"I... remember the hours leading up to it. I remember them quite well. We
were anxious, of course. The one time we did stop that day... there was an
overcast sky, but I could see the sun just peaking through the clouds.
And... I could have sworn it was shining down just for us. This is it, I
thought. This is our moment. It was as if I was a small lad all over
again..."
- Garan of Erebor
------------------
The group of dwarves had marched long through that barren red wasteland that led to their ancient home. Garan led the way, his one good eye darting this way and that. It was the only way one could discern his anxiety, for his strides were even, and his bearded face impassive. They kept silent all the way, and upon that empty plain, there was only the sound of their steady march.
The first major landmark they came across was the dried up riverbed that was once Kibil-nala... the Silverlode. Had any of them been trying not to think of the task at hand, it would have been driven home to them right there where it was they were headed, and what they were out to do. But none of them were trying to ignore it. They were focused on it entirely, and it consumed them to the point where they could scarcely remember anything else.
And so they followed the riverbed, followed it until they came upon where it had been dammed up... at what had once been the Stair Falls. Down they looked upon Kheled-Zaram, the Mirrormere, dark and imposing as ever, even as the reflection of the setting sun shone up at them. The walls of the mountains were cold and gray... and somewhere among them lied the entrance to Khazad-dum.
"We wait here until the moon rises." Garan spoke this quietly, so as not to disturb this hollowed ground... this holy ground. His heart was trembling, besides. He could not have mustered his normal drill-sergeant growl, even if he had tried. He glanced towards the sky... thankfully the clouds had cleared. The moonlight would fall upon the wall unimpeded.
And so they waited.
------------------
"Khazad-dum... I suppose, if there is one thing my people have ever truly come to fear... it would be those mines. They were always a deathtrap for us, pure and simple. Yet they kept us coming back, despite our fear. The allure of mithril... the promise of restoring them to their former majesty... the desire for vengeance. We were pulled in once again, and we could only hope that this time we succeeded. I, personally, was more afraid than hopeful, and I have never been ashamed to admit it. I'm sure many of those brave fellows that went there first with Garan would agree with me."
- Grolin of Lindon
------------------
The moon was taking its time in rising, and the troops grew impatient, two dozen gazes resting collectively upon that wall. Their initial awe of the surrounding area had by now worn off, and now it appeared to them altogether bleak. Garan finally broke the long-standing silence and spoke, his voice possessing a quiet passion to it, forcing them all to turn their eyes away from the wall and upon him.
"The place we are about to enter is not Khazad-dum."
Their gazes silently questioned him.
"It is Rakhas-dum."
'Rakhas'... the Khuzdul word for 'orcs'. At its mere use the dwarves' hearts blazed with fury. And that what Garan wanted... to inspire them.
"We owe it to our people to take them back, and restore to them their proper name. We owe it to all that have come before us to these mines. To the memory of Thror, whom Azog slew within these walls. To the memory of Balin, whose Second Colony collapsed after a scant five years of existance. To the memory of Nain and the countless others that fell in this very valley, Azanulbizar," his voice had steadily driven ever upward, and now it hit its peak, his voice very nearly sputtering with emotion, "To Durin himself!"
There was a pause, and Garan regained his composure.
"And... we all know what we owe to the Rakhas of themselves. We owe them pain. We owe them suffering. We owe them death. They have certainly given us enough of such things... it is long since time they were given their fair share of it!"
His men bellowed their assent, and beat the ends of their axe handles against the ground repeatedly in a sort of applause.
Garan continued.
"This is where our past of failure ends, and our future of success begins. This is history. And you are all well-prepared to take part in it. Now. Let us begin this campaign." He rose to his full height then, only four feet and seven inches. Yet as he stood there, the now-risen moon casting its light upon his back, he appeared twice his size to them, indeed, taller than anything they had ever seen.
"Behold. The door is in sight, now," Garan nodded down into the valley, and they followed his gaze, seeing his words to be true. "Follow me."
And with that, he began the march down.
------------------
"It was a childish thought... but as we marched down, I kept worrying that the Watcher In The Water was going to spring up from the lake and swallow us all. That was always a tale my grandfather used to tell me as a lad just to spook me. And he always said when I misbehaved: 'Keep that up and I'll feed ya to the Watcher In The Water!' That would stop me in my tracks, let me tell you!
At any rate... I very well knew that it had long since been slain, but it was still in the back of my mind. I was trying to be tough, for Garan had just given the greatest speech I've ever laid ears on, and I knew I had to be brave for this. I thought I was the only one who was even the least bit afraid, but I asked some of the others afterwards, and they told me that they had been scared, too. Guess we all separately thought that we were the only ones afraid..."
