Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: A Wraith in the Mist (#4549)
Author: ZeeDrippyVessel
Chapters: 6

Archive: Tolkien
Category: The Hobbit
Description: Dwalin takes a final walk-a-bout. Guess who's his traveling companion?
Published: 18 Feb 2017
Updated: 09 Apr 2017
Warnings: sap
Type: General
Characters: Dwalin; Tauriel; various canon characters


Chapter 1 - Somewhere along the Line

This takes place in the Blue Mountain Series Universe. It is suggested you read Loving Gin first.

The Wraith in the Mist\r\n\r\n
By ZeesMuse\r\n\r\n
For the 2016 OEAM Big Bang\r\n\r\n


Title: Wraith in the Mist
Author: ZeeDrippyVessel/Zee's Muse
Beta: Alex-Cat
Graphic Art Elladan's Girl
Fandom: Tolkien - The Hobbit
Genre: FCGen
Characters: Dwalin, Tauriel, some elven guests
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I ain't him. Wish I was, cuz then I would be RICH! Nothing you recognize is mine.
Additional Disclaimer: Chapter titles and footer – Somewhere Along the Line, written and performed by Billy Joel. So badly used without permission.
Timeline: Third Age – 3111, or IV 91

AU – is considered Movie-verse. Actually, most of it could be considered canon – if not for the addition of Tauriel, so I'm placing this in the Loving Gin Universe. If you have not read Loving Gin, you might want to. It will make certain bits of information easier to digest.

According to Dwarven and Middle-earth annals, Dwalin lived longer than any other dwarf. 340 years. He out-lived his entire family, five kings. One wonders how he spent his last days.

Dwalin goes on a walk-a-bout with a most unusual companion.

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n
The Wraith in the Mist\r\n\r\n
Chapter One\r\n\r\n
Somewhere Along the Line\r\n\r\n
~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

There was a bite in the air, a whisper on the wind, and a wraith in the mist.

It called to him, this elderly dwarf, called his name, said that time was fleeting and he had been given too much of it. His bones knew, his joints knew and still, when he rose this morning, he ignored the stiffness in his muscles and went about his routine.

Sometimes, when he breathed, he could hear his lungs rattling, the air passing through them.

Dwalin had seen too much death in his lifetime, a lifetime that spanned centuries. There had been a time, he enjoyed the sport of war. He enjoyed it better when his family and friends didn't die in it or from it. War was fun, something to savor, a good time to be had, again, when loved ones didn't die in them. The Battle of the City of Dale had done him in, made him sick of it. He watched too many people perish in battle over the years; his father, Frenin, Fili, Kili, Dain Ironfoot...

Thorin Oakenshield.

His brother, Balin, lay in a tomb in Moria and he had never seen it, never visited, never said goodbye. He didn't know his brother had passed; such was the way of dwarves. Dwalin had been one of the ambassadors sent from Erebor to attend Aragorn, King of Gondor's coronation and wedding to the Elf, Arwen. During the fete afterwards, Aragorn apologized, gave him condolences on the loss of such a revered dwarf, unaware that his equally revered brother had no idea his brother had died. He stumbled to a quiet corner, realizing that if none were alive and Balin lay in a tomb, then Oin and Ori – too gentle for a dwarf – were all dead as well.

Now that the balrog was killed and the goblins evicted – painfully, of course – he wanted to go, go and pay his respects. 'Twas said that the tomb was covered in dust, leaving the bodies of the Dwarves and the orcs there as they were when they fell. A memorial, of sorts, he supposed. Thorin Stonehelm spoke of reopening the mine, as the orcs and balrog were dead, but so far, this King Under the Mountain made no plans, only talk. Dwalin could care less for the mithril. He desired to take a bottle of fine, smooth spirits, sit by the tomb and talk to his brother, one last time.

Again, the wind blew, a chill snapping at his cloak, where he stood on that balcony, where so long ago, he stood as a youngster with Thorin, while Thror gently rebuked his grandson for stealing a little girl's doll and threatening to sacrifice it in the Great Forge, while at the same time, he quietly taught Dwalin of the meaning of true friendship. A true friend, Thror stated, would not hide in the shadow of his friend's mistakes. He would stand by him.

It was a lesson Dwalin remembered well.

It took many years for Dwalin to realize that Thorin was jealous of the doll. Gin loved the doll, treasured it, bestowed much love and affection on the delicate toy and even at such a young age, Thorin wanted that love for himself. After Thorin's death, Dwalin stole into the chambers that had been Thorin's and Gin's after their marriage and in the trunk at the foot of the bed, he found rotting silks, wools...

...and that doll.

There was another gust of wind, this time, an aging sweetness carried with it as it blew from the gardens on the side of the mountain. Dwalin recognized that smell. He wasn't the only one to catch the scent, but all mostly ignored it. Many referred to it as an elvish taint. They hoped eventually the elf would return to the Woodland, back to Thranduil's Hall. Rumor had it the Greenwood Elf-King had asked her to return; finally he understood, her tears awakening old, long-buried memories. The Greenwood King sent messengers over the years, begging her. He himself on the occasions he had visited Dain, came to the gardens, to plead...

But she stayed, hidden in the mist, like a wraith. A wraith watching over Erebor and tending Gin's garden.

Again, the wind blew; this time it smelled of incoming rain. Dwalin turned, his mind made up. Dís had passed some years back. Dwalin had lost count, actually. It happened just after he returned from Gondor. She fell ill after the festival for the returning warriors and the burial of Dain Ironfoot. She died of a lung ailment; Dwalin felt she died of a broken heart. Even after their marriage, she grieved; grieved her sons and family.

It is time, Dwalin, son of Fundin. Go make your rounds. Fulfill your promise.

He should have fulfilled that oath years ago.

As quickly as he could, he made his way to his personal chambers, a grand thing with too many rooms, but King Dain insisted that Dís deserved such opulent caverns. It was, in truth, the family chambers of Thrain, when he was married and Thorin and his siblings were young and growing up. It felt strange and Dís cried when she discovered what a gift Dain had given them. Over the years, many times, Dwalin found her sitting on the musty furs in her old room, staring at the cavern walls.

Just as often, she found her sitting in Thorin's chambers. Crying.

You hrodi-flík! You promised they would come home. You lied, Thorin! You lied to me...

He pushed those thoughts aside, going to the master's cavern. Gently lifting the lid of the trunk, he dug through the keepsakes, setting aside the things she took from the bodies of her sons and brother before sending them to Mahal in the fire. He grabbed the stone wrapped in the blue cloth, feeling the etchings through it before pocketing it and heading towards the West Gate.

“Rain is coming,” the guard stationed there reminded him. “Do not be long. I would hate for you to catch an ague and grow ill.”

He meant it, Dwalin knew he meant it. Despite his snarling, cantankerous ways, Dwalin, son of Fundin, was a legend and a beloved one at that. The guard knew the rain did things to Dwalin's joints, that he would need help back into mountain. A very inelegant and embarrassing sight, to be sure. He nodded as he went past the gate.

And headed towards the garden.

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

When Dwalin returned with Dís all those years ago to send her sons and brother to the fires, she ignored the gardens. The garden had been Gin's area of expertise and none had the heart to tend it. They were too busy rebuilding Erebor, making it strong again, a Dwarven fortress, a stronghold. Gems were again being mined, the wealth over-flowing to the rebuilt city of Dale and into Esgorath. Laketown was no more, the charred, burnt ruins completely submerged and dissipated beneath the waters, lost, and now forgotten, a rumor passing into legend. The old foundations from the original town were redug on the banks and the city was rebuilt. Again, men came to the mountain, bearing food, gifts. As in the old days, the dwarves had no need to grow their own grain, vegetables, it was brought to them. The men of Dale knew they were safe in the shadow of the mountain, that dwarven warriors there would come to their defense. And did.

Dragon sickness did not run in Dain's line. It was like the times of yore, when a younger Thrain ruled, before the dragon, Smaug.

Gin's Garden had been choked with weeds, over run by brambles. Many of the stalks appeared dead. It was a gray, desolate place on the side of a gray, desolate mountain. No one had time to tend to it, to care.

But over time, the weeds disappeared, the brambles removed. Dwalin noticed these small changes, as did Dís. She was the one who after digging through Thorin and Gin's chambers, found the small gardening tools and handed them to Dwalin. Bad enough her baby boy, her precious sunshine, fell in love with an Elf Maiden, but she felt beholden to her, this elf who saved his life once and followed him in attempt to save him again. Dwalin left the clippers, the trowel, spade and sheers on an old bench.

The next spring, things that initially appeared dead struggled from the ground and in the summer, color, buds burst forth. Over the seasons, Dwalin would leave food, fresh bread, a skin of wine. He would find the empty basket, the linen folded neatly within, on the bench when he returned.

Sometimes, if he listened carefully, he would hear crying, a broken-hearted sobbing, carrying on the wind. At times it disappeared, not heard in moons, making him wonder if she had finally retreated to the Greenwood.

But eventually, the crying returned. It always returned.

And the people of Dale and the Dwarves of Erebor whispered of the Ghost on the Mountain.

The wraith in the mist.

He'd listened half-heartedly, listened as Kili whispered his feelings when The Company waited at the gates, waited while Thorin raged down in the treasure hall, wrestling with his conscience, fighting the Dragon Sickness. Listened to a young dwarf, stupidly thinking he was in love with an elf maid.

As he approached the small glade, he took in the newly risen buds, not yet opened. It was still early in the spring, a cool spring following a horribly wretched cold winter. He approached the bench and reaching into his fur jacket, he removed the scrap of cloth from it and set it on the bench.

