The Book of Mazarbul

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction

Author’s note: Dorin and Burin were inspired by the movie-version of Fíli and Kíli, although Burin was actually a canon character for a while before the Professor would exchange him for Gimli son of Glóin. See HoME VI: The Return of the Shadow. Also, as you can see, I’m warming up to the idea of a bald Dwalin.

Chapter 09 – Meeting At Balin’s

Taking old Lóni’s advice to the heart, a few days later Óin sent a message to Balin, asking his cousin for a meeting. As a rule he did not have to do so – they were closely related, after all, and the ties of kinship were strong among Dwarves who shared the same blood – but as Balin was still grieving, courtesy demanded that he should be asked whether the widower was willing to accept visitors or not.

Fortunately for Óin, Balin was also a very curious Dwarf, eager to learn new things and hear all the tidings, despite his venerable age; and so the messenger returned with the answer that Óin may come over to his cousin’s house on the same day.

The time Balin had named him for the visit enabled Óin to think through one last time what exactly he wanted to say. He even made a few notices, writing down the most important facts on a slip of parchment. Then he changed his clothes and re-braided his hair and his beard a great deal more tidily as was his wont, preparing himself to present his case to the Elder of his family in a respectful yet convincing manner. Balin’s opinion could be a deciding factor, after all.

Like all wealthy and respected families of Durin’s House – moreso those that had a family member of Thorin’s Company – Balin’s family lived in a large, beautiful mansion on the fourth level, near the King’s own dwellings. They had earned this position not only because of Balin and Dwalin’s active part in the Quest, but also due to their previous friendship to both Thorin and his father Thráin, whom they had accompanied on his wanderings. Aside from being great warriors, they were also renowned scholars and had thus become King Dáin’s trusted counsellors.

Besides, they needed a big mansion to live, as theirs was a fairly large family, despite both Balin and Dwalin having only one son each. They might not have numerous blood relatives living under their roof, but they did have an extended family of fosterlings, students, servants and apprentices, some of them from different Clans, others from settlements as far as ones in the Blue Mountains, so they needed a lot of living space to host them all.

When Óin sounded the doorbell, the door was opened by Loki, who had served Balin and Dwalin like something between a manservant and a valet since their youth. The StiffBeard was truly ancient now, but still full of strength; his hair had barely begun to turn white. Óin remembered him from his childhood and found that he had not changed at all ever since. Mischievous, button-like brown eyes twinkled at him from a round, lined face, recognizing and welcoming him at once.

“The family has not gathered yet,” the old servant told Óin, “but the young masters are in the Hall, waiting for you.”

The young masters meant Balin and Dwalin, of course. For Loki, who had known and served Fundin in his youth, they still counted as mere striplings. Stifling a laughter, Óin – considerably younger than said masters himself – followed Loki to the Hall. It was the heart of the whole mansion: a large central chamber, with an arched ceiling, well-lit by the high-cut shafts above and the mysterious cold lamps, the making of which the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm had learned from the Eves of Hollin more than an Age ago, from within.

As Loki had said, Balin and Dwalin were already there, waiting for their visitor; Balin sitting in his high chair, clad in heavy, burgundy red brocade, looking like Durin the Deathless himself. Óin had to fight the urge to bow to him every bit as deeply as he would to a King. Venerable though Dáin Ironfoot was, with an appearance that commanded both respect and a healthy amount of fear, in Óin’s eyes it had always been his cousin Balin who seemed the most kingly of all the sons of Durin’s House.

More so than Thorin Oakenshield even, who – while a noble, powerful and most courageous Dwarf, and a famous warrior at that – had lacked the deeper wisdom and compassion a true King ought to have. Balin, on the other hand, had both of those in spades.

The fact that his hair was already white like freshly fallen snow added to his venerable looks, of course. With his two hundred-and-some years, he did not count as particularly old. As a rule, Dwarves did not show signs of aging until the last decade of their life’s journey; nor did their strength begin to ebb away until that time. However, it was not uncommon for them to go prematurely grey, even when relatively young, as a result of some terrible grief or tragedy in their life.

