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The Book of Mazarbul 17

2024-04-22T17:40:21Z

THE BOOK OF MAZARBUL
by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s note: This chapter takes place but a short time after the previous one. Things are getting into motion.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 17 – AND SO IT BEGINS

“So, what is our head count at the moment?” asked Balin two days later.

Ori, at whom the question was aimed, consulted his lists that had been set up meticulously, of course.

“Well, there are the two of us, your son and Óin, for starters; and my mate. That is five. Then Bávor son of Bombur, Eydís and her husband Svávarr, her brother Eywindr and their great-uncle, Old Hreidarr. That is another five, even though those two will meet us directly at Gabil-dûm. Then Frár, of course, and the Lady Yngvildr; Hilgir son of Haldór and his sons, Hedinn and Helgi. That is five again. Then Hakkon Hróáldsson and his intended, Hallveig Hergersdóttir, Old Lóni, Náli son of Máni and his little wife Rei…”

“What?” asked Balin in surprise. “But they have barely settled yet.”

“True, but they are used to living in the great outdoors, are young and adventurous,” pointed out Ori. “And being raised as a Ranger, Rei would be a great asset. Old Lóni has also managed to talk his distant cousins, Hrói and Hráni into coming with us. So, our current number is twenty-two. It is not yet certain how many of the FireBeard smiths and the StoneFoot miners will actually follow us to Khazad-dûm. Some of them may only stay as long as the work in the Steel Hall lasts.”

”You forgot Eikinskialdi and Miödvitnir,” supplied Óin, who had been listening to them in silence until now.

Ori shook his head. “I have not. But I do not consider them ours. They follow their own agenda that happens to coincide with our… for the time being.”

“Do you believe they would betray us?” asked Óin doubtfully.

“Not directly,” replied Ori with a shrug. “But if they have to choose between their agenda and ours, they would choose the former. Of that I am quite certain.”

“And we would do the same,” declared Balin darkly. “Well, let’s hope we will be able to win a few more Dwarves for our quest; we still have a few years to do so. What about supplies, though?”

“I have spoken to Niping,” said Ori. “He has already organized a great amount of dry goods that are packed and stored safely, waiting to be loaded onto the wagons. All we need is a small flock of ponies, both for riding and as pack animals, and we can send the first group on their way.”

“And the garrison that is supposed to protect them?” asked Óin.

“Frár and Dwalin are looking into it,” replied Balin. “My brother says there will be a regular rotation, save for the warriors who choose to come with us all the way.”

“I thought Dwalin was against the quest,” said Ori.

Balin nodded. “He is. Very much so. But he is also very much for having an outpost that would keep watch on the Gundabad Orcs.”

“It appears that we may start our campaign soon, then,” commented Ori.

“Soon enough,” Balin agreed, “but that will be only the beginning. We shall have to go all the way, no matter what it costs… and it will be a very long way.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Even the first step of a long way requires a great amount of careful planning and preparation, and thus it took another two, almost three weeks ‘til the first caravan finally set off for the Grey Mountains. It consisted of heavy old wagons that had served the BroadBeam merchants for well over a century but were still sturdy enough to provide protection when arranged in a rectangle for the nights.

A sizeable group of strong, long-haired hill ponies – a particularly tough breed, bred by the StiffBeard clans for Dwarven use only – followed the wagons. Some of them were pack animals, while other carried heavily armed guards who seemingly protected the caravan.

In truth, however, these “guards” were the very Dwarves who chose to join Balin’s quest, wearing simple travelling clothes and no jewellery of any particular value, so that they did not look any different than the merchants and the craftspeople. Not drawing any undue attention was the key.

Balin himself did not go with them; not yet. He still had much to do in the safety of Erebor: people to meet, plans to forge, supplies to organize, old scrolls to study. Ori remained on his side to help with everything, this being his special gift. Thus the leading of the first phase on the road had been entrusted to Óin, since he was the one who knew their destination and the roads leading there best.

Besides, he was the only one whom the Lady Frán, the wise-woman of the merchant caravan, would accept as one of them, since he had travelled with them for a while in his youth.

Just the beginning for now. More will come, soon... or so I hope.

The Book of Mazarbul 16

2024-04-14T17:58:01Z

THE BOOK OF MAZARBUL
by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s note: This chapter continues seamlessly the previous one. The settlement of Danakh-khizdîn (=Green Dwarf-Place) in the Grey Mountains is game canon; so are the Brotherhood of Stone and Narag-gund. Shalakanâm (literally: water of kisses) has been invented by The Dwarrow Scholar.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 16 – FATEFUL ENCOUNTERS

It took Hakkon weeks to reach Danakh-khizdîn, the main StoneFoot settlement in the Grey Mountains. He had visited half a dozen small settlements where only a few isolated families of the Clan dwelt first – among them is own birthplace, now barely populated at all, as most Dwarves had harkened to Dáin’s summons and moved to Erebor years ago. Even so, he had found a few adventurous miners among them who were willing to return to Gabil-dûm for the length of time the planned new garrison would stay there. The riches of their old home still lured them there, despite the risks.

The same was true to most other settlements as well. But Danakh-khizdîn, the Green Dwarf-Place, one of the oldest StoneFoot villages – almost as old as Gabil-dûm itself and certainly older than Erebor – was an exception. It had been founded by the Niddînaban, the Brotherhood of Stone, a secretive guild of stone-masons and engineers from Narag-gund that had been the main city of the Clan in the Red Mountains, back in the First Age, before they would migrate westwards.

While the nobles of Narag-gund had settled in Gabil-dûm after the loss of their old home (and went down with it due to the attacks of Orcs and dragons), the Niddînaban carved their own dwelling place into the living rock of the far North and managed to survive there, in spite of their dangerous neighbourhood. Since the Niddînaban had been founded by Sindri, the StoneFoot Father himself in the early First Age, their village had always enjoyed great respect among fellow Clan members; and their village Elder had been the highest authority since the passing of the last StoneFoot King.

The current village Elder was a Dwarf nearing his silver years (meaning he was beyond three hundred years old), yet with his strength still unbroken. A survivor of Azanulbizar by the name of Herger, he had icy blue eyes, an enormous, curly blond beard with barely any silver threads in it, and coarse, straw-blond hair, which he wore in a single, elaborately plaited braid that hung down to his waist.

He welcomed Hakkon with the customary Dwarven hospitality, offering him the usual welcome cup of shalakanâm – a clear, very strong spirit with little odour, made from buckwheat grown on the terraced fields around and above the village. The drink was popular amongst BlackLocks and IronFists as well; some of the latter were even mad enough to hold drinking contests of shalakanâm, which usually ended with most contestants passing out in the shortest time.

StoneFoots were a much more sensible lot, of course; and Hakkon, too, politely refused the second cup that was traditionally offered but seldom accepted. Herger nodded approvingly.

“A wise decision,” he said, grinning. “This year’s brew is particularly potent. Now, tell me what led you to us. ‘Tis rare that the returnees from the Lonely Mountain would pay our modest little village a visit.”

“I have come on behalf of Lord Balin Fundinul, First Advisor to King Dáin the Second,” replied Hakkon formally. “He is looking for people who would join the Quest he is planning; either right away or later, when the rebuilding might begin. Miners and stone-masons from our Clan in particular are much sought for.”

“Hmmm,” Herger hummed thoughtfully. “I would like to hear more about this Quest before I would say aye or nay.”

“So would I,” said a third voice, and a stunningly beautiful Dwarf-dam – perhaps not the youngest but still in her best years – joined them on the porch. She wore the working kirtle of a craftswoman – the tools in her large apron pocket revealed her as a leather-worker – and her great sheaf of honey-blond hair was wrapped around her head in a thick braid like a woven coronet.

“My youngest daughter, Hallveig,” introduced her Herger, and Hakkon hurriedly stood and bowed with deep respect.

“Hakkon Hróáldrsson, at your service; miner and stone-mason, living under the Mountain right now,” he said.

“Welcome to Danakh-khizdîn,” she replied. “Now, tell us about this Quest of yours. I might have an interest to see other places than just our village before I get too old to go on longer journeys.”

For the moment, however, Hakkon was completely tongue-tied, staring at the golden beauty sitting opposite him with his mouth… well, not actually hanging open, but it was a close thing. He knew the longing could hit one quite unexpected, but he had never expected it to happen to him even though he was of the right age for quite some time. Until now, he had believed to be one of those Dwarves who found their fulfilment in their craft and never wanted more from his life.

Yet now, as he was looking at Hallveig Hergersdóttir, at least a decade or two his senior, he felt completely lost… as if hit by a spell. It felt like liquid fire cruising through his veins and it was hard to breathe. All of a sudden he felt embarrassingly flushed, and it took all his considerable craft of will to put his feelings aside – at least for the time being – and give the object of his desire a coherent answer. Or as coherent as he was currently able to.

“’Tis not my Quest,” he replied; “although I might consider joining it, at least the first leg of the campaign; and a few of our clansmen consented to do the same.”

And he gave Herger and that beautiful daughter of his a report of detailed accuracy about Balin’s Quest and what had been done so far. They listened to him with shocked surprise (Herger) and cautious excitement (Hallveig).

“That is certainly a noble goal,” Herger finally said,” but also a foolhardy one. Lord Balin might end up commanding five mines and a pit(1). We have already tried to re-claim Khazad-dûm; and failed spectacularly. He was there; and so was I. I shall not allow our Brotherhood to have any part of it. But a few who want to enter the mines of Gabil-dûm again may do so, as soon as the garrison is established. And should Lord Balin succeed, against all odds, we shall offer our help with the rebuilding of the Dwarrowdelf. This I promise as Mahal may hear me.”

“And I shall go with those who return to Gabil-dûm,” announced Hallveig; then, to the utter shock of her father, she added; “and I shall follow Lord Balin to see the wonders of Khazad-dûm.”

“My jewel, that is madness!” protested Herger.

“Perhaps,” she allowed. “But I hear the call in my heart to see Durin’s Throne; a call too strong to resist, even if it means my untimely demise.”

“Which is likely to happen,” said Herger wretchedly. “I cannot condone this, my heart. Living so close to Gundabad is dangerous enough; but entering the biggest Orc-den in Middle-earth is folly, plain and simple.”

“That may be so,” she returned, “but my mind is made up; and I would thank you if you gave your blessing, ‘adad – if for naught else, then for good luck.”

Herger shook his head in despair. “I could never deny you anything, my golden bird. But I do have one condition.”

“Name it,” she prompted.

Herger’s eyes flickered in Hakkon’s direction. “I do not want you to go alone.”

Hallveig followed the direction of his look; and she frowned. “I have no interest in him,” she stated.

“But he certainly has an interest in you,” returned Herger. “Look at him: he displays the clear signs of the longing, albeit the two of you have just met. He is yours to the end of his life and beyond.”

She tossed her golden head defiantly. “I do not want him.”

“You will accept his courtship; and you will marry him in due time, unless you find your One in somebody else,” Herger declared forcefully. “Or you will stay home, at safe distance from any foolish adventure; ‘tis your choice.”

“You cannot make me,” she protested, but her father interrupted her.

“Oh aye, I can. I am your father and I am your village Elder. I have double authority. Your mother transferred her authority to me on her deathbed, in front of seven witnesses, to make sure you are suitably protected.”

“I was but twenty at the time!” she snapped.

“And you do not show more maturity now, when you are five times that age,” her father returned coldly. “You had some training with weapons but you are no warrior. I shan’t allow you to walk into a death trap without proper protection.” He looked at Hakkon. “If she goes, you will protect her.”

It wasn’t truly a question but Hakkon nodded nevertheless. “With my life, if needs must be.”

“I fear that will be the case,” Herger sighed; then he turned back to his daughter. “Well, daughter? What say you?”

Hallveig gave their visitor a reluctant glare but she had to admit that while she was loath to accept a mate not of her own choosing, she could have done worse. Hakkon was quite handsome, even in StoneFoot terms, with his elaborately braided honey-gold hair and beard and seemed immensely strong, even for a Dwarf. Miners and stone-masons usually were, and he had been trained as both.

Beyond that, he was apparently willing to accompany her on the greatest adventure of the Age, so that spoke for him, too.

“Well, I guess he is better than some of the others you have tried to foist upon me during the last hundred years or so,” she said tartly. “But I make no promises. I may find my One yet.”

Somewhat reassured now that he had at least her father’s blessing, Hakkon grinned at her. “I can wait, lady mine. We who work with stone have the patience of stone as well.”

“You will need it,” she replied and stood. “Now, unlike some males who can afford to while the day away with ale and pipeweed, I have work to do.”

She left them without as much as a backward glance. Herger shook his head with fond exasperation.

“I fear her mother and I have spoiled her terribly,” he admitted ruefully. “She was our only girl-child; and a late-born one at that, when we had given up all hope for any children after two sickly babes that had not seen more than one year, either.”

Hakkon nodded in understanding. Dwarflings had always been few and precious, especially girls; and life thus far in the North was perilous. He did not find Hallveig spoiled, though, just headstrong. But then all Dwarf-dams were. He said so and Herger laughed.

“True enough. Hrera, her mother, was the most stubborn creature that ever walked the earth… something we both should be grateful for. Because it was her who insisted on trying for another child after we had lost two babes. Without her persistence I would not have a daughter now – and you would not have a wife.”

“If she will ever be willing to bond with me,” said Hakkon, not all that certain about that.

Herger laughed again. “Oh, she would have kicked up a lot more stink if she had any true objections against your person, trust me on that,” he refilled their tankards. “Well, son of Hróáldr, tell me about yourself. As Mahal apparently wants us to become family, I wish to know whom I am taking in. I seem to remember a valiant Dwarf named Hróáldr who led a small group of StoneFoot warriors to the Battle of Azanulbizar. They rode huge battle-rams and had sturdy bows, if memory serves me well.”

Hakkon nodded. “Aye, that was my father; one of the only eight Dwarves from our small village who made it back… though a leg shorter. He recovered eventually and served as the village head for decades afterward, as he could not return to the mines due to his injury.”

“Is he still alive?” asked Herger. Hakkon shook his head.

“No; he fell in a skirmish with marauding Orcs many years ago. He could still wield the axe well enough. My mother took over the leading of our village from him; not that there would be more than a dozen or so families left. Most of us moved to Erebor.”

“That is a shame, though I can understand the reasons,” said Herger. “Now tell me more about you.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Standing in front of Dáin’s chair in the Lesser Hall under the Mountain, Balin quietly congratulated himself to the foresight of having asked the King for a private audience. Well… as private as an audience with one’s cousin could be while at least two dozen Dwarves, all of them high-born or having key positions at court (or both) were present. At least most of these witnesses were in favour of his plea; a support that he sorely needed.

For saying that Dáin was whole-heartedly against the idea of anyone setting foot in Khazad-dûm ever again would have been the understatement of the Age. He was positively fuming and did not hesitate to call Balin seven kinds of fool in his face.

“Clearly, advanced age has addled your brain, Cousin,” he said, shaking his massive head. “Why else would you even consider walking into a death trap with your eyes wide open? You cannot fathom the horrors that await you in the darkness of Khazad-dûm.”

“Oh, I believe we can; no thanks to you, though,” returned Balin. “You have never been forthcoming with answers whenever asked what it was you saw behind the front gate.”

“Nay, I have not; for some secrets better remain unveiled,” said Dáin, his ever-sharp eyes clouding with remembered terror. “You cannot fight Durin’s Bane; no-one of us can. Axes are no use against…”

“Against a fire-demon of the Elder Days,” finished Balin when the King trailed off. “Aye, we know, Cousin. We spoke to the only Dwarf that has ever been able to face the demon, even if only for a short time. He was young back then, when Khazad-dûm fell, young and terrified. He is old and strong now… and willing to come with us.”

“And who, pray tell, would this Dwarf be?” asked Dáin sceptically.

“He is named Eikinskialdi; and he is the last of the Fire-mages,” replied Balin simply. “And he is wearing the Drakkon, the Dragon-ring of Khazad-dûm, forged by Khelebrimbur himself as a gift for his friend Narvi.”

Unlike most Dwarves, everyone even remotely related to Durin’s line knew who – what – Fire-mages were. The tale of them escaping from the drowning of Tumunzahar and finding refuge in Khazad-dûm was part of the family legendarium.

And nearly every Dwarf knew of the Drakkon, of course, the famous Dragon-ring, given to Master Narvi by the fiery Elf-smith as a sign of their legendary and highly unusual friendship. Of the lengths an Elf born in the High West was willing to go to keep his mortal friend with him just a little longer. The Drakkon might have been one of the Lesser Rings, but it still provided its bearer with a long life and considerable power.

Still, even these unexpected tidings were not enough to persuade Dáin about the feasibility of Balin’s quest.

“That may be good for the mage, but the rest of you would still be cooked alive in your armour when the demon unleashes its dark fire,” he said.

“Not if we have armour made of a dragon’s hide,” Lady Yngvildr interfered.

Dáin gave her a midget eye. “What have you to do with this madness?”

“I intend to take part in it,” replied the Raven Lady calmly. “My mate and I wish to ask for the boon we are owed, my liege.”

The latter was said in the time-honoured manner of a vassal asking their liege for a boon. Both Forge Guards lowered themselves to one knee, fists pressed against their chests – the gesture of deepest respect required when making such a request.

Very few things could still shock Dáin Ironfoot after all that he had seen and done in his long life. Yet now he was staring at Frár and Yngvildr in mute horror.

“Have you both lost your minds?” he finally asked. “You will be slaughtered, all of you. No-one can face that… thing and live to tell the tale.”

“You have,” reminded him Yngvildr.

Dáin snorted. “Aye, because I ran like a frightened animal, with my tail between my legs, too scared to even look back,” he said. “And what is this business about a dragon’s hide? Do you want to fish Smaug’s carcass out of the Long Lake? That would do you no good.”

“Nay, it would not,” allowed Balin. “But in the Steel Hall of the Far North the remains of Glórund, last of the cold-drakes of Gabil-dûm still lie. Its scales have merged with bronze, became harder than steel and are capable of withstanding even dragonfire. That is what we shall have our armour made from.”

“You’d need a spellsmith for that; one much older and more knowledgeable than your son,” Queen Burkdís gave Burin an apologetic look. “No offence, youngling.”

“None taken, my lady,” replied Burin respectfully. “I know I shan’t be smith enough for such a gargantuan work alone. But Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith, offered me his help; and that of the old FireBeard smiths of Thafar’abbad.”

Glóin, one of the few nobles present who were not part of the planned campaign – and a skilled weaponsmith himself – shook his head. He might be in charge of the Royal Treasure in these days but he had not forgotten his troubled youth and the dangers of the Road they had faced before settling in Uruktharbun.

“And how are you planning to drag the carcass of a long-gone dragon down all the way from Gabil-dûm?” he asked. “Those roads are constantly endangered by the Gundabad Orcs, even in these days.”

“We do not,” said Balin. “Lady Yngvildr suggested establishing a small garrison of warriors and scouts in Gabil-dûm itself; to keep an eye on Orc movements, should there be any, and to protect the smiths working in the Steel Hall. We shall gradually move those who are willing to join us to Gabil-dûm, fit them out with weapons and armour, stock up on reserves and launch our campaign directly from there.”

“And how do you intend to get those supplies?” demanded Glóin. “There is nothing up there; not even game!”

“There are fish enough in the rivers; and if needs must be we can revive the terraced gardens of Gabil-dûm,” his brother answered. “As for the rest…”

“We shall take care of the rest,” Niping, invited to this audience by Óin, interrupted. “We can divide our caravan and use the old, massive wagons to provide the garrison with all necessities. Some of our people – those who are used to living on the Road – declared themselves willing to go as far as the Vale of Azanulbizar, even if not any further. And we have the storage room here to stock up on supplies and bring them to Lord Balin’s company on their way to the South.”

“I see you have it all planned out already,” growled Dwalin.

Niping shook his head. “On the contrary. This will need a great deal of careful planning yet and preparations may take several years; even if only a few dozen Dwarves join Lord Balin’s quest.”

“Years that the smiths will need to forge the armour for everyone,” added Balin. “Fortunately for us, Ori Orinul has taken upon himself the task of coordinating all our efforts; and Lofar has taught him well.”

The beautiful Dwarf with the kohl-rimmed indigo eyes nodded in agreement.

“That he has. And I have not had a good challenge since the re-taking of the Mountain, so I am grateful for the chance.”

“I am surprised that the Lady Ai would let you go,” said the Queen; “seeing as none of your brothers would want to.”

Ori shrugged. “She is the BlackLock matriarch, aye; but I am also a Durin on my father’s side. She does not have the authority to hold me back from fulfilling a family obligation.”

“Gadra allâkh; Mahal hefsu binhas,(2)” Glóin muttered angrily.

“Durin zabukuna,(3)” Dwalin agreed whole-heartedly.

Dáin shook his head in sorrow. “Tell me, Cousin, what is the true reason for this madness? Upon Thorin’s death you could have taken up kingship; I might have been closer to him in blood but you have always been closer in spirit. Yet you did not want the throne then, even though it would have been a kindness towards me. What made you change your mind?”

“My family has an ages-long obligation towards Durin’s House,” answered Balin simply. “And Durin’s throne has always stood in Khazad-dûm; not under the Mountain.”

The impact of that simple truth silenced everyone in the Lesser Hall. Even Dáin needed an endless moment to recover.

“You will go to certain death for the honour of your line,” he then said, his sorrow evident.

Balin inclined his silver head. “That may be so. But of all possible times this is the one we may have the slightest chance to succeed. I cannot let it slip through my fingers.”

Dáin sighed heavily, for Balin was right and he knew it. With the Gundabad Legion all but wiped out and the Orcs of the Misty Mountains greatly decimated, they might have a chance, in the purely military sense of it. And if the Fire-mage could face Durin’s Bane – which Dáin seriously doubted – a great evil would be purged from Middle-earth, to everyone’s relief.

Besides, he couldn’t stop Balin if Balin wanted to go; and he did owe Frár and Yngvildr their boon for centuries of faithful service, much as he was loath to see them go.

“I still believe ‘tis utter madness,” he finally said. “But if this is where your heart calls you, I do nit wish to stand in the way of your destiny. You may go; and all those who want to join you. Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi astû,(4)” he added the traditional blessing in Khuzdul.

And with that the audience was adjourned.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After having escorted Eikinskialdi back to his caves, Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith, headed to the North again, intent to visit the ancient FireBeard settlements in Thafar’abbad. His last stop was the small, nameless settlement under the farthest north-eastern outskirts of the Grey Mountains where he had met Óin for the first times.

At least the place was nameless now; if it had a name to begin with, that had long faded even from Dwarven memory. The very few Dwarves who knew about its existence at all simply called it ‘Mother Thekhla’s village’, after the venerable matriarch of at least three hundred years who led the small and rather poor clan inhabiting it.

The mostly older Dwarves that refused to leave their birthplace for the plentiful life in Uruktharbun, Erebor or the Iron Hills, welcomed Miödvitnir gladly, for he was a regular – though infrequent – visitor who provided them with tidings about the rest of the world. Tidings that they would not get otherwise, as even the ravens came rarely this far.

He was directed to the caves of Old Hreidarr – the healer of the village – at once. Hreidarr was fairly old indeed, seconded only be Mother Thekhla herself: he had turned two hundred and seventy shortly before Durin’s Day. He was also an old friend of the Rune-smith and had willingly shared his knowledge about healing stones – an art known only among FireBeard healers – with Óin when the latter had been visiting the small FireBeard dwellings in the remote Grey Mountains in the previous years.

Hreidarr did not live alone in his spacious and comfortable caves. Though he never married and thus had no family of his own, he took in gladly his great-nephew Svávarr, the grandson of his brother (another victim of Azanulbizar where Hreidarr, too, had fought), Svávarr’s wife Eydís and her brother Eivindr. For a while anyway, as Svávarr and Eydís moved to Erebor shortly after the Mountain had been re-claimed.

Only Eivindr stayed with Hreidarr, even though they were not related by blood. But Eivindr had no other family, either, and the two became as close as father and son – or rather grandfather and grandson – during the long years spent under the same roof.

Eivindr was the reason for Miödvitnir’s visit, despite his centuries-long acquaintance with the old healer. The young FireBeard was a bronzesmith of considerable skill and always eager to learn more of his craft. And though his fire was not strong enough to become a true spellsmith, he was not far from it, either. Miödvitnir, always willing to nurture any true gift he might encounter on his journeys, taught him everything that could be learned without the use of earth magic during his infrequent visits, and Eivindr proved to be an outstanding student. He even managed to work simple spells and runes into his forging; not quite an arcane smith, not without the rare and special gift of Durin’s line, but the closest thing to it there was.

He was wasted in Mother Thekhla’s village, and Miödvitnir was here to change that. Eivindr might not be interested in the re-taking of Khazad-dûm, but he could be a great help for Burin Balinul in working with the dragon’s hide… if Miödvitnir could persuade him to do so.

Both solitary Dwarves were working in their respective workshops when Miödvitnir arrived: Eivindr in his smithy and Hreidarr in the small side cave he used for cutting his healing stones. Often a particular cut could increase the potential of a stone and thus he had trained as a crystal-cutter, too, in order to be able to use them at the greatest efficiency; even though he was a healer first and foremost.

He looked up from his work in delight when Miödvitnir entered his workshop, removing the bronze-encased magnifying glass from his eye socket; while his hands were still rock steady, his eyesight was slowly weakening due to advanced age. His magnificent beard was all silver now, and he wore his silver hair pulled into a tight knot on the nape of his neck.

“Miödvitnir, my friend,” he greeted his guest jovially and rose from his work-bench to deliver the customary head-butt. “What brings you back to us so soon? Not that you weren’t welcome any time,” he added hurriedly, “but it usually takes you much longer to return.”

“’Tis a long story,” replied the Rune-smith; “one best told over a good meal and a stiff drink.”

“Both of which we can and will gladly provide,” said Hreidarr agreeably. “My work can wait. Let us go to the dining hall and talk, shall we?”

The dining hall was the largest of his caves, in a central position, as all family members would meet there. Hreidarr served a simple meal of cold meats and dark bread, with some eggs and mushrooms; they could not win much more out of these harsh mountains. When he brought forth the webanshalk – a brandy liquor made of hawthorn berries and petals that every family brewed differently – Eivindr joined them, too.

The bronzesmith was young in Dwarven terms yet, just passed his first century, and very obviously of pure FireBeard descent. His hair, a pale reddish gold, was pulled back from his face in a simple working braid, while his beard – a flaming copper red, much darker than his hair – was elaborately plaited and decorated with beads of his own making. He had hazel eyes and thick, dark eyebrows – all in all, an interesting palette of colours on the same face.

He, too, greeted the Rune-smith respectfully, and then both he and Hreidarr listened to the news with great interest.

“I am on errantry,” Miödvitnir began. “Lord Balin of Durin’s line has decided to make another attempt to re-claim Khazad-dûm and cleanse it from the Orc scum that has infested it for too long. I have offered to join his quest; and to find smiths skilled enough to forge armour for his flowers from a dragon’s hide,” he looked at Eivindr. “Not any smith could do that. But I have taught you enough to work with the last spellsmith of Durin’s blood.”

Eivindr did not answer at once. Hreidarr, though, shook his head.

“That is a fool’s errand,” he said. “We have already tried it… and failed. I was there; I saw the carnage and the countless dead, my only brother one of them. So much death; and it brought us nothing, just endless sorrow.”

“True enough,” allowed the Rune-smith. “Yet I do not want to talk you into the quest itself. We need good smiths to work on weapons and armour; FireBeard smiths who still harbour some of the lost skills of Tumunzahar. I have visited every settlement between here and Eikinskialdi’s caves, and a few old smiths already agreed to help us.”

“I do not wish to move to Erebor,” said Eivindr dismissively. “This village has been founded back in the First Age, by refugees after the drowning of Tumunzahar. This is my home, not Erebor; not even Uruktharbun.”

“I am not asking you to move to either of those places,” replied Miödvitnir. “The great work will be done among the ruins of Gabil-dûm, in the Steel Hall itself.”

“Which is every bit the death trap Khazad-dûm would be,” pointed out Hreidarr. “Gabil-dûm is dangerously close to Gundabad. You cannot hope your presence to go unnoticed.”

“Perhaps not,” agreed Miödvitnir. “But if everything goes according to Lord Balin’s plan, a small garrison of warrior Dwarves will be established in Gabil-dûm: to protect the smiths and to keep an eye on the Gundabad Orcs.”

“That is long overdue,” said Hreidarr,” Erebor cannot afford another unprotected attack.”

“Exactly,” said Miödvitnir. “That way we shall kill two birds with the same stone: King Dáin will have reliable reports about the movements in Gundabad and we will have our protection and can work on the dragon’s hide undisturbed,” he looked at Eywindr shrewdly. “If you are up to the challenge, that is.”

“I am, and you know that,” replied Eywindr in a flat voice. “And I’d love to take part of that great work… and to see the wonders of Gabil-dûm with my own eyes. But I cannot leave Old Hreidarr alone; not after the rest of the family has left. I have an obligation.”

“If that is the only thing holding you back, then you need not to stay,” said the old healer. “I, too, would love to see Gabil-dûm while my eyes can still serve me. If we are indeed protested there, I shall go with you.”

The Rune-smith stared at him in surprise. “Are you certain? A moment ago you called it a fool’s errand.”

“And it would be without proper protection,” returned Hreidarr. “But if it is reasonably safe, then I am all for it. I have come into my silver years; I shan’t be around much longer anyway. Seeing something wondrous before I would join my long fathers in the Halls of Waiting is a gift I cannot, will not refuse. And besides,” he added with a mischievous wink,” all those eager young people might need a healer who patches them up from time to time.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It happened several days later, back in Erebor, that Svávarr, the great-nephew of Old Hreidarr (also a bronzesmith of considerable skill) returned home much later than usual. His wife, Eydís, the best whitesmith under the Mountain (meaning that she worked with both, silver and gold, and was also the only one who still know how to make stargold) glared at him in annoyance. Not so much out of jealousy (Svávarr had been hopelessly fallen for her since the day they first met some sixty or so years previously); just because she liked to spend her day in a well-ordered manner.

“Where have you been?” She demanded. “We were supposed to eat hours ago!”

Like most childless couples who worked long hours in their craft, they usually ate in the Guild Hall of the smiths, but at such a late time all they could hope for would have been leftovers… not something fairly young Dwarves with a healthy appetite would appreciate.

Svávarr had the mother wit to appear contrite.

“Birashagami,(5)” he said in Khuzdul; he knew the fiery temper of his beautiful wife all too well. “I was summoned by Lord Balin. He is looking for bronzesmiths from our Clan to work with his son and wanted to know if I would be interested.”

“I hope you said yes,” replied Eydís. “Working with Burin Balinul is a great honour; and a great chance.”

“’Tis not so simple,” Svávarr sighed. “The project would take years to finish; and I’d have to go to Thafar’abbad with the others, to work in the Steel Hall of Gabil-dûm itself.”

“Oh!” Eydís, having lived in Mother Thekhla’s village in her youth, did not want to leave the safety and comfort of Erebor behind to return to the lonely and dangerous Grey Mountains. “Why would they want to go there?”

“Apparently, they have rediscovered the remains of a long-dead cold-drake,” answered Svávarr.” There is only its hide left, but Lord Balin wants armour made of the dragon’s scales. It is supposed to be harder than anything our ironsmiths might forge on their own.”

“And he wants bronzesmiths to do it?” She clearly did not understand the reason for that.

“It seems that the dragon’s scales got fused with bronze, the same way Smaug’s were fused with gold,” explained her husband. “We shan’t be able to work on it without spellsmiths helping us, but that is what Burin Balinul will be there for. And Miödvitnir.”

“He will be there?” Eydís knew the enigmatic Rune-smith from her youth, of course, but had not seen him since they moved to Erebor. Svávarr nodded.

“Everyone with the fire-touch will be needed. Your brother followed the summons, too. And Old Hreidarr chose to go with him. For them, it will be a fairly short journey.”

“Short… and perchance deadly,” muttered Eydís. “There is a reason why Gabil-dûm has been abandoned for centuries.”

“Not much longer, though,” said Svávarr. “There will be an outpost with a small garrison again, soon. And some of the StoneFoot masons will be returning to the mansion of their forefather, at least for a while. As long as the work on the dragon’s hide will take.”

“I see,” Eydís pondered over these tidings for a while; then she looked at her husband in understanding. “You want to go.”

It wasn’t a question, but Svávarr nodded nonetheless. “As you said: ‘tis the choice of a lifetime.”

“Then I shall go with you,” she announced.

He tried to protest, but she silenced him with a raised hand.

“Nay, husband. “I shall not be denied. As Mahal chose not to bless our bond with children, you are all that I have. I shall not be parted from you. At least this way I can see my brother and Old Hreidarr again. It has been too long.”

~TBC~

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Khuzdul phrases:
(1) Dwarven idiomatic expression meaning that someone might bite off more than he can chew.
(2) Against stupidity; Mahal Himself is helpless.
(3) As Durin will awake (That is very true; expression of wholehearted agreement.
(4) May Mahal's hammer shield you (Safe travels)
(5) I am sorry (literally: I regret)

Xmas gift fic 2021 - for adafrog

2021-12-17T18:32:55Z

THE HEALER
by Soledad

Fandom: The Hobbit
Characters: Elrond, Thranduil
Recipient: adafrog
Note: I’m known to write bookverse Tolkienfic, almost exclusively. However, this piece was inspired by Thranduil’s movieverse scar.
Summary: After the White Council turns Sauron out of Dol Guldur, Elrond and Thranduil have a conversation.

Beta read by the generous thesmallhobbit, whom I owe my gratitude.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After Sauron had been driven out of Dol Guldur, due to the powers of the Lady Galadriel and the mastery of Curunír the White, and the Battle of the Five Armies was won – albeit at a terrible price – the Lady of Lothlórien and the wizards departed, returning to their respective homes… or, in Mithrandir’s case, to the Road. Elrond, however, remained behind, much to the dismay of his chief warrior, the Lord Glorfindel from the House of the Golden Flower, who accompanied him on this quest (because who in their right mind would have left the Balrog Slayer behind when facing such a mighty foe?).

“Have some patience, my friend,” said Elrond, when Glorfindel protested against the delay. “We shall be on our way soon enough. First, however, Thranduil and I have something to discuss.”

“We have?” asked the Elvenking of Mirkwood in surprise. “Elrond, we have not talked to each other, truly talked, since… well, since the Battle of Dagorlad, I deem.”

“We might have, had you deigned to come to the meetings of the White Council,” pointed out Elrond reasonably.

Thranduil’s smile, when answering, was bitter. “And what good would that do for me? Who would have listened to anything I might have said? More dangerous and less wise – is that not how you, High-Elves and wizards, call us, conveniently forgetting that I was born in Doriath and taught by Melian herself?”

“I would have listened,” replied Elrond quietly. “And mayhap a different point of view would have been helpful from time to time.”

“Mayhap,” shrugged Thranduil. “Yet who, pray tell, would have protected the forest in my absence? My older sons are dead and Legolas, while doing his best, is not yet ready to shoulder so much responsibility. It is not as if we had any magic trinkets to protect us.”

Seeing that Elrond wanted to protest, Thranduil raised a hand. “Oh, worry not. I know what I know, and I shan’t speak of it to anyone. Not even to my son – not before he is ready to take over. There was something you wanted to talk about, though. What is it?”

“Your scar,” replied Elrond simply.

“My… scar,” echoed Thranduil, his unblemished face revealing nothing.

Elrond nodded. “The glamour you use to disguise it is amazingly strong, but I am a healer. I was born a healer. I cannot see the scar itself, but I can feel its presence under the glamour. May I take a look? Perchance I can help.”

Thranduil shook his head. “My wife, who was the strongest healer of the Faithful, could not heal me. Aiwendil could not heal me. What makes you think you could do what they could not?”

“Because you might have been taught by Melian, the Maia, but I have descended from her,” answered Elrond simply. “And because healing is my gift.”

Which was very true, not to mention widely known among Elvenkind, thus Thranduil could not truly argue with it.

“I… do not like showing imperfection,” he confessed after an endless moment of silence. “My people need me to be strong. We Elves heal without scarring, even from the gravest of injuries. It is expected.”

“True, but not even we can grow back a lost limb, to name just one thing,” reminded him Elrond. “And burns caused by dragonfire are much more severe than even that; the evil of the dragons’ very being is what causes the lasting damage, not the flames themselves.”

“My people would not understand that,” Thranduil sighed. “They are a hardy yet simple folk. I cannot afford showing any weakness or else I might lose their faith in me as their King, and that would be the downfall of the Woodland Realm that we have been protecting for all three Ages of the world at such sacrifices.”

“Has anyone ever seen that scar of yours?” asked Elrond.

Thranduil nodded. “My wife. My sister. Aiwendil. They were the ones who made attempts to heal me. And Old Galion, who took care of me afterwards, but he is the keeper of every secret of our House.”

“No-one else? Not even Legolas?” Elrond could not quite hide his surprise.

Thranduil shook his head again. “He needs me to be strong, too.”

“You don’t need to be strong for me, though,” said Elrond kindly. “Let me take a look. Celebrían would want me to give it a try, at the very least.

Again, Thranduil could hardly argue with that. Celebrían’s father was his first cousin, after all. They were both princes of Doriath, and such bonds held across Ages. Literally, in their case.

Besides, had he not dropped his disguise in a moment of cold fury before the eyes of a Dwarf? At least Elrond was kin, being of Lúthien’s blood, even though it was mixed with that of mortal Men during the generations in-between.

“Very well,” he gave in with a sigh. “But forget not that I have warned you.”

After another moment of reluctance, he dropped the glamour he had borne for countless centuries, revealing the damage that dragonfire had wrought upon his flesh, back in the early years of this Age, when the Great Worms first stirred in what later became the Withered Heath.

Elrond needed all his considerably willpower to hide his shock. True, he had seen wounds caused by dragonfire while serving as a young battle healer during the War of Wrath. But those people had all died from their terrible wounds, sooner rather than later. He had never seen the aftermath.

It was as if he had been looking at two people at the same time. On one side, there was Thranduil as everyone knew him: cold, arrogant, beautiful and dangerous. On the other side… at first it seemed as if there he had not had a face at all. That side of his face had been burned away once, a long time ago… or, at least, most of it.

Elven healing abilities had clearly done their best to repair the damage. What was left from his flesh had knitted over the bare bones in a rough, ropy, uneven manner, with holes and gauges in-between. And his eye on that side, once crystal clear and ice blue, had a dull white shell covering it, which shocked Elrond even more than the rest of the wound.

“Can you use that eye at all?” he asked.

Thranduil shrugged. “I can see light and shadows, even vague colours and movement, but that is all.”

“And you go to battle with only one good eye?”

“I have had time enough to get used to it. No-one has ever noticed,” his thin, unpleasant smile made Elrond shudder. “They were too busy running for their miserable lives.”

Which was true, of course. Thranduil’s fearsome reputation was not due to his infamous temper alone. He was, in truth, one of the greatest Elven warriors of the two recent Ages; only Glorfindel and perhaps Celeborn could have compared themselves to him.

Elrond only now realized that this well-earned reputation had come with such a high price.

“Does the wound still pain you?” He asked. “It is as healed as it ever will, I fear, but such wounds are known to bother one long afterwards.”

“From time to time,” Thranduil admitted. “On the anniversary of the injury… and it got worse as the dark presence in Dol Guldur grew in strength. I hope now that Sauron has been driven out, it will calm down a little again.”

“It ought to,” Elrond agreed. “Such wounds often answer to the closeness of evil. Alas, I cannot help with that; but I can give you something for the pain.”

He opened his healer’s kit and took out a tightly stoppered little flask, enclosed in white leather and silver.

“This is athelas essence,” he explained. “Tis very strong, so use it sparsely. One drop in a bowl of boiling water should suffice. Bathe the wound with it once the water has cooled somewhat if the pain becomes too much.”

“I have borne this wound – and the pain that comes with it – for so long that I have all but forgotten what life used to be like before,” answered Thranduil flatly. “’Tis part of me now; but some relief will be welcome. Thank you.”

“I wish I could do more,” said Elrond. “But your wound is the kind that can only be healed in the Blessed Land, whether you get there by ship or through Mandos.”

“Neither of which I shall do, as long as I can help it,” Thranduil allowed the glamour to slide back in space. “Not as long as the spirit of my wife lingers here.”

Elrond stared at him aghast. “Are you telling me that Lálisin has died and refused to follow the call of Mandos? That she chose to become one of the Unhoused?”

“I cannot tell for certain,” Thranduil sighed. “But she – or some echo of her – appeared to Legolas under the Great Ash, and the Great Ash is an ancient tree of strange powers. My Queen is – was – one of the Faithful, and as you know, the Faithful do not leave the lands of their birth, not even in death. She told Legolas that she remained here to watch over her family. Whatever agreement she might have forged with the Lord of Mandos, I cannot imagine. But if she truly refused to leave, I shan’t leave, either.”

“You have become almost Silvan in your sensibilities,” commented Elrond with a smile. “’Twas the long exposure to their rustic customs, no doubt.”

“I shall take that as a compliment,” returned Thranduil, with a slightly wicked glint in his one good eye. “My people may be rustic, but I find their ways most reasonable. After all, kingdoms have risen and fallen during the three Ages of the world, entire landscapes have crumbled into the Sea, but the Tree Children are still dwelling in their forests and are not any worse for the wear.”

“Well, their King is,” pointed out Elrond.

Thranduil shrugged. “We all have our burden to bear. Thank you for this,” he lifted the flask briefly. “We should part ways now, though. ‘Tis time for me to return home; and the Balrog Slayer is getting impatient, I deem.”

Elrond laughed quietly. “Glorfindel does not like it when I leave the safety of Imladris. He considers me Turgon’s heir and thus sees it as his duty to protect me.”

“Has he forgotten that you led armies against the Black Tower?” Thranduil snorted. “You might be a healer now, but once you were Gil-galad’s herald and standard bearer.”

“I’ve always been a healer,” Elrond corrected; “and Glorfindel cannot help being over-protective. He is an old Elf, after all; presumably older than even Círdan, though he was… absent from life for a couple of centuries.”

“Which took care of his injuries, I assume,” said Thranduil wryly; then he offered Elrond the warrior’s clasp. “I truly have to depart now; Silinde Ladyhawk is getting edgy and believe me, not even I would raise her ire without a very good reason.”

Elrond glanced at the magnificent female warrior in her shining armour – although considerably younger, Silinde was every bit as famous among the Silvan folk as Glorfindel was among the High-Elves, and rightly so – and had to agree. No-one crossed the Ladyhawk if they valued their lives. Not even the King for whose protection she had sworn a solemn oath many long years ago.

Especially not the King for whose protection she had sworn a solemn oath.

“You are right,” said the Master of Imladris. “We have tried the patience of our devoted protectors long enough. Take care, kinsman, and be not too proud to send for me if you need me.”

He did not truly expect Thranduil to do so – the Elvenking of Mirkwood was famous for his stubborn pride… among other things – but he felt he ought to make the offer. Even though healing that wound was beyond even his skills.

Thranduil thanked him politely, saying neither aye nor nay about the issue. Then they both swung into their saddles and got on the way, flanked by their respective protectors: Thranduil towards the North with the Ladyhawk and Elrond towards the West, accompanied by the Balrog Slayer.

~The End~

Xmas gift fic 2021 - for curiouswombat

2021-12-17T18:18:54Z

COMFORT
by Soledad

Fandom: The Hobbit (Tolkien)
Characters: Beorn
Recipient: curiouswombat
Note: This is a tentative attempt to align Beorn’s book-verse and movie-verse dwellings with each other. I usually avoid everything movie-verse like the plague, but the idea of the cave-like lair was too tempting.
Summary: After the Battle of the Five Armies, Beorn returns home. Because sometimes it is easier to be a bear than a Man.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When the killing was finally over, Beorn left the battlefield the same way he had come: in bear form, heading directly for his home.

Not for the longhouse surrounded by the tall, impenetrable thorn hedge where he dwelt most of the time and where he had played host to thirteen Dwarves, a Hobbit and a wizard, not so long ago. No, he was heading for his secret lair: a hidden place he had only ever shared with his beloved Ursa and, after her untimely death at the hand of the cursed goblins, with their son, Grimbeorn.

Near to the longhouse and yet deep in the darkest forest, this small hut was built of huge, rough stone boulders and squared logs set in posts, with a turf roof. He had used this retreat for such a long time that it had become part of the landscape, and one had to look really closely to spot it. Over the years he had richly carved it with imagery from the long history and beliefs of his own people which no-one else knew.

Well with the exception of the Brown Wizard, perhaps, who had lived among them for uncounted years and had taught them a great many things during that long, long time. Like how to build houses and how to become the master of the Change, instead of being helplessly subjected to it. Yet sometimes Beorn yearned for the old times, when he had been more a beast than a Man and lived like a bear, too.

This was one of those times.

When he arrived, the lair was empty; his son, who usually dwelt there, absent. For this one time, he did not truly mind. He needed time alone to get the killing madness out of his very being. He had willingly embraced it during the battle, allowing the beast to emerge so that he could tear his enemies of old apart, without hesitation and regret. But now he felt the weariness of all that rampage down to his very bones and he was overwhelmed by the need to sleep.

Still in bear form, he crawled through the opening carved through the beams of the hut, right to the small cave that reached deep into the hillside. There, in the comfort of what once had been his bed with Ursa, where their cub had been conceived and born, he finally slept.

~The End~

Better than Mushrooms - for chocolate_frapp

2020-10-08T14:52:05Z

Title: Better than Mushrooms
Author: Soledad

Fandom: The Hobbit (bookverse)
Rating: G, suitable for all

Summary: During the Company's rest in Rivendell, Bilbo is introduced to something rare and delicious.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As Bilbo later wrote in his book, the Last Homely House was simply perfect. Whether you wanted excellent food, something interesting to work on, a good, long rest - or merely to sit quietly and dream, or a lovely mix of all the above, you got it. And the singing! There was nothing that could have been compared to that! Well... almost nothing.

Needless to say that Bilbo enjoyed everything the House could offer. He particularly enjoyed talking to all the Elves who dwelt there; especially to those who worked in the kitchens.

On one of those days, when he was exchanging recipes with the head cook of the House - most of those involving mushrooms, which every self-respecting Hobbit held above any other foodstuffs - the Elf said to him:

"As much as I respect your devotion to mushrooms, Master Baggins, I believe I can offer you something that is even better."

"Better than mushrooms?" asked Bilbo in stunned disbelief. "Forgive me, but I simply cannot believe that."

"Well, judge for yourself," said the head cook.

And he opened with an ornate little key a small cupboard that Bilbo had never seen open before. He took out a large glass jar that was stoppered with a round slice of wood and was half-full of small, dark balls that looked like oversized blackberries, except that thy were completely smooth. As he removed the stopper, a delicious aroma wafted towards them.

"What is this?" asked Bilbo in amazement.

"A delicacy from the Undying Lands," explained the head cook. "It's made from the core of a fruit that grows on a tall bush. You would not find it anywhere else, as the bush cannot survive outside the valley, and the making of the sweets is a long and delicate process. Fortunately, we are Elves. We have time."

"But how did you get them in the first place?" asked Bilbo. "I thought no-one who has once Sailed can come back from the Undying Lands."

"That is true," answered the Elf, "but there are exceptions. Only one Elf has ever been sent back: Lord Glorfindel, who dwells in this House. He has brought the plant with him as a gift for Aran(*) Gil-galad, who was not interested; so it was given to our Lord Elrond."

"And this is really supposed to be better than mushrooms?" Bilbo was still not persuaded.

The Elf smiled. "Just give it a try."

Gingerly, Bilbo fished one of the smooth little balls out of the jar and popped into his mouth.

"Well?" asked the Elf after several long moments of silence.