“Lass, aye know ye kin hear me,” he began. “Aye'm growin' old. Mahal's Balls, aye'm older 'an any dwarf has ev'r bin. Aye'm o'a mind t'go visit m'kin an' a few places aye kin bare remember. If yew wanna tag along, aye wuld welcome t'comp'ny. Yer grievin' won git no better stayin' inna mist. 'Tis time, lass. Aye leave inna mornin'.”

He waited.

Nothing.

He took a deep breath. “Look! Aye'v no time fer niceties or sweet words. Yer grievin' has gone on long enough. Either shite or get off the pot!”

He waited.

Nothing.

With an angry sigh, he turned and gotten no more than a dozen steps. “Master Dwarf?”

“Aye?” He did not turn back.

“I want to see him; see his tomb before we leave.” The voice was breathy, tired, barely recognizable from the feisty Woodland elleth he remembered. There was a sharp intake of breath. “I cannot move forward or back. I have been at a crossroads and I know not which way to turn.”

He expected that. Despite the wars, Elves were barely tolerated still in Erebor. Dain had liked Elves as well as Thorin, which meant he did not, but Kili loved this elf and Dwalin remembered well her despondency, her own injuries evident, when they found her with Kili in her arms.

He made his way back to Erebor, this time, taking the main gate. Why should she not be allowed her grief?

“Master Dwarf?”

“Mah name is Dwalin. Dinna lag.” He turned over his shoulder, still not looking at her. “Hold yer head up. Yew'v nothin' t'be ashamed of.” He approached the West Gate, taking notice both guards were now at attention, hands on their weapons.

There was a touch at his elbow. Strange, he hadn't heard or felt her approach. Damn old age! “Will I be welcome?”

Finally, the crotchety dwarf looked at her.

It was often said Elves do not age. He knew this to be false. Elrond, Lord of Rivendell was aged. He had seen grief, had been intimate with it and his sorrow showed in the planes and harsh lines of his face.

Grief had etched this one as well. Lines of sadness pulled at her mouth, her eyes. “Ah, lass. Why dinna ye fade?”

“We did not share our fae.”

They hadn't made love.

She repeated the question. “Will I be welcome?”

“Yer myth tuh most. No one'll deny ye.”

“And if they do?”

“They'll deal w' me, which mean they won't. Dinna lag.” They made it to the main gate, just as the rain began to fall.

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

It seemed to Tauriel that when she entered the great entrance hall of Erebor, a hush fell, the echos in the vast chamber falling below even a whisper to her elven ears. She'd heard rumors of the greatness, the obvious wealth of the Dwarven Kingdom beneath the mountain. Truth be told, she'd never seen it. She'd been taken to Dale, Thranduil by her side, for healing. Elven healers worked among the humans, taking no notice if the injured were of any race besides their own. It was soon decided her injuries were treatable, but her heart was not. Thranduil was right. It hurt, because it was real.

“Careful. Step tuh t'left.” Dwalin's hand was at her elbow and Tauriel lifted herself from her thoughts to see what it was she was stepping around.

It was a grand hall, columns rising tall with a floor of solid, uneven, gold. As she looked around, Tauriel could see splatters, cracks, in the gold. “What is this place?” Her voice echoed in the silence, all the dwarfs standing still and staring at her.

“'Tis where we attempted t'lay thuh dragon low. Covered him in smelted, molten gold. Shoulda killed t'wee beastie! Dinna work.” Dwalin's eyes were focused on the doorway at the end of the great cavern. His grip tightened on her elbow. “Damn us all, dinna work.” He shook his head. “'Tis a sacred place. None walk upon it.”

With energy the old dwarf didn't feel, he strode behind the columns, down a side passage, deep in the mountain. No one attempted to speak or stop the pair.

“When were t'las time ye ate hardy fare?”

The question came from nowhere, startling the Elf Maiden. She realized she had to think. “The last time I went to the Greenwood. Oh, it's been sixty... seventy springs ago.” She furrowed her brow. Truth was, she couldn't remember how long it had been since she graced Thanduil's caverns-

“If ye ate Elf food, ye no' 'ad hearty fare!” Dwalin shook his head, interrupting her thoughts. “Dinna know how ye live,” he mumbled. “Isn't like there be much food onna mountain!”

Tauriel wasn't paying attention to the dwarf. Her eyes lingered on the walls of the cavern, the many halls. There were riches, obvious wealth in the mountain. The Dwarves seemed... oblivious to it. Apparently not all dwarves suffered from Dragon Sickness.

She realized they had stopped and the elderly dwarf was staring at her, taking her measure. “Not all of us suffer Thorin's sickness.”

Tauriel shook her head. “I don't-”

“Aye see yer eyes, where they wander. No' hard to figure out what y'be thinkin'.” He turned, motioning for her to follow. “Thorin were an honorable dwarf. He-”

“Had Thorin Oakenshield not angered the Elves and the Men of Dale, neither Thranduil, Bard the Bowman, or Dain Ironfoot would have been here to fight the Orcs of Gundebad.” Dwalin stopped to look at her. For the first time in decades, there was fire, spit in her voice. “You would have all died, not just Thorin and his nephews.”

In the light of the fireflies, she looked pale, almost translucent. “I would like to see him, visit his grave now. Would that be possible?”

Dwalin's stare was of iron; usually, one could see one's mind working, but not this dwarf's. It was painful, heavy-

He nodded once. “Follow me.”

Down they wove between columns and halls and corridors. As the way became steeper, the narrower the passage became. Tauriel was aware of the bite, the consistent temperature, of the mountain. At times, there was a breeze, a cooling breath; at others, the air was still. The support beams and rock were carved; intricate patterns of dwarvish runes etched into the rock.

There was a smell, ancient, a whisper, here and there.

The taint of dragon.

“Aye, aye smell it, tew. It's no' as bad as it were when Thorin returned.” The dwarf seemed to be a mind reader, or perhaps he was truly a reader of faces. Tauriel schooled her features, much to Dwalin's amusement. He'd stopped to stare at her. “Tew late fer tha', lass.” What must pass for a grin ghosted across his mouth. “Aye saw ye scrunch yer nose.” He turned, motioning for her to follow. “Most think it just staleness, old air. But The Comp'ny, we knew better.” There was a momentary hitch in his breath. “Aye know better.” The way became steeper and the dwarf settled himself, threw back his shoulders. “Don't dawdle, lass.”

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

Tauriel stood before the tombs, three of them, side by side. They were magnificent, prestigious things. It amazed the elleth that they had been carved, created so quickly after the battle. For not the first time, she pondered on the artistry of dwarves. Her own kin would never believe it; she herself thought Kili's people were nothing more than grunting animals, rutting in caves. Greedy, selfish...

Not anymore. She had been wrong.

“Which one?”

“Onna right.”

Tauriel stepped up and cautiously put a hand to the stone.

She bowed her head and closed her eyes.

There was silence.

“Master Dwarf?”

“Dwalin.”

“Where is he?” Her head was still bowed and she whispered so low, the dwarf had difficulty hearing her. “He is not here.”

“Lass?”

She looked up over her elbow, fury etched on her face. “He is not here. Where have you hidden him?”

Dwalin didn't so much as twitch. He looked up to make sure they weren't being watched. Assuring himself they were alone, he stepped next to her, his eyes avoiding the center tomb. “A year after the battle, we sent all three to the fires.”

“You did what?”

He inhaled, a noisy, rattling thing. “A year after the battle, we sent awl of 'em t' the fires.”

Tauriel stood tall, towering over the rugged, still-powerful dwarf. “Do not take me for a fool,” she hissed. “'Tis well known dwarves prefer their stone coffins-”

“Aye,” Dwalin spat, “as it is well-known we much prefer to walk, rather than ride an animal and 'tis well-known we keep no pets. But I've ridden ponies an' know a few dwarflings who 'ave brought 'ome stray animals.” A rare smirk graced the Dwarf's features. “An' at least one warg pup.” Dwalin's stare was far off in the past before it focused on the elleth, but the smile stayed, warming the female. “Doon' believe everythin' yew've heard 'bout Dwarves.” As suddenly as it appeared, his grin faded. “Thorin Oakenshield had a wife, a dwarrow he loved more 'n his own life. She died after Smaug stole wha' were ours.”

“You threw them in the fires together.”

“Aye.”

Tauriel pushed herself from the stone. “But why send Fili and Kili? Why not leave them here?”

Dwalin bowed up. “Because their mother felt it unfair to leave 'em here alone.”

Tauriel stared at him for a long moment before deflating. “I have nothing to grieve. Nowhere to tell him goodbye.”

Again, the grin came back and the elderly dwarf touched her on the elbow. “But aye can take yew t' where he lived! An' that be a happier memory!”

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n
Well I know it's just a matter of time\r\n\r\n
TBC\r\n\r\n
~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n


Chapter 2 - When the fun falls through and the rent comes due

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n The Wraith in the Mist\r\n\r\n Chapter Two\r\n\r\n When the fun falls through and the rent comes due\r\n\r\n ~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

The two left as the sun rose, provisions and minor niceties taken care of. The dwarf planned well and apparently took into consideration and assumed that he would have a companion traveling with him. Several younger dwarfs sought to join them, barely bearded and wanting to see the world, but Dwalin turned them back at the bottom of Dale, threatening to chase them back with his axes in hand if he needed to. They took it in good stride, laughing and jostling as they returned toward The Lonely Mountain.

But the Elf saw the look in his eye as he watched them leave.

“Why are you sad?”

Dwalin's jaw dropped and sagged to answer before stopping himself. He turned and sought out a well beaten path. “Aye envy their youth,” he lied.

