Chapter Text
Thirty years after he had agreed to visit the Mountain with Gimli, the dwarf knocked on his door. “Hello, Gimli! I am so glad to see you! What brings you to us?”
“Here’s your Mountain Pass, Elf. Ready?”
Legolas was more than a little surprised, and so he said, picking up the pass, “It looks like a cow bell; does it clang?” then he added, “What about Sibyl?”
“Only if you shake it too hard, and she has still got her old pass. Same number, it is still good. They will give her back her old job, same rate, grade, and pay.”
“I could not stay gone too long, I have small children...”
“Your father has already offered to watch them. Said, ‘Take him forthwith as my emissary.’ Start packing.”
The elf was wavering. He had been at Greenwood for quite awhile, and the thought of going somewhere, anywhere, was appealing. “Well, I suppose I could go for a little while.”
The dwarf smiled mischievously. “Here is your uniform, helmet, tool belt and boots. Ready for your grand adventure?”
“Grander than the Fellowship?” Legolas laughed.
“In its way. You will see and know that which few surface folk ever see. Even Bilbo didn’t see how the Mountain operates.”
Indeed, Legolas did not know he was signing up for a tour as an apprentice in the Dwarves’ Mountain. Upon arrival, he was properly dressed for work in a drab gray uniform, and forced to wear heavy, dwarven boots that made him feel rooted to the spot, as though he were a heavily shod war horse. He was then given a schedule, explaining daily shift rotations, mealtimes, and when to break for sleeping or smoking. There was no sleeping on the job, and smoking was to take place at only certain times and designated areas.
“What is this?” the elf asked, “And these boots are heavy, I do not like them. I would be better balanced in my own soft leather shoes. Even the wooden shoes we use for standing would be better than these.”
“They’re not going to change the rules just for you,” the dwarf laughed, “Just wait until you see the coveralls.”
“Coveralls?” the elf wondered aloud.
“And for dirty jobs, you can wear a bunny suit.”
“What is a bunny suit?” Legolas asked, mystified.
A bunny suit turned out to be a tan pair of dwarven coveralls made to give the appearance of the wearer’s behind being over a hundred pounds larger and saggier than it actually was, giving the impression of a giant rabbit. “By the gods!” the elf exclaimed upon seeing the things. With a helmet and tool bag, ear covers sticking straight up, the giant dwarven rabbits were a sight indeed.
“You are still a new worker, Elf. Much will be asked of you, and you will transfer from department to department, getting a broad overview of all the work done in the Mountain, until you can transfer into precious metals, with me. You will like coin and jewelry making.”
“But I thought...”
“There are many worse jobs for new workers, Elf, and most start out much lower, at much less pay.”
“I suppose.” He had really hoped to be a guest, but was realizing that simply wasn’t going to be the way of it. “At home...”
“You are with the dwarves, now. Forget home, you live here with us.”
“But...”
“You can work with Sibyl for a few days, and she will help you adjust to life underground. I must turn your paperwork in to the King.”
“But...”
“Bilbo Baggins was on the cleanup crew. Then he had kitchen and guard duty. Dragon made a mess.”
The elf sighed and smiled, trying to make the best of it.
“You’ll be staying in the same stateroom as me,” Gimli said, obviously pleased he had been able to arrange this.
“What is a stateroom?”
“Four dwarves to a room, space is tight here. Be glad you’re not in the barracks.”
“Barracks?” the elf repeated in wonder.
“Hundred dwarves to a hall.”
“Where will Sibyl be staying?”
“She’ll be in a stateroom with three other women.”
“Oh,” the elf responded, with obvious disappointment.
“Don’t worry; you’re on the same shift, so you can see her at meals and fireside tales.”
After having seen Moria, the interior of the Lonely Mountain was not unfamiliar to Legolas, he had an idea of what he was going to see. However, Moria was a ruin, while the Lonely Mountain was being repaired and restored after the dragon’s fall. The soaring ceilings, stone archways and bridges were almost familiar. What he had not expected was the degree of intricacy on everything. He had thought only elves did that, although the dwarves methods were very different. They saw the earth and its stones as their forests and gardens. Some were for cutting and burning, and others were for decoration and enjoyment. That part was easy for the Elves to understand, what frustrated and confounded them was the way the dwarves lived by a code of regulations. Every action it seemed, had a rule or disclaimer that was duly listed in the encyclopedic volumes of the Dwarven Code. Hundreds of books, scrolls and manuscripts, governing every possible occurrence, and everyone was held to it. Except little dwarves, of course, they were to be trained before they could be held accountable, and the Ithil, who had diplomatic immunity; but only under certain circumstances.
