Sulûn (The Falling) [Tolkien Dwarf FanFic - Third Age]

The Heir of Nothing

Eilíf I am called.

Alone. Always alone.

There are not many dwarves who do not know their sire. I know nothing of where I came from save my mother being found slain on the borders of this kingdom. I know not whence she came nor who slew her. I do not even know how I survived as a suckling babe. No one took me in. As far back as I can remember, I have been alone.

That is not to say I have gone without, trying to scratch a living off rock. Khazad-dum thrives under King Durin. Even the loneliest orphan may find a way to fill their belly with enough cunning.

Cunning, not theivery.

I learned my runes early and made enough coin for my bread amongst the scribes, copying scrolls for the Mazarbul. It was dull work -- mostly copying stock ledgers and tax receipts -- but the coin from it kept my belly full, and it gave me some interaction with other dwarves. Albeit little interaction; I was altogether unremarkable and the other dwarves in the chamber rarely paid me mind. Just being in the company of others was enough. Working kept the loneliness at bay.

I claimed a small abandoned delving as my own, as well. I had claimed it very early in my life, the days of sneaking naps in dark corners, hoping to avoid punishment were hazy with age. There were a few of these empty houses still left from the last war when the Doors of Durin were sealed shut against the evil the Elves had wrought in the forges of Eregion. Many entire families of dwarves left for war, never to return. 

My house was down a little used path in Khazad-dûm, no one wanted to be reminded of our brothers who never returned from battle, and no one knew I dwelt there out of necessity. I was concerned for years that I would be found a squatter and exiled, but much time had passed with no one paying me mind. I no longer feared losing my home. It was remote from the bustle of the rest of the kingdom, but it was homely enough. Through my meager wages I had managed to respectably furnish it with bare basics fairly early on -- a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, a small table and chairs -- all rough hewn, but functional. I had no great desire for rich furnishings or clothing. Looking to save coin I bought unfinished, abandoned work from merchants and craftsmen. If a dwarf crafted something that was not deemed perfect, it would never see the light of day to be traded with other races, but could be purchased by a persistent enough dwarf who offered to save it from the rubbish heap.

I spent my lonely nights as a child carving by the light of a flickering candle. First my furnishings, intricately carved in geometric shapes and scenes of the great mountains below which Khazad-dûm lay, as well as Kheled-zarâm, where I was found. Later the walls of my dwelling were carved as well, adding great pillars and a hearth into the walls. At the end of my labours, my room looked as if it fell from a palace -- a very small palace.

And so many years passed: transcribing ledgers by day, sneaking through the quiet corridor to my house, and learning new craft at night by the light of candle or hearth. I was proud of my self-taught ability to create -- to master wood and stone, making a craftsman's refuse beautiful and breathing life into my forgotten home. I had no hope of securing an apprenticeship to properly master a craft, but I had little desire to become a Master and only work in one medium. I learned a broad swath of craft, including bead- and needlework as well as more traditional dwarven pursuits, never becoming tied to one over all others.

---

It was not until I neared my majority that I began to garner much notice. My hair had always been long, wavy and flaxen; worn mostly loose but for the two scholars braids hanging behind my ears, ending in small wooden beads fashioned from the wood carved from my bedpost. This fair hair was relatively rare amongst the dwarves, but it did not do much to garner attention until my beard transformed from small whisps into a full, luscious, thing of beauty nearly overnight.

I wore it loose like my hair, a shock of pale gold that reached my waist. Braids are very important to dwarves, but I had no braids I was allowed to plait outside of the braids of the Scholars. No family, no lineage. I was not a great warrior nor a great craftman. I had no renown, no family, no place. This didn't bother me aside from the practicality of a bushy, and quite unruly beard with nothing to tame it.

The beard made my job of scribing much harder. I quickly learned to tuck the end of it into the belt of my simple, rough spun robe lest it rub the wet ink, ruining the document and staining the tip of my beard, which was often a dull grey from the old ink. Ruined parchment meant less coin, less coin meant skipped meals, and there was no hiding the indiscretion as the evidence was quite literally upon my face.

It was not only the unwieldy physical presence of my beard which made my job difficult, but also the newfound attention from would-be admirers as I worked. It was strange that I had toiled alongside these dwarves for years, since I was a wee lass, and only now had any of them spared me a glance. Often there would be a group of dwarves huddled around my desk, sometimes before I even arrived for the day. I would be greeted with a low rumble of "Good morning!"s and a line of teeth flashing in smiles, almost predatory, nestled amongst many colors of pelt before being regaled with stories of this battle... or that mine... or one particular dwarf's success in trading with the Men of the Anduin -- for it was not only my fellow scholars that took notice, but seemingly all the available dwarves who were not partnered nor married to their work. The Chamber of Mazarbul soon became a favorite destination of aging warriors whose muscles had softened with age, miners with hands roughened from delving deep below the city, merchants dripping with jewels and other finery with smiles not quite reaching their eyes. The scholars and scribes were the least unwelcome of these suitors, they belonged in the Chamber and were not merely distractions from my work.

Finding a spouse amongst dwarves was somewhat difficult, for dwarves are stubborn and their love fiercely possessive. There were far fewer dwarrowdams to dwarves, and not all of them were agreeable to marriage. Some found lasting contentment with their craft much like the males, and some had fallen in love with one who would not have them and thus would have no other. This meant our race grew slowly, and the pool of potential mates remained very small.  As a dwarrowdam unhampered by serious craft or previous love, I was quite rare and desirable. Knowing this did little to alleviate the frustration of constant inquiries into the state of my health and offers to escort me hither and thither.

Shrinking into the shadows and padding quietly to my home down the forgotten hall was no longer an option, and yet I felt alone as ever. As if the dwarves vying for my attention were more competing with themselves to win a prize than wooing me for love. I did not think any of these dwarves genuinely cared for me, I certainly loved none of them -- I was just a novelty. A welcome distraction that allowed them to prove superiority and virility.

I could not shake this near-constant entourage. At times they followed me to my very door! My dwelling was no longer secret, but its discovery did not end in my eviction. Perhaps the dwarves who followed me were so wrapped up in their tales of glory they did not notice I lived in the abandoned homes. This was a small mercy.