Tauriel recognized the dwarf's evasiveness, but chose not to push the point. They were starting on a journey, how long, she did not know. She simply knew that it was an odyssey she need to go on. Best not to start an argument on the outset of such a pilgrimage. But a pilgrimage to where? “Where are we going, Master Dwarf?”

Dwalin stopped and exhaled loudly. “Look. We might as well be getting' this straight!” He turned on her, a furious gleam in his eye. “Mah name is Dwalin. 'Tis not Master Dwarf, Master anythin'. Aye might answer to 'dwarf' if the bein' doon know me. But mah name is Dwalin. It's been mah name fer more centuries than aye care tew admit tew.” He turned his back and began walking towards the lake shore. “So call me that.”

Tauriel chose instead to remain silent.

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

It took two days for the pair to reach Esgaroth and they stayed for another two, rousting up two study ponies and a sleek, nimble-footed horse for the two to ride, as well as taking on additional supplies. They left Esgaroth with no fanfare, so unlike their send-off from Erebor and Dale. The dwarf seemed impatient, ready to go, his thoughts so far inward, Tauriel feared for the furrow between his eyes would become permanent.

She would realize in the coming months that the furrow between his eyes was permanent.

They had not gone far, when they reached the Forest River.

Dwalin remembered that river, even if it had been over two centuries since he raced down it in a barrel with The Company. Fighting Orcs, Kili injured. For not the first time, he considered the elleth ambling along beside him.

“Thranduil's holdin's be that way,” he nodded up the river. “Aye'm o'mind tuh go tha' way iffn' yew wish tuh see yer kin.”

She shook her head sadly. “I have no kin nor friend in Halls of Thranduil.”

“None?” The dwarf feigned shock. Truthfully, it was a relief for him to not go to Thranduil's Hall. “Yew lived there fer how long?”

Tauriel shook her head and nudged her mare further up a ways in towards the river. “There is a shallow and narrow point about a quarter of an hour up the way.” She looked back to ensure Dwalin and the pack pony were following. “It will be easy to cross there.” She smiled to herself as she listened to grumbling and sputtering she'd learn to expect from the gruff dwarf. “My father ignored the call of the sea for many years. When he could ignore it no longer, he and my mother left for the Grey Havens and left me behind.” She shrugged. “I was young and I had friends in Thranduil's Hall.”

“Yew were left b'hine or yew stayed b'hine?”

“I stayed.”

Dwalin snorted. “Yew fancied yerself in love with a pasty elf!”

For some reason, this caused Tauriel to burst into laughter. It was joyous, if rusty, for she had not laughed in many years. “I am a pasty elf, Master Dwarf!” She enunciated the last two words purposely, stated such, just to make him bristle. “I had friends, but truth be told, I was alone.”

“Yer goin' tuh tell me yew 'ad no feelins' fer that elven princeling?”

Tauriel lived on the mountainside for many years and she listened in on more conversations that she dare admit. She knew how the dwarves felt about the elves and she knew what she had been taught about the dwarves. Both sides were wrong, but this dwarf was elderly and so very set in his ways. Unbeknowst to most, she watched how he treated the sister of Thorin Oakenshield, how he doted on the dwarrow. His care for his friend's sister and the mother of Kili and Fili softened her heart towards the gruff dwarf and rather than snap at him, she answered gently. “Elves love once and only once and I love-” she caught herself, her breath hitching before continuing, “I loved Kili.”

“Yew 'ad no feelins for th'elf?” Dwalin was pushing the point.

She was silent for so long, he concluded she'd decided not to answer him. The only sound was that of hooves on the river bed, the water rushing between the rocks. They rode like that for some minutes.

“His father made it very clear. I was a common wood elf. I was not good enough for his son and there would be no approval for a union, if it were requested. I did not look for it or desire it.”

She did not see the look of consternation on the dwarf's facial features and so she was surprised when he stopped, allowing her to pull up next to him. “Aye wuld think tha' a society as high 'n mighty as the elves wuld no' make such an issue o' birth.”

He watched sullenly, as she pulled forward, her spine made of mithril, the only thing visible in his sight. He followed as she crossed the river to the opposite side. Again, her answer was delayed.

“One would think.”

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

They traveled for a time, following the edge of the Long Lake, before finding the mouth of the Celduin River. They kept the Mountains of Mirkwood to their left, crossing yet another river before turning west on the Old Forest Road.

“I have heard tale of a story about dwarves mining the Mountains of Mirkwood. Do you know of it?”

Dwalin snorted. “Aye. Aye dew.” Of course he knew of it! He was there!

Tauriel was looking towards the sky, following the sun. Too quickly, it blotted out by the trees. “'Tis said Thranduil caught the Dwarves of Erebor trying to steal the ore from the Mountains of Mirkwood.” She ignored the cursing of the elderly dwarf and continued. “The story goes that rather than prosecute them, Thanduil offered to pay the dwarves of Erebor to mine the mountain. He felt it would aid them so soon after Smaug took the Lonely Mountain. Give them a purpose, somewhere to live.” There was a gagging, sputtered coughing. “Master Dwarf? Are you unable to breathe?”

“Tha' be a lie!” Dwalin was having a difficult time settling down. “A fargin' lie! We did a cursory dig. Those mountains be full o' rocks an' no' much else! There be no ore!” He pulled ahead of the elf. “Wha' yer king's emissary thought to generously pay us be a joke an' Thorin told 'im so!” Dwalin was so angry, he didn't see the small grin on the Elf's face.

“Thranduil's emissary plucked Dwarven-thrown pellets from his arse for months.” Dwalin's head jerked up to look at her. Tauriel continued, seemingly unaware that she was under such scrutiny. “Poor thing couldn't sit for weeks without twitching or popping up.” She made a moue and shook her head. “I've never heard such cursing from an elf. One would think he learned it from a dwarf.”

Dwalin's laughter echoed through the forest for some time, before the two settled into what was becoming a comfortable silence.

That evening, they found a small clearing just off the path and they set up camp. Tauriel caught several conies and they feared the smell of the roasting rabbit flesh would send a beacon to wolves and other unwelcome visitors. They decided to set a watch, split the time. Dwalin took the first.

After they broke camp the next morning, Tauriel informed Dwalin they were being shadowed by wood elves and they had nothing to fear.

Dwalin didn't believe her. He still watched for spiders.

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

There was an abandoned house just north as they exited the Old Forest Road. Tauriel stared at it for a long time. “It smells of magic. Old magic.”

Dwalin gazed as well. There was something... familiar... about the place, although he didn't recall seeing it. It simply reminded him of... “A wizard lived here.” Finally, the name came to him. “Radagast. Radagast, the Brown.” He shrugged before trudging along. “Strange 'un. Hair was a bird nest.”

Tauriel continued to look. “You are strange too, Dwalin,” she whispered. She turned and followed him. “Why are you going north?”

He pointed to the mountains to the west. “Thuh sun be movin' faster 'n we are. Out in thuh open, yer friends won' be watchin' now that we've left thuh woods.” He clicked his tongue, making his pony move to a trot. “There used to be a skin-changer just a ways from here.”

Tauriel nudged her horse and the pack horse to follow. “You think Beorn will welcome us for the night?”

Dwalin shook his head fiercely. “No. He'll no' welcome us a'tall. Aye hope he no be home an' we can jus' stay wit'ow 'im knowin'.”

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

Beorn's home had been expanded to a small gathering of homes. All activity ceased as the dwarf and elf entered the compound. The dwarf was of a mind to simply nod, ask where the well was so he and his companion could refill their water skins and keep moving through. They'd move a few miles up the ways and then turn east, go to the Langflood River and lash a raft to float back down through to the Anduin.

Sadly, one of their kind, a mountain of a man, stood in their way.

Dwalin took one look at the man and knew who he was immediately.

“Aye knew yer sire, Beorn. He be well?”

“He be dead.” The shifter mimicked the dwarf's speech. “I am called Grimbeorn the Old and if you knew my sire, you are older than I.” He scrutinized the dwarf and elf. “My father did not like dwarves-”

“But he liked Orcs less,” Dwalin finished for him.

The Shifter inhaled sharply. “You're one of Thorin Oakenshield's Company.” He shook his head. “They should all be dead by now.”

Dwalin rolled his eyes. “Aye. Aye shuld be, but aye'm breathin' still.”

“It is getting late,” Tauriel whispered. She was watching the final flames of the sun settle behind the Hithaeglir. “We need to find shelter soon.”

“Being a wood elf,” Grimbeorn surmised, “I would think you would not be uncomfortable in the open.”

“Yew've lived onna side o' a mountain-”

“I have lived in the caves!” she spat.

“Aye knew that.” The sneer on Dwalin's face was comical.

The elleth forced a smile. “We have provisions on our pony and need to find a safe place to tether our animals.”

The shifter's smile was fierce. “Come. There is shelter in the barn. And for the two of you.” He turned, forcing them to follow. “You are safe here.”

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

“Highway robbery!”

The Elf stared straight ahead, her hand tight on the tiller, no expression on her face. “So you have said for the last hour,” she murmured drolly.

“Well, it was! What they charged fer a room, stabling the animals, an' supplies!” Dwalin was in a fine snit.

“You are not out any coin. I, on the other hand, am out my cherished mithril knife. My father gave it to me and I have traded it for food and sundries not near the value, monetarily or sentimentally, of the knife.”

“Ye shuld 'ave ne'er given it to 'em! Aye'd 'ave rather slept under th' stars!”

Tauriel continued to hold the tiller. “We'd not have fared well, Master Dwarf.”

Dwalin nudged himself closer to the back of the boat. The horses weren't happy, but weren't trying to jump off. “Why?”

“Wolves had our scent last night.”

