Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
The Book of Durin
Historian's Note: This manuscript is a direct translation from notes written during interviews with Durin VII. Due to the multiple languages common among the dwarrow, some explanation is needed. The historically common spoken language of each race is denoted by the standard "speaker marks", spoken Khuzdul with "bold within speaker marks" (when different from the regularly spoken language of the time) and the sign language Iglishmêk with 'single speaker marks'. Except for unique place and proper names, all racial languages have been translated to Common Westron. Text that takes place in the present time is in italics, and marked with the countdown to Durin's Day.
This is a continuation of the translated tales of the Durins, which was begun with the Legend of Durin and Legend of Durin II: Return to Khazad-dûm. It is not necessary to read those manuscripts, though familiarity with them would be helpful. For non-dwarrow readers unversed in Middle Earth history, the following guide is given for the lives of the seven Durins.
Durin I (the Deathless) – Early First Age to about 590
He vanished in the final battle against Morgoth, presumed slain, though a body was never located.
Durin II (the Mithril Lord) – Second Age 600 to Second Age 1421
Thrice great-grandson of Durin I
Aid Frér (1329-1421)
Durin III (the Elf Friend) – Second Age 1227 to Second Age 1821
Grandson of Durin II
Given the Greatest Ring of the Seven by Celebrimbor
Durin IV (the Iron Hand) – Second Age 3277 to Third Age 233
Led the Khazad through the Last Alliance and the defeat of Sauron
Durin V (the Wise) – Third Age 1159 to Third Age 1829
Murdered by his son (Durin VI) over leadership of Khazad-dûm
Durin VI (the Fallen) – Third Age 1731 to Third Age 1980
Killed by the Balrog his greed had awoken beneath Khazad-dûm
Durin VII (the Last) – Third Age 2746 to Third Age 2941 / Fourth Age 1 to Present
Originally called Thorin Oakenshield (though this is becoming little known throughout the non-Khazad kingdoms)
Killed at the Battle of the Five Armies and revived after the Fall of Sauron through the power of the Arkenstone
-Ori I, Ancient LoreKeeper of Khazad-dûm
-Ori II, Son of Nori, Scribe of Erebor
Fourth Age, 21
Seven years after the War Under the Mountains, the Retaking of Khazad-dûm
Fourteen Days before Durin's Day
Chapter 1: When Durin awoke and walked alone
Thorin Oakenshield, now known to most as Durin VII, watched the preparations below in both excited anticipation and nervousness. Seven years… Had it already been so long that he ruled here, in the ancient kingdom of Khazad-dûm? It seemed mere weeks ago that the final battle with the cult had been waged, leaving only the remnants to be found and destroyed after their leader fell; Frérin, his own brother, thought lost long ago in the last battle of the Dwarf-Orc Wars, but captured and tainted instead, twisted into a foul caricature of his former self. History, at least, would record only that the cult leader Naragal fell here, the foul name he had taken among his followers, and that the younger exiled prince of Erebor was burned many years earlier, ashes scattered with honor in the Kheled-zâram. The few who knew otherwise would never speak of it lest they bring down the wrath of Durin upon themselves. All that, however, did not stop the hurt as Thorin's hand worried at a scar in the stone balcony rail where a weapon had bounced off it in that horrific battle.
"You're stewing again."
That blunt assessment brought a slight mocking smile to Thorin's lips as he turned to greet one of only two dwarrow regularly in the city who could speak to him in such a way.
"And do I not have cause? Seven years, my friend, and in a few weeks it could all be undone if the other families withdraw their support for my rule."
"You know better than I how seldom such a thing has happened in our history. Let alone to one of the Durins. Few could have done as much as you in so short a time, restoring so much of a city left to ruin for over a thousand years. I think that the only one who doubts your abilities is yourself, Thorin."
There was a sharp note of anger and disgust in the warrior's tone, making Thorin turn to fully face him. Einarr met his gaze fearlessly, showing none of the submission the other's rank would normally require. Dwarrow did not easily bow to any, even those who had their respect, a directness that some among the other races misunderstood, though all would give way to Durin Returned. Whether he required it or not was a sign of how much in the king's favor the other was, and how absolute his rule.
"Is that why Dwalin sent you up here instead of coming himself? Because he does not wish to listen to my worries again?"
Einarr snorted, rolling his eyes as he joined his king at the rail.
"No, he did not trust himself not to hit you if you started up again. Besides, the stairs are hard upon creaky old bones."