There were many things about the Mountain that amazed Legolas. He had never imagined that there could be so many absurd and frustrating rules and regulations, mostly designed, it seemed, to prevent all work from being accomplished. The dwarven chow, or mess halls, were stone cathedrals of bland cooking; mostly roast meats, hard tack or unleavened bread, with either ale, beer, or the harsh, dark bean juice the dwarves drank religiously. At meals, at least he could sit with Gimli and Sibyl. The dwarf was able to drop by and talk to Legolas sometimes, but he was rarely allowed to speak to Sibyl except at mealtimes. He was somewhat piqued that he was not sharing her bed. When he had embraced her, and holding her to him, kissed her deeply, Gimli had admonished him.
“No, none of that!” the dwarf exclaimed.
“What?”
“That is unauthorized touching!” the dwarf exclaimed, in horrified indignation.
“Gimli, I am authorized to touch my wife.”
“On the surface world, maybe, but here in the Mountain, no unauthorized touching. This is an unofficial, verbal warning. You do not want a formal review.”
Legolas looked at Sibyl in disbelief. “He is not serious, is he?”
“He is being very tolerant, Legolas. Dwarves and anyone else in the Mountains, never touch each other. It is forbidden without proper paperwork. To tell you the truth, he was generous to overlook reporting this.”
“Reporting?” the elf echoed, wondering what that meant.
“Only the Dwarf King can issue a marriage license, and only licensed, married couples may touch one another, and even then only alone,” Sibyl explained. “There is a lot to suddenly become accustomed to, dear, and this will be somewhat confounding for you, but try to remember, the dwarves actually live this way!”
“I do not understand any of this,” the elf admitted.
“It is simple. Do not touch anyone, elf. It is easy to understand.”
Legolas stared at Sibyl in disbelief. “Is he serious? We cannot even kiss? It is bad enough that we are not bedded together...”
“It may seem bizarre to you, but dwarves being the way they are, touching is rare, and it needs to be authorized ahead of time, and punishments are severe.”
“But...”
“Legolas, dear, it is their way.”
“But...” The poor elf could not get his point across. This was insane.
“I have seen you surface folk,” Gimli noted in disgust, “Men and elves lying about, dissolute in your ways, exhibiting yourselves for all to see, and your filthy, whore-like habits. It is an affront to dwarven virtues. We dwarves value the ways of hard work and self-denial. Smoke and drink, but keep your pants on!”
“And I have seen the Latrines!” Legolas argued. “There is nothing more terrifying!” Indeed, he had been less frightened at the gates of Mordor than he was by his first view of the Dwarven Male Latrine.
Both Sibyl and Gimli burst into laughter, for very different reasons. Since there were so few women, Sibyl could choose a time to have a small part of the female latrines mostly to herself. Poor Legolas had horror after horror whenever he wished to bathe or relieve himself. The dwarven latrines were a thing unheard of on the surface realm. Larger than a great Hall of Men was the Male Latrine, acres it seemed of semi naked to totally naked dwarves, cleansing or relieving themselves, in full view of the others, dripping wet beards and green gas clouds everywhere. Poor Legolas was disgusted and terrified, and bathed with his clothes still on, timidly dipping a comb or cloth into the springs and aqueducts that brought forth the water, the dwarves laughing at him, while he had disturbing thoughts and visions. Had the poor elf ever seen an unclothed female dwarf, he would not have feared the males.
It was a shock, indeed, life in the Mountain. There were no days or nights, only shifts. Legolas had been assigned 1 st shift, a time that he continued to think of as the morning. There was a 2 nd and 3 rd shift, as well, that the older and grimmer dwarves seemed to prefer, probably because there was less supervision. Changes of shift or mealtimes were announced with an ear-splitting whistle that made the elf’s ears ring if he were anywhere around, and his chest vibrate and eardrums shatter when he accidentally stood underneath the thing as it went off. He could actually feel the sound waves permeate not only his body but the surrounding rock. Legolas was certain the Lake Men could hear it, the sound was so loud. Prior to the noise, he had actually wondered why the old dwarves shoved clay in their ears and clapped their hands over the top. Greasy meat and hard biscuits were given out at the beginning of every shift, to be eaten with a harsh, dark bean juice, a concoction that the dwarves drank all the time. Each dwarf had his own special tankard for just that purpose; that was never, ever washed. Some were blackish brown and scummy, but the dwarves seemed to believe this residue held magical properties and would become extremely angry if an elf even suggested cleaning it. For special occasions, the dwarves had sweet, bread-like dough-balls they affectionately called Trolly-O’s. Any occasion of importance rated a round of Trolly-O’s.
