A/N: I hope everyone is staying safe and staying indoors (or abiding by whatever the local advice is). I'm cautiously optimistic that this won't be the only update this year. Wouldn't that be a lark?
The Shadow of Angmar
Chapter 25: Until Wars Began Anew
A fire burned in the centre of a long, fur-lined tent. Styled akin to one of the long barrow-halls of Durin's folk, the smoke of the fire was breathed out into a clear night through the stove-hole above. Beside the fire, lit more by its lively red light than by the flickering candles set all across its surface, was a table strewn with maps and letters. Gathered around the table were a dozen Dwarves, each locked into their own private arguments with those nearest. At the entrance to the tent Harry sat quietly, wrapped in warm shadows and content merely to listen.
"Why do we continue to wait?" said Náin of Iron Hills, his deep voice rumbling across the war-table and drawing the attention of all those gathered. He was broad-shouldered, with a long woven beard of mixed russet and grey. At his side his young son Dáin nodded as Náin added, "By the latest count we are more than five thousands, able Dwarves all. No goblin-host could ever hope to stand against us!"
"More allies have we than just Dwarves," said Fundin, his words carefully measured. For many long years he had been a trusted advisor to King Thrór, and now he was steward to King Thráin. His long grey beard was carefully styled and his clothes were fine, setting him apart from many of the other Dwarves at the table. "King Haleth himself rides to join us with a host of twelve hundred, every man among them mounted and armed for war. He is but a scant few days hence, what cost to us a few more days if it means we gain so many swords?"
"Days you say," said Náin, as he beat his fist upon the table between them, "yet days fall upon days and soon it is not the days that mount, but weeks. We have been camped here since Anvil Moon and still we have not marched. Days you say! When at last this King of Men arrives what then I wonder? Would you then have us wait for the Elves to bestir themselves too?"
From the assembled Dwarves gathered about the war-table there was much grumbling and muttering. 'Zakafsun id-'uzghu duluz bark 'uglakh mi zirik Mebelkhags', they said quietly to each other. In war, better a dull axe than a sharp Elf.
"What use have we for these horse lords anyway?" asked Nari of the Firebeards, the words coming from behind the huge bush of a beard that had seen him named the Redbeard among his folk. "The goblins are weeds, and will not fight us upon an open field. We must root them out, under earth and through stone. The horses of Men will not bear them into their foul tunnels."
"Then have them dismount when it comes to that," said Harry, choosing that moment to remind them of his presence. "They are not joined to their horses at birth. Their valour is just as great whether upon the ground, or upon horseback. Are you so sure of our victory that you would turn away more than a thousand swords, spears, and bows?"
"They are untried," said Nari firmly. "A sword needs only a single weak point for it to shatter in direst need. Men have valour, that I do not doubt, but they are fickle as pig iron compared to a good solid Dwarvish steel."
"Untried? No, not untried." said Harry, his voice level and sure. As Saruman was oft taken to say, it was surety of voice that most swayed a stubborn Dwarf, more-so than sense it spoke. "Do you think the goblins you seek have been idle in their stolen holds? They have been a plague on all the good people of the north. It has only been 50 years since Golfimbul led his hosts into Eriador, and scarcely a year passes without another raiding party descending from the mountains into either Eriador or the Riddermark. They have been tried, of that you may be assured. Those that have been tried in such a way and found wanting will are seldom fit for a march such as this."
"Enough!" said Thráin, his voice cutting off Nari's next protest, and earning him an angry glare. "Harry has the right of it. We have not so many swords that we can afford to turn willing soldiers away. Too long have we let the goblins multiply within our holds uncontested. If we are one Dwarf against one hundred then I fear we will have been lucky."
"A true Dwarf warrior is worth two hundred goblins!" Náin thumped his fist upon the table and his words were followed by the grumbled agreement of the other Dwarves around the table.