“Aye'm no' a-feared o' a few wolves!”

“There were wargs in their pack.”

Even though the war was over and Sauron was dead, rogue orcs and wargs still roamed Middle Earth. While orcs were becoming rarer and rarer, wargs in a wolf pack were particularly worrisome. The wargs tended to become the alphas of the pack, with the pack following along in viciousness, lest the evil beasts run them off or kill them for food or sport. What was worse were the wargs were mating with the wolves, creating a cruel hybrid mix that was tough to kill.

“Tha's why yew insisted onna raft.”

Tauriel nodded. “True. The faster we move down the river and further away from Carrock, the better. I also wanted to get downstream before the spring thaw makes the Langflood difficult to navigate.” They sailed on for some hours, before coming to a large bridge. “Where to, Master Dwarf?” She nodded to the west. “The High Pass lies that way. It will take us to Rivendell.”

“No wish t' see tha' place agin,” Dwalin spat. “Saw it once. Once were enough.” His mission reasserted itself and the dwarf's voice lowered and his tone softened. “That is, unless yew be wantin'-”

“I visited once, when my parents went to the Havens. I traveled as far as the Last Homely House with them.” She stared down the river. “It was beautiful. Peaceful. I remember meeting Elrond...” and on she droned, making the dwarf roll his eyes and wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.

They sailed for some days, camping on the river's edge, passing the Sîr Ninglor, or the Gladden River, as it was more commonly called. The two talked, Dwalin coming to the conclusion that the elleth he traveled with had seen less of the world than he. So deep inside, he decided he was relieved she was willing to go on this trip with him and glad he hadn't had to coerce her.

He prayed to Mahal she wouldn't discover why until it was too late.

Just south of the merging of Gladden and Langflood Rivers, the spring thaw of the mountains caught up with the two, causing them, along with their equines no shortage of grief. They feared they'd lost the pack horse, along with their supplies at one point, when their large raft tilted in a river rush. It was a relief when they came upon the merging of the Anduin with the Celebrant River. Being so close to Lorien, the two felt it safe to rest for several days at The Tongue, a place of no small renown. It was late in the afternoon, when they tied the raft to an aging dock and spread out their supplies to dry. Food was low and Dwalin scanned the waters for fish, while Tauriel hunted game and berries. The Dwarf had several fat trout spitted and trickling over a fire when the Elleth returned with several rabbits on a string. “Good you've cooked the fish,” she remarked. “They would smell within hours.” She hung the hares high on the mast of the raft. “Expect company for breakfast.”

Dwalin looked up with a black look. “Who?”

“Celeborn. The Silver Lord of Lorien, himself!”

The aging dwarf grimaced. “Ah, shite! Mahal take me now.”

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n Somewhere Along the Line\r\n\r\n TBC\r\n\r\n ~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n


Chapter 3 - Hey, it's good to be a young man

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n
The Wraith in the Mist\r\n\r\n
Chapter Three\r\n\r\n
Hey it's good to be a young man\r\n\r\n
~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

Celeborn, The Silver Tree, was friendlier than Thranduil. That didn't mean that Dwalin liked him any more than he did the King of the Greenwood. Gimli, son of Gloin, made quite the impression on the Lorien Elves, especially Celeborn's wife, Galadriel, who, according to the Elf sitting across from him, eating like a commoner and not the regal, noble Elf he was, was very fond of that Dwarf and therefore, all dwarves entering Lorien were accorded great respect and hospitality.

Dwalin thought the Elf was full of himself and remained on guard anyway.

Celeborn finished his rabbit and tossed yet another bone in the fire, before licking his thumb. “Are you traveling south? You should be warned of the Falls of Rauros.”

Before Tauriel could respond, Dwalin grunted. “No. We be goin' tuh Khazad-dúm.”

What small talk was going on around them by Celeborn's archers came to a stop.

“Moria? That mountain is death!” one of the elves exclaimed.

“Oh, aye an' aye know it.”

It was not lost on Tauriel that Celeborn was watching his guard through hooded eyes. “Why in Arda would you want to go there?”

Dwalin had never been a sociable dwarf and he disliked conversing with elves, despite traveling with one. “Aye've no' seen mah brother's tomb,” he spat. “An' aye wuld like t'pay my respects before aye die, which culd be t'morrow, considerin' my age!”

There was twittering in a language Dwalin didn't understand and he didn't care to. Luckily, it didn't go on long before The Silver Lord motioned with his hand to silence them. “Are you returning after visiting Balin's tomb?”

Dwalin shook his head. “No. We be headin' on t' thuh Blue Mountains.”

“More... kin?”

It was not lost on Celeborn or Dwalin that Tauriel had become very quiet and withdrawn. “Aye.”

Celeborn nodded towards the raft and horses. “Come to Caras Galadon.” He continued, ignoring Dwalin's dwarven cursing. “Rest and recuperate. Replenish your supplies and plan. You must decide on a path. We can help you with that.”

“Aye, an' how much will this cost?”

The look on Celeborn's face was sheer confusion. “Cost?”

“We spent the night with Beorn's descendants,” Tauriel supplied. The elves began to nod and cluck in understanding. “It was quite expensive.” She reached to her belt behind her. “I traded my mithril knife for most of our provisions, however,” she pulled that very knife from her belt, “I relieved them of it without their knowing.” Dwalin began to cackle at the industriousness of his traveling companion. “That was why I was really in such a hurry to get down the river.” She shook her head. “They aren't taking it back!”

Celeborn stood up and brushed off his hide leggings. “You will come?” Even though it was framed as a question, Dwalin had the feeling it really wasn't and if he declined, this elf had it within his power to make this portion of their trip very unpleasant.

And conceivably, impossible.

“Aye. We will come.”

~~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

These elves, Dwalin concluded, knew how to treat guests, unlike their Greenwood Kin. The crusty part of him, however, wondered if he had simply stepped into a gilded cage. 

That would be like the elves...

There was merriment, music, and laughter. Dwalin hadn't seen Tauriel for some hours, not since dinner. The Lorien Elves dressed her in something pale, feminine and flowing. She was also barefoot, adorned in jewelry, borrowed from only Mahal knew. For a moment, Dwalin saw her through Kili's eyes, knew without a doubt why the young dwarf had fallen so quickly and deeply in love with her. 

As the evening grew late and the sun set, Dwalin found himself wandering alone, gazing up at the tall trees of Lorien, the golden mallorns of myth. Not paying much attention and feeling lulled by the birdsong, Dwalin meandered into a grotto, something ancient, something private. He found himself hypnotized by the spring, the fountain, the waters...

“This was my wife's favorite spot.” Celeborn seemed to come from nowhere, materializing out of the mist. He nodded towards the fountain. “She says she could see things in that water. The future. The little Ring-bearer, Frodo, looked into it. I have no idea what he saw.”

“Frodo?” 

“Yes. A Hobbit.” Celeborn smiled at the memory and shook his head. “Hard to believe one so small-”

“Aye'm familiar wit' the resilience o' Hobbits.” Celeborn lifted a regal brow in question. “Aye traveled an' fought alongside Bilbo Baggins fer many months.” Dwalin turned his back on the Elf, his unblinking stare making him nervous. “Aye thought he be soft, tew gentle a folk fer a quest such as ours.” He looked over his shoulder, not meeting the gaze of the tall Silvan Elf. “Aye was wrong.”

Celeborn dropped his head and smiled. “It takes a great amount of character and strength to admit mistakes. Durin would be proud to call you his son.” Before Dwalin could retort, the Lord of Lorien continued. “You are not just taking a scenic trip about Middle Earth, are you?” 

“No.” 

“And there is a reason why Tauriel is traveling with you.” 

Dwalin swallowed hard. Try as he might, he couldn't and wouldn't lie to this elf. His mind was fuzzy, covered with a great fog. He knew it was elven magic, but there was little he could do, save answer. “Aye,” he whispered.

“Are you dying?” 

Dwalin rolled his eyes and for a moment, the fog lifted. “Mon, aye be 339 years old! It wud be a pleasure t'die!” 

Celeborn's eyes grew sad. “You have outlived all of your kin, your parents, your brother. All of your friends. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield. How many Kings Under the Mountain have you outlived? Dwalin, son of Fundin, you are legend, even to the elves. Yes, I can imagine it would be a great relief to fade.” The elf walked passed him and stood next to the fountain. He drew his hand through the water, cupping it and watching the moisture fall through his fingers. “Your time is almost complete here. You have a journey to accomplish first,” he stopped, the liquid dripping from his fingers, “a quest, a promise you made that you must keep.” 

Finally, Dwalin looked up, his brown eyes of stone reaching the blue ones of the Elf. “Aye.” 

“You must keep it.” 

“Aye.” This was uttered in a whisper so soft, even the elf had to strain to hear. “I made a promise.” 

Celeborn stepped away from the fountain and descended the rock steps. “You made a promise to an elf.” 

“Aye.” 

“To Tauriel?” 

Dwalin shook his head. “No.” 

“Who?” 

Dwalin swallowed hard. He had held onto this for years, so many years. No one knew, knew it had taken place, knew he had spoken... 

“Legolas.” The minute the name left his lips, it was if a great weight lifted from his shoulders and pushed him forward. “Her parents left fer tha' island o' yers over two millennium ago. She 'as no one an' loves a dead dwarf. She canno' fade or die or move on.” Finally, his voice rose from it's dusty whisper. “Aye promised 'im when aye saw 'im at th' King o' Gondor's weddin'.” 

Celeborn was watching the dwarf, watching his body language, the way he held himself. “Thranduil had Legolas ask for him.” 

Dwalin's head bobbed. “Aye figured tha'.” 