“My stomach does not feel so good,” Legolas told Gimli. “I think I need fruit, and green tea.” The dwarves laughed uproariously at this.
“It makes you strong,” they told him, “Puts hair in your nose and on your chest.”
“I do not want hair on my chest or up my nose,” he told them, thinking that it certainly made them all smell strong, emitting as they did toxic green gas clouds, which were a source of great mirth among the dwarves, and made the every other living creature flee in fear. Bean soup could clear the mountain of all non-dwarves. The gnomes, an underground, hobbit-like race, declared it a “Special Holiday,” and then they all vanished, granted Administrative Leave by the Dwarf King.
Every end of shift, after the dwarves had cleaned themselves up, they would all gather in the great Mess Hall, for a dinner feast, where the goat and pony roasts Legolas had heard Gimli tell of long ago in the forests of Rohan were served. Along with the meat and potatoes, there was entertainment, which mostly consisted of which ever dwarf wanted to tell a story, and he would stand up on the podium and tell a great story, a dwarven tale of Grit and Valor, or announcements of Mandatory Fun. Often there were Good Old Boy Stories, anecdotal histories where at least one dwarf would stand up and tell or retell yet again, the story of some epic battle, great challenge or repair. Occasionally it was an epic repair. Sometimes the less imaginative dwarves would just read a safety brief. Often their tales would end with a statement like “A complaining dwarf is a happy dwarf. When he’s stopped complaining it means he’s stopped caring.” Or even more worrisome, “And the beatings will continue until morale improves!” This was invariably met with dwarven laughter.
Legolas leaned aside and asked Sibyl “What beatings are they talking about?” He was not about to stay if they were going to do that.
“They are speaking figuratively, not literally. No one touches anyone else, remember? They find humor in things like that.”
“I am not certain that I do.”
“You will,” she laughed. “You just do not understand dwarves yet.” Then she whispered into his ear, “I have special places I go to laugh.”
He wondered why she would need to do that. “What for?” he asked, mystified.
“Because this place is a gold mine of asininities,” she whispered as she laughed into her hand, trying unsuccessfully to hide the giggling. He wondered what use anyone could have for a gold mine of that, until he noticed that she kept a journal of Dwarven Tales of Grit and Valor, and he shook his head at her, at least until he realized there was nothing in the Mountain worth reading. There were Good Old Boy Stories and repair manuals aplenty, but as for epics, poems, and intellectually stimulating material, they didn’t even know what it was.
Included in dwarven pay scales were room and board, after all, space wasn’t free. Legolas and Sibyl were paid in elf-coins, since the dwarves rightly assumed that sooner of later the elves would leave.
“What do you do with your coins?” Legolas asked Gimli.
“Hoard them!” the dwarf laughed. “Or save them up to buy new tools, or good strong armor.”
“I do not want any of those things,” Legolas replied. “I want fresh foods, the morning rainfall and the beauty of the new fallen snow.”
“Pick something we’ve got,” the dwarf answered. Going with Gimli to the Trading Hall, Legolas was able to find a basket of apples and a blank book bound nicely in leather. Dwarven pens and pencils in various colors were fairly easy to come by, due to the necessity of recording work-related topics, so the elf was delighted that he now had something to write and draw in. He also wrote down some of the Songs and Tales of the Mountain, as well as some of his own observations.
“Why is it so humid in here, where does all this steam come from?” Legolas asked Gimli one day.
“That is one of our most closely guarded secrets, Elf, that is why you needed your own pass, and one of your references was a rotten sack of meat.”
“One of my references?” the elf repeated, wondering.
“You listed a vampire on your form.”
“Oh, him!” Legolas exclaimed, “He is not a friend, and yes, he is a worthless sack of something rotten.” He followed the dwarf down a series of stairways marked with a large red dwarven symbol for heat, until finally they came to what the elf thought must surely be the centre of the Mountain, and looked down from what reminded him of the Bridge of Khazad Dum, and saw what looked to the elf like a scene of Hell from the Outer Planes. Dwarves and gnomes shoveled coal into massive furnaces, turning equally colossal machinery.
“This is the best kept secret of the dwarves,” Gimli said. “This is how we run everything, the fans, pumps, aqueducts, kitchens, latrines, it all starts here.”
“It reminds me of Gehenna,” the elf said, more frightened than impressed.