"And when there are two hundred and one?" asked Thorin, the young son of Thráin, and barely grown into his beard.
Harry shook his head as the argument descended into little more than chest-beating and name calling. At least he could be sure that their coalition would not likely be on the move until after the men of the Riddermark had arrived. Without a further word, and unnoticed by any in the tent save perhaps the ever-observant Fundin, Harry ducked through the flaps and into the moonlit night beyond.
The camp was a large one, and stretched all the way across the Valley outside the Hold of Abzâgu id-Uslukh, often still called Scatha's Den by the Men who came there to trade. The host had been gathering there since Thráin's proclamation months ago, and the muddy earth told the tale well.
Everywhere Harry looked, Dwarves were making themselves busy. No matter the hour, the camp was awash with noise and activity. Dwarves of every Clan and stripe had come, from the Blue Mountains to the Red. The valley was filled with the endless clamour of an army making ready to march to war. The ringing of hammers, the clash of steel, the fire and smoke of a dozen hastily erected forges; the valley, once so peaceful put Harry in mind of the desolation wrought by Scatha.
Yet, it was not so bad as that. The great forest, called Níweald by the men of the Riddermark to the south, was largely untouched by the gathering. It was oft said by the Elves that nothing could stop Dwarves from felling and burning all the woods of the world, if they could but mine the ore to make it worth their while, but that was not at all true.
As a people, the Dwarves understood the value of limited resources, and the need to manage what wealth they did have with care. Wood had many more uses than merely being kindling for their ovens and forges. It could be used to prop and shore, to dam and reroute, to build and to repair. More important even than those, though, was the support a forest lent to the land above their delvings, as well as their property of improving drainage and reducing seepage. The forest of Níweald was carefully managed, and had been fastidiously protected even amid the gathering of Tháin's host.
What a host it was, too. Most numerous were Durin's Folk, who had in ages past resided in numerous holds throughout the Misty Mountains. The loss of Khazad-dûm, Erebor and many of their other ancestral holds had been hammer blows against the Clan that had once been the most powerful and most numerous of all the Clans of the Dwarves, but in the shadow of Scatha's Fall they showed that their might was not yet wholly spent.
Then there were the Firebeards and Broadbeams from the Blue Mountains to the west. Old allies of Durin's Folk, they too had answered King Thráin's call in great numbers. Least numerous were the Blacklocks, Stonefoots, Stiffbeards, and Ironfists, all of whom hailed from the far east, the Red Mountains or beyond.
It was a mustering of Dwarves the like of which had not been seen since the First Age. Soon their long preparations would be complete, their full numbers mustered, and their War would begin in earnest. Harry could see it in the eyes of every Dwarf he passed, they were ready.
If only Harry shared in that surety.
He had seen battle of course, and he had killed many foes in his time travelling the wilds of the world. Fights he had seen aplenty; even of battles, he had seen a few. War, though. War was not something he had experienced. Many of those grim-faced Dwarves with whom he shared meat and mead would be dead before the year was out. It didn't matter how ready they were, nor how grim their resolve. Many would die. That was the heartless truth of war.
How many halls would lie empty once the war was done? How many wives would be widows? How many children would be orphans?
There was little to be gained in thinking such dark thoughts, but they came to him nonetheless.
He made his way slowly through the camp, past countless tents and awnings. Wherever he walked the Dwarves would stop in their tasks for a moment to watch his passing. Over the years, he had accumulated quite the myth.
A young Dwarf approached him hesitantly. His dark hair, and the way his short beard was braided marked him out as one of Durin's Folk. "Great Wizard," he said fearfully, his eyes never rising to meet Harry's own. "It is said that you offer boons to those whom you favour."
There were many such tales, though Harry knew not from where they had come. Over the years, after crafting a working wand, he had tried to recapture the magic he'd learned in his nearly forgotten youth. He'd found that those simple spells tended to fade quickly, though he knew not if that was due to his poor recall of the lessons so many years in his past, or if it was some other factor. Perhaps his wand, made from the heartstrings of such a singularly selfish creature as Scatha had been, did not approve of lending protection to others.
