Legend XXXIV – The Legend of Alerich

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Deep in the belly of the world, where no ray of sunlight ever touches the stone and time gnaws its way into the veins of the mountains like metal, once lived Alerich, son of the anvil. He was no ordinary dwarf, but the last guardian of the Flame Halls, a smith whose hammer was as old as the ore from which he spoke. His hands were heavy with scars, his eyes like two glowing coals beneath his hood. It was said that sparks of ancient stars hung in his beard. He had forged everything the depths demanded—crowns for kings, chains for traitors, rings in which entire family lines were bound. But the more gold he amassed, the quieter his heart became. One night, as the embers of the forge died down, he struck the anvil for the last time and saw in the cold surface the face of his brother—Tormir, who had died in the avalanche Alerich himself had caused to open a new vein. From then on, he spoke to no living person. He withdrew to the Chamber of Ten Thousand Candles. There, the flames grew like small suns on the walls, dripping wax like time consuming itself. Stacked among them were chests, each inscribed with runes he had carved in his own blood. In these chests, it was said, Alerich kept not gold, but guilt: the glimmer of greed, the voices of those who had suffocated in the shafts, and the fragments of his own honor. Centuries passed. The mountain trembled, empires fell, and still, light burned in Alerich's hall. Few dared to descend there, for those who did heard voices in the stone asking if they knew the worth of their hands. When a young blacksmith named Drogan one day mustered the courage to seek out the old master, he found Alerich sitting behind two chests. The dwarf looked up, and in his pupils was reflected a whole world of gold and darkness. "Do you wish to learn what blacksmithing means?" he asked. Drogan nodded. "Then listen," said Alerich, and lifted a bell of black ore, so small it disappeared between his fingers. The sound that rang out was barely audible—and yet the whole room trembled. The flames froze, and out of the air formed the shadow of a dwarf, transparent as smoke. "This is Tormir," whispered Alerich, "my brother, my weight." The spirit looked at him, not angry, but infinitely weary. "Why do you call me, Alerich?" “Because I wanted to forget, and yet I preserved everything.” The shadow nodded. “Then stick to what you have guarded.” Alerich smiled. It was a quiet, almost childlike smile, the kind only someone who finally understands knows. He put the bell back, locked the chest, and stroked the wood as if it were warm flesh. Then he whispered a word older than any stone. The sound was like metal falling into snow—bright, brief, final. When Drogan looked up, he saw the old man’s body begin to glow. Golden cracks ran across his skin, spreading over his beard and armor, and in a few breaths, Alerich was no longer flesh, but pure ore.