Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings. I seek no profit from this work of fan fiction.

The Dead of Middle Earth

Gandalf

"A great sickness will fall over Middle Earth." Gandalf, the last of the white wizards, whispered into the night. His face was pale and his eyes were clouded over, and it seemed as if a terrible pain had broken his spirits. His rugged beard flapped in the wind and his pure white robes seemed to flow with an unseen darkness.

Gandalf had once taken comfort from the beauty of the undying lands, but now, nearly a decade after his arrival, the troubles of the mortal world held heavy in his mind. He had left the world of mortals alongside Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, some of the greatest heroes since the fall of Angband. The three of them, drained and weary from the war of the ring, had set sail for the undying lands, the paradise of the elves that lay far to the West.

Yet in spite of the peace that the undying lands had brought to his companions, Gandalf was restless. Though the orcs of Mordor were all but defeated, and the dragon Smaug lay lifeless beneath the mountains, the death and endings of Middle Earth still grappled in Gandalf's mind.

Gandalf's guilt had changed him. He was no longer the adventurous wizard who was so fond of Hobbits. His excellent fireworks were all but forgotten and the dwarves under the mountain never spoke his name. He had become a pain-hardened relic, no longer the boisterous wizard in gray, but a gloomy warlock in white. The tremendous love and tolerance that had drawn him to the Hobbits had all but died within him.

And the more Gandalf remembered, the more his thoughts crossed the inevitable: the sickness that would scar the world.

This sickness would not be spread by clear evil, as the war of the ring was. The darkness of Sauron had been replaced by light long ago. Nor would it be lured out from within, as the dwarves of yore grew sick from greed. And the more Gandalf thought, the more it became clear. The sickness would come from the dead. The dead were to rise, and once risen, they would be beasts: Soulless, unstoppable, and unspeakably hungry.

And as the sickness would soon ravage Middle Earth, Gandalf was growing sick in himself. This was not a mortal sickness, for he was no mortal, but it was a sickness of the mind. It was a corrupting sickness, but a sickness of fear, a sickness of pain. For Gandalf knew of the terrible things that awaited Middle Earth, and there was nothing that could stand in their way.

"Why do you worry, Mithrandir?" Elrond's voice cautiously drifted through the night. Elrond was once a mighty Elvish lord, but now, in the undying lands, he was an equal to all. "I have seen you here at night," Elrond continued, "but why do you come here?" Elrond seemed concerned but curious beneath his worry.

"I have seen the future." Gandalf muttered, a great burden weighing his voice. His face held the same burden, no longer the smiling, blue-eyed sorcerer; Gandalf seemed to have filled the shoes of the one he once answered to: Sauroman the White. Sauroman once had been bubbling with wisdom, but power had changed him. Sauroman had grown greedy, and blinded by the power he had gained. And in his thoughts Gandalf often wondered if he was walking the same path as Sauroman. "The dead will rise from an unstoppable plague." Gandalf continued, his face cold with disgust. "Heroes of old will return to fight. Many will perish. Many will triumph. But the plague will take us all."

"There must be a way to end this sickness." Elrond's eyes were lit with fright, a rare look for him. "It must have a weakness. It must have a flaw. In my thoughts I have seen them rising as you do, but the terror they will bring must have an end."

A sour frown crossed Gandalf's lips. His eyes looked troubled and his face was tense even as he spoke. "No, Lord Elrond, there is no use in trying to drive back this plague. It can be delayed, and some will survive, but it will always come. The dead will rise to feast on the living, and when they rot, what more can we do? The line of Durin will be no more, and the lines of men will be severed. The might of Gondor will be humbled, and the dead of all kingdoms will rise. And when they rise, the living will fall."

Elrond's gaze darted to Gandalf. "What of us? What of the Elves?" Elrond's eyes had already begun to look desperate. "Will they be slain by the dead, and die from the mistakes of dwarves and men?"

"Lord Elrond." Gandalf was clearly troubled by this question. "How can you be concerned with the fate of Elves and Maiar when the dead of the mortal are threatening to bring a chaos greater than the ring? When powerful friendships are severed among men, when the loyal heirs of Gimli become greedier than Thror, when the war of the dead meets the war of the mind, what will you do then? Will you sit back behind your walls and watch? Will you take no part in aiding mortal men?" Gandalf paused, and his anger began to diminish. "I am sorry, Lord Elrond. My pain has clouded my thoughts, and my actions have been wrathful. I hope you can put this behind you."

