Chapter 2
Kili, King of the Blue Mountains, climbed to Wardspire by himself: just one dwarf in travel-worn gear with a bow on his back and a climbing staff in his hand. Since the meeting at Bag End two weeks ago, he'd put many plans in motion, but this one thing he needed to do alone.
Or nearly alone. The raven Corax, ever his companion, flew at a distance, his flightpath erratic in the gusting winds. But Kili trusted the big corvid to watch over the rugged terrain while he focused on putting one foot ahead of the other. The thin trail wove in and out of mist-laden clouds, traversing ice, then stretches of granite where thin sheets of snowmelt seeped ever downward, then loose alpine soil.
He climbed on, seeking Wardspire—the stonespellers' haven…one of the oldest dwarf places in Ered Luin. It was a deep cavern in the upper reaches of the Blue Mountains marked by the unreachable spire of stone which stood sentinel from the mountain top across the valley. The haven itself sat on the west facing side of an unremarkable ridge.
It was the view of the spire, not the spire itself, that gave the place its name.
And Kili, descendant of both Durin and Telchar, felt an uneasiness in his heart when he entered this part of the Blue Mountains. He could sense the timeless magic of this place like a low hum in his chest. It was not a place of dark evil, he reflected. But his experience, having survived a morgul curse and a dragon spirit, warned him that tapping the old magics always resulted in a mixed outcome...whatever benefit there might be always had a downside.
Wardspire itself was a good example. If the old tales were true, it had once been part of Nogrod, home of the stonemaster dwarves known as the Gonnhirrim, so-named by the Sindar.
And it had been the birthplace of his father's forefather, Telchar, the greatest smith in history.
In this place, a silmaril had once been crafted into a stunningly beautiful necklace that had then created treachery between dwarves and elves. In this place, Telchar forged the magic knife Angrist, the sword Narsil, and the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin. The first two were accounted for. The third was said to be lost beneath the great wave that sank the ancient land of Beleriand.
Kili walked steadily, deep in thought, eyes on his path. If the decision had been his, Kili would not have sent his nephew here for training. The old magics had a way of...changing a fellow.
But the decision was not his—it was his brother Fili's choice. In fact, their lady mother, Dís, daughter of Durin and exile of Erebor, had studied here for a short while. He still carried a promise stone she herself had crafted for him. And Fili had also studied with Wardspire Masons who had come to Erebor in those first years after the dragon.
The sound of the trail crunching under his boots signaled a shift from stone to gravel. Kili looked up. He had reached the half-moon plateau near the ridge's crest and he scanned the horizon. A gust of wind blew his hair back. Wispy clouds whisked by on the updraft, obscuring the view across the vale. And then they passed and there it was—the Wardspire, standing like a black tusk across the valley to his left.
This was the place.
He followed the light track that curved to the right. He saw the first stone cairn after a few hundred steps: an improbable stack of rocks, one atop another, that looked curiously unstable yet never moved.
By the time the little trail curved around to the north, the left hand slope was littered with stacked stone cairns, from tall and bold to tiny and delicate, and every size between.
He smiled. There was a trick his mother used to play on his uncle, even when he and Fili had been dwarrows in houseboots. Stone mage dwarves could conceal themselves among rocks and be as un-noticed as hobbits hiding from Big Folk.
Kili stopped, rested both hands on top of his walking staff, and focused his eyes on the pillars of stacked stone. He saw no one. He leaned a little to the left and focused on the stone edges, looking for the outline of an arm or a stray whiff of smoke.
There. That stack of stones with the horn-like shape that echoed the spire across the vale.
"Come lad, my old eyes aren't as sharp as they once were," he said, raising his voice only a little.
"Forgive me, uncle," came the reply and there—from the stack just to the left of the spire-copy—rose the dusty-backed form of a sunny-haired stripling dwarf thin with youth, but who stood full height. Among the stone stacks came several other youth and two or three revered elders.
Corax swooped past quorking in the raven equivalent of a merry laugh. Sun lad! Ha ha. Ha ha ha. Sun lad!