Bilbo stood there, eyes closed in bliss, with an expression upon his face as if he had died and gone to Heaven.

"You were right," he then admitted. "It is even better than mushrooms. But if you tell anyone that I said that, I shall deny everything. I would lose the respect of my relatives and neighbours if they learned about it."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Roughly a year later, when he returned to the Shire, Bilbo had to realize that he had lost the respect of his fellow hobbits anyway. But he did not really mind. Because during his adventure he had won the friendship of Dwarves, Elves and Men... even of such a strange creature as Beorn, not to mention Grey Wizard.

And besides, during their rest in Rivendell on their way back, the head cook of the Last Homely House handed him a sizeable wooden box filled with the small, dark brown delicacies as a parting gift. And those still tasted even better than mushrooms indeed.

~The End~

(*) Aran = king in Sindarin

Fond Memories of a Barrel Rider - for curiouswombat

2020-10-08T14:38:04Z

Title: Fond Memories of a Barrow Rider
Author: Soledad

Fandom: The Hobbit (bookverse)
Rating: G, suitable for all

Summary: Frodo is wondering why his Uncle Bilbo is always giggling when inspecting the wine barrels in his cellar. One day he gets to hear the tale.

Note: The second paragraph is directly quoted from "The Hobbit", with small modifications.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Frodo always found the smial of his Uncle Bilbo fascinating. Compared with Brandy Hall, where he spent his previous years, it seemed almost... cosy, despite the fact that for a bachelor Hobbit to live there alone was definitely too large.

It had a prefecly round green door, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a long central hall like a tunnel, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs and lots of pegs for hats and coats - Uncle Bilbo was clearly fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the Hill, and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. Bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (one had to wonder why someone needed whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the left-hand side, for these were the only ones to have windows: deep-set, round windows, looking over his garden and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river.

Frodo had been in Bag End earlier, of course, for short visits, but now that he had moved in for good, he finally hot the chance to explore it to his heart's desire. He was allowed to choose his own room and generally given access to everything, save for Bilbo's study; and even that was only an exception when the older Hobbit was working on his book.

Bilbo was also an accomplished cook, who, as mentioned before, liked visitors and enjoyed cooking and baking for them very much. Because of this, he regularly inspected his pantries and cellars to make sure that he had all potentially necessary ingredients at his disposal, all the time.

There was one thing Frodo found a little odd, though. Whenever Bilbo inspected the barrels in the wine cellar, he quietly chuckled to himself. Finally, one day he couldn't resist asking.

"Uncle Bilbo, what is so funny about barrels?"

"Well, now, that's a very good question," Bilbo replied, smiling. "They remind me of my adventure. Come with me to the kitchen - I need to make the dough for the scones for afternoon tea - and I shall tell you all about it."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Bilbo told the tale in his usual, animated manner that made him so popular among the little lads and lasses of Hobbiton (no matter what their parents might have thought of old Mad Baggins), and in the end Frodo was rolling on the floor, tears of mirth running down his cheeks.

"I wish I could have seen their faces when you let them out again," he said when he could speak again.

"It was truly a sight to behold," admitted Bilbo. "Thorin was the first one I freed, but if not for the gold chain around his neck and the silver tassle of his hood, I might not have recognized him. He had wet straw clinging to his beard, he was covered in cuts and bruises from head to toe, and it took time 'til he was willing to talk at least half-civilly to me. I might have spoken a bit... forcefully to him to make him pull himself together and help me free the others."

Frodo shook his head, still laughing. "Only you, Uncle Bilbo. Only you would have the cheek to berate a Dwarf King, after you've rolled him down a river in a barrel!"

"He should have been grateful that it was me and not, say, Lobelia," replied Bilbo. "Besides, I needed his help! Wading around in the cold water at nightfall, it was a hard and dirty job to find the barrels with the rest of the Dwarves in them. More so as only six of them were still conscious and could answer when we knocked on their barrels. Quite frankly, for a moment I was afraid that Old Balin and Bombur wouldn't survive. Fortunatley, Fíli and Kíli, being fairly young in Dwarven measure, came out mainly unharmed and helped us with the others."

"Fíli and Kíli... they were Thorin's nephews, right?" asked Frodo thoughtfully.

Bilbo nodded."Yes. They died in the Battle of the Five Armies, shielding their uncle with their bodies. Alas that their sacrifice was in vain! Not that there would be anything wrong with Dáin Ironfoot being King under the Mountain, mind you. He is a wise, generous King and a great warrior, and I respect him very much. It is just so sad that Thorin had to lose everything before he could have come to his own properly: his kingdom, his life - even his nephews. Life is truly unfair sometimes."

Frodo nodded in agreement. Despite his youth, he had known loss already.

"Do you think I might meet them at some time?" he then asked. "The Dwarves who survived, I mean. Or any Dwarves at all."

"Oh, I'm quite sure you will," replied Bilbo encouragingly. "Dwarves pass through the Breelands all the time; and sometimes my travelling companions make a little detour to visit me. Why, you might even travel to the Mountain one day... or even further. You, too, are a descendant of the Old Took; and Tooks all have the wanderlust in the heart of their hearts, deep down beneath that proper Hobbit surface."

"Perhaps one day I will travel beyond the Mountains," said Frodo thoughtfully. "But not yet."

"No," agreed Bilbo. "You need to get rooted properly first; and the soil of the Shire is deep. You'll find your strength in it; it will ground you well. As for later... we shall see what the future will bring," he stood. "Now, enough of the deep thoughts. It is nearly tea-time, and I have yet to put these scones into the oven."

~The End~

Acknowledgement: I want to thank curiouswombat for the prompt. It gave me the chance to put the barrel scene back to where it belonged: making it something about Bilbo and the Dwarves and their slowly growing mutual respect, instead of a senseless action scene involving Legolas and Orcs.

Character sheet - Bera Ravenlock

2018-11-20T21:08:45Z

Bera Eyríkrsdóttir was a BlackLock Dwarf from the Red Mountains (Sindarin: Orocarni, Neo-Khuzdul: Baraz'abbad), the daughter of Eyríkr Bloodaxe, mightiest chieftain of the BlackLock Clans and Lord of Baraz-dûm, the Red Halls, the ancient capitol of the Blacklocks at Gabil Barazbund in the Red Mountains.

She was one of the greatest Dwarven beauties of the East, named after her gorgeous, blue-black hair, which she wore in an elaborately braided coronet, adorned with diamond-studded mithril clasps and beads. Her side whiskers were unusually long for a female Dwarf; long enough to be properly braided, which she did, thus she wasn’t forced to wear a fake beard when travelling; most outsiders thought her a very young and very pretty male.

She was a trained warrior: an expert with throwing knives and the Dwarven version of the longsword.

She found her One in Darri Kweld-Úlfr (Darri Night-Wolf), her father’s skald (court poet). When her father refused to let her marry the young skald, they both left the East and ended up travelling the Wilderland. At one point they crossed the Misty Mountains and found Rivendell, where they met Thorin Oakenshield and his Company.

After the Battle of the Five Armies, Bera visited Uruktharbun while Darri returned to the Red Mountains to summon as many BlackLock warriors to Erebor as would follow him. Then they both took up residence in Erebor.

For visuals: Bera looks a little like Harnaam Kaur, only with a less prominent beard. She is olive-skinned and almond-eyed, although her eyes have the usual indigo colour of the BlackLock Clans.

Character sheet - Darri the Skald

2018-11-19T21:18:02Z

Darri Vignirsson aka Darri Kveld-Úlfr (Darri Night-Wolf) was a BlackLock Dwarf from the Red Mountains (Sindarin: Orocarni, Neo-Khuzdul: Baraz'abbad), with some FireBeard ancestors up his family tree.

He was born in Baraz-dûm, the Red Halls, the ancient capitol of the Blacklocks at Gabil Barazbund in the Red Mountains. His father, Vignir Svarti (Vignir the Black) was the skald (= court poet) of Eyríkr Bloodaxe, the mightiest BlackLock chieftain (the BlackLocks no longer had proper Kings; not since the fall of their greatest citadel, Felakuldush-dûm, to the wild Were-Worms of the East. They lived in scattered settlements, even though those were fairly impressive compared with those of their Western kinfolk).

Darri was trained both as a skald and a warrior and excelled in both. He had a strong, beautiful singing voice, with a unique reach among Dwarves, and he played the lyre exceedingly well. His chosen weapons as a warrior were throwing axes and the short spear.

After his father’s untimely death, he took over the position of the jarlaskald (the lord’s poet) at Eyríkr’s court, where he could have risen in the ranks and gain a name for himself, had he not fallen in love with Eyrík’s only daughter, Bera Ravenlock. Although, in theory, every Dwarf, male or female, could follow their heart freely if they were hit by the love-longing and found their One, Eyríkr wanted to marry off Bera to his strongest IronFist ally to strengthen his position in the East and banished Darri from Baraz-dûm.

It didn’t help things much, as Bera followed her One to the exile. They wandered off to the West, travelling across the Wilderland. They spent some time in the Iron Hills, then continued their journey westward, with the intention to visit Thorin’s halls in Uruktharbun, under the Blue Mountains (Sindarin: Ered Luin, Neo-Khuzdul: Khagal’abbad). However, they happened to meet an Elven patrol from Rivendell and were invited to visit the valley.

There they met Thorin Oakenshield and his Company and chose to move to Erebor, should the Quest succeed. After the Battle of the Five Armies, Darri composed a dirge for Thorin’s funeral. Then he accepted Dáin’s invitation to become his court poet – after returning to the East and summoning many BlackLock warriors who were unhappy with Eyríkr’s rule, to follow him to the West. These warriors, next to the IronFist troops who followed Dáin from the Iron Hills, became the major task force of the Mountain.

Darri survived the War of the Ring and composed Dáin’s funeral dirge as well as many famous poems about the siege of Erebor.

For visuals: Darri was inspired by the looks and the incredible voice of music artist Dan(iel) Vasc(oncelos). He is olive-skinned and black-haired, even though his hair has reddish highlights due to his FireBeard ancestors. His hair is very long, falls to the waist; he wears it either combed to the one side or in an elaborate topknot. He has a short but full and thick beard, a round face, dark eyes and very thick eyebrows. Due to his mixed heritage he is not as tall as most BlackLocks and has a relatively slender build (for a Dwarf).

We never really saw Dwarf minstrels - not in canon, not in the films, not in fanfic. In my imagination he's more like the early medieval Icelandic skalds, which is why I don't call him a minstrel. Minstrels are for Elves and Men. Dwarves have skalds, IMO. *g*

The Trials of a Woodland King 04 - Strange Prey

2018-11-16T19:15:47Z

Author’s notes: The descriptions of this chapter follow "The Hobbit" closely. Some lines are directly quoted. See footnotes.
Nimphal and Brandor are two real-life friends of mine who helped in the creation of their characters, following the good old role-playing tradition. Their Sindarin names were created by two other friends (and fellow writers) Casey Toh and Finch, whom I owe my sincerest thanks.
Also, many thanks to the_wild_iris for beta reading.

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CHAPTER 4: Strange Prey

[Mirkwood, in the year 2980 of the Third Age – several days later](1)

The small party of hunting Elves – all six of them – walked quietly in single file on the Old Forest Road westwards. They had taken the shortest way possible: along the western border of the forest and then following the Celduin – that the Northmen called the River Running – southwards ’til they reached the Road. Now they had been walking on it for what seemed Ages(2). For even though they were well used to the darkening of their woodland home, seldom did they wander off this far, and the knowledge of that fact made them feel gloomy.

The Road itself was gloomy, too – it looked like a dark tunnel, framed by great trees that leant together above it into some sort of arch, too old and strangled with ivy and hung with lichen to bear more than a few blackened leaves. The quiet under the shadowy arch of great branches was so deep that even their light Elven footfalls seemed to thump along while all the trees leaned over them and listened.

For the keen eyes of the Silvan folk it was not difficult to pierce the dimness and see quite a little way to either side in that darkened green glimmer. Occasionally even a slender beam of Anor had the luck to slip in through some opening in the leaves far above, and, still more lucky in not being caught in the tangled boughs and matted twigs beneath, stabbed down thin and bright before them. But this was seldom and it soon ceased altogether(3).

That in itself would cause no problem for the Wood-Elves. Master Bowman Brandor(4) was concerned nevertheless. This narrow road, that wound in and out among the trunks, was the ultimate trap. He wished they could go over the trees, but the brittle old branches might not be able to carry their weight – at least not as long as they still followed the Road.

The tall, broadly built, ash-blond archer had walked many perilous paths in his long life. He was not a young Elf anymore, not even by Elven measures. Born in Doriath, not long after the Elvenking himself, Brandor [had] fought the invading Dwarves as well as the sons of Fëanor, protecting Dior Eluchíl – and failing. His father’s people belonged to the Leikvin – Danian Elves who remained east of the Ered Luin(5) – and to his father’s kindred had he fled, with his three brothers, after the fall of Doriath. There they lived ’til the whole clan decided to seek refuge under King Oropher’s rule, somewhen at the beginning of the Second Age. So yea, he was used to the life under trees and all the perils that the woods could hide. And yet, this walk towards the darker parts of the forest – and the Tower of the Necromancer – filled his heart with unease.

A slight noise from the side made him raise his great bow with the speed of which only a seasoned warrior was capable of – but it was a couple of black squirrels only, looking for something to eat. His keen eyes caught a glimpse of them, running down the tree-trunks and whisking off the path, only to scuttle behind another trunk. Brandor lowered his weapon again. There was no use wasting his arrows on them – they were horrible to taste, and besides, they could not afford to make a fire.

“We shall need to leave the Road, soon,” said in a low voice Brathadir, Brandor’s twin who looked so like his brother that even other Elves found it hard to keep them apart. “We are near the Enchanted River, if these cobwebs are any indication.”

With that, he pointed at the dark, dense cobwebs with their thick threads that were stretched from tree to tree or tangled in the lower branches on either side of the road.

“We have reached Spider territory,” Falathron, their third brother, remarked with disgust. Minethlos, the fourth one, only nodded quietly, shooting a worried glance towards their young Prince, the leader of this particular hunting party.

Prince Legolas needed not to be lectured about the Giant Spiders, of course; nor was he an inexperienced young elfling anymore. He had fought many vicious fights against the fell creatures that were infesting the forest; still, everyone in Mirkwood felt very protective of him, and that was the reason Silinde had selected Brandor and his three brothers to accompany him.

And where they went, went also Nimphal(6), Brandor’s life-mate – a small, quiet Silvan woman with the pale face, soft voice – and deadly hands. A Master Bowman herself, she was as quick as lightning and heard better than any other archer under Silinde’s command. With no-one else would the Prince be safer than with the five of them.

“At least the Spiders cannot block the path with their webs,” she commented with a shrug. “Whatever magic keeps the way clear, I am grateful for it.”

The others nodded and went on, listening to the strange, grunting and shuffling noises in the undergrowth. As well as they knew the woods, not even they could guess what might be hurrying among the fallen leaves that lay piled endlessly thick on the forest floor. This was a different place from their current dwellings, even though in Legolas’ childhood all this had once been part of the realm of King Oropher, his grandsire He still remembered Lasgalen, Oropher’s tree city on the slopes of the Emyn Duir, the wide telain high upon the magnificent trees where he was born – in a happier time, before Greenwood the Great began to darken.

And dark it had become indeed, even for them, who spent their lives under the trees. The longer they went on and on, the more Legolas longed for a sight of the sky, for a golden beam of Anor to warm up his heart. For the gentle caress of the wind upon his face. The heavy air lay motionless under the forest roof, and it was everlastingly still, dark and stuffy – very different from his childhood memories. It seemed to have an ill will, determined to suffocate them slowly and mercilessly.

If we cannot keep the Darkness from creeping northwards, this is what our realm will become shortly, he thought with a chill. The Shadow has swallowed two-third of the forest already – we are the last obstacle in its way.

“Anor has set.” Brandor’s voice intruded his grim thoughts. They all could feel the sunset, even though they could not see the sky. “We should rest – and we should do so on the road. I can feel Wargs – from far away, but they are closing.”

“As if the Spiders were not bad enough,” scowled Falathron. “’Tis unusual to see them north of the Old Forest Road.”

“They are growing bolder with every passing loa,” nodded Brathadir grimly. “How long ‘til we reach the Road, anyway?”

“Two more days, if we cross the Emyn Duir in the morn,” answered Brandor. “We should reach the Enchanted River in one more march, cross the water by boat and come out from under the trees at the westernmost slopes of the Hill.”

“Unless the paths have changed since we went due south the last time, and we are lost already,” added Minethlos gloomily. Unlike his brothers, he was less than cheerful by nature.

Legolas shook his head. “The paths cannot be changed, not the old ones, built and enchanted by the Faithful. My mother told me once when we still dwelt in the Tree City of Emyn Duir, not far from here, that the old roads were made by the elders of the Avari, back in the starlit days, before the rising of Ithil and Anor. ‘Tis said that they have not changed ever since, and no ordinary evil can touch them – no Wargs, no Spiders, nor other foul beasts.”

“What about Orcs?” asked Nimphal. Legolas shrugged.

“I know not. The Noisy Folk has evolved since the Elder Days. Mayhap they are a threat on the road. We should set a guard while the others rest, for I cannot be sure that these trees would warn us. Their hearts are black, it seems.”

“I shall take first watch,” said Brandor, taking his hereditary bow, named The Swift Raven of Battle by his great-grandfather in the First Age and worn by the eldest son in every generation of their family ever since. “You rest.”

And thus they had an unruly rest, taking turns to watch and glaring at the pale, malicious eyes that watched them from under the trees or above from the branches, and they were glad to go on the next morn. For some of those eyes were huge and bulbous, and they knew that the Spiders had caught up with them.

After another march, just as Brandor had guessed, they finally reached the Enchanted River. It flowed deep and fast to the northeast, and they were relieved to see its black water, for they knew all they had to do was to walk beside it, against the current, and they would reach their destination. To their surprise, though, they heard loud – and none too pleasant –voices from the direction they were marching.

“Yrch?” asked Nimphal in a whisper. Brandor shook his head.

“It sounds different. We should continue in the trees, though.”

All agreed with him, and at once they swung up into the trees that were a little stronger and sturdier here, approaching the source of the voices with great care. Brandor had been right: they did not sound like Orc-yells; still, one could not be suspicious enough. Finally, they reached the ford of the Enchanted River, the very place where once Oropher’s wooden bridge had crossed the narrow of the water – now long rotten and fallen, leaving only the broken posts near the bank. This was the place where the woodland folk always kept a boat to cross the water, for even they would have fallen in enchanted sleep had they tried to swim across.

The six Elves came as far toward the ruined bridge as they dared – they still could not know who (or what) was making such noise on the other side of the water. Legolas went first, for his eyes were the keenest; a fact that the archers had to admit, even though they were not happy that he exposed himself to unknown perils. When he finally located the source of the voices, however, he could not help but grin broadly.

A small figure knelt on the brink of the river – hardly four feet tall, mayhap even less, with a round head and curly brown hair – and peering forward, cried in a rather high and piercing voice, “There is a boat against the far bank!" Now why could it not be this side!”

For we need it for our own purposes, little one, Legolas commented to himself, still grinning. Whoever these people might be, they clearly had no idea how dangerous yelling around in Mirkwood could be. He narrowed his eyes to get a better look.

The small stranger had no beard, and a second, closer look revealed that he was barefoot – walking on rather large and hairy feet indeed. That, and the fact that he was using the Common Speech, made Legolas almost certain that the stranger was one of the Halflings Mithrandir used to visit, far away in the West… almost as far as the towers of the High-Elves, on the way to the Havens. What was such a small creature doing in Mirkwood? And how many of them might be there?

At that moment another voice sounded from behind the Halfling – deep, guttural and harsh. “How far away do you think it is?” the second voice asked.

Legolas stiffened involuntarily, not listening to the conversation any longer. That second voice belonged to a Dwarf, there could be no doubt about that. Soon he discovered not only the owner of the second voice – a rather big, important-looking Dwarf with imposing behaviour – but several others of that stunted race as well. The different colours of their hoods made it easier to count them – after all, a twelve-yard-wide river was no challenge for keen Elven eyes. Legolas collected thirteen of them, aside from the Halfling, before retreating between the trees again, where the water would not carry his voice.

“There is a whole company of Naugrim,” he told his escort in an almost-whisper. “Thirteen of them, unless I miscounted… and one of the Halflings Mithrandir is so fond of.”

“What might they be doing here?” asked Brandor with a frown. Legolas sighed.

“I cannot say. At the moment they are apparently trying to get our boat – which means they intend to cross the river.”

They looked at each other in concern. Uninvited visitors had seldom been welcome in Mirkwood, even less so in these times of dire need. Not to mention how furious King Thranduil would be about their trespassing. The King had good enough contacts to(with) the remaining Dwarves of the Ered Mithrin, but these here were obviously of a different sort, or they would not have come from the southwest. This did not look good.

“What shall we do?” asked Nimphal quietly. “If they cross the river and rouse the Spiders with their noise…” she trailed off. None of them needed help to imagine the consequences. Not that they were not able to defend themselves – Spider-hunting was part of the Border Guard’s regular duties – but Elves were preparing the clearings for their family feasts all over the northern part of the wood… if the Spiders were driven northwards, the elflings, who were helping with the preparations, would be in great peril.

“We must alert our people,” decided Legolas. “We cannot keep them from crossing the river; that would reveal our presence, and we would be hard-pressed to stand up to thirteen of the Naugrim, unless we want to shoot them from the treetops. Nay, ‘twould be better to follow them and find out what they are up to.”

“But we have been sent out for the hunt,” Brathadir reminded him, more than a little disappointed.

“There are a dozen other hunting parties out there,” replied Legolas, “who, hopefully, will bring home rich bounty from the hunt. Yet we alone can keep an eye on these Naugrim and see that they do no harm. You, Falathron and Minethlos, will hurry forward to warn our people, while Nimphal, Brandor and I shall remain to watch the Naugrim.”

The archers tried to protest, but Legolas gave them what was known all over Mirkwood (and beyond) as the Thranduil look – that peculiar expression of impatience and cold rage that silenced even the bravest warriors of the Silvan folk. In these moments the young Prince showed an uncanny resemblance to his royal father, and it was usually unwise to disobey him, as he had inherited Thranduil’s tempers as well.

Thus the three younger archers shut their mouths and turned back obediently, while Legolas crept forward again to see what the Dwarves had been doing in the meantime.

It seemed that the stunted folk had been very busy indeed. They had already succeeded in pulling the boat over to the other riverbank with the help of a long rope that had been fitted with a large iron hook at one end. Now they were about to ferry themselves across the water, fighting about in which order they should come. A particularly big and fat Dwarf seemed the most dissatisfied, grumbling all the time while the others were pulling the boat back and forth between the two river banks with the help of a second rope that they had thrown across the water, right into the branches of a nearby tree. Legolas was glad that he and his people had been deeper in the woods – being caught by one of those nasty iron hooks would have been painful.

In that way, one by one, the Dwarves got safely over to the other side of the Enchanted River. The very fat Dwarf being the last one and about to climb up on to the shore, when Legolas perked up his ears. He heard a flying sound of hooves from the path behind them.

“Be ready,” he whispered to his remaining companions. “The others must have roused some prey behind us. We might not return with empty hands, after all.”

They prepared their hunting bows, but it was already too late. Out of the gloom under the dark trees came suddenly the dark shape of a flying deer – a magnificent beast, its bony crown as thick as a Man’s arm. It changed straight into the Dwarves and bowled them over, then gathered itself for a leap. High it sprang and cleared the water with a mighty jump, too far for the Elven bows to hit it from up in the branches. Brandor’s Raven was the only one strong enough for a good shoot, but he was also in the worst possible position.

Legolas clenched his teeth in frustration; that single deer could feed the whole court during the feast. A plague on the Naugrim and their noisy feet, he thought angrily. He had not seen such a great, well-fed beast for years in the northern woods.

Yet the deer did not reach the other side in safety. One of the Dwarves, obviously fearing that some hidden guardian of the boat might appear, had bent his bow and fitted an arrow as soon as they had landed. Now he sent a swift and sure shot into the leaping beast. As it reached the further bank, it stumbled. The shadows swallowed it up, but Legolas could hear the sound of hooves quickly falter and then go still.

The Dwarves, however, were alarmed by the shrill wailing of the little Halfling. Apparently, the very fat Dwarf had only sent one foot on land when the hart bore down on him and sprang over him. He had stumbled, thrusting the boat away from the bank, and then toppled back into the dark water, his hands slipping off the slimy roots at the edge, while the boat span slowly off and disappeared.

“Quickly!” Legolas hissed to Nimphal, who was the fastest of them, while the Dwarves launched a desperate rescue action on behalf of their unlucky comrade. “Get the boat and bring it back to this side; you can catch it in the curve some hundred feet from here. Brandor, cross the river with her and get that deer! I shall not leave it behind for the Wargs, while our people suffer hunger. Go!”

Knowing that there was no use arguing with their Prince in a mood like this – not to mention that he was right – Nimphal and Brandor ran off quickly and noiselessly, while Legolas remained sitting in the branches and watched the Dwarves pulling the fat one out of the water with the help of some more ropes – after which the unlucky Dwarf promptly fell asleep. The others tried to shake him awake, but to no end. Legolas smiled. He had fallen into the Enchanted River himself - more than once - so he knew that the magic would fade shortly.

From afar he could hear the dim blowing of horns in the wood and the sound as of dogs baying. It seemed that the other hunting parties were luckier than his own. The presence of dogs gave him the hint he needed – the Faithful, too, were out hunting. Only the Avari had hounds that were trained for the hunt.

Suddenly, on the path below him some white deer appeared, a hind and fawns as snowy white as the hart had been dark. They glimmered in the shadows, and the sight of them filled Legolas’ heart with joy – it had been many seasons since he last saw white deer in Mirkwood. Three of the Dwarves leaped to their feet and loosed off arrows from their bows. None seemed to find their mark. The deer turned and vanished in the trees as silently as they had come, followed by the laments of the Dwarves.

Legolas descended from the tree without the slightest noise. He approached the deer carefully. They stood close and watched him with bright, unmoving eyes. He murmured softly in the ancient tongue of the Faithful, entreating them to flee to the North. No Elven archer would raise his or her bow against white deer for many seasons to come. Not until they had become numerous, filling the northern forest again.

The hind allowed him close enough that he could stroke her head and neck, flattening her ears in delight as if listening. Legolas whispered a protective spell over her and the fawns; a spell that every Elven archer would recognize, at least those of the Faithful and the Silvan folk, for they were accustomed to the use of earth magic. The good beasts would be safe, unless they ran into Wargs or other evil things. But even for that, the peril was lesser in Thranduil’s realm. And the return of the white deer mayhap would signal the return of better luck to the woodland folk.

Nimphal appeared next to him soundlessly, as if stepping out of a tale herself. The deer looked at her with interest; then they turned and walked away on the old path northwards.

“Brandor has found the hart,” whispered Nimphal. “He will take the boat and row up the river to the King’s palace. What will we do now?”

Legolas bit his lower lip, thinking hard.

“We shall escort the deer as far as the beech wood,” he finally decided. “We cannot risk losing them; this may be the only chance for getting the deer back into our forest. It is but a short way on the old path, it should not take us longer than two days.”

“What about the Naugrim?”

“They will need more time for the same path, I think. More so since they will have to carry the fat one who has fallen into the Enchanted River. Once the deer are safe, we shall return to watch them again.”

Nimphal gave him a doubtful look. “I believe not that the King will allow you to postpone your bonding ceremony, just to watch the Naugrim some more.”

Legolas tilted his head to the side. “We shall see. These Naugrim are here for a purpose. And do tell me, what do Naugrim desire strongly enough even to face the perils of our darkened woods?”

“Gold,” prompted Nimphal, feeling a little insulted; every elfling could answer such a plain question. “Jewels. Riches of any sort.”

“So it is,” agreed Legolas amiably. “And since they are here, that means some old hoard has to be somewhere close, too. Now, would it not be mutually useful if the King offered them his hospitality for a part of that hoard they are looking for?”

“The King is not very fond of the Naugrim,” Nimphal pointed out carefully. Legolas shrugged.

“Depends on the Naugrim. Some of those who dwell under the Ered Mithrin helped to carve our fortress out of the hill’s living stone, as you know.”

“That was then,” replied Nimphal soberly. “This is now. And right now, these Naugrim are invading our woods, frightening what little wildlife there still can be found – and who knows how much trouble they still are apt to cause? The King will not be pleased.”

“Which is the very reason why the Naugrim will have to be watched,” prompted Legolas, his eyes sparkling with delight. Nimphal shook her head.

“You are devious, Legolas!” Among themselves, Legolas never demanded to be addressed by rank.

“I am learning to be,” he admitted, his good humour fading a little. “One day I will have to take over the burden of kingship, after all, and I need to be prepared. Now let us hurry up, ere we lose track of these deer.”

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End notes:
(1) Yes, even Elves need some time to walk almost a hundred miles from Thranduil’s palace to the Old Forest Road. Marvellous, but they can’t just grow wings and fly. Though they probably would not mind. :)
(2) I might mess up a little with Mirkwood’s geography. The map does not show the Enchanted River cross the Old Forest Road… for the sake of my story; however, I let the river be a little longer. Sorry.
(3) See: "The Hobbit", p. 138.
(4) The name means Fortress Dweller in Sindarin. The bow’s name would be Celchornag – more or less.
(5) The Blue Mountains that once parted Beleriand from Eriador. The Leikvin or Danian Elves are actually Nandor (= Green-Elves). Hey, ’tis not my fault that Tolkien gave everyone and everything at least three dozen different names!
(6) Her name means White Wave in Sindarin. The other names were borrowed from Tolkien himself.

The Trials of a Woodland King 03a - Ithilwen

2018-11-15T18:14:43Z

Author’s notes:
This story took a completely different turn from what was originally planned. I intended it to be a light-hearted humour fic, countering all those horrible Thranduil-bashings out there. But it turned into some sort of serious Legomance, and one cannot work against one’s muse.

The short interlude below was written to lead over from the rather contemplative third chapter to the fourth one that matches more my original intention. I’m aware of the fact that the whole story is a little uneven, but I fear I will not be able to change that.

Giving someone a pet name (epessë in Quenya) is often a sign of fondness. Ithilwen means roughly Moon-maiden, which is an indication of Indreâbhan’s pale golden hair and the fact that she was originally a Moon-Elf, ere I adopted her into Legolas’ life. Also, Sindarin names are seldom longer than three syllables, so I thought her original name would be too long and complicated for the Mirkwood folks.

As always, heartfelt thanks to the_wild_iris for beta-reading.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
INTERLUDE: ITHILWEN

Returning to the moonlight dances that were still going on in his father’s place of festivals, Legolas soon found the Lady Indreâbhan among the merry crowd. Or outside of it, to be more accurate. She was sitting all by herself under a huge, ancient beech tree on the bank of the Forest River, watching the dances thoughtfully from afar.

She was still clad in white. Her long, shining hair, pale golden as the moonlight itself, flowed down her narrow back like starlit water. Pale was her face, too. Even her lips seemed as if all colour had been drawn from them. Only her eyes shone, deep and dark as the waters of Cuiviénen ere Ithil’s light had brightened the nights.

Legolas approached her openly, though not without a certain degree of hesitation. He was not sure how to address that which needed to be discussed. She had always been so honest with him – Legolas wanted to return that courtesy, but without hurting her feelings.

“Lady Ithilwen,” he said, “may I join you for a moment?”

Indreâbhan arched a fine eyebrow at that addressing. Certainly, the name matched her appearance (and that of her whole clan, which was why the Northmen liked calling them Moon-elves). But like all Elves, she knew of the significance of name-giving between lovers, even though she and Legolas were not. So she simply nodded.

“You have been absent for a while,” she said, and Legolas felt that this was actually a question.

“I went to the Great Ash,” he answered, “to think over my choices and come to a decision.”

“You sought guidance,” stated Indreâbhan, and when Legolas nodded, she asked, “Have you found what you needed?”

“I have,” said Legolas. “My path lies now clear before me. The only remaining question is: are you willing to tread it with me, side by side, 'til the end of Arda?”

“Do you truly want me to walk by your side?” she answered with a question of her own.

Legolas nodded. Slowly, thoughtfully, but without hesitation.

“I have made my choice, my lady. If you are willing to wait for me just a little longer, I can promise you that my heart shall not be divided when we bind our lives together. All I ask you is a little more time. Right now Elrond still needs me to help carry his burden. And carry it he must, for he is crucial to the fate of Middle-earth, or so I am told.”

“I have already told you that I am willing to wait,” said Indreâbhan. “But once the time of waiting is over, you will be mine. No regrets, no looking back, no comparing me with him, no secrets. Can you promise me that?”

“I can,” replied Legolas, “and I do. And to prove to you that I honestly mean what I am saying, I ask you to go through the betrothal ceremony with me, ere this Autumn Festival ends.”

Indreâbhan remained very quiet for a while, only her beautiful face became even paler. Finally, she looked up, directly into Legolas’ eyes.

“I shall hold you to that promise,” she said in a quiet but firm voice. “I expect our bond to be one of love and fulfilment, not just some guise for an alliance between your father and mine. Thus I expect you to learn to love me, beyond the friendship that we already have, for I deserve to be loved. Just as I shall learn to love you as my husband and bond-mate. For you, too, deserve to be loved. We can do this. Of that, I am certain – if we both are willing to try.”

“I am,” said Legolas. And he truly was, even though he knew it would not be easy.

“Then I am willing to bond with you,” replied Indreâbhan, smiling for the first time. “I shall go through the ceremony with you before the end of the Festival, and I shall wait ‘til I can have your undivided love and attention. Make me not wait too long.”

Legolas shook his head in awe. “I still fail to understand why you are willing to do this. It cannot be pleasant for you.”

“Not always,” admitted Indreâbhan. “I would prefer simply to follow the call of my heart as most of our people are allowed to do. And I certainly would prefer it if I did not have to live up to the memories of all that which you had – or still have – with Elrond. Yet I am not the fragile flower you apparently believe me to be. I am able and willing to fight for you.”

Legolas could not resist repeating the question he had already asked Egilstadir earlier. “Am I such a prize, then?”

And Indreâbhan gave him almost the same answer as her brother had. “You are. What we can have is worth fighting for.”

“Then all I can wish you is a victorious fight,” said Legolas, smiling. Indreâbhan returned his smile and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“Worry not. I never pick a fight I have no chance of winning.”

They laughed quietly and sat for a while in companionable silence. After a while, though, Legolas picked up the conversation again, for he still had one more thing to tell his lady.

“Do we want to tell our fathers what we have decided or should we wait ‘til my return?” he asked. Indreâbhan frowned.

“You are leaving? Where for?”

“I shall lead a hunting party south from the Old Forest Road,” explained Legolas. “As our need is great, Father decided to allow the hunters to enter Southern Mirkwood again. I thought Egilstadir told you.”

“I have not spoken with my brother at any length since our arrival,” said Indreâbhan. “Nor did I think that things in the forest had become this desperate since Queen Lálisin left us. That is a dangerous thing you are planning to do.”

“It certainly is,” Legolas agreed, “But we have no choice. The earth barely brings forth anything edible, aside of a few berries and mushrooms, and the game has become sparse. We are starving, Ithilwen, even though it is not obvious. Not yet, that is. The food your people brought will help us through the Festival, but unless the wildlife returns to our woods or the soil can be healed, so that we can cultivate our gardens again, we may not last much longer.”

“The soil can be healed,” said Indreâbhan seriously, “and the growth can be strengthened. I would gladly offer my help in this matter. I may not be strong enough to perform an earth-healing ritual alone, but there are Wise Women of the Faithful in your father’s court, and Mother can assist us, too. I shall call for the ritual soon, and while it cannot work wonders, it still will bring the poisoning of the soil to a halt.”

“You can do that?” asked Legolas in amazement. Indreâbhan shrugged.

“’Tis no wonder, nor does it need any greater powers than most women of the Faithful possess. It comes from our strong bond with Arda, not from any kind of wizardry. Mother and I are somewhat stronger than most, but not greatly so. Still, if we unite our strength with the elders of the Faithful, it should be enough… for a while.”

“And afterwards?” asked Legolas. Indreâbhan sighed.

“That I cannot tell. As long as the Necromancer sits in Dol Dúgol, all paths are clouded with uncertainty. But we shall do what we can, for the forest is in dire need of healing. When I touch the bark of the trees, I can hear their laments as the poison creeps up from the earth through their roots.”

“Are they in danger?” Legolas was alarmed. “Are we in danger of losing our forests? How come that the trees never talked to me about this?”

“They surely did,” said Indreâbhan,” but you are not an earth-healer, and thus could not understand. ‘Tis not your fault. Worry not, though. The trees of the Greenwood are old and strong. They can endure much ere they fall. And we shall see that they receive the help they need to heal.”

Their conversation was interrupted by young Rhimlath, who had been sent by Galion to call them back to the King’s table.

“The guests want our Princess to sing,” said Legolas’ childhood friend apologetically. “It has been a long time since we heard your lovely voice, my Lady.”

Indreâbhan was clearly not happy about this, but her strong sense of duty won over her slight unwillingness, as always. They returned to the feasting place, and a great, silver-stringed harp was brought forth and offered to Indreâbhan to play.

Legolas sucked in his breath in surprise. That beautiful harp had once belonged to his grandfather, and since Oropher’s death rarely had anyone played it, as Thranduil preferred his flute and Legolas had little interest in playing any instrument. He remembered Lindir, the uniquely gifted young minstrel of Imladris bringing the harp to life once during a visit, but that was all. What might have moved the King to ask his future daughter-in-law to play precisely this harp?

Indreâbhan seemed aware of the honour given to her. She positioned the wondrous instrument with great care, and slid her strong, slender fingers across the strings, listening if they were tuned properly. Finding everything in order, she gave a small nod, thought for a moment, then began to play.

Thranduil and all those members of his court who had follower Oropher from Doriath to the East, raised their heads surprised ere Indreâbhan even began to sing. The melody alone was enough to make them recognize the lay of Lúthien Tinúviel’s lengthening spell. This was a lay rarely sung, as it carried the memories of a glory long gone and of bitter loss. And yet, as Indreâbhan raised her clear, ringing voice, it was the feeling of triumph that filled all their hearts. Triumph and hope that – just as Lúthien had done it in times even darker than the current ones – they, too, would overcome the darkness one day.

And Lúthien now was left alone.
A magic song of Men unknown
she sang, and singing then the wine
with water mingled three times nine;
and as in golden jar they lay
she sang a song of growth and day;
and as they lay in silver white
another song she sang, of night…(1)

And listening to the voice of his bride-to-be, as she sang of growth and strength and other wonders, Legolas felt hope returning in his own heart, too.

Mayhap the blessings of the Lord Aldaron and the Lady Palúrien would follow them on their hunting trip in Southern Mirkwood.

Mayhap their fate would take a change for the better, just this one time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
(1) See: The Lays of Beleriand, pp. 246-247 in the Del Rey edition.

The closest Indreâbhan look-alike (it is Danaerys, of course):

The Trials of a Woodland King 03 - Choices

2018-11-14T18:54:35Z

Summary: Learning that Indreâbhan is still unsure about their marriage, Legolas goes to the Great Ash Tree to meditate.

Author’s notes:
These events are made up by me. There is no canon fact that could support my own ideas about Elven mysticism and such.
The fire-tree called nargaladh is an invention of Dwimordene. It appears in her story “Roots” and was used with her permission.
The idea of the 13 Avari clans originates from Fan’s wonderful story, “Moriquendi” – go and read it, you are going to love it! I gave those clans a rather different history, though.
Alagos, whose name means “Storm of Wind”, is an original character of mine. An ancient Avarin Elf who used to be the First Guard of King Nurwë of the Avari, the grandfather of Legolas’ mother, Queen Lálisin. He was inspired by a wonderful photomanip by my good friend Archet, showing Sean Bean as a chestnut-haired Elf.
As always, my heartfelt thanks to the_wild_iris for beta-reading. All remaining mistakes are my fault.

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CHAPTER 3: CHOICES

Legolas escaped from the dance after midnight and – as was his wont – sought refuge by the Great Ash that was considered a holy tree among the Faithful. As a little elfling he often had accompanied his mother when Queen Lálisin felt the need to renew her bonds with the earth and the waters, the winds and the trees. They used to make pilgrimages from the Emyn Duir to this place, back in the Second Age, and it had been a long journey, but at that particular time less perilous.

All trees were considered incarnations of Palúrien by the Faithful, but more than any other so the Holy Tree that stood on a wide, triangular patch of grassy earth, right where the Enchanted River and the Forest River met – where the former one lost its dark spell, no-one knew how or why. Legolas could remember vividly the maidens of his mother singing and dancing around the tree. He could remember Lálisin’s serene face as the Queen bent down to take a handful of water from the small spring that broke free between the roots of the Great Ash and offer it to him to drink.

The prince lowered himself onto the still warm grass, cross-legged, his back straight like the bole of the Tree, his upturned palms resting upon his knees in the time-honoured gesture of openness and acceptance. His eyes firmly on the Ash, he opened his fëa to the whisper of the leaves. Unlike other trees, the Great Ash never shed her(1) leaves ‘til the end of the fading season. Tall and slender she was, the Tree of Life, her roots delving deep into the flesh of Arda, reaching towards the very centre of the bent world, washed by the living waters born among them. Her powerful branches reached out to the stars of Barathî, the winds of Manwë playing with them as with the strings of a living harp. She bound the starlit skies to the earth like a powerful anchor. She was old, very old, but under her smooth bark the juices still ran vigorously.

“She offers the most beautiful and gladdening image you can ever keep in your heart, young one,” the deep, slightly rough voice spoke quietly behind Legolas. “Rich and fertile in form and effect she is, the Great Ash, giver of life and bread; the Holy Tree in which Palúrien’s powers are stronger than anywhere else. As long as she stands, untouched by withering and darkness, we need not fear for our forests.”

Legolas did not look back, nor did he stir when a dark figure – wrapped in a russet cloak of rough wool that seemed black in the darkness – sat down at his side. He had recognized the voice at once; besides, who else but Alagos, the Dark Elf, could have sneaked up to him unnoticed?

Alagos was the chief messenger and weapons master of King Thranduil, as he had been for King Oropher before, ever since the royal family had moved to the Greenwood, back at the beginning of the Second Age. Alagos was the one who had taught Legolas and his brothers everything about tracking, fighting and weapons – but who had also led their steps towards a profound understanding of the elements and the trees.

The Queen, whom Alagos had followed to Oropher’s court in the first place, had taught her sons that which was needed in peacetime. Alagos had taught them that which was needed in war. And no matter how great and fierce a warrior Thranduil was, there were things in which his sons bested him. For only those who had the blood of the Faithful in their veins could truly become one with the forest. ‘Twas Alagos’ doing that Legolas had learned to fight as only the Faithful could.

“The trees are our very life,” Alagos continued softly, his voice barely more than a murmur among the murmurs of the tree. “They guide us through the loa(2) as they change with the changing seasons, and we change with them. They offer us shadow from the burning sun, they give us shelter from the stormy rains. We live among their branches, and should we die, our empty shells will be laid to rest there, too, until they turn to ashes.”

That last part surprised Legolas a little. “I never heard of such a custom,” he said. The woodland folk usually buried their dead (alarmingly many of them in recent times) in the earth.

“’Tis an old one that only the Faithful keep,” replied Alagos. “Elven bodies disintegrate quickly, and as the burial tree is always a nargaladh, no predators can touch our dead in that short time.”

Legolas nodded distractedly. Climbing the nargaladh, the fire-trees of Mirkwood, was not an easy thing, even for a Wood-Elf, for the bark of these trees was moist and oily to the touch, and the hard outer layers contained a springy substance that felt like melted wax and went up in flames very easily.

“There is much the trees can teach us, young one,” Alagos continued, “and their different nature can show us the difference of our own choices. The love which you have been nurturing in your heart for hundreds of years is like a nargaladh – bright and wondrous it may be, but it can burn you easily. Its roots are strong, but go not deep enough to hold you safely.”

Legolas looked at the rough face of Alagos thoughtfully. Those hard features carried the memory of much pain and horror; all the darkness that Alagos had seen throughout the three Ages of Middle-earth and before. No-one knew for certain just how old the King’s Chief Tracker was (save perhaps his wife), but he had that look in his green eyes possessed only by those who had been born before the rise of Ithil and Anor. The “starlight look” it was called among the Silvan folk.

“Are you one of the Firstborn, Master Alagos?” asked Legolas quietly. The Dark Elf gave him an amused look.

“Of course I am, young one. We all are. Even you.”

“That was not what I meant," replied Legolas a little impatiently, “and you know that.”

“I do,” nodded Alagos with a smile, “and no, I am not one of those who awakened at Koivi-néni – or Cuiviénen, as it is called nowadays. But my parents were. And when they were captured by the Hunter, never to return, Nurwë, the leader of our Clan, took me into fostering care, for I was still very young at that time. With his people I wandered many long leagues, until we reached this forest, where we have dwelt ever since. The other three Clans followed Morwë to the South and made their homes in the mountains that are now called the Ered Nimrais.”

“How many Clans did come here, to the Greenwood?” asked Legolas. For some reason, his mother always refused to talk about these things, so the other Faithful did the same. But Alagos rarely did what everyone else would. And this time was no exception.

“Three,” he answered simply. “Our leaders thought that spreading our people would serve our survival better. Thus half of the Faithful came with Nurwë here, while the others went with Morwë to the South.”

“So there were only six Clans of the Faithful?” Legolas was a little surprised, for the Avari still were a numerous people, even after three Ages of fighting the Darkness on(in) the most dangerous places.

“Nay,” replied Alagos grimly, “there were twelve. And a thirteenth one which – though it was the greatest in numbers – became separated early on from the rest of us and vanished in the vales of the Great River. There it mingled with other tribes and later became the Silvan folk.”

“What about the other six Clans? “Legolas was afraid he knew the answer already – and a terrible one at that – but he needed certainty.

“They were captured while looking for a home,” said Alagos slowly, “and those unfortunate enough not to be killed have become the forefathers of the Orcs. If they survived the torture in the pits of Utumno, that is.”

Legolas shuddered. “Did you ever see your parents again?”

Alagos nodded slowly. “In a sense… though not in person. When Thangorodrim was broken and the pits of Utumno laid open, many of us went there secretly, to look for our beloved ones. I never found my parents – or my wife, who had been taken much later – but I found a brother.”

Legolas stared at him in shock. “How is that possible?”

Alagos shrugged. “The Lost Ones were forced to breed – to produce more slaves for the Dark Lord whom he could torture and twist at his convenience. My brother had been born in the pits – born as an Orc already, but I still could find the features of my mother in his hideous face. The first few generations of Orcs were a lot more alike to us, though they had already lost their connection to the flesh of Arda and were doomed to die, just like as mortal Men are.”

“What became of your… brother?” Legolas asked.

“I could not raise my hand against him,” answered Alagos with a sigh. “He was the only sibling I had. Thus I brought him back to the Greenwood with me, and our Wise Women did what was in their power to heal him. He was never able to endure the light of Anor, but we walked and hunted under the starlight together for many long seasons. He learned our tongue but lived in a cave, outside our dwellings, hiding from all eyes, even though he was not the only one brought back by their kin. They all led solitary lives, allowing only their closest kin to see them… until they died, either of old age (an age that was but the wink of an eye for us) or slain by wild beasts or some hiding dark creature that remained in the woods after Melko’s defeat(3).”

“And the Faithful accepted them all?” asked Legolas in awe. This little aspect of the past was never discussed in his father’s court – not within his earshot, anyway. Alagos nodded solemnly.

