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Fic - Narvi and the Holly King - 1/1
Title: Narvi and the Holly King
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Humour/Angst/Romance
Pairings: Celebrimbor/Narvi
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: A Dwarvish fairy tale.
Author's Notes: This was written for the prompt 'AU: Fairy Tale/Myth' on my Trope Bingo table.
“A story, then. One before your bedtime. Now which one – really? That one? Fine. The one about the Elf it is then, but don’t you go getting any ideas from it now. None, do you hear? Right then. Let’s start.
“Once upon a time, in the great Dwarf kingdom of Khazad-dûm when Durin once more reigned, there lived a Dwarf called Narvi son of Norin. He was a miner’s lad, was Narvi, but not one himself. For all – they say – he was as much a Stonefist as there ever was, he wasn’t meant for the dark of a mine. No sir. Narvi had a gift, you see, for stone.
“He lived stone. Breathed stone. He carved such wonders as have never been carved before or since. He was the greatest mason to have ever lived, and he was betrayed by his One.
“Now, Narvi’s One is the Elf of your story. An Elf for a One – now see why I don’t want you getting ideas? Now, the Elf – what was his name? Oh, aye, I know it. Probably can’t say it right for the life of me. Ce-something. We Dwarves know him as Khalebrimbur. Easier to say. Khalebrimbur, then, was the – will you stop interrupting? What did he –
“He was an Elf, lad. He was tall and thin and pointy-eared, pale faced and unbearded. All Elves look like that. Men say they’re beautiful and they sure as granite like to think they are themselves, but they’re really just stringy.
“Can I continue? Good. Khalebrimbur was the head Elf of a village of their craftsfolk that lived in the foothills to the west of Khazad-dûm. I don’t know what it was called, but it was probably something poncey and Elvish and to do with holly. Khalebrimbur was sometimes called the Holly King, that’s how I know that; that’s why the story’s called that, if you’ll ever listen. And for an Elf, he wasn’t a bad sort, I suppose. He was happy and willing to trade with the Dwarves. He wanted to make an alliance – the first of its kind – and Durin agreed. As a sign of faith, they agreed that an Elf from Khalebrimbur’s village and a Dwarf from Khazad-dûm would work together on the doors at the western gate of the kingdom.
“Narvi, of course, was the Dwarf chosen. He was young, barely past his coming of age, they say, when he carved those doors. For fifty days and fifty nights he laboured on them, with an Elf by his side. Yes, that Elf was Khalebrimbur, but no one knew – at first – that the Holly King had chosen to make the doors himself. He was a smith, you see, trained in the forges of Mahal beyond the sea, and he worked precious mithril into a substance they call ithildin – a black metal that looks almost like stone until the moonlight or starlight touches it.
“Typical bloody Elf.
“And during those fifty days and fifty nights, Narvi son of Norin discovered he wasn’t bound to his craft like many thought he was, but to the Elf instead. And in their camp by the doors, they promised themselves to each other.
“Aye, well, probably, but you’re too young to hear of it and I don’t fancy thinking up the details anyhow.
“And for a time they were happy, Narvi and the Holly King. The alliance between Elves and Dwarves flourished, trade was established, and peace reigned the land. But Khalebrimbur – being an Elf – couldn’t leave it bloody well alone. Finally, one of the lovebirds had twigged that one day, Narvi was going to die – Dwarves are mortal, as you know, but Elves aren’t. They all bloody look alike. They could be thirty or thirty thousand and no one could tell.
“This upset Khalebrimbur, which is fair enough, so he decided to try and change the order of things. He took help from a wandering craftsman in the making of rings. Magic rings – aye, the one that the line of Durin had before Thrain was lost. That was one of them. He wanted to give one to Narvi, you see, to make him as immortal as an Elf.
“But it didn’t work that way. That wandering craftsman turned out to be the Dark Lord Sauron, and he was tricking Khalebrimbur into making the Rings of Power. Nine for Men, Seven for Dwarves – aye, you know the poem as well as anyone, no need to say it. Before the job was done, Khalebrimbur realised that he’d been tricked, and he sent Narvi back to Khazad-dûm and made those three Elvish rings in secret. Which is why they’d be the ones that didn’t drive anyone mad.
“Or, well, that or the Elves that had ‘em were already mad. Elves. Hard to tell.
“Sauron grew angry with the deception, as Dark Lords tend to do, and he had Khalebrimbur killed. Violently. And his village was attacked and burned to the ground as Sauron marched his armies upon it.
“And Narvi, who had been happy being mortal because he was – for the most part – a sensible type, lost everything. The loss of his One carved a hole in his heart that nothing could fill. It drove him mad beyond grief until one day, he cast his tools and himself into the deepest mines of Khazad-dûm.
“And so, the greatest mason of the Dwarves was lost. The Dark Lord Sauron entered his reign of power, and the people of the free world learned never to trust a craftsman without his own forge. The End.
