Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
Chapter 6: If this is to end in fire
Seven Days before Durin's Day
Feast of the Children
Thorin smiled, watching in satisfaction as his grand-nephews chased one another about the large hall, weaving in and out of the other players. Kilan tagged Filan, but before he could get away, Filan had slapped a hand on his back, then whirled, slipping his arm into the waiting 'link' of someone standing with their hand on a hip and elbow out, creating a new 'arch stone.' The lass on the other side took off running with a squeal of glee as Kilan changed his target. Off on the far side of the room, Old Bofur, and surprisingly, Dwalin, had some of the youngest and shyest playing drum cadences. Shouts and the giggling of innocent younglings were added to the mix to create a pleasant cacophony, though the king could not help worrying when he saw Fili re-enter the hall with a scowl on his normally smiling face.
"He would not come?"
He asked as soon as his nephew was near enough to hear, though he already knew the answer.
"No. And what's worse, he had a valid excuse for his refusal. Vestri's running a fever and she frets when he isn't nearby. I'm beginning to agree with Gandalf's opinion of dwarrow stubbornness."
Fili's irritation was heavily tempered with worry for his marriage sister, though his brother's neat dodging of the issue for another year clearly irked him. The Feast of Children had always been the day Kili was most eager to participate in, even as a young adult, delighting in the chance to play games and act half his age. Nor was he the only older dwarf to do so; Dis had been an absolute terror at 'Arches and Orcs', regularly tagging both Dwalin and Thorin no matter how hard they tried to evade. The problem was that Kili had steadfastly refused to even watch ever since their return to Erebor, spending the day alone instead. Thorin sighed, knowing that when Kili truly planted his feet like this, it was a fight that could not be won. Of course, that did not mean Fili would not try!
"We were all changed by what happened, Fili. You cannot undo it with games and stories, especially ones that he can no longer participate in even were we to get him to agree to come."
A shout from the loose circle of players made Thorin and Fili both glance over, only to wince at the sight of Gimli being tackled to the ground by an overzealous Pippin just short of linking safely to another 'arch'. The hobbit scrambled up, taking his place on Frodo's arm with a flourish, putting the former Ringbearer in the middle with Kifir on the other side and sending off the fleet footed daughter of Legolas and Tauriel for the poor abused Dwarf-Lord to try tagging. He was clearly overmatched.
"Think we should rescue him?"
Thorin asked, amused. The king could call a halt to the game whenever he chose, which was usually when he saw the participants growing bored or fatigued.
"No, a bit of adversity is good for him." Fili noted drily as first Elladan and then Tauriel also teased the puffing dwarf warrior. "He won't be hearing the end of that one from Legolas anytime soon. Lord of Aglarond and famous member of the Fellowship, and he can't even catch an elf. Dwalin would've."
The prince and king both dutifully cheered as the beleaguered 'orc' was able to catch his next prey, a sturdy young lad belonging to one of Dale's nobles.
"Dwalin would've cheated and tripped them, citing the old saying that 'nothing is forbidden in battle'."
"True…"
"Mister Durin, your highness?"
The new voice interrupted anything else Fili might have said, but they both smiled a welcome at the young hobbit before he could back away or apologize.
"Yes, Frodo-lad?"
Thorin prompted, not bothering to correct the odd form of address. It was part of the charm of the race.
"I don't quite understand all this, sir. We hobbits have Yule and Midsummer and all, but-"
"Nothing quite like this." Fili finished for the teen, finally smiling a bit. "We are rather a unique race, lad."
"If'n you don't mind my askin', sirs, why all the feasts? My Da says such things are real special in meanin' to other folk, not like the Shire harvest fest and such."
Thorin laughed, fondly recalling descriptions of such yearly highlights from Bilbo.
