Vocab

Uzbad- lord (used in Erebor to denote a Metal-master. The level above Master smith. Hallvarðr is a Barakuzbad-Metal master- (lit- axe master but of course axes have tremendous significance both physically and spiritually to Dwarves)

Sindri- titles given to Jewellers who have attained a similar greatness. For this, they must have crafted significant gems.

Khabbûna- Erebor dialect word for my love, beloved.

Original Characters

Gilthrûn Sindri- Jeweller.

Sigrúnda- Hallvarðr's journeyman

Gûthrim -Apprentice

Runí- Apprentice

Durathror- Master smith of Hallvarðr's guild and once apprentice and journeyman to Hallvarðr

Laersul- Thranduil's oldest son.

Chapter 4: Gilthrûn Sindri

Hallvarðr stood looking about. It was a while since he had been here in the Jewellers' Quarter. It was too close to the Outside, he thought, as a small group of merchants parted around him, laughing and chatting and one looked askance at him as they passed. The merchants were from Rhûn, he guessed, their heavy sheepskin coats stank, he thought and their hats were fur. Briefly he wondered what they were trading that had brought them to Erebor. He could not help the suspicion that crept over him. What was Stonehelm doing, allowing these Outsiders free access to the Mountain, even if it was only the First Level.

Thin daylight filtered through the great shafts cut into the vaulting roof and dimmed the power of the great bronze fire-bowls that hung high above. And there was the noise of course. Not the noise of the forge and furnace. Just a more general cacophony of sound that was discordant and busy.

Laersul Thranduillion would have stuck out, Hallvarðr thought. He wondered briefly if that had mattered to the smooth, assured Elf or whether he had also felt out of sorts coming here. Of course Laersul had been able to gain the permissions necessary to visit the deeper parts of Erebor, where Hallvarðr had his forge. Not a workshop. Workshops were for these tinkerers with Craft. He caught sight of Motsógnír who bowed when he saw him and then turned to talk to another Dwarf Hallvarðr' did not recognise. Probably from the Iron Hills like Motsógnír. But Hallvarðr didn't like that either. He didn't like that so many people were here who were not known to him.

He missed the smooth darkness of the Deeps, the mineral cleanliness of iron and steel, of quenching oil and borax flux of his own halls in the First Deep, the Foundries and forges of the Ironmasters and Firelords.

This was the domain of the Sindri, the Jewel-masters, who took the raw stones mined in the Third Deep and cut and polished them to rare and exquisite mastery, cutting them so the light in them was revealed.

He had been putting off this visit for here was the workshop and halls of Gilthrûn Sindri, and he could not delay any longer if he wished to use the blue steel made by Vindálfr that Motsógnír had shown him.

Gilthrûn Sindri was amongst the greatest of the Sindri and her halls and workshop was in the centre of the quart, a prime spot that overlooked the wide roads from the Gates, through the King's Halls and into the Jewellery Quart. He halls surveyed the comings and goings of the quarter and although discrete and unostentatious, you could not help but notice the halls none the less for the great double doors proclaimed both her trade, her mark and her heritage.

He knocked once on the door of her workshop and waited until her journeyman, Vili, opened the door. When the young man saw it was Hallvadr, he almost gasped, much to Hallvarðr's satisfaction

'Uzbad,' said Vili and bowed so his beard was almost touching the floor. 'Please enter and sit.' He indicated a comfortable upholstered chair near a hearth and shuffled uncomfortably.

Hallvarðr cursed silently; clearly the journeyman knew more than Hallvarðr had hoped and his reaction was a sign that Gilthrûn had not forgotten, perhaps had not forgiven him either. He tugged his beard and scratched his ear.

'Will you tell Gilthrûn Sindri that I wish an audience with her. I have some work that needs the finest jeweller and only she has the skill I need.'

Villi bowed again, his eyes like saucers and scuttled out.

Hallvarðr scowled. Villi's reaction told him exactly what to expect from Gilthrûn. But he could hardly complain; it was his fault that everything had ended in ruin. He frowned at the chair for such First Level comfort in a workshop offended him but he supposed that here they were used to custom from Men and wealthy Dwarves who did not visit than the Deeps. There were too many, in Hallvarðr's view, who did not keep the Ways of their fathers, who did not practise enough their Craft…

He stopped. This was one of the reasons Gilthrûn had argued with him. Perching uncomfortably on the edge of the chair was a concession he thought was the least he could make.

He had the designs rolled up under one arm and the amber and emeralds in a pouch at his belt. But he thought too of the steel he had seen and coveted it.

