Here it is! Another oddity brought to you by Starknight. This was written, before/during the beginning of "Storm Wind" as my attempt at portraying Gimli as a character and sorting out the history of the dwarves, I've done my best to be accurate to what I read in the appendices (according to the dictionary 'appendices' and 'appendixes' are both correct, for those of you keeping tabs on the typos, given the complaints I tend to get for errors along that line, I thought I'd clarify), but some I had to guess at so be kind please.
It's kind of useful for any of you who haven't read much about the dwarves yet...
Gimli son of Glóin sat in the darkness, already a thick cloud of smoke hung about the store room's ceiling. It was almost as if he was again deep within the caves of his people, beneath the smoke of the forges that never truly cooled.
He could not stay the grief that rose within him. A single tear made its way down his seamed face. At least here the elf surely would not see. He could not quite imagine the impeccably clean elf making his way through the depths of Minas Tirith's many corridors buried deep in the rock.
He was not entirely sure what he mourned, but something had died that day on the fields before the black gate. It was indeed a new dawn and with it brought a new world, but this world was not his and his kind had no place within it.
Today was the day of men. For all Aragorn's words this day was not meant for elves and dwarves, perhaps not even for the hobbits who had sacrificed so much for this dawn.
At least the elves could reassure themselves that across the say they would remain ever keeping with them the memories of the world that had long since faded away. But what of the dwarves? They would fade as well, until the caves deep within the mountains would grow quiet and cold. All through the land the homes of dwarves would become as still and as tainted as Moria.
Gimli's grip tightened on his pipe stem, the war had been for naught at least for the dwarves. Whether by the shadow of Sauron's rule or by the bright progress of men they would be swept from the land, recorded in the history books until even they faded from all time, taking with them the secretive race who had so long guarded the treasures beneath the surface of Middle Earth.
For them there would be no new dawn, only the twilight of a race disappearing, of a people, a land, a way of life, disappearing. He hung his head, loosening his grip as he felt the wood of his pipe strain.
For as he had told Éowyn, there were few dwarf women. The numbers of dwarves were yet few even upon this day so long after the Battle of Azanulbizar. Gimli had heard those tales while still young. Even the elves remembered the pillars of smoke that rose high that day, darkening the pale sky, painting it dark in mourning. That day even those who dwelt in the fastness of Lorien felt the sorrow of the dwarves.
The flame of battle had licked at the feet of the warriors. Dirty painted Orcs swelled over the ground in wave upon wave, taking a few each time, a brother, a father, a friend; names upon the list of 'burned dwarves'. At the end all had been thankful for the silence, a quiet breath, the time to remember happier days, time to remember that not all the earth was a scorched and barren ruin.
Yet the flames had again burned upon that blood soaked earth, for the fallen warriors upon that field there would be no tomb of stone, no long sleep. Gimli snorted, much like the crazed Steward, but here there was pride and hope unbowed by despair. There had been no treasure and no victory celebration over the fallen Azog, but the morning light had still come, banishing the Orc hoards and the gritty taste of death and battle.
But there had been a new dawn from that day of blood and flame. Deep in the caves there was no smoky reminder of that death, and the winds of Middle Earth soon spread that dark cloud far and wide to the ends of the world. So that only the dwarves and the elves remembered and only the dwarves understood.
For the dwarves the great battle had been fought. There had been no victor that day before the gates of Moria. The Orc leader was slain, the dwarves avenged, but the home for which they had fought was gone, lost forever to the flames above and the flaming shadow that waited below. A home now steeped in evil, no longer the shining crown of the dwarven race. Not even the warrior leader Thráin, Durin's Heir could bring them to stay in Khazad-dûm.
His people spoke to him, reminding him of their purpose, "We fought this war for vengeance and vengeance we have taken." And so was ended the battle the dwarves fought to hold to the earth they loved.
Gandalf had accused them of greed, delving so deeply into the mountain's heart, but it was not for greed they fought and died that day. But despite their glory in battle, despite throwing down the evil that had cost them so much the price was more than the dwarves could pay. Ever slow to bring children to the world they could not long survive the poverty and slaughter wreaked upon them.
The Lonely Mountain at least stood as a single bastion against the encroaching night. There the dwarves lived as they once had, shaped beautiful creations from the bones of the earth and its many bounties.
Long had been their battle, long had been their heartache. Gimli felt the familiar longing in his heart to hold again the tools of his people's craft, to lose himself in the shaping of a treasure. But such could not be done here.
Outside the white walls Orcs and Uruk-hai still roamed and the Age of Man was yet in its infancy. Duty and the bindings of friendship held him here. Gimli drew himself to his feet, trying futilely to wipe from his hands the dust of the forgotten room.
He should really tell Aragorn about the many passageways and vaults beneath his citadel that had not felt the tread of a man's foot for many a year. That of course though could wait for another day. After all, the man was busy; he had the beginning of an entire age to see to.
The fears of a single dwarf could wait. Gimli drew a deep breath, running his thumb along the wide smooth edge of his axe, always careful for it remained dangerously sharp even after its many battles.
He closed his eyes, again feeling its heavy weight in his hands as it had been upon the field of battle. It tugged at him as he swung, hewing down the Orc before him. His heavy armor protected him from the return stroke of its fellow, a blow that would have felled an elf, he reminded himself with pride.
Though that was something he hoped his elven friend avoided. A glance at the elf in question reassured him as Legolas drew back his hand, firing another arrow, counting under his breath.
"Twenty-one...twenty-two."
Gimli grinned, as the tides of battle swept them apart and the hatred that was part of him and his race again filled him. He swept his blade down, to take another Orc from the fray. His twenty-third, only several thousand to go. Gimli smiled. This could be fun.
But after the battle things were not so simple. Gimli opened his eyes, wishing he could leave behind his musings, wishing he could forget his fear of the rising sun. His fear of what that new age would finally bring.
Gimli paused for a moment in the darkness of the hall, deep within the earth he loved, and spoke, his words echoing down the long passageways, unheard by those to whom he spoke, Rayâd Khazâd mernak sigin, Mernak Mabazgân.
Author's Note:
Please be kind with my dwarvish, I spent hours researching that and I know my grammar is terrible. It comes to you courtesy of: Daniel Reeve, David Salo, Helge Kåre Fauskanger, Ryszard Derdzinski, who did a lot of hard work and then kindly shared it with the rest of us via the Internet.
The translation of the above dwarvish is roughly: "Heirs of dwarves remember long, Remember the Dead," the last bit being a direct quote from the walls of the room where Balin is buried.
I hope you enjoyed and I hope I didn't make too many errors waves flame proof shield Just in case!