It had happened to King Dáin, after the Battle of Azanulbizar. And it had happened to Balin, too, as a result of the same battle, in which his father had been slain, among unnumbered others of their kind. And it happened to Glóin, Óin’s younger brother after the Battle of the Five Armies. Óin himself had a lot of iron streaking his once flame red hair and beard as well.

Strangely enough, Balin’s brother Dwalin, less than a decade his junior, had not been affected the same way: his beard was still the same glossy, bluish black that had given the BlackLock clans their distinctive name, although his hair never grew back after it had been burned off at Azanulbizar. Clad in dark green, in contrast of Balin’s deep red, he looked more like a son to him than like a younger brother.

Until one spotted the third male in the room, that is: the late, only – and thus quite spoiled – son of the master of the house.

If one considered Flói, Ori’s life-mate handsome, and rightly so, and Óin’s own nephew, Gimli, quite exotic-looking with his thick copper hair and dark eyes, there could only be one word to describe Burin son of Balin: beautiful.

He was fairly young, barely beyond his sixth decade (as Balin had married late), not particularly tall for a BlackLock and unusually slender for a Dwarf, although broad-shouldered and wide-chested, like all of his kind. He wore his ink-black hair, that seemed almost an iridescent blue in the brilliant light of the cold lamps, unbraided, so that it swapped and whirled around his shoulders at each movement. Also, in blatant disregard of LongBeard traditions – he considered himself a BlackLock and thought little of Durin’s House – he kept his beard short and neatly trimmed. He even shaved the upper part of his cheeks, which added more emphasis to his prominent cheekbones and large, slanted indigo eyes, drawing attention from male and female admirers alike.

His features, too, were unusually sharp, even a little hawkish, with full lips and a finely bent nose. With his slender build and elegant movements, he almost had an Elvish air about him, although few would have been foolish enough to mention that.

He moved with a predatory grace as if he had been dancing, even while performing such a simple task as greeting his father’s cousin; and not by accident. Burin was an excellent and dedicated swordsman, who made sword-fighting a true art form; in truth, he considered his skills with the blade – with any blade – true art. He easily wielded a broadsword made for big Men, could use the throwing knives better than many a Wood-Elf, but he was best with the Dwarven version of the longsword: the same kind as the Mannish ones, but with a shortened length.

With that, he was absolutely deadly. ‘Twas said that he could cut the wings off a fly in the air if he put his mind to it.

Accordingly, he was also an adventurer who could not bear the settled life in Erebor for too long. Time and again, he would leave, alone or with a few friends, to see far-away lands and meet strange people; but most importantly, to find other swordsmen against whose blade he could try his unparalleled skills.

Those mad adventures caused Balin much grief and had led to the untimely death of Dwalin’s younger son, Frerin, during a Troll hunt a decade or so earlier. For though both Frerin and his brother, Dorin, had been considerably older than Balin’s only son, Burin had always been the leader of their adventurous trio, and the three of them used to be thick as thieves.

After the unfortunate death of Frerin, Burin and Dorin grew even closer to each other, as if they had been brothers instead of cousins. Those old enough to remember Thorin Oakenshield’s ill-fated nephews often compared them with Fíli and Kíli because of the brotherly love between them. The only difference being that Burin was still taking the lead during their continuing adventures and Dorin was still following him faithfully.

And not just during their adventures, it seemed. For barely had Óin entered the Hall, another door opened in the back of it and in walked Dorin son of Dwalin, decked out in the resplendent glory of a young BlackLock warrior of a noble family. Like Burin, he wore a knee-length tunic of brocaded wool with wide sleeves that only reached to the elbows and beneath that a long-sleeved undertunic of fine line linen, with dark breeches and boots. But while Burin’s tunic was black, seemed with stitched silver ribbons on the sleeves, the hem and the neckline, Dorin’s was a deep midnight blue, seamed with squirrel fur.

