AN: Here it is, Chapter Three! Thank you to everyone who has favorited, followed and reviewed! Your kind thoughts and encouragement are greatly appreciated. I'll try to respond to your reviews if I can, but my job has kept me really busy lately so I may not have time. Also, I've probably botched the backstory for how Gimli came to be at the Council of Elrond in the first place, as I was writing purely from memory.
Disclaimer: I don't own Middle Earth, I'm just writing improbable fanfic about it.
Not being as tired as the others, Fíli and Kíli found the pace a bit slow. To keep themselves occupied, they scouted ahead and sometimes to the side. The brothers weren't searching for anything in particular, though they had been advised by Dwalin to keep an eye out for any wildlife. They spotted a few rabbits ("If they were the size of Radagast's, they'd make a good meal," Fíli observed), and a few lone birds ("Or perhaps it is the same bird each time?" Kíli pondered aloud) but they saw little else of interest.
After yet another venture forward had revealed nothing interesting on the path ahead, the young dwarves turned back to rejoin the company. The sound of hushed voices caused the brothers to freeze, listening. There was no further sound, and Fíli and Kíli turned and sprinted silently back towards the others.
"Thorin! There are people ahead!" Fíli hissed, drawing his sword.
Thorin halted the dwarves with a raised hand. "Draw your weapons, silently now! Kíli, ready your bow."
Although his own bow had been lost in Goblin Town, Beorn had provided Kìli—and several of the other dwarves—with new ones. Out of habit, Kíli was the one that Thorin called upon to fill the position of resident archer.
Spreading themselves out, the dwarves readied themselves for whatever was about to walk around the corner. Fíli stayed close by his brother, swords at the ready. In close quarters, a bow was not very useful, and Kíli would need someone to watch his back. Thorin stood at the center of their group, Orcrist gripped tightly in his hands. Bilbo had his small blade in hand as well, looking properly nervous, but ready enough despite of it.
Hushed and expectant, the dwarves were ready for anything. Except for what actually happened.
White light suddenly blinded them, the force and the surprise combined with their weariness knocking them to their knees. Was this a continuation of the storm? Or was this something worse? Once again, they struggled to their feet. All of these magical manifestations were becoming rather tiresome.
Kíli's arrow slipped from between his fingers, disappearing into the light. Nocking another arrow, the dwarf struggled to see whoever it was that stood in the light. Recognition slowly dawned and he lowered his bow, relieved to see a welcome face. What was Gandalf doing back here? Though we're the ones in the wrong place so maybe he should be asking usthat question.
Stranger than the wizard's appearance was the look on his face. Never had Gandalf looked quite so… startled. The obvious astonishment on his face was an unnerving thing to Kíli, and he looked to his uncle for reassurance.
"Thorin?" Gandalf's voice was barely more than a whisper. The wizard was gaping at them, slack jawed and wide eyed. The dwarves all picked themselves up, complaining about more ill-treatment. Completely ignoring Gandalf's surprise, or perhaps oblivious to it, the dwarves shot him a few dirty looks.
Kíli glanced back towards Gandalf, and noticed for the first time that the wizard wasn't alone. On one side of him stood a tall man, dressed in worn and weather-beaten clothes. The man's gaze was confused, almost amazed, and Kíli wondered at his and Gandalf's surprised reactions.
"Gandalf?" The man asked softly, looking from the wizard to the dwarves with concern. "Are they friend or foe?"
"They are friends." Gandalf replied at length, his voice low and touched by many emotions. Slowly, he lowered his staff, leaning upon it heavily.
Thorin stepped forward, his face a mixture of relief and indignation, and when he spoke, he took no care to mask his annoyance.
"Gandalf! What in Durin's name is going on here?"
"That is what I would like to know." Gandalf replied. "You are unchanged since last we met." The wizard's voice was probing, searching for any clue that might lie in Thorin's answer.
"How much do you expect me to change in a day?" The dwarf raised an imperious, irritated eyebrow.
The wizard's eyes narrowed. Gandalf could see all the questions the dwarf wanted to ask, and realized that Thorin was almost as confused as he was. But first things first.
"Aragorn, allow me to introduce you to the company of Thorin Oakenshield." Any questions the ranger had were silenced by a sharp look from Gandalf.
