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Tack. Tack. Tack.
It had been the noise that had driven Mairon from Celebrimbor’s home.
Not the knocking, which had persisted stubbornly for the last week despite Mairon’s noble attempts to ignore it. He had assumed that with time, whoever’s fist fell upon the wooden gates would eventually grow tired and leave. He had even been correct, as after some long minutes the knocking had faded away back into comfortable silence.
Until it returned the next day, louder, more insistent.
And then the next day, even louder.
And then the next, and then the next, until an entire week had passed of persistent, insistent knocking.
Still, Mairon had dutifully ignored the sound, refusing to even investigate the gate or the walls, for as long as their would-be visitor remained beyond them Celebrimbor would remain safe. They could knock all they wished, but Mairon would not humor the noise.
Until now.
Tack. Tack. Tack.
The knocking had sprung up just earlier that morning, and faded away once more clockwork when Mairon once more ignored it. Mairon had expected to hear no more on the matter until tomorrow, as with every day before
Instead, hours later, he was greeted by a new noise.
A sort of clicking noise, not fist upon wood but rather metal upon stone, and that had given Mairon pause for it had almost sounded like someone was chipping away at the walls.
No sooner than he had come to that realization had Mairon burst from Celebrimbor’s home, scarcely remembering to lock the door behind him with a sharp whistle of magic. He had all but flown across the city and up the steps leading to the top of the wall, a song rising in his throat in preparation for war.
He had feared armies.
He had feared elves, or even men at his gate.
He had not expected to peer downwards and see a singular stout, bearded creature attempting to scale the walls.
Tack. Tack.
…
Ah, yes.
Eru’s adopted children.
Mairon had never given much mind to the dwarves before. He knows of them naturally, but his interactions with them were… limited. Rather limited, as he cannot recall a time he had ever truly seen one close enough to study before. He squints downwards, peering over the side of the wall, silently scouring his long, long memory for any interactions he had ever partaken with the creatures.
Nothing comes to mind.
One could hardly blame him. The dwarves were quite isolated within their little mountain fortresses. Melkor had seen little reason in undertaking the grand task of attempting to crack open great peaks simply to reach them. Not out of a lack of power, for Melkor’s might was great and his pride greater. Had his sight been cast upon the dwarves, there would be no depth from which they could hide from him.
They were beneath his withering gaze, not worth tormenting when they were not even of Eru’s creation.
And perhaps Mairon himself had turned a blind eye to their workings out of some scrap of guilt, for before there were ever Eru’s they were Aule’s.
He certainly is not turning a blind eye now though, watching silently as the dwarf wrenches a pickaxe from the wall and sinks it into the space between two stones higher above it. It wields two of them, and appears to be using them to establish holds. It appears to Mairon this was worked well for it thus far, as it has managed to ascend near half the height of the wall.
Mairon takes a moment to gaze outwards across the landscape, confirming that there is indeed only one dwarf present. Which of course only raises a question of Why?
For what reason does a dwarf scale the walls of Ost-in-Edhil? What purpose could a dwarf possibly have within a realm only recently un-abandoned?
His first thought would be inclined towards thievery.
Mairon tilts his head to the side, pressing his lips together tightly. It makes no difference. Once it makes it to the top of the wall Mairon will simply push it right back off. The fall may break a few bones, but it probably will not kill it. And if it does not learn from its mistakes, Mairon can always make sure the lesson sticks.
Tack-
Though apparently gravity has a lesson to teach first as the stone of the wall crumbles beneath the bite of the pickaxe’s point. With nothing to secure it to the wall the dwarf plummets back to the ground, sticking the dirt with a resounding thud that sends some dust flying into the air.
“Damn!” The dwarf curses, rolling to its feet. It does not even bother to dust itself off before it grasps for where its tools have fallen into the earth. “Celebrimbor, you scrawny rat,” the dwarf grumbles furiously, and Mairon’s ears twitch at the familiar name. “You could at least answer the damn gate.” Instead of giving up on its foolish task, it huffs as it strides back to the base of the wall, reaching out a hand to touch the stone as if it may enlighten it to a path upwards.
Mairon’s lips curl downwards into a frown.
Perhaps he should just kill it now and spare himself the headache later. He does still have the entire west wing of the city to garden, and waiting for the dwarf to successfully climb the wall just to push it back down seems rather a waste of time.