- Drukin of Erebor
------------------
Garan stood before the now visible outline of the door. His troops were gathered behind him, several of them with torches, all of them grim of face. The moment had come. He could feel the weight of ages on his shoulder, the weight born by all those that had come before. The design of the door was beautiful and intricate, and he would have normally taken the time to appreciate it. But he was already looking past it, into the mines ahead.
He took a breath.
And in Khuzdul (the language which he and the others would speak from then on) he barked: "Friend."
The password, of course, was common knowledge. "Speak 'friend' and enter."
They were all reminded of the innocence of those times... it was almost quaint, especially when one looked at the history that followed them. The doors parted slowly for them, and soon they were open wide, allowing them all to stare into what must have been pure darkness. There was the briefest of moments where they just stood, their eyes trying to discern something within. And then, wordlessly, Garan plunged himself into the darkness, the first dwarf of this newest campaign to enter the mines. The others followed swiftly, without any battlecry, for their assignment was simply to fortify to the Western Stair, not to alert the entire mines to their presence.
Outside, Kheled-Zaram was as silent as the tomb which the soldiers had now entered. One of those dwarves would later say that he felt all the gazes of the spirits of those slain in Azanulbizar on his back, pushing him forward, and heard their voices upon the wind, wishing him luck.
---
"Garan told us that the stair we were on had been one of the several 'side' entrances to Khazad-dum. We had all assumed it was the Western Gate itself, but we were proven wrong. It led us to a decent-sized room, one with enough room for all of us. It was connected to the rest of the mines only by a creaky old door. That led to the Western Stair, which, of course, led down to the Western Gate. It must have been a storage room, the one we were in, and it was probably best suited to our purposes. We were just here to check the place out. Our number was small, but that made it easier to avoid detection.
We got situated, first and foremost, and were gladdened to see this small area had gone untainted by the Greenskins. Our guess was that they didn't often get this close to the exits... their numbers were probably greatest at the mines' heart. The job done on this store room alone, as well as the stairs that led up to it, was amazing, despite their advancing age. I remember thinking: if this simple room is so finely made, what wonders await us further on in the mines? But, of course, we had a job to do, and my thoughts were abandoned.
I was among the first ten sent out into the mines, to give the immediate area a look over. It was deathly silent in there, save for the sounds of our mail, and pitch black, save for the torch light we moved by. Yet I swore at times that I heard something from somewhere deeper in the mines...
First we doubled back towards the Western Gate and made sure the Stair was safe. I wanted to take a moment to stop and give them a look over, but there was always that half-formed fear in you, that something could spring out of the darkness at any moment. But the Stair was clear, and we turned back East, towards the Heart of Khazad-dum. In we marched.
Those halls were amazing, despite some evidence of the Greenskin presence. I just had to draw my breath in, and do my best not to gaze up towards the ceiling... I had to focus on the job at hand. All the while I was nervous... itching for something to happen... but Garan, who was with us, had already told us we were weren't going to over-extend ourselves in this. We were going to have to wait for reinforcements before we started seeking out confrontation. Finally, we came back to the base, having not seen any actual enemy, but having seen enough evidence of their presence.
I had trouble sleeping the first couple of nights. We slept in six hour shifts, which wasn't that bad. But it was usually dark in there... we didn't want to alert our presence, so we kept the torches out more often than not... and I always heard noises. Sometimes they seemed miles away, other times they seemed to be coming from right below us. Clinks and clanks and occasionally a yell or two. We were not alone.
Those sounds, especially not knowing what they were or where they were, always played tricks on your mind. I kept remembering all of the stories my grandfather used to tell, about terrible beasts that dwelt in the darkness, ones that I thought I had long since forgotten. I thought it was those monsters making the noises, I'm rather ashamed to admit it.
I always slept with one eye open, though I couldn't see much, and every hour I switched which one I kept shut. In this manner I got three hours of sleep out of the six I was provided. If I have never known fear as well as I did that first little while, and I was almost relieved when Garan told me to head back to Lindon to fetch our reinforcements.
I went with two other fellows, and at first we said nothing as we marched along. But finally we realized we could speak now, and we opened up, admitting our fears. Even throughout all that training we had done together, I had never felt as close to any of my comrades as I did then. We were united even more now than by cause or race. Going through all that together and discussing it gave us these ironclad ties to one another, and I doubt I shall ever possess the skill with words to describe them."
- Drukin of Erebor
---
"I nearly lost my mind, the first few nights in there..."
