A/N: The poem Gundabad is actually a variation of Tolkien's poem "Durin".
Gundabad
"Are you sure?" Anduin asked Moin again.
"Aye," the dwarf answered.
"You have been a great friend in traveling, and a great ally in battle," the ranger said, placing a hand on Moin's shoulder. "I am sorry to leave you."
"And I will be sorry to see you go," Moin said, patting Anduin's hand. "But we are going to stay with my uncle, me and what's left of mine."
"Truly our losses have been great," Anduin sighed.
"You take care of yourself, lad," Moin said. "And the little hobbit, too."
Saerid and Hani stood a little way off, watching the rest of their company say their goodbyes.
"I never thought that I would say this," Saerid said, his voice dropping to a nearly incoherent murmur. "But I'll... m...you."
"What's that?" Hani asked.
"I said I...ms...you," the Elf repeated.
"I can't understand you," the dwarf grumbled. "Speak up!"
"I'll miss you!" Saerid shouted into the dwarf's ear. Hani blushed deep red and began frantically stroking his beard.
"Oh, er..." he mumbled. "Um, same to you."
Moin and all the dwarves that had started this journey with them stood on the hill as Anduin, Higgen, and the Elves rode away.
"I'll send you some new ponies!" Anduin called, raising a hand in farewell. Moin called something after him, but Anduin could not hear what he said, for the wind snatched his words as soon as they left his mouth.
"On, to Gundabad," Anduin said.
"Who is Gundabad?" Higgen asked.
"Not who, but what," Anduin said. "I believe Eliohad knows a poem about it."
"Gundabad?" The Elf asked. "Ah, yes.
The Earth 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
In Gundabad, fair Gundabad.
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
In Gundabad, fair Gundabad.
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
In Gundabad, fair Gundabad.
The hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel close, and graver wrote,
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built,
There beryl, pearl, and opal bale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard
In Gundabad, fair Gundabad.
Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke;
The harpers harped, the minstrels sand
And at the gate the trumpets rang
In Gundabad, fair Gundabad.
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-dum.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep,
In Gundabad, foul Gundabad."
"That sounds very lovely," Higgen said.
"It was," Eliohad replied. "Until it became a stronghold for goblins in the War of Dwarves and Goblins."
"Oh, so they're no longer the halls of Durin?" Higgen asked, crestfallen.
"Not for many years now," Anduin said. "I'm afraid we are going into the wasps' nest."
"Why couldn't this adventuring business be easy for once?" the hobbit sighed.