“Of course we did. They were our flesh and blood, and we all knew just how easily we could have been in their place. Unlike Thingol’s hidden realm, our dwellings had no higher powers to protect them. Besides, those early ones had little resemblance to the Orcs that you know now, three Ages and thousands of generations later. They were not irrevocably evil yet – not beyond healing. Their bodies were damaged beyond repair, true, yet their fëar were not yet corrupted completely. Our Wise Women of old knew ways and methods to re-connect them with Arda… to a certain extent. Your grandmother and her mother were the strongest of all; they saved many of the Last Ones.”

“Mother never told me aught about her ancestors,” said Legolas sadly. “Naught beyond the fact that Nurwë was her grandfather. I wonder why. I wonder if she ever told Father these things.”

“She did,” replied Alagos simply. “The Queen never kept any secrets from King Thranduil; it would have been unwise to do so, with all the dark rumours among the Eldar about our people cross-breeding with Orcs and other wild tales. Thranduil – and even more so his father – needed to know the whole truth when they came to our forests to make an alliance with our people.”

“Why has she never told us, then?” asked Legolas. “Would her sons, too, not need to know the truth?”

“These traditions are kept to the female line among the Faithful,” said Alagos, “and not discussed with the males, unless they were directly involved, as I was. I believe the Queen left it to your father to tell you – if and when he found it necessary.”

“Does that mean that Celebwen has known all this, all the time?” asked Legolas in surprise, as his older sister never cared much for the Avari traditions of their mother. Alagos nodded.

“She has been told, yea. But it only strengthened her urge to flee to the Sea, and so she finally moved to Mithlond. She never truly felt at home under the trees, not even as a small elfling, and often it seemed that our rituals frightened her. She inherited too much of your father’s Sindarin blood. The Queen hoped that Aiwë would follow her path one day. But when we lost the little bird(4), the Lady Lálisin chose Princess Indreâbhan to be her successor.”

“Indreâbhan?” repeated Legolas, quite stunned. Alagos gave him a grim smile.

“What do you know of your betrothed, young one? Aside from the fact that you are not in love with her?”

To that Legolas had no answer, just looked a little ashamed. Alagos nodded.

“I thought so. She is an earth-healer, young one; mayhap not such a strong one as our Wise Women used to be, certainly not strong enough to protect a whole forest from the creeping darkness, but a healer nonetheless. Or do you believe the soil of Dor-Lelmin remains unstained by some whim of nature?”

Once again, Legolas had no answer. Alagos sighed. The prince was still so young, he should have been allowed to discover these simple truths on his own, but in these dark days there was simply no time for that. And at times ‘twas better when someone other than the father took the difficult task upon him to open the eyes of the young ones. They were more likely to listen.

“I know you were taught the history of the Greenwood, young one,” he began quietly, “but let the most important meeting be re-told by someone who witnessed it. I was one of those who accompanied Eredur son of Nurwë, our leader after Nurwë had been slain, at his first meeting with King Oropher. We travelled a long way on foot from our dwellings in the Emyn Duir to the Amon Lanc where Oropher had made his dwelling, shortly after he had come to the East. I witnessed the agreement they made – that, in order to unite our peoples, Prince Thranduil would wed a lady of Eredur’s House. There were a few to choose from, and your father chose Lálisin, the daughter of Eredur’s sister, although she was much older than him, for he took a liking to her at first sight. Yet it was also a choice for the good of his future realm; Thranduil would have married anyway, if not your mother, then one of her cousins. ‘Tis an added blessing of Palúrien that the two liked each other right away and that this grew to deep love between them. An added blessing, not a condition.”

Legolas shook his head in disbelief.

“Does anyone choose their life-mate out of love?” he asked bitterly.

“Few who are chosen to lead and protect an entire folk can follow their heart freely,” answered the Dark Elf soberly. “Yet if you look at your own parents, or at the Lady and Lord of Dor-Lelmin, you will have to admit that no-one of them has made a wrong choice. Besides… the choice you would prefer to make does not stand open to you. It never has.”

“I know,” whispered Legolas, “and I shall do as is expected of me. But it hurts, Alagos. It hurts so much.”

“Of course it hurts, young one,” replied the older Elf, his cool green eyes full of sympathy and understanding. “Making the right choice is never easy. But I know you have the strength in you to choose well.”

He rose from his grassy seat with the practised ease of a woodsman.

“Back in the Elder Days, our people believed that the fëar of their beloved ones would nestle in ancient trees,” he added as an afterthought, “for not even their spirits would be eager to leave the place of our birth. I know not if ‘tis true or not. But I know that the Great Ash is the wisest tree in the whole forest. Listen to her, young one. She will guide you well.”

“I wish I could understand the trees as you do,” Legolas sighed.

“You will learn to understand them better, given enough time” said Alagos. “Alas, I cannot stay here and teach you right now. I have to go and meet Master Aiwendil and escort him to the King’s palace.”

“Aiwendil?” repeated Legolas in delight. “I knew not that he was to come to the Festival.”

“Apparently, he was visiting Dor-Lelmin and was invited to the betrothal ceremony,” explained Alagos. “Small wonder; the blessing of the Istari is a good omen for the beginning of a marriage.”

“I am glad he is coming,” said Legolas. “He has been a friend of our family from the day he set foot in the Greenwood for the first time. He shares many memories with us – most of them sad, but some of them bright and happy.”

“Do not wail among the shadows of the past, young one,” Alagos warned him. “Enjoy the peace of the night – ‘tis rare enough in these dark days. May the Great Ash give peace to your heart, too.”

With that, he pulled his brown cloak tighter around himself and vanished between the trees without a trace, as was his wont. Legolas sighed. Not often did it happen that the Dark Elf, as he was called even among the woodland folk (not for his origins, as they all were Moriquendi in the Wood, but more for his brooding nature) interfered with the affairs of the royal family, but when he did, his opinion was highly valued. He was the highest-ranking of the Faithful, after all, and also the second-eldest member of the court, after Galion.

Legolas knew that he had to make his choice ere the Festival was over. ‘Twas not a matter of simple obedience – he would always obey his father if the good of the Greenwood was at stake, no matter what the costs – this time he had to make a conscious choice. One that would persuade Indreâbhan to go through the betrothal ceremony with him. He had asked a lot from his selected bride during the last two hundred years. Indreâbhan had been most forthcoming and understanding. But their last conversation in-between the dances had made it very clear that his lady had come to the limits of her endurance.

I am willing to wait for you, Laegalas, she had said, using the older form of his name, as always when they were talking about matters of great importance. But I shall not share my bed with you while you are still thinking of him. Consider carefully whether you shall be able to open your heart to me, once he has gone to the West, for if you cannot, the betrothal shall be called off. I am not willing to live in Elrond’s shadow ‘til the end of Arda. Not even for the good of our people.

Legolas reassumed his meditative posture and allowed his mind to drift off into the state of waking dreams. This was how the woodland folk always sought connection with the whole of Arda – how they sought advice from the trees and the winds, the water and the very soil itself.

He waited patiently, opening up his heart to the soft whispers in the night. The trees spoke not in clear words or images, and to understand the barely audible sighs of the night breeze one needed focus and endurance. But the blood of the Faithful in his veins made his hearing keen for the murmurs of waters, for the almost nonexistent sound of the tree-roots growing under the earth, for the whisper of leaves above his head. Finally, all these voices melded together in his dream, and he saw the image of his mother approach him from under the Great Ash.

‘Twas not the first time that the Queen had visited his dreams. They had always been very close, as Legolas was a late-born son and had been the youngest fledgling in the family nest for hundreds of years. Ever since his mother’s horrible death in the dungeons of Dol Dúgol, he often asked himself if these visits were simple visions, sent to him by the Lady Palúrien, the thoughts of the Great Ash taking a familiar and beloved form, or if the fëa of his mother had never truly left Middle-earth, staying behind to watch over the rest of their family.

Whatever the reason might be, Legolas was grateful for it. He missed the gentle wisdom of his mother terribly. As close as he was to his father, Thranduil did not share that very special mindset that only the blood of the Faithful could give. The King had gone great lengths to understand the ways of his wife and his people, and he had been reasonably successful in adapting to their lives. But it was a knowledge that he had acquired by learning and willpower. For Legolas, it was in his blood. That made him different from the rest of his family – the forest was not just his realm, it was his inheritance as well. His very life.

Queen Lálisin seemed not different from how he had seen her the last time, alive or in another vision. Tall and slender she was, like an elm-tree, after which she had been named, her thick, mahogany-hued hair put up and held together by a dark green cloth as was her wont in life. Almond-shaped eyes, bright and greenish-brown like polished chestnuts, shone in her gentle face, and in the moonlight even the freckles on her cheeks could be seen. She was fairly plain for an Elf, compared even with most other women of the Silvan folk. For Legolas, however, she was breathtakingly beautiful, and he knew that his father felt the same way.

“You are concerned, my little leaf,” said the Queen gently, sitting down next to her son and embracing him gently; ‘twas the great gift of the waking dreams that they gave other sensations, too, beyond mere sight.

“I stand before my hardest choice, Mother,” replied Legolas. “I know what I have to choose, but I know not how. I wish not to lie to Indreâbhan, yet I cannot promise that I shall be able to love her as she deserves to be loved, once Elrond has gone. All the people that I have spoken with say I could do this – yet I am not that certain. And if I know not my own heart, how could I make such a promise?”

“Remember, I was still with you when your father and the Lord Aghavannagh made that agreement,” said the Queen. “Do you believe Thranduil would make such a decision without asking me first?”

“And you agreed?” asked Legolas in surprise. The Queen nodded.

“I always knew that you and Indreâbhan would be good for each other. The only thing I feared was that she would not have the courage to stand up for herself and demand from you what she deserves. I feared that she would accept this marriage without any conditions. That would have been a bad thing, for thus you would not have been equals. But it seems that she has finally grown up enough to make use of her rights. Do not be mistaken, my little leaf; she will not wed you just to make her father – or yours – happy. You will have to win her heart.”

“But how can I do that, Mother, while mine is still occupied by someone else? She will not share – and I would never ask her to do so.”

“Then you will have to make room for her in your heart,” answered the Queen gently. “I know that right now Elrond needs you, for his burdens are heavy, heavier than even you might guess, and I say not that you should leave him alone, not yet. But you should be ready to close that part of your life when he is gone – without compromises, without looking back. From then on, your life and your heart should belong to your wife-to-be. Completely. Can you do that, my son? Do you have feelings in your heart for her, feelings that are strong enough to build a life upon?”

Legolas pondered over this question for a long time. He recalled old memories of times spent in Indreâbhan’s pleasant company, before and after he fell in love with Elrond. He weighed her shining beauty, her gentle wisdom, her generosity and understanding against the searing passion he harboured for the Lord of Imladris – and finally nodded.

“I believe so. But will I be able to make her believe it?”

“You do not have to make her believe it,” his mother answered. “She knows it already. You only have to promise her that you will try. She is prepared to fight for you, to win your heart – if only you would allow it.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” asked Legolas doubtfully. His mother shrugged.

“Ask her to wed you. Show her that you have chosen and are willing to accept her conditions.”

Legolas shook his head in disbelief. “It cannot be that simple…”

“Oh, but it is,” his mother answered with a smile. “All that truly matters is simple, my son. ‘Tis we who refuse to see it and try to make everything difficult, to make every choice hard.” She rose. “I have to leave now, little leaf. Be steadfast. I know you have the strength in you to do the right thing.”

“Mother…,” Legolas hesitated, “is this really you? Or are you but a vision, born from my concerns and dreams?”

“I am all that which you need to see and hear right now,” the Queen answered. Then she bent down to kiss his brow and left slowly, vanishing between moonlight and shadows ere she quite reached the Great Ash.

Legolas looked after her for a long time, coming back to awareness slowly. To his great amazement, he felt the burden lifting a little from his heart. He was willing to make the choice that was expected from him, and it felt right.

In fact, he was amazed how liberating it felt.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) For some reason I imagine that Wood-Elves considered trees as female creatures. Or at least some particular trees (certainly not the Huorns, though). I don’t know why. Barathî is – according to the Ardalambion website – the Primitive Elvish form of Varda. I simply supposed that the Avari would use earlier forms, having been isolated from other Elves for a long time.
(2) The seasonal year. A loa had six seasons of different length.
(3) Melko was an earlier name of Melkor (Morgoth). I let Alagos use this version, for he is a very ancient Elf, who never went to the West, thus he is most likely to use older names than the Eldar. Also, the name Morgoth (Black Foe) was given to Melkor by Fëanor; I doubt that an Avari would use it.
(4) The name Aiwë means simply “bird”. She was Legolas’ late-born baby sister, killed by a Giant Spider at a very young age. The whole tale is called “Little Bird” and is available on ff.net, SoA and AO3.

The Trials of a Woodland King 02 - Promises to Keep

2018-11-13T19:58:16Z

Summary: The Nandor Elves from Dor-Lelmin(1) finally arrive, and Legolas has to keep his promise.

Author’s notes: The Nandor Elves in this chapter were originally characters of my very own fantasy universe. Their names are not genuine Elven names. They were always called like that, and I grew fond of the names, so I simply decided they would come from some obscure Danian dialect.

Both they and Silinde Ladyhawk appear in my crossover story “Web of Darkness”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 2 – PROMISES TO KEEP

Silinde, captain of the Mirkwood archers, usually liked the seasonal feasts in the Palace. Even if it meant that her troops, together with the House Guard, had to watch the celebrations in shift and got very little from the overall merriment themselves.

She did not mind being on duty all the time. Having lost her husband in the Battle upon Dagorlad, she had no-one to celebrate with anyway. Her only son, Rhimlath, refused to go the way of the warrior and chose to become Galion’s right hand, calling himself modestly a mere servant of the Palace. Rhimlath, too, was on heavy duty during the Autumn Festival, and what little free time he could spare, he would want to spend with his young wife. They had entered the bond of matrimony less than a decade ago and were still in what Silinde called the cuddling phase.

Not that she would mind that, either. She was happy that her son finally bound with his beloved – every one could see that their bond was a strong one, one that would last ‘til the end of Arda. ‘Til they fade away together. For the Silvan folk, part of which Silinde considered herself, despite her Nandorin origins, never thought behind that what was on this side of the Sea.

What she truly did mind, however, was the obligation to dress up nicely and partake in courtly events. Especially this one.

Originally, Silinde and her entire family belonged to the Lord Aghavannagh’s people, and they had even dwelt in his small realm, Dor-Lelmin, for half the Second Age. But one day Silinde accompanied her parents on a festival in Eryn Galen, and at Aran Oropher’s court she met Nínnagor, her future husband. They fell in love and married fairly quickly – faster, indeed, than it was the custom of Elves, and Rhimlath was born only a few years before the Last Alliance of Elves and Men was formed.

During these years Silinde learned Sindarin at the court, even though most of the Silvan people kept their own speech and the Grey Tongue was only used in council meetings. Nínnagor, a Master Bowman from an other Nandor tribe, was part of these meetings, and after his death Silinde took over for him. She also learned to eat meat – something she adapted to rather eagerly, for Prince Thranduil (not yet King at that time) had already been a very talented cook, and never tired to prove his talent. But she was very much aware of the fact how much the Lord Aghavannagh despised what he called his people lowering themselves to the rustic Silvan customs.

However - being part of the Royal Council - Silinde could not avoid to face the dismay of her former Lord. So she put on the pale silk shirt and the long silvery-grey cloak that was customary among the nobility of the Forest at times of importance (she always clad like the males of her people) and hurried down to the King’s Gates as the magic doors of the Palace were called. She was almost late already, having spent too much time brooding in her chambers.

The King was there already, clad in a silver-embroidered russet robe and a soft, silver-grey cloak as it was his wont. To honour the occasion – and his most important ally – he even wore a delicately-woven mithril circlet upon his brow. This simple circlet was one of the very few hereditary treasures he had not yet been forced to give away for food or weapons. One of most ancient pieces that made it out from the burning ruins of the First City, entrusted to Galion’s care by Elmö himself, the Eldest King of the Faithful.

On the King’s left stood Nelladel(2), his silver-haired sister with her husband Maelduin(3) - a Doriathrim noble and chief counsellor to the court - and their daughter, fair young Silivren(4). On his right, clad according to his royal heritage for a change instead of the simple garb of a common archer, stood Prince Legolas, and Silinde felt a dull ache in her chest, for the young Prince resembled very much her beloved Queen, in spite of his delicate features that clearly came after Thranduil. The grief over the horrible fate of Queen Lálisin was still much too near, and all those that felt the pain of loss dearly, turned their love now to her only surviving son.

Not that Legolas had not been beloved among his father’s subjects before – far from that. But Queen Lálisin, last descendant of Nurwë and the last of the Earth-healers and truly powerful Wise Women of the Woodland Realm, had a very special place in the hearts of the Silvan folk, and now that Legolas was all that had been left of her, he naturally occupied that now-empty place in his mother’s stead.

And not alone by the natives of the Wood, Silinde admitted while greeting the assembled members of the Court and taking her customary place at Galion’s side. The Sindar who had come with Oropher and the Nandor who chose to live under the King’s rule, all of them loved and admired the valiant young Prince, who not only had the safest hand with the bow and the keenest eyes in the entire forest and beyond, but was also well-mannered, educated and all in all pleasant company.

If he only had not fallen victim to the charms of that Peredhel, Silinde thought angrily, he would long have been married to the Lady Indreâbhan, and mayhap the King would have handled over the throne to him already. This… madness that had gone on for some four hundred years by now, caused the King great sorrow, and the whole Court shared the sentiment. It could not be helped, however. As if under some kind of spell, the Prince flatly refused to end the unfortunate affair and wed his chosen bride as long as his lover still remained in Middle-earth. One could only hope that the Peredhel would leave soon, letting the Prince return to a life that suited the son of a woodland King.

“They are coming!” one of the keen-eyed guards called from a higher balcony, jerking the Captain of the archers of her grim musings. And indeed, at the end of the long, arched tunnel, created by the huge beeches on both sides of the path, a soft glimmer already appeared, slowly approaching the Palace.

Soon it was divided into many gleaming spots, lined up in a single file, and after another short while all could see that the spots, in truth, were three riders and about a dozen other Elves, walking on foot, leading a long line of heavily loaded beasts of burden. The Lord of Dor-Lelmin had not come with empty hands, it seemed, and Galion slowly let out a breath he had not even been aware of holding.

Watching the slow approach of her tribe, Silinde could not help but feel proud of her people. The family of the Lord Aghavannagh was a very noble and ancient one – both him and the Lady Vâsterdalawen could track their origins back to Lenwë himself, albeit along different lines, and this showed clearly on their looks. Tall and proud they were, even for Elves, and had a more slender built than the Silvan folk – just like Thranduil, their kinsman(5). Their long hair, adorned only with delicate, thin braids, fell down like silk, gleaming white-golden like moonlight, and their long eyes were wide and surprisingly dark.

Unlike Thranduil’s family, they never married outside the tribe, so the ancient Nandorin features – especially the high cheekbones and foreheads, but also the long, slender limbs and the narrow shoulders – remained among them like no-where else. They looked cool, elegant, detached – every bit as ignorant Men usually imagined Elves to be.

The horses they rode were magnificent; said to be the only ones that could match the mearas of the Rohirrim, so very different from the smaller, changing-coloured ones of the Silvan folk. These were big, yet graceful and clean-limbed, with a coat like pure silver, dotted with small white drops all over their bodies. Their long tails and wavy manes were the same pale gold as the hair of their riders, and each of them bore a small white star in the middle of its forehead. They moved with easy grace, even the more common, dark grey ones carrying the heavy bags, as if they were dancing in the fading evening light.

All Elves of the princely escort were clad in white, just like their Lord and his family, save for the soft grey cloaks upon their shoulders, the secret of whose making they had brought from Hithlum to Dor-Lelmin Ages ago. The only other place this sort of cloth was still woven was the Golden Wood, the other strong Silvan realm in Middle-earth.

The Lord Aghavannagh was about the King’s age – only a hundred years older or even less, Silinde was not entirely sure. Very tall he was, taller even than Thranduil himself, though only by an inch or so, and his easy manner radiated a strength that belied his elegant appearance. He was clad in white (save his cloak) and upon his brow he wore an unadorned silver circlet with a star-shaped white gem in the middle. He might not be called King by his people, yet in his small but fertile realm he possessed unquestioned authority. Not to mention that he was kinsman and most important ally to the mighty King of Mirkwood.

On his left – the heart-side – his wife rode, the Lady Vâsterdalwen – tall and willowy, fair and very wise. Her wisdom might be less ancient and her earth magic less powerful than that of the late Queen Lálisin, for no-one, not even the Green-Elves understood the Earth-mother (as they called Arda) as deeply as the remaining Faithful, yet she was loved and respected among her people nevertheless. For after the perishing of the Silvan Queen, she was still closest to the very roots of the Woodland Folk.

Prince Egilstadir, the Heir of Dor-Lelmin, rode on his father’s right. He was considerably older than his sister, being about the same age as Thranduil’s third-born son, Orchal(6) had been, even though he looked not a day older than Legolas himself. Yet Egilstadir had fought through the War of the Elves and Sauron that continued during half the Second Age(7) and he had stood upon the battle plane of Dagorlad, leading the Nandorin archers in stead of his gravely wounded father, and a thin scar – the remainder of a poisoned wound across his left cheek – showed that he faced his enemies unwavering ‘til the last moment.

And yet, despite all that he had seen, Egilstadir remained a merry, easy-mannered Elf, unlike many that had faced the same horrors – mayhap because he had not lost any of his loved ones.

Princess Indreâbhan, on the other hand, was fairly young for an Elf, born shortly after Sauron had been defeated. She was slightly shorter than the other members of her family and looked less aloof, more delicate. She had a fair, oval-shaped face, a soft smile and dark eyes that sparkled with mischief. Silinde knew, however, that the Princess was aught but weak – she taught her the fine tricks of archery and knife-fight personally, and Indreâbhan was very good at it. Even though her main interests were of more peaceful nature – those of earth-magic and healcraft.

In the years of her childhood she was taught by the Queen herself. Later she spent long seasons in Lórinand, as a pupil of the Lady Galadriel, for due to her birth she was selected as the leader of the Ivonwin(8) in her father’s realm, and who else could have taught her better than Galadriel who had been taught by Melian herself, the Queen of Doriath, who had given lembas to the Elves in the first place?

After that, Indreâbhan lived in Imladris for quite some time, learning the craft of the healers from Elrond, no less, an she became close friends with the Lady Arwen, Elrond’s daughter and Aquiel, the fiancée of Elrohir(9). Yet her heart yearned for the green fields of Dor-Lelmin, and as soon as her studies were complete, she returned to her father’s realm.

Silinde watched as the guests were greeted by the King in the most ceremonial manner and thought about the luck of Prince Legolas. ‘Twas not unknown to the Archer Captain that Elrond had proposed the Lord of Dor-Lelmin to marry the fair Princess to one of his sons (before Elrohir had fallen in love with the Lady Aquiel, of course), and there were other young, unbound Elves of high birth that would consider themselves lucky if they had been offered her hand.

Yet the Lord Aghavannagh preferred to bind his family to that of his royal liege through the bonds of matrimony rather than to that of the Half-Elven descendants of Noldorin Kings. With his son, he needed little persuasion, for Egilstadir fell for the glittering silver beauty of Silivren quickly enough. Indreâbhan hesitated longer to accept Legolas as her future husband, for at that time the young Prince was already devoted to the one he would never be allowed to bond with. But after a while she reluctantly agreed, though she kept the right to change her mind still.

Silinde often asked herself what the two could have discussed the whole night ere Indreâbhan finally gave her consent. That was a secret only the closest family knew – save Galion mayhap, who seemed to know just everything that happened in the palace. Whatever it was, it looked like the King had finally had enough – for the betrothal had been announced as the final act of the festivities, and though Legolas showed no outer sign of distress, Silinde knew him well enough to know that the Prince was decidedly unhappy with the way things had turned out.

Someone elbowed her in the ribs and she realized with a jolt that she had not greeted the noble guests yet. Hurriedly did she sink to one knee and lay a hand upon her heart, greeting the Lord of Dor-Lelmin in the ancient Danian dialect of her forefathers.

“May the stars of Elentári ever shine upon your paths, my Lord… my Lady,” she said.

The Lord and Lady of Dor-Lelmin responded in kind, and soon the group of Nandor Elves was busy with loading the goods from the horses and the servants of the palace helped them to carry everything into the pantries deep inside the hill. Thranduil, Nelladel and Maelduin retreated with their guests into one of the late Queen’s terraced gardens, to exchange the most important tidings (as they had not spoken to each other in person for a full loa), and while Silivren took Indreâbhan with her to discuss something only two young maidens would understand, Egilstadir and Legolas followed the horse-master to the open stables.

“So, your father is forcing the issue of your betrothal, I hear,” said Egilstadir, after the horses had been taken care for to his satisfaction. They had been friends, Legolas and himself, for a long time, he taking over the role of an elder brother after all Thranduil’s other sons had fallen in battle.

“He is,” answered Legolas with a sigh,” and I cannot blame him for it. I am his only surviving son and his heir, and in these dark times he is right to demand that I made an heir myself. Still, I find it cruel towards the Lady Indreâbhan. You know that I like her and respect her very much – but my heart is taken already. She deserves better than being second in line for my devotion.”

“Do you not deserve better?” replied Egilstadir quietly. “You know as well as I do that you, too, are second in line in your lover’s heart. That would never change.”

“I know,” said Legolas sadly, “and I wish I had met your sister before I met him. For I could have fallen in love with her just as easily. But I cannot change my heart, either.”

Egilstadir remained silent for a while. What Legolas had said was very true, of course, but Legolas was still rather young for an Elf, his judgement blinded by the intensity of his first love. Being considerably older, Egilstadir knew that things were a little more complicated, more so considering the matters of the heart.

“I believe you underestimate my sister,” he finally answered. “She knows very well what she is getting herself into – she has known from the moment when she agreed to become your wife – and I have the feeling that she is prepared to fight for you. To conquer your heart eventually.”

Legolas gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Am I such a prize that it would be worth fighting for me?”

“You know you are,” Egilstadir laughed, too. “Not all your suitors are interested in the Prince of Mirkwood only. Truly, I believe that most of them are interested in you. And why should they not? You deserve to be loved, mellon-nîn.”

“I am loved,” said Legolas stubbornly.

“In a sense you are, I doubt it not,” nodded Egilstadir, his dark eyes saddening; “nor is there any doubt that you did Middle-earth a great favour when you saved Elrond from fading. He is needed in the fight against the Darkness, even our fathers admit that much. But his heart and soul is already bound to the Lady Celebrían, and nothing will ever change that. He might love you now – I do believe that his heart is big enough for you as well – but he loved her first, and at the end it will be she to whom he will return. He never stopped to love her – you are only a substitute.”

“I know that,” Legolas forced back his tears ruthlessly. “I have always known.”

Egilstadir nodded in sympathy. He never doubted that Legolas would be honest with himself, even if it hurt.

“Then know this as well,” he continued; “love can come in many shapes in the life of an Elf, and not just once – nor is it always obvious at the first sight. Would you believe me if I told you that neither of my parents was the other’s first choice?”

Legolas stared at him in disbelief. “You cannot be serious! People sing lays about their love from Mirkwood to Lothlórien!”

“I am serious,” said Egilstadir with emphasis. “They both used to have other lovers whom they loved with all-consuming passion but lost ere the vows could be exchanged. ‘Twas shared grief and the need for comfort that brought them together at first, and it took them half the First Age to understand what they had found in each other. Still, would you say that they do not love one another – or their children? That they are not happy together?”

The answer was so obvious that Legolas only shook his head. A stone troll could recognize the deep affection and love between the Lord and Lady of Dor-Lelmin. Seeing the dawning realization on his friend’s face, Egilstadir smiled.

“I fell in love with Silivren at first sight,” he added gently, “but that is only one way love can take. It can also grow out of friendship and understanding, if you give it a chance. You and Indreâbhan already have that much. Are you willing to let it evolve into something more?”

“I wish I had met her earlier,” admitted Legolas, “for she is funny and mischievous and yet wise beyond her age – and she is as beautiful as Varda’s stars. And I feel guilty that I cannot give her what she truly deserves.”

“Not now, mayhap,” Egilstadir agreed, “but one day you will.”

Legolas shot him a doubtful look. “Are you certain?”

“As long as you keep an open mind and an open heart, yea, I am,” answered Egilstadir and stretched. “Now, let me change into something more suitable for the woods and let us have some fun. I have been looking forward to put my woodcraft to test for a long time. As peaceful and satisfying it is, life in Dor-Lelmin can get boring at times.”

“I fear that there is not much we could find near our dwelling in these days,” said Legolas solemnly. “Things have not been going well lately. My father has allowed us to cross the Old Forest Road to hunt in Southern Mirkwood again, just to fill our empty pantries once again.”

Egilstadir paled a little hearing that. He never thought things in Mirkwood would be this desperate. “Are you going out with one of the hunting parties?” he asked.

“Of course. I am the best archer in the Wood, my bow will be needed.”

“You could get killed,” reminded him Egilstadir. “Straying into the Necromancer’s territory is something that should be avoided at all costs.”

“So is starving,” replied Legolas with a shrug,” and I do not intend to get myself killed. I have been to Southern Mirkwood before – and I came back every time.”

“Just be careful,” warned Egilstadir; then, with a broad grin, he added. “And see that you do not return with empty hands. I want to see that look on my father’s face again when King Thranduil dishes out that famous roasted venison leg of his.”

Legolas laughed. “You should have a taste one day.”

But Egilstadir shook his head. “As long as our lands are fertile enough to feed us, I shall not eat animals. This has been the way of our people, ever since the Elder Days when they understood that the Noegyth Nibin(10) whom they used to hunt like animals were, in truth, fellow incarnates. First it started out of fear that we might unwillingly slay other incarnates. Then it has grown into respect toward the animals we shared our woods with. Now it is part of what we are.” He thought for a moment. “I fear Silivren will have a hard time to get used to it.”

“Not that she would have any other choice if she will get naught else but plants to eat,” Legolas grinned. “Is it agreed to, then? Are we going to have a double betrothal?”

Egilstadir nodded. “It is. But unlike you, I intend to have the wedding on next Midsummer’s Eve. I have been alone long enough.”

They returned to the Feasting Hall of Thranduil, where a frugal meal had already been prepared for the guests, and Legolas felt for his father, whose embarrassment was apparent, at least to him. Fortunately, there was still enough wine to make the welcoming feast moderately appropriate – not that either the Lord or the Lady of Dor-Lelmin would make any remark. They knew all too well how harsh life in Mirkwood was, and that their own peace and safety was mostly due to the bravery of the Silvan archers who kept the dark things from crossing the woods.

Thus the meal lacked the two Lords’ usual bickering about food and eating habits, for Aghavannagh would find it unseeming to mock his old friend in times of dire need, and they ate with little talk, listening to the minstrels instead. Not that Thranduil’s court would have any true minstrels with the Gift, but some of his Silvan subjects were skilled enough with their small, hand-held lutes and sang pleasantly. Their songs were different from those of the High-Elves: wilder, darker, full of passion and also with joy and fire. These were not the melancholic songs of a fading people.

Legolas felt his heart fill with music and the joy of life, and without thinking, he rose from his seat and offered a hand to the Nandorin princess. “Care for a dance, my Lady?”

Indreâbhan smiled and took his hand without hesitation, her knee-long, pale golden hair sweeping over the seat she had just vacated like a heavy silk veil. They swung over to the unoccupied part of the Hall, moving in complete harmony as if they had done this all their life.

Egilstadir grinned at Silivren across the table. “What about us?”

He barely finished speaking, Silivren was on her feet already, eager to join her cousin and soon-to-be sister-in-law. Other young members of the court followed their lead shortly thereafter, leaving the elders to their own worries.

Thranduil watched his son, laughing and jesting and dancing with the fair Lady chosen for him by his father and felt guilty. Never had arranged marriages been a custom in their House – his own father and grandfather were free to choose their life-mates, and the same freedom had been granted him and his sister… yea, even his older children had been allowed to do so. But Legolas was his last son, his only hope to continue their line – the woodland folk could not afford the luxury of remain childless, not even their future King. Death came all too easily in these dark days, and it was their duty to see that the Silvan folk would not lack leadership again.

“Do you not fear that we are making a grave mistake?” the King asked his friend. “Are we not making our children miserable by pushing them toward each other?”

The noble, ageless face of Aghavannagh remained unreadable. He did not give an answer for a while.

“I know not,” he said finally. “I only know that I feel it necessary to get them bound, for the sake of our people. But mayhap we both have lived among mortals and in constant peril for too long. Mayhap we have begun to think as Men do. Mayhap the whole idea was a mistake, after all.”

“Nay, it was not,” the Lady Vâsterdalwen said quietly. “They do have what is needed to build a long and happy life together. They have much in common, yet they are still different enough to present a challenge fore each other, every time and again – ‘tis a good match. The… obstacle will not be there forever. They are young. Time works for them.”

“It certainly worked for us,” her husband agreed with a faint smile. “Tell me, old friend – have you already stated your demand for the betrothal to take place at the end of the festival?”

“I have. And Legolas obeyed, albeit reluctantly.”

“In that case we might have a problem,” said the Lord of Dor-Lelmin with a sigh. “Indreâbhan has not made up her mind yet.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) Land of the Elm-trees. A small Nandorin realm between the northwest of Mirkwood and the Greylin River.
(2) Means "ringing-of-bells"; not a canon character. Since I gave Thranduil a silver-haired daughter (Celebwen), I thought there should be another one with silver hair in the family.
(3) Name borrowed from a legendary Irish voyager because of the nice sounding. Not a canon character.
(4) Another insignificant OC whose name means (white) glittering.
(5) In my stories Thranduil’s mother is a granddaughter of Lenwë. Yes, I know. Elven inbreeding once again. What can I do? There were only so many royal families among them. And everybody being related to Thingol was Tolkien’s idea, not mine.
(6) And earlier name for Galdor from the Grey Havens, who in turn was Legolas’ predecessor in the early LOTR-drafts.
(7) The War of the Elves and Sauron began in the year 1697 (Second Age) and continued til the end of that Age (3441), ending with Sauron’s defeat.
(8) Yavannildi (Quenya) – 'the maidens of Yavanna': Elven women, specially selected and taught to grow the grain from which lembas was made and to make lembas itself. No-one else was allowed to do this work but them.
(9) Another OC of mine. More about her can be found in “Innocence” and “A Tale of Never-ending Love”.
(10) Petty-Dwarves. Actually, it was the Sindar who hunted them, not the Nandor, but the knowledge could have spread among the other tribes, too.

For visuals: Silinde Ladyhawk

(The armour doesn't match the film looks, but this is the best look-alike I found, even though the hair is a bit too dark.)

The Trials of a Woodland King 01 - Autumn Festival

2018-11-12T19:51:36Z

Summary: Making preparations for the yearly Autumn Festival, Thranduil and his seneschal, old Galion, discuss the financial problems of the Woodland Kingdom. Thranduil is often portrayed as a greedy Elf. Even by Tolkien himself. I see it differently. Read this chapter, and you might see it differently, too.

Oh, and my heartfelt thanks to Judy and Nemis for beta-reading the original version and taking care of the whole grammatical mess. And yes, I know that there is no such word as inventars in English. It’s actually German, but I kept it because it sounded so wonderfully quirky.

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CHAPTER 01 – AUTUMN FESTIVAL

[Mirkwood, in the year 2980 of the Third Age]

Seasonal feasts were usually highly valued among Elves. Even more so among the Silvan folk who were bound to the changes of nature by many roots, right down to changing the colour of their hair with the change of the seasons(1).

Most important of all feasts was for Wood-Elves the Autumn Festival, for this is the time when their beloved forests were the most beautiful, turning into the rich, warm colours of red and brown and gold, the few still edible fruits the darkened forest was able to bring forth ripening, and the new wine arriving from Laketown, the most important trading partner of the woodland realm.

The Elvenking of Mirkwood was sitting in his study on this particular day. It was one of the large caverns of the royal wing, carved into the side of the mountain a very long time ago. It adjoined his throne room on one side, and his bedchamber – a lonely and cold place since the horrible death of his beloved wife – on the other one. It was a beautiful room, and one he had used for many hundreds of years, and it spoke about his scholarly interests. Shelves filled with book after book lined the walls, and a heavy, beautifully carved oaken desk stood in the middle of the airy room, cluttered with parchments and scrolls. A small table sat in front of the balcony doors, which stood wide open to the mountainside, and a light breeze blew the curtains about(2). The table was set with a bottle of wine and two small cups. And it was at this table that King sat pouring the wine.

Unlike his subjects, Thranduil Oropherion was not a Wood-Elf. Well – not entirely, at least. In his veins flowed the noble blood of Sindarin and Nandorin princes, and he was closely related to the Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien(3). He was tall and slender as the Eldar, the noble-Elves usually are, with an elegantly-shaped, fine face and had long, honey-blond hair of a rich, deep colour that rarely could be seen among Elves and was a result of his mixed heritage.

At the moment he was wearing the usual green and brown garb of the woodland folk, his hair braided tightly away from his face so that it did not bother him in his work. For the King was working – doing the most hated work he could ever think of: inventars. Yet disliked as it was, it was also necessary – now, shortly before the Autumn Festival, more so than ever.

Behind the desk of the Elvenking an older Elf sat: his childhood tutor and most valued advisor, the seneschal of his palace, one of the eldest of his whole people. An Elf named Galion. Humbly calling himself the King’s butler, Galion had practically run the day by day business in the entire palace, ever since it had been hewn out of the living stone of the mountain.

Once he had done the same for Thranduil’s grandfather, Elmö, King of the First City of the Quendi that had been built in the starlight before the Great Journey of the Elves to Valinor. Then he did it for Oropher, Thranduil’s father. And if the Lady Palúrien(4) was merciful, he would do it for Legolas, once he took over the burden of kingship from his father.

Galion was one of those rare Elves who showed fine signs of aging. For one thing, his hair was snow-white, and he wore it unbraided, adorned only by two delicate plaits above his ears. In his forgotten youth, before the making of the Sun and the Moon, he had been pale-haired – not ash blond like those of the Nandor tribe, but pale gold like the young winter sun, for he was very ancient indeed, born at a time when this rare colour was more common among the Quendi. But after uncounted centuries of grief and all that horror he had seen in his long life, his tresses began to turn white, little by little, almost invisibly, ’til he ended up like a snow-covered mountain peak, as people said in the Wood.

Also, there were deep furrows of grief around his mouth and his nose, and permanent dark rings under his eyes, all of which gave his face a hawk-like look. But in those dark eyes there was wisdom and love – love for the young folk among which he was living, but first and foremost for his King and his family. Alas, that there were so very few left of this family whom he still could give his love and support!

Right now, however, his support was very much asked for and very much appreciated. So, while the King continued sipping on his wine, his seneschal was reading the inventory list for him. It was not a very cheerful reading, and the longer Thranduil listened to it, the grimmer his face became.

“At least we have enough wine for the feast,” he finally sighed. “Even if the wild berries have brought an uncommonly low harvest this year. And our hunters have been less than lucky lately.”

Galion nodded, gloomily. Who knew this better than he, who spent his whole life overseeing the daily events of the kingdom?

“I fear that we shall have to buy food from Laketown again,” he answered ill-humouredly.

“And how, pray you, should we pay for it?” the Elvenking asked, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. “They charge us the highest prices, for they firmly believe that all Elves have great riches hoarded in their homes – and even more so their King. Besides, we still are lagging behind with the payment for the last two loads of wine, butter and apples.”

“Ummm…” Galion cleared his throat uncomfortably. “For the last four shipments, actually.”

Thranduil glared at him in utter disbelief. “We have not paid them for four years? And they are still willing to trade with us?”

“Certainly,” Galion answered with a wry face. “For this way they can demand a higher price from us for every new shipment than for the previous one. At the end we have no-one else to turn to, and they know that, alas.”

“What about the Woodmen?” the King asked. “We had little to do with them during the last two hundred years or so, but they used to be friendly towards us.”

Galion shook his head in sorrow. “Ever since the coming of the Dragon, they have had great losses, both in people and in harvests. They can barely feed themselves. Beorn’s people are a little better off, but they are few. They could never provide us enough food, not even if we paid them twice their common price. Which we cannot.”

“I know that,” the Elvenking replied darkly. “Ever since my wife died in Dol Dúgol(5), we have been unable to hold up the further poisoning of the soil. She was the last of the earth-healers of the Silvan folk; and unless those who still have the power to drive the Necromancer out of Dol Dúgol, this forest will slowly become as bad as Mordor itself. If the Lord of the Golden Wood did not provide us with the seed for lembas(6), we could not make it through the winter season on our own.”

“These are unsettling times, indeed,” Galion agreed with a discouraged nod. “So, what shall we do, my Lord? Empty the last remnants of our treasure chambers – or cancel the Autumn Festival altogether?”

“Neither of those,” the King answered, a stubborn look on his face. “We need what little still remains in our treasure chambers for new, better weapons; for the threat from the Orcs and the Giant Spiders is increasing. We cannot stay defenceless. But we cannot cancel the Festival, either. ’Twould be admitting defeat, and I am not willing to do so just yet. Besides, our people need some merriment, or the darkness will eat up their souls.”

“So what then?” Galion asked, a little impatiently. “Should I try to speak with the Master of Laketown again? I can do so, without hurting my pride. Yet I fear that this time the price would be very high, indeed.”

“Nay, we cannot do that either,” Thranduil sighed. “We are already drowning in our debts as it is. We shall have to send out hunting parties to the South again. This way we shall have at least some meat for the festival.”

Galion gulped. Hunting had become increasingly dangerous in the last two hundred years or so, due to the Orcs, Wargs and Giant Spiders infesting the forest in ever-increasing numbers, despite the best efforts of the Elven archers to hunt down and destroy them. Therefore, the King had strictly limited the hunting trips into the darker, more dangerous southern part of the forest – which, unfortunately, had always been a much better hunting ground than the north of Mirkwood. Since the woodland folk had hunted mostly near their home lately, the deer and wild boar naturally began to flee to the South, leaving less and less prey available for the hungry mouths.

Under normal circumstances Thranduil would never allow his people to cross the Old Forest Road for a hunting trip. Yet the need had become uncommonly great this very year, and having the Autumn Festival cancelled because of the lack of enough food to celebrate would have caused more harm than the likely loss of one or two archers – a loss he would prefer to avoid but did not really hope he could. The woodland folk had suffered so much lately; they needed the feast with its merriment, songs and moonlit dances more than they needed food. Elves could go on without nourishment of the body a long time. Their spirits, however, needed to be nourished. And feasts were the best way to do so.

“If you let the people go south, you cannot hold the young Prince back,” Galion warned his King gravely. Thranduil sighed.

“I know that, mellon nîn. Yet what can I do? My son is no little elfling any more, no matter how much I fear for his safety. He is over three thousand years old and a seasoned warrior. If he wants to go, I have no right nor the power to keep him here.”

“What about the Lady Indreâbhan(7) and her people?” Galion asked, trying to change the topic. “Are they coming to the Festival?”

“Indeed, they are,” the King’s mood seemed to lighten a little at this thought; then he became pensive again and added: “And I intend to announce her betrothal to Legolas officially, right after the Ceremony.”

“Would that be wise?” Galion questioned carefully, his pale brow furrowing in concern. “I thought she and the young Prince had an… understanding.”

“They do,” Thranduil said, clearly disliking the fact, “but it concerns their final bond only. Besides, I do have an… understanding with my son, too. He agreed to marry the Princess, while I accepted the delay. So, a betrothal is the middle of the way, where we all meet.”

“Does the Lord Aghavannagh know of your intention?” Galion asked, knowing that the Nandorin Prince, whose subjects lived in scattered settlements between Mirkwood and the Great River, was an extremely proud and headstrong Elf – just like Thranduil himself. “He would wish to witness the betrothal of his only daughter, I deem.”

“He does; and he will,” Thranduil replied. “The whole family is coming. We shall hold the bonding ceremony of his only son among other things, after all.”

“Let us hope they will bring their own food,” Galion commented; with their reluctance to eat meat, Nandor Elves were considered the worst possible guests in Mirkwood where there was not much else to eat.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Having done the burdensome (and very discouraging) inventars, Galion left his King’s study and went over to the chamber of the Home Guards, to find their captain, a tall, dark-haired Elf named Orendil, for they had to discuss the matters of the Autumn Festival in detail. The woodland folk usually celebrated the Festival in the circle of their extended families – clans probably would have been a better word for it – which meant that they had to secure several large clearings near the Elvenking’s hidden city for the festive communities. These feasts had been held in the open ever since the Elder Days, and no amount of peril could have kept the Wood-Elves from following their Ages-old traditions.

“We have to ask for the help of Silinde(8) and her archers,” Orendil said, distractedly. “Fortunately, at least the Spiders seem to behave in this season. We have not seen any of them on this side of the Old Forest Road for many a moon.”

“We cannot count on them, I fear, at least not yet,” Galion shook his head. “The King has decided to allow hunting parties south of the road again.”

“Oh!” Orendil’s eyes lit up in delight. “Do you believe the King would be willing to prepare the meal for the opening ceremony himself? He has not done so for many rounds of the Sun, and I would love to taste his cooking again.”

“So would I,” Galion admitted, “and if the hunters are successful, we might even convince him to do so. If only to annoy the Lord Aghavannagh with his famous roasted venison haunch(9).”

Orendil’s only answer was an evil grin. The cooking skills of Mirkwood’s King were legendary – every single one who had tried his roasted venison haunch (with fried mushrooms and blueberry sauce) discovered a whole new meaning of the word “delicacy” – and the Nandorin Lord’s unwillingness to eat aught but fruits and various plants often led to some very un-kingly bickering between the two of them, despite the fact that the Lord Aghavannagh, leader of the remaining Green-Elves who had somehow found their way back from Ossiriand to the East, was related from afar to Thranduil’s late mother.

The two Lords had been friends for two Ages or even more, and they had spent nearly all that time with arguing over fairly unimportant things. Galion, however, knew all too well how important to his King this constant bickering was – it helped Thranduil to keep his sometimes volatile temper under control, while having someone who was his equal to share his true concerns with – something he had not had on a daily basis since the death of his wife.

“They will find a way to get along,” he murmured with a tired smile, more to himself than to his friend. “They always do. And if I know the Lord Aghavannagh half as well as I hope I do, they will bring their own food… and more. They know our King would never ask, but they also know we are in sore need. Mayhap this Festival will turn out better than we have hoped for.”

“That might be,” Orendil answered slowly, “but what will happen after the Festival? Our people cannot live on song alone.”

“I know not,” Galion sighed. “Yet I hope the Lady Palúrien shall be merciful, as she always has been… or that something happens to change things in the forest for the better.”

Of course, he could have no idea about the changes that were already coming. For a company of thirteen Dwarves, one cranky old wizard and one frightened Hobbit had already left Beorn’s house and was approaching the forest.

Fate could take on strange forms, indeed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) Actually, this is not a canon fact. Just something I came up with for my other story, "Innocence", and I liked the idea so much that I kept it.
(2) Now, you don’t really believe that someone who adapted to the lifestyle of the Silvan Elves would live in a dark, windowless cavern? Well, I don’t. So I took some liberty here, presuming that Thranduil’s palace had windows and balconies that looked out of the mountain. The original idea comes from Dwimordene, BTW.
(3) It’s complicated. Let me just say that I created a family tree for Thranduil which makes him the first cousin of Celeborn, both being the grandsons of Thingol’s brother, Elmö.
(4) Older name for Yavanna. I assumed the woodland folk would keep using it.
(5) Earlier, abandoned name of Dol Guldur which I imagined a traditionalist like Thranduil would still be using. In my stories, Thranduil’s wife, a Silvan woman, died about a hundred years before the Ring War.
(6) Since the grain of lembas is supposed to grow under starlight, I see not why Mirkwood Elves would not know it.
(7) The Lady Indreâbhan and her family are the remnants of the once numerous Nandor Elves of Ossiriand. They are adopted from an original story of mine (where they were the Elves of the Moon), and all their names are actually Scandinavian settlements. No genuine Elvish here. Sorry.
(8) According to the Customized Card Game, Silinde was an Elf of Mirkwood in the movie. I made her a female Nandor Elf and captain of the Mirkwood archers. None of this is canon, of course. I just liked the idea of a female archer captain. I might change the name later, though.
(9) The Great Maker said that male Elves were very good at cooking. Thranduil’s speciality was envisioned by Ithilwen.