Elrond nodded. "I do not understand your pain, but I understand your worry. I feel the same for the Elves as you do for the mortal. I worry for their safety when the war of the dead is upon us, for I feel them rising as you do. I hope you can help my cause as I will help yours."

"I will try." Gandalf nodded and looked off into night. A sour look still clung to his face. It seemed as if his sickness and pain had already grown in the time Elrond had been with him. His eyes were clouding over more than before and his face was paler than it had ever been.

Elrond, realizing Gandalf's despair, walked into the night. But there was something different in him now. He once walked happily, seemingly carelessly. But now his feet seemed to drag and not want to move. His face, once lit with joy, now was darkened with sadness. It was as if Gandalf's pain and sickness of the heart had clung on to him, reaching for his mind, ready and willing to take it.

But now, a single thought oozed over Elrond. "The dead are rising," He whispered to himself. "And nothing can stop them."

Orin

The Glittering Caves: The pride of the White Mountains. Hardly Glittering. They had said the caverns were emanating with light and that the walls were literally made of gold. They said it was mightier than Erabor with dwarves more content than in the Iron Hills. Orin believed them.

That's why he went. Not for the wealth. Not for the advantage he had over others. He went for the peace.

In reality, it was an average-looking cave system with a healthy portion of gold. Its stone halls were adorned with carvings of dwarven victories. Its great gate was forged from plain iron and mithril. Nothing special.

That was before the disease.

Orin, after each long, sweaty day in the mines, always took his time walking home. He had a lovely wife and two sons, so he enjoyed the peace of the caves while it lasted. Every day he would walk home, taking in the pleasant odors of gems and gold. "That's my handiwork," Orin thought to himself.

His life was consistent, always routine. He would mine the gold and gems that studded Gimli's crown, and then walk home to his wife and children. Day after day, year after year. And before he knew it, he was already 140.

Then came the disease.

Orrin had just stepped out of the great mining chamber, and was starting to make his way down the stone hall that connected the kingdom to the open air. The stone walls, made visible by the torchlight, reminded Orin of the Mines of Moria, his mighty homeland. One of Orin's oldest friends, Gali, always remained mining a while after the day was done, but usually caught up to Orin by now.

Orin, assuming Gali was just taking his time, stopped at an iron arch to wait for him, counting the carvings on the wall to pass the time. After a few minutes of waiting, though, Orin began to fear something had gone wrong. He waited a bit more, but Gali never came.

Walking back towards the mines, Orin began to hear an occasional faint moan. "Must be a rat." He assured himself. "Must be."

The moans were growing louder, closer, almost more human. They were more and more frequent, as if the sound itself was following Orin. Soon it appeared that it was not just one creature, but many, their grunts and moans coming from all directions. Orin's stride began to pick up speed, the dim torchlight leading the way.

Finally, Orin spotted someone. The figure was barely visible at the end of the hall, the dim light casting his shadow across the floor. Though his features were shrouded in the darkness, Orin could tell that he walked with a limp, and his posture was crippled and loose.

There was another moan, and this time it came from the crippled figure. Orin wanted to help the poor whatever-he-was, but for some reason he felt afraid to. He didn't know where the figure had come from, or where he was headed. Orin decided to play it safe and pretend he never saw him.

Orin, walking back down the hall, turned his head to look back at the figure. The figure stopped in his tracks. Then, after a few seconds of deathly silence, the figure raised his head and looked into Orin's eyes. The figure's eyes seemed to stare like an animal's, locking on to its prey before a pounce. Then the figure began to bolt towards Orin.

Orin, his eyes lit with panic, began to run, occasionally looking back at the figure, who was growing closer by the second. The figure ran sloppily, stumbling every few steps with its arms jolting and flailing. By now, Orrin had started to think of the figure as an "it".

Now that he was in eyesight, Orin could see that the figure's skin was flaking and parts of it were decaying. Large chunks of flesh had rotted off and its left eye was hanging loosely from its socket.

Orin, gathering his senses, spotted a weapons rack on the wall at the end of the corridor. Eyeing a large axe towards the center of the rack, he went into a sprint. A few feet from the rack, the figure swiped its limp hand in Orin's direction. Orin instinctively grabbed the axe and swung it into the figure's throat, sending its decrepit head tumbling to the dusty floor, and a spurt of blood staining the opposite wall.