"We have those, too, but in this instance, you're correct, Master Hobbit. Durin's Day is our most sacred festival, normally lasting two weeks with seven feasts and many competitions. First, the Feast of the Nobles, meant to honor the Seven Dwarrow Fathers and their direct descendants, then the Feast of the Children, reminding us of the sacrifices made for the future of our race. Both of those honor the original Durin. Tomorrow will be the Walk of Remembrance and the Feast of the Dead, during which stories of Durin II will be told. Fourth will come the Feast of Gold, honoring Durin III, celebrating the wealth and achievements of our race."
"Then will be the Feast of the Warriors, honoring Durin IV, who led our people to victory against Sauron. Sixth is the Feast of Honor, during which any new king's stones will be given, and other accolades for acts of honor throughout the year. It is also where the winners of the various competitions are announced, including the best ale, which, of course, all must sample. This is done for Durin V, the Wise, whose reign was cut too short. Then, a day and night of fasting, for the many exiles we have suffered. On Durin's Day Eve will be the celebration of the re-taking of Erebor and the death of the dragon. Finally, on Durin's Day itself, is the confirmation of rule and the Feast of Stone, honoring our creator, Mahal."
The hobbit's eyes were wide, listening to this litany, but then he frowned, counting on his fingers and muttering to himself. Thorin hid a smile, sure that the number of feasts could not be the concern. Hobbits never had enough to eat!
"What's wrong?" Fili asked.
"That's only stories of five Durins. When do you talk about the sixth and seventh?"
Thorin laughed, prompting several nearby heads to turn.
"Well, I am the seventh, and there will be a recounting of the Quest for Erebor on the last night. We will, in fact, be reading from Bilbo's book, will that satisfy you?"
"As for the sixth," Fili added, "We do not speak of the Fallen One."
The king instantly felt his mood darken.
"We will this year. Too long have we ignored our faults, individually and as a race."
"There are nobles who will not be pleased with that."
Thorin waved away the prince's warning.
"We will see what comes of it, Fili."
Privately, Thorin vowed to himself that it would not be the faults of Durin alone they would be examining, but also those of the Valar's aids. Smirking, he continued along the path, greatly anticipating the coming revelation that he was not the first nor even the second Durin to meet the one who would become known as Gandalf, the meddlesome and supposedly wise.
First Age, 545
Durin was in his study, brooding over the newest marks on the map of Middle Earth when the stranger came. Nogrod, fallen to Morgoth's dragons despite dwarrow resistance to their fire; Belegost, partially overrun by goblins and collapsed by the great earth-eaters, who could delve through even the toughest stone; Baraztûm, home of the Blacklocks, under siege in the southeast, and the Malasul'abbad, the Misty Mountains, almost completely in the hands of Morgoth's creatures. Only the Great Bear and his kin maintained a tiny pocket free of the filth just to the north of Khazad-dûm. As for the elves and men, they were in even worse shape. The Edain villages were all burned or deserted, and Gondolin, the great Hidden City of the Noldor, was also gone, taking too many of the finest warriors with it. And over six years, with no word of the fate of the mariner. Without the aid of the Valar themselves, all of Middle Earth would soon be lost.
Had he made a mistake in holding back the dwarrow, allowing them only to defend and not attack? Was his race doomed either way?
"Such dark thoughts aid nothing, King of the Khazad."
The dwarf's head jerked up, staring at the tall old man who had somehow made his way in without invitation or intervention by the guards. Before Durin could call out his alarm, however, the man held up a hand, a familiar power shimmering about him.
"I am Olórin, servant of the Valar. I have come at Mahal's bidding to tell you this, Durin, King of Khazad-dûm – You are summoned to arms. The corruption of Morgoth will be brought to an end."
It took Durin's shocked mind a moment to sort out any kind of sensible reply to the Maiar, for that was the only thing this being could be, whatever guise he currently bore. A deep breath in, then slowly let out and Durin rose, a long-missed surety settling about him like a cloak.
"I will summon my brothers and all their kin. All dwarrow will march in answer to the Valar."
