Chapter 6: Mahal’s Child

‘Have I not felt it? Even now my heart desires to test my will upon [the palantír], to see if I could not wrench it from him and turn it where I would - to look across the wide seas of water and of time to Tirion the Fair, and perceive the unimaginable hand and mind of Fëanor at their work, while both the White Tree and the Golden were in flower!' [Gandalf] sighed and fell silent.

‘The Palantír’, The Two Towers

In the months that followed, Gimli made many visits to Mahtan’s house, riding the pony he had been given.  He was always warmly welcomed. He spent his time there sharing tales and songs with the ancient elf, exploring, sketching, and gathering materials. Mahtan alloted him his own workshop, where his innate and considerable skills quickly returned, enhanced in new ways by his patient and tireless mentor. Before long, a wealth of lovingly-crafted objects, both beautiful and functional, began to pour forth in a continuous stream.

At first Frodo and Sam saw Gimli only rarely, but after emerging from long, satisfying periods of work, he would arrive at their home at unexpected times. Driving one of Mahtan’s carts, he always brought with him sacks bulging with gifts, or occasionally larger items such as pieces of indoor furniture or a matched pair of quite Shire-like benches. However, after a few days of talk and laughter with the hobbits, bounteous meals, and assisting them with outdoor projects beyond their strength, he would invariably grow restless, eager to return to his workshop. After he had gone, Frodo and Sam would quietly celebrate Gimli’s newfound joy and contentment, and delight in whatever he had brought them. Sam’s pies and cakes had never been so beautifully round, and Frodo’s new desk was as comfortable and well proportioned as Bilbo’s had ever been. As often as they could, when their gardens could spare them, the hobbits packed up quantities of baked goods for Mahtan and Gimli and rode up to the cliff on their own ponies, which they had named Fredegar and Butterbur. After their first, astonished, visit to the underground crystalline world, they had returned again and again, drawn as much by the unimaginable beauty as the subtle healing energy concentrated there.

Legolas, too, was a frequent visitor, as were Elrond and Celebrían – all of whom also invariably returned home with gifts of exquisite Dwarf-make. Over time, they also met Mahtan’s friends and family, many of whom debated endlessly about which sight was the more surprising – the halflings who had brought down Sauron and were so favored by the Powers, a Dwarf of great courtesy and skill now living in harmony with them on the island, or the ever-unfolding wonder that Aulë wrought beneath their feet.

On one visit to Gimli’s workshop, Legolas was presented with a pair of wind chimes for the tree outside his home.

“I will treasure these,” Legolas said, thanking his friend warmly. He held up the chimes to admire them. One was hung with tiny brass bells interspersed with leaves of crystal veined with gold, and the other was a cascade of blown-glass gulls in various colors. He looked about the crowded workshop and smiled teasingly. “Surely there can be little left to create! I see your work everywhere I go, and hear your name in many conversations, always with surprise... and admiration. The hobbits, Elrond, and I have been besieged with questions about you.”

“Little left to create?” Gimli asked in astonishment. “With all of these materials at hand, and so little time left to me?”

Legolas shook his head. “Nay, you appear twice the Dwarf you were but months ago, both in energy and joy in living. May you live long enough to empty your mind and spirit of all that Aulë and Mahtan have inspired in you.”

“May it be so,” Gimli said reverently. A confident satisfaction, as solid as stone, filled his heart. “I am forever a child of Mahal, and feel closer to him here than anywhere I have ever been.”

“How do you fare with the Lady’s gift?” Legolas asked curiously.

“Ah!” Gimli’s face lit up. “Come and see. There are many more questions I would ask you; ship-building is your skill, not mine.” He led Legolas to an inner room, where a single object sat on a table. There, yet unfinished, sat a miniature likeness of the swan-ship of Galadriel and Celeborn which had so captivated the Fellowship in Lothlórien. The hull was of a pure-white wood, painstakingly smoothed and molded, the beak was covered in incredibly thin sheets of gold leaf, the eyes were fashioned of tiny faceted crystals of deep brown, and the swans-neck prow was high and curved. Proud wings, barely begun, lay nearby.

“Carving all the feathers will take some time,” Gimli said, “and I have not yet considered rudder or paddles. Think you that this design will be light enough to float, and yet not tip sideways in a strong breeze? It is not too late to make structural changes, although I wish to finish it soon.” He smiled up at his friend. “A small craft such as this would be a pleasing plaything for a child, would it not? I have been thinking that Lord Celeborn will arrive someday. Perhaps...”

Legolas laughed with delight. “You envision more children for the Lord and Lady? And why not? There will be no shadow on their future here. And with the hobbits secretly wishing the same for Elrond and Celebrían... Your small ships must indeed sail smoothly, and endure the exuberance of children.” He was silent for a moment. “Your gifts are truly from the heart, my friend, and future generations will know your name.”

Although deeply moved, Gimli waved that off.

“A Dwarf is known by his work,” he insisted.

And by his comrades’ high regard, Legolas thought, but he said nothing, merely laying a hand gently on Gimli’s shoulder. Soon the two friends were poring over the small ship, sharing ideas, with Legolas advising in construction and design and Gimli alternating between stroking his beard in deep thought and taking copious notes.

*~*~*~*~*

One day, while Gimli was underground examining a room filled with crystalline outcroppings of an unusual rose pink, Mahtan looked up from where he was kneeling in his garden to see Gandalf striding towards him.

