"So many came," Ori said, delighted. His heart was thrumming in his chest. "A Dwarven army like this hasn't marched for an age! We'll be in songs." He paused. "We will write the songs." It was a heavy thought.

'I didn't write any of the songs for Erebor. But I have my mastery now.'

He was glad that he hadn't. Writing of Thorin's fall, and of the poor princes…

Ori struggled not to fall into a black mood. He forced a grin.

"Aye," Halif agreed. She looked around with a less impressed expression, dark brown eyes calm. "King Dain is generous to send so many. Populations are growing and space is the same. This is a good use of the soldiery."

She was wrong about that, but Ori kept it to himself because she was more of a loyalist than he was and would be appalled. Dain, King under the Mountain, was staunchly against their quest. Their followers had been called by Balin directly.

Ori felt a thrum of discomfort. He pushed it down, far away. He didn't need to borrow doubts. He didn't know what Dain had seen inside the gates of Moria. But Dain didn't know either. He couldn't put a name to his fear. Perhaps it had been nothing, a battle hallucination suffered by a stripling 40 years too young to be in battle.

Moria was the greatest of all Dwarven kingdoms, and it would take more than a bad feeling and a glimpsed shadow to keep Balin from reclaiming it.

King Under the Mountain Dain might be, but Balin was of the blood of Durin kings as well. He didn't need to listen to admonishments from someone who hadn't even reclaimed the throne he sat on.

The bar in Dale was bustling with activity. The floors were already sticky and stained, despite the fact that the building hadn't even existed the last time that Ori had ventured out of Erebor. Most of the Dwarven party were from Erebor, of course, but three iron-clad Dwarrow from the Hills were slapping backs and cheering. They each represented a number of soldiers who waited outside of town to begin their march.

"I had better begin getting names," his fellow scribe sighed. Halif picked up her tankard and glanced mournfully over to the newcomers. "You'll transcribe the speech?" She drank half her beer in one drain.

Ori nodded. "Of course," he promised. He glanced over at the center of the bar, where Balin was holding court. "It shouldn't be much longer, I think."

"It will take hours," Halif disagreed. She cracked a wry smile and sat her empty tankard down with a soft clank. "You've never traveled in a large party, Ori? Mobilizing this lot will take so long. We won't get any further than Lóni 's camp tonight, mark my words." She untied a leather knot on her bag and pulled out her journal. It was a massive thing with hardly anything written in it yet. Before too long, it would become the Book of Moria, detailing their struggles and triumphs.

"Oh. I believe you," he said easily. She was 53 years his senior, and she had traveled among the main group of Ereborian returnees with Princess Dis from the Blue Mountains 30 years ago. She had seen more. "Good luck."

"Do your best," she said, and off she went. Ori watched her back for a moment and then copied her by throwing back his beer. He abandoned his tankard next to hers and wandered over closer to Balin. Their leader saw him coming and nodded. Ori nodded back. Pride rose in his chest. This was his second great adventure, but Balin had earned his respect over decades.

Dain was a good Dwarf and a fair king. But to Ori, the King Under the Mountain would always be Thorin Oakenshield. He didn't want to live in the halls of Dain. They were haunted for him.

Lord Balin clearly felt the same. He had shared many loud differences of opinion with Dain on the matter of Moria. The only wonder was that Dwalin was not coming with them. No one had ever been more loyal to Thorin. He had somehow found his satisfaction in work as head of Erebor's guards, but there was nothing that would make Erebor palatable for Balin, Ori, and old Oin.

Ori looked around the bar, human and vivid and forever ruined for him and his by its proximity to Erebor. 'I'll never come back here,' he thought, and it was a good thought.

Moria would be their fresh start.

When everyone was assembled and with a drink in hand, Flόi called for quiet. He was met with cheerful jeers that petered off respectfully as Balin took to his feet. "This is a fine gathering," Balin said mildly. "Never have I seen a group more suited to a quest of legend." He was met with a chorus of cheers. Someone threw their drink over the crowd. Balin smiled at the ensuing laughter. "Well. We have a few months to iron out the details."