"This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the throne of Gondor. Aragorn, this is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, king under the mountain." The two bowed deeply, each recognizing the other's nobility and lineage, but neither over-awed.
"And these are his companions…" The rest of the dwarves gathered close, and Gandalf did a quick head count, smiling happily at each member of the long-missing band. "Ori, Dori, Nori—" The brothers bobbed up and down in response, polite as ever, "—Oin, Gloin—" the two dwarves each fisted a hand over their heart, "—Bifur, Bofur, Bombur—" Bofur's wide grin and friendly nod were returned in full measure by Aragorn, "Balin, Dwalin—" Balin was as gracious as Dwalin was grim, "—and Thorin's sister's sons, Fíli and Kíli." The two youngest dwarves bowed deeply from the waist and came back up grinning. Once again, Aragorn found himself returning the smile.
"And where is the burglar?" Gandalf asked, frowning a little.
Out of instinct, the dwarves began looking around in panic. "I'm right here!" Bilbo said, elbowing past Bombur to stand in front of Gandalf.
"Ah, there you are, Bilbo." The hobbit didn't understand why Gandalf looked so relieved, but he'd understood few things that had happened that day so he just accepted it.
"Aragorn, allow me to introduce Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire." Remembering his manners, Bilbo tried to bow in as dignified a way as he possibly could, but he still felt like a duck dipping its head under the water.
"Well met, Master Baggins." Aragorn said, shooting Gandalf another pointed look. Thorin intercepted the look and fastened a glare on the wizard. Gandalf's smile twitched and reluctantly faded. Now, he knew, was the time for difficult questions and he feared that satisfying questions would be few.
"Tell me all that has befallen you since I left you all on the borders of Mirkwood, Thorin."
For a moment, the dwarf king looked of a mind to disagree, but he spoke at long last. "The morning after you took your leave of us at the wood—this morning—we made preparation to enter the forest. It was during this time that a black fog blew towards us out of the forest, and before we could get away, we were frozen where we were."
Thorin told the full tale, and Gandalf listened, his face betraying nothing.
"Now that our story is told, what of yours? How came you to be in this place, traveling with such… strange companions?" Thorin asked, spearing Aragorn with a frosty glance. If the Dunadan took any offense at either the look or word of the dwarf, he did not show it.
"That, my dear Thorin, is a long story which shall wait for just a moment longer. There is something else which I believe I should inform you of." Gandalf paused; this was going to be a sticky business, for he hardly knew what was going on himself. Knowing that everyone was relying on him, the wizard, to explain everything was also exasperating.
"It has been sixty years since I left you at Mirkwood, Thorin. All fourteen of you vanished from there, and this is the first time anyone has seen or heard from you since." It was gently stated, but it sounded horribly blunt as it hung in the air.
No one knew quite how to respond. Emotions raced swiftly across the dwarves' faces; shock, disbelief, denial, anger. Already some were beginning to shake their heads vigorously and if the situation hadn't been so serious, the wizard would have been tempted to laugh at their comical expressions. All of them began to talk at once, except Thorin. Some protested loudly, others muttered darkly. Even Bilbo, having been influenced by his long exposure to them, had also began talking.
For his part, Aragorn remained silent. There was no doubt in his mind that a great power had brought the dwarves here, and the coincidence was too great for there not to be a purpose behind it. The ranger was too wary to believe that force that had accomplished this was without malicious intent.
"Enough!" Thorin commanded harshly. The dwarves fell silent, looking between their leader and Gandalf for an explanation. "If what you say is true, then how could such a thing have happened?" The dwarf king's voice was low and dark with anger, anger at what he perceived to be a lie or a mistake, but also colored by the fury that is borne of fear. Fear that what Gandalf was saying was the truth.
Sensing this fear—this suspicion—in Thorin, the others began to wonder. What if it was true? Dread sat coldly in the pits of their stomachs and their hearts pounded hard in their chests. Aragorn saw it in their eyes and felt pity for them, for to be displaced so would be a hard thing to fathom or accept.
"I don't know." Gandalf replied slowly. "The storm you spoke of was seen by many birds and beasts, who informed Beorn of it. After investigating, Beorn found some of your packs left on the ground and searched for you. Finding nothing, he sent for me and we searched together. But you were gone, and no trace of you was left in Middle Earth.
"Believe me when I say that I hunted long and tirelessly for any news, any sign of a similar occurrence. In all the annals of the world, nothing like this has ever happened and none have reported a storm like that in the world since. Until today."