At last, there was the sound like the tiny glass bells that the children in Dale hung in the trees so they tinkled in the wind. It came from the many thin, delicate bracelets and anklets and beads that she wore, cunningly designed to mimic that sound. Hallvarðr leapt to his feet, dropping the scrolls over the floor. His hands had grown clumsy and he felt his face flush with embarrassment.

'Forgive me, Gilthrûn Sindri.' He knelt to gather up the scrolls, suddenly glad of having something that meant he could avoid looking at her.

She did not speak and he could not keep looking away so at last, he looked up.

He forgot to breathe. She was so beautiful. She was so…present. Her eyes were wide and clear and dark like Kheled-zâram. Her hair was glossy chestnut, thin braids oiled and intricately wound and pinned with gleaming, bejewelled clasps that winked and tinkled and glittered in the torchlight. And her skin like burnished bronze. He knew that skin. Remembered the feel of it below her breast, on the inside of her thigh. Like bronze silk. Like satin.

'Well, Hallvarðr Oddresson.' Her voice was deep, resonant, clear. Like a bell of mithril, he thought besottedly. 'What brings you to the Quarter?'

He swallowed. Her voice was not hostile exactly but without the warmth he remembered, or that he had hoped for.

But how could he blame her?

'Gilthrûn Sindri, at your service.' He bowed low in a more formal greeting and noticed his boots were scuffed and there was coal dust on them and was embarrassed, humiliated by his own ignorance, clumsiness. He was gauche and unworthy. He sighed and straightened; he couldn't stand there all day staring at his boots.

'Come and sit. Not here.' She gave an impatient look at the vestibule with its padded chairs and instead gestured that he should enter her workshop. 'Are we not equals? Old friends?'

Did her lovely deep voice have a note of sadness when she said that, he wondered? But he didn't ask and he didn't reach out and take her hand in his, or crash to his knees and beg her forgiveness. He didn't throw himself prostate before her and tell her he was an idiot, blundering, stupid, mistaken.

No. He should have. But he did none of those things.

No indeed. Fool that he was, he just grunted and indicated that he would follow.

Her workshop was always a joy to behold. It was a good space with low vaulted ceilings cut into the stone, and huge bowls of burning oil that lit the space with a warmth of fire. There were those cunning little lampstones of the Elves that she had brought with her from the It was a marvellous clutter of tools, and benches with piles and clutters of tools and scales and racks of chisels and fine instruments. It was only then that he noticed the leather apron she wore, the hobnailed boots that he also wore and that hers too were covered in coaldust, they were as scuffed and stained as his.

Normally crafts folk wore their hoods over their hair to stop the dust and sparks getting into their hair and tucked their beards into their aprons. But Gilthrûn had thrown back her hood and he could see the glory of her hair. As she had turned her back to him, strong, wide shoulders muscular arms, he could see her beautiful hair hung in one long thickly satisfying plait. Thick like a horse chestnut buds, ripe enough to burst.

He blinked; where had that image come from? It was not like him to think like this.

She had pulled out two stools at a workbench and plonked two mugs in front of them and filled them from a jug that was nearby. Amber ale spilled into them and frothed up. She always knew good beer, he thought appreciatively.

There had never been anyone in his life since Gilthrûn and he knew now that there never would be anyone else for him.

'So?'

He watched her full lips and remembered their pillowy softness and how he had once drowned in her.

Then abruptly became aware that she was watching him with…he hoped amusement, but it was probably just pity?

'You may have heard about the commission for a war axe for Gimli Gloinsson from Thranduil the Elvenking?' he began.

She inclined her head but a gleam of interest showed in her dark eyes. 'Yes, I've been dying to see them. Are these the ones? Let me see?'

He spread the scrolls onto the workbench and she bent her heard to pore over them.

She was close now, so he could smell the oil she used on her hair and skin. Vetiver, ambergris and rose, he thought, remembering. A deep, sensuous scent and he breathed in, stopped himself from leaning into her.

'Oh yes,' she breathed. But she didn't mean him of course. Not anymore. He knew she had found love elsewhere and he had missed his chance.

'These are beautiful.' She glanced up at him with acute perceptiveness. 'You are looking for a jeweller of course. You won't be setting these jewels yourself I hope?'

He smiled then. Warmly and appreciatively. 'I wondered if you knew anyone?' he grinned and her smile was like forge fire.

'I might do.' She put her thick, elegant finger on the eye of the axe. 'These are interesting. These gems. Deep beryls. Emeralds. Cut well and polished. And these amber cabochons must be polished to a deep golden amber. Like Gimli. I can see how this is for him.' She traced the designs drawn onto the blade of the axe. 'Will you engrave this or etch?'