The Trials of a Woodland King 00 - Introduction

2018-11-12T19:32:00Z

THE TRIALS OF A WOODLAND KING
by Soledad

Disclaimer: The characters, settings and everything else belong to Professor Tolkien whom I deeply respect and admire. Only the original characters belong to me. No copyringht infringement intended and – sadly – no money made.

INTRODUCTION

This story has first been published on October 27, 2002, under the somewhat silly title “Astonishment in Mirkwood”, which I always intended to change but never came up with anything better. By October 8, 2003 it reached its 5th chapter – and hasn’t been updated ever since.

I started this as a short vignette in a fuming fit I got after having seen the umpteenth fic about how poor Legolas was being abused by his evil father. Which was frankly ridiculous, considering the fact that Thranduil haven’t even appeared in the LotR film trilogy. I felt the need to do something against all the hatred poor Elvenking had to face – without any canon facts to support it.

After the first 5 chapters, in which the story became basically "Thorin & Company’s adventures in Mirkwood, seen through the eyes of Legolas", I simply ran off of steam and dropped the project for a decade or so. Now, with the “Hobbit” films causing the reappearance of evil!Thranduil stories, I felt the need to pick it up again.

Just to set things straight: this is a bookverse fic. I might use the visual appearances of some of the Dwarves, but not all of them. And my Elves are most definitely not identical with the ones you can see in the films. Not Legolas (who, unlike in the films, isn't even blond here), and emphatically not Thranduil! I’ve been a great admirer of the Elvenking of Mirkwood since the early 1970s, when I first read the book, and am not happy with how he – or Legolas, for that matter – has been portrayed in the films.

So, if you liked the film versions, be prepared to be disappointed. I vindicate myself the right to write them how I’ve always seen them. You’re most welcome to give my version a try, though.

For visuals: my Legolas was inspired Inger Egerfeldt's portrayal

But nowadays I see him like this Mirkwood extra from the Hobbit films, considering that in my little corner of the Ardaverse he shares the Silvan trait of his hair changing colour with the change of the seasons:

And my Thranduil looks very much like this wonderful piece of fanart found on Pinterest (only with hair more golden than silver):

Epic picspam to "If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit"

2018-11-05T21:57:49Z

These are the characters of that story, in no particular order.

Bifur, with his fake travelling beard (my Dwarrow-dams only have elegant sideburns):

Lady Frán; a fearsome warrior, veteran of the Battle of Azanulbizar:

Niping in his finery:

Dagrún, Niping's wife, the patriarch of their family:

Nídi and Nidud, the sons of Niping and Dagrún:

More to be added

The Book of Mazarbul 15 - The Wanderers

2018-08-12T17:40:56Z

THE BOOK OF MAZARBUL
by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s note: As I mentioned before, several storylines will come together (eventually) in this tale.

The caravan is basically the same Bifur and her cousins travelled with in “If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit”, though some of its members have been replaced. Uruktharbun in the Blue Mountain has been established in the same story. So have most of the OCs featuring here.

This chapter takes place approximately two months after Ori and Flói’s wedding.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 15 – THE WANDERERS

The imposing merchant caravan of BroadBeam Dwarves reached the Lonely Mountain in the early days of Spring. They had set off from Uruktharbun in the Blue Mountains, where once Thorin’s impressive Halls lay upon twice seven levels – now a shared FireBeard and BroadBeam settlement, mainly – travelled across the land of the Halflings, then through the sparely populated lands between it and the Misty Mountains, crossed the High Pass and the Old Ford and continued their journey northwards on the western border of Mirkwood, finally following the Elf-path to the Long Lake and beyond that to King Dáin’s realm.

The arrival of a merchant caravan – any merchant caravan – was always the source of great excitement in Erebor. Not only did they bring new and exciting wares for the marketplace, having visited strange lands and strange folk, they also brought news and messages from kinfolk – something that Dwarves, a race that held ties of kinship in high esteem, valued greatly. As many as Thorin Oakenshield’s former subjects had followed him to Erebor, once the Mountain had been won again, a great number of them had chosen to remain in Uruktharbun, and messages and gifts were going back and forth between the two realms all the time.

This particular caravan, however, was greeted with even more delight than the others. For this was the one founded by Bifur’s parents after the Fall of Erebor. The one Bifur, Bofur, Bombur and their family had travelled with for most of their lives. And even though they had chosen to become settled after the Quest, they never failed to come forth and welcome their travelling companions of old.

The caravan that now reached the Front Gate looked a great deal more presentable than the one they used to travel with – small wonder, as Bifur had spent much of her share of the Dragon’s hoard to help rebuild it. The old, heavy wagons were still there, of course, being the ones in which the Wanderers actually lived and which they used to build their line of defence for the night while resting on the Road, but they had been restored and strengthened, so that they could serve their purpose much better.

And then there were the new carts, serving mainly as ready-made market stalls to display the wares in the most tempting manner. They were not pulled by the usual sturdy, shaggy hill ponies but by large goats, rams and pigs, to draw even more attention.

Gellir son of Bombur’s toy-maker’s cart, manned during this most recent journey by his nephew Bivör, Bávor’s oldest, opened up like a mechanical Jack-in-the-box, to display his merchandise. Closed up again, it could look quite different, making it useful as a travelling vehicle for one. It was a clever design, the last joint effort by Bifur and Bofur ere they retired from the life of Wanderers, and it was pulled by a great mountain ram of particularly foul disposition that only ever obeyed Bivör’s instructions.

The cart of Frér, the rug-trader, had a roof to protect the astonishingly beautiful array of rugs and camel-hair blankets he had collected from all over Middle-earth: from Mithlond to Rhun and from Dale to Harad and even Khand. Oil lamps, cut of crystal and safely closed on all sides so that no spark could escape, hung from all four corners of the cart roof, casting light on the beautiful rugs inside in a complimentary manner.

The cart of the cloth-merchant – Frér’s father Fráeg – was pulled by a huge goat. It also had a roof and brocaded curtains hung from it on both sides to protect the bales upon bales of fine cloth piled inside.

The cart of the wood-worker Egill – one of the original caravan members – and his mate Bláin, whom he had met somewhere in Lindon on a previous journey, was laden with chairs and tables. Together with the toy-maker, the rug-merchant and a walking troupe of other traders, they were the essential other items that completed the package when they rolled into a town outside of market days and set up, so they complimented each other.

The cart of the wine merchant Thrasi was pulled by a giant pig. It was loaded with barrels of Dorwinion red, pale yellow wine from Gondor, the finest spirits from the Shire and other much sought after beverages twice the height of the cart itself.

The others – the leather-workers, the cutler, the bronze- and ironsmiths – still used the old-fashioned wagons drawn by ponies. Those might not be as fancy as the new carts, but they were stable and reliable and served as comfortable homes on the Road. Those with warrior training rode along the carts and wagons on their ponies, while the craftsmen themselves preferred to walk.

Sitting around idly was not something a Dwarf – even a wealthy Dwarf – liked to do.

Bifur, Bofur and Bombur came down from their modest home to the marketplace to greet their friends and comrades of old, and so did Niping, too, who had taken over the caravan after the Quest, even though it were his sons, Nídi and Nidud who did the actual travelling these days, taking turns at every journey. After all, Niping was an old Dwarf; one of the few born in Erebor of old who had miraculously survived the coming of the Dragon.

He came from a family that had once been wealthy and influential. In Erebor’s heyday they used to have their own caravans and traded in precious fabrics, gemstones, Dorwinion wine and other luxury items. After the Fall, Niping, then a beardless lad still waiting for his first growing pains, had been taken in by the family of his future wife, Dagrún, and travelled with them for many years. Eventually, they joined the caravan of Bifur’s parents for the safety of numbers and became friends for life.

When Erebor had been freed, Niping moved back among the first. He became the Master of the Merchant’s Guild and reclaimed the old home of his family on the Third Height, in the quarter of the rich Guild Masters.

They had also found much of their lost treasure among the Dragon’s hoard – the Dwarven custom of etching the owner’s mark on just about everything they owned had proved helpful in the process – and as Niping now walked down to the marketplace to greet his firstborn, Nídi, who had been with the caravan for this particular journey, everyone could see at once that he was a Dwarf of wealth and importance.

The recent years had undoubtedly been good to him. He was as broad as he was tall (which, admittedly, was not much, even for a BroadBeam), now that he was leading a more sedate life, in fine clothes that matched his appearance. He wore his thick ginger hair – still untouched by frost – in multiple decorative braids, now adorned with beads and clasp of pure gold and gemstones and tied to a knot on top of his head. He was wearing a knee-length tunic of dark burgundy red brocade, seamed with the fur of the grey squirrel, and a heavy, sleeveless royal blue overcoat, upon which his elaborately braided beard spread like a ruddy cloud. His wrist-guards, now worn for show rather than out of necessity, were decorated with bronze decorations and so were his heavy boots and his broad belt.

His firstborn and heir, Nídi, who was returning with the caravan, got both his looks and his colouring from his mother. A few inches taller than Niping, he had Mistress Dagrún’s straw blond hair, which he wore unbraided, save for the obligatory family braids, and a very high, almost bulbous forehead and grey eyes… traits that spoke of some StoneFoot blood somewhere up the bloodline. He had his forked beard and long moustaches artfully braided, though, and adorned with silver clasps and small gemstones. Returning from a long journey, he wore sensible travelling clothes; after all, he had been born to the Road and knew how to survive on it.

With him came his wife, Tirsa, a stunning BroadBeam beauty of light brown hair, a heart-shaped face, cat-like hazel eyes and a voluptuous figure. She was also a master weaver who made the finest woollen cloth that they traded to many people all over Rhovanion.

Tirsa had taken to accompanying Nídi on his journeys since their children were old enough to stay behind with the rest of the clan, as her family had always lived in the Ered Luin and she had seen very little from the wider world before. She was quite an adventurous soul for all that she came from a wealthy and conservative merchant family that had never had anything to do with Erebor or the Kings of Durin’s line.

While Bifur, Bofur and Bombur’s family were happily reunited with the original members of the caravan, above all else with Frán, their wise-woman (a grim-faced old crone and veteran of Azanulbizar), Niping now turned to Fráeg the cloth-merchant, to whom he was distantly related by marriage. In recent years Fráeg had been the one who always travelled with the caravan, while Niping’s sons took turns of staying at home and learning from their father how to deal with the local side of the business.

Like Niping, Fráeg was a fairly old Dwarf whose family had lived in Uruktharbun through the better part of the Third Age and had little to do with the kingdom of Erebor. They still lived there, at least in theory – now that the Road was reasonably safe again, they had taken to travelling with adventurous delight.

Aside from being old and wealthy, Fráeg was also one of those Dwarven merchants who strongly believed in displaying one’s best wares on one’s own person. Therefore he was decked out so splendidly in fur-lined wool and finely made leather and brocaded silk that it would have made a King pale in envy. His impressive mass of iron-grey beard and his thick hair were carefully combed and oiled, even on the Road, and adorned with golden beads and clasps, and he wore heavy, bejewelled rings upon his thick fingers.

Compared with him, his wife Jórunn – a distant cousin of Niping and the caravan’s accountant – looked almost plain. She was a voluptuous Dwarf-dam with strawberry blonde hair worn in a coronet of multiple braids woven together and adorned with small gemstones. Some of the braids were pulled free from the coronet and hung over her shoulder, touching her heavy robe of fine scarlet wool, seemed with gold ribbon embroidery, under which she wore a long-sleeved ochre velvet undergown.

She had a marked resemblance to Niping and her face spoke of a great sense of dry humour. She was also said to be good-natured and patient, which she probably needed to put up with Fráeg’s infamous eccentricity. Their children also travelled with them; their son was the rug-trader and their daughter a skilled seamstress.

“Well, Niping, my friend,” said Fráeg, releasing a beast that looked like a white camel, which was bound to their wagon, and entrusting it to one of the stable lads that had come running to be of service. “’Tis good to see you again. It has been a long time.”

“Too long,” agreed Niping, giving the camel – if it was indeed one – a curious glance.

He had seen camels before, of course, on his journeys across Near-Harad, but never one without a hump. Also, this was much smaller and more graceful than the average camel, with extraordinary thick and fine fur.

“Where did you get this beast from?” he asked. “I never saw one like it.”

“And you shan’t, unless you travel to the easternmost ranges of the Blue Mountains,” replied Fráeg. “Some odd StiffBeard clans have found them and domesticated them around the beginning of our Age, when other beasts of burden were confiscated and lost in the great war. There are different kinds of them by now; some are raised for their wool, others as pack animals, others again to be slaughtered and eaten, though I found their meat not very palatable.”

“What are they called?” Niping reached out to pat the nose of the beast… and almost got some fingers bitten off for his effort.

“Careful,” warned Fráeg. “They have a nasty temper. The StoneFoots call them lamas; although where the word comes from no-one could tell.”

“I say this must be one of those raised for their wool,” said Niping. “But why would you bring a single beast?”

“’Tis a test,” explained Fráeg. “I wanted to see if she would survive in the higher regions of the Mountain, together with the mountain sheep. If she does, we can bring more and breed them properly; for their wool is very fine indeed. Finer than the camel hair of the Haradrim, in fact.”

“And warmer, too,” commented Frís, daughter of Fráeg, who was the living image of her mother Jórunn. “One shirt of lama wool – well, and another one for change – would bring a miner through the hardest winter. Or a travelling merchant,” she added with a knowing smile.

Niping whistled in appreciation. His parents had dealt with Haradric merchants for camel hair shirts that were made from the finest camel wool, light and wondrously warm. If these… lamas produced wool that was even finer and warmer, then they could be as ill-tempered as they wanted, for all that he cared. Securing the rights to trade in it in Rhovanion would be pure gold… or even better.

Not to mention that such clothes would serve exceedingly well if Lord Balin’s quest finally started – assuming that the noble old Dwarf could get King Dáin’s leave in the first place. Niping had been shocked upon learning about what he thought was an insane plan but was more than willing to supply the campaign with all necessities – for the right price.

Of course he needed to discuss the whole issue with Fráeg in detail first.

“Well, go and have a hot bath, a good meal and some rest,” he said. “Afterwards we’ll have something to talk about. Something that would be more than a little risky but could make us very, very rich in exchange.

That certainly piqued Fráeg’s interest, but he knew Niping wouldn’t go in any detail before he had seen to his most immediate needs.

“All right,” he said. “But I expect a keg of really good ale with this mysterious story.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was quite a gathering in Niping’s home when the former and current senior members of the caravan came together to discuss the unusual request that had only been made a couple of weeks previously. Niping had not told any of them about it so far, although he did have a suspicion that some of them already knew.

There was Dagrún, the mistress of the house, naturally; now richly clad as it behoved the wife of a Guild Master and the matriarch of a well-respected family. There were their sons, Nydi and Nidud, with Nídi’s wife Tirsa and Nidud’s mate, Fródi.

There was Fráeg with his wife Jórunn, their son Frér and their daughter Frís – all of them family, one way or another, all of them wealthy and accordingly clad. Now that the roads were reasonably safe again and trade flourished once more, the BroadBeam traders had steadily grown in wealth and respect.

Frán, wearing her usual simple and practical garb, stood out of the rich merchants like a sore thumb. Neither she now her mate Halli or their son Hunbogi gave a Goblin’s arse about fancy clothes; and yet she was highly respected by all for being a fearsome warrior – and a wise old crone indeed.

With them came Bávor son of Bombur with his wife Ragna and their oldest son Bivör. Bifur and Bofur came, too; they might no longer be involved in the daily business of the caravan but they were family to Frán and Bávor and had a great deal of experience when it came to the roads. Also, they already knew what Niping wanted to discuss with the rest and their insight was most welcome.

Custom demanded that they discuss the caravan’s recent journey first, though, as trade was their livelihood. Fortunately, Fráeg and Jórunn had good news about that; and thus after a lengthy business report Niping could finally bring up the other, even more important reason for their gathering.

“I was approached by Óin son of Gróin a few days ago,” he began, “about a business that, should it indeed come together, might bring us great profit. But it could also prove risky… even fatal, should our good luck run out.”

“It would most certainly prove fatal,” said Bifur grimly. “It is madness, pure and simple. I cannot fathom how even my own family could consider taking part in it,” she added, with a disapproving glare in Bávor’s direction.

“You know what this is about?” asked Fráeg in surprise.

Which was unflattering, really. After all, Bifur had not only led the caravan successfully for decades, she was also a member of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company, and for that alone she would deserve respect. But Fráeg, who had only dared the Road after the Dragon was gone, having lived in the relative safety of the Blue Mountains all his life, would never truly understand why somebody with a handsome share from the Dragon’s treasure would retire from business and lead the life of a simple craftsperson, just to care for an elderly cousin.

Bifur knew that, of course, but she couldn’t care less.

“Aye, I have known of this for some time; and so have we all,” she said sharply. “Óin told us about it when he tried to persuade us to join him. Again, she shot Bávor a dark glare. “Some were even foolish enough to agree.”

Good-natured as ever (just like his father), Bávor took no offence.

“We have been through this several times already, Aunt Sigrún,” he said, smiling.

“Well, would you have the courtesy to tell the rest of us what it’s about, then?” prompted Fráeg, getting more than a little impatient.

Niping looked at Bávor. “Would you mind to explain? It seems you know more than I do.”

Bávor nodded. “Gladly. This will be a quest even greater than the re-taking of Erebor… assuming that we succeed.”

“You will not,” commented Bifur darkly.

Bávor ignored her and went on. “Now that we’ve grown in strength and numbers again, Lord Balin chose to listen to the murmurs among us and lead us back to our very roots: to the great city of Khazad-dûm; to cleanse it from the evil things that have befallen it and to fulfil our curses upon the filthy Orcs.”

For several endless moments there was shocked silence in the room. Those who only now heard about the plan it was hard to even imagine somebody wanting to do this. Finally Fráeg recovered enough to speak.

“I fear I must agree with Sigrún,” he said. “By all due respect to Lord Balin, this plan is insane. And I fail to see how could it in any way be profitable for us.”

“This will be a much longer campaign than Thorin Oakenshield’s quest,” explained Bávor. “Óin hopes that at least several dozen Dwarves will join. And such a large group will need supplies; food, above everything else, but other things, too. And we’ll need wagons in which to transport those supplies… not to mention people who are used to life on the Road.”

Fráeg looked at Niping with a frown. “Are you seriously considering offering our caravan for this… this madness?”

“Not the entire caravan,” replied Niping calmly. “I doubt that Lord Balin would have need of toys or rugs or any of the fancy carts you use to draw attention. But some of the old, heavy wagons could be useful; if anyone but Bávor is willing to go, that is.”

“I spoke to our people,” said Bávor. “Jörundr and Mötsognir declared their readiness to come with us.”

“I shall come, too,” announced Frán; at the surprised looks of the others she smiled grimly. “I’m old, but I can still wield a battle-axe better than many a young stripling. I already fought at Azanulbizar as a young warrior; going back would allow me to come to full circle.”

“And Father and I shall go with you,” added his son Hunbogi. “We’re both miners and stone-masons; we’ll be needed in a place like Khazad-dûm.”

Fráeg shook his head in exasperation. “You are insane; all of you. And I still don’t see where is any possible profit in this.”

“Lord Balin is willing to use his share from the Dragon’s hoard to supply the campaign,” said Bávor. “And so are Ori and Óin.”

The silence following his words was different from the one before: not one of shock but one of careful consideration. They were Dwarves, after all. Merchant Dwarves, with a keen eye for opportunity.

“Well then,” said Fráeg with a speculative gleam in his eye; everyone knew that the share of Thorin’s Company from the Dragon’s treasure had been a considerable one. “It seems that the profit might be worth the risk, after all.”

“Unless Old Ironfoot puts a ban on the whole undertaking; in which case we might lose our right to do business in Erebor for having any part of it,” warned his wife Jórunn.

Old Frán made a derisive snort. “You’ve been leading a way too comfortable life all your life,” she said. “Be careful or the Dragon-sickness might get you, even after all those years.”

Jórunn’s lovely face darkened and she was about to give a sharp answer but Niping stopped her with a raised hand.

“Not everyone is born to live on the Road, Lady Frán,” he said. “Nor is this the time to discuss – or condemn – each other’s chosen way of life. We are here to decide if we should take upon us the sole responsibility of supplying Lord Balin’s campaign, seeing that only a handful of us wish to take active part in the quest itself. Should we take the risk of such a dangerous journey? Do we have the means to do so?”

“If we want to do this, we need to plan everything to the smallest detail,” said his son Nídi. “This won’t be one of our usual trading rounds. This will be more like supplying an army; though mayhap only a small one.”

“We need to know their numbers and the route they intend to take,” added his brother Nidud. “Much will depend on the route: how long they would be able to get fresh food on the way and how much of dry goods they would need to take with them.”

“I fear that whatever route Lord Balin might decide to take, it will lead through empty lands beyond Laketown,” replied their father. “And they would be hard-pressed to feed a large group of Dwarves by hunting and gathering. Mirkwood is simply not suited for that – unless you are Elves.”

“And even the Elvenking buys some of his food from Dale or Esgaroth,” added Dagrún. “Or else he could not feed all the people dwelling in that fortress of his. Only the small family clans of the Woodland Folk that live scattered all over the northern forest can feed themselves.”

“Which means we should begin to fill up our stores with dry goods way before the quest starts,” commented Frán thoughtfully. “”Tis a good thing that cram keeps for years upon years. We can build up a great supply without fearing that it might go bad.”

“Aye, because it is horrible from the beginning,” commented Frér son of Fráeg grinning.

The old crone gave him a flat look.

“That horrible waybread saved us from starving quite a few times, back when the Road was not safe enough for you, soft and spoiled brats, to travel,” she countered grimly. “We lived on cram and tree-bark on our way back from the Battle of Azanulbizar – and survived. Cram is the stock food of every Wanderer and every travelling army; everything else is just addition.”

“The honey-cakes of the Beornings also keep long and are very tasty and nutritious,” added Bávor. ‘And we can build up a large stock of dried and salted meat, smoked fish and the likes. We might need a few more of those old-fashioned wagons, too. The ones we still have from earlier likely won’t be enough. It all depends on the size of the group, of course.”

“Nay,” Fráeg interrupted. “It depends on whether the King gives Lord Balin his leave. If he does not, I for my part shan’t have anything to do with this campaign.”

Nídi rolled his eyes. “You ain’t even a subject of Old Ironfoot,” he pointed out. “You still live in Oakenshield’s old halls in Uruktharbun.”

“But I trade with Erebor; and going against the King’s wishes would put an end to it,” replied Fráeg.

“And of course you would not put that at risk,” commented Bifur with quiet disdain. “Not even for those without whom there wouldn’t even be a Kingdom Under the Mountain to trade with.”

Fráeg gave her an unfriendly glare. “I thought you were against this campaign.”

“I am,” she replied; “but for different reasons. I would hate to lose even more beloved ones to foolish Dwarven pride. ‘Tis not my own strongbox I am worried about.”

“Well, “tis not so as if you would need to,” Fráeg snapped at her nastily. “You have been sitting on your share of the Dragon’s treasure ever since the re-taking of Erebor.”

Enraged by the merchant’s insolence towards their family Matriarch (not to mention a hero of the Battle of the Five Armies), Bávor rose from his seat and there would have been bloodshed and broken bones, had Bifur not stopped him with a hand upon his forearm. A hand that still bore that old, faded scar from her own years on the Road.

“What I do or don’t with my share is my business alone,” she said with quiet authority. “I have earned that right by following Thorin Oakenshield on a seemingly hopeless quest. I faced Trolls and Goblins and Wargs and Giant Spiders, and in the end the Dragon itself; and before that I spent decades on the Road, in a battered old wagon, while you led a lush and comfortable life in Uruktharbun and never dared to go any further than the Shire,” she touched the black tattoos on her temples, the proof that she had been blooded in battle. “Don’t you dare to open your mouth against me, Fráeg Achimul; I might have only picked up weapons out of need and despair in the past, but I can still give you a bloody nose if you rile me up beyond endurance.”

“And I shall lend you a hand,” added Frán, baring her teeth at the frightened merchant. “You fat and lazy gits believe you can look down your big noses at us; well, think again! And learn some manners or I shall teach you – with my battle-axe!

“Peace, Lady Frán,” Niping saw it necessary to intervene. “I am the leader of this caravan; and I and mine travelled with you all those years when the Road was still dangerous, remember? If Fráeg does not wish to take part in this particular business, no-one forces him. In one thing, though, he is right: we should wait and see what King Dáin has to say.”

“We’ll go anyway,” hissed Frán. “My King was Thrór and I followed his son's summons to Azanulbizar while barely more than a Dwarfling. I shall not be denied my revenge.”

“But we still need someone used to take care of the daily business of a large caravan,” her mate Hjalli reminded her. “Neither of us has that kind of experience.”

“I shall go,” said Nídi, to everyone’s surprise; “at least as far as the southern edge of Mirkwood. I shall see the wagons there safely; I do not promise to take any part of the fighting, though. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

“And yet battle might find you, even along the way to Khazad-dûm,” Bifur warned him grimly. “’Tis a five-month journey at the very least, whichever way you might go; probably longer when you are slowed down by the supply carts. And the lordless lands between here and there are full of evil things… and evil people. You know that as well as I do.”

“Aye, I know that,” replied Nídi. “But Lord Balin will need people who can get his supplies safely across the empty lands. If we have to supply a larger group, Bávor and Mistress Frán’s family shan’t be enough.”

That was very true, and they all knew it, even though the actual number of those who wanted to go was still to be learned.

“Besides,” he added with a wry grin, “somebody ought to keep an eye on the supplies while the others do all the fighting.”

Everyone laughed at that as Nídi – albeit without formal warrior training – was known as a skilled axe-man and a fierce fighter. The fact that he chose to go with the supply trek reassured his father and the other merchants that their investments, should they indeed invest into Balin’s campaign, would be in good hands.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with working out the details. Long-term calculations were made, risks and profits were weighed against each other, endless lists of necessities and possible sources were put together. They were all experienced merchants with a keen eye for detail, so it was a long and arduous process – but a necessary one.

Bifur excused herself after another hour or so, declaring that she did not want to have anything to do with their madness. Bofur, although still not interested in going with the trek, stayed behind to support his nephew with advice born of long experience, and his knowledge was more than welcome.

Finally they had everything they needed to take under consideration – everything but the numbers, that is. That was the lesser problem, though. They were Dwarves and merchants and therefore practical people. They would adjust their calculations to whatever number Balin’s company would have.

In the meantime they could already start the long-term preparations. The weavers, leather-workers, wood-workers and ironsmiths would be busy with commissions in the foreseeable future.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Let’s count the numbers then,” said Jörundr the cook, counting them on his thick, blunt fingers indeed. “Your parents are coming with us, Bávor, and even Nídi? It will be almost like old times.”

He was sitting in The Troll Cave, one of the more popular inns of the Second Deep, with his brother Mötsognir and their old friend Hunbogi. The inn was owned by Bombur’s eldest daughter Bomfrís and her husband, and while all members of the caravan were welcome there any time, these three earned quite a few interested looks from the other customers – mayhap because they were so different.

The two sons of the late Grechar looked very much alike, although they had fairly different trades. Jörundr was a cook who had taken over from Bombur the feeding of their caravan in recent years, and Mötsognir was an ironsmith. Both quite young yet in Dwarven terms, they were short and very broadly build, even by Clan measures, with barrel chests and flaxen hair, which Jörundr wore in multiple braids.

Mötsognir’s hair was still too short to be properly braided – it had been burned off by a forge accident shortly before the Quest of Erebor, together with his beard – but he made up for it by being incredibly strong. He was known to have beaten up a Forge Guard with his bare hands once, just because said Guard (an IronFist warrior a foot taller than him and twice his age) insulted his craft.

Jörundr tended to react similarly when his cooking was being criticised. They both took great pride in their work and rightfully so.

Compared with them Hunbogi was almost skinny; not that there had been any skinny Dwarves in Middle-earth, with the possible exception of Burin son of Balin. He was half the brothers’ width but twice their age, well into his middle years. A miner and a stone-mason by age, he united the sharp and rugged features of his parents, which resulted in a rather wild-looking visage. He wore his dark brown hair and beard unbraided (unless working); his long, upswept eyebrows and moustaches were quite spectacular.

Small wonder that people who did not know him well were vary in his presence, even his fellow Dwarves. His looks alone helped to make Men back off when he entered a confrontation. Things like that came in handy on the Road.

The sons of Grechar, however, did know him well, having travelled the Road with him all their lives. And they were cautiously excited about sharing a great (albeit dangerous) new adventure with him. One that was going to be sung of in epic ballads for the rest of Dwarven history.

“It would be like old times if Sigrún and his cousins came with us,” Mötsognir commented. “I hoped that at leas Bofur would come; I knew Sigrún would never abandon Old Bombur.”

Hunbogi shrugged. “Unlike us, they weren’t born to the Road. They took to it out of necessity. I cannot blame them for wanting a more settled life.”

“But their entire line descended from Dwarves of Khazad-dûm!” Mötsognir shook his head in bewilderment. “How comes that they would not wish to return home?”

“Khazad-dûm was the home of their – our – ancestors,” pointed out Hunbogi. “Bifur, Bofur and Bombur helped to win back Erebor; this has become their home, and they have every right to claim it. We all have to follow the call of our hearts; and no-one is entitled to question our choices. This has always been our way, ever since Mahal shaped the Seven Fathers on his heavenly anvil.”

The brothers fell silent, for Hunbogi was not a Dwarf of many words as a rule. If he chose to defend Bifur, Bofur and Bombur’s choice so passionately, that meant that he felt strongly about it… about them. And while he might appear scrawny compared with either Jörundr or Mötsognir, the brothers knew from experience that raising his ire would not be wise.

At least the two of them were in complete agreement about Lord Balin’s campaign and the necessity of taking part in it. Now everything depended on what King Dáin would say.

~TBC~

For visuals (all early and partially rejected Dwarf concepts from WETA:

Niping and his family: his wife Dagrún and their sons, Nídi (on the right) and Nidud

Fráeg and Nídi's wife, Tirsa; Jórunn, Fráeg's wife and their daughter, Frís

My apologies for the poor quality of the photos - I took them with my iPad directly from the firts WETA book of "The Hobbit - Art and Design" series.

The Book of Mazarbul 14 - The Dragon's Hide

2018-08-06T17:24:11Z

THE BOOK OF MAZARBUL
by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s notes: This chapter takes place approximately a month after Ori and Flói’s wedding and continues seamlessly the previous one. The description of Gabil-dûm was strongly inspired by the Taran-books of Lloyd Alexander, with the necessary changes.

The concept of Dwarven spellsmiths as well as their characteristics has been borrowed from Valandhir's excellent series The Raven's Blade - again, with the necessary changes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 14 – THE DRAGON’S HIDE

In the last week of winter a small but impressive group of Dwarves left Erebor and headed towards Thafar'abbad, the Grey Mountains. More precisely to the abandoned halls of King Dáin I which, in return, had once been the great city of Gabil-dûm: the realm founded by Sindri, the StoneFoot Father, back in the First Age when he was forced to leave the place of his Awakening and lead his people to the North and the West.

More than any other Clan, the StoneFoots of old were miners and stone-masons of exceptional skill, and the cities they carved from living rock had been the wonder of the Elder Days. Some said that StoneFoot masons had helped Felakkundu Dwarf-friend to build his wondrous city in the caves of Nulukkhizdîn and that they had been the ones who helped Elu Thingol to create Menegroth's Thousand Caves. And it was known beyond doubt that when Thranduil had moved the Woodland Realm to the North of Mirkwood, Dwarven masons from Thafar’abbad helped to build his underground fortress.

The road between Erebor and the ruins of Govedar – as the ancient halls of Gabil-dûm were known among Men – was a long and dangerous one. Not only had Balin and his fellow Dwarves to cross Mirkwood at some point – unless they wanted to ride along its northern border, on the edge of the Withered Heath – their destination also brought them dangerously close to Mount Gundabad.

Closer than anyone had come for a very long time.

Now that relations with the Wood-Elves (and their volatile King) had settled again, Balin chose the shortest way – that along the Forest River, which emerged from the Grey Mountains right under the front gate of Govedar. That was no accident, either; Dwarven cities were generally built where fresh, clean water was easily available.

To be honest, Balin did not understand why the Fire-mage would agree to a meeting place many miles from his home; but perhaps he did not want his solitude disturbed by strangers, wearing lots of iron. Unless, of course, there was something in Dáin I’s halls that he wanted to show them.

Few Dwarves had dared to revisit the now empty halls of Gabil-dûm, ever since Thrór had led Durin’s Folk back to the Lonely Mountain. From the ones present Óin was the only one who had ventured at least as far as to the outskirts of the once great city. Therefore they were all relieved when – on the last day of their journey – Miödvitnir met them on the edge of the forest.

At first sight the short, stocky Rune-smith did not make much of an impression, but Balin and Ori, as accomplished scholars, soon recognized the meaning of his powerful tattoos and looked on the tattered old Dwarf with newfound respect. Óin greeted him with delight, of course, glad to have somebody who would verify his story for the others.

“Well met again, Miödvitnir,” he said, beaming. “I did not count on seeing you as well.”

“I came on behalf of Eikinskialdi,” replied the Rune-smith in his deep, rumbling voice. “Nothing can beat him in his own halls, but outside them he is vulnerable. So I came to protect him. Who are your companions?”

Óin made the necessary introductions and Miödvitnir bowed to them respectfully; to the Lady Yngvildr even more so than to the others.

“The name and great deeds of the Raven Lady are known even among us, lonely travellers,” he said. “It is an honour, my lady. And you, Lord Balin,” he turned to the Dwarf in question,” are more than welcome. ‘Tis good to have you – all of you – visiting the old halls again. Follow me; Eikinskialdi is waiting, and I shall lead you by short and quick paths to that which was once Gabil-dûm.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Even on the short and quick paths known to Miödvitnir alone, it took them the rest of the day to reach the Front Gate of Gabil-dûm, right where the Forest River – a small, fast and merry stream here – came out of the mountainside and bubbled down a narrow stone channel that went all the way down to the foot of the mountains. The Gate itself had a distinct likeness to that of Erebor, only older, much older, and the huge sculptures of Dwarven warriors framing it, carved into the withered stone of the mountainside, wore the horned helms and heavy beards of the StoneFoot royal guards of old. They were large enough for a grown Dwarf to rest in their palms.

The lintel of the Gate was decorated with symbolic heads of the great mountain rams the StoneFoot warriors used to ride and that had become the heraldic symbol of their Clan. Some of the finer details were smoothed over due to the extreme age of the carvings, but they were still recognizable and once must have been truly beautiful.

Hakkon, the StoneFoot miner, who had been invited along to represent his Clan, stared at the stunning handiwork of his ancestors in awe. His family hailed from Thafar’abbad and followed Thrór to Erebor when the kingdom had been moved back there; this was the first time he saw the ancient home of his people.

“Perhaps one day our people will return here, too,” he murmured, “now that the dragons are gone.”

Óin shook his head. “The dragons perhaps; but not the Orcs,” he said.

“There will be Orcs in Khazad-dûm too,” pointed out Hakkon reasonably.

“I know,” said Óin. “But Khazad-dûm, though ruled by Durin LongBeard and his progeny, has never been the home to just one Clan. It has always belonged to all of Mahal’s Children. Should we manage to wrestle it back from the cursed Rakhâs, we might grow strong enough again to eventually reclaim our other cities as well.”

If Hakkon had any answer to that, he did not get the chance to give it, as Miödvitnir urged them to follow him inside.

“Eikinskialdi is waiting in the King’s Forge,” he said, and they went through the Front Gate, under the broken portcullis that might or might not be still functional.

The once magnificent halls of King Dáin I under Thafar’abbad were little more now than ruined caverns. They had lain empty ever since the Dragons had forced Durin’s folk to flee them. And yet the enormous caverns themselves were beautiful in a way that only a Dwarf could appreciate them.

They stretched out endlessly before the eyes of the Erebor Dwarves like a forest after an ice storm. Columns of massive stone rose like the withered trunks of ancient trees and arched to a high ceiling where stone icicles clung. Along the darkened walls, huge outcroppings sprang like hawthorn blossoms and glittered in the golden light of the fireball floating above Miödvitnir’s upturned palm. It was a breath-taking sight.

And there were colours, everywhere: bright and vivid threads of colour, twisted through luminous shafts of grey rock. Gossamer-fine tendrils of crystal meandered along jagged walls, gleaming with rivulets of water. Chambers after chambers lay beyond the rows of tree-shaped columns, and on each side the Dwarves could see wide pools, flat and glistening as mirrors. Some gave a dull, greenish glow, others a pale blue.

“These were the royal gardens,” explained Miödvitnir.

“’Tis a place of great beauty,” said Lady Yngvildr, impressed.

“The work of the ancient StoneFoot masons,” replied Óin. “According to the King’s Records, Thorin I found the halls of Gabil-dûm already there, ripe for the taking, when he moved the kingdom to the North.

“I wonder why no-one thought of claiming this place before Thorin I,” said Balin. “Unless, of course, it was because of the dragons.”

“Mostly but not entirely,” answered Miödvitnir. “Eikinskialdi will show you. Come, we will go this way.”

He turned to the left and led them into a shaft that dripped gradually downward. Its walls of living rock rose higher than Ori’s upraised hands – and the BlackLock scholar was a large one as Dwarves go. They had to thread their way carefully between sharp outcroppings and over broken stones, and more than once had they needed all their strength to keep the frightened ponies under control.

“I find it strange that the corridors leading to the King’s Forge had not been shaped more thoroughly,” commented Balin in surprise

“This was not the main road of the city,” Miödvitnir explained, “just one of the many side-tunnels the StoneFoot miners used when carrying cartloads of ore, stone and gems above ground. The passageway will grow much wider, soon.”

Indeed, it happened as he had foretold, and the arched ceiling soared thrice a grown Man’s height. Narrow platforms of wood, one above the other, seamed the walls on both sides, though many had fallen into disrepair and the beams had tumbled in a heap over the earthen floor. Lengths of half-rotted timbers shored up the archway leading from one gallery to the next, but half of them had partly or completely crumbled, forcing them to pick their way even more cautiously over and around the piles of rubble.

The air was stifling after the restless wind above ground, and hung heavy with ancient dust and decay. Echoes flitted like bats through the long-abandoned chambers as the Dwarves moved in an unwavering file, following the pale golden light of Miödvitnir’s fireball. The twisting shadows seemed to muffle the sound of their heavy footsteps; only the piercing whining of the one or other frightened pony broke the silence.

Soon the magic light glinted on gems half-buried in the ground or protruding from walls. The jewels seemed to grow more plentiful as the long column of Dwarves made their way farther into the tunnel: bright red rubies and brilliant green emeralds, diamonds clear as water and strange gems that, in their glittering depths, were flecked with gold and silver.

“These mines are still amazingly rich,” said Hakkon in surprise.

Óin nodded. “StoneFoot miners from the small settlements scattered throughout the Grey Mountains ventured here from time to time, if their colony was in need. But ‘tis a dangerous undertaking. There is always the possibility of running into Gundabad Orcs. The miners can protect their small caves easily, but these halls are too large and they would have little to no cover in here. Nor have they ever dared to enter the King’s Forge, for reasons unknown to me.”

“You shall see the reason soon enough,” said Miödvitnir.

He stopped in front of what looked like an insignificant stretch of unhewn rock wall and muttered something. Moments later a large boulder turned noiselessly inward, opening a doorway into the room behind.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The King’s Forge turned out to be a cavernous hall, with the actual forge – a blackened fireplace with an enormous anvil – standing at the far end of it. Once it had been known as the Steel Hall and was the largest one under the Grey Mountains. The larger part of it had once served as a display place for King Náin’s craft but was now all but filled with what seemed to be a large heap of dull bronze and silver scales, as if somebody had stored a great many of old-fashioned hauberks there.

It was only at second sight that they made out under the apparent wirr-warr of scales a long, sinuous body – more than twenty foot long and half as high – and a head the size of a wagon. It ended in another ten feet of spiky tail, curled around part of the body. Now that they had realized what it was, they could make out further details of the dragon’s body, dead for hundreds of years: the massive, clawed feet, the huge jaws with ragged teeth as long as a Dwarf was tall, and smaller, pale silvery grey scales where his belly had once been.

Any soft parts of the beast had long dried out and fallen to dust; what was still left of it was but the empty armour.

“What is this?” whispered Balin; not that he would not recognize a dragon if he saw one, even a long-dead one, but he was shocked by the sight nonetheless.

Small wonder, as he was one of the few who had seen Smaug in his prime and lived to tell the tale.

“This was Glórund, last of the cold-drakes of Thafar'abbad,” answered a deep, somewhat hollow voice, and Eikinskialdi appeared above them on a stone balcony looking down at the King’s Forge. “Look at him, o Dwarves, for what you see is the only armour that can withstand the Dark Fire – if you are smiths enough to work with it, that is.”

Balin, a skilled smith himself, shook his head. “Bronze cannot withstand fire, black or otherwise.”

“Ah but this is no ordinary bronze,” replied the Fire-mage. “This is bronze melted with a dragon’s scales; and even though Glórund was not one of the fire-worms, the heat of his own body was enough to melt bronze and bond it to his bony scales. This is the most resistant thing ever made under the Sun; the only one that might protect us from the fire-demon that dwells under Khazad-dûm.”

Balin inched closer to the dragon’s empty skin and tentatively rapped on the scales with his knuckles. They proved hard and smooth as glass, yet as flexible as the best steel. Light, too, he realized, picking up one of the loosened scales from the ground. It was twice the size of his broad palm but seemed to weigh almost nothing.

“It would make wondrous armour and give us great advantage,” he allowed, “if only we had a forge hot enough for the task.”

Up on his balcony Eikinskialdi shrugged his heavy shoulders. “You have spellsmiths among you. Use them.”

All eyes turned to Miödvitnir, but the Rune-smith shook his head. “I may be able to bond spells to steel, but I am not strong enough for such work.”

“I was not talking about you,” Eikinskialdi’s piercing black eyes measured every single Dwarf present and finally rested on Burin son of Balin. “Well, young one? Are you willing and able to put your heritage to good use?”

His words were met with shocked silence. That Burin had manifested the flame, as Dwarves put it – meaning the rare gift of a spellsmith to work powers into the steel, to hear the whispers of the fire and the deep voices of steel and stone – and at such a relatively young age, too, was known to but a chosen few.

‘Twas a gift much greater (and infinitely more dangerous) than the simple fire-touch inherited by certain FireBeards – like Óin’s line – and even the latter had become rare in these lesser days. Spellsmiths, once not uncommon among Durin’s descendants, were practically extinct by now and even the weakest ones fiercely and jealously protected.

The fact that the Fire-mage could recognize Burin’s Gift by sight alone proved his great power and knowledge on the one hand. On the other hand it made him potentially even more dangerous. The Gift had only ever been given by Mahal to Durin’s blood; the last known recipient had been no lesser Dwarf than Thorin Oakenshield himself.

Seeing his visitors’ shock Eikinskialdi gave them a grim smile.

“Why are you so astonished? Did you think I would not feel the fire cruising in the young one’s veins; I who am made of fire myself? He leaned over the balcony, supporting himself on the crumbling railing with both hands. “The question is: does he have the strength to use his Gift? Is he able to pull all of himself into such work, to pour his very soul in the hot metal and would he survive the crucible? It takes a generous, giving soul to do so; and a bold heart not to fear the flame and the hammer. Having the Gift is just one half of the business; one also needs to have the makings to use it.”

“He is too young,” protested Balin, his old heart breaking in fear for his much-loved late-born son. “There are dangers down that road; grave dangers. One has to put a lot of oneself in such works, part of one’s soul, of one’s heart… and one can easily get destroyed during the process. Burin hasn’t done much spell-smithing so far; the odd dagger or throwing axe, nothing more. He cannot throw himself into such enormous work on his own; and no-one of us can help him. No-one else has the Gift.”

“I can teach him,” said Miödvitnir. “His strength and my knowledge together ought to do the trick.”

Óin, however, shook his head.

“Trying to drag the armour of such a large dragon back to Erebor would be a hopeless undertaking,” he said. “And, above all else, it would make the secrecy needed for our campaign a moot point.”

“Not to mention that the work would take years to finish, even if we only had to fit a few dozen Dwarves with hauberks,” added Ori.

“Are you in a great hurry?” asked Eikinskialdi tartly. “Khazad-dûm shan’t go anywhere; and neither would Durin’s Bane. You could not want for a better forge than the one in which King Náin once worked; the last spellsmith of royal lineage among Durin’s children.”

Clearly, he didn’t know of Thorin’s Gift; but that was the least concern of the other Dwarves right now. Balin stared at the ancient one in exasperation.

“With respect, loneliness and high age must have addled your brain, o Fire-mage,” he said sharply. “Did you not hear what Óin son of Gróin said? We cannot protect a cave as huge as this one against the Gundabad Orcs; which is the reason why the StoneFoot Dwarves cannot return here, either.”

“Actually, we can, with a bit of strategic thinking,” said Yngvildr before Eikinskialdi could have come up with an answer; if he had one at all. “If we make this the first part of our campaign, we could establish a small garrison of experienced warriors here. They can keep an eye on the Orc movements – something both King Dáin and Vestri of the Iron Hills would appreciate – and protect the Forge at the same time.”

“And I am certain that in that case I could persuade at least some of my people to return to the city of our ancestors,” Hakkon added.

Balin’s attention, however, was solely focused on the lady Yngvildr.

“Does this mean that you are considering joining our campaign, my lady?” he asked. “May I ask what persuaded you?”

Yngvildr prodded the dead dragon’s armour with the iron toe of her boot.

“This has persuaded me,” she replied. “My forefather Azaghâl managed to wound Glaurung, the Father of Drakes, wearing one of the legendary dragon helms of our people. I imagine that wearing a dragon’s own armour could protect us even against a fire-demon. So aye, I shall follow you to Khazad-dûm, Lord Balin of Durin’s House,” she looked at Frár. “What about you, husband?”

The huge, intimidating IronFist warrior nodded. “As I swore at our hand-binding ritual: wherever you go, I shall follow, my lady. And as I am a Forge Guard, I shall lead the warriors protecting the King’s Forge myself.”

“Dáin shan’t like it,” warned Balin. “You have been his right hand all your life; and his. He would loath to lose you.”

“He has my son to fill my space,” replied Frár calmly. “’Tis time for the younger generation to grow into their duties; and ‘Tis best done in peacetime when they can afford to learn from their mistakes.”

“How are they supposed to learn when their taskmaster is leaving?” asked Hakkon; not because he wanted him to change his mind just for the argument’s sake.

Frár shrugged his heavy shoulders. “They’ll have Dwalin to train them,” he said. “He might be a scholar nowadays, but he used to be Thorin Oakenshield’s war-master for longer than you’ve been alive. He’ll manage.”

“He always does,” agreed Balin with a somewhat sorrowful smile. As much as he understood his brother’s reasons, it saddened him that Dwalin wouldn’t even consider joining him. “Getting Dáin’s leave shan’t be easy, though; and I don’t mean for myself. I am not sworn to him, and due to my lineage need not his permission to do as I please. You two, though, do you believe he would release you from your oaths?”

