled and plaited and beaded. He wondered if he should say at your service. But that would be to imply that he was younger than his companion and therefore should be deferential. So instead, he leaned forward slightly in what he thought was a friendly manner and said gruffly, 'Well? What would you have of me? I am curious to see what an Elf would ask of a Dwarf.'

'I am here on behalf of my lord father, Thranduil, the Aran of the Wood,' Laersul said matter of factly.

Hallvadr felt his mouth drop open. That was why he knew the name of course.

'I was the emissary to the Mountain in the old days and am familiar with the Mountain,' Laersul went on as if to explain why it was he, the oldest son of the King who had been sent. 'I used to come here very often when Thraín was King Under the Mountain.' He smiled and then said, a little sadly, 'He used to make the very best kites.'

Still reeling from the first shock, Hallvarðr's brain scrambled around this revelation; Thraín had been Thorin's father, but he had been no toymaker, Hallvarðr knew. Thraín had never made a kite in his life and would have had no use for such fripperies.

'He taught me some of the more useful customs and Khuzdûl phrases. Those that would not offend anyone,' Laersul went on quickly and Hallvarðr felt the beginning of anger for Thraín would rather cut off his beard than tell an alamgamêsh their secrets . 'Or they didn't at that time,' Laersul went on oblivious to the offence the was causing.' Of course, those were happier times perhaps, for he helped delve our own halls as well as these.'

Hallvarðr had to blink. Then take a breath: Laersul meant Thraín the Founder. Thraín the First. Who died almost a thousand years ago. Hallvarðr 's brain did a little flip and he could not speak.

'My father wishes to commission a work of you, Gonhîr, if you will?' Laersul of the Greenwood glanced at Hallvarðr a little concerned, a little amused perhaps. He had a gentle, serious face, despite or perhaps enhanced even by the scar, and his grey-blue eyes no longer looked cold to Hallvarðr.

'A commission?' That was less difficult to comprehend for Hallvarðr was used to Making for the lords and kings of both Dwarves and Men. He had just completed several lucrative commissions for a number of lords in Rhovanion, and King Brand II had just commissioned him to make a gift for the new King of Gondor. But it was an altogether different matter to receive a request from Thranduil of Mirkwood. Although, he remembered in time, it was to be called Greenwood now.

Laersul had pulled out a number of small scrolls and pulled away the binding of the largest one. When he had smoothed it out, Hallvarðr could see it showed a design and pulled it towards him. He looked down at it. Then he looked up sharply to see Laersul's eyes were focused upon him intently.

'What is this?' he demanded. 'An axe?'

'Yes.'

'It is very intricate and detailed work. A costly piece.'

'It is,' Laersul acknowledged earnestly. 'And it is not merely decorative. It must be a weapon of great renown.'

Hallvarðr looked at him like he had taken Mahal's name and spat. 'I would not lift my hand to make mere decoration,'he said with biting emphasis.

Laersul inclined his head in apology and gave the slightest smile as if he understood and should have known better.

'Hmmm.' Mollified, Hallvarðr peered at it again. He could understand that having seen the Dwarves in battle, the King might want a battle axe for himself or one of his sons. Perhaps it was for Thalos Sulûn-Baraz? He turned the scroll around and traced a finger over the design.

'Yes, yes, I can see how this needs to be made.' Hallvarðr began to see the beauty in it; the balance he thought could be weighted perfectly and it could sit in the hand just so. He took a stub of pencil from behind his ear and began to scribble on the design, murmuring under his breath. 'Hm. It needs a little more weight just here…and that edge…' He whipped out a measuring string from the belt he wore, cunningly designed to hold measures and tools and anything else he needed through the day. He pressed the measure against one end of the beard of the axe and tightened it. 'No… No, that's …' He glanced up at Laersul to see an interested expression on the scarred face.

Hallvarðr frowned and turned the design around, stabbing down at it with his square, clever fingers. 'Look. The handle is too short for an Elf. I will need to make it longer. I will need to know who it is intended for. How tall is he? His weight? His skill? Which hand does he favour?'

'It is not for an Elf.'

Hallvadr thought he had misheard at first and stared at Laersul with a frown. But Laersul's eyes gleamed again and if Hallvadr did not know better, he would have said twinkled with a slight sense of mischief.