It was silent for some minutes, before the elf spoke again. “Follow me.” 

Dwalin did so without a word, without questioning. Funny, how his inhibitions fell away in this quiet place. At some point, he was aware Celeborn was talking. “After the War, the power of the ring my wife wore faded. And with it, the beauty of this forest faded as well. My people are leaving, going to the Havens a few at a time. There are so few of us left.” They entered a large talan high up in the trees. It seemed to be an office, a library of sorts. Dwalin watched as Celeborn sifted through stacks of scrolls, of maps. 

“Aha.” The Elf pulled one out and smiling upon unrolling it. He set it on a desk and set weights on the corners. “According to reports, Moria's West Gate was destroyed when Aragorn and his band of Walkers used it to come through the mountain. You'll not be able to enter or exit that way. The East Gate is open, as is the Redhorn Gate. The Redhorn is dangerous, a steep and difficult pass. The  Walkers could not breach it. I do not recommend it.” 

Dwalin was shaking his head. “Tuh Walkers consisted o' four Hobbits, tew men, a dwarf an' an elf. It were t'dead o'winter. They needed more dwarves.” His finger drew along the Mountains. “Wha' yew suggest is we go in an' out th' same way and then,” his finger made a large loop, “go back th' way we came, tuh th' High Pass to Rivendell and west or come back an' head south 'round Fangorn an' through th' Gap o' Rohan. Tha' be a long way.” 

“And north would put you in the path of the Beornings, who might take offense that Tauriel took back her payment for supplies.” 

“Aye.” Celeborn was known as wise and Dwalin was seeing this wisdom first hand. “If I might suggest, spring will be over in a few weeks. You'll not be able to take your horses and I am willing to pay you for them. The snows above the Redhorn will have receded and the passage will be easier for a time should you choose to go that way. You can purchase horses and supplies when you descend into Hollin.” 

“Or aye kin travel nor' intuh Rivendell.”

“I wasn't going to suggest that,” Celeborn said with a smile, “but it is a good idea, Master Dwarf.” 

Dwalin's responding grin was wry. “Aye, make it my idea.” He looked around the room. “Kin ye stan' puttin' up wit' a dwarf fer several weeks?” 

Celeborn's laugh was infectious. “Oh, I was going to suggest you camp in Nanduhirion. You can use up what supplies you can't carry. We have no need for them.” He realized the dwarf was not laughing. “Surely, I meant no offense.” 

“Tuh lake 'n valley are sacred tuh t' dwarves. Yew know that.”

“It was a jest. You are honored among your people and ours. You are welcome to stay.”

Dwalin's returning smile, did not reach his eyes. “Gud.”

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

Dwalin and Tauriel stayed with the Lorien Elves for some weeks, watching as the snow on the mountains rose higher and higher on the steep, as did the swell of the River Nimrodel. Dwalin poured over the maps of Middle Earth. He knew the mountains; he was a dwarf, after all. But mostly he spent the time steeling himself for what was to come. This part of the trip would be the hardest of all for him. The valley they using to enter the East Gate was the site of Azanulbizar, the war that killed Fundin, his father. Many dwarves had lost their lives in that valley. And then, inside the mountain... 

There would be no amount of preparing to prepare him for that and he knew it. When the waters of the river abated to its normal levels, he and Tauriel decided to venture up to the valley. 

“I cannot guarantee that you will get through the mountain,” Celeborn told him the evening before. As had become their ritual, the two sat around a tree stump, ignoring each other while enjoying elvish wine. Well, Celeborn was enjoying the wine. Someone had found an aging brew that Dwalin preferred and he had a feeling the elves were glad he liked it because no one else did. 

There was no accounting for some beings' tastes!

“We did not see your brother or his entourage enter the mountain, so we assume he entered through Moria's West Gate. There has been no sound, no sign of orcs in many years. Not since the war. We are sending archers with you,” Dwalin began to protest, but Celeborn talked over him, “just in case there are still some random orcs.” Dwalin was now muttering in Dwarvish and Celeborn was glad he couldn't understand a word. “There is one more reason why I'm sending archers with you.” 

“Why dew we need a nanny?” 

Celeborn's face was all seriousness. “No one knows what condition the inside of the mountain is in. The Wizard fought the Balrog there when The Walkers escaped.” 

Chills ran up Dwalin's spine. “What are you suggesting?” 

The elf was choosing his words, shifting through what to tell the dwarf and what not. Dwalin could see it in his eyes and it infuriated it. “Wha' secret d'ye hide?” 

The Silver Lord shrugged. “Boromir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, told the elf who served him, the mountain towers and bridges were collapsing as they escaped. When Gandalf fell-”

“Yew speak too many wurds! What frightens yew?”

“Durin's Tower fell. Collapsed.” 

Dwalin snarled. “Who told yew this? Who-”

Celeborn signed. He knew the dwarf would not take the news well. “When the Ring-bearer journeyed to destroy the One Ring, the Walkers-”

“Yesyesyes aye kin! They went through Moria!”

Celeborn was inspecting his goblet, as if to find the words or some wisdom within the depths. “All but Gandalf escaped. After we sent them on their way to continue their Quest, we sent scouts into the mine, to see if there was any sign of the wizard.” Celeborn stared deeper. The truth was his wife, Galadriel, had insisted they look, search. She loved the old Maia as much as she loved him and this knowledge did not bother the Silver Elf in the slightest.

“Only half came back. They were felled by goblins, but those that returned were adamant about the damage within the mountain.” 

Dwalin took a swig from the ancient bottle. “Moria has seen many battles. Aye wuld think a few arches haf fallen.”

Celeborn shook his head. There was no way to be gentle and dwarves were not known to be one of Middle Earth's softer people. In the past few weeks, Celeborn had gotten to know this revered dwarf and decided the direct approach would be best. “Celebdil has fallen in. The mountainside is a ruin. My scouts did not see the Eternal Stair, but I would suspect Durin's Tower was destroyed as well.” 

“Zirakzigil fell in? Tuh whole of it?” 

Celeborn shrugged. It was an elegant, negligent thing, an elvish thing, but the dwarf read much into it. “I would not hold out hope. Moria's West Gate is blocked, considering the damage to the mountain, I cannot see how the Tower could have survived. Your brother's tomb may not be accessible.” 

“Aye will get tuh mah brother's tomb. Aye do not need help frum any elf fer that!”

Something in the elf hardened. “I know that you do not desire any aid from my people, however,” and with this he looked up, into the eyes of the dwarf, “I will not have Tauriel put in any additional danger.” He reached into his robes. “I have as much reason to want her on the boat as anyone.” 

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

They departed for the East Gate early in the morning. It seemed that the whole of Lorien accompanied them, on boat, horseback, and on foot, much to the dwarf's discontent. They... he didn't need all of this... fellowship and Dwalin was unusually vocal about it. Bad enough Celeborn still insisted that they take a unit of archers into the mountain. Truth was, he wanted to face his brother alone. Not to mention, they would enter the great mountain from a battlefield; a battlefield where many dwarves lost their lives. He didn't want company. 

Unbeknownst to him, Tauriel sensed this. 

They spent the better part of the day moving up the River Silverlode. The Elves left the dwarf to his thoughts, some of them watching thoughtfully. By late afternoon, the mountains rose on both sides of the river, their shadows keeping the air cool. As the afternoon passed, the shadows grew longer, darker. The Elves chattered noisily for a time, but eventually, Dwalin's dark demeanor began to influence their own moods.  The mountains grew taller, more jagged.

And the three largest loomed ahead. 

“Master Dwarf,” Tauriel whispered-

He rolled his eyes in ire. “Dwalin. How many times, lass? Dwalin.” 

“- what am I looking at?” She pointed to the three peaks ahead of them. She sensed his ire and attempted to soften the jagged answer. “I am sure I can guess, but with the exception of my time on the side of the Lonely Mountain and the scouting mission with Legolas to Gundebad, I have never... I have never been this far west.” She looked at him. “Except for Rivendale and we did not take this route. This is Dwarven heritage. You should be proud of it. Please tell me.” 

Dwalin closed his eyes. She was right. It was his heritage, he was proud of it. Often, in the evening, he sat with the few young ones of Erebor, canting and regaling them with stories of the time before the Dragon, the battles, the wars, lest they forget. He reminded them of the Line of Durin, Moria, and the Blue Mountains, reminded them they had kin on the other side of Middle Earth and to not forget them. He told them of Thorin Oakenshield, he who had passed into memory and legend. How many times had he sung 'Misty Mountain' to them, knowing all of them truly came from the Iron Hills and didn't know The Longing for home. A home? Without opening his eyes, he pointed to the mountain on the right. “Tha' be Bundushathûr or simply Shathûr.”

“It is quite cloudy up at the peak.”

Dwalin had a feeling he was being cajoled, catered to and it irritated him. “Men often referred to it as 'Cloudyhead'. The Elves call it 'Fanuidhol'.”

Tauriel repeated the Elvish name, the sound of it falling like rain from her lips. Dwalin then pointed straight ahead. 

“Tha' be Caradhras. Men call it 'The Redhorn' or 'The Cruel'. We dwarves knew it as Barazinbar.” Now, his eyes were open. He was unaware the Elves were all silent, listening to him. “E'en in the warmest months, tuh Dimril Stair and tuh Redhorn Pass are difficult an' merciless to cross.” He shook a finger at the elf next to him. “Dinna think fer a minute tha' jus' because 'tis almos' summer tha' it will be easy.” 

“Most go around and take the High Pass or travel The Gap of Rohan,” one of the archers accompanying them interjected.