“Not willingly; and I am sure he would loathe to do so,” allowed Frár. “But each and every Forge Guard is entitled to ask a boon from his or her King; a great favour but once in their lives that their liege lord cannot refuse. Neither my lady nor I have called in this boon yet.”

“And you’ll do so now?” Balin asked in awe. “Why would you do that?”

“I am an old warrior, as much as I am still in my prime,” answered Frár simply. “This might well be my last battle; I want it to be a glorious one.”

“As for me, I have unfinished business with the Orcs infesting Khazad-dûm,” added the lady Yngvildr. “I want to pay them back as long as I still have the strength.”

And an impressive strength she still possessed, Balin of all people knew that. And where she and Frár led, many warriors would follow.

Balin turned to his son now. “What do you say, my son? Are you willing to take the risk and work in King Náin’s Forge for whatever long it might take?”

Burin hesitated for a moment.

“I cannot do this without Dorin,” he then said. “I know Uncle Dwalin would never allow him to join us, but I’ll need him while I work on the dragon’s hide. The Gift would swallow me without him.”

Balin nodded. He knew his son was soul-bound to his cousin; the two complemented each other in a way he’d seen only once before: with Fíli and Kíli. If Burin said he needed Dorin to perform the enormous task of turning a dragon’s hide into Dwarven armour, then he would get Dorin’s help, even if Balin had to sit on Dwalin during the whole time.

“You know I would have to take a solemn oath that he shan’t be accepted in our rows, though,” he warned.

Burin nodded unhappily. “Aye, I know that. It would kill me to go without him but ‘tis perhaps better so. At least the younger branch of our family ought to prevail.”

“All right then,” said Balin with a sigh. “I shall see it done. If the lady Yngvildr and her mate bring us the warriors to protect the Forge and Hakkon manages to recruit some of the StoneFoot miners to support us, we can begin with the work as early as late spring.”

“We shall need supplies,” Óin warned him. “I can speak with Niping; his caravan will be heading to the Iron Hills next; they might be willing to make a little detour and provide us with the necessary foodstuffs and whatever else we need.”

“And hopefully on their way back, too,” added Hakkon, grinning. “Starving Dwarves cannot protect their homes.”

“It could cost us a fortune, though,” commented Ori unhappily, “and this would only be the first leg of the campaign. Imagine the costs of the whole undertaking, Balin; how are we supposed to finance it?”

“Glóin and I paid for the supplies for the Quest of Erebor largely from our own pockets,” pointed out Óin; “and that was before we received our shares from the Dragon’s treasure. So did you and your brothers, if memory serves me well.”

“We only had to supply thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit during the Quest,” pointed out Ori. “Even taking the appetite of an average Hobbit under consideration, that was a small group. I sincerely hope that we’ll have a larger one when we attempt to re-take Khazad-dûm; or else the whole campaign would be pointless.”

“If needs must be, I shall give up my share of the Dragon’s hoard to see our debt to Durin’s Line paid and the Dwarrowdelf cleansed from evil,” said Balin grimly.

“You may have to do so yet; and you may not be the only one,” replied Óin. “This campaign will require careful planning and a great deal of patience,” he glanced at Ori. “Your old skills as head scribe may well be needed.”

“And I would offer my service to Lord Balin gladly,” said Ori formally. “But as for financing the campaign… these caves are full of gemstones and precious ores, some of which have already been mined. Could we not use them to pay for supplies?”

“You seem to forget that all this belongs to the StoneFoot Clans,” Óin reminded him.

“So what?” retorted Ori. “They cannot re-open these mines because of the threat of the Gundabad Orcs. Offer them the chance to do so under the protection of our warriors in exchange for a certain percentage of gems and ore and both sides win.”

All eyes turned to Hakkon who nodded thoughtfully.

“It could work,” he judged. “I’ll have to discuss it with the Clan heads, but I’m certain they would be happy to use this chance; even if it’s only temporary.”

“We could use the old storage caves to pile up supplies while Burin is working on the Dragon’s hide,” suggested Frár. “That way we can start our campaign right here when the time dis right, without the need of dragging all the new hauberks and weapons back to Erebor. That would serve the required secrecy much better; and when the time comes, we can simply follow the Greyflood – and then the Great River – right to the East-gate of Khazad-dûm.”

Dori, who had only come to represent his wife, the matriarch of the family, shook his massive head in exasperation.

“You are insane,” he declared. “That route would bring you dangerously close to the Necromancer’s Tower; and even though he was driven out by Tharkûn, one cannot know what kind of evil things may dwell there still.”

Frár shrugged. “We can always cross the river at the Carrock and continue southwards on the other bank.”

“I believe ‘tis too early to dispute about possible travel routes,” said a deep, hollow voice from above; they were startled a bit, as they had forgotten about Eikinskialdi on his balcony for a moment. “One step at a time; let us establish this place as a stepping stone first.”

“Us?” echoed Óin. “Do you intend to leave your home and join us here o Fire-mage? I fear there would be too much iron for your comfort, were we to move in here in considerable numbers.”

“You are right, of course; and I do not intend to move in with you permanently,” replied the ancient one. “That could be dangerous, for both sides. However, I shall visit from time to time. I’ll need to have my own hauberk fitted, after all; and the young one,” he glanced at Burin, “might need my knowledge.”

“And mine,” added Miödvitnir.

For his part Óin found it hard to imagine the two ancient Dwarves working with Balin’s adventurous, hot-headed and utterly spoiled son, but stranger things had happened under the Sun – or rather under the earth where Dwarves were considered – in the last three Ages of the world. He only hoped they’d manage without killing (or permanently harming) each other. One look at Balin’s face revealed that the future Lord of Moria was having similar concerns.

“I shall return here, too,” he offered. “Perchance I might find the lost record of King Náin somewhere. ‘Tis said that he managed to collect much of the forgotten knowledge about smith-craft only the great smiths of Tumunzahar possessed; Burin may find that useful.”

Being related to said FireBeard masters through his mother’s bloodline he had a personal interest in finding those records, too. But that was another matter entirely.

“What he’d need is the help of other arcane smiths,” said Balin grimly. “Unfortunately, that’s the very thing he shan’t be able to find.”

“Not another true spellsmith, mayhap,” agreed Miödvitnir. “But there are old masters left on some of the scattered FireBeard settlements who still know one or another of the trade secrets. I shall speak to them and summon them to Gabil-dûm.”

“And you believe they would answer your summons?” asked Óin doubtfully. “I stayed with them for a while; they did not seem very adventurous to me. Nor do they like strangers, not even from our own kind.”

“’Tis not the adventure that will call to them, ‘tis the chance to work with a dragon’s armour they won't be able to resist,” said Miödvitnir. “What true smith could resist that? Worry not, young one,” he added, looking at Burin. “I shall get you the help you will need.”

Burin shook his head. “All I need is Dorin,” he replied.

“We can discuss the details on our way home,” intervened Ori. “What we need to do now is to agree in a schedule and a method of communication.”

“We have trained ravens in Erebor,” pointed out Óin.

“Aye, but would they be willing to cross the Withered Heath and enter Eikinskialdi’s caves?” asked Dori.

Miödvitnir shrugged. “They only need to find me. ‘Tis true that I visit Eikinskialdi from time to time, but mostly I wander from settlement to settlement in the Grey Mountains and am easily found… for a raven, that is.”

Óin nodded. “Good, then at leas that is settled. I shall see that the two of you get word about our moves.”

“And I shall remain here and visit with our Clan all over Thafar’abbad, from here to Danakh-khizdîn to see if I can win some of them for our cause,” offered Hakkon.

“Our cause?” echoed Ori, grinning. “Does this mean you’re planning to join us, too?”

Hakkon grinned back at him. “Let us say that I am at least willing to support the first part of the campaign; for what StoneFoot in his or her right mind would miss the chance to dwell in the ancient halls of Govedar again? As for the rest… we shall see.”

“We thank you for any help you are willing to offer,” said Balin formally; then he turned to Yngvildr. “Are you satisfied with the outcome of this meeting, my lady?”

The Raven Lady nodded. “Indeed I am. We can return to Erebor as far as I am concerned – and work on our strategy to get Dáin’s consent.”

“I thought he owed you a boon,” Ori frowned. “And Balin here can do as he pleases.”

“That is true,” said Frár seriously. “But he is still our King and we cannot lead any number of our people away to Khazad-dûm without his leave. Especially not ones who originate from the Iron Hills; he is our Clan chief as well.”

“And he won’t be easily persuaded,” warned Yngvildr. “As much as he is of Durin’s Line, he has inherited many of his mother’s IronFist sensibilities… who do not feel the same obligation to free Khazad-dûm as the LongBeards, the FireBeards and the BroadBeams. Khazad-dûm was never their home the way it was ours.”

“They still came to fight with us at Azanulbizar,” pointed out Balin. “You did so yourself, Frár.”

“Aye, I did, but that was a war for vengeance,” Frár reminded him. “A war from which we still have not fully recovered.”

“Which is why I shan’t appear in front of Khazad-dûm’s main gate with an army and challenge the filthy Orcs openly,” said Balin. “Stealth and secrecy worked well for us when we attempted to re-take Erebor. We shall follow the same path; though, hopefully, with more people, this time,” he turned to Eikinskialdi. “Our thanks for this meeting o Fire-mage. We shall return to the Mountain now and begin with the preparations. But we shall stay in touch.”

~TBC~

The Book of Mazarbul 13 - A Congregation of Wizards

2018-08-02T16:49:07Z

THE BOOK OF MAZARBUL
by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s note: As I mentioned before, several storylines will come together (eventually) in this tale. Now we are leaving Erebor for a short while to see what other key characters are doing.

The fact that the wobbly little tree-house is actually Radagast’s workshop and not his home has been established in my other story, “If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit”. That Gandalf calls him “Cousin” comes from the fact that the Grey Wizard referred to Radagast as his cousin to Beorn in “The Hobbit”.

This chapter takes place approximately two months after Ori and Flói’s wedding.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 13 – A CONGREGATION OF WIZARDS

Winter in Southern Mirkwood turned out to be a surprisingly mild affair in the year 2986 of the Third Age. Snowfall had always been rare south of the Old Forest Road, but in this winter not even Rhosgobel, situated a little further on the northern side of the Road, had seen any snow. Temperatures, however, had dropped below the point of freezing in recent days, and the distracted old man known among the Woodmen as Radagast the Brown realized with dismay that the small stream right behind his tree-house had frozen solid during his absence.

“Oh, bother,” he muttered angrily, eyeing his winter lodgings with dismay.

It seemed to him that the little house had even been pushed farther apart by the towering tree growing right through the middle of it during the moths he had spent away from home, tracking the paths of wolves and spiders. There were small tears in the very walls now! Repairing them, while it was freezing in the outside, would be a pain… and rather time-consuming, too.

Oh, he still had his main lodging, of course: the wide wooden hall in the fashion of the Beornings – not Beorn himself, though; the chieftain of the skin-changers was decidedly odd, even by the measure of his own strange kind and lived more like a bear than like a Man – but it was way too large for him alone and would take lots of firewood to keep warm.

Thus the Brown Wizard usually spent the winter months in his workshop, assuming he spent them at home at all. Alas, what had once been a cosy little cottage had now become a twisted ruin as the sapling he could not bring himself to pluck all those years ago had grown into a mighty tree, practically taking over the house.

As he entered the workshop and looked around with fresh eyes, not having seen it for months and, frankly, not having taken a conscious look at the interior for decades, at the very least, he realized perhaps for the first time how bad things had truly become. The tree had literally reshaped the little house, shoving its walls out of alignment and making the tiled floor as uneven as the forest ground. Every single window was now leaning outwards, the shelves were all crooked, threatening to drop the countess rows of wobbly glass- and potterware any moment. Not even the mantle of the small fireplace was straight anymore, and it seemed as if the stones of which it had been once built would break apart at the smallest tremor.

“Dear me,” he who once in his forgotten youth had been known as Aiwendil in the far West, muttered in mild embarrassment. “I truly have allowed things to deteriorate, have I not? Why have I never seen the state of this place before?”

“Your mind was preoccupied with too many concerns… it still is,” an old, thin voice answered from behind his back.

He whirled around and spotted – belatedly – a small, dark figure perched on the edge of his day bed, black against the wildly colourful soft furnishing like a crow upon the rim of its nest full of stolen jewellery.

“Mother Aase,” he said in astonishment. “What are you doing here?”

“I fear I have invaded your house, Master Wizard,” admitted the tiny Dwarf-dam ruefully. “The wolves grew bold in the mild winter, and I needed a safe place to hide. There were times when no beast of the forest would dare to turn against me; but those times are over, it seems. My strength must have become waning… and you know what that means.”

Of course he knew. Once the strength of a Dwarf started waning, he or she began the last phase of his or her life; a phase that usually did not last longer than a decade or two. And even if one did not take her centuries spent in the Long Sleep under consideration, Mother Aase was truly ancient by now.

“I believe that the wolves are once again being influenced by whatever evil is still sitting in Dol Guldur,” he replied. “We may have driven the Necromancer out but he certainly had lieutenants who continue his evil work after having lain low for a few years.”

Mother Aase grinned tiredly. “That may be so; but it does not change the fact that I have started to fade. Forgive me the intrusion; I did not want to die alone in the woods, eaten by a pack of hungry wolves.”

“There is nought to forgive,” Radagast assured her. “In truth, I do not mind some company. I like solitude, true; but after a few hundred years on my own it is nice to talk to somebody who is not a squirrel or a hedgehog.”

Mother Aase nodded in agreement. “I see your point. I, too, thought I would spend the rest of my life alone. Yet meeting those young folks heading for the Lonely Mountain last year made me long for my own kind once again. Even if they are not truly my kind.”

“You are still Mahal’s Children; all of you,” said the wizard softly.

“And well-mannered young folk they were, for all that she was raised by Men and he was a thief,” the old crone went on thoughtfully, as if she had not heard the wizard’s comment at all. “I wonder if they reached the Mountain safely.

Radagast nodded. “They did; or so the ravens tell me. The girl now runs with King Dáin’s scouts; she is a Ranger, after all. The youth works with the hostlers, it is said.”

“That is good to hear,” said Mother Aase. “Our cousins need young people if they do not wish to die out… as we have.”

“Well, you are still here,” pointed out Radagast. “How long have you been hiding in my workshop anyway?”

“I came shortly before Midwinter,” she admitted. “I hoped to find you home, but as you were gone I was grateful that at least the house was not warded. Weakened as I was I might not have been able to break your spell.”

“But that was nearly two months ago!” cried the wizard. “What have you eaten all this time? I have not left any supplies behind, and not even a Dwarf can go on without food infinitely!”

The little old one laughed at that; it sounded like the tinkling of icicles.

“I am not just any Dwarf, remember? I am perchance the last of the Nulûkkhazâd, and only our people have ever known the secret of the earth-bread.”

“Earth-bread?” repeated Radagast frowning. “You mean the wild root, the nameless one that tastes like bread when cooked?”

Mother Aase laughed again, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Oh, they do have a name; yet only in the Dwarf-tongue, which we do not teach. The Wood-Elves know them not; Orcs have not found them; the proud ones from over the Sea were too proud to delve. My people, however, found them and learned that they are of great worth. More than gold in the hungry winter, for they may be hoarded like the nuts of a squirrel. I have been building a store from the first that were ripe right after my arrival, and you are welcome to share them with me, in exchange for your hospitality.”

“That is very generous of you,” said the wizard. “Frankly, it would be a welcome change to the dried mushrooms I usually live off during winter.”

He rarely ate any meat, unless he had to release a wounded deer or rabbit from its pain, which made his winter diet rather dull.

“You should not live on mushrooms alone,” warned him Mother Aase. “After a while they can addle your brain… and yellow your teeth.”

“That is what Saruman has been telling him for Ages, but he would not listen,” a third voice said full of gentle amusement, and Gandalf the Grey bent his head to fit under the low-linted door of the little house. “Greetings, Cousin… shamukh ra ghelekhur aimâ, Mother Aase, ” he added in Khuzdul, bowing in Dwarf-fashion, which, frankly, looked rather ridiculous, coming from a Man of his height.

“Tharkûn!” cried the tiny Dwarf-dam in delight. “It has been too long! What brings you here?”

“Well, I was supposed to meet this one at the Carrock, two days ago,” Gandalf waved in the direction of their host. “But as usual, he forgot about me. Therefore, I decided to cross the River and see if he is in any trouble.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” grumbled the Brown Wizard good-naturedly. “Which one of us is more likely to get in trouble – in serious trouble – Gandalf? I am not the one who keeps meddling with the affairs of Elves and Men. Or Dwarves and Hobbits, for that matter.”

“There is some truth in that,” admitted Gandalf smiling. “But that is my work, just as yours is the forest with all the creatures, small and large, that live in it.”

“And yet you are here, both of you,” said Mother Aase. “What brings you together at this time, in this place? There is no new danger arising in the forest, is there?”

“There might be; then again, there might not,” answered Radagast with a shrug. “’Tis hard to tell ere the signs would become clear; and then it is usually too late.”

“That was not quite reassuring, my good Radagast,” Gandalf chided him.

Radagast shrugged again. “I respect Mother Aase too much to tell her white lies. Besides, she knows Middle-earth better than even we do. She has been here a lot longer,” he turned back to the old Dwarf-dam. “We know of no actual threat, not at this moment. But we keep a wary eye on the events and changes in Eriador and in the Wilderland and meet from time to time to compare our findings.”

“Only that my good cousin here has completely forgotten on which day we were supposed to meet,” added Gandalf, taking out his pipe, filling it with the finest of Shire leaf, pressing the leaves down with a thumb and snapping his fingers to light it.

“A good trick,” said Radagast in appreciation. “Can you do it with my fireplace, too? I fear the firewood I have gathered may be a tad wet.”

“Of course, of course,” Gandalf snapped his fingers again, muttered something and in the next moment a merry little flame sprang up in the fireplace where the wood had already been stapled up properly.

“Ach, that is much better!” Radagast dragged one of the crooked chairs to the fireplace, leaned carefully against its broken back and stretched out his legs towards the fire, revealing the fact that he was wearing two different ankle boots: an ornate, worn-away gold lace and velvet slipper on one foot, in Elven fashion, and a blue leather flick toe boot, as the BroadBeam Dwarves preferred, on the other one.

“After all those long nights spent at a campfire, this is a true blessing,” he continued. “Too bad you cannot cook a proper dinner in a fireplace.”

“You mayhap cannot; I certainly can,” retorted Mother Aase primly.

She hobbled to the shelf where Radagast kept his pots, snatched a small, blackened iron one, put a few round, pale roots into it, filled the pot to the half with water from the pitcher standing on the table, put a cover on it and placed it unceremoniously inside the fireplace.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “The earth-bread shall be done within the hour.”

“Impressive,” Gandalf pulled another wobbly chair to the fireplace and extended his hands towards the fire to warm his fingers. “But again, you have survived much harder times in your long life, so I am not surprised. Which is why I welcome your presence. You know these woods better than anyone else. If there had been any changes lately, you would have noticed.”

“Aye, I would,” she assured him simply.

“You told me about the wolves having grown bolder,” reminded her Radagast, and she nodded.

“Aye, but that may have come from the mildness of winter.”

“Or their blood might have been mixed with that of the Wargs again, making them wilder and more dangerous,” said Radagast grimly; then he looked at Gandalf. “Have you spoken with Beorn? Has he seen Wargs in the forest lately?”

Gandalf shook his shaggy head. “Nay; but if the numbers of the Wargs have begun to grow since the Battle of the Five Armies, they would lie low ‘til they feel strong enough to show themselves openly again. They are evil, not stupid.”

“What about the goblins of the Misty Mountains?” asked Radagast.

Gandalf shrugged. “I am sure they have been breeding like maggots, but it will take time before their spawn would be ready and able to fight again. The Beornings have taken over Goblin Town, cleansed the place and keep a strong watch there all the time to secure the High Pass. I do not believe that we would have to expect any danger from there.”

“That is one concern fewer,” said Radagast, relieved. “Also, the Wood-Elves have forced the Giant Spiders back into South Mirkwood, beneath the Old Forest Road.”

“More or less,” corrected Mother Aase. “Some of the creatures still venture across the Road, slipping through the Elven patrols from time to time. Alas, the winter was not harsh enough for them to enter their cold sleep… and as they are awake, they are also hungry. The deer and the smaller game keep fleeing to the North; and sooner or later, the wolves and the spiders will follow.”

“I shall send birds to the Woodland Realm to warn Thranduil,” promised Radagast. “The ravens will have already warned King Dáin, I deem.”

Gandalf nodded. “So I am told. However, Dáin may have other, more urgent problems at hand right now.”

“What?” cried Radagast in dismay. “Not another dragon surely?”

“Nay,” said the Grey Wizard. “’Tis something much more subtle yet equally dangerous: unrest. There is murmur among the Dwarves of Erebor, the friendly raven told me. There are some who feel caged by the peaceful, settled life under the Mountain and are looking for new challenges.”

“What kind of murmur?” asked Radagast tonelessly. “What challenges?”

“Now that they have their little kingdom back, some of the older Dwarves have grown reckless and speak about re-claiming the last of the great Dwarven kingdoms; the only one that still exists,” explained Gandalf grimly.

“Moria?” whispered Radagast, blanching under the various layers of travel filth covering his face. “Those fools want to go back to Moria again? And even Dáin is fool enough to let them go?”

“I seriously doubt that Dáin knows about it at all, unless his spymaster is much better than his reputation,” answered Gandalf drily. “And it is not so as if he could forbid anyone to go, save for his Forge Guards who have pledged themselves to his service. Not even a Clan matriarch can prevent a warrior from going to battle if they are about to fulfil an obligation towards fallen kin or shield-brothers. Dwarves take such obligations very seriously.”

“Aye, and we all saw how well it went for them at the first time,” muttered the little Dwarf-dam darkly. “I cannot believe that the fools would want to fight another Battle of Azanulbizar! If their greed does not bring them to utter ruin, their pride certainly will!”

She had no understanding for such folly. The Petty-Dwarves had always been a great deal more pragmatic – not that it had saved them from dying out.

“That might happen,” agreed Gandalf, clearly in concern. “Perhaps one day Durin’s Folk will, indeed, return to the ancient halls of their First Father; but that time has not yet come, and shall not for a long while.”

“Have you told them that?” she asked.

“How could I?” Gandalf returned. “They have not asked for my help or my advice; they did not even tell me what they are planning. I have no way to interfere.”

“But who is behind this insane idea?” asked Radagast. “Are they truly so unhappy with Dáin’s rule? I always thought him to be a good King.”

“He is,” said Gandalf. “I doubt that this is because of his leadership, which is indeed stable and wise. As far as I can tell, Óin son of Gróin returned from one of his longer journeys with the idea firmly rooted in his head. The raven could not tell me how he had come to it; only that he had visited the Withered Heath to see whether there may still be a dragon hiding in that desolate place.”

“And did he find any?” Radagast frowned.

Gandalf shook his head. “Apparently not. But it was immediately after his return that he began to ask the oldest Dwarves about Moria and Durin’s Bane.”

“Durin’s Bane,” muttered Radagast unhappily. “It always comes back to that, does it not? And after all those years, no-one knows what it was Dáin Ironfoot saw when he looked into the darkness behind the Front Gate of Moria, do they?”

‘No-one but Dáin himself,” Gandalf sighed, “and Dáin would not speak about it to anyone. Not even Thráin did he ever tell what kind of terror had he seen, and though some were bold enough to ask – Balin and Dwalin in particular that I know of – they never got an answer.”

“But why would Óin even consider facing such darkness willingly?” asked Radagast bewildered.

He had met the adventurous Dwarf quite a few times while Óin had been out on one of his numerous journeys and found him a remarkably level-headed individual as Dwarves go. Particularly ones with FireBeard blood in their veins.

“What makes him think they would have a chance?” he added.

Gandalf shrugged. “All I can think is that he must have met somebody on his latest journey; somebody truly powerful”

“But whom?” insisted Radagast. “No-one of our Order has ever wandered so far north, save yourself. Saruman has not left that tower of his since the last meeting of the White Council, and what has become from the others is unclear.”

“We are not the only ones with ancient powers,” reminded him Gandalf. “Nor is it certain that Durin’s Bane still dwells in Moria. True, I only went through the Front Gate once, but as you can see I came out unharmed. In truth, I saw no-one at all during my foray, though I could feel that the Dwarrowdelf was not empty.”

“It was still probably full of Orcs,” muttered the Brown Wizard. “They just did not want to reveal their presence, in the hope of richer bounty if they could make you think the place was empty and bring there others.”

“That is one possibility,” allowed Gandalf. “The other one would be that whatever holds them under its spell was asleep and they feared to wake it. Orcs are not bright enough for complicated acts of deceit; but they are capable of fear.”

“And what makes Óin believe they could overpower something that fills even the black hearts of Orcs with fear?” asked Radagast doubtfully.

“That I cannot tell,” confessed Gandalf. “But you might learn about it sooner than I do. Should they indeed choose to return to Moria, their path will lead them by Rhosgobel; you just need to be home on the right day.”

“Are you not going to ask them, Tharkûn?” asked Mother Aase.

Gandalf shook his head. “My heart tells me that I shall be needed in Eriador for the next few years. I must go to Rivendell first, to consult with Lord Elrond, and then continue westward: to the Angle and the Shire.”

Radagast’s eyes twinkled in understanding. “You feel the need of keeping tab on your Hobbit?”

“Bilbo Baggins is not my Hobbit,” corrected Gandalf. “Like all Hobbits, he belongs to himself and to himself alone. But yea, I want to keep an eye on him. He has changed during his adventure more than he might know; I need to make sure that he is safe.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that he might be in danger?” asked Radagast in surprise.

Gandalf did not answer at once, and the long silence hung between them like a grey cloud.

“I cannot be certain,” he finally said. “There are some small details I need to clarify about the time he was separated from the rest of the Company before I can tell for sure.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Whenever Eikinskialdi submitted to true sleep instead of the dream-like twilight existence in which he spent the last few hundred years, he dreamt of fire. That in itself was nothing unusual, considering who – and what – he was. Fire was the life force of the ones like him: ancient Khazâd who had fully internalized the power they had been born with, instead of shaping it into items of great artistry. He was fire, just as the wise-women of his small kinfolk were of earth; and just like them, he drew great strength from the element he had been taken of.

Yet the fire he had been dreaming of ever since the fall of Khazad-dûm – assuming that he allowed himself to sleep – was not the clean, imperishable flame that heated the great forge of Mahal the Maker. His dreams… his nightmares, to call them what they truly were… brought him back to the fateful moment when he had faced the dark fire of Udûn – and failed utterly.

Every. Single. Time.

The nightmare was as vivid as live memory… which was why he kept resisting true sleep as long as he could. It always began with a mighty quake that shook the very bones of the hearth with a force that sent them to their knees, trying to hold onto the rough surface of the rock wall for balance. Then blackness descended, impenetrable even for the night-eyes of a Dwarf, as a sudden gust of hot, dry wind snuffed out the torches along the wall, bearing the stench of hot iron and burning flesh… a horribly familiar stench for a Fire-mage, one that caused them both spasms of coughing so hard that they almost threw up.

Fire was not supposed to smell like that: like death and carrion and the beasts that fed upon it… like dragon-breath, right after some great carnage caused by a hundred of Worms. Fire was supposed to smell clean, as it always had before, even in the heart of great Dwarven forges.

Fire was supposed to mean life. However, this time it meant death.

Barely was the quake over when a vague, reddish gloom filled the shaft, rising from its deep core, and two massive, clawed hands, next to which they looked like mere flies, grasped the edge of the freshly hewn stairwell, and a monstrous creature of fire and shadow emerged from the depths.

It seemed to be forged of black iron, glowing red from the inside as if still being shaped in the hot forge. And indeed, it seemed to change its shape subtly as it grew and towered above them ‘til its sharp and twisted horns touched the high ceiling of the cave. Two immense wings of dark flame opened on its back, stretching from wall to wall and sending another hot gust of arid wind along the shaft. Its eyes glowed red like embers in a dying fire. In one hand it held a whip of crackling fire, in the other one a long sword, the blade of it seemed to be living flame.

“What is this?” then-young Eikinskialdi asked with morbid fascination.

“The death of us all, unless we can stop it,” his mentor answered grimly.

Then the old mage made a bold step forward – a small, glowing white figure before the background of the fire-demon’s dark shadow, like candlelight facing a bursting volcano – and rammed his great staff against the rocky floor.

“You cannot pass!” he grated, barely able to speak in the thickening fog of smoke and horrible stench.

For a fleeting moment the creature stopped, as if in doubt. Then it flicked a wrist thicker than a Dwarf’s waist and the flaming whip crackled in the sizzling hot air as it curled around the old mage’s legs and swept him away, into the bottomless pit.

Eikinskialdi grabbed at the staff that had slipped from the nerveless hand of his mentor, mad enough from grief and despair to face the creature; to try stopping him… and die trying. But suddenly strong hands grabbed him and yanked him to a side tunnel, to temporary safety, and he screamed in agony as the iron gauntlets his saviour was wearing touched him. The smell of his own burning flesh overlaid the scent of the hellish creature that had just slain his mentor.

“You stunted fool!” rasped the voice of the late Durin VI’s sister-son, him who would become King of an exiled people, soon. “Do you wish to die for nothing? This is not a foe that you can best; not now, not for a long time to come.”

“I must try!” insisted Eikinskialdi. Now that his mentor was gone, he was the only one left.

Prince Hanar looked at him with shadowed eyes that appeared ancient in his young, almost beardless face, barely recognisable under the crusted layers of soot, blood and ashes.

“You will,” he said. “In a better time, many, many years from now, you will,” then he let go of the mage’s arm, looking at the burn marks is gauntlet had caused in regret. “Birashagimi,” he said in Khuzdul. “A healer will see to your wounds. But we must flee now, ere it is too late.”

A thousand years had gone by since that dreadful day. The Dwarves of Khazad-dûm lasted less than a year after the death of Durin VI. When their new King, Náin, was also slain by the monster they had begun to call Durin’s Bane, thy finally decided to flee their ancient mansion ere they would be slaughtered to the last Dwarf. And when they left, they took the Fire-mage, the last of the Nulûkkhazâd (or so they believed) with them.

Eikinskialdi had learned and grown in power much in those thousand years. Most of the time he had spent lying under deep stone, for that was the best way for a Dwarf to grow in strength, and the stone of the northern mountains was strong indeed. But sometimes he ventured beyond the boundaries of his self-appointed solitude, to learn what was going on in the wider world.

Sometimes he met other people. Dwarves, mostly, but also Northmen and the skin-changers of the great forest; and once in all that time he even met an Elf.

It was not one of the Noldor he had seen in Khazad-dûm before its fall. This one was taller and more powerfully built, with a barely perceptible golden glow surrounding him. His hair, too, was shining like molten gold, his face noble and beautiful and fearless and full of mirth, with eyes so bright it almost hurt to see; on his brow sat wisdom, and in his hand was strength. He was clearly one who had once lived in the Far West.

The Elf never revealed his name, but he told Eikinskialdi much about the times before the Sun and the Moon and of the creatures Melkor had set free all over Middle-earth. And Eikinskialdi understood that the creature under Khazad-dûm must have been one of the ancient fire-demons of Melkor, whom he had summoned by corrupting the Lesser Powers, though he did not tell the Elf about it, of course.

If that was true, however – for one could never know for certain – then it was he sacred duty of a fire-mage to dispose of the creature… or die trying as his mentor had done. And he had no time to waste. He was at the height of his power and knowledge; another decade or so and his strength would begin to wane. If he wanted to give the fight of his long life a try, it had to be soon.

For that, however, he needed to get back to Khazad-dûm safely. And that he could not do alone, or with Miödvitnir as his sole travelling companion. There were too many dangers along the way – there was too much iron everywhere. He could only hope that the scholarly Dwarf the Rune-smith had brought to see him in the previous year would be willing to raise a strong company that would take part in such a perilous quest.

“He is an adventurer,” said Miödvitnir when Eikinskialdi spoke to him about his doubts. “He was one of the thirteen who marched across Eriador and half the Wilderland to face the Dragon, with only a wizard and a Hobbit as their company. I have little doubt that he would be mad enough for such an undertaking… as long as there are only Orcs and Trolls to face. But he does not know that Durin’s Bane is still haunting their ancient halls. Not for sure. Not as you know; and you have tried to lure him into a death trap.”

“Nay, I have not,” protested Eikinskialdi indignantly. “I told him about Durin’s Bane; and that I would be willing to face the demon again.”

“Aye, and he told you that you were mad,” pointed out Miödvitnir.

Eikinskialdi shrugged. “It matters little. He is of Durin’s line; and that line was responsible for awakening the demon. It was the greed of Durin VI that led to its reappearance – had they not kept delving deeper and deeper in their search for mithril, it would still be sleeping in the bottomless depths of the Dwarrowdelf. Therefore it is their responsibility to see it disposed of.”

“They could never do it,” said the Rune-smith, and Eikinskialdi nodded.

“Of course not. That is why they need me.”

“You cannot be sure that you would stand a chance against Durin’s Bane,” warned him Miödvitnir.

Eikinskialdi sighed. “Aye, I know that. Yet I am still the one with the greatest chance to succeed. Besides, I have unfinished business with the demon. There is still the matter of my mentor’s death between us.”

“It might be you who gets finished in such an encounter,” said Miödvitnir.

“True,” answered the Fire-mage. “But would that truly be so bad? My life has been long and full – almost too long, it seems. ‘Tis time for me to go to the Halls of Waiting and rest. Yet ere I do so, I must fulfil the destiny I was born for. I must face Durin’s Bane… and slay it if I can.”

“And if you cannot?”

“Then I will be slain and with me those who will take it upon themselves to free Khazad-dûm of the evil that has dwelt in its sacred halls far too long,” replied Eikinskialdi grimly. “And yet it is something that needs to be done. No-one will be safe as long as the demon roams Durin’s halls of old.”

“It cannot come out, though, can it?” asked Miödvitnir in concern. “They can only survive in darkness, can’t they?”

“If it truly is the kind of demon I believe it is, then it could come out if it had to,” answered Eikinskialdi thoughtfully. “They prefer the darkness, aye, and the closeness of the fiery heart of the earth. But it is known that at least once, in ancient times, several of them took part in the destruction of Gondolin, the Elven city of singing stone.”

Miödvitnir looked at him in surprise. “Who told you that?”

“An ancient Elf who was there,” answered the Fire-mage simply. “He said that two of the creatures were slain in the final battle before the city fell; even though the Elves who slew them paid with their own lives for their heroic deed.”

“And the same will most likely happen to you,” muttered Miödvitnir.

“Mayhap so,” allowed Eikinskialdi. “But at least we know that they can be slain. That is enough for me.”

“And I shall go with you as promised; for Khazad-dûm was my home, too… if we can find others who are willing to accompany us on this quest. For I doubt that thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit would be enough this time.”

“We shall see,” Eikinskialdi glanced up to the shaft cut high into the ceiling of his cave. There was something blocking the grey daylight that usually filtered through the shaft. “Soon enough, it appears.”

And indeed, the shadow turned out to be one of the trained ravens the Dwarves of Erebor used to send messages all over Middle-earth. It had a small copper tube fastened to one leg, and in that tube was a small roll of parchment with a message written in the simple Cirth used by the Men of Dale and Lake-town… and by all Dwarves when they did not use the ancient Angerthas of Khazad-dûm.

Eikinskialdi carefully rolled out the parchment to read the message.

“It is from Óin son of Gróin,” he then said. “He asks me to meet him and several prominent Dwarves of Erebor in the abandoned halls of King Dáin I on the first day of Spring. Apparently, Balin Fundinul has some questions to ask.”

“Are you going?” asked Miödvitnir.

Eikinskialdi nodded.

“’Tis not a long journey, and the place is well-known to us both,” he said. “The risk of touching iron involuntarily is much lower for me than it would be in Erebor. The choice was well-thought of them.”

“I can go forth and make sure the place is still safe,” offered Miödvitnir. “Then I shall come back for you,” he stopped Eikinskialdi’s protest with a raised hand. “I know you can make such a short journey on your own, but you have not left these caves for many years. I on the other hand have been walking the paths of the Grey Mountains all the time. There is no need to take unnecessary risks… or to spend your strength on defending yourself against stray Orcs or Wild Men.”

After a moment of hesitation Eikinskialdi gave in. Now that the last great task of his long life seemed to come around, he did not want to endanger it by putting himself at risk. One could never know what sort of creatures still lingered in the Grey Mountains, after Thrór and his people had left.

“I would welcome your company,” he said simply.

The time of reckoning was about to come. He would have one last fight… and then he would rest until the Remaking of Arda.

He found that he was looking forward to both.

~TBC~

(1) Traditional Khuzdul greeting.
(2) Khuzdul for "Sorry". Literally: I regret.

The Book of Mazarbul 10 - Dark Legacy

2018-07-30T17:03:12Z

THE BOOK OF MAZARBUL
by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s note: Just remember, my Dwarves rarely look like those movie caricatures of Peter Jackson’s. Especially not Bifur, who is, after all, female in my interpretation, and quite a pretty one by Dwarven standards.

Accordingly, my Dori, who was canonically the strongest Dwarf of the Company, is a much more impressive character than the effeminate hairdresser of the movies. Glîrnardir, my generous canon beta, suggested John Rhys-Davies as a template for Dori, since he has a vaguely oriental look to him without the ridiculous Gimli make-up, and BlackLocks have supposedly awakened in the East. We imagine them with elaborate hairdo and beards, along the line of the ancient Babylonians.

Dori’s extended family is also my invention, although part of the bloodline has been conceived by Glîrnardir. More about Uruktharbun, Thorin’s city in the Blue Mountains, can be read in my other story, “If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit”.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 12 – DARK LEGACY

Lóni was not called to Balin’s presence in the following days… or weeks. Lofar had ample time to copy the records he deemed useful, for Balin sat in council with his brother and with quite a number of important members of his mother’s Clan for several weeks to come.

The time of seclusion for the newly wed Ori was barely over when he called a full Clan meeting… not to his own mansion but to Dori’s home. The eldest and most prominent male of the BlackLocks in Erebor he might be, but the Lady Ai was the new Clan matriarch, and therefore all decisions concerning the Clan had to be blessed by her.

And the possibility of another mad quest, this time one to re-take Khazad-dûm, was very much Clan business, even if the other Clans did not realise it. Not yet in any case.

As much as Dwalin steadfastly refused to have any part in the foolish undertaking, as he called it, he could not refuse to take part on a full Clan meeting. So he went with his brother, grumbling and cursing under his breath, and with them was Burin, Balin’s only son and heir, yet not Dorin son of Dwalin who had pledged himself to the LongBeard Clans upon reaching the age of maturity and had thus nothing to do with any Clan business of the BlackLocks.

Apart from Balin and Dori’s family, both of which were surprisingly numerous if one counted in the household members who were also Clan, several other prominent Clan members followed the summons of their Elder. There was Dólgthrashir, the guard of the Front Gate, then Hilgir with his sons Hedinn and Helgi as well as his brother Sigarr; also Haugspuri and Otkell and half a dozen more whom Flói, who had not spent much time with his clansmen before, barely knew by their names.

The Dori who welcomed them to the great hall of the mansion of his family looked very different from the decent yet seemingly simple BlackLock warrior that had followed Thorin Oakenshield on the Quest of Erebor all those years ago. Had their esteemed burglar, the Hobbit Bilbo been present, he would have had a hard time to recognize the Dwarf who had once lent him his spare hood and saved his life from the Wargs.

During the years in-between Dori had filled out considerably, becoming the living image of his legendary father, Orin Glowhammer: the same round head, the same exotic features, accentuated by the slightly slanted indigo eyes and the artfully braided and curled blue-black hair and beard, both decorated with gold filaments and mithril beads. He was huge – for a Dwarf, that is; even for a BlackLock, who, after all, were the giants of Mahal’s Children – with the heavy shoulders and great arms of a stone-mason (which he was by trade), a barrel chest and the strength of a cave bear.

Unlike earlier, his attire, too, clearly showed both his noble lineage and his respected standing at King Dáin’s court now.

He was wearing an exquisitely detailed tunic of woven leather strips in various shades of plum, grey and mauve. His over-robe was deep plum velvet with a suede yoke. His regal outfit was completed by a dark purple cloak that looked almost black in the light of the cold-lamps, with a collar made of the fur of the grey squirrel, its wide sleeves lined with heavy, pale gold silk and trimmed with the same woven leather strips as his tunic.

A Man (or a lesser Dwarf) would have staggered under the weight of those clothes, but Dori wore them as easily as a light cotton shirt. He looked much more warrior-like than in his youth, and also a great deal more venerable; and Flói was reminded by the sight that his brother-in-law came from a cadet branch of the first BlackLock father and was a distant cousin of Thorin Oakenshield himself.

He hadn’t been invited to join the Quest of Erebor without a sound reason.

His younger brothers, Ori and Nori, were similarly (and just as richly) clad, and even Nori offered an impressive sight, now that he had returned to the traditional BlackLock fashion to wear his hair instead of that silly starfish hairdo he used to sport during the Quest. And the Lady Ai simply looked like one of the legendary Queens of old, in her richly embroidered robe of purple velvet and brocaded gold silk.

Between them and Balin’s family Flói felt suitably intimidated. He had known of their origins before, of course, but only now did he realize what it meant to have descended along the royal line from both sides; even if both lines had been only cadet branches.

Not for the first time – and most likely not for the last time, either – the young mercenary was overcome by nagging doubt. Would he ever be truly accepted by this powerful and influential family? Was he even worth being accepted by them? What was he doing here, at the meeting of the great and the wise of the Clan?

Before he could have thought of an acceptable excuse to leave, though, he felt the kohl-rimmed eyes of Ori – something the scholarly Dwarf had picked up during his brief foray into Harad – rest on him. He looked up, seeing those beautiful eyes shine with love and forgot about his doubts… for now. Ori loved him, and the true love of a Dwarf was set in stone No-one could break a true bond forged by Mahal himself.

After Dori had spoken the time-honoured words of welcome, they all got seated around the long marble table in the middle of the hall. Dori’s sons, Orin and Ari, served ale and honey cakes personally, as the servants of the house were from other Clans and thus not allowed to be present, Dwarves being a secretive lot even among themselves.

When they had all had their traditional refreshments, as Dwarven hospitality demanded, Dori turned to Balin askance.

“Well, Balin? You wanted to speak to the Clan as a whole. What happened?”

“Nothing so far,” answered Balin thoughtfully. “However, Óin has come to me with a matter that we need to discuss among ourselves.”

“What kind of matter would that be?” asked Lady Ai, their Clan matriarch. Her true call-name was Aurvang, but she preferred her battle-name most of the time.

“A foolish errand!” muttered Dwalin angrily under his breath but Balin gave him a warning look.

“Peace, Brother! You have already told me – repeatedly and in no uncertain terms – what you think about the matter. Allow me to present it to the rest of the Clan without trying to influence their judgement beforehand.”

“You have our attention, Eldest,” Lady Ai leaned forward in her chair. “Present your case. We shall listen without judging – for now.”

The Clan matriarch having spoken, the other Dwarves fell silent at once, listening to Balin explaining them everything about Óin’s most recent journey with great interest. Especially Ori seemed excited about the news; as a scholar, he found the reappearance of a Fire-mage and a Rune-smith fascinating.

When Balin came to the part about trying to re-take Khazad-dûm, however, quite a few of their clansmen seemed to share Dwalin’s opinion. Including Dori and his wife.

“You cannot be seriously planning something like that,” said Lady Ai. “We have already tried it once; it nearly wiped out the rest of our race.”

“I know,” replied Balin mildly. “I was there.”

“The Orcs were strong and numerous back then,” reminded them Dólgthrashir, also a veteran of that terrible battle. “There are neither, now.”

“We cannot know that for certain,” argued Dori. “Just because our merchant caravans have not been attacked frequently in the recent decades, it does not mean that it would be safe to enter Khazad-dûm. Even without taking Durin’s Bane under consideration.”

“That is true,” allowed Balin. “But if Durin’s line decides to make another attempt to re-take their ancient home, we have an obligation to help them. We as the Clan; and our family in particular,” he added with a sharp look in his brother’s direction.

Dwalin’s only answer was a derisive snort.

“You are being ridiculous, Balin,” growled Nori. “An entire Age long has our Clan done its best to redeem our people for the betrayal of Hodur the Cursed. This constant struggle for atonement has to come to an end ere it gets us killed to the last clansman.”

“’Tis easy for you to speak,” said Balin tiredly. “You have not descended from the BlackLocks of Baraztûm. The legacy of the Cursed One is a debt that our line will carry ‘til the Remaking. Be grateful that your line comes from the trustworthy people of Nargubraz, who have never allied themselves with the Dark Lord.”

Nori shrugged. “That was more than three thousand years ago. The other Clans have long forgiven you – forgiven us – for it. Never did they blame our entire people for the cruel deeds of one misguided King. Besides, what does it matter now? Baraztûm is long gone, destroyed by the Were-worms of the Last Desert, who devoured its last King, together with its Ring, and the handful of survivors scattered all over Middle-earth. Who is still there who could pay their debt to Durin’s House?”

“I am,” replied Balin stiffly. “And as I am also of Durin’s House, through my father, I have a double obligation where Khazad-dûm is concerned.”

Dori shook his massive head in exasperation. “’Tis madness, Balin. You shan’t stand a chance, not even with a Fire-mage on your side. Durin’s Bane…”

“According to Óin, this particular Fire-mage has already faced Durin’s Bane,” Balin interrupted.

“That is what the mage says,” corrected Dwalin. “We know not if it is true.”

“Why should he die?” asked Ori in surprise.

“He is of the Nulukkhazâd,” growled Dwalin. “Mayhap he wants revenge for the ways his forefathers were treated in the past.”

“Unlikely,” said Ori. “Apparently, he was accepted and treated well in Khazad-dûm. Well enough that he would be willing to face Durin’s Bane again. And perchance he will have better luck at the second try, now that he has grown older and much more powerful; not to mention the strength the Dragon Ring of Narvi might give him.”

Dori stared at his brother in shocked surprise.

“You are not planning to take part in such a mad undertaking, are you?” he asked.

“Why should I not?” returned Ori. “I have achieved everything there is for me to achieve in Erebor. There are no new challenges for me, and I am not old enough to stagnate yet.”

“You were supposed to take over Lofar’s work, once he grows too old,” reminded him Dori.

“Which can take another hundred years or more,” shot back Ori. “Their entire family is all but indestructible. Besides, I do not wish to sit around idly, waiting for him to die. I respect him too much for that.”

“You are just hoping that your restless mate would not grow bored of your life together and want to take him to a mad adventure,” muttered Nori, shooting Flói a hostile glance.

“And if that is so, what business of yours would it be?” asked Ori calmly. “I want him happy. If a dangerous adventure makes him happy, and I can give him that adventure, why should I not? But that would not be my only reason to go.”

“Enlighten us,” said Lady Ai quietly.

Ori turned to her and inclined his head in respect.

“My lady, I am a scholar; more than I have ever been a warrior,” he said. “There is knowledge buried in the deep halls of Khazad-dûm; knowledge that our people have lost when they had to flee that great city. I would like to find that knowledge again: the old legends that have faded to almost nothing in the centuries gone by; the secrets of many a craft in which we can never reach the skills of our forefathers.”

“And mithril, of course,” commented Hilgir, grinning.

Ori shook his head. “For you – for many others of our folk – the call of true-silver may be the deciding factor. For me, ‘tis the promise of knowledge; and so is for Óin, I assume.”

“Which is but another form of greed,” pointed out Balin. “The same greed that lured the Elven-smiths of Hollin into the trap of the Dark Lord and led to the creation of the Great Rings that brought nought but sorrow for those who bore them. Yet I understand you well – one scholar the other one – and I would welcome you and your mate, should you choose to come with us.”