There went Thorin's eyebrow again, creeping towards his hairline. It was a look that had always irritated Gandalf, regal condescension not being something he tended to enjoy.
It was Bilbo who spoke, though, his words hesitant. "The storm you saw today, it was—back there, where we came from, wasn't it?"
Gandalf nodded regretfully and Bilbo fell into a troubled silence. He didn't need the wizard to tell him what he already knew. This storm had only been seen twice, once when they'd disappeared and again when they'd reappeared. Somehow, this storm had ripped them from their own time and place, and deposited them here.
Aragorn spoke the hobbit's suspicions aloud. "Doubtless this storm was created for that sole purpose; to take you from your own time into this one. But what form of magic would be capable of this, I don't know. Nothing of its kind has ever existed in the world before."
Thorin, however, was not satisfied. "If I am to believe this story, I shall require proof."
"Of course, Thorin, of course. You are right to demand evidence, for mine is a hard tale to accept. Especially since, in your estimation, only a day has lapsed since we saw each other last. As for the proof that you require, I believe one of my companions shall satisfy your curiosity quite nicely. Gloin's son, Gimli, is a member of my present company and if my words do not sway you, his face definitely shall."
Gloin stepped forward then, sputtering angrily. "Gimli? What cause have you to be taking him from his home? The boy's too young to be gadding about on any mad quests!"
"I shall not tolerate that tone from you, Master Gloin! As you shall see, Gimli is quite old enough to make his own decisions. As for the purpose of this quest, that shall be explained shortly." Gandalf was becoming exasperated now, his words clipped and his tone short.
"Now come, the others will be wondering what has happened to us, and that won't be good for them. Quietly! I don't want them mistaking us for a band of orcs!"
/
The remaining members of the fellowship waited expectantly for Gandalf and Aragorn's return, staying silent and still in their hiding place. The boulder they sheltered by had thick brush growing around it, which provided a screen that shielded them from unfriendly eyes. The four hobbits were seated in a line with their backs against the rock, Merry and Pippin conversing quietly. Beside them, Frodo clutched the ring in his hand, a strange feeling of apprehension growing in his chest.
Earlier, when he had been asleep, Frodo had been plagued by strange dreams that he could not remember upon awakening. In them, he knew that he'd been pursued by something evil and terrifying, something he couldn't escape, no matter how fast he ran. Whatever this thing was, it was coming. The ring seemed to call out to it, though Frodo sensed it wasn't on purpose. It was simply one wicked thing drawing another close. And he was in the middle.
Boromir, Gimli, and Legolas had chosen to stand as far away from each other as possible while still technically remaining within the protection offered by the bushes. While Boromir did not openly bear strife towards either the elf or the dwarf, his dealings with those races had been few and he was still unsure of them. Chilly silence reigned between the three of them, even though one would occasionally make a brief foray into the hobbit's conversation.
Boromir turned his face towards the darkness, wondering what was keeping Gandalf and Aragorn. The wizard had not seemed worried, just curious. Which was why, perhaps, the Gondorian was so nervous. An unsettled feeling had lain uneasy on Boromir's mind since they had seen the dark storm on the horizon. There was something… amiss. A change had swept over him, it seemed, though nothing was different. Glancing quickly at the others, he wondered if they felt it.
Nothing has changed, he reassured himself. Then why did he feel so lost? And he was certain that it was more than just his imagination that told him that his companions were plagued by the same doubts. Besides, as Faramir was fond of saying, Boromir's imagination wasn't the best.
A smile tugged at the corner of Boromir's mouth. Faramir would know better how to deal with elves and dwarves, would readily take to it, in fact. Always his younger brother was poring over books and maps, much more a man of peace than a man of war. Slight homesickness tugged at his spirit, and Boromir shrugged it off regretfully. Soon, his part in this quest would be over and he could return to his people, where he was truly needed. Eyes seeking out the golden glint in the Ringbearer's hand, Boromir felt the bitterness inside him stir once more. We are wasting a precious weapon! With the power of the Ring, none could stand against us.
Legolas turned his gaze suddenly, his grip tightening around his bow. The other's heard it a moment later; the sound of footsteps approaching. Boromir's hand went to his sword reflexively, for the party drawing near sounded like a large group. Gimli readied his axe, and the hobbits scrambled to their feet in alarm.
