All Roads Lead Home

[Ghorim]

The wait was long, and the cold cut deep.

Haluin had endured foul chills before: the Mirkwood winters of his childhood, when sudden fronts of snow and ice had rendered the forests as still and eerie as a silent dream. Or the long nights on the open plains of Rohan, where the winds roamed unchecked and sliced through even the thickest of furs.

But even with the great cliff walls to shield them against the pale gusts that blanketed the Ered Luin, the cold up there was something different. It felt permanent. Unchecked by the passing of the seasons, years or ages. Always there. Always hungry.

The Elf shifted his weight back and forth in restless rhythm, acutely aware of the dying daylight as afternoon slipped toward evening. He glanced back to Eldarin, who was pacing deep tracks in the snow. The smith had made it clear that he would not camp in the pass that led to the dwarvish gate, sheltered though it was from the elements. He would not have those sharp and distrusting eyes studying his every move throughout the night. Once nightfall approached, he planned to make a retreat down the mountainside in search of a safe haven amidst the rocks and snow.

Now Haluin turned to Druri, who was doing a little jig to keep himself warm. His dance had a happy bounce to it — he was celebrating a homecoming, oblivious to any challenges that lay ahead. But then there was Jokim. He stood well ahead of the others, closest to the looming gates, in his traditional posture: arms crossed, feet rooted to the ground, head bowed ever so slightly as he stared ahead. He had not turned from the gates since his companions’ conversation had died off an hour before. His beard and mustache had long since gone stiff from the freezing cold, the auburn whiskers now coated white.

Haluin felt that familiar pull to needle the dwarf, to draw him out of his shell and see the world around him. But he had learned long ago that Jokim sometimes preferred living within that fortress of his mind.

So the Elf contented himself to find happiness where he could, taking up a dance alongside Druri. His nimble feet crunched the snow in lively rhythm, and the sound echoed throughout the narrow pass. Druri grinned, sensing the unspoken challenge, and sped up his hopping.

Eldarin’s pacing stopped. Jokim diverted his iron-willed attention from the mountain ramparts. They stared at the two dancers, almost able to hear the music. Even with the wind screaming obscenities overhead, even with the endless mountain cold choking out all other life, there was warmth in their midst — if but for a moment.

But then unseen gears groaned and cranked, ancient stone scraped against earth, and the four travelers fell still. The Eastern Gate swung open once more, and the steel hedgehog formation of soldiers reemerged, Barulin at its head. They moved at a standard march — no great hurry. But before the commander even brought the group to a halt, he was calling for Jokim, beckoning him forward.

Jokim gave a quick look to Haluin, Eldarin and Druri in turn before stumping ahead to meet the Captain of the Gate.

Barulin quickly pulled Jokim aside, designating a lieutenant to mind the formation while he was diverted. The captain led Jokim well away from everyone else, where even the pass’s copious echoes would not divulge the details of their conversation.

Haluin watched the distant conference with a skeptical eye, and leaned in toward Eldarin.

“Another dwarvish haggling match, you suppose?”

“I would suppose,” the smith nodded. “But perhaps you…”

“Hang on!” Druri shoved his way between the two Elves in a huff. “I won’t have two secret talks going on that I can’t hear! Now speak up! What are they saying? Can you hear them?”

“You would have a better chance of deciphering it — were you to stop and listen,” Eldarin said sternly, gesturing to the two distant dwarves.

Even hushed by secrecy, their conversation sounded like the angry rumble of competing storm clouds. Druri fell silent and strained his ears, chasing after each word, each syllable. But he was cut out from this adult world that Jokim and Barulin inhabited, and their words remained a mystery just beyond his fingertips. It infuriated him.

But even if he could not catch the words, he could taste the charge of tension that crackled through the thin mountain air. His uncle’s posture was coiled in the same compact stance that he assumed in spars or battle, and he wielded his Khuzdul like a war hammer: blunt, brutal and heavy. Barulin matched him blow for blow, his voice booming with martial authority.

Suddenly it seemed uncertain that Haluin would ever gain entrance to the mountain colony.

Within a few minutes, Jokim appeared to break off the talks, turning to return to his companions. But Barulin called him back. They exchanged a few more words, and then to the surprise of all the onlookers (this including the dwarvish infantrymen, who were as curious as anyone), the gate captain and Jokim clasped forearms in a show of respect… and disarmament.