He still had so much left to learn. His wand lent him power unlike anything the normal folk of Middle-earth had ever seen, and yet Harry still poorly understood the gift he'd been granted. Even after so many years, he felt as if he was working from gut intuition and instinct.
There were no writings on the subject of magic to be found anywhere in Middle-earth, not the true magic. The Men of Middle-earth seldom felt its influence, and seemed unaware of its presence in the world around them. The Dwarves could feel it, but they could not see it and so they worked almost blindly to mould it to their will. The Wise among the Elves, on the other hand could see it all around them, but to them it was so clear and obvious that explaining it was like trying to describe colour to one born without sight.
So Harry had been left to find his own way. And he had found the wand so very easy, and yet at the same time he often found it wanting.
"Is that what they say?" said Harry, making little effort to hide his amusement at the Dwarf's nervousness.
He pulled out his wand. For the most part, it was still as rough as it had been on the day he'd created it, though the years had softened its edges to a smoothly rounded shine. The once intentional change, was a small amount of mithril filigree around the grip, which swirled out along the length in gossamer-thin strands. A gift from the Dwarves for reclaiming one of their lost holds.
"Uava askatä" he said as he tapped the Dwarf's hauberk with the tip of his wand. A pearl of light crept along the mithril strands of his wand before spreading out over the piece of armour. A web pale light criss-crossed the metal, shining like dew in the dawning sun before fading back to nothing.
Perhaps it wasn't much, but it surely meant he would be better protected than he might otherwise have been.
"Khamnêl," said the Dwarf, as he bowed as low as he could manage. As soon as he pulled himself upright, he retreated, melting back into the bustling camp.
Harry looked around and found that he was being watched by many sets of interested eyes which immediately turned away rather than meet his gaze. It was a reaction to which Harry had become sadly accustomed. He continued on his way, and did his best to ignore the many sets of eyes that followed his passage.
It didn't take long to reach the edge of the woods that gave the valley its name. In the years since Scatha had died, life had returned to the once-barren valley and filled it nearly to the brim. As he had taken to doing regularly since his return to the Valley, Harry made his way into the trees, and started a short climb to an overlook that protruded from the valley side.
Far he had travelled, along roads long forgotten by men. He had seen all manner of peoples, and trod the streets of a hundred cities. From the crumbling greatness of Osgiliath to its last proud remnants in Minas Tirith. He had seen the sandy streets of Ar-Pharazos, where hundreds of men and women died every day under the whips of their cruel masters, and the quiet serenity of Caras Galadhon. He had walked the benighted halls of Khazad-dûm, and the forgotten green avenues of Cuiviénen.
Everywhere he had been, he felt like a man apart. Like there was some wall of thought between him and all others. Always visiting, never home. More people than he could hope to remember had passed, fleeting, through his life. Only the Elves persisted, and even they would not remain in Middle-earth forever. With each passing year, with each fallen leaf and each felled tree, they felt more distant from the Middle-earth they had so long called their home.
One day even Lord Elrond would grow tired of Middle-earth, and with him would go his family, and his household, and all that would remain would be the quiet ruins of his once-homely house, slowly being reclaimed by the wilds.
That realisation had come to him a great many years earlier, and since that day he had stepped seldom into the hidden valley. Solitude was easier. He had lost everything once before, and that was a pain he did not wish to experience a second time.
He took a seat, cross-legged upon the dew-wet grass, and closed his eyes. All around, the quiet sounds of forest life filled the clear air. A gentle evening wind rustled through the quiet canopy. Harry sat back, and let his mind drift upon the breeze. His thoughts, unfettered by the merely physical, climbed the smooth silvery bark of the surrounding birches, high into the treetops, lit by uncountable stars and a bright silver moon.