"My lord king," the stripling with the sunny-gold hair murmured, hand on heart as he bowed deeply. "Gunnar, son of Fili…at your service."
Behind him, the others bowed as well.
Kili replied with his own hand on heart and took in the sight of his nephew. "Well met, my brother-son," he said and opened his arms.
Fili, King of Erebor, spent every evening ravenspeaking. Erebor's intrepid corvids were incessant gossips, but one learned many things by attending to them.
But once the sun had set, the ravens settled to roost.
Fili nodded to the guards at the western gate and walked with purpose to his quarters, though his steps were heavier and less springy than they had once been.
It had been eight years. He had lost his beloved Lady Wife eight years ago to a sudden seizure that had taken her quickly in her sleep. He could not save her by any battle skill he possessed or even say a final farewell. He could only hold her senseless body as the physicians shook their heads and her spirit faded from the world.
He had lost count of how many days he'd spent in numbness, as if submerged and slowly drowning in deep water that not even his children could penetrate.
Until the moment when the hand of his own brother had grasped his and pulled him up.
Kili...he had said in a wavering voice and his brother's arms wrapped around him. She is gone.
There had been no other words but his brother's steady presence as all his grief overcame him like a sudden avalanche.
And then the state funeral that duty demanded and the beginning of idrêth.
"Sir!"
The guard to his personal entry stood tall, eyes forward.
Fili looked at him, his expression still to hide the tenor of his memories. He nodded, hand on heart, and ducked into the short passage to his quarters.
He had mourned An for a full seven years, as was customary. A year ago he had reluctantly returned to his royal vestment colors, removed the strands of black cord from his braids, and traded the onyx idrêth beads for silver.
After all, she would never approve of him ignoring his Kingdom or neglecting their children.
So life went on...it just went on differently. It went on even though he could no longer see her or touch her...or hear her beautiful voice. And Fili focused on work and insisted his children do the same.
One kingly hand on the stonework unlocked the door to his private chamber and Fili stepped inside. The private family area had once been chaotic and happy. Now it was...he refused to consider lonely. He decided on well-ordered and calming.
That was Iri's doing. She seemed determined that no one would disturb his peace.
He sighed and took himself to his dressing room to wash up. He had promised his evening to Iri, actually. He just needed a quick clean-up and a change of coat.
Well-ordered and calming was all well and good, he reflected as he washed and dried his hands. And he loved his daughters dearly, but he missed his lads.
And my brother.
His oldest and heir Fjalar was away, commanding the western outpost this year—using his mother's Iron Hills heritage to keep the peace with their eastern cousins as commerce between the Mountain and the Hills reached new highs.
Gunnar remained in Ered Luin studying stonework, following in the footsteps of his grandmother Dís.
Hannar, his third lad, was in the Mountain somewhere, completely immersed in his apprenticeship with the Master Smith. The lad was not only a fine metalworker, he was becoming the maker of excellent swords. In a few more years he would be exceeding their Uncle's famously fine work.
That left him with only daughters in the family quarters. Jari, of course, warmed his heart. Just one year younger than his brother's firstborn, Kirin, she was everyone's delight. She had just started her formal studies in Erebor's student academy and could sing along with his fiddle nearly as well as her mother had.
It was Iri who managed the family quarters in her mother's place, bossing his chamberlains and her little sister's nannies in equal measure. She had just completed her academy studies and was continuing with an advanced tutor. He knew deep in his heart that someday there would be lads lining up to capture her heart and take her away from him—but he refused to consider it yet. A daughter of Durin...she was a rarity they would fight over. But for now, she belonged here.
And how he would keep himself from skewering any lad who looked at her that way, he had no idea.
Then he grinned. She was more likely to skewer any such lad herself. By tradition, her Choice of a lad would be the final word. She was a wicked fast shieldmaiden, his Iri. He wondered if she would even need her old Da's support against the rejected ones. But while she spent her days honing her swordwork, her nights were spent learning to chart the moon—in the Dwarven traditions, naturally. Elves of course had completely different names for everything in the sky. To dwarves, the night sky wasn't about stars and music and poetry...it was about marking the patterns of the moon, about calculations and wayfinding.