Jokim marched back to Druri and the Elves, his gaze clouded and unreadable.

Haluin moved forward to meet him, and Druri was half a step behind.

“No matter the outcome, Jokim…” Haluin began.

The dwarf cut him off. “They still insist that your hands be bound and your eyes covered. But they shall not shackle your feet! I dragged that concession out of them. And I shall be the one to apply your restraints. None of them shall lay a hand on you, save to inspect that my knots are sound.” He nodded to Druri. “The lad and I shall lead you to Vorik’s home, where they will keep you under lock and key for the night. That was the best I could manage.”

There was a pause as the conditions of Haluin’s entrance sunk in. Then Druri clapped his hands in celebration.

“Ha!”

The lad shot a smirking, superior glance over at Barulin and his infantrymen — for in his mind, Jokim had just outdueled them all.

“Jokim…” Haluin gave a short bow. “You have done well by me yet again. Better, in fact, than any reasonable observer might have hoped for.”

“A beggar’s bargain, I call it…” Jokim grumbled a few more choice oaths to himself.

Haluin turned back to Eldarin, who lingered behind and made no attempt to share in even the modest celebration.

“Excuse me.” Haluin retreated with another half-bow and walked back to his kinsman.

“I suppose this is what you wanted?” Eldarin’s voice sounded strangely haughty.

Haluin sighed. “Mellon, none of us would call this predicament ideal. But I act only out of friendship in this case…”

“Out of acquiescence.” Eldarin’s eyes narrowed. “You may consider yourself diminished, but you are yet of the Firstborn, and are unworthy of such shameful handling. How easily you forget.”

“No guest should be treated in this fashion, Firstborn or otherwise. But you have yet to acknowledge Jokim’s end of the bargain. Do you realize that he has now risked his entire reputation among his own folk, just so that I might spend one night at the table as his guest? How am I to scoff at such a gesture?”

“But to be nothing more than a prisoner…”

“You do not have to make this journey, Eldarin. I choose it of my own accord. We shall speak no more of it.” Now Haluin showed a severity to match his companion’s. “I wish you a safe rest and haven for the night. We shall reunite upon the morrow. I would wager on dawn for my return.”

“Hmm, yes.” Eldarin’s front mellowed. “The Naugrim would not keep you a moment longer than was necessary, would they? Well, I shall manage tonight. And then tomorrow we begin.”

There was something grim and foreboding in Eldarin’s tone that gave Haluin pause. But on second thought… these were grim days ahead of them. They would both need that sort of resolve.

“Fare thee well, then. For the now.”

“For the now. Good night.” And with a sharp turn that sent his robe flowing behind him, Eldarin marched off down the pass, snatching his discarded weapons back up as he went. His figure disappeared into shadow and swirling winds.

When Haluin turned back, he saw Jokim standing there, holding bonds and blindfold almost apologetically. Barulin and two of his troops stood just behind.

“If you are ready…” Jokim bowed his head slightly.

Haluin sighed, sparing one last glance to where Eldarin had vanished into the night. “I am ready.”

He knelt in the snow, allowing Jokim to lower the blindfold in place. Darkness fell over him. And for the next hour, there in darkness he would remain.

 

[chrysophalax]

Haluin's heart hung heavy in his breast as he sat on a bench, his shoulders aching. Nearby, deep, rumbling voices, some sounding not so pleased, carried on a protracted conversation. It hadn't been that long, only an hour perhaps, but already he began to regret his decision. Many a time in his long life had Haluin felt under threat, but this? This was different. Here he could feel the weight of an entire race's enmity bearing down on him as he had passed through the echoing halls, his ears straining in an attempt to find any familarity with the world he knew...and finding none.

None except the incessant chatter of Druri at his side. The youngling had seemed to sense his tension and yes, fear, at being so thoroughly cut off in unfamiliar territory and had kept up a stream of whispered commentary, pitched so that only the elf could hear. He had had to smile at Druri's ingenuity, even as it drove him mad with curiosity.