---
"I was part of the first group sent to the mines... unofficially second-in- command of it. We got there... and it felt like some great big vacation. We were laughing and joking... so were the guards that greeted us, practically. But Rhodim... our leader. He never so much as grinned to entire time. He understood the gravity those mines held better than any of us.
We were sent down to the second deep. The soldiers who had been working down there were getting tired. And you could see it on their faces. Blank. Pale. It was as if the mines had torn something away from them. It scared me. The whole place scared me. It felt like I was thousands of years and thousands of miles from my home. At least in the Northern Campaign... I had the stars to look at. They were an anchor for me... they were the same stars I gazed upon at home, you see. They were familiar. But down in those mines... there are no stars. It's just black... and dank... and it always smells like death. For awhile... I thought the mines were death... I thought they were death placed into a physical form. I wasn't too far off the mark, at the time, I don't think."
- Grolin of Lindon.
---
"Rhodim was killed the first night, and I was made leader of the group. My first expedition as leader, we walked into an ambush. Tharim... a close friend of mine, was killed. I wanted to really let out how I felt, but I knew I couldn't, not fully. I was the leader now, and I couldn't show weakness. I had to be tough. But it was there. It was eating away at me from the inside. That's the most terrible feeling in the world, you know. Wanting to scream and cry and get that pain out of your system... but knowing you can't. I wanted someone to take that burden away from me as leader, but I knew I had to hang tough until they arrived. It was hard. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do."
- Grolin of Lindon
---
"As the battles wore on, we became a closer group. We were like brothers. I mean, you train with a fellow for a few years, and then you go through things like the Northern Campaign and Khazad-dum together, enduring the pains of battle and the pains of loss... it brings you together. I would lay down my life for any of those fellows, no questions asked, just as much now as I would back then.
And it wasn't just a brotherhood... we were comrades. The camaraderie of soldiers, in my mind, is something stronger than brotherhood. It's something that's all the stronger because it's forged under life-and-death situations. There's nothing in this world that can compare with that. Nothing...
While we grew closer together, we were also growing up. Us younger fellows, at least. We were getting so much thrown at us in those mines... it was giving us experience, hardening us. There came a point when even the youngest lad in the group could be considered a veteran.
I am entirely convinced, that by the time the battle to retake the Main Hall came around, we were the perfect division. The best of all the combined armies of our people. We were trained from the start by Lord Nori, one of the most gifted fighters in the history of our people. And his replacement, Sturm, knew everything there was to being a soldier. Between the two of them, we were provided with the best training program that one could ever conceive. And through all of our experiences together, that bond that we all shared... we were unstoppable."
- Drali of Lindon
---
Wait. Sweat. Stare. Look. Wait. Run. Dodge. Slash. Kill. Run. Parry. Shove. Kill. Kill. Kill.
---
Grolin danced that bloody dance with his comrades. It was on a larger scale, this time. The whole Main Hall was engulfed in chaos. It became harder to recall the details... must've been the fever brought on by the poison in his blood. That damned Greenskin... and the dagger. If only it had known when to die...
---
He had fought with that poison running through his system, his heart pumping at an accelerated rate, spreading the toxin throughout his system. But Grolin had been taught to keep fighting, so long as he could stand. He didn't stop for anything, even his own well-being.
---
Drali grabbed him afterwards, ecstatic despite the fact that his dead comrades littered the ground, along with a disproportionate amount of the enemy.
"We took it! We took it!"
Grolin gazed upon his friend wearily. His vision was already blurred, and it became worse the harder he tried to focus. Drali was scowling now, but his face was already eroding away like sand before Grolin's eyes.
"Are you alright, there, Grolin?"
Grolin allowed his eyes to roll up into his skull, and he allowed himself to fall forward, right through Drali, who collapsed into a million tiny grains. Grolin fell... fell through the floor of the main hall, it too was little more than sand now... and down he went, tumbling into the inky depths of the mines.
He could've fallen for minutes... he could've fallen for days. The impact was a dull thump as he landed. Sand rained on him from above. A single shard of light was cast upon the floor before him. He stumbled to his feet.
The whispers began, dry voices, almost like dead leaves rustling together in the sound of his name:
"Grolin."
The first spectre approached him, its neck sliced wide open. Tharim.
"Grolin!"
The next came, a pike driven into its body just below the chest. It stuck out the other side. Dhor. The chant grew louder.
"GROLIN!"
A third arrived, its head crushed and mangled almost beyond recognition. But Grolin knew full well it was Rhodim.
"Grolin! Grolin! Grolin!"