“Hail, Gandalf!” Mahtan smiled, pleased to see the Maia. He got to his feet. “I have been hoping you would come by.”

“And I have been longing to visit, but have had matters to attend to that kept me away,” Gandalf responded. His friends has grown used to his absences and sudden reappearances; whatever his tasks or responsibilities here in the West, they didn’t pry, and just enjoyed his company when he was among them. Although he retained his appearance as Gandalf the White, and would do so for as long as the hobbits lived, his beard was now neatly trimmed, and the cumbersome robe had been replaced by comfortable tunic and trousers.

“You have enough berries here to fill a hobbit’s larder,” Gandalf said, eyeing the many baskets around Mahtan’s feet.

“So I have been told!” Mahtan said. “I have learned much of our small friends in these months, and hope to learn more. Will you come inside, and take refreshment?”

Gandalf helped him carry the baskets inside. Mahtan brought out wine and a selection of small cakes, and invited the Maia to sit.

“Are these Sam’s cakes?” Gandalf asked with pleasure.

“They are indeed.” Mahtan served the cakes, then poured two glasses of wine. “If all hobbits are as gifted at baking, their Shire must be a place of great bounty and contentment.”

“It is a special land indeed, and you have met two of its most special hobbits,” Gandalf said fondly.

“Know you that Gimli has been showering his friends with gifts?”

Gandalf grinned. “I have heard little else, and what I have seen of his work is quite remarkable.”

“It is, and he has yet to reach his full potential. I sense amazing depths to his skill, and his connection to the Master is strong.” Mahtan took a sip of wine. “He hopes that you, also, will accept a modest gift in thanks for all you have done, and for your friendship; however, it is one I must convey on his behalf.”

Gandalf frowned. “I need no gifts.  Indeed, the debt is mine; if not for Gimli, another hobbit of which I am quite fond, Frodo’s cousin Peregrin, would have been lost in the battle against Sauron’s armies.”

Mahtan nodded. He set down his glass and gazed at the Maia. “Interesting that you should mention Peregrin.  When Gimli was puzzling over what a wizard might appreciate receiving, Frodo told him that Peregrin had traveled far with you, and learned of something that you desire.”

“I am quite intrigued!” Gandalf said with a laugh. “I cannot imagine what Peregrin might have gleaned from our conversations that he would have wished to share with his cousin.”

“To gaze upon Fëanor,” Mahtan said softly.

Gandalf’s mouth opened in surprise, and he bowed his head. After some time, he looked up with a soft smile.

“I cannot deny it,” he said at last. “I never dreamed Peregrin would remember such a thing, especially during such a desperate time.”

“Frodo also told Gimli that you were able to read his thoughts and memories during a deathly illness he suffered en route to Elrond’s sanctuary. Gandalf, my memories of my son-in-law are vivid, when I allow myself to re-live those times.”

“I would never dream of asking you to--”

“It would please Gimli greatly to allow you this experience,” Mahtan said softly. “The Kinstrife was long, long, ago, Gandalf, and whatever my son-in-law set in motion due to his hubris, I am at peace now in all ways.” He held out his hands. “Please. If you are able to see my memories, and if you wish it, you are welcome.”

Slowly, Gandalf reached out and took Mahtan’s hands in his own. He closed his eyes, concentrating deeply as the elf’s memories unfolded like flowers for his viewing, at last gazing in wonderment at a time and a craftsman long gone, and the sight of three silmarils hallowed and unsullied. And as Gandalf peered through the millennia, Mahtan fell into a gentle dream, aware of only warmth, and the glorious light of Two Trees, and Aulë’s approving smile.

*~*~*~*~*

In a secluded and fragrant garden, Yavanna walked with her spouse.

“You are pleased,” she observed.

“As are you. Your small gardener fares well, and his heart is at peace.”

“And your child has found a most unlooked-for life far from home and kin. The Song continues to unfold, does it not?”

“Indeed.” Aulë bent to pluck a leaf of athelas, which had sprouted beneath Yavanna’s feet, and studied it.

“A plant so humble,” he marvelled, “and unremarked by many, yet with its own admirable place in the unfolding of Arda.”

“The small ones were so pleased to find this growing here. What does it smell like to you?” Yavanna asked teasingly, remembering her beloved gardener’s questions.

“That which is most pleasing to me: the solid foundation of the world.” He smiled. “And you?”

“Every green thing that grows upon it.”

Aulë placed the leaf in Yavanna’s hand, and closed his own hand over hers. Of one mind, they stood together in the garden of Lórien and dreamed.  Upon the cliff where one island had long ago been sundered into two, the healing plants quivered, and dug deeper into the unsettled ground. Far below, crystals grew brighter, more focused, and the land was soothed.   

In a cavern deep beneath the Blessed Isle, Gimli stood motionless as he felt a powerful, surging current ripple all around him, and through him.  Without volition, he heard himself calling out words in the most ancient language of his people, and trembled to hear in response the fulfillment of his greatest desire -- the voice of Mahal, singing through the earth.  As his heart swelled with joy, he spied one tiny, perfect crystal in the wall beside him glowing softly in the darkness.  He touched it gently, whereupon it loosened and fell into his palm, a gift from the Maker to his child.  Gimli pressed it to his heart, and bowed his head in gratitude.  And when he finally left the cavern, eager to see his friends and return to his workshop, he was singing, and the earth echoed his song and magnified it until one would believe the depths were filled with a multitude of dwarves, all of one mind and one purpose, in a new and welcoming home across the Sea.

** END **