“Tuh Gap o' Rohan be a pretty walk, if ye wan' tuh walk,” Dwalin conceded. “An' if ye don mine Dunlandings.” He snarled up his nose and leaned into Tauriel. “They smell worse 'n wet cattle. As fer tuh High Pass, aye 'ave seen tuh Stone-Giants play their game. Aye've no wish tew watch agin.” 

It was silent while they went around a curve, waiting for the last mountain to come completely in view and when it did, Dwalin gasped. It was as Celeborn said. 

The side of the mountain was gone. Nothing but rubble.


~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n
And to live the way you please\r\n\r\n
TBC\r\n\r\n
~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n


Chapter 4 - Yes, the young man is the king

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n
The Wraith in the Mist\r\n\r\n
Chapter Four \r\n\r\n
Yes, the young man is the king\r\n\r\n
~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n


The sound of valley became audible as they neared the lake. Dwalin quickened his step, actually accelerated into a trot, distancing himself from the elves. One of the archers made to follow him, but Tauriel held him back. “Give him some time,” she whispered. “His father died here. I suspect he witnessed it.”

The Elves waited for the sun to duck behind the mountain before moving forward. The beauty of the dale took Tauriel's breath. It took her several minutes to recall why she was there. Quickly, she scanned the dale, the glade and then the lake. She found him up a ways, standing on a rock on the east side of the lake. By the time she reached him, the moon had risen and the stars were out, their reflection twinkling in the pool. Acknowledging her with a shrug, Dwalin stepped to the side, to give her room next to him on the rock. Tauriel stared across, admiring the beauty of the view. “Mirrormere,” she whispered. “'Tis beautiful.”

Dwalin shook his head. “Kheled-zâram.”  A joyless smile graced his craggy features. “And aye, it is.” 

They ignored the sounds of the elves making camp while the two stared into the waters. Tauriel finally broke the silence. “It is said that your ancestor, Durin the Deadless, looked into these waters.” 

Dwalin was silent. 

Tauriel continued. “It is also said that when he looked into these waters, he saw the reflection of the stars in it.” 

Dwalin was still silent. And Tauriel still continued.

“It is said when he saw the reflection of the stars around the mirror of his head, he fancied they were his crown.” 

Dwalin turned and stomped from the rock. “'Tis said Elves talk tew much!”

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

They camped along the east side of the lake that evening, the smell of rabbit and venison rising in the air. As the group began to settle, a low, rumbling croon rose from the far rocks. The language was guttural, archaic and the elves listened with rapt attention as Dwalin sang of the legendary Halls of Khazad-dûm. They pretended not to notice when he finished and slid from the crevice, towards his small campsite. 

But Tauriel did take notice. 

“You have a fine voice, Master Dwarf. I did not know you carried a harp.” 

Dwalin stopped for a moment, his back to her, before bending over to grab his satchel. His jaw worked in vexation, the tightness obvious in the set of his shoulders before he relaxed. He looked over his shoulder. “Dwarves are not awl about greed...” his voice trailed off, the sound of crickets, over-powering. “...there are things we love an' crave besides bright jewels.”

“And those things would be?” 

He waited so long, she didn't think he'd respond. Finally... 

“Gud music, gud fud, loved ones. Especially loved ones.” And with that, he moved a ways from the elves and proceeded to bed down. 

Tauriel waited until he was settled. “Good night, Master Dwarf.” She turned and went to find a quiet spot. 

The crickets began their song.

“Gud night, lass.” 

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

It took Dwalin and his Elven entourage four days to find his brother's tomb. Bridges had fallen and they strayed from the path many times. There were scorch marks, fallen rubble, the leavings of a great battle, not fought by the normal dwellers of Middle-earth. The mountain was silent, wretchedly, frightening silent, the only the sound being that of the company's footfalls echoing through the empty caverns. As they came closer, there were signs of yet another battle, of a flight-

Arrows everywhere. The skeletons and mummified remains of dead orcs. 

There were two dark-haired elves in the company, twins, to be sure and they reminded Dwalin of someone, but he couldn't put his finger on the memory. They joked and played in that sing-song language of theirs and more than once, Dwalin told them to be quiet or leave. Actually, he told them to just leave. They smiled and continued on behind, staying out of the craggy dwarf's way for a while, before moving forward and starting again. 

So needless to say, it irked the old dwarf to the back of his teeth when one of the  elfling upstarts found the cavern first. It was lost on him that once he was made aware of the room, the elves stood back, playfulness gone and austere respect on their faces. 

And he went in alone. 

Dwalin did not see the skeletal remains of the orcs or the cave troll. He didn't see the arrows littering the floor. He didn't see the remains of dwarves, bodies filled with orc-arrows. 

He saw a tomb. All the internal, emotional, mental preparing for it, didn't help.

Here lies Balin, son of Fundin. Lord of Moria.

There was silence. 

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

Like all elves, Tauriel was good at keeping time, so when there had been no sound for the better part of thirty minutes, she called out. “Master Dwarf? Are you alright?” 

A sigh rent the air. “'Tis Dwalin, lass. Dwalin.” 

She took his remark as an invitation. Slowly, she picked her way into the chamber, noticing how the light shown on the great tomb in the middle of the room. Unlike the dwarf, she noticed the signs of not one, but two great battles that had been fought in it. The stone was married with chinks, obviously etched with by sword strikes. The floor was strewn with chips of rock, rubble, arrows... 

Bodies. Skeletal remains scattered everywhere. 

“Master Dwarf? Why are you sitting on your brother's tomb?” 

Dwalin was perched on the edge of the crypt, slouched over, reading a large book. “Whar else wuld ye 'ave me sit?” As the elves came further into the chamber, he turned a page, slowly, savoring the feel of the aging vellum, the smell of the ink and dust. “Aye'm readin' 'bout tuh last days of muh brother.” He nodded towards several dead dwarves. “An' these. Tha's,” he pointed to the body leaning against the tomb, “be Ori.” 

Tauriel searched her memory. The dwarves had been 'guests' of Thranduil's for some weeks long ago, when spiders still roamed the Greenwood. “The young one.”

“Aye. Too young and too gentle for a dwarf. Not a warrior.” Dwalin shook his head and turned the page again. “He were like his mum.” He was now grimacing at what he was reading. 

“Surely this upsets you?” The rest of the elves were now in the room, roaming gently. One of the twins peered down the well. 

“Aye, there be a body fallen down it. Dunno who.”

The elves were now looking about the cavern. One of the dark-haired ones began to chatter, whisper to his brother. 

“'Tis rude tuh dew that!” 

Both looked at him, amusement on their faces. “My name is Elladan and this is my brother, Elrohir. You've met our father.” 

“Somethin' tells me aye wish aye hadn't!”  He closed the book and laid it behind him. With a kick, he bounced from the tomb. 

The one began to chuckle. “Our father is Elrond of Rivendell.” 

“Aye, Aye wish aye hadn't!”

Elladan continued on, ignoring Dwalin's snarl. “Two battles took place here. The dwarves lost theirs.” 

“Aye. Accordin' tew tuh book, there were legions of goblins against them.” He turned to look again on his brother's grave. “They hid here long enough to bury muh brother.” There was a long pause. “There was no way out.” 

Drums in the deep...

At that point, Dwalin took one last look around the cavern, as if to memorize it, etch it into his brain and left the cavern. 

Tauriel ran after him. “Master Dwarf? Is that it? Where are you going?” 

Dwalin said nothing. He stopped, lifted his nose, before turning to head deeper into the mountain. 

“Master Dwarf?” 

The elves followed the elderly dwarf for some hours before he came to a stop. He could go no further. There was a pile of rubble that reached into the cavern's heights. 

“Master Dwarf? What should this be?” 

Dwalin took a deep breath. “This shuld be th' Eternal Stairs. Shuld be.” With that he turn, and began the long journey back to the East Gate.

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

Dwalin had been correct. Climbing the Dimril Stair and crossing through the Redhorn Gate was not a picnic in any way. The slowest member of the party was Dwalin himself. While the majority of the Elves returned to Lorien when they exited the mountain, Elrond's sons stayed with the duo, chittering in their sing-song language. Sometimes they made Tauriel laugh and she would feel sorry for the old dwarf who couldn't understand them, so she would attempt to repeat the joke or observation. Most times, she thought her words fell on deaf dwarven ears. 

But they did not. 

Upon reaching Hollin, the small company procured three horses and two ponies, as well as supplies. 

“Have ye seen Rivendell, lass?”

He has asked this before, Tauriel thought. It crossed her mind to remind him of it, but perhaps, it would be simpler to just answer the question. She'd noticed at times, memory was a fleeting thing for the elderly dwarf. “Aye. When my parents answered the call and went to The Undying Lands, I accompanied them to The Last Homely House.” 

“D'ye wish to see it agin? Now?”

Her answer was immediate. “No. I wish to see where Kili lived. As you promised.” 

Dwalin inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. He truly had no desire to return to Rivendell. Truth was he simply wished to fulfill this duty and promising her a bit of Kili's life and childhood had been the honey to entice her to follow him. 

Elrond's sons left them at that point, choosing to go to their father's abode, even though he'd left for the Undying Lands years before. 

The two wandered south, following the Sirannon River before picking up a barge  when they reached the Glanduin. Tauriel was enthralled with the swans at Swanfleet, while Dwalin found them noisy and irritating. Eventually, they disembarked at Tharbad. It was mostly deserted and dried up, little left after the floods almost two centuries before. They scrounged some provisions and headed north, on the Great North-South Road. 

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

They discussed taking the Barrow-Downs Road, north, into Hobbiton, but in the end, decided against it. Tauriel wanted to see the Blue Mountains. 

Dwalin just wanted it to be over. His joints ached and getting on Buttercakes, his pony, was becoming difficult in the mornings, especially when it rained. 