Grolin spun this way, glanced the other, terrified, facing each in turn as they drew nearer.
He fell to his knees, shutting his eyes, and screaming as loud as he could. The scream echoed and reverberated throughout the chamber... throughout his mind.
The spectres shattered, shattered like glass, and collapsed before him as he continued to scream. Finally, he could scream no further, and slumped forward, exhausted.
When he finally opened his eyes... there were no spectres, and that shard of light on the floor had now expanded into a great pool. Within it stood a woman who could be no one other than Sari, dressed in white, her long hair flowing in some unseen breeze.
Grolin gasped, and crawled forward, wretchedly, reaching out towards her in desperation. He found words.
"Sari!"
With one last lunge, his hand made it into hers. But where his hand touched, her skin suddenly turned a deep green. The greeness spread before Grolin's eyes, up her arm. He could only watch, terrified.
The white clothes fell off, revealing the armor beneath. The hair withered and fell off her head to the ground. Scales covered her skin. Her eyes became red, as did the pool of light that surrounded them.
Grolin still clutched her hand, but now he could see that the other was holding a mace, raising it above her head.
"SARI! SARI! SARI!" Grolin howled.
The mace came down on his head, and with it a hundred tons of sand, burying Grolin, so that he couldn't see... so that he couldn't breath.
Grolin, entombed, despaired.
---
Grolin's recovery from the orcish poison was relatively quick. The hallucinations ended after one night, and the fever broke the next. Soon he was right back into the same routine: the boredom of standing guard, the hard and occasionally emotionally trying work of clearing conquered chambers of bodies, and then battles in the evening. A period of sleep, that always seemed inadequate in length, was shoved somewhere in the middle of that schedule.
The mines were beginning to oppress them, the walls closing in from all sides. At times, it did not feel like their home of old, not in the least. At times, it felt like an infernal prison, which they were sentenced to march through for the rest of their days. Indeed, the further they marched into the mines, the further it seemed they had to go.
For the most part, their camaraderie had stayed intact throughout all of this. But being trapped in those mines for months can both bring comrades together and drive them apart. In the case of Grolin's friends Drali and Forin, the mines were slowly turning them into mortal enemies. Forin had taken issue with some complaints Drali had made about the boredom between battles, calling him a whiner, and Drali had snapped back at him in anger, insulting Forin's fellow countrymen, the dwarves of the Iron Hills. It had taken an intervention by Grolin to prevent fisticuffs.
He knew the lot of them were going to have to talk things over, not just Drali and Forin, before these mines destroyed their group from the inside. But getting any of these proud soldiers to discuss anything beyond how many orcs they had slain would be a challenge in itself...
---
Sturm's leg was broken, shattered, practically, by the stomping foot of a massive troll. Domi the medic was quick to assess the situation: Sturm would likely be on the sidelines for the rest of the campaign. This news could have crushed the division... but Grolin wouldn't let it. Named the unit's new commander by Sturm, he immediately took charge, resolving the Drali and Forin feud in the first full day of his command. The authoritative force behind every order he gave forced his troops to comply. It seemed Grolin was finally stepping into his roll as a leader of the group... in a major way.
Sturm could only watch from his cot and smile softly to himself as he watched Grolin go about his business. It was clear where he picked up that drill sergeant's bark, which he used to send soldiers scuttling to their posts... it was unmistakably plucked straight from the lungs of the old Goldenhand himself. And that was what Sturm saw when he looked upon Grolin: a younger version of Lord Nori. As Sturm told the lad after he got Forin and Drali to make up: it wasn't potential that Grolin had anymore. He had delivered on all of his promise.
---
"The final night of battles. it was their last stand. But we crushed them. We could smell the other side of the mines. We had the numbers. And we had the desire for vengeance. That's all I ran on during the campaign. Adrenaline and bloodlust. The two most powerful ingredients in the world."
- Boril Beastrider of the Iron Hills
---
"The deed was done. The orcs were slain. It was a time of celebration. After the final battle... we paraded away, cheering and patting one another on the back, leaving the bodies of the orcs and our comrades behind... for disposal at a later time. It summed up the campaign entirely. We all chose to see the positive aspect of it, most of us, anyway. We all knew about and felt the pain of the losses that we had suffered, but we kept it hidden in us, we kept it behind us.
I love these mines, today more than ever. But at the same time, I hate them. I hate them more than anything for all they've taken from me, and from our people. I think its a feeling all of us who fought in that campaign now share. While you younger folk can only view this place with adoration, my generation may never know what to think of it. It gave to us, and it took away from us at the same time. Not all of you younger lads know how much blood was spilt to take these mines back. But I'm glad that you, at least, have taken the time to find out, my son."
