An unexpected guest - A Middle-Earth Story

“BAROOM!!!”
Nithi, son of Nár, Gatekeeper of the East-gate, looked up at the great brass horns, shining high above him in the light of the high eastern windows. The horns had only been installed last week, replacing the old horns, which had long been lost. Nithi loved the sigh of them above all. Most of his brethren had a deep love for gold, silver, gems, or even the refound mithril. But Nithi loved above else brass. And of all he had ever wrought of it, or ever had seen wrought by others, he loved the new Horns of the Great Gates of Khazad-dûm best. Although… maybe that had also something to do with the fact that they aided him in his job. There were visitors coming to Moria. Their messenger to King Dáin Ironfoot had returned.

As the large gates slowly opened, the messenger was greeted by the sight of a full Dwarvish welcome, worthy of a messenger between Dáin II, King of Durin's Folk, and the highest of his vassals, Balin, Lord of Moria.
In the middle of the welcoming committee stood a very old looking dwarf with a long, white beard. He already had seen 231 years, which was very well at the end of the life span of a normal dwarf, as well as a respectable age for a dwarf of Durin’s Folk. But despite that, he jumped up and sped down the grand stairway, running down the steps to the messenger with his arms spread wide and an even wider grin on his normally so reserved face. But the messenger and he knew each other too well. They had been through so much already.
“Cousin!!!” Lord Balin cried out. “It’s been too long!”
The messenger stopped, spread his arms, and braced himself. “Balin!” he cried out as well, as he embraced the old Lord of Moria. “Aye, aye! I got them, cousin.” Óin said. He opened the bag on his side and pulled out some rolls of paper.
As Balin opened them, he saw not the letters from his liege lord as he expected, but instead copies of the old songs of his people. For a moment, he stared blankly at them, before dropping it, reaching into Óin’s bag, putting the ear trumpet to the dwarf’s ear, and shouting it: “IT’S BEEN TOO LONG!”
Óin raised an eyebrow and thought back. He remembered Balin waving him goodbye, shouting one last thing to him. “Go and take the song!” Although, on second thought, ‘donnae take too long’ might very well be what he actually said. He wanted to say something to excuse himself, but Balin was laughing his apologies away.
“It is okay, my cousin.” he laughed, and he clapped him on the shoulder. “Just tell me, did ye bring the documents?”
“Of course!” Óin said, lifting another bag off his shoulder and presenting it to his lord.
“Wonderful!” Balin took the bag, rumbled through the contents, then with a content smile handed the bag to one of his servants who had only just reached him. Then he turned to Óin. “Has anything special happened on yer road?”
Óin’s face brightened and he nodded. “Aye, cousin. I have brought a visitor!” Balin’s eyes widened, as his cousin turned around and shouted over his shoulder: “Lad!”
From in between the guards, a broad dwarf stepped forward, with an oaken-haired beard, reaching to just below his collarbones. “My liege.” he said formally.
“Cousin,” Óin said, “may I introduce to ye: Gimli, son of Glóin, my brother.”

Gimli was sat at the Lord’s table, as the drums were beaten and the brass horns were blown, and the cooks brought in their dishes to show off their prized roasts. Gimli was accustomed to the feasts at Erebor, but there, though he was of Durin’s line, he was but a distant cousin of the king. Here however, he was the Lord’s cousin, and sat directly at his table. At 115 years of age, he was well considered an adult dwarf, but due to him spending his years in the Blue Mountain Halls and Erebor alone, he had seen little of the world, and the growing realm of Khazad-dûm, reviving the most ancient halls and ruins of his people, spoke to the sheltered dwarf’s imagination, and the sights lit dreams of ancient glory in his heart like a spark to a lake of oil.
Balin looked at his nephew and smiled at him. “Impressive, nay?”
Óin knew that his nephew was of a stern, sometimes even grim nature, but now, his brother’s son was almost beaming. “Aye…” he almost whispered. As he looked on, he saw pillar after pillar, lit by torchlight, going on until the far distance where his Dwarven eyes saw not. But even beyond that, he could see the darkness of the unused space of the hall. “So grand…” he whispered.
Then, far outside, a cloud moved away from in front of the moon, and a beam of crystalline light made its way through an unobstructed path in the solid rock, cutting through the darkness, and into the wall above a great door, behind the seat of Lord Balin.
“This, laddie, is the Twenty-first Hall.” Balin said, with a smile of pride playing on his ancient face. He stood and turned to the door where the light ended. “And that, is where I keep my court: the Chamber of Mazarbul.”
At those words, two Dwarven guards pushed open the door, revealing a small podium, and on it, wrought out of stone and the silvery mithril, a small, stone throne, beautiful and elegant in its simplicity, and a perfect reflection of both the regrowing Dwarven realm, as well as its ruler.
Gimli got up with a face of radiant awe. “May I… see?” he asked.
Lord Balin nodded. “Aye. But ye are still the Lord’s cousin. So ye may only tread where the guards deem it safe, laddie.”

