His eyes, growing accustomed to the dimness, discerned strange carvings on the walls, and he saw now that the floor was an intricate inlay of stone and a metal that gleamed bright - copper, he guessed wrongly. Parnard felt his mood in harmony with the dark surroundings, and as the elves crept along the hallway like four burglars, his thoughts shifted away from his failed betrothal to more immediate matters. We will probably all die here, he thought with peculiar satisfaction. And that would be the end of that.
“I will say this for Dwarves, they certainly know how to lay down a level floor,” he murmured. If he had been less interested in the quality of the Dwarves’ craftsmanship, and his thoughts less preoccupied with morbid musings, he might have noticed many tracks of small, clawed feet crisscrossing its dusty expanse, yet he did not need to see them to realize that enemies were near: the air was putrid with foul goblin stink. That was sufficient to rouse the old, vague fear of evil that never left his heart, and silently he drew Steel-Thorn out from its sheath as he hastened his step.
A rat scuttling across the floor made Marawendi jump and she clutched at his arm in a vise-like grip.
“Why must you follow me so closely!” Parnard cried, unfastening her fingers. “Do not hang on my sword arm!” He did not mean to speak so sharply, but he was shaken out of his thoughts and was reminded of his promise to Marawendi's great-uncle to keep her safe from harm. Ailanthas did not know of their choice to travel west through the very roots of the mountains: if he did, he would never have consented to allow her to leave. Perhaps it was sheer folly to take this poor maiden to Eriador along such a dark path, yet wasn’t he dragged along by a band of Noldor, some years ago, into the very heart of Goblin Town? And he lived to tell the tale, despite everything that happened, didn't he? Marawendi bowed her pretty head, embarrassed, unable to meet his gaze.
Earlier that day, before they traveled far into the mine, he spoke to her gently, telling to be not afraid, and to trust in the strength of Estarfin's shield. Nothing would dare hurt her. But Marawendi still trembled, and her eyes were puffy; he suspected that she had been weeping in the dark. He would speak again with her later, when they rested next, he decided, and peered into the blackness, straining his keen ears for any sound. All was quiet except for far-away echoes of dripping water.
“'Do you feel that? Cold air, like a great opening ahead of us,” said Estarfin. “Know you the way?”
“One of the greater delvings lies ahead,” replied Danel. “There old Dwarven crystals remain in some places.”
The tall Noldo looked ahead, seeing nothing beyond the circle of pale blue light that surrounded them, light trapped within gems given to each of them, a dweomer crafted by Danel. The light would last only a few days, she had told them. How long had they been in this accursed mine?
Danel spoke again. “I recall much of this place from my time spent in Eregion. Our peoples traveled back and forth, trading, learning, sharing our skills and knowledge. Some places may be greatly altered, from cave-ins.”
Estarfin only looked at Danel, unconvinced by this flimsiest of reassurances.
“We are Noldor. We do not fear the dark,” Danel said.
“It is not the dark I fear,” replied Estarfin in Quenya.
The two Noldor exchanged hasty whispers in their native tongue, and Parnard, not making any sense of what they discussed, lamented his lack of learning once again.
“Either you want to learn Quenya,” one of the scholars at Imladris had said to him, “or you do not. Any intelligent person can learn to read any language in a few weeks, and speak it in a few months - ” and he paused to look down his nose at the Wood-Elf before adding, “Of course, only an able few can really master Quenya thoroughly enough to read the literature of the Noldor with ease and enjoyment, but if you follow my methods, you will be able to converse and write it as well as any Noldo.” Then the scholar went on to describe his teaching method: how it should first be studied without the grammar, and with the intention of acquiring the most important part of the actual vocabulary, and so on, and when he had finally concluded explaining how he would best teach Quenya, he told Parnard to return to the library the next day for his first language lesson.
Parnard pursued a different teaching method, however. He found out where the Noldor might be expected to meet, and happily discovered this was his preferred place of idleness - the Hall of Fire. There he would go every evening to hear them talk. In his chair beside Sogadan he would sit drinking wine and listening, and over time learned very little Quenya, not only because the vintner Sogadan often had more interesting things to tell him of the doings in the Valley, but because most of the Noldor did not speak Quenya in daily use, but a strange dialect of Sindarin that Parnard had confused for another language.
“The starless night lasts forever under cold and heavy stone,” he murmured. We will be swallowed up by the darkness and none will ever know what became of us. Gradually he became aware that Marawendi had again pressed close to him in fear, and his thoughts were shaken back to the present. He chided his imagination for dreaming up foolish fancies, and said to his companions, “Cave-in or not, there are scratchings and skitterings in the dark. She hears them,” Parnard said, motioning towards the pale-faced Marawendi. “We all hear them.”
