Chapter Text
You hear of a company of dwarves seeking to reclaim Khazad-dûm once more. You are curious and eager to travel again and so you find them outside the Hollin Gate and offer your assistance, and you haven’t felt quite this tall since you left the Shire. There was another expedition with a similar goal not so long ago, but no word has been heard from Balin's company in years. This new expedition may fare no better. They are wary, at first, of an elf meddling in such great dwarvish matters, but the truth is that they need the assistance and would have welcomed a party of elves from either Imladris or Lórien (at least at first). You are neither an entire company nor an agent of Elrond or Galadriel but you help where you are needed and soon enough the Iron Garrison welcomes you around their fires.
In the beginning especially they will speak to you in their own language before realizing you do not understand Khuzdul. You have picked up a handful of words and phrases over time- curses and greetings for the most part- but they are of little use in discussions of pickaxes or the erie lake before the Doors of Durin. You are learning through exposure if nothing else, but you are far from fluent yet.
It is blessedly simple to be expected to do no more than carry things here and there or perhaps drive off a handful of orcs. Brogur hands you a pickaxe to help clear the last rubble from the Doors. It is symbolic only- they all wince at your inexpert swings and you quickly step aside. You do appreciate the gesture, at least.
There is movement in the water. The Black Pool has been devoid of any life all the time the dwarves have been working to clear the Doors, but something caused the collapse that blocked them, and recently.
Bróin screams as he is pulled into the depths. You retreat with the Iron Garrison and in the chaos you cannot make out more than impressions of the Watcher in the Water. You call down lightning but it does nothing. You move beyond the Watcher's reach with the other survivors.
Far from giving up, the dwarves uncover a cache of ancient weapons and assault the Watcher once more. A runestone is a runestone- its power comes from your understanding and attunement to its nature. The Watcher's hide is too thick for your strength alone but the gashes opened by the dwarves' weapons give you the opening you need to fill its flesh with lightning. It retreats, shrieking, and at last the Iron Garrison looks upon their ancient kingdom.
A part of you has always delighted in exploration and the discovery of things lost. Khazad-dûm is not your ancestral kingdom but still you find yourself nearly as excited as the dwarves to move farther into the halls. Only the goblin camps so near the Dolven-view give you pause. There has been no sign yet of Balin's company but the halls of Durin are far from empty.
Bósi coordinates the reclamation of the halls nearest Durin's Threshold with great success, but it is clear he was expecting more help from his cousin. You see in Brogur echoes of Laerdan and of Golodir- the grief of a parent. You know not how to help him.
You agree to search the old libraries with such eagerness that Bósi laughs at you for some time before he can tell you their locations. When you make it to the libraries, you find nearly all of the records are in Khuzdul. The runes themselves are familiar, but the words they form in combination are meaningless to you. You really should have expected that.
It is good to see Bori so animated again after you bring him the puzzle of Ongli and his mighty weapon. Zigilburk, an axe wrought entirely of mithril. How very dwarven. Brogur is skeptical of the whole matter but you are less so- stranger things have happened than the discovery of a fabled yet also unheard-of weapon.
You are no blacksmith nor are you possessed of the aesthetic sensibilities of a dwarf, but you must admit the majesty of the Heart of Fire. The Iron Garrison celebrates the discovery for a full day in the retaken Twenty-first Hall. Bósi approaches you amid the revelry with two worn books, children's texts recovered from a former residential region off Durin's Way. Word has spread, it seems, that you are attempting to learn more Khuzdul in what downtime you can find. You thank him first in Khuzdul, poorly, then properly in Westron, then sincerely in Sindarin. The first makes him laugh, the second gets a friendly smile, and the third earns you only a blank stare until you translate it- losing much of the deeper meaning in the process of course.
There are orcs of the White Hand here in Moria. You have learned by now of the treachery of the White Wizard and his alliance with Mordor. Quite apart from the simple fact that one orc is bad for the returning dwarves and two is worse, Isengard’s meddling here can be nothing good. Bori’s attack on Ashpar’s stronghold weakens them, but they are far from uprooted.
The dwarves find the Book of Mazarbul. You learn the fate of Balin’s company. A shadow falls over the Iron Garrison.
You are preparing for war again. This is not the same as Angmar or Annúminas. You are preparing to weather a siege in isolated holdfasts against foes whose count you cannot guess- and in Moria you must think in three dimensions. The well at the crossroads is very deep indeed. Nothing will attack you from below, here.
Even greater than that following the discovery of Nâr-khelab is the celebration when you and Bori return from the Drowned Treasury with both Zigilburk and Bróin. Though the mood is light, the shadow of dread that hangs over the siege-camps never fully lifts. It is clearest in how few heed Bori’s call for a raid against Mazog’s stronghold in the depths of Nud-melek.
“It will be just like our raid on Stazgnâkh,” Bori tells them. “Only this time I will wield Zigilburk, and we will march openly to victory!”
“That makes it not like Stazgnâkh at all,” you tell him. He waves a hand in dismissal.
“Minor details, and beside the point. I will take Zigilburk and with it slay Mazog and thus end the line of Azog!”
You are less than certain that a frontal assault is the wisest choice, all the more so now you know they have the aid of Dol Guldur- more terrible even than Angmar, and far, far closer to home for you. Bori will not be dissuaded, though, and you cannot very well let him go alone.
Gorothúl feels far, far too much like Mordrambor. It is all you can do to stand your ground with Bori. The harsh shouts of the orcs of Stazgnâkh are all that keep your mind here and not flying back to Tinnudir and Gador Gúlaran. You cannot tell if Gorothúl is another Black Númenórean or simply a student of similar magics. You do not care. You want out.