As his horizons expanded, so too did his senses, unto the edges of the wood in the lower valley. All who came and went beneath the boughs, he could feel. From the smallest shrew to the great bear that had descended from the high mountains in search of food after a long winter hibernation.
It was a technique he'd learned years ago from the Lady Galadriel when he had at last come to meet her in Lothlórien. Whatever expectations he'd had of one held in such high esteem by all who knew her, she had met them, and exceeded them.
Where Lord Celeborn was wise, with such a calming bearing that it bled into all those in his presence, Lady Galadriel was something else. She was no doubt wise beyond any reckoning of Men, but that was not the first thing anyone noticed in her presence. It was the fire she possessed that truly set her apart. Dwarves often said that Elves would proudly proclaim the power and beauty of their own shits if the world would but give them the audience they so craved and, after coming to know Lady Galadriel, Harry could see why they might think that.
She stood tall and proud even among her brethren, like one of her favored mallorns amid a forest of pines. None upon whom she gazed could avoid the feeling of being assessed, their deepest secrets seemingly exposed to her gaze. It was a sensation completely unlike any Legilimency Harry had ever experienced, as it demanded nothing of the one she was gazing upon.
She merely asked, mind to mind, the questions that all men ask themselves in their darker moments, and waited patiently for a reply. She did not sneak nor creep; she did not berate nor steal. She watched, and asked, and listened, and knew. It could be a terrifying experience for one unaccustomed to self-doubt but such questions had long been Harry's companions on dark nights, when only the stars overhead could offer their distant company.
So many years had passed, and yet the shadows of Angmar haunted him still. Sometimes he wondered if he had ever, would ever truly escape from its influence. A prison of the mind more so than of the body. Or maybe a prison of the soul. She had shown him how to find freedom. Called sanwe-latya in Quenya, it was a skill that had long fallen to disuse even among her own kind.
His mind flew upon unseen wings, between the currents of starlight.
The freedom was unlike anything else Harry had ever known, and yet even then he was contained. Beyond the boundaries of Níweald, his sight grew dim, as if a dark curtain of sheerest silk had been pulled over his eyes. Colour faded from the world, and shadows grew deeper until all was consumed by them and he had to turn back.
Even in the darkness beyond the valley, though, light could be found. He had to search for it blindly, casting about aimlessly amidst the gloom until he found it . A distant, flickering candle, was besieged within the darkness. To the south, no more than a day distant, he could feel the King's Company, maybe ten full Éoreds. Men were among the hardest to sense, and it was only the presence of Haleth among them that allowed Harry even the most limited sense of their presence.
They had stopped for the night, and in the wavering light of his distant mind, Harry could feel both his fatigue and apprehension. Haleth had been a strong warrior once, and had grown into a good King but age was a foe that could not be defeated through swordplay, nor could it be waylaid through cunning statecraft.
The King surely knew that this ride would be his last, one way of the other.
Harry's mind turned away, then, from the King, but before he returned to himself there was a flicker of something else at the edge of his mind.
He searched through the darkness, but it would not give up that for which he searched. It was not until he felt the warmth of the first rays of the morning sun upon his face that he returned to himself, atop his grassy outcrop.
It was a curious thing, perhaps, to feel so rested after spending so much of his night searching fruitlessly in the darkness for that flicker he'd felt. It had been just the merest suggestion, like a star reflected in shifting waters, but it had been familiar. He rose slowly to his feet. Rested, perhaps, but sitting cross legged was still no comfortable way to spend an appreciable count of hours. His clothing was damp from the morning dew, his long hair for once plastered flat to his head.
The news of Haleth's coming would surely be gratefully received by King Thráin. The wait would soon be over; the war would soon begin.
o-o
They arrived late in the evening that day. The golden hair of a thousand proud men gleaming like new fire in the last rays of the fading sunlight. The thunder of their horses announced their coming long before they came into sight, but Harry had felt them near even before that. As soon as they had entered the lower reaches of the valley, far below, he had known of their arrival.