The head rolled onto its side, its intact eye resting in a puddle of blood. Only then did Orin realize it was a dwarf. The head's braided hair and dwarven helmet made that clear. The head's wiry beard was still marinating in the blood.

Orin's jaw dropped in pain and horror. The figure wasn't a stranger. That face. Those eyes. A tear of a pain and confusion fell from Orin's eye.

He had killed Gali.

Aragorn

Minas Tirith: capital of Gondor. It lie at the heart of the united Gondor and Arnor, ruled by the benevolent King Aragorn since Sauron's defeat. Its magnificent white tower of Ecthelion appeared to touch the heavens and its seven-leveled wall was the mightiest in all of Middle Earth. The city was prosperous, peaceful, and proud.

Sauron's forces had ravaged the city's physical structures and social order, but 17 years after Sauron's defeat, the markets were more alive than they had ever been. The first level of the city was bustling with travellers and everyday folk, while the soldiers kept watch in the North. The days were filled with the ordinary life of the time, and the nights were restful. The city was the greatest in all of Gondor, perhaps the greatest in all of Middle Earth.

That was before the disease.

The disease had broken out in The Glittering Caves, the dwarf kingdom that Gimli was given lordship over. Gimli had ruled in The Glittering Caves since Sauron's defeat, but the disease tore it apart. It was a strange, terrifying sickness. Victims lost their minds, and began attacking those who weren't infected. The ones in Gondor had become known as Dainos, The Rohirric word for "risen". They seemed unstoppable. Even severing a limb would have no effect on them. Their only purpose was to kill, and no one knew how to kill them. The only thing to do was to keep them out.

The trouble was, hundreds of them were camped outside the city walls, as if they were just waiting for some tired guard to make a mistake. The construction of the dramatic overhang on the outer wall was the only thing preventing the Dainos from scaling it. Because the opening and closing of the gates would mean swarming hordes of Dainos decimating the population, the only way in or out of the city was through a grim labyrinth of tunnels that connected to Helm's Deep.

Aragorn, wise king of Gondor, veteran of the War of the Ring, was already 105; being a Dundedarian human, his lifespan was thrice that of those from Rohan. His pure white hair reached just below his shoulders, giving him an aged look. Even at this age, the old king had a young fire in his eyes. As long as the crown of Gondor rested on his head he was still the young warrior. He was still Strider.

But for now, Aragorn sat on his mighty throne, pondering the disease. According to the men of Rohan, there were thousands of reported Dainos attacks just within the borders of Gondor. And their numbers were growing. Their hordes had increased in size by nearly 5,000 over the course of two years. And that number was speeding up.

The sound of galloping hooves suddenly came from outside the walls. Aragorn motioned his guards back from the iron doors, and a wry smile touched his lips.

"I bear a message from The Glittering Caves." A tall, cloaked rider atop a white steed panted as he halted his horse in Aragorn's hall. The cloak shrouded his face, though his snow-white beard was visible in the light.

Aragorn smiled, as if he knew something no one else knew.

"Gimli has fallen to the Dainos, my lord." The messenger stated bluntly. "According to his comrades, he severed his infected arm so he would die of blood loss instead of rising as a disgrace. His is body is being escorted here for burial."

"Gimli was mighty, and a mighty friend," Aragorn said with a remembering smile, "but none of us can escape our fate. Gimli was a great soul."

The rider flashed an unseen smile. "His coffin will be here by break of day, my lord."

The rider, message delivered, rode out of the hall and into the starry night.

Orin

Orin's confusion didn't last long, but his fear did. Two days later, they were everywhere. From the chambers piled high with gold to the grim tunnels beneath the mines, they were there. Their stench of death had polluted the air, and their chilling moans were enough to invoke insanity from the great abyss of the mind. They seemed to be dead, but they moved like the living, like an animal on the hunt.

According to Orin's count, he had already slain 12 of the creatures and had found that severing the connection to their brains prevented them from coming back. He had also found a dwarven axe in the mines that dealt the finishing blow perfectly. He now carried the blade at his side at all times.

The one he had slain in the mines, he now realized, was not his friend Gali, but some cruel imitation put on by the creatures. Probably a Sorcerer's trick, he imagined. But every once and a while, Orin couldn't help but think that it might have actually been his friend. The unmistakable resemblance still chilled his memory. He tried not to think about it.

But now he had one goal and one goal only: to find and protect his family. They had to be somewhere; they had to be alive. They had to be. Whether they had fled the mines and left him for dead, or they remained in the mines, hopefully awaiting his return, he was going to see them before he fell to the disease.