You are released. Bori is taken. The others are killed. You are too relieved to be away from Gorothúl to mourn them yet, and soon too caught up in defending the Iron Garrison’s outposts from Mazog’s counterattack to take the time. In the aftermath, at least, you can stop long enough to think. You drink to the memories of the fallen with the other survivors. You are accustomed to drinking in remembrance, but always before it has been a somber affair. There is sadness in the dwarves, no doubt, and many of them weep openly, but this is far more a celebration than a funeral. You even learn a handful of Khuzdul drinking songs that you hardly understand- and remember them the next day, the more’s the wonder.
You agree with Bósi when he says that the dwarves will not last long here without aid. You agree somewhat less when he asks that you be their representative to the elves of the Golden Wood.
“And why not?” he asks. “You are a friend to elves and dwarves both.”
“Not these elves,” you tell him. “Not anymore than I am a friend to the dwarves of the Iron Hills.” Bósi protests that many of the Iron Garrison hail from the realms of Dáin Ironfoot but that is not the point. You entered the woods of Lórien once, but it has been many years since then and you are as much a stranger to them as Bósi would be. Still, you are the closest there is here to a neutral party. You can sympathize now with Langlas, though things here are somewhat less immediate than those in Ered Luin were. Somewhat.
You do not realize until you leave the Mines how much you have missed trees. For certain, the great stone trees of the Second Hall are striking and a great testament to the skill of the dwarven stonesmiths, and the gardens of Tharâkh Bazân are a great surprise so deep underground, but there is a unique beauty in the splendor of the golden mellyrn of Lórien. Despite the orcs that plague Nimrodel, the Golden Wood itself is secure still. You walk into the wood until you are stopped by a border patrol and taken to Haldir to plead your case. You are released to wander the fringes of the Lothlórien and await word from Caras Galadhon. You are almost surprised that you are sent back to Moria.
The dark seems ever more oppressive now for having briefly returned to sunlight. Even more so is this true in the Foundations of Stone, barely lit even by the great mirrors that bring the light of the sun into the deepest places of Khazad-dûm.
The red fungus gives off its own dim light and reeks of something sickly sweet, not unlike rotten fruit. There is an undertone of cherry that makes it smell nearly edible until you get closer. Globsnaga it is called, both by the orcs who have learned to fear its corruption and by Lenglammel and her party at Gwathrendath. You know nothing of the Black Speech. You think snaga means slave but even that you would not swear to.
The endless stairs of Zirakzigil are spaced so that you cannot walk smoothly up, built as they are to dwarven proportions. You forget your mild irritation when you come upon rubble that blocks the uppermost stairs. You bring a familiar tattered grey hat back to the Shadowed Refuge and you know what you have confirmed for the elves of Lórien. Mithrandir is dead. It is another reminder that each victory has a cost. You do not want it- the truth or the reminder.
You fight your way into Azanarukâr in search of Lenglammel’s friend and none are with you to know if you are less merciful than perhaps even these creatures of darkness deserve. Magor does not know you well enough to know if this is unusual for you.
You know help is coming (if Magor can escape the cave, if he can reach Lenglammel in time, if they can make it back to you), but now you face the nameless horror Gwathnor alone. You have no choice. The terrible creature falls and you swear that they must feel the shaking even in the Twenty-first Hall. You never have the chance to ask- you are summoned to Caras Galadhon for an audience with the Lady Galadriel. If you are honest with yourself, you think this meeting nearly as intimidating as any battle you have fought.
The Lady of the Golden Wood bids you look into her mirror. There is fire, and battle and grief and eyes and a stand- one stand becomes many and there are eyes again, yellow, yellow eyes.
Galadriel still hopes to find Mithrandir alive. Perhaps she is right to do so. You try to hope as well.
You are named a friend of Lórien and given leave to wander among the public gardens. “Walk upon the grass and be joyful,” they tell you. “Your sorrows will not follow you there!” It is true that Lórien is peaceful in a way that no other is and you find it easier here to set down your pains. The Fellowship rests here. They are less one member now, though they all seem glad to see you. They beg news of the north and you tell them what you can, but in truth you have heard no more than they since joining the Iron Garrison’s expedition. Gimli at least is pleased to hear that a second reclamation is ongoing, though it is tempered with grief for Balin and his company. It is good to see the Fellowship and to know that they are as well as can be, but you came to Lórien with a purpose and every day you delay brings the Iron Garrison closer to defeat at Mazog’s hands.
You stand before the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien to beg aid for the Iron Garrison, and to that end you greet them in the dwarven fashion. Your Khuzdul is still weak, but the rest of the conversation takes place in your own tongue. You lead a contingent at Celeborn’s command back to Khazad-dûm, and though the Iron Garrison is grateful for their aid, to say the two groups are unfriendly would be a great understatement. The few days between your return to the Mines and your descent back into Zabadgathol are interminable and full of wounded pride. You are far too quick to take up Bróin’s plan to rescue Bori by the secret path- too quick, too, to accept the wisdom of kidnapping an orc king direct from his throne once you find that Bori is already gone.
Bróin’s friends speak well of his recovery, as if every scar from his time in the Watcher’s lair will heal as easily as his leg. You know better- you think they do, too, but perhaps it is a dwarvish thing to speak like this. Bróin said that he had had his fill of adventure, after his return from Ghân-gharâf. He has spoken little of his time there, even to you and Bori. Those wounds run deep. You understand, and you do not fault him for his fear. You are, though, quite glad that he overcomes it in time to rescue you and Orvar in Rushdurinul.
Lord Celeborn does not agree that sparing Mazog was the wisest course. Still he and the Lady assemble the Hidden Guard and mobilize the warriors of the Galadhrim to march on Dol Guldur.