Unlike Burin’s wild mane, Dorin’s dark honey-blond hair – his mother was a StoneFoot from a prominent Clan – was neatly combed back and artfully braided with small gemstones in multiple braids that would have made an Elf die from envy. His refined features and deep blue eyes gave him a faint resemblance to the Northmen of Mirkwood, which made him very popular among the women of Laketown – much to Dwalin’s dismay who did not condone his dalliances with the daughters of Men.

The folly of untamed youth, thought Óin fondly. He liked Dorin who – unlike his own far too serious nephew – was light-hearted and full of mischief, albeit just as fierce a warrior as Gimli. And a lot less spoiled than his younger cousin. The Lady Hilborg, coming from a family of strong principles, had seen into that.

Said lady apparently did not wish to join the meeting of male cousins, which was not the least surprising. Balin’s late wife, the Lady Yrsa had been the family matriarch and Hilborg, not being a BlackLock, had neither the right nor the intention to meddle with Clan matters. Therefore it fell to Balin, as the eldest among them, to greet their visitor, which he did as soon as old Loki led Óin into the Hall.

“Cousin!” he said cordially, rising from his chair with the easy grace of a Dwarf still short his hundredth year, despite being more than twice that age. “’Tis good to see you again. I heard you have returned from your journey some time ago – I assume you brought good news?”

“Indeed I have,” Óin tried not to wince when Balin embraced him in a bear hug that could have crushed the ribs of a weaker Dwarf; age did not seem to have lessened his cousin’s strength, nor his exuberance. Apparently, Balin was done grieving and ready to begin enjoying life again. “We can be reasonable sure that no dragons have remained in the Withered Heath.”

“Good, that is good,” Balin gestured him to sit down at the massive oakwood table and asked old Loki to bring them ale and some walnut bread. “What else did you find, though?” he asked when they were all seated and served, including the two youngsters who were burning with curiosity, never having ventured to the far North.

“Unexpected things,” replied Óin. “Tell me, Cousin, have you ever heard of Fire-mages?”

Balin and Dwalin exchanged surprised looks. Clearly, the term was not an unknown one for them; but again, they were the best scholars of the Clan. Or the entire kingdom, for that matter.

“’Tis said that they were born with the fire touch, but it was much stronger in them than even in the most powerful FireBeards,” Balin finally said. “So strong indeed that they could not bear the touch of iron. They only emerged among the Petty-dwarves, and as those vanished many hundred years ago, the Fire-mages perished with them. The last one went down during the fall of Khazad-dûm, according to legend.”

“Then the legend is mistaken,” said Óin, “for I meet Eikinskialdi the Fire-mage, the last of his kind, in the deep caves bordering the Withered Heath. He is ancient now but has gown in strength immensely… and he is wearing the Drakkon, the Dragon-ring of Narvi, wrought by the hands of Khelebrimbur himself, back in the Second Age.”

His cousins stared at him in muted shock for endless moments. Then Dwalin pulled himself together with visible effort.

“You saw him – and the Drakkon – with your own eyes?” he asked in stunned disbelief.

Óin nodded. “Aye, that I did. And I also saw another one of the Lesser Rings on the finger of Miödvitnir, the Rune-smith.”

“A Rune-smith!” exclaimed Dwalin in awe. “I heard that in ancient times earth magic was frequently used among the FireBeards; but I thought the practice has got lost with the fall of Tumunhazar.”

“It must have,” said Balin, “as Rune-smiths were only ever born in families that had intermarried with our stunted cousins at some point of their history.”

“True,” said Óin, “yet is it not also true that Petty-dwarves were not a kindred of their own in the beginning? That they were born in stunted bodies in all Seven Houses?”

“That is what some legends say,” answered Dwalin reluctantly. “But even more are the tales that tell us that they were an independent Clan, cast out for the hideous crimes they had committed. Black magic being only one of those”

“An entire Clan of evil magic users and cutthroats?” Óin shook his head. “I cannot believe it. ‘Tis more likely that their families were ashamed of them and cast them out, all but forcing them to turn to each other for support and thus creating a separate kindred of Khazad. That would at least explain why Miödvitnir, for one, shows the traits both of the FireBeard and the BroadBeam Clans while still being too small for even a StiffBeard.”