"Put your bow away, Legolas, it is only Aragorn and I." Gandalf said, slowly emerging from the dark. Aragorn was beside him, but everyone's eyes were drawn to the dwarf who walked beside the wizard. Tall for his kind, he bore himself with peculiar majesty and pride, making himself seem much bigger than he was. Boromir noticed there was an entire line of dwarves behind Gandalf, extending into the dark.
"It cannot be!" Gimli's axe fell to the ground, his hands hanging limply at his side. "Gandalf, what sorcery is this? Tell me!" The dwarf's voice was shaking, whether from anger or fear it was impossible to tell.
"It is no sorcery, Gimli, at least not of my doing . I am at a loss as to explain how it has happened, but what you see before you is real. You have not been deceived." The wizard's voice was soothing, but Gimli did not appear to be placated. His strong hands fisted tightly, until Boromir was afraid his knuckles would snap.
Out of the darkness came a host of motley dwarves, and the fellowship gaped at them in shock. The dwarf company stared right back, but their gaze seemed to contain more fear and confusion. The lot of them looked very weary and they warily clung to their weapons. Boromir was reminded of the many people he'd seen over the years who had just lost their homes, for in the dwarves' eyes he saw that same lost, listless look.
Gimli felt like a knife had been plunged into his gut. His mind refused to believe what his eye told him was true; he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. Around him, the world fell into dull silence and a voice inside him screamed in denial and grief.
All of it came upon him at once, all the years of sorrow crashed upon his wounded soul at once, and Gimli's body trembled under its force. Before him stood Thorin Oakenshield, looking exactly as he had so very long ago.
But more painful still was to see his father, unchanged, as though the seemingly endless days of sadness had been but a dream, and now Gloin had woken him from the nightmare.
"You're dead." Gimli said gruffly.
"My son, I—" But there was nothing Gloin could say. This hard-eyed dwarf standing before him, face lined by age and hardship, was a stranger, not his son. This was an impossible thing to try and understand, to have someone you love so much suddenly become a different person.
Raising his voice, Gandalf once again made the lengthy introductions, bringing the rest of the fellowship out of the dark. Perhaps it wasn't the best way to proceed, simply introducing everyone as though they were all here for tea, but the wizard wasn't sure how he was supposed to react to a situation like this, it being such a singular occurrence. Everyone was confused, of course, and Gandalf wished he had the answers they all expected from him. Did no one understand that wizards didn't know everything?
"And the rest of our fellowship: the Halflings, Frodo Baggins, Sam Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Peregrine Took; Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and Legolas… of the Mirkwood Realm."
Gandalf winced slightly as he made that last introduction, for Thorin turned and pinned a steely glare on the elf. Legolas responded with a glare of his own, eyes flashing dangerously. The wizard decided it was best not to mention Legolas' father.
With a start, Gandalf realized he'd forgotten poor Bilbo again. What was Frodo to think of this? Already the ring bearer's eyes were wide with surprise, and he looked ready to faint.
"Bilbo, come out from behind Bofur, there's someone I should like you to meet."
The dwarves parted and Bilbo was left in the open, looking rather uncomfortable.
"Frodo, this is your cousin Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo, this is Drogo's son Frodo." With a conspiratorial air, Gandalf leaned over and whispered, "Drogo married Primula Brandybuck."
"Drogo and Primula? Well, well." Bilbo chuckled and then cleared his throat. "Ah, you look like them, your parents, I mean. You really do." Bilbo rocked back and forth uncertainly, and wished that everyone would stop staring at him. For his part, Frodo was still trying to puzzle through this.
"Come, let us sit down. There are many tales to be told and there will be no more traveling today." At the wizard's behest, the two companies seated themselves across from each other, eying each other guardedly. There was little space in their chosen campsite, but somehow they managed to cram everyone in. Gimli sat next to his father, stony-faced and silent. There was simply too much in his heart for him to speak. There was joy, yes, joy that those long presumed to be dead had been restored, but there was also pain. Pain that Gimli was not ready to address.
Aragorn volunteered to keep watch, placing himself somewhere he could hear the conversation, but still have a vantage point of the surrounding area. Likewise, Legolas kept watch on the other side of the group, his keen ears listening for any foe that dare approach.