Then again, Celebrimbor probably would not appreciate the death of someone who apparently knows him. That would be hard to explain when Celebrimbor eventually resumes speaking, even if they are mere acquaintances at best.
Very well. He shall at least attempt words, then.
“No visitors, please,” Mairon calls down primly.
“Ah!” the dwarf yelps in surprise at the sound of his voice, stumbling backwards away from the wall, pickaxes held defensively. Mairon waits patiently for it to leave, but instead the moment it makes eye contact it shuffles its legs further apart, sinking deeper into an even more defensive stance. “You aren’t Celebrimbor,” the dwarf accuses, pointing one of its tools upwards at Mairon. “Who are you?!”
“An astute observation,” Mairon replies rather than providing his own name. He gestures vaguely leftwards with a hand, directing the dwarf’s gaze towards the wooden gate nearby. “Another you no doubt have already noticed is that the gate is locked. Most would take that to mean we are not entertaining guests, not an invitation to scuttle up the walls.”
There is an insult buried not very deep within his words in there that the dwarf reddens at.
“I saw smoke from the mountain and imagined Celebrimbor must had returned,” the dwarf retorts, squaring its stance, rolling its shoulders back as if the extra height it gains by standing up proper would somehow match Mairon’s up upon the wall. “I didn’t realize some other prissy elf had moved in instead. That’s someone’s city, you know. It’s a bit rude to just move in.”
“Move back in,” Mairon corrects sharply, though his gaze does wander to the plants he has been tending to. Perhaps burning them so flagrantly was ill advised. He had not thought to worry that someone might have noticed the smoke. Who else may have seen, aside from this rude dwarf? “Something I have done to care for my good friend Celebrimbor. I would suggest you mind your tone.”
“I’d be his friend as well, and he certainly never mentioned someone like you!”
…That cannot be correct. Mairon was at Celebrimbor’s side for years before he left, and never in that time had he shown any particular interest in befriending dwarves. He had no dwarven friends. Mairon would certainly know.
“I believe I would have remembered if Celebrimbor had mentioned a friendship with one of the dwarves,” Mairon replies, narrowing his eyes, fingers curling slowly as he rests them upon the parapet. “If you were truly his friend, you could offer more than simply his name.”
“What, you wish for me to list his favorite foods?” The dwarf scoffs, puffing its chest out in obvious pride. “Why should I have to prove myself to you?”
Perhaps because Mairon alone guards Celebrimbor against the dangers beyond the walls.
Perhaps because Mairon alone can unlock the gates.
Perhaps because Mairon finds his patience gradually running thin the longer this needless conversation continues.
He does so hate unproductive matters.
“I suppose any evidence you could offer would be irrelevant,” Mairon admits coolly, lifting his chin so he can peer down at the dwarf more obviously. As if to stress that it is beneath him in more ways than just physical. “As I have stressed numerous times, we have no desire to socialize at the moment. Now kindly leave.”
The dwarf sputters, face reddening further balling its hands around the handles of its tools into even tighter fists.
“I’ll go nowhere until you tell Celebrimbor that Narvi has come to his halls!” The dwarf shouts. “I told him as soon as he got back to let me know!”
“I doubt such a thing would matter,” Mairon hums, inclining his head to one side as he studies the furious creature below. Yes, very strange the dwarves are. He has no regrets about avoiding them thus far in his life, and has little inclination to seek them out in the future. “Celebrimbor has not left his bed for a month now. I doubt a simple mention of your name would do much to rouse him when he has not spoken to me at all in that time.”
The dwarf’s face changes hue quite suddenly and fantastically as it goes from red to pale within a few apparently stunned moments.
“What?!”
“Good day, master dwarf,” Mairon calls down, an obvious note of finality to his words. He has wasted enough time peddling useless words to an irrelevant creature, and is quite done with this conversation now. “Kindly do not come back.”
He turns his back to the dwarf, stepping away from the parapet, ignoring its frustrated groans and the pounding of its boots in the dirt. Hopefully it is simply leaving, though if it attempts to scale the wall again he shall have no choice but to take more drastic actions to keep it out.
He did try diplomacy, after all.
Celebrimbor will understand.