“Like hot water?”
“Well, yes of course, it is one of the nicest things about the Mountain.”
“Need this first.”
“I do not have to work down here, do I?”
“No, this is no elf-job. Besides, it is almost Battle Preparation Time.” Every few days, the dwarves had drills in which they trained in the ways of war, assuming that the Mountain was being invaded, surrounded, that they were invading someone else, or that the dragon was returning. The last one made Legolas smile, since he thought it was a little late for that.
“I thought Elven and Gnomish participation was neither required nor desired?”
“Then you can continue working, or learn to wield an ax.”
“Might I have a sword, at least?”
“Put in a written request. In the meantime, wield an axe or continue working.”
Legolas chose to learn how to fight with an axe, rather than return to what he had been doing. He chose to practice with Gimli, and was surprised when Sibyl joined them, also dressed in armor and wielding an axe. She looked somewhat silly, a little half elven woman clanking around in dwarven mail and dragging an axe along. He smiled behind the heavy helmet, but actually he enjoyed the time the three of them spent together, even if they were throwing and hewing axes around. By flattering an elderly dwarf, Sibyl managed to have Legolas and herself given small throwing axes, rather than battle axes. She winked at him and smiled; these were ones she had enchanted, so they would be both light to bear and incredibly accurate, doing thrice the normal damage upon impact. The Dwarves did not let her set magical poisons within the metal; it was against the will of their gods. The shadow elves, however, made full use of it, any time they could. All in all, it reminded both elves of wood chopping, but without the green forest and the fresh outdoor smell.
Later on in the day, as he thought about the fresh, green forest, while sorting bolts, who should appear but Semaj. A shadow elf become vampire, he was barely tolerated within the Mountain, and regarded with the greatest of suspicion by the Dwarves. The Ithil were expected to remain mostly within their diplomatic quarters until such time as they should return to their own city. Lurking around the Mountain was not tolerated. Semaj, however, did not care what other people thought, and rather, used every opportunity to the fullest.
“Sorting junk buckets, are you, Sunshine?” The vampire asked, grinning at his own cleverness. He was dressed as ever he had been, in black spider’s silk and mithril embroidery. His hair was pulled up and back, in the Elvish style, but his hair was so black it had blue highlights, and being in the Mountain, with few opportunities to feed, he looked both paler and thinner than usual.
“It is what I have been assigned.”
“Poor, poor Sunshine! Come with me; let me take you to lunch.”
“Semaj, I should not wander off, it will make a poor impression.”
“Why would you care?” Semaj laughed. “Not going to stay here, are you? To spend the rest of your life being ordered around by people stupider than you that you do not respect? That is no way to live!”
Legolas smiled despite himself but said, “I am here to learn, Semaj!”
“Whatever it is you are going to learn by sorting junk buckets, I think you have already learned it,” the vampire laughed. “Come along, it is almost Chow Time, as they would call it, anyway.”
“Are we going to the Mess Hall?” Legolas smiled at the terminology.
“Aptly named, but no. Come with me to the Ithil guild! Unless you think you might miss some of those dwarven tales of grit and valor, or perhaps the smoking?”
“I will not miss the stench of pipes and cigars at all,” the wood elf answered. “Nor do I enjoy the endless reminiscences of elderly dwarves as they tell the same dull stories about the same daring repair jobs.” Curiosity tempted Legolas, and wondering what might be inside Ithil territory, he went along.
He followed the vampire to a gilt-edged door, Elves Only written in Old Elvish on the door, as were high entry prices. Legolas drew a breath just looking at them, and stepped back.
“Oh, I shall pay, poor little wood elf,” Semaj laughed, taking Legolas by the hand. “They do not want your wooden nickels here.”
They entered the guild hall, a diplomatic enclave of Ithil debauchery. Shadow elves in various states of undress, drinking water or wine, and doing other things he could not quite identify. There were a few Men and half elves around; Legolas recognized them easily as wererats, some were in their human forms, others were lounging about on large, soft cushions in the form of giant, human-sized rats. Most of them were worthless as workers, and for some reason, the dwarves never seemed to notice it, nor did they pick up on the rat-like quality about these people. Most of them had been promoted into management. The air in the large room was humid and hot, as though there were a leaky steam vent. There was a stage like the Mess Hall had, but instead of a stodgy dwarf reading safety briefs there was an Ithil woman dancing and taking off her clothes.
“How is this allowed?” Legolas asked Semaj. The Dwarves would have found this an intolerable affront to their ethics and code of hard work and discipline.