Gandalf explained what little he understood of the circumstances, though there was no new information there. The dwarrow were queried about their experience with the storm, and the wizard was disappointed to learn that their story shed no further light on the mystery. Once every piece of the dwarves' story had been thoroughly mulled over and discussed, Thorin demanded to be told why this peculiar group was here in the Wilds.
Most of the older dwarves already knew the story of the Rings of Power, but for some, the tale of the forging of the rings of power was a new tale, and they had many questions and few qualms about interrupting. Little time was spent the first part of the Ring's history-Gandalf doubted the dwarves had much interest in Isildur at all-though considerable interest was shown in the subject of Gollum.
"We cannot be certain how the ring came to Gollum, only that it did. For five hundred years he hid himself away in the Misty Mountains, the Ring granting him unnatural long life. Until it was taken from him."
"Taken? By who?" Bofur asked.
"By the usual culprit in any robbery... a burglar." A mischievous smile was directed at a very uncomfortable looking Bilbo.
"When we were separated in Goblin Town..." Fíli began, his brother cutting him off, "That's how you got past the goblins!"
"Aye, a lucky thing for our hobbit!" Balin remarked, smiling fondly.
"Though perhaps not so lucky, if this ring is what Gandalf says it is." Thorin added.
"Did you really take the Ring from Gollum?" Ori inquired.
"Well, not exactly..." Bilbo hedged.
"Perhaps you should tell the story, since it has yet to be told to anyone." Gandalf suggested.
Although he did not enjoy the attention at first, Bilbo soon warmed to his tale and found he had a certain flair for storytelling, for even the grimmest faces lit up with small smiles when he told of the curious creature he had encountered in the tunnels. Few interrupted with questions, the story was so well told, and when he had finished, Bilbo felt very satisfied.
"That explains how Bilbo got the Ring, but how did Frodo get it?" Merry asked. This was a detail that he'd wondered about for a while now and was eager to hear properly explained.
"I slipped it into my pack because it... it was making me feel a bit strange. Sort of uncomfortable in my own skin." Bilbo explained quietly. Frodo's fingers came to rest against the small band, his heart beating a strange rhythm.
"When Beorn told me of your disappearance,' Gandalf spoke, answering Merry's question, 'I was quick to come and do a little searching of my own. There, I found the few things you'd left lying on the ground. I returned all of these things to your families. I left your pack, Bilbo, in Bag End."
"Why didn't you find the Ring then?" Bilbo interjected.
"My dear hobbit, I had just misplaced a dwarf king, his twelve companions, and their burglar. I was… distracted." Gandalf replied in aggravation.
"Hmm, well." Was Bilbo's thoughtful reply. "What happened after that?"
Frodo answered Bilbo, speaking for the first time. "I hadn't been living in Bag End for long when I found the pack and went through it. I didn't think much of the Ring at first and put it aside and mostly forgot about it. It wasn't until Lobelia came around for a 'friendly visit' and found it while snooping around in my desk that I thought of it again. When she was gone, I noticed it was a different size than it had been before, smaller, somehow. So I tried it on. It was quite a shock." The ringbearer smiled a bit.
"When Gandalf next came to the Shire, I showed it to him and asked what it was."
The wizard continued the story, explaining that he had his suspicions about the Ring and his advice that Frodo 'keep it secret, keep it safe'. "Uncertain if this was the One or merely a lesser magic ring, I went to Minas Tirith and read the account of Isildur's bane. It was written that flame would reveal an inscription on the band, written in the Black Speech. 'One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, one ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them', it would say. I returned to the Shire with due haste, and my suspicions were confirmed: the Ring had been found at last."
Frodo took over again, telling of his journey from Bag End to Bree, how he and Sam were joined by Merry and Pippin, meeting "Strider" at the Prancing Pony, being chased by the Nazgul, and finally making it to Rivendell, nearly dying in the process.
At the conclusion of the story, after Gandalf spoke of all that had happened in Rivendell, and how the fellowship came to be, Thorin sat musing silently.
At last, he leaned forward, fixing an assessing gaze upon Frodo. Unlike his cousin, who had tried to make himself taller when subjected to the full attention of the imposing dwarf, the ringbearer drew back, his eyes guarded and glinting. "And how did you come to give the Ring to him?" Thorin asked.