King Thráin and his closest advisors awaited the arrival of their new allies, accompanied by an honour guard of their own. Harry had counselled that such posturing would be unnecessary, but Náin of Ironhills, cousin to Thráin, would not hear of it. No King of Durin's Folk would meet a group so large, and so heavily armed, without an escort of his own. Orcs, he said, had long experience in the arts of deception.
And so it was that the two Kings came to meet. Haleth rode at the head of his own éored, every one among them resplendent in the green and white of the House of Eorl. Beside Haleth rode a tall, powerful-looking man bearing the great banner of the Riddermark, a great stag in white and gold, rampant upon a field of green. As he rode, it flicked and snapped in the passing wind, and captured within it some of the sun's fading radiance.
"King Thráin!" cried Haleth. His hair was thinning, and long turned to grey, but in his voice there was yet a memory of the strength of his youth. "The Riddermark has come to answer an ally's call."
Náin scoffed under his breath, quietly enough that none outside Thráin's retinue was able to hear. Nonetheless, he was silenced by a harsh glance from his king.
"And gratefully do we receive it, King Haleth," said Fundin, standing forward to speak for Thráin. "My King bids I invite you and your Lords to his tent to discuss strategies for the coming war."
Haleth dismounted before the Dwarvish contingent, and his banner bearer did the same after handing the standard to another man.
"My men are weary, and our horses are tired," said Haleth though even Harry found it hard to sense any weariness in the man, despite the long ride, and his longer years.
King Thráin stepped forward then. "Fundin, my steward, will see to their needs," he said in a voice laced with far more diplomacy than he ordinarily employed when addressing his own people. "It is good of you to have answered my call, Haleth, King. Should this war go well, then my people shall owe yours a debt."
"There can be no debts between brothers," said Haleth firmly. "And all those who shed blood with me upon the field are my brothers, so let us talk not of debts! I met your father, once when I was but a boy, and I came with my father to your great Kingdom at Erebor. I was greatly saddened to hear of his passing, and angered to hear of its manner. We met only briefly, for I was little more than a child, but he was kind to me."
Thráin extended an arm for Haleth to take, which he did. They greeted each other then as friends, with a strong clasp. "Better days were those," said Thráin sadly. It had been twenty-three years since the last of the great worms had taken Erebor for his own and become known to all in the north as Smaug the Golden, but the years did not dim their pain.
"Aye," said Haleth. "Better days indeed."
Smaug's arrival had not only meant the end of the Kingdom under the Mountain, but also the burning of Dale, once the second city of the Riddermark, and the meeting point for trade from East and West. Since its fall, trade from the East had all but stopped. Without the strength of Dale nearby to protect the roads, they had become infested with Orcs and other bandits.
At that moment, a stirr went through the assembled Dwarves, as some more riders approached. Fine were the horses of the Éotheod; among the horses of Men they had no equal, but the horses that neared were of no Mannish variety.
Bitless and without saddle their masters rode, for they were Elf steeds and needed no tack. Harry recognised the riders that led the group immediately.
"Elladan, Elrohir!" he cried out happily. It had been a long span of yours since last he had set eyes upon the sons of Elrond. Behind them, at a respectful distance, rode Daewen atop her own blue roan, and beside her was Haldir, who had long maintained the watch on the East Gate of Moria.
With them rode near a hundred of their brethren, all garbed in the olive-green travelling robes of their people, and each armed with both bow and knife.
"What is this!" said Náin, stepping forward, and flanked by the King's guard. "What business do Elves so armed have with the King of Durin's Folk?"
"We bear a message from Lord Elrond, and the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood," said Elladan, as the company came to a graceful halt with not a word of command issued.
"Mebelkhags galabî harb galdul," Náin muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Adrib!" said Thráin harshly to his cousin, silencing him. He turned back to the sons of Elrond. "I would hear your message."