Mairon is thrown from his silent musings by a magnificent cracking noise, followed near instantly by a resounding thud. He turns quickly, racing back to stare down over the side of the wall, but the dwarf is nowhere to be seen, and the crack had not come from behind him, had it?
It had come from beside him.
Mairon turns back towards the city in time to catch a glimpse of the dwarf stumble to its feet before running down the wide main road of the city before it disappears from his view behind a building. Mairon swiftly descends the stairs after him, but pauses once more as he catches sight of the main gate.
Ah. That would certainly explain the noise.
There is an obvious hole in the gate that was not there previously. An almost dwarf-sized hole, with splintered boards of wood scattered near Mairon’s feet.
…It is a tactic Mairon had not anticipated, otherwise he would have made efforts to barricade the gate further. Instead he shall have to pay the price for his lack of foresight by repairing the gate.
First he has an intruder to deal with.
Mairon turns away from the door and his skin ripples, features stretching and distorting and shortening, black fur sprouting forth. The claws of his back feet click against the stone as he bursts into a sprint, racing down the street on four legs rather than two.
There is no time to maintain formalities when the dwarf already has a significant lead upon him.
That is why it is as a feline he runs. While his wolf form may have been marginally swifter, he may need the maneuverability a smaller frame offers.
Silently he races down the streets, pursuing the dwarf. It is shockingly fast, as even in a feline form it manages to keep a decent distance between them, rounding corners with the kind of confidence that could only come from either stupidity or knowing where he is going.
Uncomfortably, Mairon finds that the path it seems to be tracing is one that leads directly to Celebrimbor’s home.
His ears swivel backwards at the thought, pressing tight against his head as if this may grant him some additional speed even as Celebrimbor’s door draws ever closer.
He had left the spell upon the door, surely that will keep the dwarf at bay until Mairon can-
Not even bothering to check the lock, the dwarf simply runs at full speed through the door.
Mairon follows through the splintered hole left behind a moment later. He can still feel the magic thrumming in the doorframe as he passes, keeping the door firmly in place but doing nothing to prevent one from simply traversing directly through it. The dwarf is ahead of him, skidding across the carpet as it turns sharply to enter Celebrimbor’s room, enter the one place where Celebrimbor was meant to be safe and-
“No!” Mairon snarls, all but snapping back to his own form in time to grab the dwarf by the back of the shirt. He drags it backwards, out of Celebrimbor’s room, and it is only when the smell of burning brushes against his nose does he realize his grip is smoldering the fabric of the dwarf’s collar.
Not here. Not in front of Celebrimbor.
He takes a careful, steadying breath as he moves further back, further away, dragging the dwarf with him with each step he takes. It resists him, but it does not matter how it drags its heels for Mairon is far stronger than it could even imagine.
“No,” Mairon repeats, scarcely resisting the urge to shake the dwarf in his simmering frustration. “Celebrimbor is fine. He does not need you.”
“He is hardly fine, look at him!” The dwarf shouts, and Mairon grimaces at the loud noise. Honestly, Celebrimbor is resting. He does not need yelling in his home
“He is safe,” Mairon counters in a furious whisper, hoping the dwarf will follow in his tone and also lower its voice.
“He’s covered in dust,” the dwarf retorts, voice still raised, trying to breach the distance between itself and Celebrimbor once more.
Mairon does not give any ground, dragging it back further until his own back bumps against the table in the dining room.
“I clean him weekly,” Mairon whispers, growing offended at the accusations. Celebrimbor is not dusty. He is perfectly cared for.
“If you were truly his friend you would not just let him rot away in here alone like this!”
“He is not alone,” Mairon hisses. “He has me.”
“He needs more than you! He needs more than this empty city!” The dwarf throws its arms around, as if gesturing to the abandoned kingdom at large and not just Celebrimbor’s home. Its face is once more beginning to take on an unusual hue, and when it speaks next it all but spits at him. “It is as if you do not want him to get better at all!”
Mairon’s eyes narrow, and he does succumb to the urge to shake the dwarf by the back of its shirt. Just once as he lifts it easily into the air so he can meet its gaze head-on, their noses nearly touching.
“Do not insult me, dwarf,” Mairon warns, voice still quiet but now dangerously low.
The dwarf scowls, jutting its chin out pridefully even as Mairon holds it aloft easily.