'It is for Gimli Gloínsson.'

Astonished, Hallvarðr looked at Laersul. 'Gimli? Then this is a great honour Thranduil does to my young kinsman,' he said cautiously but pleased that the aloof King of the Elves recognised the pivotal part that Gimli had played in the downfall of Sauron. Hallvarðr himself had been part of the company that had journeyed over the Mistry Mountains to seek council with Elrond and although Hallvarðr had not been present for the great council, he knew from Gloín about the nature of the quest and that Gimli had been chosen to represent the Dwarves.

Laersul tilted his head and it gave the impression suddenly of immense wisdom. 'I have just handed letters from Gimli Gloínsson himself to his father,' he said. 'We had messages from our kin in the South and they were amongst them. I am told that he returns home. He travels with my brother.'

'Your brother?' Hallvarðr said. 'Thalos Sulûn-Baraz is in the South? Has he recovered from his injuries so swiftly?'

'Thalos? Oh no, it is my youngest brother with whom Gimli Gloínsson travels.'

'Oh,' Hallvadr said politely for he had not known there was yet another son. He wondered what this third scion of Thranduil's house had been doing in the South that he had met up with Gimli. Perhaps he had gone as emissary to the new King of Gondor since he was restored. As Gimli was the King's close personal friend, Hallvarðr supposed he would meet the Elves' emissary and it would make sense perhaps to travel part of the way together. For safety.

'Apparently,' Laersul's eyes gleamed and there was that swift and fleeting mischief, 'they have become quite good friends.'

Hallvarðr frowned. 'Who?'

And now Laersul's smile was definitely mischievous. 'Gimli Gloínsson and my little brother.'

Hallvarðr did not know what to say. He knew his kinsman, Gimli, very well. He knew his father, Gloín, even better so he said nothing but he thought the Elf was delusional. Perhaps this youngest son was elevating his own importance, wanting his father to imagine that he was consorting with the heroes of the war, and in the confidence of the King's closest friend.

'This commission is to honour that friendship, and to acknowledge the service that Gimli Gloínsson has given our brother. Will you accept, Gonhîr?' Laersul watched him with what Hallvarðr thought was a warm interest.

He did not need to ask really. Once Hallvarðr had seen the designs and scribbled on them, there was no way he was going to refuse it; the axe was a challenge to his mastery, a beautiful thing that would need all his skill and that of others besides. Already he was planning to bring Erydísa, the Master Engraver to help decorate it and Ragnarr, the Master Armourer to test it. Already it was whispering to him.

'Of course I accept,' he said. 'My kinsman deserves only the very best after what he has done for the northern kingdoms. I understand that had he not been there, Sauron may not have fallen.' Although Hallvarðr thought that if the Elvenking hoped to make more of any connection between Gimli and this youngest son, he would be better off butting heads with Dwalin!

Laersul opened his mouth as if about to speak but he stopped and then gave a wide, delighted smile that lit his face up and Hallvarðr thought his own people might say he was handsome- in a childlike and hairless way. Then he pulled out a small pouch from the inside of his tunic and unlaced it. 'There are jewels here that you can see in the design. These are special. Blessed with…powerful properties.' He emptied the pouch. A scatter of gemstones fell onto the table, amber cabochons and a handful of beryls of many hues.

Hallvarðr nodded approvingly; a good choice for the Khazad, for Gimli especially. He picked up one of the beryls, shoved his half glasses properly onto his nose and squinted at it. The light fractured and sparkled in a most pleasing way. He nodded and then paused and looked at them again. He glanced up at Laersul. 'A very great gift indeed.'

Laersul smiled again, but almost shyly. 'I have another commission if I may. For myself. Perhaps you can advise me.' He looked suddenly sheepish, all the poise and confidence gone.

He placed a single stone on the table between them. A white gem such as the Woodelves loved best.

A good example, Hallvarðr thought. He glanced up at Laersul. Was that a faint blush on his pale, scarred cheek? Hallvarðr wondered.

'I would like you to make me a ring. A wedding ring.'

0o0o0o

Notes:

Laersul- oldest son of Thranduil

Thalos- middle son. Came to the aid of the dwarves of Erebor during the Siege, once Mirkwood had been freed of orcs. Connection with Smaug- see Black Arrow.