"Yuri!" he called out his wife's name in desperation. His tired voice barely breached the end of the corridor and the constant moans drowned out his attempts to be heard. "Dain! Sni!" Orin repeated his hourly calls, the names of his own family now seeming like an ancient legend. The memories of his children echoed into the darkness with each call Orin delivered, until one morning, he couldn't remember how to spell his eldest child's name.

A few tears welled up in his eyes as memories of a distant past flooded his thoughts. He remembered teaching his eldest son, Sni, to use a wooden sword properly. A faint smile touched his lips, but didn't last. He remembered the night he and Yuri were wed to the light of the moon. Her beauty still danced in his thoughts.

His thoughts were interrupted by a faint crying, audible only in the pauses between the distant moans. The crying was that of a child, and it took Orin a few seconds to realize that it might be one of his own children. Orin rushed around the corner and saw Dain, his youngest son, huddled on the ground, crying into his arms. Another smile touched Orin's lips, and this one lasted.

"It's alright." Orin whispered softly. "Your father's here."

Dain spun around and ran into his father's arms, still sobbing, and clung onto his father as if his life depended on it.

"Don't worry", Orin whispered, "I told you I'd see you again."

"Where are Mother and Sni?" Orin whispered to his son after the hug was over.

Dain burst in tears again. "Mother ate Sni!" Dain cried between his sobs.

Orin forced a hearty laugh. "Are you trying to scare me? Mother wouldn't do that."

Dain's tears grew heavier at his father's disbelief. "But Mother changed." He cried, clearly traumatized by what he had seen. "She's different. She won't listen to me, and she makes strange noises. And she ate Sni! She ate the things inside his head!"

Before Orin could answer, a long moan broke out from around the corner.

"It's Mother." Dain whispered.

"I know you're trying to scare me," Orin whispered to his son, "and you're doing a very, very good job, but it's not the right time. Father needs to protect you, and he can do that best if you try to scare me later. Now, stay right here, son, I'll be right back."

"But, Father…"

"Stay here. I'll be back. I promise."

Orin walked around the corner and stared in disbelief. Then he quietly walked back to his son.

"You were right, son. It is Mother." Orin was trying to look calm in front of his son, but couldn't hide the tear that rolled down his cheek. "Mother says she has to leave, and you won't see her for a while, but she wants you to know that she loves you, and she always will.

Orin ripped a piece of cloth from his collar, and tied it around Dain's eyes. "Don't take this off until I tell you. Cover your ears."

Dain clasped his hands tightly around his ears. "Yes, Father."

Orin did what had to be done. He walked around the corner, slowly unsheathed his axe, and severed the head of his now-soulless wife, tears streaming down his cheeks. Her ripped and bloody garments flailed in the torchlight, and her decaying head tumbled into the darkness. The blood spurted onto the stone floor. Dain never saw. Orin dropped to his knees, out of sight of his son, and began to sob. He had done it for the better, but he regretted it more than anything he had ever done.

When he had gathered himself, Orin walked back to his son and hugged him tightly, trying to look calm. He undid the cloth around his son's eyes, and hugged him tighter.

"Its alright, Dain. Its alright."

Aragorn

The next morning, Gimli's grim caravan rode into the gates of Minas Tirith. The sun was just creeping over the Ered Nimrais, an ancient symbol of rebirth that seemed to make sense in the moment. Two men on horseback, trotting out in front of the procession, captured the city's sorrow perfectly. Gilmi's coffin, lit by the rising sun, was a saddening reminder of everyone's fate, the depressing silence interrupted by the occasional moan from outside the walls.

By the time his body arrived for burial, rumors and embellishments regarding the cause of Gimli's death were already spreading. Some said he had fought his way through an entire horde of Dainos, only to be lodged in the back of the skull by a stone thrown by one of the survivors. Others argued that Dainos were too primal to throw a stone, and that Gimli must have been cornered on the edge of a cliff where he was forced to fight to the death. Still others simply said he was plainly overcome, a mundane death for such a legendary figure. More often than not, though, people seemed to invent heroic deaths to fit such a great hero.

As the sun broke the fading dawn, the emotional moment already seemed taboo to remember. The marketplace was bustling again, and the people were going about their lives as they had always done. It was the same city it had always been: out with the bad news, in with the good.

