Ghorim
10-12-2005, 05:42 AM
Ghorim passed the mornings at his desk, fidgeting every now and again, his mind without anchor. The facts of history - names, dates, heroic deeds - whizzed by on either side of him, delivered in a steady drone by his instructor. That ancient figure, cloaked in the detached elitism of academia, never glanced up from the ponderous volume that contained all the history of Erebor within its yellowed, brittle pages. To him, there was nothing beyond that book. There was only the hazy past; none of the vibrancy of the present could distract him from his dusty archives.
As fate would have it, out of the dozen young dwarves in the small history class, Ghorim received the seat by the classroom's lone window. So while the others grumbled and dozed through the lecture, Ghorim was never without entertainment. He watched the endless stream of citizenry pass along the thoroughfare below. They came and went in a parade of occupations - the blacksmiths, the soldiers, the merchants, the stonemasons - hundreds of lives with their own struggles and hopes marching in either direction. Occasionally Ghorim would single one dwarf out and attempt to piece together his biography within those few moments of sight. His eyes, however, were inevitably drawn to the females as they went about their chores. They were brusque like the males of the Lonely Mountain, but somehow more graceful, and far more captivating in their mannerisms.
Ghorim's neighboring classmate Adim would often try to peer out the window as well, but could never quite view as much as Ghorim from his vantage point. Often, he would sight a female that caught his interest and ask Ghorim to track her for him.
“Can you still see the redhead? In the purple?” he whispered one day.
“Of course,” replied Ghorim in like volume, their voices easily concealed beneath the snores of their classmates.
“What's she doin'?” Adim leaned forward slightly as he spoke, craning his neck at an extreme angle.
“Well… looks like a typical errand run. She's got that basket… few loaves of bread in there…”
“Give 'er a wave.”
“What?” Ghorim turned from the window in surprise.
“Just do it!”
Ghorim bit his lip, considering only for an instant, before youthful impulse won out and he leaned out the window, waving his hand wildly and grinning at the redheaded maiden. Unfortunately, she didn't notice him. Still worse, a grizzled-looking blacksmith who had been walking just behind her happened to spot Ghorim. He stared at the young dwarf incredulously, and Ghorim couldn't help but note in that terrible instant that the fellow's biceps were about the size of his own head.
“Hey! What're you wavin' at, fuzzface?” bellowed the worker from the street, the sound of which immediately sent Ghorim's terrified head flying back inside the window. Perceiving the mishap immediately, Adim burst our laughing. The instructor's gaze shot up from his records, squinting in the direction of the window. Several of the other students lifted their heads from their desks.
“Ghorim!” came the hoarse croak from the living artifact.
Ghorim blinked and sat straight up at attention, as his father had taught him. He knew that Adim was the one to blame for the disturbance, but said nothing.
“I offer my pupils only one warning, as I've stated several times previously.”
The lecturer, of course, had not once mentioned this disciplinary policy in the three weeks since Ghorim had begun taking the course, but the young dwarf again kept still his tongue. The ancient teacher now bowed his head and resumed his talk on the history of Erebor's canal system.
Ghorim gave an annoyed glance to Adim, who merely smirked back.
“Don't worry about the old goat,” he whispered. “He'll croak within the week, most likely.”
Ghorim merely shook his head sadly in reply. Adim, who felt that gnawing need to make those around him laugh so that he might laugh himself, tried another approach a few moments later.
“I mean, look at his beard,” muttered Adim with a nod to the hoary mass that clung to the lecturer's chin. “I hear that a family of thrushes has taken up residence in there.”
Ghorim should not have found such words amusing; he had always been taught that beards of such magnificent length were worthy of nothing but the utmost respect. Yet in his mind's eye he saw the birds flying in and out of the long strands of hair, building nests, and keeping him up at all hours of the night with their singing. A small grin began to form on Ghorim's face, though he bit down on his tongue.
“They enjoy the accommodations, but their only complaint is that he doesn't feed them enough. All they get are the crumbs that fall in there when he eats dinner.”
This remark pushed Ghorim over the edge and a choked laugh escaped from his lips for an instant before he silenced it. But the sound was enough to draw the instructor's attention and ire.
“Ghorim! Five pages on Erebor's canals, by tomorrow morning!”
The entire class, shocked by the sudden explosion from the elderly schoolmaster, seemed to collectively wince at this unexpected punishment. Ghorim gritted his teeth, and nodded slowly, giving Adim a bit of a sideways glance. His schoolmate's face was flushed red from embarrassment, and he seemed desperate to apologize. Ghorim sighed with a light intake of air. Adim, though careless, had meant well. Though this new assignment would serve as a great inconvenience to Ghorim, he could not withhold forgiveness from his classmate. For the rest of the lecture, Ghorim hung on the instructor's every word.
---
Ah… those eyes! If but I had the skill in any language to convey their beauty to you, I'd do so in an instant, gladly, with words of praise flowing from my lips like…
“Ghorim?”