“It is considered Ithil territory, not dwarven. The dwarves have a base in Elanazan. I suppose it is a fair trade.” Legolas pondered this while Semaj led him by the hand to a table where other elves were already seated. They greeted Semaj with skepticism and sly smiles, sent back and forth while the vampire was not looking, but seemed very interested in the wood elf he had brought with him. Legolas noticed they did the same thing to one another; sending surreptious messages whenever they could. Plots were ever being hatched among the shadow elves.
“Oh, Semaj,” one of them laughed. “Found yourself a slave, after all?”
“In a manner of speaking,” the vampire laughed. “Is he not beautiful? I call him Sunshine, and he is working for the dwarves at the moment.” This caused a round of laughter among the elves. “Says he wants something to eat,” the vampire said cheerfully, putting his arms around Legolas. This caused another peal of laughter.
A human woman, with dark hair and countless vampire bites asked Legolas what he wanted. The elf almost said that he wanted to leave, but Semaj answered for him.
“He wants fruits and green things,” the shadow elf told the woman, and Legolas was surprised that the vampire should know what he really ate, since he had once been described as eating roots and grub worms. Legolas looked around the table at the Ithil elves, and noticed they were all staring at him. The dark haired woman brought him a small bowl of apple slices with a few berries, leafy greens and tiny flowers arranged nicely. It was a delightful surprise, after looking at Dwarven chow. Fresh foods did not keep long in the Mountain; and Legolas had become accustomed to eating mostly carrots, potatoes and squash, grateful the dwarves at least believed in starchy vegetables and butter. Nonetheless, the fruit was a welcome addition to his dull diet. While he quickly ate the pretty arrangement in order to return to work before the whistle, he listened to their dissolute conversation, and then, once again, noticed that they were all staring at him. He had a horrible feeling that they were all waiting for him to do something and that there was no way out.
One of the elves beside him, extremely thin, even for an elf, wound her finger around his hair, and then she began sniffing his hair. “Ooohh,” she purred, “He is so pretty, so soft and sweet, lush and fresh, let me taste him...” She took his hand, licking his fingers and wrist; another undid the buttons and hooks on his uniform and began kissing his neck. “To feel you, my love...” cooed the vampires.
“Semaj! Get them off of me!” the elf cried nervously, realizing that he had just been fed to the vampires. These things were strong, persistent, and about to bite. They continued their terrifying licking and petting, as Semaj giggled.
“One bite each,” Semaj told them, “And only under the uniform!”
Legolas screamed, and threw himself back in his chair, an act the vampires were not expecting. He jumped up and fled, hearing laughter, raised voices, and exasperated cursing behind him. Semaj was telling them all something.
As he fled the Ithil guild, he ran out into the hallway to find Gimli and the dwarven supervisors standing there, arms crossed, looking surly, as dwarves often did when they were having fun. The Operations and Safety Fourth Level Managers scowled at him and the Operations Manager said, “We have the perfect job for someone who likes blood buckets.”
Wondering what they meant, but grateful to have escaped from the vampires, he simply asked, “Why are those people tolerated?”
The Safety Manager grunted, “Diplomats.” The Dwarves turned around, and motioned for him to accompany them. The managers left Legolas and Gimli at an old metal locker, and kept going, grunting and grumbling about elves.
“You take a silly risk with your life,” Gimli told him.
“I did not know what was in there!”
“Vampires,” the dwarf looked at him strangely. “You should know that!”
Legolas sighed. Dwarves were very pragmatic, and not very sympathetic to the foolish actions of others, and they saw dealing with vampires as foolish, indeed. Gimli unlocked the rusty, creaky metal doors, and pulled out a metal bucket with a red skull and crossbones imprinted on the sides and top.
“That does not look good!” the elf exclaimed.
“Don’t breathe it,” Gimli advised. “You stumbled out of the worst place at the worst possible time, and won a reassignment. You’ll be painting with this stuff, and I’ll show you how.”
“How to paint?” the elf asked in a mystified tone. All elves could paint, and Legolas could paint quite well, he suddenly thought that when this adventure was over, he would paint for Gimli a picture of the Lonely Mountain at sunset. He would include the early evening stars and ask the dwarf to guess which ones they were. He was about to say so when the dwarf picked up a can opener.
Gimli popped the top off of the can, and the worst smell imaginable erupted from it. Like a rotting carcass in a jar, the paint was congealed blood red with a horrendous stench. Legolas put his hand over his nose and mouth, both to stopper the smell and try not to vomit. “Wear a bunny suit for this job, and grab some of those paintbrushes there.”