That, at least, earned a laugh from Thorin.
"I dare you to say such a thing within his hearing, and find out how decrepit he truly is when he comes after you with his axes! His brother, Balin, too, was often mistaken by foes as being too old to effectively fight. Most did not live long enough to regret that miscalculation."
Balin, who had reigned in Moria for so short a time; who should have stood at Thorin's right hand when the crown at last rested upon his head. Instead, his oldest friend and mentor slept in a stone tomb in one of the rooms above them, unable to even rest with his ancestors when he had fallen, for the deeps had still been controlled by orcs, trolls, and goblins. Thorin had chosen not to move the tomb, allowing it to serve as a memorial not only to Balin, but to all who fell with him and whose bodies were never recovered during Moria's endless years of darkness. He could only hope that the older dwarf understood and approved. Thorin did not realize how long the silence had stretched until Einarr clapped a hand on his shoulder, startling him from the growing gloom.
"Come, if all you can do is stand here and chip at problems that do not exist, then walk with me."
"I was informed most respectfully that my presence would better serve elsewhere than in the center of the preparations for the celebrations."
Thorin told the other drily, still a bit miffed at his steward's careful dismissal of the royal person. Apparently, he had been more of a hindrance with his suggestions than a help. The problem was that almost all of the kingdom was in the middle of such things, with guests already starting to arrive to celebrate his rule, so there was nowhere for him to go. Even his study had been appropriated as the main planning room. For something being held in his honor, he felt distinctly left out!
"I can imagine." Einarr chuckled, not bothering to hide his own exasperation with Mikr. The Stonefoots tended to be fussy to a fault sometimes, and one trained to oversee the day to day operations of a kingdom was the worst of the lot. "Some of the children have been asking about the festivities. They do not understand how you could be king for seven years, and yet the other Families could still vote against you. Nor why Durin's Day is so important."
Thorin's eyebrow shot up as he descended the stairs and cut across the secondary hall before heading for the learning room.
"You wish me to spend my time telling stories to children?"
Einarr shrugged as Dwalin fell in step with them, Thorin's shield brother answering in his stead.
"You've got nothin' else with the normal meetings and such all cancelled for the celebrations. Besides, what better time is there to speak of Durin?"
"Or better person?"
Einarr murmured, ducking from Thorin's reflexive elbow.
Years of the Trees, prior to the First Age, about year 1105
Durin woke alone, long before the awakening of the first men in Middle Earth marked the beginning of the First Age, but after the elves were well established, as Illuvatar was a jealous creator, allowing none to come before his beings of light. There was as yet no day or night, a long twilight shrouding the misty lands as unseen hands shaped the world to be, drawing up mountains in one realm only to lay them flat in another. Eventually, however, the Valar were pleased with what had been brought about and stayed their hand, allowing plant life to flourish. Trees grew and soon animals both large and small wandered in the twilight realm of the elves. That is, until a new footstep was heard, heavy and solid, unlike the almost ethereal scamper of the Firstborn. The being who emerged from the shadows of Mount Gundabad was nothing they had seen before, that much was certain, for Mahal had grown jealous of Illuvatar's elves. His creation was nothing like that of his elder brother, being of the earth; of metal, stone, and water instead of the stars, wind and light.
Durin was tall, over five foot, with long hair as black as the darkness from which his race had come, and eyes as blue as sapphires. Behind him was a vast chamber of carven stone, beautiful in the simplicity of its lines and gleaming columns, yet deceptive in the wealth hidden behind those stone walls. In time, Mahal taught Durin how to unearth such treasures, guiding his hands in the first fumbling steps of forging or shaping each new material. Mahal, however, wished to create others so that Durin would not be alone and left, sending two of his servants, Maia called Mairon and Curumo, to educate Durin further.
Some years later, Mahal returned and told him of others like him, but none could truly rival Durin. Unlike Gundabad, the materials Mahal found in the far west and east were plentiful, but flawed. He could not teach them all that Durin had so easily mastered, instead giving each of his six new creations only a single piece of the whole. At this news, Mairon had sneered, saying that without perfection, there was not a purpose to their existence, but Mahal gently chided his servant, sending him back to the Undying Lands without further thought, a mistake that would cost Middle Earth dearly in the years to come.