“Possibly but not very likely,” replied Balin. “Intermarriage between the Clans can lead to mixed results, as we all have seen; or it can happen that one side becomes predominant, like in our care,” he added, glancing at his brother, “’Tis amusing how everyone takes us for LongBeards, just because our forefathers belonged to Durin’s House, although no-one of us does actually look like a LongBeard.”

“Well, your beard is forked,” pointed out Burin, “and so is Uncle Dwalin’s.”

“While you, air-headed youngsters, trample on the tradition of your royal bloodline, wearing your beards obscenely short,” Dwalin, ever the more conservative, snapped at his nephew. “Not to mention other… unsavourable customs the two of you have picked up on your mad adventures.”

“Hey!” called Burin defensively. “I am not the one chasing after every barmaid’s apron in Laketown! And it is hardly my fault that my beard grows so slowly.”

Dorin sniggered. “That is because you are still a Dwarfling.”

“Can we continue the family squabble later, when we are among us?” Balin’s voice brooked no argument and made it very clear that that had not been a question. “Cousin Óin has not come to discuss your fashion sense with us.” He glanced at Óin askance. “I would hear the reason for your visit now, Cousin – though you are always welcome, of course.”

Óin bowed slightly to express his thanks.

“You are right, Cousin,” he answered. “As much as I value your company and your wisdom – and I truly do – I have come to discuss Khazad-dûm with you.”

Long silence followed his declaration. The dreadful fate of Khazad-dûm – and the even more dreadful memories of the Battle of Azanulbizar – loomed constantly on the horizon of all Dwarven tales. Those were memories that still made Dwarves weep and therefore they did not like to call them up unless they absolutely had to.

“What is there to discuss about Khazad-dûm?” Balin finally asked. “The wonder of the Northern world is lost for us; you know that as well as I do. Too deep we delved there, and woke the Nameless Fear. The vast mansions of Dwarrowdelf have lain empty since the children of Durin fled.”

“Aye, but do they have to remain empty forever?” asked Óin. “Do we have to stay hemmed in this narrow place while greater wealth and splendour could be found in a wider world? Why should we leave the mighty works of our fathers in the filthy claws of Orc and Goblins?”

“Even asking such things is dangerous folly!” cried Dwalin in dismay. “We already tried it once and you know how that ended! We should be grateful to have Erebor back, against all hope, and be content with it.”

“I cannot be content, sitting in my comfortable home like a Hobbit in his hole while Khazad-dûm is still in the claws of the defilers,” returned Óin angrily. “Aye, our first attempt to re-claim our birthright has failed, and the loss was grievous. But now at last we have the power and numbers to return.”

“The numbers perhaps – but the power?” asked Balin thoughtfully. “What makes you think we could face the ancient terror that most likely still haunts the depths of the mines?”

“We certainly cannot,” replied Óin without hesitation, “but a Fire-mage might. Both Eikinskialdi and the Rune-smith declared themselves willing to join any effort to re-claim that which is ours by right.”

Dwalin shook his head in sorrow. “When did the shadow of disquiet fall upon your heart, Cousin? Have you not seen enough death yet? No dwarf has dared to pass the doors of Khazad-dûm for many lives of kings, save Thrór only, and he perished.”

“He perished indeed, for – crazed with age and misfortune and long brooding on the splendours of Khazad-dûm in his forefather’s days – he foolishly walked through the Gate alone,” returned Óin. “’Twas not the Nameless Fear that killed him but Azog, the cursed Orc-chieftain of Gundabad.”

“Aye,” said Balin gravely. “The same Azog who slew Náin of the Iron Hills. And when King Dáin, hardly more than a stripling in our reckoning back then, caught Azog before the doors and slew him and heaved off his head, he looked grey in the face when he came back down from the Gate, as one who had felt great fear.”