Hearing that, Dwalin made a disgruntled sound.

“You cannot be talked out of this mad idea, then?” he asked.

“I have not decided yet,” corrected Balin. “Like Frár and the Lady Yngvildr, I want to meet this Fire-mage first. And I want some proof that we have got at least a faint chance to succeed.”

“There is no chance!” growled Dwalin. “The only thing you shall see on this Quest is your untimely death!”

Balin shrugged indifferently. “We all have to die sooner or later, Brother, and I have already lived long enough. It has been a good life and I have few regrets.”

“That means no need to throw your life away foolishly!” snapped Dwalin.

“I am not planning such a thing,” replied Balin. “But I do intend to try again to reclaim the ancient mansion of Durin’s House if I see the smallest hope that if could be done; for the sake of my father’s people as well as for making amends for my mother’s line. For that, I shall give my life gladly.”

“And we shall join you, if Flói is willing,” promised Ori.

Flói grinned at him wickedly. “Do you truly have to ask?”

Ori laughed quietly. “Nay, I hardly think so.”

“You are both mad!” declared Dwalin angrily.

Balin laid a placating hand upon his heavy shoulder. “I know you disagree with me, Brother, but please understand that I need to do this… if I decide that it can indeed be done. I am the eldest of our line; ‘tis my duty to fulfil Clan and family obligations. I understand that you do not want to have any part of this; ‘tis good so. One of us has to survive, to carry on Father’s line and legacy – and Dáin would need you when I am gone, taking with me both Ori and Óin. He will need a scholar of his own blood at his side.”

“I am not a scholar,” protested Dwalin.

Balin smiled at him benignly.

“You know almost as much as I do,” he said. “You just do not realize yet. And the rest you can learn from all the books and scrolls I shall leave behind for you. You will do just fine, as always.”

“I see that your mind is made up,” said Lady Ai. “As our Clan stands in the debt of Durin’s House, I shan’t attempt to talk you out of it – and should any others from the Clan wish to join you, I shall not stand in their way.”

“I wonder if anyone else than my benighted brother and his scavenger mate would be foolish enough to join them,” muttered Nori nastily.

“I would,” said Dólgthrashir promptly.

“So would I,” Hilgir joined him and both his sons nodded in agreement.

Haugspuri and Otkell exchanged thoughtful looks. “We shall think about it,” said Otkell finally.

The others shook their head, including Dori and Nori.

“I have participated in one mad Quest,” declared Dori. “That is enough for one lifetime.”

Nori nodded repeatedly and empathically. “I wish you would reconsider, Brother.”

“I shan’t,” replied Ori simply.

“’Tis your right and your decision,” said Lady Ai; then she turned to Balin. “However, I shall see whatever proof you may have that this task is doable, Eldest. Otherwise, will not condone it and those who join you against my ban shall not be allowed to return here.”

Clan matriarchs rarely intervened with male business; only if they saw the entire Clan endangered by their actions. However, they did not condone suicide missions, either. Mahal’s Children never had the numbers that they could have irresponsibly put any lives to risk.

Balin inclined his head regally yet respectfully. “Of course, my lady. Óin promised the Lady Yngvildr to orchestrate a meeting between her and the Fire-mage. I believe it would be good if more of us could be present.”

“Agreed,” Lady Ai looked at her husband. “You shall go; it will do you a wealth of good to set a foot out of the Mountain. I shall make my final decision after you have given me your report about this meeting.”

When Dori had left with Thorin Oakenshield to reclaim Erebor, she could not forbid him to go. She had been his wife but not the Clan matriarch yet. Now that she had the power to dispose of the comings and goings of her husband, she did not hesitate to use it as was her right.

“I await further details as any of you may provide them,” she added for the others, and with that the meeting was unmistakably adjourned.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“What did Balin mean about our Clan being in the debt of Durin’s line?” asked Flói, after he and Ori had returned to their chambers. “And who was Hodur the Cursed?”

Ori looked at him in surprise. “Have you never been taught the history of your own Clan? You come from a family of respected warriors!”

Flói shrugged. “True; but as you know, I was but a babe on arms when my parents – and several of their siblings and uncles and cousins – fell in the Battle of Azanulbizar. The elderly relatives who took me in saw into it that I had enough to eat and learn to wield a hammer, but that was all they could do. Besides, they died right after I had come out of my last growing pains. I have been on my own since I was but a stripling.”

“I know that, my own, and I admire you for having done so well for yourself,” Ori rested a slender hand (slender for a Dwarf) upon the head of his mate. “I just thought you might have picked up a thing or two about Clan history nonetheless.”

Flói shook his head. “I was too busy with surviving.”

“A shame,” said Ori. “But we can educate you still. So what do you want to learn about first?”

“Hodur the Cursed,” prompted Flói.

Ori sighed. “Not somebody we would be proud of, I must admit.”

“Who was he?” insisted Flói.

“He was the firstborn son and heir of Lothur, King of Baraztûm at the end of the Second Age,” explained Ori. “You must understand that many of the BlackLocks at that time had truly fallen deep. They were greedy, immoral, selling their services to the best offerer. Hodur son of Lothur, young and cruel Prince of Baldur’s House, proclaimed himself Mahal Returned, killed his father; and as soon as he became the Lord of Baraztûm, he pledged himself to Sauron’s case.”

This insult to the Maker was too much, even for the worldly Flói. “He dared!”

“He did,” said Ori grimly, “and thus Durin’s Folk committed their first and only kin-slaying at Dagorlad, against these renegade BlackLocks. Durin IV himself killed Hodur in single combat, despite their differences in age, strength… and size. The legend says that Durin was a head shorter than the evil young BlackLock King.”

“And Balin and Dwalin descended from this traitor?” asked Flói in shock. “That must be a heavy burden indeed.”

“Nay; they descended from King Lothur’s sister, the Princess Gudvor, who married the chieftain of a lesser BlackLock realm,” explained Ori.

“And your family?” insisted Flói. “I know you are related to Durin’s line from afar, but do you also have blood ties to the Cursed One?”

Ori shook his head. “It is as Balin said: our ancestor was Ymir, the lord of a lesser BlackLock realm under the mountain range bordering Khand. When it felt, Ymir fled to the Grey Mountains and gave his sister-daughter Ymrís to King Náin of Durin’s House – as a wife,” he added empathically, because he was well aware of the Ages-old malevolent rumour that Princess Ymrís would have been the LongBeard King’s concubine.

“So that is how you are related to Thorin Oakenshield!” realized Flói.

Ori nodded. “Several times removed and only from the side, though. We descend from Ymir’s son Ydur, who sired Yrin, who in turn sired our father, Orin Glowhammer. Or do you believe the Lady Ai would have bonded with Dori, were we truly royal bastards?”

“You still have royal blood in your veins, from two different lines,” Flói was duly impressed.

“So do many Dwarves; too many for the amount of it to really count,” laughed Ori. “Besides, Ymir may have called himself King, mostly because the Clan no longer had one when he became Lord of Nargubraz, but that was a self-acclaimed title, not true royalty. I am certain he could count back his ancestors to some insignificant cadet branch of Baldur’s House, like half of our clansmen, but that hardly entitled him to be called King. Had Baraztûm not been destroyed centuries earlier, he would have to pledge loyalty to the true royal line. Not that I would really mind having descended from a lesser chieftain, and neither does Dori.”

“But if your family had no part in the betrayal, why do you feel obliged to join this Quest?” asked Flói, understandably confused.

Ori smiled. “I feel no obligation from the side of my BlackLock ancestors, Ukrâd, ” he explained gently. “But I am also of the House of Durin, however distantly related, and Khazad-dûm is the place where Durin’s throne always stood. The place where he would return to one last time; and when he returns, his great city should be cleansed and rebuilt. That is an obligation of which I feel very strongly.”

“You… but not your brothers, apparently,” said Flói.

Ori shrugged. “Aye, well, Dori has other obligations now that are just as strong… if not stronger. Should Balin truly leave, Dori will have to take over responsibility for any remaining Clan in Erebor, seeing as he is now the life-mate of the Clan matriarch.”

“And Nori?”

“I fear he has not fully escaped the dragon-sickness,” admitted Ori glumly. “He still yearns for more power and greater riches. “Tis better if he stays here where Dori can watch over him.”

“I wonder why would War-master Dwalin so adamantly refuse to join his brother’s Quest, though,” went on Flói. “I always thought they were close.”

“They are,” agreed Ori. “Very close, in fact, as only brothers blooded together in battle can become. But that is Dwalin’s problem, you see. He was close to Thorin as well; they were as close as brothers. Losing our King hit him hard, much harder than he would allow anyone to see. I doubt that he could bear losing Balin, too.”

“But there is a much greater chance to lose Balin if he is not there to protest him,” pointed out Flói logically.

“Mayhap so,” allowed Ori. “But losing somebody on a far-away Quest or see them being slain on the battlefield with one’s own eyes is a different matter.”

“And yet you are willing to take me with you on a Quest that could easily end in disaster,” said Flói.

Ori sighed. “True enough. However, being separated from you, now that we have finally bonded, would be more than I could bear. Thus I am choosing the lesser evil; the one that allows me to be with you.”

He stood to retrieve a heavy, leather-bound tome from the niche where he kept the books and scrolls he was currently working on; small things of personal interest that were not for the royal library. He laid the book on the table and carefully wiped the beautifully decorated wooden cover free of the thin layer of dust it had collected.

Flói looked at the book with interest. The corners of the cover were encased in bronze filigree and in the middle of it stood the title, written by a skilled calligrapher in red ink with the ancient Cirth runes:

Dark Legacy
The Legends of Clan BlackLock
Collected and illuminated
By Ori Orinsson

Flói forgot to breathe for a moment. He had always known that his mate was extraordinarily skilled with both pen and brush – Dwarves no longer used quills but finely cut pens made of steel, gold, silver or mithril, though the latter had become extremely rare since the fall of Khazad-dûm – but this was the first time he actually got to see one of Ori’s works.

“You wrote this?” he asked in awe.

“I wrote up the legends as the elders have told them for uncounted generations, and I draw the pictures,” corrected Ori. “This is what I have been working on during the years of your absence. It is almost done and will be added to the Clan library before we leave. Read it, if you want to know more about the secrets of our forefathers… and why we have to join Balin’s Quest.”

~TBC~

The Book of Mazarbul 10 - Friends, Family and Fealties

2018-07-22T16:12:53Z

THE BOOK OF MAZARBUL
by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s note: Just remember, my Dwarves rarely look like those movie caricatures of Peter Jackson’s. Especially not Bifur, who is, after all, female in my interpretation, and quite a pretty one by Dwarven standards. I tend to accept Óin, though, save for the hearing aid – he really looks impressive.

Bombur’s extended family is my invention. More about Uruktharbun, Thorin’s city in the Blue Mountains, can be read in my other story, “If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit”.

My heartfelt thanks to Glîrnardir, my generous canon beta, for fact-checking and proofreading.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 11 – FAMILY, FRIENDS & FEALTIES

The Midwinter Day festivities – including Ori and Flói’s wedding feast – lasted another three days. Dwarves did nothing by halves. On the fourth day, however, even the bawdiest ones reached their limits and some kind of drunken lethargy lay over the entire Mountain like a warm fur blanket.

The only ones still up and fully awake were the Forge Guards; mostly out of fear of what Yngvildr would do, should she find them in less than peak condition. Frár might be their commander – and he was a fairly heavy-handed one, to tell the truth – but it was the Raven Lady who put the fear of Mahal into them all. Including Frár himself sometimes, or so the rumour said. No-one was foolish enough to actually ask either of them.

No member of Óin’s extended family was with the Forge Guards, though, thus they could afford to sleep out their drunken stupor in peace. The only ones already up around the third hour of the day were Óin himself, who could hold his ale better than anyone else in the family, and the Lady Nei, who had the common sense not to indulge beyond her endurance. She was already in the kitchen when Óin emerged from his chambers, cooking the traditional hangover breakfast for them all.

“I wish Glóin would share your mother wit and knew when to stop drinking,” she said grouchily. “I love him more than life itself, but sometimes I am truly tempted to beat some sense into that stubborn head of his. More so as his table manners decrease rapidly when he gets drunk. I was deeply ashamed of him last night. Again.”

Óin laughed. “That was nothing. You should have seen him when we invaded the home of poor Mister Baggins, our esteemed burglar, almost fifty years ago. I thought the poor little thing would faint from our table manners alone.”

“Or rather from the lack thereof,” commented Nei snidely.

Óin nodded, still chuckling.

“Oh, aye. You should have seen him, running around like a headless chicken, trying to save his furniture, his mother’s pottery, those ridiculous crocheted doilies… and, before all else, the contents of his larder. Or larders, for he had several of them, all very well stocked.”

“With Bombur present, it must have been a hopeless endeavour,” said Nei.

Óin grinned. “Bombur alone would have been enough, that is for sure. But we had Dori there, too, and you know how fond he is of his food. ‘Tis a miracle he survived accompanying Ori on the Path of Clarity or whatever it is called.”

“It must have been hard on him,” agreed Nei. “By the way, I cannot remember seeing Bifur, Bofur or Bombur at the wedding. Were they not invited?”

“Oh, they were; Ori would never do that to one of the Company,” replied Óin. “In fact, Bofur was there, and so would have been Bombur if he could. He is not one who would miss a feast. But he is not well; had not been well for some time by now. His legs cannot bear his weight as well as they used to, and he is too proud to let himself carried across half the Mountain.”

“A shame; his cooking is among the best,” said Nei. “What about Bifur, though?”

“Sigrún no longer attends to weddings,” answered Óin curtly.

He was one of the very few who still insisted on calling the little BroadBeam dam by her true call-name. Everyone else had grown too accustomed to her male disguise as Bifur the toy-maker, even though she had been the matriarch of her family for some sixty years by now.

Of course, no-one else had found the One in her.

Nei nodded tersely. It was not so that she would dislike Bifur, who was a tough little person of quiet dignity. She was just bitterly disappointed that Bifur would not return Óin’s feelings, thus condemning him to a lonely existence.

“Gudhrun Óttarsdóttir came to see me right before the wedding,” she said, seemingly out of context, although Óin knew it better. He knew that Glóin’s lady was not one for idle chatter. The announcement surprised him a little, though.

“Hrár’s wife? What did she want?”

“She came on behalf of her daughter,” Nei turned the sausages in the frying pan. “It appears that Hrín Hrársdóttir has an interest.”

“In Gimli?” asked Óin, not particularly surprised any longer. The lad might be a little young for a Dwarf-dam like Hrín, but he was handsome, of a good family, with a thin trail of Durin’s blood in his veins – and a passable weaponsmith.

Nei gave him a wry look. “Would I discuss it with you then? Besides, Gimli and Vigdís Reginsdóttir have pledged to each other while still in diapers, and that has not changed. Nay; Hrín has shown interest in you.”

“In me?” echoed Óin, fairly shocked. “I could be her father.”

“You could; yet you are not,” pointed out Nei. “And you are still in your prime. Not everyone is so blind for all that which you have to offer as Bifur. Hrín Hrársdóttir clearly has a good eye for a worthy mate.”

“And I am flattered, I truly am,” said Óin, overcoming his shock. “But you can tell her mother that I am not interested. I have found the One of my heart a long time ago, before Hrín was even born. If I cannot have Sigrún, I shan’t have anyone else. This is our way; and you know it.”

“And yet it has happened before that two Dwarves bound, even though they were not the One for each other,” Nei reminded him. “’Tis rare, true, bit it can be done.”

“Not if one of them has felt the true longing for someone else as I have longed for Sigrún, ever since I came out of my last growing pains,” replied Óin. “Besides, why should I even consider doing so? I am not some King that would need an heir at any costs. Nor is it up to me to preserve Durin’s line. I see no reason to enter such an empty bond; and Hrín is young, she can afford to wait for the One meant for her.”

Nei shook her head but did not argue with him. She had had but very little hope that he would agree to a bond of convenience. He was right: such a thing was possible between two Dwarves who had never experienced the love-longing but not for one who had been living with it all his adult life. Especially not for a noble-born FireBeard. Their longing was fierce and all-consuming, more so than among other Clans.

“I shall tell Gudhrun not to nurture any hopes, then,” was all she answered.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The discussion with his sister-in-love inspired Óin to a visit by his BroadBeam friends. He had not seen them since before he would set out for the Desolation of the Dragon and found that it was time to redeem that.

Besides, if not the other two, at least Bofur might have been interested in returning to Khazad-dûm. Their ancestors had come from that great Dwarf city, after all. And Bofur was still young enough – not to mention an adventurous spirit – for such a quest.

Though held in great honours as members of Thorin’s Company, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur did not live on the same level as those of Durin’s line or the highly respected warriors who had followed King Dáin from the Iron Hills. They dwelt on the Third High, mostly populated by merchants and artisans of respectable skills and wealth. Just one level below the quarter of the truly rich and powerful Guild Masters.

King Dáin had offered them better places to live, of course; they could have moved into any one of the great, empty mansions of the First High before anyone else would claim them, but they politely refused.

“We are simple miners, traders and small craftspeople,” Bifur had said simply. “We are better off with our own kind.”

And that had been it.

Still, they did not need to be ashamed of their home. While not exactly a mansion, it was still a spacious house cut in living stone, with a lovely stone garden in the front. Large enough not only for the three of them but also for those of Bombur’s children who had chosen to remain with their father: his heir Bávor and his younger son Gellir with their respective families, as well as his only daughter Inga and her mate, Nár Frársson.

Of course, Inga and Nár could have moved in with his parents but Inga had adamantly refused to live in the shadow of the Raven Lady, now that she actually had a home of her own. And since in such debated cases the male was always supposed to follow his mate, Nár had obediently moved out of the mansion of his legendary parents and in with his wife’s fairly simple kinfolk.

Not that he would mind it; he honestly did not. Unlike his younger brother Yngvi and his cousin Hannar, who chose to join the Forge Guards, Nár was not a warrior. He was a bronzesmith like Inga herself – they had first met while learning their craft in the Iron Hills – and like Inga, he preferred a simpler, quieter life.

It was Inga who answered the door when Óin rang the doorbell. He had not seen her for almost six years, but she still looked very much like half a century before, when she had been travelling the roads of Middle-earth with Bifur’s merchant caravan from the Blue Mountains to the Iron Hills and back, always on the Road, with only short breaks to rest between two journeys.

She was a stunning beauty as BroadBeam dams go: sweet-faced and wide-eyed, with her ginger hair wrapped around her head in an elaborate triple braid. Only her clothing had become richer and more refined in the years as the skilled artisan wife of a well-to-do craftsman. Instead of the former plain kirtles and undergowns of simple wool she was now wearing a heavy gown of deep emerald green velvet over an undergown of dark gold figured silk. Her hair was braided with small emerald beads and her silky side whiskers powdered with gold dust – a fashion that had held itself among the Dwarrow-dams of the Mountain for decades.

“Uncle Óin!” she exclaimed in delight. “How good to see you! It has been a long time.”

“Too long,” Óin agreed ruefully, kissing her on the cheek as was his right as an honorary uncle. “How are you doing, Inga? You look fine.”

“I am fine,” she laughed, already maneuvering him inside the house. “My littlest has just come out of his most recent growth pains, the twins have been apprenticed to a merchant house and to a master stone-mason each, Nár is hoping to become a Guild Master in the near future, and I have just delivered a fairly big commission to the Knights of Dale, so aye, we are doing well.”

“What about the rest of the family?” asked Óin, following her to the living room on the ground level, where the family usually gathered.

BroadBeams were a close-knit bunch, Bombur’s family even more so than the rest of the Clan.

Inga shrugged. “Aunt Sigrún still goes down to Dale regularly to teach her apprentices. Men are better at woodwork than at metal-work, and she likes the company of their young ones. Uncle Bofur has been made Master of the Copper Mines since your last visit and seems content enough with it, although the King had offered him higher positions, several times. Bávor is still travelling with the caravan from time to time, but he is at home right now, working with the local ironsmiths, and Gellir, well, he has found himself a mate, and the two are thinking of going back to the Blue Mountains where there are no so many skilled toy-makers.”

Óin noticed that she had not said a word about Bombur. Not a single word.

“And your father?” he asked quietly. “Is he well?”

The smile faded from her face. “He is not getting any better,” she admitted. “Though he is not getting any worse, either, or only very, very slowly; I suppose we ought to be grateful for that. But it is hard to watch him fade a tiny bit each new day.”

Óin nodded in understanding. Bombur was old, older than any of them, including Balin and the late Thorin, and the harsh life on the Road had taken its toll on him. The death of his beloved wife Maren had broken him almost beyond healing; only the Quest of Erebor, as it had later been named, reawakened his old spirit for a while.

After the Battle of the Five Armies, in which he had suffered a crippling leg wound, he felt he had a purpose again. The gargantuan work of rebuilding the Kingdom Under the Mountain filled him with renewed vigour. But after a few decades, once the most difficult tasks had been mastered, Bombur fell into deep melancholy again, and seemed to sink deeper with each passing year.

“Does his healing charm no longer help?” asked Óin.

The charm, a cloak pin in the form of a golden trefoil, had been wrought for Bombur right before the Quest by Mother Edhla, the famous FireBeard wise-woman of the Blue Mountains. It had three jewels adorning its tree leaves: topaz against melancholy, obsidian against grief and jade against loneliness. Bombur had worn it hidden under his clothes; neither the vile creatures of Goblin Town nor the jailors of the Elvenking had ever found it, for it had been enchanted by a very strong ancient spell so that only Dwarven eyes could see it.

Inga shrugged again, her lovely face clouded.

“Perhaps it is just the charm that still keeps him with us. Or perhaps it has lost its power, now that Mother Edhla is gone. Who can tell? I hope seeing you will cheer him up a little. Just sit here, Uncle, I will call the others. They will all be glad to see you.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
She hurried off and soon the others came in, one by one or in twos and trees, and glad they were indeed to see their old friend. Even Bombur’s heavily wrinkled face lit up as he hobbled in, supported by Bofur on one side and by his oldest living child, Bávor – a spitting image of his father in all but the colour of his hair – on the other.

Gellir and his mate – shockingly enough a small, stocky StiffBeard with a round, freckled face and a great mass of bristling, straw-like beard that made the name of his Clan honour – came next, and then Bávor’s lovely wife, Ragna, with six out of their eight children. Bávor clearly followed his father’s example where building a large family was concerned.

Inga’s twins were still with their respective masters, but her youngest, a ginger-haired, snub-nosed youth with button-like, beetle-black eyes, came eagerly to meet the rare and famous visitor. And finally, after everyone else, came Sigrún, and Óin’s heart stopped for a moment at the sight of her.

She had not changed much since the times when she had travelled the Road in the disguise of Bifur the toy-maker. Her face was still smooth, her black, almond-shaped eyes shrewd and observant, her great mane of thick raven hair untouched by silver. But now she wore it in a series of decorative braids, plaited with silver beads and filaments and pulled back from her face into an intricately woven topknot. Her glossy side whiskers were groomed in the same style, and the finely wrought silver filigree framing the shell of her ear was clearly the work of a very skilled silversmith.

She, too, was wearing a sleeveless velvet gown in dark burgundy red that was split in the front all the way to her bosom to reveal the long-sleeved undergown of pale yellow silk beneath. It was cinched under her breasts by a soft, jewelled leather girdle. Only the fine, jagged black lines tattooed on her temples and alongside her cheekbones to the middle of her face revealed that she was a warrior, too – or at least used to be –, blooded in battle.

She greeted Óin in a subdued manner – very different from the exuberance of the others, which included head-butts (Bofur), slaps on the back that could have swept an oliphaunt off its legs (Bombur), warrior-style clasps of forearms (Bávor) and unashamed hugs (all of the youths). Óin was not surprised. She had been subdued towards him ever since she had found her One during the Quest – the very One she could never have – as if she did not want to reawaken any old feelings that she could not return. A short affair in their shared youth was all he would ever have of her, and he had long accepted it and learned to live with the memories.

They all found a good place on the broad, low stone bench that run around the living room, generously strewn with furs and flat pillows against the cold of the stone, eager and ready to hear Óin’s tales about his long journey to the far North. Bombur particularly seemed relieved to take his considerable weight off his crippled leg, which Inga dutifully popped up on a footstool for it was alarmingly swollen, and Óin wondered how the old BroadBeam could walk on it at all, even with help.

Bombur caught his worried looks and smiled sadly.

“See what a burden I have become, my friend?” he said. “This old leg has had enough and does not want to serve me any longer.”

“But why?” Óin shook his grizzled head in confusion. “We forced all that Orc poison out of your wound after the battle. I made sure that it was clean; that no traces of the defilement remained. And you worked hard for decades afterwards, without the wound giving you any grief.”

“’Tis not the wound, ‘tis my heart,” replied Bombur with the same resigned smile. “I am old, my friend; two hundred and fifty-seven years are a high age, even for a Dwarf in these days,” he gestured at his snow white beard and hair, the latter now definitely thinning on the top of his head. “You see, I have even turned grey.”

“So has my brother, and that does not mean he is old,” said Óin. “So have I, as the matter of fact. And Balin has been grey since the Battle of Azanulbizar – do you find that he had lost his old fire?”

“Nay; but you have turned grey from grief, all of you,” Bombur reminded him. “I have turned grey from age – and you know what that means.”

Óin nodded glumly. Of course he knew. As a rule, Dwarves did not turn grey – unless as a result of something truly terrible they had seen or experienced – until the last decade or two of their lives. Age-related greying always meant that a Dwarf had begun the last leg of his journey.

“But let us not mope about my age,” said Bombur briskly. “Tell us about your adventures, Óin my friend! I might prefer the comfort of my house in these days, but that does not mean I would not enjoy tales of strange places and derring-do.”

Óin smiled, oddly touched by the bravery with which the old Dwarf faced the upcoming end of his life. Regardless what others might have thought of him, Bombur had always been a brave soul. And if he still delighted in tales of adventures, then that was what he would get.

“Very well,” said Óin. “I shall tell you about the strange places I have visited and the strange people I have met, although I fear you might not believe me…”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And so he told them everything about his long journey. About the small settlements he had visited in the Grey Mountains. About celebrating Durin’s Day with the small FireBeard Clan. About meeting Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith and his great knowledge in dragon-lore. And finally about Eikinskialdi, the Fire-mage, his arcane powers and the disturbing creatures he shared his caves with.

He tried to skim over the aspects related to a potential return to Khazad-dûm, for now that he had seen his old friends again he was fairly certain that no-one of them would be up for another dangerous adventure. Not even Bofur.

It was a doomed attempt, of course. Bifur, Bofur and Bombur might have grown used to settled life but they were no fools. And, as he could have expected, it was Bofur who confronted him with the whole truth.

“Why ain’t you telling us about your mad plan?” asked the miner, the challenge clear in his voice. “Why ain’t you asking if we wanted to go to Khazad-dûm with ya?”

“For I know that you would not,” answered Óin honestly. “Besides, it is not so as if there would be any set plans yet. ‘Tis all very much a theoretical debate still.”

“And yet you have already seen Frár and Yngvildr about it,” said Bifur quietly.

Of course they knew about that. Nár had been present at the meeting and would tell Inga everything. What Dwarf would keep something like that from his mate, more so if an old friend of the family was involved?

“I have,” admitted Óin. “And as you know, it did not get me too far. The Raven Lady, while not entirely adverse, wanted proof that it can be done.”

“Can you bring that proof?” asked Bofur, his dark eyes gleaming with interest.

“Balin offered to search the old legends and chronicles for me,” said Óin. “And Old Lóni showed a definite interest for meeting Eikinskialdi. He might be willing to join a Quest like this; he knows the paths of the Misty Mountains better than anyone else, and he feels very strongly about Khazad-dûm.”

“Not stronger than our family does,” said Bombur with a sigh. “I wish I had the strength still to go with you, even if it were the last thing I did in my life. To see the wonders of Khazad-dûm, to walk the halls and tunnels where our ancestors lived and worked… it would be worth the risk of being captured or killed by those filthy Orcs.”

Bifur shook her head, appalled. “You are mad. You both are. We have won back the Mountain, against all hope; we should be grateful and not take other mad risks. We have lost enough friends already. Was Azanulbizar and the Battle of the five Armies not enough for one lifetime?”

“Our losses were grievous, for sure,” said Bávor slowly. “And yet I believe that Óin is right. We cannot allow for Khazad-dûm, the greatest of all Dwarf cities ever, to remain in the hands of the enemy. If we could take Khazad-dûm back, that would mean control over the paths of the Misty Mountains. We could make it a fortress again; a stronghold, a stalwart tower in our never-ending war with the spawn of Gundabad.”

“We?” repeated Inga, visibly shocked. “Are you planning to join Uncle Óin in this madness?”

Bávor smiled at Ragna and his wife returned his smile with obvious pride.

“Ever since Nár came home with his news, Ragna and I have been discussing this,” he replied, “and we have come to an agreement. Father cannot go; you and Uncle Bofur would not go. But somebody of our family has to go, and I am the only sensible choice. I am an ironsmith and a skilled negotiator; I have the strength and the warrior training. If anyone goes, it should be me.”

“You are also Bombur’s heir and have eight children to raise,” reminded him Bifur.

Bávor waved off her concerns. “Most of my children are grown, with families of their own, and Ragna is more than fit to deal with the rest on her own if needs must be; not that I would intend to die any time soon. But if I do, Father can always name my firstborn as his heir; or Uncle Bofur, which would be even better. Unless you want to come, too, Uncle,” he added, looking at Bofur askance.

The miner shook his shaggy head. “Nay, not me lad. I had my fair share of adventures, both on the Road and during the Quest, and frankly, I am content with my life as it is. Besides, I cannot leave the burden of the family last on Sigrún’s shoulders alone.”

“You must not stay for my sake if you wish to go,” said Bifur. “I shall deal as I always have.”

“I know you would,” replied Bofur, “but I honestly don’t want to go. All I ever wanted was to get off the Road and have a home – I shan’t leave that behind, now that I friendly have it, for another mad adventure.”

“I see,” Óin was a little disappointed – he had nurtured some hope of talking Bofur into joining them, against all sensible considerations – but not truly surprised. He had only travelled with their caravan for a few years after Azanulbizar, until his father had recovered from his grievous wounds and from the loss of his mother, but he knew all too well how hard life on the Road could be. So he could not truly blame his friends for choosing the safety of the Mountain.

“And you would agree with your eldest joining us?” he asked Bombur. The fat old Dwarf smiled with an equal measure of pride and sadness.

“The lad has been his own Dwarf for the last hundred years or so. He does not need my blessing – but if that is what he wants, he gets it whole-heartedly. I kept him from coming with us and facing the Dragon; he deserves to have his own adventure.”

There was more than just an adventure, of course, and they all knew it. Bávor felt the need to serve the future of their people, just as his father, his uncle and his aunt had before, and Bombur would not take that chance away. Not even out of fear of losing another one of his beloved children.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
One level higher, in their spacious home in the Clerks’ Quarter, Old Lóni sat in counsel with his only remaining brother, Lofar. The house was actually Lofar’s home who, although not nobly born, had once been Thorin’s head clerk in Uruktharbun, their city in the Blue Mountains, and after the reclaiming of Erebor had become the same for Dáin Ironfoot.

Some had wondered that Dáin would not choose someone of his own trusted scribes for that position, but the King knew what he was doing. Lofar’s forefathers had been clerks of Erebor for hundreds of years before the coming of the Dragon, and he had been trained to become one from a very young age. He knew all the secrets of both kingdoms and was therefore invaluable, which explained his privileged status in both cities.

Not having any family of his own – he was one of those Dwarves who lived for their craft only – he gladly took into his house Lóni with all his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. They filled his home with laughter and vibrant life, and that was more than enough for him.

Albeit sixty-five years Lóni’s junior, Lofar was an old Dwarf nonetheless, with a craggy face that looked as if it had been hewn from withered rock with an axe, a short but proudly bent nose, thin lips and a jutting, cleft chin; a LongBeard through and through. His iron-grey hair was pulled back from his face into a tight topknot to keep it out of his eyed during work. His forked beard began below his chin and was braided with small jade beads, the two braids – each thicker than a grown Man’s arm – looped back under his large, flat ears and fastened to the topknot with jewelled clasps. He had his left eye burned out by dragonfire during the flight from Erebor (at which time he was but a mere stripling) and wore a gilded leather patch covering the empty eye-socket.

Unlike Lóni, who rarely put on anything but the rough green and brown garb of the scouts whom he commanded, Lofar preferred more refined clothing, made of precious materials, as his status at the court allowed. His dark yellow breeches and short-sleeved tunic were made of the fine wool of the long-haired mountain goats bred by StiffBeard shepherds on the north-western slopes of the Mountain, with a grey shirt made of the finest linen available on the market of Lake-town and richly embroidered on the neckline and the sleeves. Above all that he wore a long, sleeveless surcoat of thicker, heavier wool in a deep midnight blue, seamed with small yellow jewels in a geometric pattern.

He had a very dignified look in his rich clothing and with that grim face of his. The younger clerks went in awe of him as they would of any of the legendary warriors. Which was not entirely mistaken from their side, seeing as Lofar, too, had fought at Azanulbizar – and survived to tell the tale.

The true thing, however, through which he had earned the respect of every single Dwarf of Erebor and the Blue Mountains, was his rich knowledge of the old records. Not even Balin, Ori, Óin or the other scholars could match him in that area, as scholars were mainly interested in old legends, chronicles, songs and other arcane stuff. While royal clerks knew the records kept about the daily life of a kingdom – and that was the kind of knowledge Lóni needed right now.

Fortunately, the Dragon never bothered with the Archives in the deepest chambers – either he had not found them or he could not break the heavy, triple stone doors protecting them. Whichever the case might have been, the records from the very day on the Kingdom Under the Mountain had been founded were still there, hundreds upon thousands of ancient scrolls, all written in Khuzdul, using either the Angerthas runes of Khazad-dûm or their more crude version, the Cirth, used in Dale or in Lake-town to the current day, kept in their sealed tubes of precious metals and protected by powerful spells against fading or other damage.

Some of these scrolls had been saved from Khazad-dûm when Durin’s Folk fled the Dwarrof-delf and already counted as ancient back then, having been written in the Second Age, at Narvi’s times. Newer ones came from the times of Durin VI, before Durin’s Bane would have emerged from the bottomless depths beneath Barazinbar, giving precise descriptions – or even carefully drawn maps – of the layout of the great city. Of Deeps and Highs, of halls and tunnels, of mines, living areas, underground rivers and pools, watchposts and markets… everything the greatest Dwarven city ever could once offer.

One of those scrolls was now spread out all over the large stone table in Lofar’s study, where he usually had the Kingdom’s more current records for controlling the work of his clerks. He no longer had to do the writing with his own hands; and what was more, his status allowed him to borrow the ancient records from the Archives for studying.

“Here,” he dragged a blunt fingertip along a dragged line on the map. “Between the First and the Second Halls, on the same level as the Gates, there is a chasm so deep that our miners were never able to sound it out during the three whole Ages of the city’s existence. Across it our forefathers built a narrow bridge of stone, in a single curving span, which could only be crossed in a single file.”

“Durin’s Bridge!” said Lóni in awe; all Dwarves were familiar with the most famous features of Khazad-dûm, of course. His brother nodded.

“Aye; an ancient defence against any enemies who might capture the Gates and the First Hall. Now, Durin’s Tower, from which the King could view the wide lands of Eriador that lay west of the Misty Mountains, was a chamber with a ledge high in the peak of Zirak-zigil. It could be reached by the Endless Stair, which climbed in unbroken spiral from the lowest Deep to the very pinnacle of the Silvertine, in many thousands of steps.”

“But was the Stair not destroyed when our people fled?” asked Lóni.

Lofar shrugged. “Some say it was; it might be blocked or even broken in many places, but I doubt that it would be entirely destroyed. The stone-work of our ancestors was too strong and enduring for even an all-out war to destroy it.”

“Hmmm,” Lóni examined the map carefully. “The Second Hall seems to be a good place to settle first. ‘Tis easily defended, even against an enemy that outnumbers us one to a hundred, and it is fairly easy to reach from the Great Gate. Of course, approaching the Gate openly from the valley of Azanulbizar had already proved lethal. Other possibilities ought to be considered.”

“You can always approach from the west, through the Doors of Durin, of course,” said Lofar. “They open onto a shelf that stands five fathoms above the Gate-stream, where the river stumbles in falls. The road along the riverbed, the one that ran between Khazad-dûm and the old Elven city of Khelebrimbur, should still exist, in patches at least. But for that, you should cross the Misty Mountains first.”

“Which might pose dangers of its own for a larger party,” said Lóni. “The Orcs of the Misty Mountains might have been greatly reduced in numbers in the Battle of the Five Armies, but they, too, had the time to recover. And if we appear with an entire caravan of supplies, they will spot us in no times and call in reinforcement. Still, it may be safer than knocking on the Front Gate.”

“Not to mention that you would come dangerously close to the Golden Wood when approaching Azanulbizar, and the Marchwardens have those arrows sitting a bit too loosely in their quivers,” added Lofar. “More so when they see our people at their borders.”

“Well, their Lord is a kinsman of Thingol,” Lóni shrugged. “We are not the only people who are good at keeping long grudges. And they say Kheleborn is old enough to have lived through the Sack of Doriath itself… unless ‘tis just a legend.”

“Nay, it is not,” Lofar rummaged through the other scrolls and opened one of the tubes. “Here, this ancient scroll records a visit of Prince Kheleborn of Doriath in Khazad-dûm, accompanied by his lady wife, Artanis of Finarfin’s House, who was apparently a first cousin to Khelebrimbur’s father and had supposedly seen Mahal face to face while dwelling in the Far West.”

His snort revealed how much he did not believe the last part.

“Artanis?” Lóni frowned. “Isn’t the Lady of the Golden Wood called Galadh… something, like their city? Some old songs tell that Durin once paid them a visit.”

“Which one?” asked Lofar with interest. “She must have known at least four of them – if not all of them.”

Lóni shrugged. “I do not remember. ‘Twas a very ancient song; so ancient that only Ónundr the blind Seer could remember it still. But she was not called Artanis in it.”

“They say Kheleborn gave her a Grey-Elven name, and she has been using it ever since they married,” said Lofar. ”Strange creatures, Elves. Which one of us would give up their call-name for something their mate would call them in the bedchamber? Such things ought to be private.”

Lóni grunted in agreement. Elves had no shame sometimes.

“She might know more about the current state of Khazad-dûm than any of us, though,” added Lofar after a short, meaningful pause.

“Perhaps,” replied Lóni. “But I shan't go even close to her borders if I can help it. She might have been friendly with Durin… several of them, in fact. But where were the Elves when Khazad-dûm fell? Or when we bled out in our long war with the Orcs, or even at the Battle of Azanulbizar? Erestor of Rivendell was the only one who came to our aid, fulfilling the old debt of his family, and he hailed from Khelebrimbur’s city, not from the Golden Wood.”

“True enough,” allowed Lofar. “But tell me one thing, Brother. Why have you already decided to join this Quest? So far, ‘tis only a vague idea of Óin’s. Not even Lord Balin has chosen yet.”

“You know that Thorin wanted me to come and face the Dragon with him, for he knew they would need a good archer,” answered Lóni. “I could not; Katla needed me. So the young Prince Kíli took my place; the best with the bow I have ever trained, but not blooded in battle yet… and he perished. And so did my King. I owe Durin’s line a debt that can never be fully re-paid.”

“You cannot be certain that Thorin or the young prince would have survived, were you with them on the Quest,” argued Lofar.

“I cannot be certain that they would not, either,” returned Lóni. “But I can offer my bow, my knowledge and my experience to Lord Balin, should he choose to go on this Quest. I shan’t allow another one of Durin’s blood to die if I can do something – anything – to protect him. And Lord Balin is worthy to sit on Durin’s throne, should Mahal allow us to succeed.”

“You would not find a worthier Dwarf in these times,” agreed Lofar. “Very well then, Brother, I shall see the most useful records copied for you, so that you can be prepared when the summons come.”

~TBC~

For visuals: without the fake beard she wears when travelling, Bifur has a vague reminiscence to Harnaam Kaur. With her travelling disguise she looks like this:

And Lóni and Lofar (early Weta concepts)

edhellondawards @ 2018-07-21T21:05:00

2018-07-21T19:05:11Z

THE BOOK OF MAZARBUL
by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s note: Just remember, my Dwarves rarely look like those movie caricatures of Peter Jackson’s. Especially not Ori, who is not only a scholar but also a big, burly BlackLock warrior. I tend to accept Óin, though, save for the hearing aid – he really looks impressive.

Oh, and I humbly admit that the bonding ceremony was strongly inspired by the Klingon wedding as shown in the DS9 episode “You are cordially invited…” It is very different from Gimli’s wedding as described in “A Dwarven Yuletide”. *g*

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 10 – MIDWINTER DAY

Midwinter Day was approaching quickly and with it ‘the wedding of the century’, as people had come to mention it. This was the first time that any of Thorin’s old Company would enter the life-bond since the restoration of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, after all. Some of them had already been married with grown children during the Quest, others had already been widowed, and as for the rest, well, they were generally considered too old for marriage by now.

Most of them, anyway. For Nori was much younger than his brothers, but his chosen one was even younger and thus they saw no reason to hurry. Ori, however, was a different matter entirely, and so was his mate. The expectations could hardly have been any higher.

Preparations for the wedding feast were running at top speed under the watchful eye of the Lady Ai, Dori’s wife, their family matriarch. This was going to be the wedding of the Kingdom for years to come, after all, and she had a reputation to protect – more so as some of the BlackLock customs were very different from the practices of the other tribes, with the possible exception of the IronFists.

Especially when both future bondmates were male.

In ancient times the FireBeards and the BroadBeams had been the most respected kindred, right after Durin’s House. The splendour of their great cities, Tumunzahar and Gabilgathol – called Nogrod and Belegost by the Elves – had only been seconded by Khazad-dûm itself. In those times the BlackLocks and the IronFists had mostly been warriors, with little to no interest for the fine arts, save perhaps stone-masonry and the forging of weapons. They could never compare their modest skills with the gift of the great artisans from the three leading tribes – or even with that of the skilled StoneFoots – and had therefore been considered… well, almost barbarians by their more refined kinfolk.

After the change of the world, however, which had swept the great Dwarf cities of the Blue Mountains into the Gulf of Lhûn – and even more after the fall of Khazad-dûm – the balance of power within Dwarven society had shifted to the advantage of the warrior Clans. Strength and courage had become the predominant requirements to ensure the survival of the entire race, and while master artisans were still greatly respected, the warriors had risen to power in all Seven Kindreds… with the tribes that had the greatest numbers of strong and skilled warriors gaining more influence than the others.

This had been a change born out of necessity; but one that the once leading Clans still bitterly complained about, and sometimes retaliated with resentment towards warrior customs. Therefore the Lady Ai had to be very careful while planning the bonding rites of her husband’s brother. She had to follow the ancient warrior customs, as both future mates were BlackLocks and warriors (even though Ori had wielded the pen instead of his mace in recent times), but she had to present said customs in a way that would not disturb LongBeard sensitivities beyond endurance. LongBeards were the only kindred of old that still held their power and influence, thus their opinion had to be taken under consideration. A mistake could have reflected badly at Dori and his position at King Dáin’s court.

“I believe we should keep the blood ritual within the family,” she said thoughtfully. “The hand-binding would seem strange enough to those not of our Clan.”

“Aye, for a dislocated shoulder is so much less disturbing than a sliced palm,” replied Dori dryly.

The Lady Ai grinned. “Be glad they are both males. At least we shan’t have to sit through the whole Play of the Making – you know how much Prince Thorin loves to sing Mahal’s part. He always insists on choosing the longest possible version of the Play… and his Khuzdul can be painful to listen to for hours.”

“All IronFist Dwarves have a weird accent,” admitted Dori. “Though I am sure they say the same about the rest of us.”

“At least our Kindred had the mother wit to breed a few scholars in each generation,” replied his lady. “Those IronFists know nought but battle and smithcraft, even after three entire Ages.”

Dori laughed at that. He was not the most scholarly of Dwarves either; Ori did enough studying for all three of them.

“If nought else, they would not be shocked by the blood ritual,” he said; then, sobering again, he added. “I wish our mother could have been persuaded to come. She has not left the Blue Mountains since Father’s death. It breaks my heart to know that she is withering away in some bleak, windowless cave, unable to attend to her sons’ wedding.”

“’Tis regrettable,” agreed the Lady Ai, “but it cannot be helped, I fear. Sometimes the bond between mates is so strong that if one dies, a good part of the other one dies with them. Let us rejoice in the fact that your brothers have found their chosen ones at last and hope that their bonds will turn out as strong as ours is.”

“My lady is wise,” Dori bowed to his mate in deep respect, and Ai grinned at him.

“Of course I am. I have chosen you, have I not?”

“A choice that fills my heart with awe still,” admitted Dori. “There were many who said that you could have done better.”

“Aye, but those people were miserable fools,” replied the Lady Ai promptly, giving him a fond bump of he shoulders. “Speaking of which, have your brother and Flói chosen the friends who would accompany them on the Path of Cleansing?”

Dori nodded. “I shall accompany Ori, together with Balin and Dwalin. He also chose Hilgir Haldórsson and his brother Sigarr to walk the Path with him.”

“Not Nori, though?” Lady Ai was mildly scandalised. “He would shut out his own brother from the rites?”

“’Tis Nori’s own fault,” replied Dori with a shrug. “Had he not behaved like a pig-headed Orc whenever Flói was visiting our home, things would be different. Ori has the right to choose the ones he considers friends; he does not have to select all family members.”

“And Flói?” asked his lady. “Does he have any friends within the Clan?"

“None,” said Dori, “which is why he chose Náli, I think.”

“Náli?” repeated the Lady Ai, even more scandalised than before. “That little StiffBeard thief he met in the wilderness? He cannot be earnestly considering…”

“Oh but he can,” reminded him Dori. “He is allowed to choose any friend he wants, from any Clan or any trade. I am certain he does it mainly to repay those who had snubbed him all the time, but it is his right.”

Lady Ai shook his head angrily. “Impossible! That little vagabond knows nothing about our sacred rites.”

“Which is why Burin and Dorin offered to walk the Path with them,” said Dori. “And Ori managed to talk his mate into accepting Hedinn and Helgi as well.”

“Oh, good,” Lady Ai released an anxiously held breath. “At least the sons of Hilgir are familiar with the rites and can guide the others along the Path.”

“I wish I could be there when they explain Náli what the rites entail, though,” answered Dori with a sudden grin that practically split his face. “I wonder if he will faint.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Run that by me again, will you?” Náli eyed the big, handsome BlackLock mercenary with suspicion. “What exactly do you wish me to do?”

Flói gave him a friendly grin. “’Tis time-honoured custom among our Clans that a warrior spends the last three nights before his bonding ritual on a spiritual journey called the Path of Cleansing, accompanied by his best friends. Since you are the closest thing to a friend I have here, I chose you.”

“I am honoured, I truly are,” Náli stole a nervous glance at the other four males present, to see if they would protest.

Two of them were typical big, muscular BlackLocks – and obviously brothers, too – the third one slim yet deadly like a drawn sword and clearly of the same kindred. The last one, however, must have had some StoneFoot blood in him, given his artfully braided flaxen hair and beard.

“What about them?” he asked.

“Oh, we all volunteered,” said the slender warrior with relish. “You cannot imagine experience that awaits us! Three long nights filled with song and fellowship…”

“A time of unbridled pleasures,” the blond one added, and the others howled with unholy glee. Then he bowed to Náli. “Dorin son of Dwalin, at your service; the spidery one with the ugly hair is my first cousin, Burin.”

Náli had heard of Lords Balin and Dwalin, of course – who had not? – and was impressed. Perhaps even a little intimidated.

