No Other Choice

“Gloin!”

An unfamiliar voice echoed the name through the hall of the Lonely Mountain. Gloin looked up from his desk to see the door to his study thrown open by Thranduil Orophinion, followed by several very flustered dwarves. The elvenkings’s face was a shade of red Gloin had seldom seen, even in jewels. He might have been angry at the interruption if the picture presented before him had not been so amusing.

“What is this?” Thranduil shook a scroll at him.

The dwarf rose and inspected the parchment. “I assure you, I do not know. Please, enlighten me.”

“My son does not return from Imladris. He sends word that he will follow the ringbearer to Mordor!”

Gloin fingered the scroll in puzzlement. “I do not understand,” the dwarf shook his head. “It was not mentioned in the plans at the council.”

“He goes with your son!”

Gloin paled, slumping back into his chair. “ ’Tis true then.”

“Yes. Now what choice do we have but to ally our forces to keep the eye turned away, if we are to ever see our sons again?”

The dwarf paused. “I see none.”

“Then, tell me,” Thranduil sighed. “What path do they take?”