Disclaimer: Arda and its creatures are not mine. Same applies to the Aliens. I'm keeping Isilme and Thrain, though.

CHAPTER 2: To the White City

Late March, somewhere on the Great West Road

Thrain had traveled little in his young life, and always in the company of other Dwarves – never with a Man, and the annoying lack of sense of rhythm of their kind. Thrain's kin marched with a steady pace, each step the strike of an ethereal hammer – of a heartbeat. Unlike the long-legged folk who trotted, walked, ran and jumped according to their whimsical mood. Still, Thrain did his best to keep up with the ranger, declining his frequent offers for rest.

Let no Man say that any of Mahal's sons is of lesser endurance and resolve.

So he followed the ranger in the path eastwards, humming an old working song to himself, keeping some rhythm to his marching.

Hey ho! Wood and charcoal, fuel the forges!

Hey ho! Pump the bellows, feed the fire!

Hit the metal while it's hot,

Strike your hammer!

- - -

Strange folk, those Dwarves, thought Talagan – sturdy and stubborn. His companion seemed tired, and yet he refused all offers for rest. Many a time had Talagan seen Thrain limp out of the corner of his eye. Yet when he gazed directly at him, the Dwarf walked as if his feet were not blistered, as if the toe he had stubbed a few hours back did not bother him. He walked on, humming a strange tune; his eyes, focused and unblinking, stayed fixed on the road, oblivious to the glory of the spring along the Great West Road.

A colourful sea of wild flowers littered the hillsides and the plains around them: chamomile, clover and daisies. The evening breeze carried the scent of flowers and herbs, lifting his spirits. Talagan inhaled deeply as he searched the roadsides near their camp for a certain herb: snakeweed. He soon found some, and gathered several thick, fibrous leaves.

Later that evening, Talagan removed his boots, crushed a couple of leaves and placed them on his own blisters. Then, under the curious stare of the dwarf, he bandaged his feet, aware that the essence of the weed would soon heel him. Stifling a grin, he offered some leaves to the Dwarf across the fire.

"Would you like some?"

Thrain's eyes darted from Talagan's face to his outstretched hand. After a moment of hesitation, he reached out and took the offered leaves.

"Yes, please."

- - -

They soon reached Firien Wood and the willow-thickets where Snowbourn flowed into Entwash. They made camp there and, while Talagan walked off in search of game, Thrain took out the whetstone from his backpack to sharpen his axe. The sound of stone against metal soothed him, unlike the crude sound of the ranger's singing. He had often heard Gimli Elf-friend speak of the elven songs with high regard, but his lord had never heard this lad's singing.

In the past, every time someone spoke of rangers, Thrain thought of stealth and noiseless grace. Not anymore. The lad had probably scared away all forest life in miles around them.

Obviously, those hares were deaf.

- - -

After several days of uneventful travel, they saw the bare hilltop of Amon Dîn amidst the heavily wooded hills of the Drúadan Forest. Soon after, they reached the Pelennor Fields. Talagan walked slowly there, feeling the air around him heavy with death – death and honor. Yet he couldn't help but grin at the awestruck Dwarf as Thrain gazed upon Minas Tirith for the first time.

The white walls shone under the afternoon sun, but as they walked closer, they saw myriads of colors adorning the walls. Roses and petunias, red and yellow, blue and purple, and all sorts of flowers grew at the doorsteps and windowsills of countless buildings, miniature multicolored banners swaying to the breeze under the White Tree.

On their way to the up to the upper level, Talagan insisted on stopping at the White Cat inn for a mug of ale and a short rest – they shouldn't appear before the king short of breath and covered in the dust of the road.

The Dwarf scowled. "Gimli Elf-friend considers this mission of grave importance. We must not delay." Then his frown deepened, as he sniffed the air outside the inn. "Do I smell pork chops and roasting sausages with thyme and garlic?"

Talagan grinned. "Best sausages north of Pelargir. And they serve rather good ale too."

An hour later, cleaner, fed and less thirsty, Man and Dwarf reached the uppermost level.

- - -

Nothing could match the glory that had been Moria, the splendor of Erebor or the sparkling wonder that was Aglarond – nothing. Still, the city of Minas Tirith was pretty decent, Thrain admitted silently to himself. Good masonry, interesting architecture, and the pillars in the king's halls were smoothly carved, aligned almost in perfect order with each other. One or two were off by half an inch, but again only a Dwarf's eye could detect such divergence from perfection.

They waited at the antechamber to be announced, and Thrain stole glances at the people around them. Much to his relief, the residents of Minas Tirith seemed accustomed to the presence of Dwarves – not once did a servant or a soldier look twice at him. Then the door opened and a young page, skinny and freckled-faced, waved at them.

"The king will see you now."

Thrain stood, placed his axe on his left shoulder, stretched out his chest and followed Talagan into the king's council chamber. He kept his eyes straight ahead and his face calm – let no one say that any of Mahal's sons gawked at the presence of any Man – even the king.

Admittedly, it took some effort not to gawk.

The king looked …tall; tall and ageless. Silver streaks lined his temples and lines crowned his brow, the tale of unspoken burdens written upon them. But his hand was steady when he waved at them to come closer, the hand that had wielded the Flame of the West against the hordes of Mordor. Amidst the stone glance of the line of kings, Thrain felt the weight of years heavy upon his shoulders.

Yet another presence caught his eye; a presence as radiant as the amethysts and the sapphires of Aglarond and as sharp and terrible as the fine blade of a steel sword: Arwen Undómiel, the Queen of Gondor. Her comely face, fresh and smooth and hairless, seemed untouched by time; save for her eyes, grey and deep, the lore and tales of Elvenkind playing in their depths.