“And he refused to enter Khazad-dûm and warned Thráin, too, not do so,” added Dwalin. “And even though Thráin was still mad with bloodlust, coming straight from the battle, and twice Dáin’s age, he listened.”

“He was also blinded on one eye beyond cure and halt with a leg-wound,” said Óin dryly. “Hardly in the right shape to keep fighting. I know all the old tales, Dwalin. My mother fought in that terrible battle herself. Fought and perished, together with your father and Dori's father and with countless others. But some of the old heroes are still among us; and we, you and me, faced the Dragon together. This is the time when we should make our move, while most of us can still wield a weapon.”

For Bombur certainly no longer could; and Bifur most likely would not want to. And if his brother and cousin would not go, Bofur – albeit quite an adventurous soul himself, with his old strength still not diminished – would stay behind for their sake. Even by Dwarven measures, the ties of kinship were unusually strong among them. But again, BroadBeams needed to stick together, having become a people of travelling merchants since the fall of their great city in the Blue Mountains.

“Perhaps so,” said Balin. “You do realise, of course, that those old warriors would be the only ones you could count on in such a Quest. Khazad-dûm was the home of Durin’s Folk, the LongBeards; and for Durin’s Folk only is its loss a never-healing wound. Can you remember what the Dwarves of the Iron Hills answered to Thorin’s summons when we were gathering our strength to return to Erebor?”

Óin nodded grimly, for that was a memory that still burned the members of Thorin’s Company.

“Oh aye, I do. They said this was our Quest and ours alone.”

“Which is why Frár and the Lady Yngvildr could not join us, although at least Frár would have been inclined to do so, for what greater challenge could there be for a Forge Guard than to face a live dragon?” reminded him Balin. “Yet he could not disobey Dáin’s orders.”

“True,” said Óin. “But I also remember what Thorin said to you that one night, in the comfortable home of our esteemed burglar Bilbo Baggins: that he would take each and every one of our rag-tag band over an army from the Iron Hills. For when he called upon us, we answered.”

“Aye, and we would have run headfirst into our ruin if not for Tharkûn’s help,” commented Dwalin. “This time you shan’t have a wizard – or a Hobbit – to help you out of tight places.”

“We would have a Fire-mage and a Rune-smith, though,” reminded him Óin.

“And you truly believe that would be enough? Dwalin clearly did not.

Óin shrugged. “Mayhap not. But it could help.”

“I still believe the mere thought of this is dangerous folly,” declared Dwalin. “I for my part shan’t have any part of it. ‘Twas a miracle that we could get back our home of old; ‘twould be immodest to expect another miracle to happen. Whom do you hope to talk into this mad Quest of yours? Have you won anyone from the old Company over yet? For I doubt that many would be willing to risk that which we have gained at such a high price.”

“I have not spoken to anyone of the Company yet; not even to my own brother,” replied Óin. “For I thought Balin, as the Eldest of us after the loss of Thorin, would be a better leader of such a Quest than I could ever hope to become. However, I spoke to Frár and his Raven Lady; and I spoke to Old Lóni as well. My heart tells me they would follow – if only we could present them a true leader and a way to succeed.”

“And can you present them those?” asked Burin with burning eyes, speaking for the first time. Until now he had remained silent, out of respect towards his elders, but even a blind Dwarf could have seen that his spirits had already been lifted by the chance of such a great adventure.

Óin turned to him. “By right, your father should be King Under the Mountain,” he said sharply. “Dáin might be more closely related to Thorin but your father had always been the closest to our true Kings. Have he and your uncle not accompanied Thráin at his first attempt to return to Erebor?”

“And a fat lot of good that did to us all,” muttered Dwalin. “We lost our King and nearly our very lives and had to return to the Blue Mountains with our task unfinished. We could not even get close enough to the Mountain to spy out its defences.”

“Aye, but Thráin chose the two of you and no-one else,” reminded him Óin. “By right, Balin should have become Thorin’s heir.”