“It smells so awful,” the elf choked, “And it looks just like blood!” He tried to look at the vile stuff again, but it just made him feel sick. “What is it?”
“Stink-all,” the dwarf laughed.
“Put the lid back on the can!” the elf screamed through his hand. Laughing, the dwarf recapped the can, shaking his head.
“Come along, I’ll show you how to paint with Stink-all.” Legolas followed Gimli down one of the shafts into a cave lit with continual light stones.
“I used to think these things were rare and wonderful,” Legolas said, seeing the golden glow from the stones set into the walls. “I remember how magical it was when Gandalf would light his staff that way.”
“Only if you never seen them before,” the dwarf grunted. “Look over here; this is what you’re going to paint.” He took the cover off of one of the magic metal casings, and pointed to the insides. Silver and copper were everywhere, and the dwarf pointed to the larger silver pieces, and then around the interior of the case. “To make it simple, just paint the silver pieces bigger than your fingernail. Don’t paint the copper.”
The elf stared. It seemed a travesty to cover anything lovely and silvery with stinking, rotting blood-paint, but on a more practical level, there were hundreds of copper threads in the way. “How?”
The dwarf demonstrated how to break and remake a paintbrush in various configurations so as to be inserted between the copper pieces to reach the silver pieces, that the elf now thought were ill-placed indeed. “How come no one painted them before putting them in?” Legolas asked.
“New regulations,” the dwarf answered. “Now we’ve got to refit all the old gear.”
The elf looked sad indeed. “How many of these cases have to be done?”
“All of them.”
The elf wanted to cry, but did not.
“See you at lunch!” the dwarf called as he started to climb back up the shaft. Legolas just sat down. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was open that horrid, stinking can again, but he had also been assigned it by senior dwarves, and there was probably no way out of it except to quit and go home. If the evil vampire had not lured him into the Ithil lounge, he would never have been spotted there to begin with, and he could have just twisted wires all afternoon instead. Damn that Semaj! Legolas thought to himself. Why am I even here, anyway? The elf continued to wonder and grumble to no one in particular. “This is awful,” he said aloud.
“Oh, it ain’t that bad!” an elderly dwarven voice called from far off. “Quit your crying and get to work!”
Stunned and disturbed to realize he had been observed when he had thought he was alone, the elf set the evil-smelling can across the room and opened it up. Then he covered his face with his hands, and went back to the casing and leaned in.
“Son of mercy!” the elderly dwarf screamed. Moving incredibly fast for a fat, old dwarf, he fell out of the overhead. The old dwarf had been catching a nap and the smell of open graves was not conducive to pleasant dreams. “Crap! Ugh! Evil elf! Hide your damned dead bodies somewhere else!” the old dwarf shouted and scooted up the shaft. Legolas did not even turn around, he was laughing into the equipment, having really enjoyed that. Once the old dwarf had left he recapped the can and thought about his task. He could leave the awful can unopened and spend hours, days even, bending paintbrushes and covering the copper bits that were in the way. Indeed, he managed to drag out the dreadful task into a solitary activity, and once he got used to the evil, charnel odor, the paint brought strange thoughts and visions.
After several weeks of painting with Stink-all, Legolas found that he almost liked the tranquil state he could attain after painting with the vile stuff for several hours. It gave him remarkable clarity of vision when it came to the Dwarves. He had only been there for a brief time, but he liked watching them. They were utterly alien to Elves, and somewhat unlike Men, they cohabitated with underground Halflings, tunneling endlessly in their vast series of mining shafts.
Being a female dwarf was not a bad life, they were happy right where they were, well treated and admired in their stone halls, laughed at outside, therefore they rarely ventured outside. Few ever left, nowhere were they treated so well as at home, and the hideous dwarf women were made all the worse when their clothes did not fully cover their bodies.
Bulbous hairy tummies, long, long armpit hair and fatty backs whenever they bent over.
Some dwarves became quite large indeed, even filling out a bunny suit, and their bellies dragged the ground as they walked. To the elf’s irritation, these enormous dwarves, and most of them were women, used their girth to avoid tasks they did not wish to be assigned. Consequently, many urgent tasks were assigned to whatever elf or gnome happened to be standing there. For some reason, the dwarves built their entire ventilation and steam systems to be accessed only by gnomes. The gnomes all left to celebrate their holidays, which was two days for every five, and then all the gnomes would depart to their own realm to party in a most Halfling-like fashion, all returning at the last possible moment before work was to resume; one minute there were no gnomes, the next, they had all returned as if they had never left. Due to their tiny size, they were also mostly exempt from Dwarven morality laws. They bounced and giggled like hobbits, embracing and patting one another affectionately when there was no Dwarven supervision around; however, no gnome ever willingly touched a dwarf.