As Gimli left the table, Balin felt a hard tug at his sleeve, strong enough to turn him halfway around. Óin was standing there, his face sterner than Balin could ever remember seeing him, his ear trumpet raised in one hand. “I might be half deaf, cousin, but I know the whispers the guards speak.” the old dwarf spoke.
“What are ye…” Balin began, but Óin dared interrupt him.
“Donnae play tricks with me, cousin! I know ye too well for that!” He leaned in closer, until his mouth was a mere inch from the other dwarf’s ear. “I know what the guards speak of. I know that Azanulbizar was only safe because the high number of yer guards.” he whispered.
Worry grew readable in Balin’s eyes. “I… I donnae…”
Again, Óin interrupted his cousin and lord. This time, with only one word: “Goblins”
Lord Balin went silent for a while. He let go a deep sigh, before looking his cousin, friend, and trusted adviser back in the eyes. “Aye.”
“How bad?”
“Very.”
Óin’s eyes stared deep into the Lord’s. “How bad?”
“The damned beasts have taken to ravishing our outermost posts, as well as taking on single dwarves roaming through Khazad-dûm.”
Óin sighed. He looked at the darkness at the edges of the Hall, then back at the doors to the Chamber. “I thought I brought the lad to a beautiful new home…”
“Khazad-dûm is beautiful!” Balin snapped.
“But it innae a safe home.”
Balin sighed, pondering this thought for a minute. “…the lad must go back, aye?”
“I fear so, cousin. Winter will soon be upon the mountain. Then he must go back.”
Balin looked over his shoulder, seeing Gimli appear again, and seeing his cousin’s face beam with utter joy for the first time. “Let him stay a short while. Prepare yer things to bring him back to Erebor. As soon as ye’re done, bring him home.”

It was a week later, that Balin said his farewells to Óin, Gimli, and a company of eleven other dwarves. With much ceremony, the Lord of Moria handed his young cousin a shoulder bag with in it the last tidings to his liege lord King Dáin.
“Tis now November, so I think ye’ll be able to get safely out of the last bits of the mountains, ere the snow blocks yer path.” Balin spoke to Gimli. As Gimli bowed and turned to walk away, Balin turned to Óin, and the smile on his face was replaced by a look of worry.
“I take it the last news wannae that good?” Óin spoke.
Balin shook his head. “Go now, cousin. I urge ye.” His eyes spied the valley in front of them. “Donnae take the river. Anyone can take a river. Take the mountain passes to the North. It’ll only be a wee detour, but I reckon it’ll be safer. Just call it a sightseeing tour.” he added with a small wink.
Óin sighed, but nodded. “Aye. I will.” Then, he grasped his cousins arm and they shook hands.

As the group of thirteen left the valley, the farewell group in front of the great East-gate started to disband. Nithi, the Gatekeeper, walked up to his lord. “My Lord, will ye come with us?”
Balin stood silent for a moment, before shaking his head. “Nae. I will have a look in Kheled-zâram ere I go back. The lake is nearby anyways, so now might be as good a time as e’er. Ye know? It was that very pool that granted my ancestor Durin his vision. Maybe it’ll give me some insight as well…”
Then, Balin started to descend the stairs to the Mirrormere.

A few miles further, past the first bend in the mountain path, Óin stopped. Immediately, Gimli stopped as well and turned to his uncle. “Are ye alright, uncle?”
Óin nodded, though doubt was clear on his face. “Tis merely…” He paused, leaning heavy on his fighting staff, the same one he had carried years ago, when reclaiming Erebor. “Onar!” he cried out.
One of the guards stepped forwards. “Aye, master Óin?”
“I will return to my cousin Balin. It… Call it an odd feeling.” He turned to his nephew. “When yer old enough, ye might grow a certain feeling of… destiny. Of being needed somewhere.” He paused again. “Balin is my cousin, and my lord. I must be with him.”
“Then I’ll come with-” Gimli started, but Óin interrupted him.
“Nae, nephew. Balin made ye messenger to the king. Ye must go on to Erebor. But donnae worry: ye’ll return to Khazad-dûm. I know it.” He laid a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Now go, Gimli. And deliver the messages to the king. And whenever yer duty allows ye to return, there will be a grand feast in yer honour!” The old dwarf turned to the guards. “Vig! Nír! Ye two help this old dwarf get back to his home. The rest of ye, follow Onar and protect Gimli, for Onar is yer captain, and Gimli is Balin’s messenger. Now go!”
Gimli embraced his uncle and gave him a small smile. “Until next time, uncle.”
Óin smiled back. “Until next time, laddie.”

Gimli and his nine guards left the last reaching heights of the mountains, he could see in the distance the green fields and the dark shades of the forest. It would be long until he could see the Lonely Mountain again, but his mind was already there, fulfilling his important mission. But also, his mind wandered to his uncle and cousin, and the growing colony. How it would thrive! He couldn’t wait to return…

As Óin and his two guards turned the last corner, he heard what he had feared most. The feeling of foreboding dread that had suddenly come over him, the feeling that urged him to return to Balin, now made sense. In the distance, on the other side of the lake, he saw Dwarven soldiers running down the great stairs. And to his left, in the direction of the river that flowed out of Kheled-zâram, which the Humans called the Silverlode River, he could already smell it, even though he could not yet see it.
“Are ye ready, lads?” he asked Vig and Nír. He gripped his fighting staff tightly. He recognised the sounds, and he recognised the smell. Battle… and Orcs…
“Oh Balin…” he whispered as he started running back.