Thump. Thump. Thump. Doom. Doom. Doom. His heart beat time along with the drums. Ori's ink-stained fingers raced over the page although he knew he was almost out of time. Even so, as he took a moment to ease his cramped hand, his mind drifted back six years.

What had possessed him to come on this pointless adventure? When he had heard rumors that Balin was mounting an expedition to reclaim Moria, he had laughed with all the others. Everyone knew that the mines were cursed and dark things lurked there.

When Balin asked him to join, he said no. 'Why bother Balin? We have everything we need right here.' Erebor was a thriving kingdom once again under the rule of Dain.

'Do we?' Balin had replied. 'Maybe you are satisfied with the way things turned out, but I tire of it. Our days are routine and bureaucratic with no room to grow. I miss the rush of pleasure from beheading an orc and leading friends I can rely on. Join me, Ori; it will be like old times.'

Although neither said it, both minds turned to thoughts of their lost companions and the time they had spent together so many years ago.

'I don't know, Balin. Let me think about it.'

'That is all I ask. Take all the time you need. It will take the better part of a year to prepare and I can wait,' Balin explained.

It didn't take Ori long to realize that Balin was right. His life was devoid of excitement also. The first years at Erebor had brought something new almost every day. He had explored the mountain and sketched endless pages of sights he had never thought to see. But now? He was a routine scribe at best, a gopher at worst. Never being one to push himself forward, he had been left behind.

When he mentioned the plan to his brothers, they had barely bothered to try and convince him to stay. They knew he would never have the courage to leave. Not their little brother! They had dragged him along with Thorin and Company because they had promised their mother to never leave him behind.

'Don't be ridiculous, Ori. Balin asked us to go along also. I've had enough adventure for a lifetime,' Dori told him. 'Go back to your pencils and books.'

'Moria? When I have all of Erebor at my feet?' Nori had smirked. Nori did indeed run much of the mountain with his host of guards who were responsible for the safety of king and kingdom. 'In Moria I would have a few hundred dwarves to oversee. If you need something to do, come and work for me. I can always find you some task.'

Ori knew what that meant. Nori would order him around from dawn to dusk and his life would not be the least bit improved. 'I'll think about it,' was all he said.

When he was done thinking, he was on his way to Moria with Balin.

Ori was jerked back to the present by a great pounding at the door. The remnants of the Company of Balin continued to pile up anything they could lay their hands on in a futile attempt to extend their sorry lives for a few minutes more. Ori once again turned to his writing. Most likely no one would ever read it, but he felt obligated to continue. You just never knew.

He had refused to be a scribe under Balin. 'If I wanted to write my life away, Balin, I would have stayed in Erebor. My goal is to document Moria in sketches and to explore as much of it as I can.' Balin had conceded to his request and Ori happily spent the first year or so doing just that. Unfortunately, orc raiders returned and began to make inroads in the dwarven population.

So in the end as their numbers dwindled, Ori became the scribe. He had been appalled at the handwriting of some of his predecessors. 'No official record should look like this. I will have to write it after all.'

And now here he was in their final moments, scribbling the last few words of his life. Thump thump thump, doom doom doom. They were trapped in the Chamber of Mazarbul. In a way it was fitting. Balin already lay entombed here; now Ori would end his life at his side. He wished Oin could be there also but that was impossible. Oh well, they would all soon be reunited in the Halls of Waiting.

Returning to his task, he quickly wrote of Oin's fate. He was conscious of a great splintering sound from near the door. Ignoring the chaos that would soon reach his station he wrote, ' We cannot get out. The end comes. Drums, drums in the deep. They are coming.'

He barely felt the axe blow that stole his life. His violated body fell slowly forward over his precious record of Moria and his life's blood stained its pages. Slowly his hand relaxed its grip on the quill and it fell to the table.

Later, an orc searching for something to loot dragged Ori's body off the desk. Flinging the corpse toward Balin's tomb, it picked up the book, looked at and sniffed it. 'Such fools; what a waste of time,' it growled and then repeatedly drove its dagger into the cover. Tossing the journal to one side the orc muttered, 'Should have spent more time fighting and less time writing.'