'Do you know the Durin's stars pattern? I will use that upon the bevel.' He pointed to the design on the cutting edges of the two blades. Upon each was a curving line of seven stars on a background that looked like finely cut wood. When she nodded, he continued, 'Look at the bit.' He pointed to one of the double blades.

'Hm.' She was quiet for a moment. 'A very stylised tree, its roots curl about the eye and the branches curl towards the bevel, the cutting edge.' She smiled. 'It looks like the stars of Durin shone through the branches of the trees. You could get close to that with Mahal's Firestorm damascene patterning. I have seen you do that,' she amended with a look that he hoped was admiring. 'And engrave the rest. Erydísa would be the right one for such fine work.'

He nodded. 'Yes- that is what I thought… if I can get the right steel,' he dropped in innocently.

She looked at him shrewdly. Then she looked back down at the design.

Hallvarðr was silent. She had guessed his intention, he realised, and now she would throw him out as he deserved.

But she said nothing, still looking down at the designs, one strong hand leaning on the workbench, the other somewhere out of his sight, on her hip perhaps? He did not look at her, not daring to see the disappointment, the contempt upon her face.

But she did none of these things.

Instead, quite suddenly, she leaned down so that her face was close to the design, her nose a bare two inches away and her eyes roamed carefully over the parchment. 'It is very fine,' she said at last. 'It will take you months to make this.'

'I have the gemstones already,' he told her, thinking he was pushing his luck but pushing it anyway. He drew the pouch from his belt and emptied the contents onto her workbench.

She cupped the amber in her wide palm and weighed them, then considered them. The rich amber glowed in the firelight and she squinted at the black shape of a miniature leaf caught in one, the frond of a fern in another.

'Hm.' And then she turned her attention to the beryls. She did not touch them at first but screwed her eyepiece into her right eye and squinted down at them. Then she touched one and then the other. Then she stroked a finger over each, almost lovingly, and sighed. 'Very fine emeralds. A rich gift indeed. What honour he does to Gimli Gloinsson!'

She held one emerald between her forefinger and thumb now. Rubbed her thumb over it and he knew he had her then. They were a large pair of emeralds, evenly matched and cutting them to reveal their inner splendour would be a job that brought her renown amongst their kind too. And such a task- how could she resist?

He glanced at her. 'I hope to make this axe the most beautiful ever seen, the highest craft.' Licking his lips, he hesitated. 'I heard Vindálfr has made something very fine, rare blue steel but Motsógnír says he has none to sell.' He glanced at her obliquely, saw how she had gone very still.

Blown it, he thought. Again. And he felt ashamed for having tied to play her. She who had only ever been honest and true.

'Oh Smaug's balls, Gilthrûn,' he burst out. 'I will not play games. I think you know where there may be some and I am willing to pay well. You can see how great this axe will be and surely nothing else can be greater? Will you not share as I have shared?'

She turned her head away slightly so he could not see her eyes. Her chest rose and fell as if she took a deep breath. Or sighed. 'Is that the only…' she began. And then stopped.

She ran a hand over her thick, lustrous braid and then turned way from him completely. 'I do have some of this fáinn, this blue steel,' she said softly, turning back towards him now and looking at him. 'But I have already commissioned it, Hallvarðr. I am using it.'

'Well I knew that, Gilthrûn. You are not frivolous. You will make something beautiful,' he said earnestly. Then he looked up and into her beautiful eyes, her proud and hawkish face. 'I look around and all I see is beauty.' But he did not look around. He gazed at her, his heart wrenching around his pain and grief and stupidity.

She did not break his gaze but her eyes were kind now. 'You do not understand, Hallvarðr. I am Making. It is my Delnar, my Gift to Mahal. I will be elevated beyond Master by it.'

Now Hallvarðr understood. She would dedicate herself to Mahal then. Beyond the reach of any man. He bowed his head in acknowledgment and defeat. 'So, that is what you wish for.'

'Indeed. I will become…'

'Yes,' he interrupted abruptly. 'Yes, I know my Khabbûna. I understand.' He clutched at his chest, stifling the cry that wanted to wrench itself from him, like Mahal himself had reached out and was slowly crushing Hallvarðr's heart in his great fist. 'I didn't know that was what you wished for.' He pushed himself upright and before she could see his face, he pulled his hood over his head. 'Forgive me, Gilthrûn Sindri. I would not have disturbed you had I realised. Fool that I am!' he added bitterly.