“No, you would do well not to insult me, elf. Look me in the eyes and tell me that you truly believe Celebrimbor is well.”
Mairon opens his mouth to retort and… closes it once more. His gaze slips past the dwarf to glance back into Celebrimbor’s room, to Celebrimbor’s bed, to Celebrimbor himself.
He lays there as he has for the last month, staring but unseeing, eyes glassy and hollow. His skin is unmarred but pale, paler than it should be. He has said nothing, has done nothing.
Scarcely more than a doll.
Mairon has thought of it as a tantrum, but he had still anticipated at least some change in the last month. Even something small.
But Celebrimbor still refuses to do anything. Refuses to speak to him, refuses to even look at him.
It is not the Celebrimbor that he knows. Celebrimbor should be animated, should be joyous. He should never be silent.
Mairon stares at him, and all he can remember is the knife.
His anger drains away, and he slowly lowers the dwarf back down to stand under its own feet. A moment later he forces his hand to release its collar, instead lifting his arm to drag his fingers over his face.
He does not like being wrong.
He does not like what has happened to Celebrimbor more.
“What would you propose?” Mairon whispers, reluctance obvious to his own ears. It is as much of an admission that Celebrimbor is not fine as he is willing to give.
The dwarf does not gloat. It does not even run to Celebrimbor’s side. It reaches out instead, resting its hand upon Mairon’s outer thigh as if in reassurance.
“Solitude does well for no one, elf or dwarf,” the dwarf sighs. The words feel condescending, but at least the dwarf is no longer shouting at him. “He needs more.”
“The others who dwelt here are scattered and I know not where,” Mairon points out, recalling some of Celebrimbor’s final words from a month prior. “There is no way to call them back.”
“Bring him to the mountain,” the dwarf suggests easily, as if the answer is obvious. “He can heal there, amongst the company of the dwarves.”
“Absolutely not,” Mairon replies quickly, shaking his head, pressing his lips together and downwards in a sharp frown. He is not willing to give that much, not when it comes to Celebrimbor’s safety. “I suppose I can permit you to enter this city, but I shall not allow Celebrimbor to leave this place.”
The dwarf huffs, apparently quick to grow annoyed again. “Why not?”
“It simply is not safe,” Mairon murmurs, mind racing as he thinks of forges and sharp rock. Of the tools within the forges with their sharpened points, of aprons and their thin tines, of how deep dwarven strongholds are said to delve and how difficult it would be to find Celebrimbor if he wandered away to starve.
He thinks of all of the dangers, and how he would not be there to protect Celebrimbor from any of it.
He is not willing to relinquish control when a misstep could spell death.
“Safe?” The dwarf repeats, incredulous. “There’s no safer place in the world than a dwarven stronghold. No outsiders could hurt him when they cannot even reach him!”
“I am not worried about outsiders hurting him.”
“My kin would never-“
“Himself,” Mairon interrupts sharply, fingers curling into tight fists. “I am worried about him hurting himself.”
“…Ah.”
“There is a precedent,” Mairon admits, “and your halls are no doubt filled with many hidden perils that he could brandish against himself. I fear anything beyond his home is unsafe until we know he is truly well.”
“Damn.” The dwarf turns, casting its gaze back towards where Celebrimbor rests. It considers him silently, then turns so it half faces Mairon once more, glancing up at him curiously. “But you would come with us. We’ll be able to work together to ensure he has a safe place within the mountains.”
Mairon can only stare.
“You would permit me to your home?” He asks softly, curiously. As if the offer may be retracted the moment he says it plainly, and they will return back to their circular arguments.
“If Celebrimbor would call you friend, I see no reason not to,” the dwarf retorts with a snort. As if that is enough.
“Your trust in me is most bizarre, as you have not yet learned my name,” Mairon points out, and the dwarf pauses at that as if it had not realized. He can practically see the cogs within its head turning, and a strange sense of nostalgia rises up within him for Aule himself often made such expressions in thought.
“Ah,” the dwarf finally says, then waves a hand in a circular motion in Mairon’s direction. “Well, go on then.”
Mairon’s gaze drifts to find Celebrimbor’s resting form once more before he draws in a slow breath.
“…Annatar,” Mairon murmurs, extending a hand in greeting for the dwarf to shake. “You may call me Annatar.”