And it was raining quite a bit. 

So instead, they stopped in Michel Delving, the great seat and capital of the Shire, staying almost a full week. Tauriel was aware of Dwalin's struggles and said nothing, not wanting to insult or embarrass the venerable dwarf. He was easily offended, but as they traveled, the fonder she came to be of the crotchety old thing! So rather than let on she was letting him rest, she spent time in the markets, hunting up more provisions, liniments for aching muscles, analgesics, and cookies. 

Dwalin had a serious fondness for cookies. 

The rains had passed when they finally departed. The heat of the summer was well over and Tauriel said Yavannah was painting the earth, as was her wont, with the golds and deep reds of autumn. 

Dwalin grunted. Yavannah was Mahal's wife and if the elves wanted to believe such silliness, well, they were elves. Truth was, he believed Mahal mixed his wife's paints with the colors found in his mines. 

Once they left the Shire, there was no main road left to follow. There were hills to their left and right and they stayed steady to the northwest. Often, they passed great fields of wheat and barley; those who were harvesting would look up for a time, to watch an elf and a dwarf ride by, for to see such a pair together was rare, but they said nothing and soon returned to their reaping. At times, Tauriel would chatter, utter nonsense falling from her mouth and Dwalin would grunt and roll his eyes. Sometimes, they slept in the openness; on occasion, they found a small walled settlement with an inn, or a farm, where the farmer didn't mind the two staying in the barn. Occasionally, they paid their way, Dwalin doing the odd smithy work in a barn for a few hours, mostly. Repairing horse shoes, or bridles and bits. Once or twice, it was a pitchfork with bent tines or a dull scythe. Such was done in silence. 

It was funny how they always left with extra food. And cookies. Sweet treats. 

And it was funnier that the elf said she wasn't fond of sweets and left them all to her traveling companion. 

Fall was closer to over than not when they reached the River Lhûn. 


~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n
Of every kingdom that he sees\r\n\r\n
TBC\r\n\r\n
~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n


Chapter 5 - There's an old and feeble man not far behind

The Wraith in the Mist\r\n\r\n
Chapter Five \r\n\r\n
There's an old and feeble man not far behind\r\n\r\n


Ages back, Gabilgathol was the glittering jewel in the Dwarven crown of Durin. A legend. Great weapons were forged in the fires of the Dwarves. Now, it was a poor substitute, compared to the Dwarven cities to the East. After seeing the threads of mithril still embedded in Moria's walls, as well as the obvious wealth of Erebor, Gabilgathol was in comparison, a cave. A cave filled with iron. It was not as busy or as populated as Erebor. Tauriel could see why Thorin Oakenshield considered himself a poor relation when she silently compared the two. 

They approached the great gates at twilight, the mountains fireflies coming home for the evening. Although unfamiliar, Dwalin was openly welcomed, while suspicious eyes followed his companion. “Who is the Lord o' the Blue Mountains?” Dwalin's voice echoed through the grand central chamber.

“By my beard,” an elderly – although not as elderly as Dwalin – dwarf cut through the gathering crowd. “Dwalin, son of Fundin. aye wuld think ye be dead 'n buried long ago.” He stopped in front of the much taller dwarf, blue eyes gleaming. “Aye wuz a small child, but aye do remember ridin' yer boots!” 

Dwalin stared for some moments at the powerfully built, yet stately dwarf before him. “Streta?” 

“Aye.” 

Dwalin shook his head in disbelief. “Ye were a lad when we left. A small one.” 

“Aye, but aye still remember ye. An' Thorin Oakenshield,” he added soberly. He now turned to Tauriel, his smile and welcoming bow a sharp reminder to Dwalin of his brother. “An' who be this beautiful elleth traveling with such a crotchety old soul as Dwalin?” 

Tauriel had the decency to blush as she quietly repeated her name. “I am Tauriel of the Woodland Realm.” 

“One o' Thanduil's?” The dwarf's grin grew bolder. “Ye be a jewel o' the Greenwood.” 

Dwalin groaned and pushed his way forward. “Who be Lord of the Blue Mountains?” 

Streta rushed to catch up. “Aye be the Lord.” He caught Dwalin's glare and hurried to continue. “When Thorin left, he took all we would consider in charge, save Gimli an' he be long gone. None of ye came back.” 

“So how did ye become Lord?” 

“We voted. It were only right!” 

Dwalin threw his hands up in the air and barreled further into the cave, Streta following. “We vote agin in sev' years!” 

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

They wintered in the Blue Mountains, visiting the various settlements within the caverns. The Blue Mountains were not as populated as the Iron Hills or Erebor, nor were they wealthy, like the Eastern Dwarves, but they were busy, mining iron and welding weapons and swords that the Lindons and Gondorians cherished. Dwalin remembered spending many a season forging bits, horseshoes and stirrups for the Rohirrim. He'd heard rumor that the sword carried by the current Rohirrim King was forged by Thorin himself, some generations before. 

Tauriel spent some time in the old and empty Durin chambers – where Fili and Kili were raised under their uncle's steady hand. But as the worst of the winter set in, she began to venture through the caverns, trying to stay out of everyone's way and failing miserably. The older dwarves were cautious, but the little ones were fascinated by this tall creature with the delicate features and musical voice. Before long, it wasn't unusual to find her sitting in the middle of a group of young dwarves, telling them stories of the Greenwood, The Battle of Erebor, and yes, the legendary sons of Durin, Fili, Kili, Dain Ironfoot, and Thorin Oakenshield, whose names were only words to them. She told them of their daring escape from Orcs, riding down the river in barrels. She regaled them of the Dwarves' great Hobbit friend, Bilbo Baggins and told them of his bravery and courage. 

She told them many things, and in the process, began to heal. 

When Dwalin began to prepare for the final leg of their journey in the spring, she was ready to go. 

But the question was, where exactly were they going? 

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

The Grey Havens was a busy port. Many boats, ships, both passenger and cargo, routinely came in and out of the docks. 

As well as Cirdan's boat. It was not docked when the two arrived, with their pack ponies in tow, but by the sheer number of Elves in the town, Dwalin knew the boat was due to arrive. 

Tauriel was quiet for the most part, taking in the sights, the smells. There were shops along the harbour, the pier and when Dwalin encouraged her to purchase trinkets and ribbons, she turned on him in a fury. 

“Such unnecessary frippery will weigh me down when we-” Her finger came up in the dwarf's face and she strangled on an inhaled breath. “You intend to put me on Cirdan's boat!” 

“Aye, that aye do.”

“You can't make me get on that boat, Dwalin, son of Fundin.” 

Dwalin's visage became grim. “Aye believe aye kin.” 

Tauriel gently put down the bright shell necklace she was holding. “Please tell me Kili did not ask you to put me on that boat.” 

“'e wuld not whan ye grievin'.” Dwalin shook his head. “But no, 'e dinna.” 

Tauriel scowled. “Thranduil?” 

The dwarf scoffed. “As if aye wuld do anythin' tha' pointy eared princeling wuld ask o' me, which he dinna!” 

Finally.

“Legolas.” 

Dwalin's shoulders drooped. Taking her by the elbow, he drew her to a quiet corner and then out of the stall and into the thoroughfare. There was a commotion and as the two of them looked out into the waters, Cirdan's ship crested the horizon.

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

“I don't understand.” Truth was she did understand, but like many, she wanted to hear it. 

The two were in a tavern that served hearty fare, well barely hardy to dwarven standards. The corner they occupied was in the back, dark and cool and out of people's way and earshot. Cirdan's ship was docked and would be booking passage in two days. Already, elves in fine velvets and jewelry were jockeying for the best cabins.

 “Tuh time o' th' elves is over. Inna few centuries, none o' yer people will be seen, much less remembered. Tuh dwarves tew. Each decade, there be fewer and fewer o' us. More o' our dwarrows ar as Gin, Thorin's wife. Barren. We will be as myth. Legend.” Tauriel opened her mouth, but Dwalin hushed her. “Dwarves will go deeper in our caves. Thranduil will shut himself from the world. T' gates o' the Greenwood will be closed and elven magics will hide it from men. Same w' Rivendell. Yer people will become folklore an' then fairy tales. Forgotten, save a rare mem'ry.” He took a long draw from his mug. “Yew've no kin, no family. No' here. Yer no' royal enough fer th' king. Yew wastin' on th' mountainside. Yew'll waste in Thranduil's gilded hall. Tha's no life fer a bonny lass as yerself.” Tauriel blushed. “Kili wouldn't want ye t' grieve this long, wouldn't want ye 't live like this. He'd be heart-broken t'see yew grievin' like ye have.” 

It was silent for some minutes, while the two drank.

“Master Dwarf, I do believe that is the most I've ever heard you speak.” 

“Yer a bad influence,” he murmured into that tankard. 

Again, silence. 

“I will think on it.”

“Yew'll dew it.” 

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

“If I choose not to go on board, you cannot stop me.”

Dwalin ignored the elves slowly going around the two, trying not to eavesdrop obviously. It wasn't every day one watched a dwarf and an elf argue in the middle of a crowd. 

Truthfully, it wasn't every day anyone watched a dwarf and an elf do much of anything together. As such, they were either ignored or were oblivious to the staring, the tsking, as stately members of the First Race quietly judged the twosome standing on the dock. 

“What are ye gonna dew? Travel back tew Erebor an' cry onna mountain agin?” Tauriel looked at him sharply. “Ay'm no goin' back an' ye canno go wit' me!”

“But-”

“But, my arse! 'Tis annoyin' and ar wee ones fear ye ar an evil, elven spirit, left by a wereworm!”