The voice came, smooth as sandstone, gently nudging the young dwarf back to the task at hand.
He spoke slowly, in the Common speech, his words marred by a lingering Khuzdul accent.
“Erebor in the East, the Iron Hills in the North, the Ered Luin in the West, and the Glittering Caves in the South… these are the four corners of the Dwarvish Kingdom. But at the center lies Khazad-dum, forever the heart of our people's spirit. Without this realm in our possession, our heart is torn out. Let us strive to reclaim our ancestral homeland, so that our folk may no longer be scattered across Middle-Earth, but rather re-brought together as one, as it was in Durin's time.”
His instructor, she with the lightning eyes and golden hair, nodded gently and gave a delicate smile.
“Very good, Ghorim,” she said, of course using the Westron tongue so as to test her pupil's comprehension. “Your pronunciation is coming along nicely. However, you did make one mistake: instead of 're-brought,' it would be preferable to say 'brought together again.'”
Ghorim did not enjoy making mistakes in front of his language tutor, which was probably why he spent so much time polishing his Westron speech. At her gentle criticism, he nodded a bit, furrowing his brow.
“The poem sounds better in Khuzdul,” he said in his native tongue.
Ghorim's tutor smiled, allowing herself to lapse back into the language of the Lonely Mountain. “To your and my ears, perhaps. But should you ever go down to Dale to recite it for those who live there, they would much prefer to hear it in their own language. I have heard it said that they think our tongue sounds like fish being sliced open.”
Ghorim frowned. “Why don't they just learn Khuzdul?”
The young teacher laughed lightly. “You're not the first to ask such a question! But the fact of the matter is that the Common speech is used so that all the races may communicate with each other. We are not the only ones who must learn a second tongue. So must the Elves, and some tribes of Men as well.”
Ghorim inclined his head. “These lessons are a shared burden, then.”
Another musical laugh from his instructor warmed Ghorim's heart. “Well put. So well put, in fact, that I would like to hear it in Common speak. Do so and your lessons shall be concluded for the day.”
Ghorim smiled eagerly and spoke, “These lessons a shared burden are!”
She shook her head a bit. “Word order!”
Ghorim blinked, at first not seeing his error, but then quickly seeing what she meant. “Oh! These lessons are a shared burden.”
The teacher clapped her hands gently. “Good! You, Ghorim, are dismissed.”
“My humblest thanks for the knowledge you have bestowed upon me,” said Ghorim, using the traditional dwarvish farewell for pupils to their instructors.
She only nodded in reply, with a happy smile that forced Ghorim's heart to skip a beat, so that it might have an additional instant to admire his tutor's beauty.
As fate would have it, out of the dozen young dwarves in the small history class, Ghorim received the seat by the classroom's lone window. So while the others grumbled and dozed through the lecture, Ghorim was never without entertainment. He watched the endless stream of citizenry pass along the thoroughfare below. They came and went in a parade of occupations - the blacksmiths, the soldiers, the merchants, the stonemasons - hundreds of lives with their own struggles and hopes marching in either direction. Occasionally Ghorim would single one dwarf out and attempt to piece together his biography within those few moments of sight. His eyes, however, were inevitably drawn to the females as they went about their chores. They were brusque like the males of the Lonely Mountain, but somehow more graceful, and far more captivating in their mannerisms.
Ghorim's neighboring classmate Adim would often try to peer out the window as well, but could never quite view as much as Ghorim from his vantage point. Often, he would sight a female that caught his interest and ask Ghorim to track her for him.
“Can you still see the redhead? In the purple?” he whispered one day.
“Of course,” replied Ghorim in like volume, their voices easily concealed beneath the snores of their classmates.
“What's she doin'?” Adim leaned forward slightly as he spoke, craning his neck at an extreme angle.
“Well… looks like a typical errand run. She's got that basket… few loaves of bread in there…”
“Give 'er a wave.”
“What?” Ghorim turned from the window in surprise.
“Just do it!”
Ghorim bit his lip, considering only for an instant, before youthful impulse won out and he leaned out the window, waving his hand wildly and grinning at the redheaded maiden. Unfortunately, she didn't notice him. Still worse, a grizzled-looking blacksmith who had been walking just behind her happened to spot Ghorim. He stared at the young dwarf incredulously, and Ghorim couldn't help but note in that terrible instant that the fellow's biceps were about the size of his own head.
“Hey! What're you wavin' at, fuzzface?” bellowed the worker from the street, the sound of which immediately sent Ghorim's terrified head flying back inside the window. Perceiving the mishap immediately, Adim burst our laughing. The instructor's gaze shot up from his records, squinting in the direction of the window. Several of the other students lifted their heads from their desks.
“Ghorim!” came the hoarse croak from the living artifact.