Far to the southeast, where mountains smoked with un-quenching fire, was Blacklock, so called for his dusky skin and hair the color of coal, the rock from which he was forged. It was to his eyes and those of his kin that Mahal gave the visions of what might be, and the ability to read the signs all around them, for they would one day live upon the threshold of the enemy. Blacklock learned to delve deep within the stone, shaping and guiding, hiding and protecting, making doors that not even other dwarrow could detect unless he wished it so. He became a jealous father, holding fast to his people and all that they discovered, sharing only grudgingly. These dark dwarrow learned to rely only upon themselves, looking upon all others with suspicion, intolerant even of the differences in their own.
With him was Stonefoot, whose boot steps could quake the very mountains, exposing the value hidden within, though it took long to convince Blacklock of that. Driven together by need, they began to forge crude iron, beating back the wilderness and teaching the great wolves to fear their might. Their weapons were crude, for it was not to them that the mastery of the forge was given. Food was scarce, a land of predators in which the weak did not long survive, and so both dwarrow fathers learned to value strength above all else. It was a hard existence, unforgiving, but they held fast, wresting every drop of usable metal that they could from the earth, comfortable, but never rich. At least, until a darker power cast an endless shadow upon their lands, driving them deep into the mountains where few could find their hidden strongholds.
To their north, in the ice and cold of the endless grey ridges, came Ironfist, with strength unmatched in his mighty fists. To him was revealed the tactics of war, creating machines of destruction and holding off the enemy. This included the use of flax to create tough clothing suitable for their harsh environment and powders that flashed and exploded when exposed to flame. And Ironfist soon had need of these lessons for he was paired with Stiffbeard, whose mastery was shaping the gems of the earth until they sparkled like the great icicles on the mountain above. So great were their riches, however, that they had reason to fear the envy of Stonefoot and Blacklock. War erupted in the east as the dwarrow fought for supremacy, splitting north and south in jealousy and hatred.
Displeased, Mahal turned then to the west, where material was not as plentiful, but also perhaps not so deeply flawed. From Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, came Firebeard, beard and temper blazing as he woke with a roar. So great was the noise that the elves who had settled to the south feared some fell beast of evil sorcery had awoken. Fearful of Melkor's treachery, they ventured forth with arrows already set to bow string, firing at the first sight of a strange, squat hairy creature. This angered Firebeard greatly and he also attacked upon sight of the tall, gangly, pale hunters. So it was that the First and Second born avoided one another in fearful secrecy for many years, killing one another without remorse or thought.
Fourth Age, 21
Fourteen Days before Durin's Day
Thorin Oakenshield, known as Durin VII, paused in his recitation of the ancient tale, gazing around at his audience. The little ones were wrapped up in their attention to the story, of course, but even the adults behind them had stopped their whispered conversations, eyes locked upon the teller.
How different might their relations with the elves had been had it not started with such fear? It did not help that the few dwarrow bold enough to come near the elves in the next uncounted years were those cast out and cursed by a jealous and enraged Blacklock, reduced to little more than animals. It was to the everlasting shame of the race that the so-called petty dwarves had existed at all, let alone set the tone for the relations with the elves. That, however, was a tale for a different time, especially as even Durin knew only what his eastern brothers had told him of their original crimes, much of which he suspected was not true.
And speaking of truth, would any in the room believe him if he spoke the words of the actual first meeting between Durin and Firebeard, blazing to life in his mind as if it were yesterday?
A roar woke Durin from slumber one day, and his hand tightened instinctively about his ax as he hauled himself to his feet, making his way through the empty halls to the door leading from the mountain. Mahal had warned him that company was coming, but had refused further details, leaving the dwarf wary. From the west came a giant of a dwarf, red beard and hair bristling like fire. Firebeard, the second of the dwarf fathers, and his wife, whose braids gleamed with citrine and ruby.
"Ho, Brother! Care for a dice game? How about a little wager? And ale! I have a fresh keg."
Durin was intrigued, welcoming them with fresh venison and crisp red apples, but was puzzled by his brother's talk of money and wagers.
"What are dice? And what is a wager?"
Firebeard grinned, letting out a booming laugh as he threw a small, clinking leather pouch onto the table and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation.
"Let me show you."
One corner of Thorin's mouth quirked up as he suppressed a snort. No, best not to upset the more conservative of his councilors any more than he already had. With a mental sigh, he resumed the tale in the proper traditional form, though the first sentence he uttered would not be found upon any dwarrow scroll.