Tauriel looked up at the tall masts and then back to the harbor, towards the Blue Mountains and the Tower Hills, far east of the city. “There is really nothing for me here, is there?” She reached into her jerkin and removed the dwarvish stone. She held it out to Dwalin. “I suppose I should return this.” 

Dwalin cupped her hand, closing long, slender elven digits around the keepsake. “'Tis yours, as long as yew need it.”

Tauriel stared at her fist for a moment, before putting it to her heart. “I cannot return it if I take it with me.” 

“Aye dinna want it. Aye 'ave no need fer it. No' whar aye'm goin'.” 

She put the stone back in her tunic. “Where will you go now, Master Dwarf?” 

There was a half-smile on the dwarf's face, one so rarely seen ever, and yet, she felt she'd seen it more than any being on Middle Earth. “Aye've a few places yet to see. Muh journey 'tis near o'er.” He nodded to the ship. “Yer family is waitin', so no, aye dinna need nor want yer comp'ny. Find t'Lady o' Light. Tell her the Silver Lord will be onna last ship an' tuh look fer 'im. Git onna boat, lass.” 

She did and he stood on the dock for many hours, watching Cirdan's boat disappear into the sunset.

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

It was late summer when Dwalin stood at the Gates of the Redhorn, at the bottom of the Dimril Stair. The snows were just starting to come down the mountain, although they weren't far enough to make the climb impossible. Dwalin figured in a few more weeks, he'd have been too late. 

He'd not returned to the Blue Mountains, bypassing them, the Shire. He found the old stone Trolls, those that near ate Thorin's Company, had it not been for the quick wit of Bilbo Baggins. In the leaves, the rubbish, he found something he'd completely forgotten about and picked it up. He passed Rivendell, many settlements. 

One bandit attempted to waylay him in the Tower Hills. He learned quickly that an old dwarf was still a tough, mean dwarf and not to be tampered with. Unlike man, the older dwarves became the more dangerous in battle. 

He was watched, had been watched since he exited the Shire. Not evil eyes, just elven ones. He unloaded the pony, taking stock of what he needed to take with him. He ate well that night, out in the open, what he figured would be his last meal. He didn't need food where he was going. No need to prolong the agony. 

He woke up at daybreak. He loaded the pony with the items he wasn't taking with him, which wasn't so much now. Pocketing his personal items, the things he took note that he would need when he visited Moria the previous spring for this final, return trip, to the things he wanted with him, he chewed on a strip of jerky, before turning Buttercakes towards Rivendell and smacking the mare on the rump. There were several armed elves watching from afar, mounted on swift horses. They did nothing, simply watched and Dwalin spent a minute watching the pony he loved and his rear-end hated for a year trot towards fellow equines. He did not acknowledge the elves; that tended to lead to trouble, uncomfortable conversation, and long, extended stays in places Dwalin didn't care for. The water was clean in the River Bruinen. True to its nickname, the water was loud, pouring down from the mountainside. From where he stood, he could see portions of the destroyed mountainside, where Gandalf fought the Balrog. Again, his heart hardened for a moment against the Grey Wizard, who brought so much grief with him. 

Gandalf Stormcrow.

But he quickly released the anger. The Balrog was dead and at some point in time, the Sons of Durin would return to this mountain, to reclaim their riches, add to their home in Erebor. 

Maybe. Perhaps a son of Durin would rebuild the Eternal Stair and once again the Crown of Durin would shimmer in the waters of Kheled-zâram. Mirrormere.

But he would not live to see it. 

It was not an easy climb, he knew it wouldn't be, and he turned several times to shout down the elven twins following him. Once they answered, the echo informing him they simply wished to make sure an elderly dwarf as himself, made it to his destination safely. 

He threw rocks at them. Told them to go find a boat and sail it long and hard. 

There were more elves waiting on the other side of the Dale. Celeborn was waiting at the gate. What Dwalin shouted at him in his native tongue was rude, crude, and socially unacceptable. The Silver Lord simply smiled and nodded. Dwalin didn't hear the elven whispers that followed and sealed the way. Celeborn made sure he would not be disturbed for a long, long time.

He went straight to his brother's tomb. The rats made way for him and he felt an unfamiliar enchantment closing the way behind him. It would be many years, centuries before a dwarf, or anyone, passed this way again. 

As he made his way into the burial cavern, he again marveled at the ray of sunshine that shown on Balin's tomb. Despite being in a hurry, orcs sealing them in, the tomb was dwarven art, a thing of beauty. It was something his brother more than deserved. 

He made his way around the left, picking around the discarded arrows and ignoring the orc and cave troll bodies. He stood in front of the body of Ori and looked down. 

“Tew gentle fer a dwarf. Always. Aye 'ave sumthin' o' yers.” Dwalin reached into his tunic and pulled out the rotting corpse of a slingshot. “Aye found it. Still wit' tuh mountain trolls.” He leaned over and set it down in his lap. “Aye tole ye many times, t' keep yer weapons close. Ye don' want them tuh fall into tuh wrong hands.” He stood for a moment before walking to the end of the tomb. 

“Balin. Son of Fundin, Lord of Moria. None o' that matters t' me. Wha' matters is yer muh brother. Aye miss yew, Balin.” 

And the tears Dwalin wasn't able to shed the year before when he stood in this same spot, he shed that night. 

~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n

Dwalin had sampled lembas many years before and he decided he now disliked jerky as much as he disliked lembas. The water had run out a few days before and now he was reaching the last of the jerky strips. He was tired, tired of living, tired of waiting to die. 

The Chronicles of the last days of Balin lay open on the end of the crypt. The dwarf made sure there was a quill and a jar of ink in his ruck sack and when he was able to see after the outpouring of grief that he had previously corked, he went to the empty pages in the back and chronicled the lives of The Company. 

What was real, life, has become Legend. I am Dwalin, son of Fundin, younger brother to Balin, who was Lord of Moria, friend and cousin to Thorin Oakenshield.

There was a bottle of ale at the bottom of his satchel, saved for this auspicious occasion and Dwalin sank to the floor, the book in his lap. He'd sung every song he remembered. For not the first time since arriving, he took the small framed portrait of a beautiful dwarrow from his vest and gazed at it longingly, before replacing it next to his heart. Grabbing the bottle, he broke the seal and began to drink. 

Who ever thought, when they were children, that they would live so long that those they grew up with, played with, fought with, would become legend, pass on to myth? Who thought they would live long enough to see those days come to pass? 

“Those are deep thoughts, brother.”

Dwalin looked up. “By my beard!” He reached out, Balin, looking younger than he had in decades, extending a hand and pulling him forward. “Death becomes yew!”

“Death becomes us all. Including you.” Dwalin started to look back over his shoulder, but Balin stopped him. “Nay, do not. You have spilled your ale all over your crotch!”

Dwalin turned around anyway. “Gud! Aye didn't spill it on the book!” He swung back towards his brother. “It's not t' firs' time!”

“And it won't be the last.” Much like he had when they were children, Balin took his brother by the hand and led him up the ray of light. “Our fathers wait for us, as does Thorin, Fili and Kili. As does Dis. Thorin could use your help.”

They rose higher.

“Wha' fer?”

“Fili and Kili. They died young dwarves. They are still and forever will be young dwarves!”

And even in death, Dwalin's laughter rang through the halls of Moria.


~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n
And it surely will catch up to him\r\n\r\n
TBC\r\n\r\n
~~~...~~~\r\n\r\n


Chapter 6 - Somewhere along the Line

The Wraith in the Mist\r\n\r\n
Epilogue \r\n\r\n
Somewhere along the line\r\n\r\n



972 years later.

“My Lord! King Durin! We found something!” 

Durin VII strode through the fallen rocks to the rotted doors of the burial chamber. The features of the sons of Durin was strong in this dwarf, nothing soft about him. Behind him, the sounds of excavating rang through the caverns. The Dwarves of Erebor were finally reclaiming their ancestral home. He looked into the chamber and stepped in. 

“Orcs!” He stepped up to the first skeleton that was more dust than bone. He gave the skull a mighty kick, sending it flying across the room. “Goblins!” By now, there were no longer orcs or goblins on earth, but the ancient tomes spoke of their evilness. He stepped up to the tomb. A thick layer of dust covered the crypt and he held his breath as he wiped it off.

“Balin. Son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.” A gasp rose behind him as he spoke the words aloud. “Mahal's Beard. You did live and breathe. The tales and myths are true.” He slowly strode around the sarcophagus, stopping to look long at Ori, a broken slingshot in his lap. The wood had petrified, the sling, long rotted away, giving the weapon a more sinister look. “Why would a dwarf be armed with only a slingshot?” He moved on down, finding another body at the foot of the tomb. There was an ancient, delicate leather bound book in his hands, an over-turned bottle by his side. “I believe our friend here went out a much happier dwarf than when he came in.” He squatted down and gently pried the book from the skeleton's hands. 

Setting it gently on the tomb, he squinted, reading the last few pages. With a sad smile, he leaned over to address the body. “Well done, Dwalin, son of Fundin, brother of Balin and friend to Thorin Oakenshield. Rest well in the Halls of our Fathers. I look forward to meeting you and our legendary kin at a much later time.” He shut the book and picking it up, careful as to not damage it, he called his guard to him. “Find Frerin! I have a book for him to transcribe!” The guards followed him through the doors. “Seal this door, seal the cavern. It is a holy place, a resting place for honored dwarves. Let them sleep.” 

And with that, Durin VII, left the chamber and never looked back.

Fini\r\n\r\n
Began 041616\r\n\r\n
Finished 081716\r\n\r\n
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Printed from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) on Sat Nov 14, 2026 7:16 pm