- Grolin Headsplitter of Khazad-dum
- Garan of Erebor
------------------
The group of dwarves had marched long through that barren red wasteland that led to their ancient home. Garan led the way, his one good eye darting this way and that. It was the only way one could discern his anxiety, for his strides were even, and his bearded face impassive. They kept silent all the way, and upon that empty plain, there was only the sound of their steady march.
The first major landmark they came across was the dried up riverbed that was once Kibil-nala... the Silverlode. Had any of them been trying not to think of the task at hand, it would have been driven home to them right there where it was they were headed, and what they were out to do. But none of them were trying to ignore it. They were focused on it entirely, and it consumed them to the point where they could scarcely remember anything else.
And so they followed the riverbed, followed it until they came upon where it had been dammed up... at what had once been the Stair Falls. Down they looked upon Kheled-Zaram, the Mirrormere, dark and imposing as ever, even as the reflection of the setting sun shone up at them. The walls of the mountains were cold and gray... and somewhere among them lied the entrance to Khazad-dum.
"We wait here until the moon rises." Garan spoke this quietly, so as not to disturb this hollowed ground... this holy ground. His heart was trembling, besides. He could not have mustered his normal drill-sergeant growl, even if he had tried. He glanced towards the sky... thankfully the clouds had cleared. The moonlight would fall upon the wall unimpeded.
And so they waited.
------------------
"Khazad-dum... I suppose, if there is one thing my people have ever truly come to fear... it would be those mines. They were always a deathtrap for us, pure and simple. Yet they kept us coming back, despite our fear. The allure of mithril... the promise of restoring them to their former majesty... the desire for vengeance. We were pulled in once again, and we could only hope that this time we succeeded. I, personally, was more afraid than hopeful, and I have never been ashamed to admit it. I'm sure many of those brave fellows that went there first with Garan would agree with me."
- Grolin of Lindon
------------------
The moon was taking its time in rising, and the troops grew impatient, two dozen gazes resting collectively upon that wall. Their initial awe of the surrounding area had by now worn off, and now it appeared to them altogether bleak. Garan finally broke the long-standing silence and spoke, his voice possessing a quiet passion to it, forcing them all to turn their eyes away from the wall and upon him.
"The place we are about to enter is not Khazad-dum."
Their gazes silently questioned him.
"It is Rakhas-dum."
'Rakhas'... the Khuzdul word for 'orcs'. At its mere use the dwarves' hearts blazed with fury. And that what Garan wanted... to inspire them.
"We owe it to our people to take them back, and restore to them their proper name. We owe it to all that have come before us to these mines. To the memory of Thror, whom Azog slew within these walls. To the memory of Balin, whose Second Colony collapsed after a scant five years of existance. To the memory of Nain and the countless others that fell in this very valley, Azanulbizar," his voice had steadily driven ever upward, and now it hit its peak, his voice very nearly sputtering with emotion, "To Durin himself!"
There was a pause, and Garan regained his composure.
"And... we all know what we owe to the Rakhas of themselves. We owe them pain. We owe them suffering. We owe them death. They have certainly given us enough of such things... it is long since time they were given their fair share of it!"
His men bellowed their assent, and beat the ends of their axe handles against the ground repeatedly in a sort of applause.
Garan continued.
"This is where our past of failure ends, and our future of success begins. This is history. And you are all well-prepared to take part in it. Now. Let us begin this campaign." He rose to his full height then, only four feet and seven inches. Yet as he stood there, the now-risen moon casting its light upon his back, he appeared twice his size to them, indeed, taller than anything they had ever seen.
"Behold. The door is in sight, now," Garan nodded down into the valley, and they followed his gaze, seeing his words to be true. "Follow me."
And with that, he began the march down.
------------------
"It was a childish thought... but as we marched down, I kept worrying that the Watcher In The Water was going to spring up from the lake and swallow us all. That was always a tale my grandfather used to tell me as a lad just to spook me. And he always said when I misbehaved: 'Keep that up and I'll feed ya to the Watcher In The Water!' That would stop me in my tracks, let me tell you!
At any rate... I very well knew that it had long since been slain, but it was still in the back of my mind. I was trying to be tough, for Garan had just given the greatest speech I've ever laid ears on, and I knew I had to be brave for this. I thought I was the only one who was even the least bit afraid, but I asked some of the others afterwards, and they told me that they had been scared, too. Guess we all separately thought that we were the only ones afraid..."