But in the hall of kings, a tomb of honor for the kings and stewards of Gondor, the tidings were far from good. Gimli, the dwarf-lord of The Glittering Caves, was dead. His coffin, though crafted from gold and mithril, two of the most valuable metals in Middle Earth, seemed ironically grim: Gimli's greed was what led to his death; at least that was the rumor.

Aragorn had allowed Gimli to be buried in the hall of kings. Gimli, a veteran of the War of the Ring and son of Gloin, would have been content dying in his homeland without a proper burial.

Now, as Aragorn watched his old friend lying in a coffin adjacent to the mighty Arathorn, he almost felt as if Gimli was not at peace. Gimli had always wished to be buried in the heart of his homeland, Moria. But now that Moria that had been torn apart by the Dainos, his wish would never be granted.

The Dainos are just outside the city walls. Aragorn thought to himself. One infection in the food, one failure to protect the tunnel entrance, one stray Dainos getting into the city: That's all it would take.

Aragorn glanced back at Gimli's coffin, as if expecting guidance. It's only a matter of time.

Orin

By Durin's Day, Orin and Dain were out of the mines. The sun had just risen over the horizon, temporarily marking the end of their fearful mindset. Though the light of day did not deter the creatures, it did seem to brighten the moods of weary travelers.

Before Orin knew it, Dain was 60, the age of adulthood according dwarf tradition. He had grown into a young dwarf, though still slightly shorter than his father, Orin. Dain, now brandishing a plain bow along with an assortment of arrows; his father had acquired them from a corpse's quiver; had already slain two of the creatures. Orin, despite not thinking of himself as aging, was starting to lose accuracy with his hands, rendering his skill with a bow useless. Therefore, he relied on his son to get the arrows to their targets.

And his son was more than accurate. Dain could pierce one of the creatures' skulls with a single arrow. He could fell a stag for the evening meal with one swift arrow to the heart. He could rally off a volley of shots in a matter of seconds. One shot. One kill. Every time.

But Dain was once a carefree, happy child. He would always listen to his father and smile at the ways of the world. Now Dain sometimes sat alone, on a hill or a cliff, thinking. Thinking about his mother. He hardly remembered her. But he remembered he loved her. He had tried to forget that night: wipe it from his memory. But it was no use. He remembered something terrible had happened, something he had tried to forget.

He had never asked his father, because his father was always so happy, or at least he acted happy. It never seemed real.

Dain was far from unhappy. He enjoyed the company of his father and he enjoyed their times together. He enjoyed the fresh, open air and he enjoyed the sunlight on his back. All the same, the secrets of his mother's death troubled him.

Dain, almost full grown now, was troubled more than before in his thoughts of his mother. Perhaps he had been too young to understand, or too young to remember. Whatever the reason, Dain sat alone on a cliff, which he hadn't done in years, sulking to himself.

That night he asked Orin the big question. "You killed Mother, didn't you?"

Orin realized he couldn't hide the truth for much longer. An unchallenged tear dripped from his eye. "She turned into one of them. She was one of them when I swung the blade. They were the ones who killed your mother." Orin paused for a few seconds. "I just have to bear the guilt."

"But why? You did what was right. The real her was already gone."

"Because I should have protected her." Orin said sadly, a far away look in his eyes.

Orin forced a smile for his son. He hadn't smiled truly since it happened. He tried to remember good things, not bad, but it was hard to do when his own son seemed to not know how.

Orin looked at his son, a feeling of sadness showing in his eyes. "Son, I want you to know how proud I am of you. You're braver than I could ever be. You are everything I could ask for."

Dain thanked his father and forced his routine smile. But he could see right through the lies. He had known him too long to fall for that. False happiness and false love, a simple trick to keep a child from crying: That's all it was. That's all it had ever been.

Aragorn

Gimli's death was just the beginning. Within the next month, the tolling of the bells became routine. They were lifeless bells, not joyous, their eerie melody whispering questions to heaven itself.

Aragorn kneeled each night in the hall of kings, praying to a vague god or Gondor's past, at this point he didn't know. As long as it prolonged his hope, be it faith in a dying reality of heaven and earth in harmony or simply faith that the city would live on, praying to nothing would suffice.

But then again, would it? Was Gondor's fate really decided by offerings to a god? Had the god that once protected Middle Earth abandoned it? Or was he ever really there to begin with?

Could he be holding on still, protecting Middle Earth in its most dire moments? Or had the Dainos overpowered faith in a priest and altar?