“I never tried to claim leadership,” said Balin a bit defensively.

“Nay, you did not, and we all know why,” replied Óin. “Dáin was better suited to protect Erebor with his armies, and you realised that; which only shows your qualities as a true leader. You did honourably by our people, serving the good of us all, instead of just your own. I think not we could find anyone more deserving to lead us on this Quest – and to become the Lord of Moria if we succeed.”

“If you succeed, which is highly questionable,” returned Dwalin. “’Twas insane enough to return to Erebor with only thirteen of us, an old wizard and a plump little Hobbit whose first request was to turn our whole trek back for his forgotten handkerchiefs. And reclaiming Erebor was child’s play compared with the enormous task of getting Khazad-dûm back. What makes you believe you would have the faintest chance to succeed? Where would you take the armies to do so?”

“If I have learned anything from our Quest than this: sometimes stealth can be more successful than a parade of vast armies,” answered Óin. “Sneaking through the back door can lead further than trying to break down the Front Gate by force. We should not repeat King Thrór’s mistake but use the tactic of Tharkûn. After all, Khazad-dûm did have a back door as well – the one through which the people of Khelebrimbur used to enter.”

“Aye, but that gate could only be opened by magic,” reminded him Balin,” and to approach it, we would need to cross the Misty Mountains first. Do I need to remind you what a perilous undertaking that still is… not to mention how costly?”

“We?” echoed Dwalin suspiciously. “Brother, you cannot be considering joining this madness, are you?”

“Nay, I am not; at least not yet,” replied Balin. “However, ‘tis something I shall have to think about long and hard… and now is not the time for that. Let us pass Midwinter Day first. Once the feast of Ori’s wedding is over and all have sobered again, perchance the others from the old Company would be more willing to think of anything else. Until then, we can study the ancient lore to prepare ourselves for a proper council. Who knows, we might even find the opening spell for that back door, just in case.”

“Brother, be reasonable!” cried out Dwalin in dismay.

Balin raised a broad palm to silence him.

“Peace, brother. I have made no choice to join Cousin Óin’s Quest, should it ever come to happen. Nor shall I decide anything in such a short notice. But he seems determined to go, even if he has to go alone; therefore the least he deserves is our help with researching the old legends. For I shall support him, should this come to a debate before the King, even if I choose not to join him,” he turned back to Óin warningly. “I ask you, Cousin, not to discuss this with the others from the old Company just yet. Everyone is busy with Ori’s upcoming wedding, and he deserves to celebrate his long-awaited day of happiness without disturbance.”

He was clearly speaking as the head of the family now, and even though Óin was only related him on his father’s side, he considered Balin his elder and bowed to his wishes willingly.

“As you wish, Cousin. I shall not mention this to anyone; not even to Glóin.”

“As if he would ever go with you!” snorted Dwalin. “And even if he would want, Lady Nais would sooner see him dead than allow him to run off on another mad adventure.”

“She does not need to hold him back by threats,” replied Óin a little sadly. “My brother is quite content with his life here in Erebor; and anyway, he would not want to leave behind his family again. Not now that they finally have a home.”

“If that is true, who could blame him for it?” asked Balin quietly. “He already left behind a life of peace and plenty when he followed Thorin to Erebor. Not because he would hunger for gold or glory but out of loyalty, honour and the willingness of his heart; because his King called upon him and he could do nought else but answer. But I am not his King; and even if I were, I would never ask him to give up the life he had built for himself and his family again. A life that is worth more than all the riches and splendour of Khazad-dûm.”

“Whom you choose to summon is your choice alone, Cousin,” said Óin. “I shall not ask my brother to come with us, either – not even if he wanted to do so – for it would be foolish to raise the ire of his lady. A venerable matriarch our Nais might be, but her grip on the battle-axe is still firm and she would not hesitate to put me in my place if she thought it would be the needful thing to do.”

“You should find yourself a mate of your own,” suggested Dwalin, grinning, “instead of letting Nais terrorise you. I begin to understand the true reason behind your wanderlust: you just want to be as far from her as you can, as often as you can come up with a reason that would be halfway acceptable.”