- Drukin of Erebor
------------------
Garan stood before the now visible outline of the door. His troops were gathered behind him, several of them with torches, all of them grim of face. The moment had come. He could feel the weight of ages on his shoulder, the weight born by all those that had come before. The design of the door was beautiful and intricate, and he would have normally taken the time to appreciate it. But he was already looking past it, into the mines ahead.
He took a breath.
And in Khuzdul (the language which he and the others would speak from then on) he barked: "Friend."
The password, of course, was common knowledge. "Speak 'friend' and enter."
They were all reminded of the innocence of those times... it was almost quaint, especially when one looked at the history that followed them. The doors parted slowly for them, and soon they were open wide, allowing them all to stare into what must have been pure darkness. There was the briefest of moments where they just stood, their eyes trying to discern something within. And then, wordlessly, Garan plunged himself into the darkness, the first dwarf of this newest campaign to enter the mines. The others followed swiftly, without any battlecry, for their assignment was simply to fortify to the Western Stair, not to alert the entire mines to their presence.
Outside, Kheled-Zaram was as silent as the tomb which the soldiers had now entered. One of those dwarves would later say that he felt all the gazes of the spirits of those slain in Azanulbizar on his back, pushing him forward, and heard their voices upon the wind, wishing him luck.
---
"Garan told us that the stair we were on had been one of the several 'side' entrances to Khazad-dum. We had all assumed it was the Western Gate itself, but we were proven wrong. It led us to a decent-sized room, one with enough room for all of us. It was connected to the rest of the mines only by a creaky old door. That led to the Western Stair, which, of course, led down to the Western Gate. It must have been a storage room, the one we were in, and it was probably best suited to our purposes. We were just here to check the place out. Our number was small, but that made it easier to avoid detection.
We got situated, first and foremost, and were gladdened to see this small area had gone untainted by the Greenskins. Our guess was that they didn't often get this close to the exits... their numbers were probably greatest at the mines' heart. The job done on this store room alone, as well as the stairs that led up to it, was amazing, despite their advancing age. I remember thinking: if this simple room is so finely made, what wonders await us further on in the mines? But, of course, we had a job to do, and my thoughts were abandoned.
I was among the first ten sent out into the mines, to give the immediate area a look over. It was deathly silent in there, save for the sounds of our mail, and pitch black, save for the torch light we moved by. Yet I swore at times that I heard something from somewhere deeper in the mines...
First we doubled back towards the Western Gate and made sure the Stair was safe. I wanted to take a moment to stop and give them a look over, but there was always that half-formed fear in you, that something could spring out of the darkness at any moment. But the Stair was clear, and we turned back East, towards the Heart of Khazad-dum. In we marched.
Those halls were amazing, despite some evidence of the Greenskin presence. I just had to draw my breath in, and do my best not to gaze up towards the ceiling... I had to focus on the job at hand. All the while I was nervous... itching for something to happen... but Garan, who was with us, had already told us we were weren't going to over-extend ourselves in this. We were going to have to wait for reinforcements before we started seeking out confrontation. Finally, we came back to the base, having not seen any actual enemy, but having seen enough evidence of their presence.
I had trouble sleeping the first couple of nights. We slept in six hour shifts, which wasn't that bad. But it was usually dark in there... we didn't want to alert our presence, so we kept the torches out more often than not... and I always heard noises. Sometimes they seemed miles away, other times they seemed to be coming from right below us. Clinks and clanks and occasionally a yell or two. We were not alone.
Those sounds, especially not knowing what they were or where they were, always played tricks on your mind. I kept remembering all of the stories my grandfather used to tell, about terrible beasts that dwelt in the darkness, ones that I thought I had long since forgotten. I thought it was those monsters making the noises, I'm rather ashamed to admit it.
I always slept with one eye open, though I couldn't see much, and every hour I switched which one I kept shut. In this manner I got three hours of sleep out of the six I was provided. If I have never known fear as well as I did that first little while, and I was almost relieved when Garan told me to head back to Lindon to fetch our reinforcements.
I went with two other fellows, and at first we said nothing as we marched along. But finally we realized we could speak now, and we opened up, admitting our fears. Even throughout all that training we had done together, I had never felt as close to any of my comrades as I did then. We were united even more now than by cause or race. Going through all that together and discussing it gave us these ironclad ties to one another, and I doubt I shall ever possess the skill with words to describe them."
- Drukin of Erebor
---
"I nearly lost my mind, the first few nights in there..."
---
"I was part of the first group sent to the mines... unofficially second-in- command of it. We got there... and it felt like some great big vacation. We were laughing and joking... so were the guards that greeted us, practically. But Rhodim... our leader. He never so much as grinned to entire time. He understood the gravity those mines held better than any of us.
