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 11: Darkness dwells in Durin's Halls
Second Age, 699
"What has happened?"
Blain could barely feel his wife's hands upon his shoulders, forcing him down into one of the bare stone council seats as he stared at the Lore Keeper of Khazad-dûm, Reglin. His old friend had aged in the time he was gone, a startling sight to see on such a young dwarf. Lines of silver streaked his auburn hair and the tell-tale signs of exhaustion hovered close. The room was chill without all the tapestries adorning the walls, the stone hard without its cushion, yet more hints that something had gone drastically wrong within the dwarrow's greatest city.
"A plague, lad. At its worst, we lost almost a hundred a day, and more still die."
He did not hide his shocked alarm at that, exchanging a panicked look with his wife.
"Do we know the cause? Or a treatment? Frey should not be here-"
"Peace, Blain. I would not have allowed either of you within the city if we believed there to still be a chance of infection. Anything that could be contaminated has been burned, including the bodies of the dead, though the elven healers say it can only infect those bitten by the ticks. None would risk the black death over a few velvet draperies."
"Black Death?!"
The smith paled, his grip on his wife's hand tightening, and he heard her gasp. They had both been present when her grandfather, a noble within the court of the Stonefoot king, received the reports from nearby villages of men. All within had been found dead, rotting where they lay, the tips of noses, fingers and toes all gone black. It was only when some returning dwarrow merchants had come across victims still alive that they realized the putrid rotting of the extremities began well before death could mercifully end their suffering. Had it been simple luck, then, that had prevented the dwarrow from catching this disease previously?
"Men who have caught the disease have all been dead within a week if not days."
Frey whispered and Blain nodded, recalling the same reports. Reglin sighed, sinking wearily down into a chair himself.
"Aye, that's true enough, but dwarrow aren't men, are they? It started with a more lethal type, which did kill within two weeks, but with the aid of the elven healers, many have begun to survive it. The trouble is that about half of those who survive the initial sickness are taken by the fading about a month later, even children. You know nothing can stop that once it has started."
The smith shook his head, trying to sort through all the information in his mind even as his heart wished to reject it all as some horrific tale told about the campfire. Children essentially dying of old age? What nightmare had he come home to?
"You talked Uncle into sending to the elves? To Amdir?"
Reglin smiled faintly, for it had been he and Blain who had long been working upon the king to at least open a diplomatic exchange with their tall neighbors, advice that had not been well received. The queen's family had been of the refugees from Gabilgathol, known to the elves as Belegost, the original home of the Broadbeams. Some of those betrayed by Thingol were kin; the elves were not the only ones upon Middle-Earth to have a long memory.
"Yes, finally. They were able to help us find the source- rats that had come in with a shipment of livestock from the new Númenórean settlements to the south. Once we killed the creatures and burned anywhere the ticks on them could have infested, there has been no new reports of illness, just the fadings. It was only then that the king would consent to having you sent for."
"But why? I can do nothing!"
"Go to your uncle, Blain. It is not my place to tell you."
Frey's arm settled about his shoulders, a warm, solid reassurance that he needed more than even air right now. Gently, she guided his fumbling steps, keeping him moving when dread would have stilled his feet. What could be so drastically wrong that Reglin, his old mentor, would not be willing to even hint at a warning?
Ahead, he could see the blank wall that made the corridor look like it abruptly ended, and stopped, startled to actually see the defensive door to the royal quarters closed tight. How many times had he heard the story of the building of Khazad-dûm? How Durin had chosen to layer the defenses by creating a special door to hide the inner halls that would disappear completely when closed? No force of arms, not even dragon fire, would unseal the portal without the proper sequence. How, as a child, he had longed to see it thus just once, to put his hand up and press the proper spots, to see it retract into the wall! To the imagination of a dwarfling it had always whispered of tales of magic and ancient heroes!
Too bad not even the best door could defend against an illness.
Blain stood in the doorway to the royal quarters, stomach tightening at the stillness in the corridor beyond. The bare walls felt cold and hard without their tapestries, making the smith shudder. His wife's hand upon his arm felt as hot as a mithril forge in comparison. The air was heavy with the scent of herbs attempting to mask the foul musk of sickness. All four doors to the apartments of the princes were shut tight, something that Blain could not ever remember seeing during the day, as he or one of his cousins always seemed to be going in or out.