"Because the Ring is ever searching for one to seduce, and I was all too easy a target. Hobbits are remarkable creatures, I've always said. Where a warrior or king might fail, a hobbit will do exceedingly well."
"So Bag End has been empty all this time?" Bilbo piped up, thinking of what sixty years could've done to his beloved hobbit-hole.
"Do not worry yourself, I took care of it till Frodo came of age, then I thought he would be a suitable occupant. Forgive me, Bilbo, for I thought you dead." Gandalf left out the bit about Bilbo's possessions being auctioned off by his overeager relations. He'd recovered most of the items, anyway. Or so he hoped.
Bilbo squirmed uncomfortably and muttered something under his breath, but no one understood him.
Since hobbit-holes were of little importance to him, Thorin saw fit to change the subject. "What shall we do now? My company has all but been left behind by the world, we lack a home even more than we did before."
"I do not know. That is a question that would probably be best answered by years have left the world much changed from what it was, Thorin. What he has to say will be hard for you to hear."
Gimli himself stepped forward. There was sorrow in his eyes that kindled fear in the hearts of his kin, and when he spoke there was a raw edge to his words. "If I could speak first with only Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, and my father. I would like to take council with them first."
"Very well, you can tell us what has become of our people, and we can decide how to continue our journey after that." Thorin replied, understanding that this was a personal discussion. All the dwarves Gimli had requested an audience with rose and relocated themselves as far away as they could get while still remaining inside the shelter of the brush.
After watching them go, Gandalf stood up. "I believe I shall go and keep Aragorn company." The wizard left them to converse amongst themselves, knowing that tongues would be looser in his absence. He only hoped that the gathering would not become too noisy.
/
It was harder. Harder than anything Gimli had yet to face. Years of grieving were nothing compared to this. Grief, at least, was normal and easily understood. But this shock, the agonizing joy of a dream realized and a nightmare ended churned uncomfortably in his gut and burned in his eyes. Was it right to rejoice? The years were not undone; he had mourned, and would mourn in the future. Though he was glad, Gimli could not yet revel in his gladness. The choking despair of the past still pressed too close to his heart. What had been broken was still broken, perhaps always would be, and this joy was merely salt in the wound.
Raising his head, Gimli came face-to-face with four curious, searching gazes. Subtlety truly had never been the province of dwarves. Gloin looked upon him as if he were a riddle that could not be solved and Dwalin's expression was as gruff as it had always been. Gimli felt like a lad again under the older dwarf's scrutiny, and could feel the color rising in his cheeks. Balin's eyes were as kind as they had always been, and the understanding that Gimli saw there was almost his undoing.
All emotion stuttered to a halt when confronted with the cold, blue gaze of his King. Thorin stood straight and tall, his expression expectant, all feeling carefully concealed. Now that it was time to speak, the words halted painfully in his throat.
Gimli had been so young, barely more than a child, when last he had seen Thorin Oakenshield. The reverential awe of his youth flared bright and strong in his chest and in it he found hope. Here was their lost leader, returned to them. Sorrow dulled and faded in the light until it became threadbare. All his adult life Gimli had dreamed of standing before his King as a warrior capable of fighting in the service of his people. In that hope, Gimli found his voice.
"Our people have remained strong in your absence, my King, though the years have not been kind. No one else ever sought to reclaim Erebor and Durin's folk have been scattered. Some chose to stay in the Blue Mountains, others traveled to the Iron Hills to live with Dain's people. Many would follow you still, if you were to return. Your courage and strength have never been forgotten."
The others spoke, asking Gimli questions of what had transpired in those sixty years. Trying to grasp the full extent of all they had missed was not easy, their minds struggling to comprehend the weight of what had happened. They inquired of the politics, who lead their people now and what struggles the last sixty years had brought to their kin. Thorin especially wanted to know all there was to hear of the Lonely Mountain, and of the dragon Smaug.
"Sixty years have passed and none have sought to reclaim Erebor? No one at all?" Thorin asked, his back turned to the others and his arms crossed.
"After your company vanished, most considered the very undertaking to be cursed. No dwarf, man, or elf has dared approach the Lonely Mountain for fear of stirring up an evil even more fearsome than Smaug himself." Gimli replied.
The dwarf king turned, his expression thoughtful but with a sharp gaze. "How came you to be a part of this company, Gimli? Ered Luin is many leagues distant from Rivendell."