“It must be goblins and orcs,” Danel said, reverting back to Sindarin.
“Is that all!” said Parnard with a contemptuous toss of his head. “We faced those many a-time. Still - er, we do not wish to raise the alarm. We must be careful.”
“And quiet,” said Estarfin.
“Careful and quiet,” repeated Parnard.
“Slow and stealthy,” said Danel.
And so they continued onward, as careful and quiet and slow and stealthy as they could manage, leading four horses with hooves muffled in sackcloth. A rickety bridge of wood planks and crude rope lay just ahead, spanning the bottomless dark. Dwarves would never build such a poor structure. The four elves paused, casting doubtful looks at it.
“Look at how they lashed the ropes! Typical helter-skelter Goblin fashion, no artistry at all,” complained Parnard.
“We must cross carefully, one at a time,” whispered Danel. Before she had even finished speaking, Parnard boldly stepped forward, cajoling his horse Swan-Hoof, and skipped across the bridge with quick, light steps. Turning around, he bumped into Marawendi, who had followed close on his heels leading Moonglow, her stout grey pony.
“Marawendi!” he burst out, horrified.
“I am sore affrighted,” she whimpered, her face drawn and pale in the pallid blue light of the dwimmer-stone.
“Marawendi, you are not a child who is afraid of the dark, are you? Listen to your mistress. When she tells you to do something, do it - ware that you do not stick me with that blade!” he said, seeing how tightly she gripped the dagger Estarfin had loaned to her. Danel crossed the bridge next, leading her steed Pelorian, and the three elves held their breath as Estarfin crossed last, his heavy armour and Norlómë’s great weight making the bridge sway sickeningly and the wooden planks crack. As Estarfin reached the middle of the bridge, it started bucking up and down; Norlómë snorted nervously and tried to speed her gait, but keeping Norlómë’s paces slow with a firm grip on her harness, at last Estarfin gained the safety of the far side.
“You see, you have nothing to fear, Marawendi,” said Parnard as he wiped sweat from his brow, relieved beyond measure.
“You do well, Marawendi,” said Danel. “The stairs are just ahead.”
“The stairs leading out of this place?” asked the maiden.
“Alas, no. They take us to the main hall. But we make good progress. Behold! The Second Hall!”
They reached another famous spot within that fabled mine of the dwarves, a large cavern seeming to span from one side of the mountain to the other, so broad it was, and its pillars were smooth and black, carved like trees, with the boughs holding up the ceiling.
“The roots of the mountain,” breathed Marawendi.
“Narvi was a great sculptor of stone,” said Danel, her long memory stretching back. “But this chamber has ever made me shiver: the stairs are ahead, very steep, and very many. There we will look upon other wonders of the Naugrim crafters: the Great Hall of Durin, amongst many others.”
“This place is just an empty tomb now,” Estarfin broke in. “The darkness seems endless.”
“There is no light here now,” agreed Danel. “There was once, as there was once bright friendship between the Elves and Dwarves. Our people lent their skill and helped build gardens here - I suspect these are long neglected, rotted and dead.”
“Nothing wholesome could live in this place now, surely?” Estarfin said.
Parnard looked around, unimpressed. “There is nothing to eat - what could live here? Certainly no dragon. It would fly forth from this black hole, every now and again to feast, but there is no rumour of any dragons in this land. And there are no houses here, so there cannot be any giants about, either,” he said.
“What do houses have to do with giants, Lord Parnard?” piped up Marawendi.
“Houses are their favored place of repose,” he replied, his tone suggesting it was common knowledge that giants like to sit on houses: everyone knows that.
“It has been so long since I was here. This way,” Danel said, heading to the right, after deliberating for a little while. Their passage disturbed a small colony of bats clustering underneath an overhang and the blue crystal light threw back a glow, reflecting a mass of squirming furry bodies that dropped down, wheeling and flittering against their faces. Marawendi made a high-pitched scream that suddenly stopped when Parnard clapped his hand over her mouth.
“We must be quieter!” Parnard whispered in her ear, his heart in his throat as the echoes faded away.
“I would ask, Marawendi, that despite your fear, could you try very hard not to scream?” said Danel. “The old gardens were not so far from here. There we may rest. The pools there may still hold fresh water, snow-melt from the mountains,” and eager to look upon the old place that she frequented with Celebrimbor’s people, she continued on her way without another word.
“Listen to your mistress, dear Marawendi, and all will be well,” Parnard said, releasing her from his grip and pushing her behind him. “And put that dagger away before I get skewered!”