Aragorn pondered this, keeping his faith in the God that had been there when The Nine had ravaged Minas Tirith, when the five armies fought for Erabor's wealth, when Feanor doomed the house of Finwe. Aragorn kept his faith, hoping, even believing, that victory would be brought to Gondor. A dim hope, but hope nonetheless.

Then he heard the first moan.

Aragorn broke from his prayers, unsheathing Isealdor's Bane as if he had seen Witch-King once more. The blade was that of legend, but its days of glory seemed ancient: a past that was lost, but a future to be built.

A second moan drifted through the chamber, and it became clear that it's source was within the walls. Aragorn glanced around the coffins, searching for an explanation. Then, he remembered.

Aragorn's mind was racing, searching for an excuse to not believe reality. But there was no way around it. Gimli had turned.

Gimli began to rise from the coffin, twitching, gyrating. The transformation was underway, and Gimli was already standing, jolting and twitching as the disease made its final entry.

Aragorn readied his blade, raising it to strike and end the torture. He couldn't help but think of The Prancing Pony. He remembered saving the halflings as The Nine raised their daggers. Now he was the one making the kill.

Aragorn clutched the hilt, looking back into the blank eyes of his old friend. He remembered all their adventures together, all their triumphs, all their hardships. The council of Elrond. The Witch-King of Angmar. Now it was over. A past growing more and more distant and a future looking more and more bleak.

Suddenly, a moan came from the doorway, followed by scream. They were distant, but growing closer, like hands on a clock. Ticking away with no way to stop them. Ticking and ticking like clockwork until time is up.

Moan after moan breached the peaceful air, the sounds of death echoing through the hall of kings. The moans were no longer eerie, as they were from outside the walls. Now they were truly frightening. Once they were only a reminder of death, but now they had become a manifestation of it, ready and willing to bring death to the living.

Aragorn made the sweep at Gimli's throat, sending his head tumbling to the floor, his blood staining the memories of his life. A distant past began to fade into oblivion, a great soul fading into darkness.

Aragorn leveled the blade again, memories of the fellowship rotting away, faith in a mighty kingdom taking their place.

Then came the screams: human screams. The screams of his people.

Bors

Laketown. Pride of the lonely mountain. Humbly set on the Eastern Horizon, as it had been for generations. The town had been built on hopes and dreams, but now, long after Smaug's demise, it was built solely on gold and mithriel. The old docks, once a conglomeration of wooden planks and barnacles, were now lined with mithriel, the rotting wood replaced with solid gold. The steeple that once seemed to tower over the simple dwellings was now dwarfed by the magnificent outer walls. Even the lake itself seemed to glitter with a golden hue. It was as if Erabor's rulers still resided in the hallowed gold, a tipped hat to the line of Durin. The town was prosperous, peaceful, and proud.

The names and titles of heroes from a distant history still rode the murmurs of gossip. Titles like Dwarf-Lord and Wizard were quite common, a long-dead past aiding an uncertain future. The names of old heroes seemed to give hope, providing strength to those who didn't know they had it. Even the villains could bring excitement to the air, a more sinister tone brought into the mix.

But there was one name that spoke valor above all others. Bard.

Long before the War of the Ring, Bard, a man of Laketown, had slain the dragon Smaug, sending a black arrow into the weakest point of the dragon's hide. the worm's corpse was then sent deep into the lake, a final gnash at the Smaug's expense. Supposedly, the body still resided there, preserved in the ice and snow.

But even now, in Laketown's prime, the horror of the dragon and the destruction in his wake was still a topic to be avoided. Despite Smaug's death decades ago, the fear he had brought and the damage he had done still haunted Laketown's memories.

There were even those who believed he would return.

Every morning, hundreds of men and women gathered on the ice just outside the walls, releasing overflowing cages of Dainos into the lake. They believed that feeding the icy waters their infected victims would appease the massive dragon, whose body lay in the depths below the lapping waves.

Some argued that this would only anger Smaug, causing him to rise once more. Others went for a more practical approach, debating the likelihood of Smaug actually being revived. Most, however, regarded the tradition as mere superstition, a last remnant of a superstitious past.

Among the latter was Bors.

Bors was the opposite of superstitious. He lived in the moment, only believing what was tangible. He sat in his canoe, line cast into the icy waves, every morning, every day. He sold his catch to those who could pay, feeding is family with the delicious taste of a good catch. Every day, every year. It seemed like this was his life, a good life, a routine life, a life to be enjoyed.

Bors had no idea what was coming.