“Speak for yourself, Cousin,” replied Óin with a matching grin.

For it was a well-known fact under the Mountain that Dwalin, the renowned war hero twice over, the bane of Orcs, Goblins, Wargs, Giant Spiders and other evil creatures, was completely under the yoke of his much younger wife. Who happened to be an extraordinary, gold-haired beauty and had chosen him against everybody’s expectations, refusing to accept the courtship of many a younger, wealthier and more handsome male.

Needless to add that the Lady Hilborg was well capable of reining in her sons as well – that is, her only remaining son now – if the need arose. Which was why Dorin, although he had come to age long ago, still would not go off on any adventure without his mother’s consent. Not even if Burin called upon him.

Dwalin shrugged, not the least embarrassed by the fact that he was well and truly owned by his lady. He considered himself fortunate to be chosen by her and they had been very happy ever since. He could not care less what other Dwarves thought about him; even less so those poor, unlucky fellows who still had not found the one of their hearts.

Óin looked at the big, raw-boned, bald-headed BlackLock and smiled fondly. Dwalin was like an old war-horse, taken in by a farmer’s family and living out the rest of his life among small, meek ponies; out of his true element yet still content nonetheless. Hilborg had taught him the gentler pleasures of life and he was no longer willing to give that up.

He was not the bookworm kind of scholar like Balin and Ori, nor the travelling and seeking kind like Óin himself. His knowledge came more from the oral tradition; from the ancient legends and songs handed down from father to son since the dawn of time. In a different life he might have become one of the greatest bards of Durin’s Folk, given his excellent ear for music. But being the chancellor of a King was not such a bad thing, either, he found.

“Well,” Óin rose, feeling that they all had said everything they had to say in the matter, “I shall be going then, Cousins.”

“Go,” Balin nodded. “But we shall see each other after Midwinter Day again. When I have given your news a great deal of thought and have searched some of the ancient books we keep in the secret archives the Dragon never found.”

“You could open the Archives, then?” asked Óin in surprise. “How? For years upon years have we tried to find the opening spell but we could not even locate the cave where the books were supposed to be!”

“We were fortunate that Ori got in his head to learn the Elvish letters when we were resting in Rivendell during the Quest,” said Balin. “Turns out the spell has been before our very eyes all the time: hewn into the rock wall in that High-Elven script they call Tengwar. We had just thought it was merely ornamentals, until Ori recognised some of the letters. From there on, putting together the spell was easy.”

“Thorin, may he rest in peace amongst his longfathers, would be fit to be tied if he knew that,” Dwalin grinned from ear to ear. “He hated and mistrusted everything that came from the Elves; to find that his own grandsire used their script to protect his secrets would be too much for him.”

“Thorin was not the only one foolishly mistrusting the Elves,” reminded him Óin. “We all behaved like fools in Lord Elrond’s house, much to my regret. One might think about Thranduil what one want – and I am certainly no friend of his – but Elrond Half-Elven has never been aught but decent to us.”

“That is because he is only a half-Elf,” snickered Dwalin, admittedly not a friend of Elves himself.

Óin, who had befriended some of the Wise in Elrond’s house, just shook his head ruefully. A few decades were too short a time to cure Ages of mutual mistrust and prejudice. Which, in his opinion, was a crying shame, as the two races could have still learnt a great deal from each other. And the example of Narvi and Khelebrimbur had clearly showed that friendship between Elves and Dwarves was possible – if both sides were willing.

He knew, though, that his cousins would not be open to such bold ideas. At least Dwalin would not; and Balin was probably too old to change now. At least he could be civil to everyone.

Deciding that this was not the time to breach such a topic, Óin took his leave from his cousins and returned to the mansion he shared with his brother’s family to brood over his plans some more. He could not know that other plans had been set in motion in the meantime – plans that might very well end in him getting wedded and tamed, just as his brother had been.

~TBC~