Granted, he would have to leave at least the Blacklocks and Stonefoots to manage the threat of Sauron to the south, but none would begrudge that necessity. At least, everyone assumed that was the cleft in the rock Morgoth's servant had escaped down; he had not been seen in several years, no doubt fleeing the wrath of his master for his failures. Well, it was better to lose a few thousand warriors to guard duty then have an enemy to their rear. Weaponry would be no problem, at least. Ironfist had been forging for years in secret, stockpiling all that his brothers could send him, with the exception of Durin, who had been creating his own war arsenal deep within the mountain. It would arm more than only the Khazad, as well.
"Good."
That single word brought his attention back to his unusual visitor, but the Maiar did not vanish as the king expected. Durin narrowed his eyes, well remembering the superior attitude and insufferable smugness of the other two Maiar he had met long before. One of which had turned out to be an enemy. Instead, the one who looked like an old man merely leaned upon his staff, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
"Oh, I believe I will stay for now, Durin. My brothers will aid the others in their march without me very nicely, and we have a long road ahead of us, you and I." Olórin paused, eyes narrowed as if seeing something far, far away. "Yes, quite an adventure coming, I do believe. Eventually."
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It was a thrill to watch the mustering, as dwarrow poured into the city from the east and room after room was filled with weaponry. As soon as all were mustered, they would take the pass over the great mountain and then head north to meet up with the eastern edge of the armies of elves and Men.
Durin, however, watched the preparations with a growing certainty that once he left, he would never return to this place, and so he spent his days wandering the vast kingdom. To those he met, he said nothing, merely shrugging off the inquiries with the truth that this might be a long war, with the exception of the Valar's messenger, who watched him with knowing eyes. At last, he found himself standing before the tomb of his beloved, deep beneath even the mines.
"You miss her very much."
Durin grunted, swearing softly to himself for having missed the entrance of this unwelcome companion.
"Of course I do."
It was a challenge, bitter and biting, but it did not fluster the seemingly old man.
"And you blame the Valar for not interfering then as they do now."
Olorin leaned upon his staff, grey eyes piercing through the normal bluster of the king, which only served to heighten Durin's temper. He was not, however, stupid enough to fall into the trap the other laid.
"I question why they intervene now, yes. Thingol's curse almost killed my race! They sit around, waiting for someone to be stupid enough to risk his life to come to them, then summon all the races, expecting us to jump to obey those who so recently threatened to wipe us from existence as a mistake!"
"Do you truly think them so petty? That they would arbitrarily decide who lives and who dies upon a whim? Or do they rather allow all the space to make their own mistakes until a foe comes that you cannot face alone? Think upon those questions, Durin King, before you set foot outside your door."
With that, the Maiar was gone in a flash of light, leaving the king to his brooding. It was there, before the dark stone, blank save for the etched letters of his beloved's name and years of life, that his son, Vith, found him.
"You cannot seriously be considering helping them, Father! Morgoth cannot be defeated! Nargothrond has already fallen, as have Gondolin, and most of the realms of the Edain… Belegost only holds out due to the might of their inner walls! We cannot hope to-"
"Enough! We must or all will be lost, can you not see that? I need you here to take care of our kingdom."
It was only a half-truth, as Vith had been partially blinded in a goblin raid about ten years prior. Between that and his age, there was a very good chance that his son would not survive the coming war should he participate.
"If you do this, Durin, if you go, you will not return through these gates again! Would you have us lose the last of the Fathers? My father?"
One hand rested upon his mother's tomb as the other dwarf said this. To any who saw them and did not know, it would look as if Vith were the elder by about two hundred years, with his snowy white mane of hair and beard. Selfishly, Durin was thankful that this would spare him having to entomb his son next to his wife. Laughter, hearty, but bitter, forced. He should have known that his son's Blacklock blood would show him what no others had discerned, and Vith was too good a dwarf to lie to.
"Not by choice, my friend... my dear, dear son, but I gave my word, and I will not betray that. I may not live, but my spirit will return, Vith. Watch for the signs."
"Durin, we must go. The others are ahead of us."
The king scowled at the intruder, wishing the Valar had sent a less... nosy... aid. The one who looked and often acted like a withered old man, half senile and into everything would have been easier to handle. This one was all too keen! Olorin simply smiled back at him, unfazed, as the king returned his attention to his distraught son.