Harry knew that the sons of Elrond understood every word that had been said, but if they took offense, they gave no sign.
"The old alliance is withered, but not yet forgotten," said Elladan. "Once, Elf, Dwarf, and Man lived side by side, worked together, and fought united. Those days are long passed, and much has since come between us, but there are still those among us who would choose to remember them, and honour them."
"Those you see here came by their own choice," said Elrohir, sweeping his arm around in a gesture that encompassed all of the Elvish company. "They were not commanded to come, but come they have, nevertheless. We have, for the first time in a great count of years, left our home behind, so that we might help you return to yours."
His statement did not go down as well as he had surely hoped. Harry heard much grumbling from the assembled Dwarves, and from one closer to him he heard, "Dezeb ud' amsâltharr." Diamonds from quartz, the Dwarves had little time for grand words that they did not believe were merited.
Thráin, at least, remained somewhat gracious. "Your words are noble, Mahalbâha," he said. It was no glowing expression of gratitude, for he was thanking them only for the words, and not for any action on their part, but Harry took some hope from the fact that the King had at least used a respectful form of address. He had to walk a tightrope between the approval of his people, who were ever prickly to the perceived slights committed by the Elves, and regard of potential allies who had come, unlooked-for, to assist them.
"Come, then," said Thráin to both of his new allies. "There is much that must be discussed before we can march."
Then, together, they went to the King's tent, and their hosts dismounted, and started setting their own encampments upon the borders of the Dwarves' own. Harry was about to follow when Daewen approached him, a look of some apprehension upon her face.
"It is good to see you again, my friend," she said, and when she spoke the doubt was gone from her eyes, and they showed only honest good cheer. "It has been too long since last you visited the Halls of my Lord."
Harry could not help but smile. She was right, it had been far too long. She was, in truth, probably his oldest friend. He had denied that truth for many years. It was not until he had at last been able to locate the Witch King, and when they had joined in battle beneath the tainted walls of Minas Ithil, now long called Morgul by those who dwelt beneath its shadow, that he came to accept the truth.
His old friends were lost to him. Perhaps they would not be sundered forever, but even if their reunion should come, on some far-off day, they would no longer be the people he'd once loved. Even if, by some incredible chance, he was able to return to the very moment from whence he had left, he would not be the same person who had once loved them. They were ships at sea, once parted and never to be reunited.
"Too long indeed," he said, as the broad smile spread across his face. "It does me good to see you looking so well!"
"We in Imladris have heard much of your travels," she said, before her expression dropped. "Yet we have heard little of you for a great count of years. Mithrandir has come and gone more times than I care to count. Radagast too, has visited perhaps a handful of times. Even Saruman has bestirred himself from that tower of his, and yet of you we hear only tales."
Harry shifted uncomfortably. Old friend she may be, but long years of separation meant that they were not so close that he felt he could confide in her. In truth, he had no such friend. Men, it seemed, were little more than brilliant fleeting moments in time. Strong, wise, beautiful in their time, and yet that time was so very short. He had known Haleth as a child, as a young warrior, and as a frail king; as he had known his father, and his grandfather before him.
Dwarves were a little less brief, but they usually kept to themselves. They were respectful, and dutiful in their regard towards him but rarely did they treat him as anything other than an honoured friend of their people. In all the long years he'd been travelling Middle-earth, he had known only two Dwarves by their nakhrâm, their inner-name, and both had died many years past.
Their loss was a pain that Harry carried with him every day.
The Elves, though, did not grow old. The world turned around them, and ages passed them by as they looked on, unchanged, their beauty never marred. Yet Harry had come to avoid them. "Imladris is too peaceful," said Harry, choosing not to voice the true reasons behind his absence. "I find myself growing restless when I so much as draw near."