Less than an hour later, Fili had cleaned up, eaten a bite of supper, and climbed an inner stairway to the eastern slope of the Mountain.
When he stepped through the door—the very door (once hidden) that his Uncle had re-opened back in the Dragon time—he found the familiar neat parapet open to the eastern sky, now cleanly set with flagstones, granite table and benches, and a masterfully carved bas relief of Thorin Oakenshield finding the Hidden Door, complete with a halfling and rays of moonlight arrowing to the now fully visible keyhole.
"Da!" Iri was in his arms before he could take three steps out.
He hugged her close, smiling at the scent of clean slate and fine leather. She stepped back, her large blue eyes (much like his own) wide with excitement. Her golden hair (also much like his at that age) was always changing style these days. Sometimes it was even different between morning and night and with every change of clothes. This morning she'd had strands of warrior braids at the sides and a blue sparring vest with trousers. Tonight: it fell loose around her shoulders with only one loose braid crossing above her forehead, looking much like a golden coronet...and a soft tunic gown the color of mountain foxglove.
"Ah, Princess," he murmured to her, cupping her jaw and smiling. "Tell me what you're up to tonight."
She nodded, very serious.
"Father," she began in her most formal voice. "You remember Urszaglêl?" Fili looked at the lady dwarf who quickly bowed to him.
"Yes. My good lady Zêl." He reached both hands out to her and quite shyly, she took them. Her dark, serious eyes met his without shyness. She was Iri's personal guard and tutor in Moon charting, and was as he'd always seen her—sober, strong, and artfully adorned with two thick braids that fell from behind her ears, twined with leather and beads.
She was the daughter of an old Erebor family that An had known well. The lass was remarkably fierce with long knives and an accomplished mountain archer as well.
"You will not believe," Iri said, her smile and eyes alight with excitement. "I've been calculating marark cycles...and last week I realized…" she paused to pick up a slate to show him her numbers and symbols.
"An eclipse!" Fili said. "Tonight?"
"Zêl double checked my figures," Iri looked at the slate again. "If I'm right, it should be a full eclipse, beginning just as the moon rises in just a little while. Will you watch with me?"
"Of course I will," he smiled. And her quick, happy grin was all the reward he required.
The mugs of ale that Zêl brought to them were simply the icing on the cake.
Together, the three of them turned their eyes to the eastern sky and watched as the silver moon rose above the horizon, and as Iri predicted, first an edge, then a full bite of the silver moon darkened...and within an hour the fully eclipsed moon turned blood red in night sky above Erebor.
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A/N: THANK you for reading and for the reviews you've posted or PM'd! I've been a little overwhelmed at the response to the first chapter-waving HI to many old friends...good to see you again, and welcome aboard to anyone who is new to my stories! Glad to meet you! While this is a new standalone story, having the background from my previous Erebor 3022 stories certainly helps. Feel free to read them...and if you by chance prefer to read in Deutsch, those six stories are also complete on fanfiktion dot de in German, thanks to the translation magic of Beta reader Jessie152. So happy to be writing here again and continuing this story! Hope you enjoy the journey...and as a final note, I do have a very full time job and lots on my plate. My goal is post bi-weekly...(except when not. In case work stuff just gets cray.)
Hand on heart to all of you!
Summer
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Neo-Khuzdul translations, thanks to The Dwarrow Scholar's English / Neo-Khuzdul Dictionary (find it online.)
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Idrêth = mourning (the act of)
Marark (mararkulnûlukh) = lunar eclipse (I made an editorial choice to shorten the full word)
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The inspiration for Wardspire is a favorite spot of mine: Black Tusk near Whistler BC, Canada. If you are on Mt. Whistler in the summer, you will see thousands of rock cairns left by travelers :D with Black Tusk in the background. Google Images also has a few shots.