We were sent down to the second deep. The soldiers who had been working down there were getting tired. And you could see it on their faces. Blank. Pale. It was as if the mines had torn something away from them. It scared me. The whole place scared me. It felt like I was thousands of years and thousands of miles from my home. At least in the Northern Campaign... I had the stars to look at. They were an anchor for me... they were the same stars I gazed upon at home, you see. They were familiar. But down in those mines... there are no stars. It's just black... and dank... and it always smells like death. For awhile... I thought the mines were death... I thought they were death placed into a physical form. I wasn't too far off the mark, at the time, I don't think."
- Grolin of Lindon.
---
"Rhodim was killed the first night, and I was made leader of the group. My first expedition as leader, we walked into an ambush. Tharim... a close friend of mine, was killed. I wanted to really let out how I felt, but I knew I couldn't, not fully. I was the leader now, and I couldn't show weakness. I had to be tough. But it was there. It was eating away at me from the inside. That's the most terrible feeling in the world, you know. Wanting to scream and cry and get that pain out of your system... but knowing you can't. I wanted someone to take that burden away from me as leader, but I knew I had to hang tough until they arrived. It was hard. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do."
- Grolin of Lindon
---
"As the battles wore on, we became a closer group. We were like brothers. I mean, you train with a fellow for a few years, and then you go through things like the Northern Campaign and Khazad-dum together, enduring the pains of battle and the pains of loss... it brings you together. I would lay down my life for any of those fellows, no questions asked, just as much now as I would back then.
And it wasn't just a brotherhood... we were comrades. The camaraderie of soldiers, in my mind, is something stronger than brotherhood. It's something that's all the stronger because it's forged under life-and-death situations. There's nothing in this world that can compare with that. Nothing...
While we grew closer together, we were also growing up. Us younger fellows, at least. We were getting so much thrown at us in those mines... it was giving us experience, hardening us. There came a point when even the youngest lad in the group could be considered a veteran.
I am entirely convinced, that by the time the battle to retake the Main Hall came around, we were the perfect division. The best of all the combined armies of our people. We were trained from the start by Lord Nori, one of the most gifted fighters in the history of our people. And his replacement, Sturm, knew everything there was to being a soldier. Between the two of them, we were provided with the best training program that one could ever conceive. And through all of our experiences together, that bond that we all shared... we were unstoppable."
- Drali of Lindon
---
Wait. Sweat. Stare. Look. Wait. Run. Dodge. Slash. Kill. Run. Parry. Shove. Kill. Kill. Kill.
---
Grolin danced that bloody dance with his comrades. It was on a larger scale, this time. The whole Main Hall was engulfed in chaos. It became harder to recall the details... must've been the fever brought on by the poison in his blood. That damned Greenskin... and the dagger. If only it had known when to die...
---
He had fought with that poison running through his system, his heart pumping at an accelerated rate, spreading the toxin throughout his system. But Grolin had been taught to keep fighting, so long as he could stand. He didn't stop for anything, even his own well-being.
---
Drali grabbed him afterwards, ecstatic despite the fact that his dead comrades littered the ground, along with a disproportionate amount of the enemy.
"We took it! We took it!"
Grolin gazed upon his friend wearily. His vision was already blurred, and it became worse the harder he tried to focus. Drali was scowling now, but his face was already eroding away like sand before Grolin's eyes.
"Are you alright, there, Grolin?"
Grolin allowed his eyes to roll up into his skull, and he allowed himself to fall forward, right through Drali, who collapsed into a million tiny grains. Grolin fell... fell through the floor of the main hall, it too was little more than sand now... and down he went, tumbling into the inky depths of the mines.
He could've fallen for minutes... he could've fallen for days. The impact was a dull thump as he landed. Sand rained on him from above. A single shard of light was cast upon the floor before him. He stumbled to his feet.
The whispers began, dry voices, almost like dead leaves rustling together in the sound of his name:
"Grolin."
The first spectre approached him, its neck sliced wide open. Tharim.
"Grolin!"
The next came, a pike driven into its body just below the chest. It stuck out the other side. Dhor. The chant grew louder.
"GROLIN!"
A third arrived, its head crushed and mangled almost beyond recognition. But Grolin knew full well it was Rhodim.
"Grolin! Grolin! Grolin!"
Grolin spun this way, glanced the other, terrified, facing each in turn as they drew nearer.
He fell to his knees, shutting his eyes, and screaming as loud as he could. The scream echoed and reverberated throughout the chamber... throughout his mind.