She did not try to stop him, nor did she call to him.

The workshop doors swung shut behand him and he hurried through the noise and smell and press of bodies that overwhelmed him and he hurried away, back to the flare of the furnace, the Song of metal and hammer and bellows and hid in the safety of his forge.

0o0o

He shut the doors of his halls behind him and sank onto the hard bench, elbows on his wide table and hid his face in his hands. He had lost her. She was going to dedicate herself to Mahal, to close herself off from him, from all prospects of marriage and to focus entirely on her Craft.

Perhaps it was what he too had already done, albeit not formally.

The first day he drank all the good beer in his halls. Then he drank the bad, and then the dregs from the empty barrels. He drank until he could not remember and fell asleep where he sat. And awoke and drank again.

Finally, when the deep bell for morning struck the second time, he rolled off the bench and onto the stone floor with a grunt. His head felt like a hundred sledgehammers wielded by clumsy apprentices were thumping away clumsily in his head, bending and fracturing the billets and in his mouth a small dragon had built its lair.

Rubbing his beard and blinking, he sluiced his head in cold mountain water that gushed from the pump he had installed. When at last his head had cleared and the sticky mess of his hair and beard were clean, he stepped out from under the pump. Water streamed down his broad shoulders and chest, and his hair was sleek as an otter's pelt. He padded from the cold sluice into his sparse bedchamber, stood on the smoothed rock floor and towelled himself dry.

He felt better when he was dressed in clean tunic and breeches and pulled on his boots. Braiding his hair and beard soberly, he put in no adornments. No beads, no ornate beard braid. Just a simple fork and his hair in one thick braid. He was in mourning after all. His Khabbûna, his furnace, his beloved, had finally decided he wasn't worth waiting for.

It was his fault, he admitted. And he wasn't worth waiting for either. How many years had she waited?

He remembered he had called her his Khabbûna.

Too little. Too late.

He had only gone to her for the fáinn. How she would despise him. How he despised himself. Unable to look himself in the mirror, he turned and pushed open the doors of his forge. The rush of hot air and the smell of molten iron was a comfort. The Breath of Mahal. Clanging and chinking, the swoosh of the bellows and Sigrúnda shouting over the din to the three apprentices who were bent over the anvil and took it in turns to swing sledgehammers and pound a molten metal billet that Sigrúnda tapped carefully, drawing it out with his Rîga hammer and then exhorting the apprentices to pound the metal as he drew, so it welded perfectly.

Watching silently, Hallvarðr saw how expert Sigrúnda had become. Soon he would take his Mastery exams. For that, Hallvarðr was sure that he would make damascene for he was very good at it, inventing new patterns and creating intricate and interesting pattern welded metal. He was good with the apprentices too. Demanding but patient.

As if he felt Hallvarðr 's eye upon him, Sigrúnda looked up and started when he saw Hallvarðr. Taking his Master's apron from where it hung, Hallvarðr nodded to his journeyman. Sigrúnda murmured to the apprentices to keep going. Then he shoved the Rîga hammer towards Runí, who was by far the best of them and who took it with evident pleasure and then began tapping at the molten billet while Gûthrim clanged at it with the sledgehammer.

'Master.' Sigrúnda bowed warily and did not ask where Hallvarðr had been. 'These came.' He indicated to the design bench where they usually worked on the patents and designs. There were the scrolls with the design for Rûk-Shtôl.

Hallvarðr nodded bleakly and did not touch them. He must have left them behind in his haste to quit Gilthrûn's workshop. But now he could not bear to touch them.

'There was this too.'

A long package had been put carefully in the corner of the workbench, to one side out of harm's way. It was wrapped in hessian and this Sigrúnda now flipped open.

A beautiful blue sheen glowed upwards and lit his face. It was the fáinn steel.

'Gilthrûn Sindri sent it, Master. There is a message too.'

It was a note, folded once only, carelessly as if it did not matter who read it. Brief and written in her scrawling hand that was at odds with the delicacy of her work- like she allowed her hand freedom to be clumsy in a medium she did not care for.

Mahal will not mind waiting for a while.

G

Hallvarðr's heart soared. He laid a hand over the steel. Forgive me Lord that I want her back from you, he murmured in his heart, but I think you have never begrudged your children anything and will not begrudge your servant now.

'Send Gûthrim with an invitation to Gilthrûn Sindri please, Sigrúnda. Ask her to come to supper with me anytime she wishes and tonight would not be too soon.'

0o0o

Next chapter: The Making of Ruk-Schtol.

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