Ori wondered how much of the byplay he should write. For now, he wrote Balin's words and left space for notations later. It was good to have a dignified version of events, but it was also heartening that their leader was so beloved and his relationship with the soldiers was friendly, rather than haughty.

'I'll discuss the tone with Halif later.'

Balin's speech was clever, well-said, and well-received. Ori recorded it word-for-word, tongue sticking out with the effort. Then Halif was proved right. They tromped off a few hours to the camp outside of Dale. Dour-faced humans watched them go with doubtful whispers. Ori put his chin up high as he marched past.

Everyone had said that retaking Erebor was mad, too. And yet here they were, Dale only inhabitable because Dwarves had rousted the dragon.

They set off the next day and it was ponderously slow going. They brought as many supplies as they could carry.

That was odd, considering that they marched to a battle. They were wagering that they would win it.

"Maybe we should poison some of it," Ori mused at the leadership's fire on the third night. He kept his arms around his body. He was always cold when he left a mountain. He was wrapped up in Dori's favorite red scarf. "If we lose and the orcs take our supplies, I hope they get sick off it."

Balin hummed and lifted his white eyebrows. "Well now Laddie, that would be a fine idea if they were not orcs," he said. His tone was gentle but it made him feel very young and foolish. "They won't eat our food."

"What would they-" Ori cut himself off as he realized what it was that orcs would be eating if the dwarves failed to retake Moria. He grimaced.

Balin patted his back as he walked past.

A few were scouting ahead, but they still traveled with a large group of soldiers. Some were from the Iron Hills, but many were good Ereborian Dwarrow. Ori wondered to himself how many of them had fought for Moria once already, like Balin and Dain. He looked around the army with all the subtlety that he could muster.

Most of them were old enough to have done so. No wonder the air had something of a religious fervor as undertone. This was what the dwarrow were meant to do.

He wouldn't have thought that many would be willing to go back. But if Balin and Oin had that steel in their spine, he would wager that many others here felt the same.

'Perhaps 'many' is a bit of an exaggeration,' Ori thought, looking at the young faces around them. Some of them were as young as he had been when they'd retaken Erebor. Details aside, most of the Dwarrow looked too young to have seen battle at the gates of Azanulbizar.

'They're not here to fix that wrong. Not only. They're here because when we retook Erebor, we showed that it is possible to reclaim our ancestral homes.'

He marched with his head that much higher.

Before it was time to sleep, they reached the part of the journey that Ori was most unhappy to confront. He set his jaw sullenly and spent the time near Balin and his chief guard Frár. They waited for the guide to meet them.

"Steady on," Balin murmured. He gave Ori an encouraging smile. "We'll be out of there soon enough."

"I don't understand why Dain has decided to be so friendly with them," Ori muttered rebelliously.

"King Dain."

Ori bowed his head at Balin's correction. Now no one else could hear them, but still. He should be prudent.

"And… Well." Balin cleared his throat. "I cannot say I would have done the same." He paused and nodded his head. "And nor would Thorin."

Ori snorted.

"However, it will get us through Mirkwood much faster," Balin said grimly. "That is no small benefit, as you know."

He shuddered and did not respond. The hazy days inside Mirkwood were among his worst memories from the quest. The forest was a black nightmare. And the Elvenking had been selfish, unjust, and unlawful to put them all in prison.

The thought made him nostalgic. Ori found himself with a pen in hand– which was usual. But the paper he searched out would go in a letter instead of the book.

"Dear Bilbo," Ori wrote. "Our quest has begun and I am sorry you are not here to cheer it. I know that Frodo needs you, of course. Tonight I am much dreading returning into Mirkwood. I will write again when I am free of it and tell you how terrible it was. I am enclosing my notes on Balin's speech before we departed. Does it give the heroic tone? I am looking forward to when we hold the city and you can come and visit, though you have never visited Erebor. I understand…"