Durin VII, sat on his throne. He was old and tired, and brutally aware that his people were living in their final days. Not one new Dwarf had been born in a century, they had dwindled in number until the mansions of Dwarrowdelf represented the entirety of their race, and even the youngest of them felt sore and tired and OLD. They had still been fairly strong as a people when Durin VII was born two centuries earlier, and when the light and spirit of Durin were clear in him and he was given that name, many had dared to hope that the prophecy was wrong, that Durin VII would not be the last great king of his people. He had done a good job and his reign had been peaceful and stable, but now towards the end of his life, they could all feel it, their time in this world was over. And they were SO worn down, they couldn't seem to mind. His reign had been long and stable and peaceful, none had gone hungry and allies had been helped, but it had been decades since most could remember feeling more than passively happy.
The exception, he reflected fondly, was when hobbits paid them a visit. It had been centuries since the sailing of the ringbearers, Orcs rarely led their warrens, the elves were very few and rarely seen, some having had dreams of one last task before sailing west, some simply not wishing to, choosing to fade along with the magic of the mortal world. But despite the changes the the world and the long years that had passed since Frodo had won the friendship of the other races, hobbits were still welcomed with open arms in all the kingdoms of the Free Peoples, theShire was still a place of beauty, and the youthful enthusiasm the hobbits carried lifted some of the weight of time and fading from Durin when he was around them.
His guest today was young Merry Gamgee, some distant descendant long branched off from Samwise the Brave. The names of the hobbits who had been part of that great Fellowship had lived in story and song, and all remained common names, in the Shire as well as in the kingdoms of Men, but not the Dwarves and Elves, who had welcomed fewer new generations than Men and hobbits, and who were more likely to choose names from the storied histories of their own people. This particular Merry was young, only thirty, and had a joyful heart, even by the standards of his own people. He was laughing and trading dirty jokes and doing tricks with smoke rings. Durin smiled, yes his people were fading, he felt it in his bones, even gold had lost the glow of times gone by, but as long as hobbits remained in this world, the Dwarves could depart it in peace and know it remained a happy place.
Merry gasped and applauded as two of the Dwarves of the king's personal guard demonstrated their skill in axe throwing. The twelve were mostly ceremonial, but they were all skilled warriors and loyal advisors, and each of them had bled for Durin, but they knew how to have fun and put on a show. Durin laughed and everything seemed brighter for a moment.
And then the horns and drums sounded, echoing in the deep places of Khazad-Dum.
These were no celebratory horns, bright and ringing, these were not the challenge horns, deep and mighty, offering any attacker one last chance to reconsider their unwise actions. These were loud and piercing, warning horns, and the frantic drums beating from the sentries high above.
Pulleys brought down sentries and criers "The enemy, the enemy approaches!" Durin stood, the rest of the great hall going silent. "What is coming? Speak plainly!"
One of the scouts bowed "My lord, Orcs and trolls, such a force as has not been seen since Sauron haunted this world. And they are led by….." he shuddered "The ram riders indicate that they are led by a Balrog, of the kind that took this place from us once so long ago!" He hesitated "My lord, what do you command? Do we leave, seek refuge in Gondor? They would welcome us...but we are too few to defeat this host." he sounded defeated already. Merry looked pale.
Durin considered for a moment, fear gnawing at him….and he realized that it was the first strong, REAL emotion he had felt in decades, the rest fading to memories of the former joys as his people faded and diminished. And as that realization came to him, he saw a vision. A king of his people, mighty, strong and young and regal, staring into a pool and seeing stars above his head, seven of them. On his death, one would fade, but never fully vanish, as he lived in legend. He saw a line of kings staring into the pool, and the stars fading as they died, six of them. And in a rush of insight, he understood, and laughed.
He stood straight and tall, by the measure of his people, and his voice was stronger than had been heard in Khazad-Dum in many years. "My brethren, I can hold none of you to any further oath, you have fulfilled them all a dozen times over, each of you. Anyone who wishes to go, to escape this foe and live out their days in Gondor or Rohan or seek another home, I wish you joy and fortune to the last. But for myself, I cannot leave. I am fated to be the last true king of our people, we have known this. But instead of fading and wilting in age until my years are truly spent, Aule has presented me the chance to stand and take up the axe of Durin once more, to die in such a way that there may be songs, as Dain Ironfoot did so long ago. Who shall stand with me?"
Through the great halls his voice rang, as though aided by the Valar. And after a long moment, almost as one, his people cheered. They felt fear, but also love for their king, and fierce joy at the promise of one last adventure, and one last chance to cut down their hated enemies. Only Merry did not join them, pausing in doubt and far. He was not a Dwarf, hobbits could have great courage, and he had a fair measure, but his people were not hereditary warriors, old and tired in a world that had moved past them. Hobbits were still young, and Merry was still full of wonder.
Durin did not give him the chance to be forced to choose, pointing him out "Meriadoc Gamgee, your path lies elsewhere. You have brought light and joy to my home with your visits, as have all of your kin. I would not have you stand and die with us here. No, I said I wanted songs and stories. I would have my personal guard ride rams with you until you are away from the violence to come, and have you go to the Men, and those Elves who remain, tell them what has befallen us, tell them how the last Children of Durin spat in the faces of our enemies and laughed and filled these foul beasts with dread and misery before the end. Warn them of the danger here, and tell them how we died proud. Would you do me this final service, warn our allies and spread our tale, Merry, child of the kindly west?"
The hobbit stepped forward with tears in his eyes, hardly able to form words, but he knelt "I shall do as you bid me, King Durin the Last….but i shall miss you all terribly". Durin stepped down to embrace him "Do not weep for us Merry, this battle is a gift from our maker. He crafted us from fire, deep in the earth, and he brings the last of our weary people home with the same. Now go. Deliver your message and return home. We shall meet our end gladdened to know that the Shire will remain bright and happy".