“Now go to sleep, my lad, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Humour/Angst/Romance
Pairings: Celebrimbor/Narvi
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: A Dwarvish fairy tale.
Author's Notes: This was written for the prompt 'AU: Fairy Tale/Myth' on my Trope Bingo table.
“A story, then. One before your bedtime. Now which one – really? That one? Fine. The one about the Elf it is then, but don’t you go getting any ideas from it now. None, do you hear? Right then. Let’s start.
“Once upon a time, in the great Dwarf kingdom of Khazad-dûm when Durin once more reigned, there lived a Dwarf called Narvi son of Norin. He was a miner’s lad, was Narvi, but not one himself. For all – they say – he was as much a Stonefist as there ever was, he wasn’t meant for the dark of a mine. No sir. Narvi had a gift, you see, for stone.
“He lived stone. Breathed stone. He carved such wonders as have never been carved before or since. He was the greatest mason to have ever lived, and he was betrayed by his One.
“Now, Narvi’s One is the Elf of your story. An Elf for a One – now see why I don’t want you getting ideas? Now, the Elf – what was his name? Oh, aye, I know it. Probably can’t say it right for the life of me. Ce-something. We Dwarves know him as Khalebrimbur. Easier to say. Khalebrimbur, then, was the – will you stop interrupting? What did he –
“He was an Elf, lad. He was tall and thin and pointy-eared, pale faced and unbearded. All Elves look like that. Men say they’re beautiful and they sure as granite like to think they are themselves, but they’re really just stringy.
“Can I continue? Good. Khalebrimbur was the head Elf of a village of their craftsfolk that lived in the foothills to the west of Khazad-dûm. I don’t know what it was called, but it was probably something poncey and Elvish and to do with holly. Khalebrimbur was sometimes called the Holly King, that’s how I know that; that’s why the story’s called that, if you’ll ever listen. And for an Elf, he wasn’t a bad sort, I suppose. He was happy and willing to trade with the Dwarves. He wanted to make an alliance – the first of its kind – and Durin agreed. As a sign of faith, they agreed that an Elf from Khalebrimbur’s village and a Dwarf from Khazad-dûm would work together on the doors at the western gate of the kingdom.
“Narvi, of course, was the Dwarf chosen. He was young, barely past his coming of age, they say, when he carved those doors. For fifty days and fifty nights he laboured on them, with an Elf by his side. Yes, that Elf was Khalebrimbur, but no one knew – at first – that the Holly King had chosen to make the doors himself. He was a smith, you see, trained in the forges of Mahal beyond the sea, and he worked precious mithril into a substance they call ithildin – a black metal that looks almost like stone until the moonlight or starlight touches it.
“Typical bloody Elf.
“And during those fifty days and fifty nights, Narvi son of Norin discovered he wasn’t bound to his craft like many thought he was, but to the Elf instead. And in their camp by the doors, they promised themselves to each other.
“Aye, well, probably, but you’re too young to hear of it and I don’t fancy thinking up the details anyhow.
“And for a time they were happy, Narvi and the Holly King. The alliance between Elves and Dwarves flourished, trade was established, and peace reigned the land. But Khalebrimbur – being an Elf – couldn’t leave it bloody well alone. Finally, one of the lovebirds had twigged that one day, Narvi was going to die – Dwarves are mortal, as you know, but Elves aren’t. They all bloody look alike. They could be thirty or thirty thousand and no one could tell.
“This upset Khalebrimbur, which is fair enough, so he decided to try and change the order of things. He took help from a wandering craftsman in the making of rings. Magic rings – aye, the one that the line of Durin had before Thrain was lost. That was one of them. He wanted to give one to Narvi, you see, to make him as immortal as an Elf.
“But it didn’t work that way. That wandering craftsman turned out to be the Dark Lord Sauron, and he was tricking Khalebrimbur into making the Rings of Power. Nine for Men, Seven for Dwarves – aye, you know the poem as well as anyone, no need to say it. Before the job was done, Khalebrimbur realised that he’d been tricked, and he sent Narvi back to Khazad-dûm and made those three Elvish rings in secret. Which is why they’d be the ones that didn’t drive anyone mad.
“Or, well, that or the Elves that had ‘em were already mad. Elves. Hard to tell.
“Sauron grew angry with the deception, as Dark Lords tend to do, and he had Khalebrimbur killed. Violently. And his village was attacked and burned to the ground as Sauron marched his armies upon it.
“And Narvi, who had been happy being mortal because he was – for the most part – a sensible type, lost everything. The loss of his One carved a hole in his heart that nothing could fill. It drove him mad beyond grief until one day, he cast his tools and himself into the deepest mines of Khazad-dûm.
“And so, the greatest mason of the Dwarves was lost. The Dark Lord Sauron entered his reign of power, and the people of the free world learned never to trust a craftsman without his own forge. The End.
“Now go to sleep, my lad, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
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Poor both of them.
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It is a big ouch for both of them, but I'm glad the narrator could make you laugh at the same time.