“You keep noble company, my friend,” he said to Flói, who laughed.

“Much to their fathers’ displeasure,” he replied. “They say I am a terrible influence.”

“You are,” agreed Burin matter-of-factly. “Which is why we like you.”

“We are the only ones, though,” Dorin told Náli conspiratorially. “No-one else can bear his manners… or the outrageous lies he keeps telling about his so-called adventures.”

Flói rolled his eyes. “You see why I need at least one to stand with me during this foolish ceremony?” he asked. “With ‘friends’ like these, who would need Orcs?”

Náli stole an uncomfortable glance at the big, burly brothers who had not spoken yet. “And what about them?”

“Oh, they were foisted upon me by my mate,” Flói waved impatiently. “Since you do not know our customs, and these two,” he gestured at Burin and Dorin, "are completely unreliable, Ori thought I would need some proper guides.”

“And they are…?” Náli trailed off uncertainly.

One of the brothers bowed. “Helgi Hilgirsson, at your service. This is my brother, Hedinn.”

“Náli son of Máni, at yours,” getting over his first shock, Náli finally found it in his heart to return the greeting properly. “I am most grateful for your help, as I know nought about warrior customs.”

“At least you have already attended to a recent wedding – your own,” replied Helgi. “We have not been to one since we moved here from the Blue Mountains.”

“Aye, but my wedding was a simple one,” Náli pointed out. “Lady Kaylee’s brother recited the Tale of the Making, we exchanged vows and wedding gifts, and that was it. Flói here, though, will be marrying into a wealthy and powerful family.”

“More bad for me,” muttered Flói. “I despise all these stuffy rites. I wish I could elope with Ori to somewhere as far from his family as possible.”

“Oh, come on, it is not that bad,” said Dorin. “At least Dori likes you; and the Lady Ai has not raised any objections, either.”

“Besides, if you hate our rites so much, why did you agree to a formal bonding ceremony?” asked Burin with a shrug. “You do not have to do this, you know. ’Tis widely accepted from two males to live in an informal bond.”

“Aye, but I know Ori always wanted a proper ritual,” answered Flói, “and he has been so patient with me in all these years. This is the least I can do for him.”

“I wonder if you will still believe so once we have gone through the rites,” said Helgi darkly. “Come now; we must begin ere the sun fully sets, and the fire pit has been readied for us.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After they were given heavy – yet fortunately sleeveless – ceremonial robes to wear over their clothes, Helgi led them to a cave in the lower levels of the Mountain. It was a surprisingly small one and almost empty, save for an ancient-looking fire pit, a low table laden with very special, festive food, and a stand of weapons. The iron torches fastened to the walls cast a reddish light at the old-fashioned Angerthas runes that covered every vertical surface.

Helgi went straight to the weapons stand and began to pick up the ritual clubs. The four-foot-long handles were made of richly carved, dark wood, with a large, shaped stone at the head. Helgi passed the cubs out to everyone, save Flói, and Náli hefted the one given to him to test the weight. It was very heavy, even for the average Dwarf--- although not for a trained BlackLock warrior, perhaps.

“What is this?” he asked, frowning.

“These are felak(1) clubs,” explained Helgi.

“At the end of the bonding ceremony, we shall use them to attack Ori and Flói,” added his brother Hedinn, grinning like a fool. “And Ori’s friends – including our father – will do the same. The tradition dates back to the awakening of Baldur, the father of the BlackLock Clans, who was nearly killed by Morgoth’s fell creatures on the night of his bonding with the valiant and beautiful Lady Herdís. ‘Tis a custom used by male bondings only, of course. On mixed weddings, the Tale of the Making is sung or recited, like by all other Clans.”

“I care not!” declared Náli angrily. “I shall not attack a warrior twice my size and have my skull broken, just to satisfy some barbaric BlackLock ritual!”

This was actually an insult – and a fairly bad one – but the BlackLocks took no offence, seeing that he was honestly panicking.

“Do not fret so,” said Dorin, grinning. “’Tis a symbolic attack only.”

“Since Nori has not been selected for the rites, that is,” added Burin, also grinning. They all seemed to enjoy themselves way too much for Náli’s comfort.

Only partially relieved, the young thief went closer to the table to examine the food. There were delicacies aplenty, some of which he had never seen before. He reached out to pick up a hunk of smoked meat encrusted in some rare spices, his mouth already watering – only for his wrist to be caught in the iron grip of Helgi Hilgirsson.

“The food is not to be eaten,” the BlackLock warned him.

Náli could not believe his ears. For the first time in his young life, he could have been treated to things only the rich were ever served, and now they would not allow him to actually eat? This was not fair!

“What is it for then?” he asked, almost in tears. The short time spent in Erebor had not been enough to forget the constant pain of hunger that had been his frequent company on his travels, despite the regular meals and old Lady Kaylee’s excellent cooking.

“’Tis here to tempt us into breaking our fast,” explained Helgi.

“Fast?” repeated Náli in disbelief that some people would be stupid enough to choose hunger, for whatever lofty reason.

“There are several trials that must be faced on the Path of Cleansing,” answered Helgi. “Hunger is only the first of them. We now begin a fast that will continue until the bonding ceremony.”

“But… but that is three days away!” protested Náli.

Hedinn, Helgi’s brother, gave a solemn nod. “Aye; ‘tis a short time but we shall make the best of it.”

“A short time?” spluttered Náli in indignation. Did these spoiled fools know what true hunger felt like? “If you ask me, ‘tis three days longer than what is healthy for us.”

“No-one asked you,” returned Hedinn dismissively; then he and his brother sat down on the hard cave floor, facing the fire and closed their eyes.

Náli’s first instinct was to hit one of them on the head with that ridiculous club but Flói caught his arm.

“Please,” said the mercenary in a low voice. “I know it will be hard on you, but do this for me. I shall never be accepted by Ori’s family, unless I go through the proper rites, no matter how insane they are. Can you do this out of friendship?”

Náli understood that Flói, too, was only doing this for his mate; that he was probably every bit as uncomfortable. And Flói had just called him a friend, chosen him over prominent BlackLock warriors… He nodded reluctantly.

“I shall do it for you,” he clarified. “I still find the whole thing idiotic.”

“You get no argument from me,” muttered Flói. “But I thank you anyway."

Following the lead of Burin and Dorin they, too, sat down around the fire pit. Helgi stoked the fire to make it burn even higher, making the sweltering heat in the cave reach truly uncomfortable levels.

“Focus your minds on the fire,” he spoke in a soft, singsong voice. “Soon you shall feel the pang of hunger in your bellies… merge the two into one… begin to feel the fire burning within you…”

Long silence followed his words as the five Dwarves were sitting and sweating mutely.

“Aah,” sighed Dorin after a while, his face shining with perspiration that was dropping from his golden eyebrows into his eyes. “I can feel the hunger already…”

“Wait until Day Three and you will learn what hunger truly is,” muttered Náli angrily. “Fools! I doubt they have ever been hungry in their spoiled lives!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
At the same time, in a different yet similarly arranged cave, Ori was going through the same ordeal – and he did not appear to enjoy it any more than Flói and his companions.

“He looks very uncomfortable,” commented Hilgir grinning, and his brother Sigarr nodded sagely.

Although they had both received proper warrior’s training in the Ered Luin, they were both miners by trade and used to working in stuffy tunnels. Thus the heat bothered them a lot less than the others.

“He has grown soft in his scholarly years,” the booming laughter of Dwalin all but shook the walls of the cave.

Ori shot him a filthy look. “I will show you soft, Dwalin – once we are let out of this cursed sweat lodge.”

Dori shook his head in amusement. “If you hate this so much, brother, why going through the warrior rites to begin with? My lady would not force you to go this way.”

“Not all of the Clan are so open-minded as the Lady Ai,” replied Ori darkly. “I want my mate to be accepted by everyone, and this is the only way to ensure that it will happen.”

“By everyone you mean that brat of a brother of yours, do you?” asked Hilgir, who was only by a couple of decades older than Ori himself.

“And the high-nosed family of his chosen one,” answered Dori in his brother’s stead. “They are a haughty bunch and no mistake. Just because they once had a Forge Guard in the family they think themselves better than most.”

“A Forge Guard?” said Hilgir in surprise. “This is the first time I hear of that. Of course, the Iron Hill Dwarves are all way too haughty for their own good.”

Dori nodded. “Apparently, that esteemed ancestor of theirs was one of King Náin’s personal guards and perished with him at Azanulbizar.”

“So what?” Hilgir shrugged. “We all have family lost in that terrible battle.”

“Including Flói,” muttered Ori angrily. “He has descended from Burned Dwarves on both sides, and yet those fools from the Iron Hills keep snubbing him.”

“Which is the more foolish as he was born under the Iron Hills himself,” added Dwalin shaking his head. “Dáin must be glad to have left them behind for his cousin Vestri to struggle with their folly and come here, where he can rule over more reasonable Dwarves.”

“Let Queen Burkdís never hear that,” warned Balin, grinning. “She is very proud of her origins, and she is not called the Axe Goddess for nothing.”

‘Oh, aye,” Dwalin agreed. “I saw her fight Thorin’s sister in our youth; that was a magnificent fight and no mistake. Dori, has the Lady Ai ever fought the Queen?”

Dori shook his head in amusement. “Nay, she did not want to be exiled for winning,” he replied, showing supreme confidence that his lady would indeed beat Dáin’s Queen. After all, was she not the only female warrior who had ever defeated Dís Thráinsdóttir in single combat and could even hold her own against the Lady Yngvildr?

Dwalin grinned from ear to ear. “A wise precaution, I say. Queen Burkdís would not take such humiliation kindly. But we are not here to gossip about our dams, delightful though that might be. Let us begin the first night of songs, leading us on the path to further trials.”

Ori eyed him warily. “Remind me again: what are those other trials?”

“Blood, pain, sacrifice, anguish and death,” chanted Balin and Dwalin in unison. They looked way too cheerful about the whole thing.

Ori closed his eyes briefly. “Right. Sounds like a warrior bonding all the way.”

“At least you get to choose the first song,” pointed out Hilgir reasonably. “Which one would it be?”

Ori waited for a moment, then he began to sing in a low, haunting voice.

Far over the Misty Mountains rise
Lead us standing upon the height
What was before, we see once more
Is our kingdom, a distant light

Not the least surprised by his choice, the others allowed him to go through the first verse alone before joining in.

Fiery mountain beneath the moon
The words aren't spoken, we'll be there soon
For home a song that echoes on
And all who find us will know the tune

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Not all minds were occupied with Ori and Flói’s upcoming bonding ceremony, of course. People had their own concerns, after all. But as the Dwarven proverb says, bonds breed bonds, and matchmaking activities sped up considerable behind the veil of preparations for the actual rites.

Thus it happened that Gudhrun Óttarsdóttir, the wife of Hrár Ginnarsson, chose to pay a visit to the Lady Nei Hróaldsdóttir, the wife of Glóin Gróinsson and the matriarch of that family. She wished she could take with her Gudhrid, her twin sister, who had married within the Clan and was therefore more knowledgeable about the intricacies of LongBeard customs.

‘Twas not so as if Gudhrun had forgotten about the practices of her own kindred; no Dwarf would ever be able to do that. But by marrying Hrár, she had joined a warrior clan and lived according to their different traditions for a long time. She did not want to make any mistake when the happiness of her only daughter was at stake.

She had sent a message well in advance, asking for this meeting. For even though the clan of her mate outranked that of the Lady Nei, the latter had two of Thorin Oakenshield’s companions in her family, which set them above all other families in esteem, save for those of the other Thirteen. Beyond that, Nei could count back her ancestors to the famous FireBeard smiths of Tumunzahar, and such people had become very rare in these times.

Nei had declared herself willing to meet Gudhrun and discuss whatever the other Dwarf-dam might have on her mind. They might come from different kindreds but they had a few things in common nonetheless. They were both jewel-smiths by trade but no longer worked actively in their craft, having both hands full with the raising of their numerous children and with taking care of male relatives with no family of their own.

In Nei’s case it meant mostly Óin, whenever he chose to return to Erebor. Gudhrun, though, had taken over a great deal of Yngvildr’s domestic duties as well, so that the Raven Lady could continue her service among the Forge Guards. That meant to look after Frár and Yngvildr’s sons, aside of her own children, as well as Úlfr, the son of Yngvildr’s brother, slain in the Battle of Azanulbizar, whose mother had refused to leave the Iron Hills.

‘Twas not always easy for a very average LongBeard dam to take care of a large family of warriors, most of whom descended from legendary heroes, without the authority bestowed upon the family matriarch. That title belonged to Yngvildr. And though Gudhrun was respected for being one half of a pair of twin sisters – which was extremely rare among Dwarves – she sometimes felt that her mate was the only one who truly appreciated her efforts… mostly for the loss of his leg had made Hrár a bit humbler than the rest of the family.

Even their own children had taken up some of the typical IronFist haughtiness – and that was the reason why Gudhrun would have welcomed Hrín’s bond to Óin. LongBeard customs were known to be cultivated in the family of Lady Nei, as much as FireBeard traditions were respected.

Matchmaking being a generally female matter between the families, Lady Nei welcomed Gudhrun in her home in the sole company of her only daughter: a pretty little redhead by the name of Birna, just coming of age, who – like every single girl-child – was seen as a sign of Mahal’s favour towards the family. It shower Nei’s wisdom as the family matriarch that the girl had grown up without getting terribly spoiled between a doting father, a proud uncle and four fiercely protective brothers – even though the youngest of those was still not beyond his last growth pains.

She would get on with Hrín well enough, decided Gudhrun, now more desirous to see this match come true than before.

Nei herself was an impressive Dwarf-dam of pure FireBeard blood, wearing a long-sleeved, earth-brown gown that had an ankle-long, full skirt, and a fur-lined surcoat over it. Her hair, worn in a single braid thicker than a grown Man’s arm, was wrapped upon the top of her head in a snailhouse-like shape and adorned with mithril beads. Her daughter was clad similarly, only her raiment was green and grey rather than brown, and her thick, blood red braid – plaited with gold filaments – coiled down freely on her back.

Nei offered their guest the usual dark ale and honey cakes and, when the unwritten laws of hospitality had been properly observed, asked Gudhrun for the reason of her visit.

“I am here on behalf of my daughter, Hrín,” said Gudhrun. “She has shown interest in your husband’s older brother; she would accept his courtship if Óin were interested.”

If Nei was surprised by this, she did not show it.

“’Twould be a good match indeed, even though there is quite a bit of age difference,” she said thoughtfully. “I see another difficulty, however: Óin has still not outgrown his wanderlust. In truth, he has grown more restless since we settled in Erebor than he had ever been. Should they indeed become bonded, Hrín would be alone a lot – unless she were willing to accompany him on his many journeys.”

Gudhrun shook her head. “Nay, I think not that she would. She is an artisan, dedicated to her work. But she said she would be willing to wait for him.”

Nei nodded. “I can understand that. Óin would be a worthy mate. And I for my part would welcome your daughter in the family. In the end, though, ‘tis their decision. No-one can oppose the true calling of a Dwarven heart – not even me,” she added with a sudden grin that suggested that she was more than capable of reining in the males of her family in any other matter.

Gudhrun returned her grin. “We can try nudging them in the right direction, though,” she said. “Will you speak with Óin?”

“I will,” promised Nei. “I would like to see him properly bonded and taken care of, too… so that I would only have five belligerent males left in the family.”

“I wonder sometimes how you do it,” admitted Gudhrun. “Four sons… and your Gimli has quite a temper, I hear.”

“Being the family matriarch helps,” grinned Nei. “And my Gimli came to his temper honestly – he got it from me.”

“That can lead to some spectacular fireworks, I deem,” laughed Gudhrun.

“Oh aye, ‘tis very amusing sometimes,” agreed Nei. “But ultimately, my Gimli knows his place – they all do. Even Óin. The Lady Frey, may her glorious memory never fade, taught her sons well.”

“And Mother kept up the proud tradition,” added Birna with twinkling eyes.

They all laughed, and Gudhrun left for home with a much lighter heart. Clearly, there was hope for making this match work. Now everything depended on Óin’ choices. If he insisted on that foolish Quest of his, ‘twas better if he got bonded first. A Dwarf with a family to which to return always had better chances to survive. Hrár’s fate was the best proof for that.

She felt a tad uncomfortable for knowing about Óin’s intentions while his immediate kin clearly did not; not yet. But this was Óin’s secret tot ell – she could not speak about it without his consent. She only hoped he would tell them, soon. ‘Twas not a good thing to begin a courtship while there were still secrets between the two families.

If Óin was interested in courting Hrín in the first place, that is.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
They were two days into the pre-bonding rites and Náli had learned to hate anything even remotely related to BlackLock traditions – and to curse the very day he had met Flói in the wilderness. Dorin, who was predominantly a scholar like his uncle – although more than capable of wielding a sword – also felt very little kinship with his father’s warrior customs and readily commiserated with the young thief.

“Such a barbaric, outdated tradition!” he complained. “I truly fail to see why the BlackLocks never got rid of it; preferably during the last Age or so. What Burin sees in it all, I cannot fathom. But he has always been odd about these things. Always obsessed with what he saw as the way of the warrior.”

“Still, he was the one who passed out from the heat last time,” reminded him Náli, grinning from ear to ear.

Dorin grinned back at him. “Comes wit being so spidery thin. No proper constitution, you see. People sometimes wonder if Aunt Yrsa might have Elven blood in her.”

“Is that possible?” asked Náli. “For an Elf and a Dwarf to produce offspring, I mean.”

Dorin shook his head. “Most definitely not.”

“Why not?” insisted Náli. “Elves and Men can breed, ‘tis said, and they are more different than, say, Men and Dwarves. Elves are immortal, after all, while Men are not.”

“Aye, but they had the same Maker,” explained Dorin. “Only we Dwarves were made by Mahal. ‘Tis why we cannot breed with any of the other races. We are different; more different than Elves and Men. Elves may be the Firstborn, but we are the ones first made. Even if Mahal had to put the Seven Fathers to sleep until Ilúvatar was finished the making of Elves.”

“I see,” Náli did not truly see it but neither did he feel up to a longer history lesson after two days of hunger, lack of sleep and general discomfort. “So, what can we expect from tonight’s feast of terrors?”

Dorin rolled his blue eyes. “Oh, you will love it: bloodletting.”

“What?” Náli stopped right outside the entrance of the ceremonial cave, looking around for any possible escape route in panic. “You cannot truly mean it… oh no, you do truly mean it, do you?”

“You will survive… most likely,” grinned Dorin and unceremoniously shoved him through the entrance.

Inside the cavern Helgi and his brother Hedinn were already kneeling on the cave floor, with Flói and Burin standing on the other side of the fire pit, wearing dubious expressions. Náli could hear the unmistakable sound of stone scraping on metal and realised that something – presumably a sword or a large knife – was being sharpened there.

He remembered that Dorin said something about bloodletting and briefly considered fainting. Or running away. Unfortunately, he had the feeling that the others would not let him get away so easily. Not without a fight, and what chance would he have against five other Dwarves, four of them so large that they could break him like a dry twig?

“Now begins the trial of blood,” announced Helgi, still working on his whetting stone. “Let rivers flow from our veins…”

“… and stain the ground with our sacrifice,” his brother finished, making Náli feel vaguely ill.

Helgi stood, holding up a short, curved sword with barb and serrated edges – it almost looked like an Orc-scimitar – and ran a finger along the blade with relish… and a smug smile.

“Who will be first?” he inquired.

That was the moment when Náli indeed passed out.

When he came to, he was dangling about two feet off the cavern floor, which had been strewn with glowing coals. His palm hurt where it obviously had been sliced with that horrible knife… sword… whatever, and he was dangling on chains from the ceiling. He felt hot, sweaty, nauseous and very, very uncomfortable.

A tentative look to his left revealed an equally uncomfortable Dorin dangling near him. A little further were hanging Burin, Flói and the rest of their group. Dorin’s blue eyes were watching him in concern.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “I mean, given the circumstances…”

“I will live,” replied Náli, breathing heavily. “At least the rites… are working.”

“In what way?” Dorin was clearly worried that the young thief had lost his mind due to the heat and the blood loss.

“I am having… a vision,” painted Náli. “About the… future… I see it clearly…”

“You see what?” demanded Dorin, his breath getting laboured, too.

“I am going to… kill those two,” Náli nodded in the direction of Helgi and Hedinn. “That is… what I am… going to do… Kill them…”

Dorin’s eyes began to gleam manically. “You know… I think I will… help you with that.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Another day later Midwinter Day finally came, though, and their ordeals were thankfully over. Everyone who counted in Erebor was gathered in the Great Hall of Thrór, which had been chosen as the place of the bonding ceremony, due to the importance of Ori and his family.

The huge cavern, the arched ceiling of which was lost in shadows due to its height, was illuminated by lamps that looked like opaque glass spheres, suspended on golden chains from artfully wrought bronze holders fastened along every wall. Long tables of heavy oak ran along the walls, leaving free only the wide apse opposite the main door, where a dais of carved stone stood, big enough for a dozen Dwarves to stand on. The hall even had tall, arched windows, cut into the rock of the Mountain and fitted with an intricate pattern of wrought iron and stained glass that broke the sunlight into a rainbow-coloured pattern on the floor.

Along the longer sides of the Hall sat the drummers: large BlackLock males, their naked upper bodies covered in tattooed black and red flames, showing that they descended from Burned Dwarves – there could be no greater honour for any warrior too young to have fought at Azanulbizar himself. They were beating a steady rhythm on their big drums; a rhythm called The Warrior’s Heartbeat that was supposed to go on during the entire ceremony. If a drummer grew weary, he would be replaced, but the drumming could not stop… or the rhythm break.

The two future bondmates were standing upon the dais, wearing their ceremonial robes, each surrounded by his own group of close friends who were clutching their felak clubs. Right in front of the dais stood a handsome young BlackLock warrior – Dori’s eldest, Orin, named after his grandsire – carrying two ceremonial battle-axes. And in the middle of the dais stood the Lady Ai of the Lightning Hand, decked out in resplendent burgundy red brocade, girdled with gold, her raven-black hair elaborately braided and wrapped around her head like an obsidian crown inlaid with gold.

She raised a hand and the drumming became gradually quieter, without ever breaking the rhythm. Her large indigo eyes seized up the future bondmates, their friends and families and the entire wedding crowd ere she would start speaking. There could be no doubt that she had everything – and everyone – involved in this ceremony in her hand.

“With fire and steel did Mahal, the Smith of Arda, forge the Dwarven heart,” she then began, her voice low and almost hypnotic above the muted sound of the great drums. “So fiercely did it beat, so long was its sound, that the lesser spirits working in his forge cried out, ‘On this day, our Lord Aulë, you have brought forth the strongest beat of the Great Music. No-one can listen to it without trembling at its strength.’ But then the Dwarven heart weakened, its steady rhythm faltered; and Mahal, the Maker, asked it in dismay, ‘Why do you weaken so? I have made you the strongest beat in all of creation!’ And the heart said…”

“I… am alone,” intoned Ori, leaving the circle of his friends and stepping up to her.

“And Mahal, the Maker, understood his mistake,” continued the Lady Ai. “Thus he went back to his great forge and brought forth another heart…”

She signalled to the friends surrounding Flói, who parted to clear the way for him. He stepped forth, facing Ori directly. Young Orin handed them each an axe, which they took without looking.

“But the second heart beat stronger than the first, and the first was jealous of its power,” went on the Lady Ai.

The drumming swilled on in the background as Ori swung his axe at Flói who parried his bow easily and slipped the razor-sharp blade under his guard, putting it to his neck. Lady Ai nodded her appreciation at the well-executed move.

“Fortunately, the second heart was tempered by wisdom,” she then said, causing the drumming to go back in volume.

Flói took his axe from Ori’s neck; each of them grabbed the other with his free hand and they pulled each other close ‘til their foreheads were touching in a symbolic reminder of the warrior head-butt greeting.

“If we join together, no force can stop us,” said Flói with definite challenge in his voice; a challenge aimed at Ori’s family – or rather the smaller part of it that still disapproved of their bonding.

“And when the two hearts began to beat together, they filled the heavens with a terrible sound,” said the Lady Ai; the drumming swill on again, the drummers beating their instruments furiously. “For the first time, the creatures of the Great Enemy knew fear. They tried to flee, but it was too late. The Dwarven hearts destroyed them and turned them to ashes. To this very day, no-one can oppose the beating of two Dwarven hearts joined together.”

She paused for effect before turning to Ori. “Ori, son of Orin and Idún, does your heart beat for this warrior alone?”

“Aye,” replied Ori simply but his eyes were shining with tightly-held emotions.

“And will you swear to join with him and stand with him against all who oppose you?”

“I swear,” said Ori, giving his youngest brother a pointed look.

Now the Lady Ai turned to Flói. “Flói, son of Flóki and Heirdhr, does your heart beat for this warrior alone?”

“Aye,” said Flói with gleaming eyes.

“And will you swear to join with him and stand with him against all who oppose you?”

“I swear,” Flói, too, gave Nori a look of warning. The Lady Ai nodded.

“Then let all present here today know that these warriors are bonded to each other for eternity,” she said. “Take each other’s hand now and hold steadily while the strength of your bond is being tested.”

Ori and Flói entwined their hands and held on for dear life while the one chosen by their respective friends – namely Dwalin and Helgi, the strongest ones from each group – grabbed their other arm and tried to yank them away from each other by the deafening thunder of the drums.

They failed, and a mighty cheer went up in the Great Hall.

Ori and Flói let go of each other, still dazzled by the fulfilling of their bond. Then Flói bowed to the matriarch of his new family deeply, sweeping the stone-paved floor with his thick braid of ink-black hair.

“My lady,” he murmured respectfully, acknowledging her authority over himself.

“Welcome to the family, my brother,” replied the Lady Ai and embraced him.

With that, the thunder of drums slowly, gradually died away. The Lady Ai stepped back, giving free the way to the back door to the newly bounded couple. Knowing what to expect, Ori and Flói ran off, their chosen friends hot on their heels, swinging the felak clubs eagerly.

Lady Ai smiled at Queen Burkdís who was standing in the first row of the spectators, shoulder to shoulder with her King.

“I do so love a good warrior bonding,” she said, raising her voice to stay audible over the blood-curdling screams, the thudding and clashing and fighting mixed with grunts, yelps of pain and Khuzdul curses coming from outside the Hall, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. “It is such great fun, is it not?”

And the Queen of Erebor, IronFist on both her parents’ side and warrior to the boot, nodded in complete agreement.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) felak (used as noun) a tool like a broad-bladed chisel, or small axe-head without haft, according to the Ardalambion website.
(2) Ori’s song of choice is from the film “The Hobbit – An Unexpected Journey”, of course.
(3) I originally named Glóin's wife Nais. However, later I adopted Ro's name for her. The name of Lady Ai is also Ro's doing.

The Book of Mazarbul 09 - Meeting at Balin's

2018-07-19T18:19:29Z

THE BOOK OF MAZARBUL
by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s note: Dorin and Burin were inspired by the movie-version of Fíli and Kíli, although Burin was actually a canon character for a while before the Professor would exchange him for Gimli son of Glóin. See HoME VI: The Return of the Shadow. Also, as you can see, I’m warming up to the idea of a bald Dwalin.

CHAPTER 09 – MEETING AT BALIN’S

Taking old Lóni’s advice to the heart, a few days later Óin sent a message to Balin, asking his cousin for a meeting. As a rule he did not have to do so – they were closely related, after all, and the ties of kinship were strong among Dwarves who shared the same blood – but as Balin was still grieving, courtesy demanded that he should be asked whether the widower was willing to accept visitors or not.

Fortunately for Óin, Balin was also a very curious Dwarf, eager to learn new things and hear all the tidings, despite his venerable age; and so the messenger returned with the answer that Óin may come over to his cousin’s house on the same day.

The time Balin had named him for the visit enabled Óin to think through one last time what exactly he wanted to say. He even made a few notes, writing down the most important facts on a slip of parchment. Then he changed his clothes and re-braided his hair and his beard a great deal more tidily as was his wont, preparing himself to present his case to the Elder of his family in a respectful yet convincing manner. Balin’s opinion could be a deciding factor, after all.

Like all wealthy and respected families of Durin’s House – moreso those that had a family member of Thorin’s Company – Balin’s family lived in a large, beautiful mansion on the fourth level, near the King’s own dwellings. They had earned this position not only because of Balin and Dwalin’s active part in the Quest, but also due to their previous friendship to both Thorin and his father Thráin, whom they had accompanied on his wanderings. Aside from being great warriors, they were also renowned scholars and had thus become King Dáin’s trusted counsellors.

Besides, they needed a big mansion to live, as theirs was a fairly large family, despite both Balin and Dwalin having only one son each. They might not have numerous blood relatives living under their roof, but they did have an extended family of fosterlings, students, servants and apprentices, some of them from different Clans, others from settlements as far as ones in the Blue Mountains, so they needed a lot of living space to host them all.

When Óin sounded the doorbell, the door was opened by Loki, who had served Balin and Dwalin like something between a manservant and a valet since their youth. The StiffBeard was truly ancient now, but still full of strength; his hair had barely begun to turn white. Óin remembered him from his childhood and found that he had not changed at all ever since. Mischievous, button-like brown eyes twinkled at him from a round, lined face, recognizing and welcoming him at once.

“The family has not gathered yet,” the old servant told Óin, “but the young masters are in the Hall, waiting for you.”

The young masters meant Balin and Dwalin, of course. For Loki, who had known and served Fundin in his youth, they still counted as mere striplings. Stifling a laughter, Óin – considerably younger than said masters himself – followed Loki to the Hall. It was the heart of the whole mansion: a large central chamber, with an arched ceiling, well-lit by the high-cut shafts above and the mysterious cold lamps, the making of which the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm had learned from the Eves of Hollin more than an Age ago, from within.

As Loki had said, Balin and Dwalin were already there, waiting for their visitor; Balin sitting in his high chair, clad in heavy, burgundy red brocade, looking like Durin the Deathless himself. Óin had to fight the urge to bow to him every bit as deeply as he would to a King. Venerable though Dáin Ironfoot was, with an appearance that commanded both respect and a healthy amount of fear, in Óin’s eyes it had always been his cousin Balin who seemed the most kingly of all the sons of Durin’s House.

More so than Thorin Oakenshield even, who – while a noble, powerful and most courageous Dwarf, and a famous warrior at that – had lacked the deeper wisdom and compassion a true King ought to have. Balin, on the other hand, had both of those in spades.

The fact that his hair was already white like freshly fallen snow added to his venerable looks, of course. With his two hundred-and-some years, he did not count as particularly old. As a rule, Dwarves did not show signs of aging until the last decade of their life’s journey; nor did their strength begin to ebb away until that time. However, it was not uncommon for them to go prematurely grey, even when relatively young, as a result of some terrible grief or tragedy in their life.

It had happened to King Dáin, after the Battle of Azanulbizar. And it had happened to Balin, too, as a result of the same battle, in which his father had been slain, among unnumbered others of their kind. And it happened to Glóin, Óin’s younger brother after the Battle of the Five Armies. Óin himself had a lot of iron streaking his once flame red hair and beard as well.

Strangely enough, Balin’s brother Dwalin, less than a decade his junior, had not been affected the same way: his beard was still the same glossy, bluish black that had given the BlackLock clans their distinctive name, although his hair never grew back after it had been burned off at Azanulbizar. Clad in dark green, in contrast of Balin’s deep red, he looked more like a son to him than like a younger brother.

Until one spotted the third male in the room, that is: the late, only – and thus quite spoiled – son of the master of the house.

If one considered Flói, Ori’s life-mate handsome, and rightly so, and Óin’s own nephew, Gimli, quite exotic-looking with his thick copper hair and dark eyes, there could only be one word to describe Burin son of Balin: beautiful.

He was fairly young, barely beyond his sixth decade (as Balin had married late), not particularly tall for a BlackLock and unusually slender for a Dwarf, although broad-shouldered and wide-chested like all of his kind. He wore his ink-black hair, that seemed almost an iridescent blue in the brilliant light of the cold lamps, unbraided, so that it swapped and whirled around his shoulders at each movement. Also, in blatant disregard of LongBeard traditions – he considered himself a BlackLock and thought little of Durin’s House – he kept his beard short and neatly trimmed. He even shaved the upper part of his cheeks, which added more emphasis to his prominent cheekbones and large, slanted indigo eyes, drawing attention from male and female admirers alike.

His features, too, were unusually sharp, even a little hawkish, with full lips and a finely bent nose. With his slender build and elegant movements he almost had an Elvish air about him, although few would have been foolish enough to mention that.

He moved with a predatory grace as if he had been dancing, even while performing such a simple task as greeting his father’s cousin; and not by accident. Burin was an excellent and dedicated swordsman who made sword-fighting a true art form; in truth, he considered his skills with the blade – with any blade – true art. He easily wielded a broadsword made for big Men, could use the throwing knives better than many a Wood-Elf, but he was best with the Dwarven version of the longsword: the same kind as the Mannish ones, but with a shortened length.

With that, he was absolutely deadly. ‘Twas said that he could cut the wings off a fly in the air if he put his mind to it.

Accordingly, he was also an adventurer who could not bear the settled life in Erebor for too long. Time and again, he would leave, alone or with a few friends, to see far-away lands and meet strange people; but most importantly, to find other swordsmen against whose blade he could try his unparalleled skills.

Those mad adventures caused Balin much grief and had led to the untimely death of Dwalin’s younger son, Frerin, during a Troll hunt a decade or so earlier. For though both Frerin and his brother Dorin had been considerably older than Balin’s only son, Burin had always been the leader of their adventurous trio, and the three of them used to be thick as thieves.

After the unfortunate death of Frerin, Burin and Dorin grew even closer to each other, as if they had been brothers instead of cousins. Those old enough to remember Thorin Oakenshield’s ill-fated nephews often compared them with Fíli and Kíli because of the brotherly love between them. The only difference being that Burin was still taking the lead during their continuing adventures and Dorin was still following him faithfully.

And not just during their adventures, it seemed. For barely had Óin entered the Hall, another door opened in the back of it and in walked Dorin son of Dwalin, decked out in the resplendent glory of a young BlackLock warrior of a noble family. Like Burin, he wore a knee-length tunic of brocaded wool with wide sleeves that only reached to the elbows and beneath that a long-sleeved undertunic of fine linen, with dark breeches and boots. But while Burin’s tunic was black, seemed with stitched silver ribbons on the sleeves, the hem and the neckline, Dorin’s was a deep midnight blue, seamed with squirrel fur.

Unlike Burin’s wild mane, Dorin’s dark honey-blond hair – his mother was a StoneFoot from a prominent Clan – was neatly combed back and artfully braided with small gemstones in multiple braids that would have made an Elf die from envy. His refined features and deep blue eyes gave him a faint resemblance to the Northmen of Mirkwood, which made him very popular among the women of Laketown – much to Dwalin’s dismay who did not condone his dalliances with the daughters of Men.

The folly of untamed youth, thought Óin fondly. He liked Dorin who – unlike his own far too serious nephew – was light-hearted and full of mischief, albeit just as fierce a warrior as Gimli. And a lot less spoiled than his younger cousin. The Lady Hilborg, coming from a family of strong principles, had seen into that.

Said lady apparently did not wish to join the meeting of male cousins, which was not the least surprising. Balin’s late wife, the Lady Yrsa had been the family matriarch and Hilborg, not being a BlackLock, had neither the right nor the intention to meddle with Clan matters. Therefore it fell to Balin, as the eldest among them, to greet their visitor, which he did as soon as old Loki led Óin into the Hall.

“Cousin!” he said cordially, rising from his chair with the easy grace of a Dwarf still short his hundredth year, despite being more than twice that age. “’Tis good to see you again. I heard you have returned from your journey some time ago – I assume you brought good news?”

“Indeed I have,” Óin tried not to wince when Balin embraced him in a bear hug that could have crushed the ribs of a weaker Dwarf; age did not seem to have lessened his cousin’s strength, nor his exuberance. Apparently, Balin was done grieving and ready to begin enjoying life again. “We can be reasonably sure that no dragons have remained in the Withered Heath.”

“Good, that is good,” Balin gestured him to sit down at the massive oakwood table and asked old Loki to bring them ale and some walnut bread. “What else did you find, though?” he asked when they were all seated and served, including the two youngsters who were burning with curiosity, never having ventured to the far North.

“Unexpected things,” replied Óin. “Tell me, Cousin, have you ever heard of Fire-mages?”

Balin and Dwalin exchanged surprised looks. Clearly, the term was not an unknown one for them; but again, they were the best scholars of the Clan. Or the entire kingdom, for that matter.

“’Tis said that they were born with the fire touch, but it was much stronger in them than even in the most powerful FireBeards,” Balin finally said. “So strong indeed that they could not bear the touch of iron. They only emerged among the Petty-dwarves, and as those vanished many hundred years ago, the Fire-mages perished with them. The last one went down during the fall of Khazad-dûm, according to legend.”

“Then the legend is mistaken,” said Óin, “for I meet Eikinskialdi the Fire-mage, the last of his kind, in the deep caves bordering the Withered Heath. He is ancient now but has gown in strength immensely… and he is wearing the Drakkon, the Dragon-ring of Narvi, wrought by the hands of Khelebrimbur himself, back in the Second Age.”

His cousins stared at him in muted shock for endless moments. Then Dwalin pulled himself together with visible effort.

“You saw him – and the Drakkon – with your own eyes?” he asked in stunned disbelief.

Óin nodded. “Aye, that I did. And I also saw another one of the Lesser Rings on the finger of Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith.”

“A Rune-smith!” exclaimed Dwalin in awe. “I heard that in ancient times earth magic was frequently used among the FireBeards; but I thought the practice has got lost with the fall of Tumunzahar.”

“It must have,” said Balin, “as Rune-smiths were only ever born in families that had intermarried with our stunted cousins at some point of their history.”

“True,” said Óin, “yet is it not also true that Petty-dwarves were not a kindred of their own in the beginning? That they were born in stunted bodies in all Seven Houses?”

“That is what some legends say,” answered Dwalin reluctantly. “But even more are the tales that tell us that they were an independent Clan, cast out for the hideous crimes they had committed. Black magic being only one of those”

“An entire Clan of evil magic users and cutthroats?” Óin shook his head. “I cannot believe it. ‘Tis more likely that their families were ashamed of them and cast them out, all but forcing them to turn to each other for support and thus creating a separate kindred of Khazad. That would at least explain why Miödvitnir, for one, shows the traits both of the FireBeard and the BroadBeam Clans while still being too small for even a StiffBeard.”

“Possibly but not very likely,” replied Balin. “Intermarriage between the Clans can lead to mixed results, as we all have seen; or it can happen that one side becomes predominant, like in our case,” he added, glancing at his brother, “’Tis amusing how everyone takes us for LongBeards, just because our forefathers belonged to Durin’s House, although no-one of us does actually look like a LongBeard.”

“Well, your beard is forked,” pointed out Burin, “and so is Uncle Dwalin’s.”

“While you, air-headed youngsters, trample on the tradition of your royal bloodline, wearing your beards obscenely short,” Dwalin, ever the more conservative, snapped at his nephew. “Not to mention other… unsavourable customs the two of you have picked up on your mad adventures.”

“Hey!” called Burin defensively. “I am not the one chasing after every barmaid’s apron in Laketown! And it is hardly my fault that my beard grows so slowly.”

Dorin sniggered. “That is because you are still a Dwarfling.”

“Can we continue the family squabble later, when we are among us?” Balin’s voice brooked no argument and made it very clear that that had not been a question. “Cousin Óin has not come to discuss your fashion sense with us.” He glanced at Óin askance. “I would hear the reason for your visit now, Cousin – though you are always welcome, of course.”

Óin bowed slightly to express his thanks.

“You are right, Cousin,” he answered. “As much as I value your company and your wisdom – and I truly do – I have come to discuss Khazad-dûm with you.”

Long silence followed his declaration. The dreadful fate of Khazad-dûm – and the even more dreadful memories of the Battle of Azanulbizar – loomed constantly on the horizon of all Dwarven tales. Those were memories that still made Dwarves weep and therefore they did not like to call them up unless they absolutely had to.

“What is there to discuss about Khazad-dûm?” Balin finally asked. “The wonder of the Northern world is lost for us; you know that as well as I do. Too deep we delved there, and woke the Nameless Fear. The vast mansions of Dwarrowdelf have lain empty since the children of Durin fled.”

“Aye, but do they have to remain empty forever?” asked Óin. “Do we have to stay hemmed in this narrow place while greater wealth and splendour could be found in a wider world? Why should we leave the mighty works of our fathers in the filthy claws of Orcs and Goblins?”

“Even asking such things is dangerous folly!” cried Dwalin in dismay. “We already tried it once and you know how that ended! We should be grateful to have Erebor back, against all hope, and be content with it.”

“I cannot be content, sitting in my comfortable home like a Hobbit in his hole while Khazad-dûm is still in the claws of the defilers,” returned Óin angrily. “Aye, our first attempt to re-claim our birthright has failed, and the loss was grievous. But now at last we have the power and numbers to return.”

“The numbers perhaps – but the power?” asked Balin thoughtfully. “What makes you think we could face the ancient terror that most likely still haunts the depths of the mines?”

“We certainly cannot,” replied Óin without hesitation, “but a Fire-mage might. Both Eikinskialdi and the Rune-smith declared themselves willing to join any effort to re-claim that which is ours by right.”

Dwalin shook his head in sorrow. “When did the shadow of disquiet fall upon your heart, Cousin? Have you not seen enough death yet? No Dwarf has dared to pass the doors of Khazad-dûm for many lives of kings, save Thrór only, and he perished.”

“He perished indeed, for – crazed with age and misfortune and long brooding on the splendours of Khazad-dûm in his forefather’s days – he foolishly walked through the Gate alone,” returned Óin. “’Twas not the Nameless Fear that killed him but Azog, the cursed Orc-chieftain of Gundabad.”

“Aye,” said Balin gravely. “The same Azog who slew Náin of the Iron Hills. And when King Dáin, hardly more than a stripling in our reckoning back then, caught Azog before the doors and slew him and heaved off his head, he looked grey in the face when he came back down from the Gate, as one who had felt great fear.”

“And he refused to enter Khazad-dûm and warned Thráin, too, not do so,” added Dwalin. “And even though Thráin was still mad with bloodlust, coming straight from the battle, and twice Dáin’s age, he listened.”

“He was also blinded on one eye beyond cure and crippled with a leg-wound,” said Óin dryly. “Hardly in the right shape to keep fighting. I know all the old tales, Dwalin. My mother fought in that terrible battle himself. He perished, together with your father and with countless others. But some of the old heroes are still among us; and we, you and me, faced the Dragon together. This is the time when we should make our move, while most of us can still wield a weapon.”

For Bombur certainly no longer could; and Bifur most likely would not want to. And if his brother and cousin would not go, Bofur – albeit quite an adventurous soul himself, with his old strength still not diminished – would stay behind for their sake. Even by Dwarven measures, the ties of kinship were unusually strong among them. But again, BroadBeams needed to stick together, having become a people of travelling merchants since the fall of their great city in the Blue Mountains.

“Perhaps so,” said Balin. “You do realise, of course, that those old warriors would be the only ones you could count on in such a Quest. Khazad-dûm was the home of Durin’s Folk, the LongBeards; and for Durin’s Folk only is its loss a never-healing wound. Can you remember what the Dwarves of the Iron Hills answered to Thorin’s summons when we were gathering our strength to return to Erebor?”

Óin nodded grimly, for that was a memory that still burned the members of Thorin’s Company.

“Oh aye, I do. They said this was our Quest and ours alone.”

“Which is why Frár and the Lady Yngvildr could not join us, although at least Frár would have been inclined to do so; for what greater challenge could there be for a Forge Guard than to face a live dragon?” reminded him Balin. “Yet he could not disobey Dáin’s orders.”

“True,” said Óin. “But I also remember what Thorin said to you that one night, in the comfortable home of our esteemed burglar Bilbo Baggins: that he would take each and every one of our rag-tag band over an army from the Iron Hills. For when he called upon us, we answered.”

“Aye, and we would have run headfirst into our ruin if not for Tharkûn’s help,” commented Dwalin. “This time you shan’t have a wizard – or a Hobbit – to help you out of tight places.”

“We would have a Fire-mage and a Rune-smith, though,” reminded him Óin.

“And you truly believe that would be enough? Dwalin clearly did not.

Óin shrugged. “Mayhap not. But it could help.”

“I still believe the mere thought of this is dangerous folly,” declared Dwalin. “I for my part shan’t have any part of it. ‘Twas a miracle that we could get back our home of old; ‘twould be immodest to expect another miracle to happen. Whom do you hope to talk into this mad Quest of yours? Have you won anyone from the old Company over yet? For I doubt that many would be willing to risk that which we have gained at such a high price.”

“I have not spoken to anyone of the Company yet; not even to my own brother,” replied Óin. “For I thought Balin, as the Eldest of us after the loss of Thorin, would be a better leader of such a Quest than I could ever hope to become. However, I spoke to Frár and his Raven Lady; and I spoke to Old Lóni as well. My heart tells me they would follow – if only we could present them a true leader and a way to succeed.”

“And can you present them those?” asked Burin with burning eyes, speaking for the first time. Until now he had remained silent, out of respect towards his elders, but even a blind Dwarf could have seen that his spirits had already been lifted by the chance of such a great adventure.

Óin turned to him. “By right, your father should be King Under the Mountain,” he said sharply. “Dáin might be more closely related to Thorin but your father had always been the closest to our true Kings. Have he and your uncle not accompanied Thráin at his first attempt to return to Erebor?”

“And a fat lot of good that did to us all,” muttered Dwalin. “We lost our King and nearly our very lives and had to return to the Blue Mountains with our task unfinished. We could not even get close enough to the Mountain to spy out its defences.”

“Aye, but Thráin chose the two of you and no-one else,” reminded him Óin. “By right, Balin should have become Thorin’s heir.”

“I never tried to claim leadership,” said Balin a bit defensively.

“Nay, you did not, and we all know why,” replied Óin. “Dáin was better suited to protect Erebor with his armies, and you realised that; which only shows your qualities as a true leader. You did honourably by our people, serving the good of us all, instead of just your own. I think not we could find anyone more deserving to lead us on this Quest – and to become the Lord of Moria if we succeed.”

“If you succeed, which is highly questionable,” returned Dwalin. “’Twas insane enough to return to Erebor with only thirteen of us, an old wizard and a plump little Hobbit whose first request was to turn our whole trek back for his forgotten handkerchiefs. And reclaiming Erebor was child’s play compared with the enormous task of getting Khazad-dûm back. What makes you believe you would have the faintest chance to succeed? Where would you take the armies to do so?”

“If I have learned anything from our Quest than this: sometimes stealth can be more successful than a parade of vast armies,” answered Óin. “Sneaking through the back door can lead further than trying to break down the Front Gate by force. We should not repeat King Thrór’s mistake but use the tactic of Tharkûn. After all, Khazad-dûm did have a back door as well – the one through which the people of Khelebrimbur used to enter.”

“Aye, but that gate could only be opened by magic,” reminded him Balin,” and to approach it, we would need to cross the Misty Mountains first. Do I need to remind you what a perilous undertaking that still is… not to mention how costly?”

“We?” echoed Dwalin suspiciously. “Brother, you cannot be considering joining this madness, are you?”

“Nay, I am not; at least not yet,” replied Balin. “However, ‘tis something I shall have to think about long and hard… and now is not the time for that. Let us pass Midwinter Day first. Once the feast of Ori’s wedding is over and all have sobered again, perchance the others from the old Company would be more willing to think of anything else. Until then, we can study the ancient lore to prepare ourselves for a proper council. Who knows, we might even find the opening spell for that back door, just in case.”