"And the kingdom?"
Vith sounded as if he were upon the edge of tears. This time, Durin rested both hands upon his son's shoulders, giving him a little shake, then bringing their foreheads together in one of the most intimate gestures of the dwarrow race.
"I have left written instructions that all kings after me are to follow. The ritual that Mahal taught me. He will watch over our people, and I will return, I promise you. Guard well our home in my absence, my son."
First Age, 587
And so, all the hosts of the free peoples of Middle Earth were led by the Valar to the north, confronting Morgoth in battle after battle. At last, after two years, they stood before his last stronghold, and Morgoth, desperate, unleashed all his creatures upon the field. The great serpents spewed fire, burning Men and elves, until the dwarrow were able to push them back and the Great Eagles of the Misty Mountains flew at them, screaming. Orcs and goblins spilled out their black blood, soaking the ground for miles in every direction, hiding the great splashes of red where too many of the allies died.
The dwarrow, ever adept at stone and chisel, laid traps for the worms as they tunneled the earth, collapsing tons of rock upon them and reshaping the landscape. Elsewhere, the fearsome Balrogs swept aside all who dared to defy them, their very steps shaking the ground. Of all the free peoples, only the elves had the ability to stand against them for long. Amidst them, the agents of the Valar moved, power crackling about them as they lit up the gloomy northern skies with their blasts.
From 'A History of the War of Wrath'
by Elrond Half-Elven, Herald of High King Gil-Galad
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"Du Bekar! Du Bekar! Dwarrow, to me!"
Durin shouted the rallying call at the top of his voice as the ground quaked beneath them once more. Never had he seen such destruction where there was still life. The eagles screamed a challenge above, and the dwarf king grimaced as black blood sprayed through the air from the huge bat-creatures they fought. At least the last of the airborne dragons was nowhere to be seen. Blood from one of them splattering down could kill half an army even as the beast itself died.
The hoarse desperation of the dying rang in his ears as Durin made his way across the battlefield, forcing himself to pay no heed to the dead beneath his iron soles. He could do nothing for them now, bodies covering the earth as far as the eye could see- men, elves, dwarves, a few eagles, orcs and their lesser kin, and great blackness marking the few Balrogs that had fallen. This would be the last stand, for upon this field were all that was left free of Morgroth's taint, attempting to overthrow his stronghold at Angband in the far north. It was cold here, and not the healthy constant chill of the deeps, but the biting ice that attempted to stop even the mighty Khazad in their tracks. He would meet whatever fate waited proudly, axe in hand, war cry upon his lips as he broke into a run, Khuzdul screamed into the wind.
And so Durin the Deathless passed into the scrolls of history, forever the warrior protecting his people. No body was ever recovered for proper return to the stone, only his mithril war ax found amidst many slain enemies. The Valar bound Morgoth and cast him into the void, never to trouble Middle Earth again, but his lieutenant, Sauron, escaped censure, and the twisted creatures made by him continued to breed. Never again would Middle Earth be untroubled by their kind, causing many of the high elves to choose to return to the Undying Lands, once more re-opened to them.
In the west, many of the Edain, the men, chose to follow the only one of their great leaders to survive the War of Wrath, Elros the Half-Elven. Together, they were granted an island off the shores of Middle Earth, raising a great kingdom there, though they did not suffer visitors lightly, maintaining a friendship only with the elves. To the dwarrow who had suffered and died at their sides, it was a great affront, that the elves and men should be rewarded so, while they were forgotten by the Valar. So it was that the worship or even regard of the Valar other than Mahal fell out of favor and the dwarrow looked inward for their prosperity. Led by Nurin I, the dwarrow of Khazad-dum withdrew into their fortress kingdom, mining and shaping a vast city beneath the crude stone, vowing not to forget the slights they had suffered by their loyalty to other races.
From the Book of Durin, discovered by Ori I in the archives of Khazad-dum