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In Doriath a tale is told, of a boy who dug too deep, and listened to the dark voices from the North.
Those were the nights of Doriath’s youth; a time when the elves knew little of the shining veins of the land, and their eyes filled easily with wonder. Amongst them dwelt a sullen lad. Dark eyed and dark haired he was, and though his mind was sharp and bright, his dispositions were dark and forbidding. He lived at the edge of the forest; here he dwelt, and dug from the earth nuggets of copper, iron and gold.
In Doriath a tale is told, about a boy who got a gift, from a Shadow from the North.
It was knife, sharper than obsidian, strong like the strongest of stone. The sullen lad tested the blade until his fingers bled; it was the finest treasure he ever beheld.
It was a knife that appeared out of nowhere, as the dimmest stars came to life in the sky, and it laid like an offering in front of his small oven. The hilt was carved bones, smooth and not quite cold against the dark elf’s skin.
He was no fool. He knew the tales of Kuivienen: of traps and beast hiding in the darkest shadows; of the lure of disembodied voices singing lullabies; of the fair face of the Black Rider.
He laid down the knife, and went back to his copper.
Yet here it was, and the blade was a sight he could not unsee.
He lit his oven. For seven night he brought his fire to hotter heights, broke his copper nuggets into the smallest parts. For seven nights he melted gold. For seven more he worked iron.
He lit his oven, and nothing came of it but mishappen lumps. The secret of the blade evaded him, an open wound at the back of his mind: a possibility, taunting the fingers of his mind, yet as unreachable as mist.
“I can show you how it’s done,” the darkness whispered.
He ignored them. The lad was no fool, and remembered his tales from Kuivienen.
He lit his oven and tried again.
“I can show you how it’s done,” the darkness offered, when the lad failed again. The voice was slow and deep and deliberate, and this time it had a face: a bone-white mask of ivory, crowned with snowy hair like Thingol’s. The Shadow walked with the softness of a wolf. “I shall return.”
And quick at that: he disappeared.
The young elf returned to his hut. He knew the apparition was dangerous. Their face hid behind a mask that could conceal monsters, the clothes too dark for the dyes from oak and coal, and there was to the creature a eeriness that struck as god-work.
Still, he did not try to flee.
The lad looked at the knife. He could seek the help of the King and the wise counsels of his Queen…
“I can teach you how it’s done,” the Shadow said, and though the young elf knew his tales, envy and pride tore at his heart. “Think about my offer. I will be waiting.”
He thought about how the creature disappeared, about the weight of his voice. He pondered the luck, or ill luck that had brought them here, to deliver a gift to the one who would desire it the most.
It was a trap. It had to be.
“I can teach you far more,” the creature offered. “I can teach you how to create a web of songs that will protect your home. I can teach you how to make wood and stone remember words. I can teach you how to melt the blood of the land and shape it to your will.”
Every night the creature came back. At each new lightning of the dimmest stars he offered new wonders, and magic known only of Melian.
“I can make you great. I can offer you ovens that burn hot as volcanoes. I can offer tools that can bend metal. I can show you the blood of the stars and teach you how to shape it to your will.”
And the lad glanced up, to the thousands of thousands of fires burning in the dark vault of the sky, and wondered what marvels he could do with such material; he dreamt of metal so fine it could cut the knife itself; he dreamt of gems crafted with the tears of stars.
“For what price?” he wondered, and heard too late the words coming out of his mouth.
“Your allegiance to my throne,” the masked figure asked. “Come to my kingdom, and you shall become great at my court.”
“I am sworn to my kinsman Thingol already,” the dark elf answered. He knew the tales, but another voice whispered that whatever Melian had to teach, she kept to herself and her husband.
“Think about my offer,” the Shadow repeated. “I am waiting.”
He came black at the next dimming, and the next one, silent and still, until he repeated his words and disappeared again. Each time it took more and more will for the young elf to refuse; he was even past the point of considering running back to the others.
They would take the knife. They would wonder why the creature came to him in the first place, and why he had not run sooner.
“I will come,” he tried, once, talking to the emptiness between the trees.
“I hear you,” the voice answered, and there it was, the creature, as if it had never left. “Kneel, and I will show you.”
Fly, you fool, the lad thought – and he squashed that thought, his fingers curling around the knife.
He kneeled and he took the gloved hand of the creature. The mask slipped, and under the white ivory was the face and grey eyes of an Tatya.
“Welcome, then, Eöl,” the elf said, “to the host of the Great Smith.”