“Brother, be reasonable!” cried out Dwalin in dismay.

Balin raised a broad palm to silence him.

“Peace, brother. I have made no choice to join Cousin Óin’s Quest, should it ever come to happen. Nor shall I decide anything in such a short notice. But he seems determined to go, even if he has to go alone; therefore the least he deserves is our help with researching the old legends. For I shall support him, should this come to a debate before the King, even if I choose not to join him,” he turned back to Óin warningly. “I ask you, Cousin, not to discuss this with the others from the old Company just yet. Everyone is busy with Ori’s upcoming wedding, and he deserves to celebrate his long-awaited day of happiness without disturbance.”

He was clearly speaking as the head of the family now, and even though Óin was only related him on his father’s side, he considered Balin his elder and bowed to his wishes willingly.

“As you wish, Cousin. I shall not mention this to anyone; not even to Glóin.”

“As if he would ever go with you!” snorted Dwalin. “And even if he would want, Lady Nais would sooner see him dead than allow him to run off on another mad adventure.”

“She does not need to hold him back by threats,” replied Óin a little sadly. “My brother is quite content with his life here in Erebor; and anyway, he would not want to leave behind his family again. Not now that they finally have a home.”

“If that is true, who could blame him for it?” asked Balin quietly. “He already left behind a life of peace and plenty when he followed Thorin to Erebor. Not because he would hunger for gold or glory but out of loyalty, honour and the willingness of his heart; because his King called upon him and he could do nought else but answer. But I am not his King; and even if I were, I would never ask him to give up the life he had built for himself and his family again. A life that is worth more than all the riches and splendour of Khazad-dûm.”

“Whom you choose to summon is your choice alone, Cousin,” said Óin. “I shall not ask my brother to come with us, either – not even if he wanted to do so – for it would be foolish to raise the ire of his lady. A venerable matriarch our Nais might be, but her grip on the battle-axe is still firm and she would not hesitate to put me in my place if she thought it would be the needful thing to do.”

“You should find yourself a mate of your own,” suggested Dwalin, grinning, “instead of letting Nais terrorise you. I begin to understand the true reason behind your wanderlust: you just want to be as far from her as you can, as often as you can come up with a reason that would be halfway acceptable.”

“Speak for yourself, Cousin,” replied Óin with a matching grin.

For it was a well-known fact under the Mountain that Dwalin, the renowned war hero twice over, the bane of Orcs, Goblins, Wargs, Giant Spiders and other evil creatures, was completely under the yoke of his much younger wife. Who happened to be an extraordinary, golden-haired beauty and had chosen him against everybody’s expectations, refusing to accept the courtship of many a younger, wealthier and more handsome male.

Needless to add that the Lady Hilborg was well capable of reining in her sons as well – that is, her only remaining son now – if the need arose. Which was why Dorin, although he had come to age long ago, still would not go off on any adventure without his mother’s consent. Not even if Burin called upon him.

Dwalin shrugged, not the least embarrassed by the fact that he was well and truly owned by his lady. He considered himself fortunate to be chosen by her and they had been very happy ever since. He could not care less what other Dwarves thought about him; even less so those poor, unlucky fellows who still had not found the one of their hearts.

Óin looked at the big, raw-boned, bald-headed BlackLock and smiled fondly. Dwalin was like an old war-horse, taken in by a farmer’s family and living out the rest of his life among small, meek ponies; out of his true element yet still content nonetheless. Hilborg had taught him the gentler pleasures of life and he was no longer willing to give that up.

He was not the bookworm kind of scholar like Balin and Ori, nor the travelling and seeking kind like Óin himself. His knowledge came more from the oral tradition; from the ancient legends and songs handed down from father to son since the dawn of time. In a different life he might have become one of the greatest bards of Durin’s Folk, given his excellent ear for music. But being the chancellor of a King was not such a bad thing, either, he found.

“Well,” Óin rose, feeling that thy all had said everything they had to say in the matter, “I shall be going then, Cousins.”

“Go,” Balin nodded. “But we shall see each other after Midwinter Day again. When I have given your news a great deal of thought and have searched some of the ancient books we keep in the secret archives the Dragon never found.”

“You could open the Archives, then?” asked Óin in surprise. “How? For years upon years have we tried to find the opening spell but we could not even locate the cave where the books were supposed to be!”

“We were fortunate that Ori got in his head to learn the Elvish letters when we were resting in Rivendell during the Quest,” said Balin. “Turns out the spell has been before our very eyes all the time: hewn into the rock wall in that High-Elven script they call Tengwar. We had just thought it was merely ornamentals, until Ori recognised some of the letters. From there on, putting together the spell was easy.”

“Thorin, may he rest in peace amongst his longfathers, would be fit to be tied if he knew that,” Dwalin grinned from ear to ear. “He hated and mistrusted everything that came from the Elves; to find that his own grandsire used their script to protect his secrets would be too much for him.”

“Thorin was not the only one foolishly mistrusting the Elves,” reminded him Óin. “We all behaved like fools in Lord Elrond’s house, much to my regret. One might think about Thranduil what one want – and I am certainly no friend of his – but Elrond Half-Elven has never been aught but decent to us.”

“That is because he is only a half-Elf,” snickered Dwalin, admittedly not a friend of Elves himself.

Óin, who had befriended some of the Wise in Elrond’s house, just shook his head ruefully. A few decades were too short a time to cure Ages of mutual mistrust and prejudice. Which, in his opinion, was a crying shame, as the two races could have still learnt a great deal from each other. And the example of Narvi and Khelebrimbur had clearly showed that friendship between Elves and Dwarves was possible – if both sides were willing.

He knew, though, that his cousins would not be open to such bold ideas. At least Dwalin would not; and Balin was probably too old to change now. At least he could be civil to everyone.

Deciding that this was not the time to breach such a topic, Óin took his leave from his cousins and returned to the mansion he shared with his brother’s family to brood over his plans some more. He could not know that other plans had been set in motion in the meantime – plans that might very well end in him getting wedded and tamed, just as his brother had been.

For visuals: Lord Balin

The Book of Mazarbul 08 - Heroes

2018-07-17T15:17:44Z

THE BOOK OF MAZARBUL
by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s notes: Once again, the looks of Frár and Yngvildr are based on the excellent Dwarf pictures of Ro aka Sabra R. Hart, which you can view in her Elfwood gallery.

The final version of LOTR says nothing about Balin’s family, but former versions (as published in HoME VI) mention his son, Burin, which allows at least the theory that he was married at one point in his life (and in the Professor’s mind). Nár, Annar and Hannar, as well as Lofar, were originally the Dwarves who helped Bilbo packing before he left Bag End for good; their names were omitted from the final version.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 08 – HEROES

Óin returned from his long northern journey with a troubled mind. He reported to King Dáin that – apparently – there were no dragons left in the Withered Heath, but he did not speak about the strange companions he had visited there: the Fire-mage and the Rune-smith. There were things he wanted to think about first, long and hard, and there were people whom he needed to speak first – people who had fought in the Battle of Azanulbizar and thus could tell him more about Durin’s Bane.

One of those people would have been the King himself, of course, but Óin did not want to burden him with such half-baked theories just yet. Consulting his scholarly cousins Balin and Dwalin would have been another possibility, but Balin was still mourning his recently deceased wife and good Dwarven manners demanded that one did not disturb the grief of the closest family.

Thus Óin chose to visit the greatest heroes of the War of the Dwarves and Orcs still alive: Frár and his wife Yngvildr.

Like all noble and powerful families, these, too, lived near the King’s own mansion on the fourth level of the Mountain… which was not by accident. Frár son of Ginnar and Yrr was an IronFist and the commander of the Forge Guard – the Dwarven equivalent of knighthood. He was about the same age as Dáin, his cousin from his mother’s side, and the tutor and weapons master of the King’s only son. Also a skilled weaponsmith, he was probably the best-respected male warrior both in Erebor and the Iron Hills, seconded only by King Dáin himself.

Frár had fought in the Battle of Azanulbizar as a very young Dwarf. He saw the terrible massacre and the grievous losses of their people at a very impressionable age, and ever since then he had been burning with desire to take vengeance on the filthy Orcs… which was the reason why he had followed Dáin to the Battle of Five Armies, in which he exceeded, slaying several of Bolg’s huge bodyguards single-handedly. ‘Twas said that his name was feared and cursed among Orcs to this very day.

Entering the mansion, Óin was greeted by a StiffBeard servant and most courteously asked about the reason for his visit. Óin explained that he wished to discuss the experiences of his recent journey with the master and the lady of the house, and was taken into a large chamber that served as the living room of the entire family. There he found not only Frár himself, but also Frár’s brother, Hrár, Hrár’s wife Gudhrun, who hailed from the LongBeard Clans, their two sons, Annar and Hannar, their daughter Hrín, Frár’s sons Nár and Yngvi, and, of course, the lady and matriarch of the whole clan, Yngvildr the Raven Lady.

If Frár was considered a hero, the Lady Yngvildr was surely nothing short a living legend. Her bloodline was perchance the oldest and proudest of all Dwarves in Middle-earth in the Third Age – with the possible exception of Durin’s House. She hailed from the BroadBeam Clans and could count back her ancestors to King Azaghâl of Gabilgathol, the greatest hero of the First Age. The one who had wounded Glaurung, the father of all fire-breathing dragons in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, yet was slain afterwards, despite his desperate bravery. And while it was, sadly, true that the BroadBeams had fallen from their former greatness by the Third Age, those who descended from the survivors of Gabilgathol were still much respected; especially those of royal blood.

Like her bondmate, Yngvildr Aurvangsdóttir had been born in the Iron Hills and raised as a warrior from a very tender age, for such had been the custom of her clan since the ancient days of Gabilgathol. When she chose to march with her King to Azanulbizar, Náin was grieved, for he did not want to put Azaghâl’s last descendant at risk; even less so as Yngvildr had not yet mated back then, due to her youth. But no-one could deny the Raven Lady the battle, and thus she got her wish, very nearly paying with her young life for her eagerness to fulfil her curses on the much-hated Orcs. She wore the scars all her life like medals of honour.

It had been after the Battle of Azanulbizar that she came to know Frár Ginnarsson better; another young warrior and the King’s own kinsman. Yet the love-longing had not awakened in their hearts for many years yet to come. They had been friends and shield-mates at first, ere they finally understood that they were, indeed, the one for each other.

Now both she and Frár were in their middle years: fierce and powerful warriors and the most experienced Forge Guards under the mountain. Their sons, Nár and Yngvi, both blooded in the Battle of Five Armies, came after their father – big, copper-haired and lightning-fast – but had the beetle-black eyes of their mother. The Lady Yngvildr herself was still considered a great beauty, her thick mane of the rarest, dark blood-red hair not hit yet by frost.

Being off-duty now, she had shed her armour and was sitting in the circle of her family, wearing soft leather breeches and a beautifully embroidered leather tunic, adorned with small white jewels on the hem, the collar and the wide sleeves. Her betrothal collar was made of a wickerwork of mithril and also set with small, star-shaped diamonds. Even without a crown and a title, she was a true Queen among Dwarrow-dams, Óin decided, regretting the fact how unlikely it was for him to ever find a mate even remotely like her.

As it was her privilege and her duty as the matriarch of her clan, she rose politely to greet their guest. Óin bowed deeply enough for his forked and braided russet beard to sweep the stone floor. Common courtesy was the least he could pay such an esteemed matron and her no less honourable kin.

“My Lady Yngvildr,” he said in the tone of utmost respect, “’tis very generous of you to see me at such short notice.”

That earned him an amused snort from the powerful matriarch.

“Nonsense,” she said. “I know you well, Óin son of Gróin; you would not waste my time with idle chatter. Therefore, if you came to see us, it has to be important. Sit and have some ale with us; then we can speak.”

“Indeed not, my lady,” answered Óin respectfully and sat down with the family for a tankard of sweet, dark ale that seemed deceitfully mild at first but could get anyone very drunk in no time.

Anyone but a Dwarf, that is. The endurance of Mahal’s children extended to every little detail of life.

Hrín Hrársdóttir, a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty, brought a heavy cake, baked with crushed nuts and dried berries and sweetened with honey, to go with the ale, and for a short while both family and guest enjoyed the refreshments in companionable silence. When they all had their fill, though, the Lady Yngvildr turned her piercing black eyes back to Óin, as if she wanted to examine his very heart.

“Speak now,” she ordered. “’Tis rare that one of the scholars would want to share their thoughts with us. As warriors, we are of little use for them – or they for us.

“As heroes of the most epic battle in our recent history, though, your insights are invaluable,” replied Óin. “’Tis the Battle of Azanulbizar that I am most desirous to learn more about, while some of those who fought it still walk among us.”

“Why would you want to call up the memory of those dark days again?” asked Frár, his amber eyes darkening with sorrow. “’Twas a long, bitter war that reached its peak in the bloodiest, most brutal battle of this Age; the numbers of our dead were almost beyond counting. Why would any-one want to remember it, save for honouring the fallen heroes and weeping over their loss?”

“’Tis not the battle I wish to hear about,” clarified Óin. “Those sad and proud tales are well-preserved in our family. What I want to understand is why did we leave the greatest city of our longfathers again, after we had won the battle and the war? Victory, however deadly bought, at the price of unnumbered Dwarf-deads, was ours. And yet King Dáin chose to leave our folk back to the Iron Hills.”

“Half of our folk, you mean,” Frár corrected. “Those who survived. Aye, that he did. And we are all alive and Erebor has risen again thank to his decision. Had we made an attempt to repopulate Khazad-dûm, we would have died, to the last Dwarf. Mayhap one day we shall return – I would wish for naught else. Oh, how my blood burns at the thought of our former greatness! But the time was not right back then, not yet.”

“Why not?” asked Óin. He was a stubborn one, even as Dwarves go – which is saying a lot.

“Khazad-dûm was not safe for us to enter,” replied Frár grimly. “In truth, it was a deadly trap; it most likely still is. King Dáin, young and fearless as he was in his youth, did enter Khazad-dûm in the aftermath of our hard-won victory. He looked into the darkness beyond the Great Gates – and fled, in spite of his bravery.”

“Why?” insisted Óin. “What did he see there?”

“Durin’s Bane,” whispered Yngvildr. “That was all he ever told us.”

“I know that,” said Óin, a little impatiently. “It is all in the tales. But what is Durin’s Bane? Why is it so frightening that even Dáin Ironfoot would flee from it in terror?”

“I know not,” admitted Frár. “Fire and darkness, Dáin said, and refused to speak about it, even to me, though we are close kin. But whatever it is, it must have walked the empty halls and dark tunnels of Khazad-dûm for a thousand years… or more. No-one of us could ever face it.”

“If it is, in truth, the same ancient terror that had slain our Kings of old, then I have just met someone who could face it… even if only for a short time,” said Óin slowly.

The heroes of Azanulbizar stared at him in shock, their strong faces deathly pale.

“That is not possible,” it was the Lady Yngvildr who found her voice first, flat though it might have sounded still. “No Dwarf can live that long; not even with the help of the Seven that have been destroyed.”

“Not with the help of the Seven, no,” Óin agreed. “Never have those brought aught but sorrow to our fathers. But with the help of the Dragon-ring of Khazad-dûm that had once graced the hand of Master Narvi himself, forged by Khelebrimbur, the greatest of all Elven-smiths, save one.”

“The Dragon-ring?” Frár repeated, still in deep shock. “You saw the Dragon-ring of Narvi? Where? How? We all thought it was buried with him.”

“And apparently, we were all wrong,” answered Óin. “It still exists, worn by Eikinskialdi, the Fire-mage, who dwells under the Grey Mountains, near the Withered Heath. He is truly ancient and possesses strange powers that kept him alive in his lonely abode for many hundred years. Only the scattered FireBeard Clans get to see him on rare occasions; mostly just Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith.”

“And they accepted you?” asked Hrár doubtfully. “A LongBeard of Durin’s own blood?”

“My mother was a FireBeard from a most respected bloodline,” reminded him Óin. “Some legends even say she was a descendant of the great smith Gamil Zirak, who had been the tutor of Telchar himself. So aye, they accepted me as distant kin and because I have the fire-touch. The Rune-smith seemed to think that it would make me like him.”

“Would it?” asked Hrín Hrársdóttir quietly, her dark eyes resting on Óin’s face with intense interest.

Óin shook his head. “Nay, it would not. The fire-touch, though inherited among certain FireBeard bloodlines, is but a modest gift, however rare it has become in these lesser times. To become like him, I would have to learn magic and rune-craft for several hundred years. And even so, there is little chance that I would even come close to his powers. The blood of the Clan is mixed in my veins; I shall never be able to fully unfold my inheritance.”

“A shame,” commented Hrín softly.

Óin shrugged. “Not truly. I am a scholar, not a mage. I never wanted to be anything else.”

“And even if you could use your gift fully, what good would it do for us?” asked the Lady Yngvildr dismissively.

“Not much,” Óin agreed. “Although both Eikinskialdi and his friend the Rune-smith seem to think that all Dwarves born with fire in their blood would be needed, should we ever want to reclaim our birthright.”

“You mean to re-take Khazad-dûm?” asked Frár slowly.

Óin nodded. “They both declared themselves willing to join such a campaign, should it be summoned for within their lifetime.”

Once again, the entire household of Frár and Yngvildr was muted by shock.

“They must be strong raving mad, both of them,” the Captain of the Forge Guards finally said.

“That was what our people in the Blue Mountain thought when they heard that we would take it on the Dragon, a mere thirteen of us,” replied Óin with a small smile. “And yet here we are, sitting in our halls of old again, and the Dragon is dead and our kingdom has risen from under the ashes, right?”

“The thirteen of you had some help achieving that,” reminded him the Lady Yngvildr.

Óin nodded. “So we had. Who says we might not have again? We already have an ancient Fire-mage and a powerful Rune-smith offering their help. Others would come.”

Frár stared at him in disbelief. “You would take part in such a mad undertaking?”

Óin nodded again, without hesitation. "Aye, I would. I might have become a scholar in these days, but I have always been an adventurer at heart. Settling down comfortably like my brother would never satisfy me, not as long as there are new places to see, new things to learn. Beyond that, Khazad-dûm is our heritage, the last of our great cities left. We have no way back to Gabilgathol or Tumunzahar, which lie on the bottom of the Sea. They are lost for us, forever. But we still can return to Khazad-dûm.”

“What for?” asked Hrár with a frown. “To find our deaths?”

“Why should we?” replied Óin. “Most of the Goblins of the Misty Mountain perished in the Battle of the Five Armies, including Bolg son of Azog, their chieftain, the usurper of our ancient halls. If we ever had a chance to reclaim that which is ours by birthright, it would be now, ere they had the time to grow strong in numbers again.”

Frár shook his head, still not quite trusting his ears. “You cannot be serious! Aye, the Goblins have greatly diminished in numbers, but so have we! We have just begun to regain our strength again; there is more than enough work to do here, in Erebor, to make our kingdom as strong and prosperous as it was in the days of old.”

“Aye, there is much to do… for the smiths, the stone-workers, even for scholars,” said the Lady Yngvildr thoughtfully. “But what about us, warriors? We have not had a true challenge since the Mountain was re-taken. The scouts keep looking out for any possible threat well enough. What is still left for us to do?”

Frár looked at his life-mate in surprise. “You would consider joining such a Quest, lady mine?”

Yngvildr shrugged. “I am not certain. If there would be a summons to take back the greatest and most famed of all the mighty works of stone ever created by our people, though, who else should fight in the vanguard if not the Forge Guards? Has it not always been our duty – and our privilege – to walk in dark places where no others dared to go?”

“You speak the truth, Raven Lady,” said Hrár with the utmost respect, “but how could we be certain that such a quest would have the slightest chance to succeed?”

“We cannot,” agreed Yngvildr easily, “which is why our scholars should discuss it in great depth. Bring me proof that it can be done,” she added, turning to Óin, “and I shall consider supporting you when you take this to the King.”

“What kind of proof would my lady require?” asked Óin.

“The word of at least two other respected scholars,” she answered without missing a beat. “Their word that a Fire-mage may have the power to face the ancient terror that still may haunt the endless passages and lightless deeps of the Dwarrow-delf. The word of the scouts that the Misty Mountains are still largely free of Orcs and Wargs.”

“I cannot bother Balin and Dwalin while they are still mourning,” said Óin, thinking furiously about his chances, “However, Ori is almost as knowledgeable as those two where the history of Durin’s Folk is concerned. And old Lóni would know all that is there to know about the safety of paths in the Mountains.”

“He would,” Gudhrun, Hrár’s wife, agreed. “Ori, though, may not have the time to discuss ancient history with you. Not on the eve of his betrothal.”

“Ori is getting mated?” asked Óin in surprise. “So he has managed to lure that capricious lover of his into commitment? Wonders never cease to happen, it seems.”

“You have missed the spectacular reunion by a month or so,” replied Gudhrun, grinning from ear to ear. “Flói had been gone for almost two years, and people were betting on him never returning… or on Ori throwing him out on his ear when he finally did.”

Ori snorted in amusement. “As if he ever would! Never have I seen a Dwarf more besotted with his chosen one, save perhaps my own brother and his lady wife.”

“And rightly so, for Nais is more than worthy Glóin’s devotion,” said Gudhrun, who was an old friend of Glóin’s wife. “In any case, all bets were lost, as Ori took Flói back when Flói presented him the betrothal collar, made with the help of Regin son of Frerin in the Blue Mountains, and the official bonding ritual is due on Midwinter Day… which is only a few weeks away.”

“I imagine Dori and Nori being very happy about it,” commented Óin with a grin.

Gudhrun laughed. “As happy as it can be expected, I deem. Although Dori is too happy being reunited with his family to begrudge his brother the same. Nori, though… he does not hide his unhappiness the least.”

“Nori has always been a spoiled brat,” declared Óin angrily. “His brothers supported him all his life, so he could learn the art of crystal-cutting, and was he ever grateful for their support? Nay, he thought himself better, for having such a rare and respected trade, and for being more skilled with the sword. Still, it was Dori’s greater strength that had saved the esteemed burglar, Bilbo Baggins, during the Quest repeatedly, not Nori’s so-called skills.”

Yngvildr shook her head in tolerant amusement. “I feel pity for Dori’s wife, I truly do. Being the head of a family with so many belligerent, competitive males must be a nightmare.”

“Fortunately, she is a warrior, coming from a long line of warriors,” replied Óin, grinning. “She will know how to put them in their places if she has to.”

Both Yngvildr and Gudhrun laughed at that. The Lady Ai of the Lightning-hand might not have joined the Quest of Erebor – mostly because she refused to follow Thorin Oakenshield, whose self-important manners she deeply despised – but she had once been one of the most respected female warriors of the Blue Mountains. Even the Lady Dís, Thorin’s arrogant sister, thought about it twice before she would confront the BlackLock dam… and that was saying a lot. There were but a handful of Dwarves that Dís Thráinsdóttir would not swipe out of her way casually, without even thinking of any possible consequences.

“What about you, son of Gróin?” Yngvildr then asked. “Have you never found your chosen one? You are well in the age… and once you were said to have been close to the Lady Bifur.”

As the ranking female of the BroadBeams in Erebor, she would know all that was there to know about her fellow clansmen, of course. And as the only female taking part in the Quest, Bifur had become quite famous on her own anyway.

“I was,” admitted Óin,” and we still are, in a manner. But as much as I respect her and as fond as she is of me still, we had to realize that we are not the one for each other. A pity, though; it would have been a good match, seeing as we went through the Quest together, But you cannot command a Dwarf’s heart; clearly, it was not meant to be.”

“A pity indeed,” said Yngvildr. “As one who used to travel between the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills with her caravan, she might have been inclined to follow you on your mad adventure.”

But Óin shook his head. “I rather think not. She was already fed up with living on the Road when we set off for the Quest, and she only came with us because Bombur needed a keeper. He was not a young Dwarf already, and his health had suffered from the harsh life on the wain. Bifur is quite content with her life here; and she is very good at keeping the family’s books. She is needed.”

“Odd, though, that she would not wish to have a family,” said Gudhrun. “I know of several respectable males of my own Clan who wanted to court her, but she never accepted their suit, none of them. I always thought it was because of you.”

“Nay,” answered Óin slowly. “I know her reasons, but ‘tis not my right to speak about them; aside from the fact that she has taken Bombur into her care.”

Yngvildr nodded. “And we shan't ask what you are not allowed to tell us. Well, then, son of Gróin, we thank you for your visit. As I said, bring me proof that this mad quest of yours is not doomed to fail ere it would even begin, and I shall think of supporting you before the King’s presence.”

Óin recognized the dismissal and stood to leave, bowing to both lady and master of the house with the deepest respect. Nydi, the young StiffBeard servant appeared without being called to see him out, and the family looked after his retreating back in thoughtful silence.

“Do you think he will find the proof you demanded from him?” Hrín Hrársdóttir asked her aunt curiously.

Yngvildr gave her an amused smile. “What if he does? Would you go on such an adventure?”

After a moment of consideration the young Dwarf-dam shook her head decisively. “Nay, I would not. I am an artisan; a jewel-smith, not a warrior. But I would not mind waiting for his glorious return.”

“You would do that?” her mother looked at her in surprise. “But he is so much older than you!”

“That he might be,” answered Hrín, “but he has so much fire in him that ten younger males would not bring it, counted together. Besides, he is handsome, knowledgeable and brave; and the line of the Lady Frey is a respectable one. I would not mind a suitor like him, should he have an interest.”

Gudhrun thought about that for a moment.

“I can ask Nais if you want me,” she then said,

While no-one could force a Dwarf, male or female, to bond with someone not of their own choice, matchmaking had been a time-honoured and widely accepted tradition among them since their forefathers had awakened from their long slumber.

“Please do,” said Hrín with a small smile, and her mother nodded in consent.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Óin’s next visit took him to the Chamber of Scouts, a level above the Hidden Door, to meet Lóni, of whom he hoped to learn something about the safety of the Misty Mountains’ travelling paths. He had not gone that way for years, himself; not since his brother and he returned to the Blue Mountains to fetch Glóin’s family. And while travellers – mostly merchant caravans – did bring tidings about those roads, he knew that scouts would know more and had more accurate knowledge about all possible dangers.

But there was another reason for him to see old Lóni, of all Dwarves of the Kingdom. Unlike most of the Dwarves in Erebor, the ancient warrior had a unique connection to Khazad-dûm, and a very specific, very personal hatred against the Orcs of the Misty Mountains. More so than the average Dwarf, even.

As a mere stripling, Lóni had stowed away after his aged grandsire, Nár – a faithful companion of King Thrór, who had accompanied his exiled lord on his last wanderings. When the two had spotted their small shadow, it had already been too late to send him back on his own, and thus they reluctantly allowed him to go with them all the way to Azanulbizar, which they finally reached in the fateful year of 2790.

Lóni had been there when – against Nár desperate entreaties – Thrór had proudly entered through the Great Gates… alone.

He had waited with his grandsire nearby, for several days. Then he had witnessed as the beheaded corpse of their King had been cast out onto the steps of the Gates. He had followed Nár to the very threshold, where a bag of worthless coin had been thrown at them as wergild for Thrór’s death by the mocking Orcs. Legends might have forgotten about this, but he had been the one who brought the terrible tidings back to Thráin and his people, supporting his grieving grandsire along the way.

Their tale had led to the War of Dwarves and Orcs, which had been long and deadly and fought, for the most part, in deep places beneath the earth. And while his familiar duties had hindered him in taking part of the Quest of Erebor – which was how Bombur had become part of it in the last moment – he had made up for it by fighting in the Battle of Five Armies like a demon… or so people liked to say.

He had settled in the life of the renewed Kingdom well enough, even bringing there his children and grandchildren. But ever since that fateful journey to Khazad-dûm, he would never forget the cradle of Durin’s Folk; he was the only one who still spoke about its faded greatness occasionally, wording his desire to return there while his life still lasted. Therefore, if Óin wanted a true supporter as well as someone who knew everything one could have learned about the mountain paths and about the possible state of Khazad-dûm itself, Lóni Thórvisson was the right Dwarf to go to.

If he had hoped to find the ancient warrior alone, though, he was disappointed. Not only was Skafid, the best archer of the IronFists, sitting at the long stone table, fletching his arrows and humming happily under his breath; there were also two very young Dwarves whom Óin had never seen before.

That in itself would not have been that surprising. He travelled a lot, sometimes a year or more in one go, with very short rests at home in-between. But these two seemed of mixed origins, which was a rare thing among StiffBeards, as the more respectable Clans rarely intermarried with them; if ever. They were clad in a fashion that matched more the customs of the Woodmen than that of Dwarves – and one of them was a female.

A stunningly beautiful young female at that, with a heavy mane of copper hair, armed with a war-hammer of masterful workmanship… and with a crossbow. The male on her side had straw-blond hair and grey eyes and wore a wicked-looking whip on his belt and a short sword on his back. A sword in a scabbard, designed in a manner Óin had only seen in Dale before. The ancient sword of the Kings of Dale had a sheet of similar pattern.

Who in Mahal’s name were these children?

Their matching betrothal collars, wrought of stargold and wearing all the signs of Ingunn Thorkellsdóttir’s handiwork, made it clear that they were mated. Those were beautiful and precious collars for two young people of clearly simple origins – and were they adorned with moonstones? The scholar in Óin became excited by the sight of those rare and precious gems. He knew he would find no peace ere he found out how these two came to possess such marvels.

First, however, he needed to speak with Lóni.

The old warrior listened to his request, nodded simply and asked Skafid to man the Chamber for him for a while, to which the archer agreed with a simple nod. Neither of them was a Dwarf of many words when gestures would suffice.

“Let us go out to the back porch,” Lóni then suggested. “We can speak there undisturbed.”

Óin had no problems with that plan, and so they descended a short fling of stairs to the next level below, passed through the Hidden Door and stepped out onto the clearing beyond. It had long been cleaned from the debris caused by Smaug’s rage and was now quiet and peaceful again – a little steep-walled bay, glassy-floored and open to the sky above. At its inner end, now that they had closed the Door behind them, the flat rock wall was as smooth and upright as a mason’s work in its lower part, close to the ground, without a joint or crevice to be seen.

“This wakes memories and no mistake,” murmured Óin.

“Memories of the Quest, I presume,” said Lóni thoughtfully, and Óin nodded.

“Oh, aye. We did not doubt for a moment that we had found the Door, even though there was no sign of port or lintel or threshold… nor any sing of bar or bolt or key-hole. It had been a long climb on the narrow track that wandered on to the top of the southern ridge and brought us at last to the even narrower ledge that led us right here. We were exhausted and hoped to reach our goal that way. Alas that it was not so!”

“For you could not open the door from outside, not ere the coming of Durin’s Day,” said Lóni, having heard the tale uncounted times, yet still more than willing to listen to it. Dwarves liked heroic tales if they were well-told, and Óin was renown for his story-telling gift.

“Nay, we could not,” agreed Óin, lost in his memories, his eyes almost vacant as he recalled the events of that long-gone day. “We nearly despaired, for back then, before the rediscovering of the old lore that we thought lost forever, it passed our skill to guess when the last moon of Autumn and the sun would be in the sky together, as you know. Only when I begun to visit the scattered clans in the Grey Mountains did I re-learn how to foretell the coming of Durin’s Day; for their wise-women and lore-masters had kept the old knowledge.”

“I presume Thorin Oakenshield would not accept failure easily,” said Lóni with twinkling eyes. “He had always been a very stiff-necked Dwarf, may he rest in peace in the Halls of Waiting, in the company of his longfathers.”

Óin smiled wistfully. He had liked and respected Thorin, despite his faults; whatever else he might have been, the last King of the Exiles had certainly been a doughty warrior.

“No-one of us was willing to give up so easily,” he replied. “We beat on the wall where we supposed the Door would be. We thrust and pushed at it. We implored it to move; Balin, Dwalin and myself spoke broken spells of opening that we remembered from the old legends… yet nothing stirred. At last we tired out and collapsed on the grass to rest for a moment – just as we are doing now – ere we would begin the long climb down again.”

“It must have been irksome to turn back when your were standing on the threshold already,” said Lóni.

Óin did not answer him at once; he seemed lost in thought again.

“Aye, that it was,” he finally admitted. “I had to think of the Battle of Azanulbizar; how our fathers had to turn back from the very threshold of Khazad-dûm, after all the lives that had been sacrificed in that gruesome war. And for what? Had they taken revenge of the shameful death of King Thrór? Aye, perchance they had, but at what cost? Khazad-dûm is still in the filthy paws of the cursed Orcs; and our people were decimated.”

“And still we could not act differently,” pointed out Lóni. “’Tis who – what – we are: fiercely jealous of that which is our own. Or what, at least, used to be ours… and might become ours again.”

“True,” allowed Óin, “but that battle was a long time ago, and we still have not made a move to get Khazad-dûm back.”

“We very nearly failed to get Erebor back,” reminded him Lóni, “where all we had to deal with was a fire-drake – a creature that would seem like a firefly compared with Durin’s Bane.”

“But what is Durin’s Bane?” demanded Óin. “Neither Frár nor Lady Yngvildr could tell me, and King Dáin would not speak of it!”

“I cannot answer that question, either,” said Lóni, “for I have not seen the terror of Khazad-dûm myself. But I tell you this,” he added, his eyes burning like dying embers. “Whatever may haunt the dark depths of the Dwarrow-delf, I would give everything to return there for one last time, as long as I am still alive and strong enough to brave the long journey across the Wilderland to the Misty Mountains.”

“Most people would call such an undertaking reckless and foolish,” said Óin.

Lóni shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Most people are not approaching the end of their journeys. I am. And I would not hesitate heading back to Khazad-dûm on the last leg of my journey.”

“If you truly mean it, then there might be a way,” said Óin slowly. “A mad and dangerous one, for certain, but did people not say the same about the Quest of Erebor? And yet here we are, sitting on the back porch, the Kingdom Under the Mountain is flourishing again, and the Dragon is dead and rotting away under the Long Lake.”

Lóni gave him a long, searching look, as if he wanted to decide if the younger Dwarf was jesting with him – or gone mad.

“Tell me more about this,” he demanded when he saw that Óin was, indeed, deadly serious.

And so Óin told him about his most recent journey. About his fateful encounter with the Rune-smith and the Fire-mage – and what the powers of the latter one might mean when it came to re-take Khazad-dûm.

“And you truly believe that this Eikinskialdi may face down Durin’s Bane?” asked Lóni doubtfully.

Óin shrugged; he could not truly blame the old Dwarf for his doubts.

“He has already tried it once, as a young apprentice; and failed,” he said. “He is centuries older now, though, and infinitely stronger. And he is willing to try it again. He is our best chance to take our home of old back; and to make our curses upon the Orcs and their evil master true. Not to mention the mithril that might still be available in the deepest shafts of the mines.”

“Remember, it was the hunger for mithril that made our ancestors dig ever deeper, until they finally woke up Durin’s Bane,” warned him Lóni.

“I know that,” answered Óin grimly. “And I also know that Durin’s Bane might not be the only danger hiding in the depths. Tharkûn, the wizard mentioned once the nameless creatures that are gnawing on the roots of the world; if the ancient beasts I saw in Eikinskialdi’s cave are anything to go by, not even we Dwarves know all the secrets of the earth and its very bones. Aye, ‘tis possible that we would delve too deeply, too, and wake up something that should better be left alone. But at least we would meet it… them… on our own terms. Everything that sleeps, no matter for how long, will wake up one day.”

“There is much truth in your words,” admitted Lóni. “However, I fear that you shall never be able to persuade King Dáin to even consider such a Quest. He has his own concerns, and they keep his watchful eye here, in Erebor.”

Óin sighed. “I know. Which is why I shall try to persuade Cousin Balin first. If he is on our side, we can leave it to him to get the King’s permission.”

“On our side?” repeated Lóni with a hint of amusement in his voice. Óin shrugged.

“We shall need somebody who knows the paths across the Misty Mountains like the back of his hand; and everybody who has faced the Orcs usurping Khazad-dûm already would be mightily welcome. You said you wanted to go back; would you join such a Quest if we got the King’s permission?”

“You know I would, or you would never have sought me out,” replied Lóni. “But you would need more than just an aged scout and archer. What did Frár and the Lady Yngvildr answer you?”

Óin shrugged again. “The Lady Yngvildr demanded proof that it could be done ere she would consider supporting my request before the King.”

“And how do you intend to bring that proof?” asked Lóni.

“By arranging a meeting between them and Eikinskialdi,” explained Óin. “I cannot summon the Fire-mage here; he is ancient, and with all the iron we use, he would be in grave danger all the time. But we could meet him somewhere between Erebor and his own dwellings. I believe even the Lady Yngvildr would be impressed by him. He is one of his kind.”

Lóni nodded thoughtfully. “That is possible, I suppose. Well, if you do arrange such a meeting, I would like to be there, too.”

“I would not even dream of leaving you out,” promised Óin. “Now, do tell me about those younglings that seem to be serving under your hand nowadays. I cannot remember them, and they seem an interesting couple. Perhaps they would like to go on an adventure.”

“They have but recently arrived,” replied Lóni, “and they are fairly interesting indeed. The young dam was raised by Men – by the Dúnedain of the North, in fact – while her mate was a thief from a family of thieves, ere she would… persuade him to change his ways. Are you truly certain you would want somebody like him on your Quest?”

“Why not?” asked Óin with a shrug. “We took Erebor back with the help of a burglar. Mayhap we shall take Khazad-dûm back with the help of a thief, who knows?”

“I find that a bit far-fetched; more so as we cannot even be sure that we will get permission to go on this Quest,” said Lóni. “But if Mahal wills so, anything can happen. Go and speak with your cousin Balin first. If you have his support, you might start thinking about the details; but not any sooner. And even so, it will be a gargantuan task, one that would need to be planned out very carefully.”

~TBC~

For visuals - Yngvildr, the Raven Lady:

And her mate Frár, commander of the Forge Guards:

Balin's followers

2016-01-23T15:44:10Z

I've finally finalized the list of Dwarves who'll go with Balin to Moria. Well, temporarily finalized. There can always be small modifications in the future, but the main body is fairly set in stone - pun intended. I've come up with 56 individual Dwarves, some of them with fairly detailed background, most of them with at least the basic background facts, and only a few with nothing but name and Clan established. I'll work on the details as I go.

The Big List of the Moria Adventurers

1) Balin son of Fundin
Dwarf from Durin's line and descended from a prominent BlackLock family from his mother's side. A consummated scholar and Lore-keeper.
2) Burin son of Balin - semi-canon, as Tolkien relected the idea fairly early on
Burin is the late-born, wild and spoiled son of Balin, partly based on movie!Kíli. He is a spellsmith and a legendary swordsman among his people.
3) Asutri
A male IronFist warrior.
4) Atli
A male StiffBeard, a rope-maker, uncle of Dralfi and Torfi.
5) Mother Aase
And anciend Dwarf-dam, one of the few surviving Petty-Dwarves with strange powers in earth magic and a mysterious past. She's also a centuries-long acquaintance of Radagast the Brown.
6) Bávor son of Bombur
The eldest living son of Bombur who used to travel with Bifur's merchant caravan, together with his father and uncle and his own family. They are all BroadBeams. Bávor is an experienced trader and an excellent axeman. He looks a great deal like his father, only with a darker colouring.
7) Brúni
A male LongBeard. Married to Thóra.
8) Dólgthrasir
A male BlackLock warrior, veteran of the Battle of Azanulbizar and a member of Erebor's Gate Guard.
9) Dralfi son of Ormr
StiffBeard, twin brother of Torfi. A hostler by trade, he takes care of the ponies.
10)Dyrfinna
A female IronFist, married to Eiríkr.
11)Eikinskialdi the Fire-mage
A truly ancient Petty-Dwarf with in-born arcane powers, the last of his kind. He once lived in Moria, witnessed the coming of the Balrog and is wearing the lesser Ring originally gifted upon Narvi by Celebrimbor.
12)Egill
A male IronSmith, a blacksmith with warrior training. Not identical with the similarly named leather-worker from Bifur's caravan.
13)Eywindr
A male FireBeard, brother of Eydís.
14)Eydís
A female FireBeard, sister of Eywindr, married to Svávarr the jewel-smith.
15)Eiríkr
A male IronFist, married to Dyrfinna.
16)Lady Frán
A frankly terrifying old BroadBeam warrior, veteran of the Battle of Azanulbizar and now the wise-woman of Bifur's former caravan. She is married to Hjalli and the mother of Hunbogi.
17)Frár - canon
A male IronFist warrior, veteran of the Battle of Azanulbizar, currently the commander of the Forge Guards - the closest thing the Dwarves have to a knight. Married to the Lady Yngvildr. They have two sons, but those do not go with them to Moria.
18)Flói - canon
A male BlackLock mercenary, Ori's mate. His parents were both Burned Dwarves.
19)Fródhi
A male LongBeard
20)Finni Thorkelsson
A StoneFoot, brother of Ingunn.
21)Gudhridh Óttarsdóttir
LongBeard woodworker, married to Regin.
22)Hjalli
BroadBeam miner and stone-mason, married to Lady Frán, father of Hunbogi.
23)Hönir
A male BroadBeam axeman, brother of Hláevang.
24)Hláevang
A male BroadBeam blacksmith, brother of Hörnir.
25)Hakkon Hróáldsson
StoneFoot, miner.
26)Hreidarr the Old, son of Hallr
An old FireBeard healer; also a skilled crystal cutter.
27)Hunbogi
BroadBeam miner and stone-mason, son of Lady Frán and Halli.
28)Hilgir son of Haldór
A BlackLock miner, widowed, father of Hedinn and Helgi.
29)Hedinn son of Hilgir
A BlackLock miner, brother of Helgi.
30)Helgi son of Hilgir
A BlackLock ironsmith, brother of Hedinn.
31)Hrói
A male LongBeard, younger brother of Hráni.
32)Hráni
A male LongBeard, older brother of Hrói.
33)Hallveig
A female StoneFoot leather-worker.
34)Haugspori
A male BlackLock.
35)Ingunn Thorkellsdóttir
StoneFoot silbversmith, older sister of Finni. Not yet married, but earnestly courted by Skáfid.
36)Illugi
A male Ironfist, older brother of Ívarr.
37)Ívarr
A male Ironfist, younger brother of Illugi.
38)Jörundr
A male BroadBeam cook who was a member of Bifur's merchant caravan. Older brother of Mötsognir.
39)Lóni son of Tjórvi - canon
Another truly ancient Dwarf, a Long Beard. Grandson of King Thrór's faithful companion Nár, brother of Lofar. Widowed with four children and their numerous offspring, currently the Head Scout of Erebor. The best archer the Dwarves have.
40)Miödvitnir the Rune-smith
A mysterious figure of mostly FireBeard ancestry (since he has the fire-touch), but with BroadBeam and Petty-Dwarf blood in his veins, too. An acquaintance of Eikinskialdi, also wears one of the lesser Rings.
41)Mötsognir
BroadBeam blacksmith, younger brother of Jörundr the cook, was a member of Bifur's merchant caravan.
42)Náli son of Máni - canon
A professional StiffBeard thief with some StoneFoot blood in his veins. His entire family was killed in Rhun when they stole from the wrong people; fleeing back to Eriador he met Rei and they fell in love. They moved to Erebor where Náli became one of the scouts.
43)Nordri son of Núri
A male StiffBeard leather-worker.
44)Óin son of Gróin - canon
The actual originator of the entire mission, consummate scholar and skilled healer. He is of Durin's line from his father's side but with a FireBeard mother. He also has the fire-touch in a lesser degree.
45)Ori son of Orin - canon
A distant relative of Thorin Oakenshield, although not from Durin's line, the scholar and chronist of the expedition is actually mostly a BlackLock. He is married to Flóim the mercenary.
46)Otkell
A male BlackLock.
47)Rei
An orphaned female StiffBeard with a good amount of IronFist blood, too. She was found and raised by Hallavor, Halbarad's father and became one of the Rangers of Eriador... until he met Náli and fell in love. After moving with him to Erebor, she became one of the scouts under Old Lóni's command.
48)Rádsvid son of Skirvir
LongBeard warrior, younger brother of Regin.
49)Regin son of Skirvir
LongBeard warrior, older brother of Rádsvid. Married to Gudhrid.
50)Sudri son of Skúdhi
Young LongBeard miner, barely of age, the oldest of many siblings. Practically adopted by Mother Aase during the Quest.
51)Svávarr
A male FireBeard bronzesmith, married to Eydís, great-nephew of Old Hreidarr, the healer.
52)Skafid son of Stymir
Young IronFist stone-mason with warrior training, earnestly courting Ingunn.
53)Thóroddr
Male LongBeard blacksmith, younger brother of Thóra.
54)Thóra
Female LongBeard, older sister of Thóroddr, married to Brúni.
55) Torfi son of Ormr
StiffBeard hostler, twin brother of Dralfi.
56)Úlfr son of Surtr
Young BroadBeam miner and stone-mason, nephew of Lady Yngvildr and basically raised by her.
57)Yngvildr, the Raven Lady
BroadBeam, the only female Forge Guard, a veteran of the Battle of Azanulbizar. Married to Frár. She can count back her ancestors to King Azaghâl of Belegost and is treated as royalty, both for her ancestry and her great deeds.

Right now it is just the name list. I'll add the details one by one as my time allows.

Not So Happy Returns 24/24 - Hope

2015-01-31T16:14:37Z

Not So Happy Returns

by Soledad

Author's Notes: For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Foreword.

December 24 – Hope

Nerdanel had never liked Formenos. It had never been her home, just a place of exile – the exile that had marked the inevitable failure of her marriage. To return here against her will, where she had lost the battle against those cursed jewels of Fëanáro, was beyond humiliating. But she acknowledged her obligation towards Helyanwë and Vanyanis and their children. She had to keep them safe. If that meant to swallow her pride and return to the house that had separated her and Fëanáro, so be it.

She was concerned about her daughters-in-love. Vanyanis in particular had taken the shunning of her kinfolk very hard; and she was suffering from the loss of her son even more. Nerdanel did not know if she would ever be able to forgive Curufinwë for practically tearing Tyelpë from his mother's arms, dragging him away to unknown dangers. She had named him Atarincë with right; he turned out every bit as ruthless and obsessed as his father.

At least Macalaurë had shown the decency to leave his wife the free choice whether she wanted to go with him or not. Although leaving her behind, pregnant, for the sake of that horrible Oath had not been the best choice, either.

And now Helyanwë was lying in labour, struggling to give birth to her son the same way she had carried him to term: without the support of the father. Nerdanel only hoped that she would not suffer the same fate as Míriel; for she was much weakened from having to support the growing child within her alone.

After having borne seven children herself, Nerdanel knew all too well what a strain creating a new life was, both on body and spirit. But at least she had had the fiery spirit of her husband to strengthen her. Helyanwë had borne her burden alone.

Fortunately, there was steely strength in that seemingly fragile body of hers. And she was struggling with all that remarkable strength to bring that child into a world that would not welcome him… for the simple reason that he was of the blood of Fëanáro.

Night was about to fall outside, and through the large window Nerdanel could see Morwinyon, the bright, blaze above the edge of the world in the West, like a glint of hope in the dusk. And in the very moment as it became fully dark, the son of Macalaurë entered the world with a wail of loud protest. Yet as soon as the bright ray of the great star fell upon him through the open window, the child fell silent and stared at it with awe.

Nerdanel allowed Vanyanis and her daughter to clean the newborn and wrap him in soft, clean linens, while the healer and the maids tended to the exhausted mother, bathing her and helping her into a fresh night shift. When everything was done, she laid the babe onto Helyanwë's breast.

"You did well, daughter," she said gently. "You gave us new hope in the darkness. Do you have a name?"

"Morwinyon," she answered tiredly. "I shall call him Morwinyon; for he is the bright star in my night."

~Fin~

Phew! I actually managed to pull it through! Go me!