The gnomes also counted the days until their next vacation home, and they named their days quite clearly to that effect. The first day back was called “Very Bad,” the next was “Simply Bad,” the following one was “Fair to Midling,” and then came “Good Day,” and finally, with much mirth and rejoicing, was “Happy Day.” On Happy Day, the gnomes could barely control their joy and enthusiasm, as they were all looking forward to two whole dwarf-free days. They needed dwarven gold, but didn’t much care for dwarven laws and ways. Since the gnomes were basically underground Halflings able to see perfectly in the darkness, and thus, they too valued the ways of food and good cheer over hoarded gold, and Legolas thought the Gnome Village might be a merry place indeed. If the doorways to it were not so uncomfortably small, he probably would have followed them. As it was, he did not like the idea of crawling through little tunnels in the earth. At least the dwarven halls were comfortable to stand up in, as they anticipated visits from Men and the shadow elves.
As he was to discover, there were a great many regulations governing the interactions between males and females, mostly in favor of the latter. Since dwarf males outnumbered the females four to one, women were elites, and seen as special, a rare acquisition, and valuable. Female dwarves were actually bigger, bolder, and more heartless than the males. Far from needing special coddling, they did not hesitate to insult or beat the males, laughing as they did so. Female dwarves mothered like bears, growling at anyone who came near their offspring. As the dwarves grew, their mothers growled at them, too.
Legolas was appalled to discover exactly where the Ithil elves had found their inspiration. Male dwarves took their ribbing with honored good humor, male Ithil elves were enslaved. It was a wonder to the surface elf how it had all come about, he could not understand how elves could do such awful things to one another, until Sibyl had pointed out to him that Morgoth the Destroyer had been involved. Legolas had sighed, and concurred, realizing that was indeed the origin of the Ithil, they had indeed, once been light elves, until they had been captured and turned away from the sun and starlight, and chosen their gloomy fairyland beneath the earth. The Dwarves’ way of doing things was purely functional, theirs was a practical world; form followed function. Everything had a purpose, unlike the world of elves, where things existed for their own sake, not because they were needed.
A male dwarf with women in his life, a wife, daughters, maybe a mother or nieces was envied. To have a wife and children; sons and daughters, and the most coveted and magical event of all, a mistress, he would be the king himself! He would complain about being bossed around and forced to spend all of his gold on trinkets and jewels for them, but really, the male dwarf was proud to have women in his life, and the complaining proved that he had them. Dwarf marriages were rare, and thus an occasion for a big feast and celebration, maybe even a work stoppage. Stopping was good progress, for a wedding, a war, or a safety violation.
“May I remarry my wife in a dwarven ceremony, and then share her bed?” Legolas asked Gimli. The dwarf laughed. “Why are you laughing? I miss sharing pleasures, and simply speaking together without anyone else around.”
“You do not have enough gold or status for a woman, Elf!” the dwarf laughed. “Nor have you given her a jewel of sufficient value!”
“What? What jewel?”
“You must give your intended a ring, with as grand a jewel as you can afford. You can barely afford to eat.”
“Then it will not be very grand, and although dwarves may not believe it, there are other things to life besides working and eating.”
“Yes, smoking and drinking.”
“That is not what I was implying.”
“Think carefully. Dwarven marriages are forever, they are truly set in stone. We carve the names and dates in a flat stone, and it would be concreted upon the wall in the Great Hall. Dwarven marriages are forever, so be sure!”
“I love my wife, Gimli,” he said, slightly offended, “And we have three small children.” He watched the dwarf’s snickering with mild irritation. Legolas was briefly tempted to point out that the dwarf did not yet have a wife, but realized that the best thing to do was let it drop.
While jewelry making with the old dwarf Eccles, he told Eccles all of this, and the elderly dwarf asked, “Did you look in the Extras Drawer?”
“For what shall I look?” Legolas asked.
“A jewel that you might use. There are some in there that a lady might want that I do not.” Eccles pulled open a bottom drawer into which he regularly put stones of value that he did want to use. “Here it is; a pink diamond. Your half-elven lady would like this, and I certainly do not want it.”
“Why not?” the elf wondered aloud, “I think it is pretty. When cut, it will be lovely.”
“Because, Elf, it is pink. No dwarf wants to wear a pink stone.”
