The hall was dark except for the braziers lining the sides. The mountains were dark indeed. Slowly. Step by step, the three short figures approached throne on the far end of the hall. The shortest one looked like he had seen better days. His face was blue and he walked with a limp. The two others had a firm grip on his arms and half dragged, half stabilized the hobbit. The two dwarves threw him in front of the golden monstrosity that some would call beautiful. On it sat a rather large dwarf, whose hair was as black as the hall in which he sat.
"Who be ye, and what be yer business in my kingdom under the mountain?" the large dwarf growled at him.
"My name is Tolman, sir, Tolman Gamgee, son of Samwise Gamgee and I'm looking for my pony."
The dwarf scoffed, "Ponies, the only good one is on a plate." The guards snickered at the very lame joke.
"Very well, I will help you look or your beast, but only for something in return. You must tell me a tale or sing me a song of great magnificence before I let you pass through my kingdom.
Tolman thought deeply, he knew many a good tale, his father had told him stories about the Great War, and the story of the one ring. He had visited the library at Tuckborough many times and had read about the first age and the war of the Noldor. But one song stood out in his memory, a song his father had taught him, the song of Durin's awakening.
Tolman started slowly
The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head
Tolman continued with more confidence
The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall.
Of mighty kings of Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away;
The world was fair in Durin's Day.
A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for ever fair and bright.
There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote,
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built,
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard.
Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang
And at the gates the trumpets rang.
The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls,
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.
The fat dwarf sat silently on his throne, looking down on the young hobbit. A sniff came from the guards. The lip of the big boss dwarf was quivering like an arrow shaft in a tree. All of a sudden he fell on his knees on the ground and started bawling.
"You may pass" the dwarf said between sobs.
Tolman smiled and turned back toward the cave entrance. He had not yet progressed in finding his pony, but he now had a friend to lean on when the time was necessary.