Years of the Trees, about 1250
This was to the detriment of both races, for to Firebeard was given the mastery of fire, making it burn hot and true in the forges of those he called brother. Gold and silver, iron and copper, all called to him, allowing him to twist and shape them to whatever his mind could conceive of, even mocking the intricate designs of his elven neighbors. He would often leave these trinkets where the tall, pointy-eared beings were sure to find them, then watched, laughing, as they tried in vain to puzzle out the origins of the pieces. After all, the primitive, hairy creatures that the elves sometimes hunted for sport could certainly never create such wonders! It was only the elves' shaping of the sparkling stones that he could not match, though they called to him in a voice that would have consequences for both races even Blacklock did not foresee.
With him, of course, was Broadbeam, strong and quick of mind. It was he who knew where to find the metals Firebeard needed and how to coax them from the earth without the fearful collapses suffered by others, making complex machines that groaned and moved seemingly on their own. Not content with such mundane tasks, however, Broadbeam was an experimenter, never tiring of twisting and mixing, coaxing and testing the very limits of the metals. It was he who found the methods by which weapons were made stronger and lighter, holding their edge long after others had become useless.
Then Mahal spoke to them, urging them to meet with their four brothers from the east, to aid them in laying aside their enmity and prosper together. So the first dwarrow laws were laid down, tradition and form blunting the deep rage of the earth born, who, like the stone, would not easily give way. Together, the six held a mastery of the wealth of the earth and its forging that was unequalled. Or so they, in their arrogance, assumed. They were soon joined by six dwarrowdams, sturdy and strong, but fairer of face and voice, a gift from Yavanna to Mahal, that this race he had forged might grow and prosper. But all overlooked the one who woke first and alone, deep under the spine of the world, at Gundabad.
Durin.
In him was all the skill and wisdom of his brothers combined, should he but learn to unlock it. To do this, however, he stayed apart from them some years, craving the solitude so that he might hear the words of the mountains and learn the secrets of the stone. In the endless twilight that was the Years of the Trees, time had little meaning to the mighty smith as he forged and shaped, mined and studied the crystals as they grew.
Finally, however, he knew that it was time when others besides his brothers began to find their way to him, cast out by other dwarrow for one perceived transgression or another. The misfits and misunderstood, the imperfect, and those who needed only a firm hand to find their way to a better life's path, these came searching in ones, twos and threes, drawn by the tales of the Father who lived alone, making such wondrous items. Unlike the other Fathers, he welcomed them, sitting many a night in the halls of Gundabad and listening to their tales, learning what they were skilled at and where their weaknesses lie. As he had spent so many years alone, so he understood their own sorrows, welcoming where others scorned. Some had lost limbs to various accidents, while others were born different, with skills or looks that were un-dwarrow. Some just could not live where they were, the abused and broken.
Durin took them all in with but one firm rule- do not judge. He knew that Mahal had not been able to make him a dwarrowdam, so if he wished a people of his own, they would be created from the cast-offs of his younger brothers. He, being complete, did not become jealous or fear the differences of others; they were not a threat to him. He gathered them all, instead, combining dwarrow like raw materials in ways not even Broadbeam's clever mind could follow.
When his brothers heard the news, they scoffed, making their way north to Gundabad to see this disaster for themselves. What they found both awed and angered them, and they lashed out at Durin, trying to shame him into changing his plan.
"You cannot make a people out of such slag and impure material, brother!" Blacklock warned, shaking his head as a sneer twisted his lips, deliberately tripping the clubfooted dwarrowdam who brought ale to them. "Surely, if you are that desperate to begin your own kingdom, we could spare a few of our own to aid you."
Durin snorted, resisting the temptation to roll his eyes at his brother even as he stepped between the other dwarf and the dam.
"Oh? And who would you give me? Those who would spy upon my doings and sell my secrets, as they do in the other kingdoms? Warriors who will wait to seize what is not theirs the moment my back is turned? No, brother, I do not need that kind of help."
Face darkening with anger, Blacklock swept from the halls with his entourage so quickly that he did not notice that his youngest daughter, shyly pressed against the wall, did not come with. Scowling, Durin caught the eye of the dam who had been serving them, receiving a nod in reply. The girl would be looked after if she chose to stay. Stonefoot, the quietest of the brothers, shook his head sorrowfully, but soon clomped away as well. Firebeard scowled, letting out a bark of mocking laughter.
"My beard will be long indeed, brother, before your kingdom prospers with such as these as its base."