Ghorim blinked and sat straight up at attention, as his father had taught him. He knew that Adim was the one to blame for the disturbance, but said nothing.
“I offer my pupils only one warning, as I've stated several times previously.”
The lecturer, of course, had not once mentioned this disciplinary policy in the three weeks since Ghorim had begun taking the course, but the young dwarf again kept still his tongue. The ancient teacher now bowed his head and resumed his talk on the history of Erebor's canal system.
Ghorim gave an annoyed glance to Adim, who merely smirked back.
“Don't worry about the old goat,” he whispered. “He'll croak within the week, most likely.”
Ghorim merely shook his head sadly in reply. Adim, who felt that gnawing need to make those around him laugh so that he might laugh himself, tried another approach a few moments later.
“I mean, look at his beard,” muttered Adim with a nod to the hoary mass that clung to the lecturer's chin. “I hear that a family of thrushes has taken up residence in there.”
Ghorim should not have found such words amusing; he had always been taught that beards of such magnificent length were worthy of nothing but the utmost respect. Yet in his mind's eye he saw the birds flying in and out of the long strands of hair, building nests, and keeping him up at all hours of the night with their singing. A small grin began to form on Ghorim's face, though he bit down on his tongue.
“They enjoy the accommodations, but their only complaint is that he doesn't feed them enough. All they get are the crumbs that fall in there when he eats dinner.”
This remark pushed Ghorim over the edge and a choked laugh escaped from his lips for an instant before he silenced it. But the sound was enough to draw the instructor's attention and ire.
“Ghorim! Five pages on Erebor's canals, by tomorrow morning!”
The entire class, shocked by the sudden explosion from the elderly schoolmaster, seemed to collectively wince at this unexpected punishment. Ghorim gritted his teeth, and nodded slowly, giving Adim a bit of a sideways glance. His schoolmate's face was flushed red from embarrassment, and he seemed desperate to apologize. Ghorim sighed with a light intake of air. Adim, though careless, had meant well. Though this new assignment would serve as a great inconvenience to Ghorim, he could not withhold forgiveness from his classmate. For the rest of the lecture, Ghorim hung on the instructor's every word.
---
Ah… those eyes! If but I had the skill in any language to convey their beauty to you, I'd do so in an instant, gladly, with words of praise flowing from my lips like…
“Ghorim?”
The voice came, smooth as sandstone, gently nudging the young dwarf back to the task at hand.
He spoke slowly, in the Common speech, his words marred by a lingering Khuzdul accent.
“Erebor in the East, the Iron Hills in the North, the Ered Luin in the West, and the Glittering Caves in the South… these are the four corners of the Dwarvish Kingdom. But at the center lies Khazad-dum, forever the heart of our people's spirit. Without this realm in our possession, our heart is torn out. Let us strive to reclaim our ancestral homeland, so that our folk may no longer be scattered across Middle-Earth, but rather re-brought together as one, as it was in Durin's time.”
His instructor, she with the lightning eyes and golden hair, nodded gently and gave a delicate smile.
“Very good, Ghorim,” she said, of course using the Westron tongue so as to test her pupil's comprehension. “Your pronunciation is coming along nicely. However, you did make one mistake: instead of 're-brought,' it would be preferable to say 'brought together again.'”
Ghorim did not enjoy making mistakes in front of his language tutor, which was probably why he spent so much time polishing his Westron speech. At her gentle criticism, he nodded a bit, furrowing his brow.
“The poem sounds better in Khuzdul,” he said in his native tongue.
Ghorim's tutor smiled, allowing herself to lapse back into the language of the Lonely Mountain. “To your and my ears, perhaps. But should you ever go down to Dale to recite it for those who live there, they would much prefer to hear it in their own language. I have heard it said that they think our tongue sounds like fish being sliced open.”
Ghorim frowned. “Why don't they just learn Khuzdul?”
The young teacher laughed lightly. “You're not the first to ask such a question! But the fact of the matter is that the Common speech is used so that all the races may communicate with each other. We are not the only ones who must learn a second tongue. So must the Elves, and some tribes of Men as well.”
Ghorim inclined his head. “These lessons are a shared burden, then.”
Another musical laugh from his instructor warmed Ghorim's heart. “Well put. So well put, in fact, that I would like to hear it in Common speak. Do so and your lessons shall be concluded for the day.”
Ghorim smiled eagerly and spoke, “These lessons a shared burden are!”
She shook her head a bit. “Word order!”
Ghorim blinked, at first not seeing his error, but then quickly seeing what she meant. “Oh! These lessons are a shared burden.”
The teacher clapped her hands gently. “Good! You, Ghorim, are dismissed.”
“My humblest thanks for the knowledge you have bestowed upon me,” said Ghorim, using the traditional dwarvish farewell for pupils to their instructors.
She only nodded in reply, with a happy smile that forced Ghorim's heart to skip a beat, so that it might have an additional instant to admire his tutor's beauty.