"Well met again, Talagan," said the king, his voice deep and thoughtful. "And welcome to Minas Tirith, Thrain, son of Torin. Radagast the Brown considers the news you bring of great importance, and so does Gimli, I believe."

Thrain bowed his head. "Indeed, sire. The Lord of the Glittering Caves bids you well, and asks you to consider my tale."

"Ah. And how is my friend? Had he no greeting for an old friend?"

Only then did Thrain notice the third presence by the king's throne. An Elf stood there, tall and handsome, with long strands of hair crowning a face of perfect harmony. He leaned on a longbow of rare craftsmanship. Although Thrain had little knowledge of the art of bow-making, his practice limited to swords and axes, he knew skilful craftsmanship when he saw it. This Elf should be Legolas, Gimli's friend. Thrain struggled to recall whether this Elf was of noble birth, bearing some title. Was he a prince or a lord, perhaps? Thrain could not remember. His memory always failed him when it came to protocol and court etiquette – what use were such things to him, a Dwarf who loved venturing in the deep, harvesting the fruits of the earth?

Thrain drew in a deep breath. "Well met, my lord Legolas." He dared a glance at the fair Elf and, to his relief, he did not appear insulted. "Gimli Elf-friend sends his regards, with the hope that you will join him in another quest. He misses beating you in orcs' body count."

Legolas grinned. "Then my bow will soon join his axe in a new adventure. But come, tell us more."

Thrain bowed his head, searching for the right words. "Something stirs beneath the Ash Mountains, sire," he said, raising his eyes to the king. "During a mining expedition for silver, some of my comrades came upon a cave sealed behind an ancient door adorned with what seemed to be elven scriptures." The marble gaze of the long-dead kings burned his back. He felt their silent reproach in the air around him, an icy draft of never-ending winter. This is your fault, foolish Dwarf! Your worthless comrades have unleashed new evil in the world! Why did you disturb what the Elves had sealed? "None of us could read the markings – we were miners, not scholars, sire," continued Thrain, fearing the king's response.

Much to his relief, there was no reproach in King Aragorn's stare. "Please, Master Thrain, continue." His gentle tone soothed Thrain's troubled heart.

"We found a strange creature inside, sire, one that feeds off living creatures, eating its way out of my friends' chests. I know little of its ways, other than it moves fast and no noise warns of its presence. It lurks in the shadows and many of my folk vanished without a trace. The leader of our expedition, Master Delin, sealed off the lower tunnels where we think it dwells, but it's doubtful whether we have contained it or not." Thrain paused for a moment, letting out the breath he had held for long. "My lord Gimli marches as we speak to the Ash Mountains, sire, to deal with this creature we inadvertently set loose."

Aragorn rubbed his chin, the lines on his forehead deeper. "This is indeed serious, Master Thrain. You spoke of carvings and signs in an elven tongue scribed upon the door. Do you, perchance, recall them?"

Thrain lowered his gaze, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Forgive me, sire, I do not. I am just a simple miner."

"A miner with great courage," replied a voice soft and clear like silver chimes to the night breeze.

Thrain looked up and saw the queen smile at him, and his cheeks burned anew.

"If my people sealed that creature in the past, then perhaps the incident has been recorded in our lore. I will search my father's archives as soon as possible," Arwen added and placed her hand on Aragorn's arm, a passing cloud of sorrow darkening her gaze when she mentioned her father.

Aragorn nodded. "Every bit of information might prove vital, Arwen. Thank you." He gently cupped her hand with his. He leaned back on his throne and stretched his legs. "Legolas, my friend, I believe that Andúril has been sheathed for too long. Perhaps it is time for a new adventure."

"Surely, your majesty, the affairs of state," Legolas replied, the seriousness in his voice in complete contrast with the playfulness of his gaze.

"Ah, the affairs of state! Faramir can take care of those. I've missed the wilderness." Aragorn waved and in an instant several servants appeared around them. "Show our honoured guests to their chambers," he ordered. "Rest, my friends, for in two days we ride to the side of Gimli Elf-friend!"

Thrain bowed his head and followed the servants, pushing the horror of the upcoming journey at to the back of his mind. For now, he rejoiced at the prospect of riding with the king.

And still, one thought persisted: When will it be a good time to tell them that I cannot ride?

- - -

In the tunnels beneath Ered Lithui, a creature lurked in the shadows, waiting. Fierce hunger burned its gut.

Patience, it thought. Patience. We will feed soon.

- - -

Not far from the beast, half a day's journey eastwards, other shadows lurked in dimly lit caves. Malformed creatures dressed in rags sought broken blades and rusty helmets and breastplates, some still bearing the faded sign of a white hand. Limping, whining, they fought over broken whetstones and worn hammers to sharpen swords and hatchets and mend whatever piece of armour they could find.

One of them, somewhat taller, with broad shoulders and a filthy patch over his left eye, walked away from his companions and stared out to the moonless night. The seal had been broken – he was sure of that. He had felt it in his sleep, in his blood, the cry of an oath sworn in another time and place – another life.

One of his companions limped to him and grasped his arm. "What now, Zagkrut?"

After a moment of silence, Zagkrut turned his good eye to the crooked face of his comrade. "Now we wait."

The creature nodded and limped back in the depths of the gate, while Zagkrut turned his gaze back to the night.

We wait, he thought. For the king.

Author's notes:

Many thanks for all your reviews and suggestions! purr

Mahal: The name among the Dwarves for the Vala Aulë, who made the Fathers of their race in ancient times, and was revered by all Dwarves.

Snakeweed: Plantain. The use mentioned here is accurate - plantain can be used on blisters from hiking, according to my herbal books.

Again, I'd like to know whether the voices of the canon characters ring true.

Oh, and the dwarven song in the beginning is mine, in case you are wondering.