He was grateful, then, that the Elvish company did not include Elrond, or Celeborn for they would have seen through his poor lies in mere moments. Daewen, looked doubtful, but she nodded her head in reluctant acceptance. Perhaps she had her suspicions, but she was a good enough friend to know when such things should be left unvoiced.
"I too come bearing a message," said Daewen, choosing to move the subject on to easier fare.
"From Lord Elrond?" said Harry. If the Lord of Imladris had some insight, it was always wise to listen. He started walking in the direction of King Thráin's tent, he had left Elladan and Elrohir too long in the sole company of Dwarves already.
"I think there is such a message, but it is not carried by me," she said, as she walked at his side. There was something comfortingly familiar about it. "I bear a message from Lady Arwen."
Harry kept up his steady pace, but he glanced across at his companion. She was watching him closely.
"It is no exciting message, in truth," she admitted. "She merely wishes to know why it is that you have so long scorned the warmth of Imladris, and the comforts of Caras Galadhon. She says you are a much more pleasing visitor than Mithrandir, and with far more exciting stories."
That would not be a hard thing to achieve. Mithrandir was a curious sort of fellow. He possessed an unassuming bearing which served to veil a powerful mind, and formidable wisdom. Saruman, on those occasions when he had call to speak on his fellow Istari, wavered between frustration and respect, for the man was prone to disappearing on self-imposed quests, only to reappear months or even years later.
They were nearing the tent, and from it Harry could hear the powerful, raised voice of Nari. It seemed his presence would be required. Daewen was still watching him, waiting for some kind of answer.
"Then perhaps I should pay a visit to Imladris, once all this is done," he said, choosing to defer his answer to a later date. "If only to relieve the boredom of your unfortunate kin."
He pushed his way into the tent, and into what was possibly intended to be a dry-run of the battles ahead, if the clamour of voices was anything by which it could be judged. As he stepped into the war, long awaited, he heard Daewen laughing merrily behind him. His joke hadn't been all that funny, but he found that he'd missed the sound of laughter.
A/N: This chapter marks the beginning of the next arc (of which this story was originally intended to have three). It will cover much of the War of the Dwarves and Orcs, which has started for the same reason as in canon, the killing of Thrór, father of Thráin. It is the war that ended, in canon, with the Battle of Azanulbizar, outside Khazad-dum, the battle kinda shown in a flashback in the Hobbit movie.
Lets hope I get up some momentum!
With regards to names and language, there are a few things.
'Zakafsun id-'uzghu duluz bark 'uglakh mi zirik Mebelkhags.' is a proverb I have concocted, and Harry's translation is correct
'Mebelkhags galabî harb galdul' is another concocted proverb, meaning 'the words of an Elf are mud', in this case mud has the secondary meaning of 'unreliable'.
'Adrib' simply means 'silence'.
'Mahalbâha' is a more respectful way of referring specifically to Noldorin Elves, which in the case of Elladan and Elrohir is a possibly correct, or possibly incorrect depending on how you count things. Their mother is mixed Sinda/Noldo(/hint of Vanya, In this story, Celeborn is taken as being Sindar), while their father is mixed Noldo/Sinda, depending on how you count Half-Elves. Basically, it's complicated, and Thráin didn't think about all that. Elrond is de-facto leader of the Noldor following the death of Gil-Galad, so that's how he's addressed here.
Some may have noticed that Rohan isn't where it should be. Due to knock-on effects of Harry's presence, Eorl never needed to ride south to Gondor's aid, and so he established his Kingdom in the Vales of the Anduin, further north than canon Rohan. It is also not referred to as 'Rohan', as that was the name given to it by Gondor (in Sindarin), while they generally used 'Riddermark', or just 'The Mark' internally. Technically it's more complicated than that, as 'Riddermark' is actually meant to be a translation from the native Rohirric word 'Lōgrad' meaning the same thing (Land of the Riders), but to keep things relatively comprehensible I will be retaining the name 'Riddermark' for simplicity.