The spectres shattered, shattered like glass, and collapsed before him as he continued to scream. Finally, he could scream no further, and slumped forward, exhausted.
When he finally opened his eyes... there were no spectres, and that shard of light on the floor had now expanded into a great pool. Within it stood a woman who could be no one other than Sari, dressed in white, her long hair flowing in some unseen breeze.
Grolin gasped, and crawled forward, wretchedly, reaching out towards her in desperation. He found words.
"Sari!"
With one last lunge, his hand made it into hers. But where his hand touched, her skin suddenly turned a deep green. The greeness spread before Grolin's eyes, up her arm. He could only watch, terrified.
The white clothes fell off, revealing the armor beneath. The hair withered and fell off her head to the ground. Scales covered her skin. Her eyes became red, as did the pool of light that surrounded them.
Grolin still clutched her hand, but now he could see that the other was holding a mace, raising it above her head.
"SARI! SARI! SARI!" Grolin howled.
The mace came down on his head, and with it a hundred tons of sand, burying Grolin, so that he couldn't see... so that he couldn't breath.
Grolin, entombed, despaired.
---
Grolin's recovery from the orcish poison was relatively quick. The hallucinations ended after one night, and the fever broke the next. Soon he was right back into the same routine: the boredom of standing guard, the hard and occasionally emotionally trying work of clearing conquered chambers of bodies, and then battles in the evening. A period of sleep, that always seemed inadequate in length, was shoved somewhere in the middle of that schedule.
The mines were beginning to oppress them, the walls closing in from all sides. At times, it did not feel like their home of old, not in the least. At times, it felt like an infernal prison, which they were sentenced to march through for the rest of their days. Indeed, the further they marched into the mines, the further it seemed they had to go.
For the most part, their camaraderie had stayed intact throughout all of this. But being trapped in those mines for months can both bring comrades together and drive them apart. In the case of Grolin's friends Drali and Forin, the mines were slowly turning them into mortal enemies. Forin had taken issue with some complaints Drali had made about the boredom between battles, calling him a whiner, and Drali had snapped back at him in anger, insulting Forin's fellow countrymen, the dwarves of the Iron Hills. It had taken an intervention by Grolin to prevent fisticuffs.
He knew the lot of them were going to have to talk things over, not just Drali and Forin, before these mines destroyed their group from the inside. But getting any of these proud soldiers to discuss anything beyond how many orcs they had slain would be a challenge in itself...
---
Sturm's leg was broken, shattered, practically, by the stomping foot of a massive troll. Domi the medic was quick to assess the situation: Sturm would likely be on the sidelines for the rest of the campaign. This news could have crushed the division... but Grolin wouldn't let it. Named the unit's new commander by Sturm, he immediately took charge, resolving the Drali and Forin feud in the first full day of his command. The authoritative force behind every order he gave forced his troops to comply. It seemed Grolin was finally stepping into his roll as a leader of the group... in a major way.
Sturm could only watch from his cot and smile softly to himself as he watched Grolin go about his business. It was clear where he picked up that drill sergeant's bark, which he used to send soldiers scuttling to their posts... it was unmistakably plucked straight from the lungs of the old Goldenhand himself. And that was what Sturm saw when he looked upon Grolin: a younger version of Lord Nori. As Sturm told the lad after he got Forin and Drali to make up: it wasn't potential that Grolin had anymore. He had delivered on all of his promise.
---
"The final night of battles. it was their last stand. But we crushed them. We could smell the other side of the mines. We had the numbers. And we had the desire for vengeance. That's all I ran on during the campaign. Adrenaline and bloodlust. The two most powerful ingredients in the world."
- Boril Beastrider of the Iron Hills
---
"The deed was done. The orcs were slain. It was a time of celebration. After the final battle... we paraded away, cheering and patting one another on the back, leaving the bodies of the orcs and our comrades behind... for disposal at a later time. It summed up the campaign entirely. We all chose to see the positive aspect of it, most of us, anyway. We all knew about and felt the pain of the losses that we had suffered, but we kept it hidden in us, we kept it behind us.
I love these mines, today more than ever. But at the same time, I hate them. I hate them more than anything for all they've taken from me, and from our people. I think its a feeling all of us who fought in that campaign now share. While you younger folk can only view this place with adoration, my generation may never know what to think of it. It gave to us, and it took away from us at the same time. Not all of you younger lads know how much blood was spilt to take these mines back. But I'm glad that you, at least, have taken the time to find out, my son."
- Grolin Headsplitter of Khazad-dum