"Many months ago a black rider came to the gates of our hall, asking to speak with our leaders. He said he came as a messenger from Sauron and asked if we would ally ourselves with Mordor. In return, we were offered great riches. Erebor and all of its treasure was to be ours once more."
As if a light had passed quickly over his features, Thorin's eyes brightened, his countenance stirred for a moment before returning to its former placidity.
"We were troubled by this request and deliberated over it for a time. Many of us thought that allying with the Dark Lord was the right decision, for then we would be restored to our rightful place of honor, no longer living in squalor and begging for the kindness of Men and Elves. Others were wary, and thought it was better to remain as we were, than risk falling prey to evil.
"The decision was made to send an envoy to Rivendell, in hopes that we would learn more of Sauron and his intent. Others had come from all corners of Middle Earth, seeking council and news. The halfling brought forth the Ring and well, you heard the rest."
"All this talk of magic rings and dark lords is all well and good, but what about our families?" Dwalin asked gruffly.
Balin nodded sagely, a kind gleam in his eye. "Aye, tell us of our people, lad. Tell us the little things. There must have been… many changes while we were gone."
Gimli answered their questions freely, regaling them of the joys and sorrows of the decades they had missed. The marriages, the births, and the deaths.
Here, Gimli faltered once again, fresh sorrow slowing his speech. "We have flourished these past twenty years, but before that… times were grim. There was a harsh winter when food was scarce and even the stoutest among us grew weak with illness. Many died,' the dwarf's voice was choked, and his eyes glistened with tears, 'Father, I'm sorry." Gimli's voice was so soft it was almost swallowed by the night.
"What is there to be sorry for, Gimli?" Gloin asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.
Gimli raised his axe, showing them the runes carved into the metal and wood. His voice was strong and his words were for all of them, but his eyes were fixed on Gloin's face. "After you first vanished, we despaired. We were lost, leaderless. Our people had no king, and I… I had no father. I carved your names here, on the blades of my axe, so that I would never forget you. So the world would never forget you.
"For so long, I've wanted nothing more than to see you all again. And suddenly, you were here, alive. No dream I've dreamed could have prepared me for the sweetness of this moment. But when I saw you, I did not feel glad. I was confused… and angry."
Gloin fastened a sharp look on his son—who was now the same age as him. "Why?" The others waited patiently, realizing this was a moment for the father and his son.
Tears finally spilled from Gimli's eyes, and the invisible wall that had separated the two of them slowly crumbled. Wrapping his son in a crushing embrace, Gloin held Gimli close as he let out his anger and grief in mighty sobs.
"I've missed you, Father! It was so hard for me without you." Gimli choked out, trembling with emotion.
"I'm sorry, laddie. If I could've prevented you that pain, you know I would've." Gloin put his hands on his son's shoulders and looked him in the eye. "What of your mother? Is she well?"
Fresh grief spread over Gimli's face, causing his father's heart to race in fear. "When the winter came, and there was so much death, she helped all those she could. She worked so hard to care for those who were ill and neglected her own health. I—I should've helped her, I should have seen how weak she was, but I was so angry I could not see how she was wasting away. The illness took her just before Spring came and melted the snow."
Rage boiled in Gloin's blood, drowning his spirit in howls of despair though no sound escaped his lips. Dead for twenty years? How could this be? Just a few months ago he'd bid Nali farewell, promising that he would return with enough treasure to keep their small family well-fed and wealthy for many years. She'd laughed and said that as long as he came back alive she cared little for silver and gold.
Gloin wasn't aware that he had fallen, weeping, to his knees. He wasn't aware that his son was holding him up, nor did he hear Gimli's quiet assurances.
It was suddenly, terrifyingly real. This was no dream, there was no waking up. No nightmare, no matter how painful, was filled with such pain.
Silent tears of sympathy painted Balin's weathered face. Worn and wearied by his grief, all of his years seemed to weigh very heavily upon him in that moment. Beside him, Dwalin gripped his axe tightly, feeling useless in the face of a foe he could not fight.
Thorn removed himself from the others. This fresh sorrow stirred the wrath that was already in him. How much more could his people suffer? Were they the target of every misfortune the world could create? How was it that his dream, his greatest hope to bring peace and happiness to his people would result in further heartache?
Unlike the others, neither his face or his body revealed ought of his anger. But within, the spark was fanned into a flame.