“Thank you, I know my wife will love this. She once worked for the dwarves before, and has a thorough knowledge of jewels, and she will appreciate the beauty of this one...”
“Talking time over, get back to work.”
Using some of the time he would normally have spent just waiting for something, Legolas began to cut the pink diamond. He gave it a simple design, and set it in a gold ring he was almost certain would fit her, since he modeled it after one of her existing rings. “That’s nice,” he announced one day, feeling finished. He was making up a song and elegant, creative presentation that was to go with it. He thought to himself, if only there were a flower or two in the Mountain! But no, he’d been lucky to come up with a basket of fruit.
“Little plain,” Eccles grumbled.
“I like it. It needs nothing more.”
“Should take longer,” the old dwarf grumbled.
“I thought dwarves disliked waiting.”
“Bah! Only elves and old men have fun waiting!” the dwarf exclaimed. “But a wedding ring for a woman; that should take time, great amounts of time, and it should represent the best that a stalwart dwarf can create; stone from earth, crafted with time and care upon the finest rock!”
Legolas thought carefully, observing the elderly dwarf. This was clearly some sort of profound dwarven ritual, and he needed to tread carefully upon this sacred ground. Perhaps it was similar to the ceremonies and singing of the Elves, or the vows taken by human men in Lake Town. He took a deep breath and tried to explain the cultural differences between them all, how the Dwarves valued gems, the Elves love of singing and beautiful settings, and Men’s way of binding things carefully. As he had suspected, Eccles quickly lost interest, especially when Legolas began his story of the Fellowship, and how his Halfling friends had found wives and about their families. Eccles looked like he was about to fall asleep as the Elf described the marital bliss of Halflings. Legolas laughed softly to himself; the art of boring people was a form of sleep spell in and of itself. When Eccles was quite asleep, Legolas put the pink diamond ring into his pocket and did not mention it again. Tomorrow he would give it to Sibyl, and remarry his wife, successfully getting out of the dwarven communal rooms, and they would once more be able to share a bed together.
Legolas spoke with Gimli and Sibyl the next day, and almost gave her the ring then, so as to quickly set in motion the process of applying for whatever unearthly ridiculous permits might be required, and he was sure there would be some. The Dwarves would let their Mountain burn to the ground before they would deviate from procedure, or use an ounce of common sense. They left for work after their bland biscuits in the Great Mess Hall. Instead of a Safety Brief, they were reminded how important it was to follow all instructions to the letter. Verbatim compliance was essential.
“It is Field Day,” Eccles the dwarf told him proudly when the elf arrived at his work bench.
“What is that, do we go outside into the fields?” the elf asked hopefully, what a perfect opportunity to present her with the ring, on the scenic side of the Mountain!
The old dwarf laughed hysterically, slapping his thighs with his hands, “No, no! We pick up trash.” The dwarf noticed the very sad expression on the elf’s face.
“And then what do we do?”
“Go back to work,” the dwarf smiled, noticing the elf’s unhappy look.
“How I miss being at home! I miss my children, my father, and even the noisy bustle of the docks under the palace! I miss the deep forest and gardens at twilight, the filtered sunlight overhead through the trees, and music, and soft beds with warm blankets and the sweet smell of lavender. Most of all, I miss fresh food! I also require a lovely setting to re-propose to my wife, and even the side of the Mountain would be better than these gray halls.”
“Too much noise, get to work. There is plenty of trash on the seventh floor.”
“This defies commons sense and simple sensibility,” Legolas said sadly. “Men have a word for it, they call it humanity...”
“Common sense is neither trainable nor certifiable and is thus not authorized for use in the Mountain.” Eccles the dwarf explained.
“No, no, no!” Legolas objected, more than tired of working for the dwarves, “that is not possible! Of all the absurd things I have heard since coming here, that is the most impossible! I simply do not believe it.”
“Do you need to see it in writing?”
“Yes I do,” Legolas said. Common sense was obvious, Men and Elves knew it intuitively, and the right thing to do was the right thing to do, with or without a procedural manual...
“Here you are.” The dwarf opened up for him a small handbook which contained some rules. One of the bylaws was explicit; common sense was neither certifiable nor trainable, and thus not authorized for use in the Mountain. Verbatim compliance to all regulations was to be exercised at all times, and the dwarves prided themselves on being able to cite these rules, having memorized each rule’s number and location in the encyclopedic library of procedures, guides, manuals, and process instructions.
The poor elf felt as though there could be no rational response to this. Everything depended upon common sense, upon the obvious...