Each had been given their own small suite of rooms upon attaining their twenty-fifth year, moving from the nursery attached to the king's apartments to one of those now concealed by the closed doors. All were identical, containing a sitting room, small study, bathing room, and two bed chambers. Blain no longer lived here, of course, having moved to the artisans' area near the main markets when he chose to pursue his craft over the path of the military or royal advisor, but he was still a frequent visitor. How many of those rooms now stood empty, their occupants succumbing to this disease? The oldest and youngest of his cousins were both married with children, and Blain dreaded facing tombs holding the snuffed out remains of such young lives. Talí was barely half a year old!
"Where are the children? We should at least hear them."
Frey's whisper cut across the eerie silence like a knife, making him start. Normally after a long absence, they would be swarming him by now, adults and younglings alike, voices vying with one another to be heard. Blain did not answer beyond a tightening of his lips as he began to move determinedly forward, praying to Mahal that the little ones were only confined to bed, recovering. In his heart, however, he knew how unlikely that was.
The king's door was ajar, his aunt's chair in the main sitting room already draped in black, the dwarrow color of both birth and death. They had come from the black core of the very mountains, and to that darkness would they return until called forth by Mahal once more to remake the world. A small sob from Frey had him tightening his hold on her hand. The black drape over the chair was the only cloth in the room, with even the rich fur rugs by the fireplace having been removed, no doubt to burn.
"Who comes?"
A familiar soft voice called from the next room, making Blain sigh in relief. Thank Mahal, at least one of his cousins yet lived!
The bedchambers were dark except for the glow of the fire and a single crystal lamp by the bed. His youngest cousin, his elder by a mere eleven years, Thain, sat in a hard wooden chair, a rough wool cape around his shoulders to keep off the chill. Swallowing hard, Blain forced his eyes to where his uncle lay, tears sliding unheeded down his cheeks as he realized that the stillness of the small, wizened form was well beyond that of a deep sleep.
"Blain? Is that you?"
The younger dwarf flinched, hitting his knees on the floor by his cousin's chair as he took in the prince's milk-filmed unseeing eyes.
"Y-yes, Thain, it's me."
His gaze strayed back to his uncle as he gripped his cousin's hands, a muffled sob from behind telling him Frey had also realized what had happened.
"May he rest in Mahal's arms." The ritual words choked him, forced out between stiff lips. "What may I do to aid you, my prince?"
Thain let out a long, shuddering breath before pulling his hands free to fish under the portion of the cape that draped over his lap. He pulled something out, shaking so hard that he almost dropped it before allowing Blain to see.
"You can accept this."
Blain's eyes widened, head shaking frantically as he tried to back away only to be stopped by Frey's hands on his shoulders. Thain smiled sadly as he held out the gold and silver crown of Khazad-dûm.
Six Days before Durin's Day
Walk of Remembrance
"Well do I know that shock, for it was never intended that I should be king, either. Though I was at least raised to lead the Rohirrim as Theodred's Marshal."
Eomer's deep, solemn voice enveloped the room as the procession gathered around the tall column of marble, each name still as pristine as when it was first etched. Before it, a small fountain cascaded snow melt water over many different stones, some rough, plain rock, and others uncut diamond, ruby and sapphire, each one placed there by a friend or family member of those lost to that long-ago plague. The harsh, inelegant surface of the black lava stone next to the diamond was perfect for the ancient queen, though it had been chosen by Thain, not Blain. Fortunately, the hidden door to this sanctuary had been closed before the city was abandon. Obviously, none of the unwelcome squatters had ever found the catch.
"You are never prepared for that moment, lad, even when you have been raised to it your entire life."
The Stiffbeard king murmured, mutual grief reaching across the racial divide. Thorin bowed his head as Dwalin rested a hand upon his shoulder, a steady reassuring presence as he had been since that horrific day in the shadow of this very kingdom.
"Aye. For it means a king has fallen."