With those words, the king turned, old and grey, but feeling younger and stronger than in many years. His armor was brought to him, he stood gleaming, grasping the Axe of Durin, a perfect match for the king, old and strong. Clad in battle scarred steel and silver with decorations of mithril, his armor was beautiful and a work of the highest art, but not only for ceremony, it offered the best protection the dwarven smiths could forge, and had spared him many terrible blows.
As he was being outfitted, Baldur, head of the royal bodyguards escorted Merry away "Quickly young hobbit" he urged. As the king had commanded, the twelve guards of the king escorted Merry from the hall, to the stables where the war rams were stabled. The Dwarves worked quickly saddling them, seemingly antsy and ready to go. In minutes, Merry was lifted onto a ram and they started away, the hobbit in the middle of the group. The ram was experienced and has a close enough bond to guess at the errand. Under the earth, only a Dwarf was more sure-footed on the narrow stairs and repaired bridges than one of these rams, and at the urging of the riders, they made swiftly for the surface, the guards with shields and spears aloft, Merry holding on tightly to the reins.
They made great haste, and in a shorter time than one might have guessed, they exited the great eastern gates, leaving the mines and entering the Dimrill Dale. The reckless charge to safety DID slow for a moment as each rider raised their lance to salute Mirrormere, but they could not stop. The main force of the enemy was at the other side of the mountains, but a secondary force had been sent this way, perhaps to cut off retreat.
The riders did not hesitate. "Stay behind us, keep your head down Merry!" one of them ordered. Their shields came up and withstood a hail of arrows, two riders came in closer to cover Merry as well, both were struck on their unprotected sides, but kept riding without sign of it.
At that moment, the great war horns sounded from the mountain halls, and what a sound it was! The stories of heroes and great victories were littered with tales of loud and powerful horns. The landing of the host of the Valar. The fall of Boromir, the battle of the Hornburg, the ride of the Rohirrim. Tales of horn blasts that rang across mountains, putting courage into the hearts of allies, and terror into enemies, because the spirit of one who could blow those blasts could not easily be overcome. And Merry had always assumed that the stories were embellished….but they were not. This blast shook the mountain, the lines of their foes wavered, and in a flash granted by the same powers that strengthened the horn, Merry saw a day long past, where a mighty Dwarven king wounded a terrible dragon and none dared challenge his warriors as they bore his body away.
The Dwarves riding with him let out loud cheers, just before they hit the line of wavering Orcs. The next moments were the longest Merry had endured. The riders urged him forward at all costs as they fought, slashing and hewing. When they burst free, four of the dozen did not emerge, bright down by their hated foes, but the Orcs had paid dearly, dozens of their own lay dead or dying, including two mighty trolls. The children of Durin the Deathless did not fall easily.
As the rest pulled free and formed up behind Merry, they rode hard until the enemy were out of sight, and they got out of arrow range. Fundin pointed "Ride that way Merry, as fast as the goat of Khazad-Dum may bear you. Lothlorien lies five leagues that way. The Elves shall protect you from there, and you may carry the final command of our king".
Merry cried out "Are you not coming with me?" Fundin shook his head, as did several of the others. "Durin the Last ordered us to get you away from the fighting, and ensure that you would reach our allies, this we have done. Now your destiny takes you onward, but for us, if Aule grants us the strength and speed, we shall fight our way back to our king, and one final time, remind the creatures of Angband how greatly they suffer when they come to our homes."
An Orc horn sounded. Shrill and oh so weak to the dreadful challenging horns inside the mountain, but too close. Fundin cried out and wheeled the goat around, raising his weapon. "No mre farewells or waiting, we have been pursued! Fly Merry, fly!" As though understanding and obeying the order, Merry's mount took off as though lent speed by the steed of Orome. The poor shaken hobbit heard war cries and crashing, but that soon faded away.
Only a short time later, goat and hobbit arrived at the edges of the Golden Wood. Merry dutifully relayed the message of what had befallen the last children of Durin, and a great sadness spread. The enmity between the races had faded into memory long ago, at the start of the Fourth Age, and now the Elves, knowing that it was too late to save them, simply mourned their friends and allies.
A month later, armies of Elves and Men fell upon the ancient kingdom. The doors had been cast down, by invaders seeking to enter, or Dwarves seeking to deny their enemies a nigh invulnerable fortress. The foul enemies met them at the doors and many bitterly won halls after. Deep in the mountains, by the sons of Elrond was the final Balrog slain, and the very last of the Orcs. And with the fall of that last Ainu to walk the physical realm, every Elf felt magic slip from the mortal world. Their time would not come to as brutal an end, but it had ended as surely as the Dwarves.
They found Durin fallen before his throne, high on the dais, where his people would see him until the very end. His armor was rent in more than a dozen places, with scars of many more. At least four of the Dwarves fallen around him were among the riders who had delivered Merry from harm, and he took comfort that they had indeed reached their king. Durin's armor was melted and burned in places, and it appeared that he had been struck by the mightiest of blows. Celeborn decided that he MUST by the wreckage have been slain by nothing short of the Balrog, and that was accepted as fact by everyone who had avenged them. That is what the minstrels would tell, as long as Men had tongues to sing and ears to hear it.
And so it came to pass, that Durin the Last, and those valiant Dwarves, the last of his people were laid in mighty tombs in Khazad-Dum, which was sealed. And the last of the Elves sailed West, and the race of Orcs were not seen again, and the sole dominance of Men truly began.
And Merry Gamgee returned home. And true to the wishes of the old Dwarf king, he lived a long and happy life, in a land that remembered only peace and love.