"You should see the lamps, Haluin! They're set high in the ceiling above so that they throw back the light in a thousand rainbows all along the corridors. And the lamps themselves are works of art! Nothing like what we had back home. They seem to be fashioned of metal, silver maybe and shaped like curling vines and birds and even far down one hall, I saw something dragon-like! I've never seen the like!" he cried, drawing several sets of grim, glowering looks his way. I would give much to see them. thought Haluin sadly, even as his thoughts turned to Eldarin unbidden. The proud smith would, he knew, have loved to view such skilled craftsmanship, but he too was still caught in the ancient distrust to two races held for each other. I cannot bear to think of him so exposed, though it be for one night. I wish I hadn't been so harsh with him. He's done nothing to deserve it.

Stretching, he tried to ease the ache that was now creeping slowly down his left arm, bringing with it the dull pain he normally kept away by exercising his muscles. In an attempt to distract himself, he once again tried to discern what the voices around him were saying. His Khuzdul wasn't fluent by any means, but in their long association, he had managed to pick up a few phrases from Jokim and these did not put his mind at rest.

After a time, Jokim came to him and helped him to stand. "They're taking us to my friend Vorik's house now. You'll be kept there and fed for the night."

"Will you not be there? Am I to be, as Eldarin said, kept locked up and bound as a prisoner all night?" His tone came out far more panicked then he would have liked.

"Nay, nay, Haluin. I will untie and remove your blindfold once we arrive at his house, and we will be sleeping in his house as well, but you will eat alone. I'm sorry, my friend." said Jokim gruffly. "It's not my choice, you see."

"No...I-I know. Let us go and get it over with." he said miserably. This was never how he had imagined he would be saying his farewells!

More grumbling several feet away told him they would be on the move again and Druri came to his side, placing Haluin's hand on his shoulder for guidance. "Not far now, Haluin." he whispered. "He lives only two halls from here." Wherever "here" is. Haluin thought morosely.

A quarter of an hour later found the small party stopping just outside the dwarven healer's door and surprisingly a calm, compassionate voice greeted them. "Come, come. Jokim is it then? Welcome, old friend! I understand you bring with you an oddity to our domain."

Jokim's chuckled. "You could call him that, I suppose. Haluin, turn around. You lot, we thank you for safe passage." With that, Jokim considered the dwarven guard no more as he hastily untied the ropes binding his friend, then removed the blindfold. "There. that's better!"

The elf groaned as he moved his arms forward, shoulders cracking loudly. He bit back a cry as he tried to move the fingers of his left hand, but for the first time since he had gained his new arm, they felt numb. Neither Jokim nor Druri seemed to notice his pain, but the sharp-eyed Vorik narrowed his eyes as he watched the elf's face.

"Interesting. His hands are different colours." he remarked as he waved his guests to their seats after the approrpiate rgeetings had been exchanged. "May I speak?" asked Haluin seating himself carefully. "Of course." Haluin bowed his head in thanks. "Master Vorik, my friend and companion, Eldarin made my arm as a gift after I lost the use of my own. You see?" He extended both arms so that that healer could see them. Vorik came forward, snatching up a lamp so that he could see better.

His eyes widened. "This is...not real? But the joints, excepting the colour, of course, they seem so lifelike! And your friend? The one who made this?" he stopped, his eyebrows knitting together furiously. "He's not the one left out in the open is he?" "Aye, Vorik and not only by edict but by choice. He has no love for dwarven halls." replied Jokim sternly. "I see. But you do realise he runs a great risk at this time of year. Wolves have been seen in greater numbers than ever before, prowling the foothills between our halls and the outer edges of the Shire."

"Wolves? Jokim!" Haluin gasped, rising quickly to his feet. "Ah, Elbereth, what have I done?"


*************


Below the great gates of the dwarven fastness, Eldarin struggled knee-deep through the snow with only a meagre portion of starlight and moonlight to guide him. Darkness seemed to have fallen even earlier than was its wont and Eldarin drew his cloak close against the rising wind. It looked like being a grim night indeed.

As he made his way soundlessly through the trees, back toward a rocky outcropping he had spied earlier, the smith found that he had much to occupy his mind, now that Haluin was no longer there to distract him.

When he had first turned away from his comrades to begin his decent, it had felt to him as though a burden had slipped from off his shoulders, that he was now free to think and act as he liked, the rest of the world be damned. Soon, however, the cold had begun to seep and creep its way into his mind and into his heart. It spoke to him of loneliness and pain, of exile and isolation. Of Haluin.

Suddenly it became clear to him, as clear as water over crystal, just how heavy the burden was that his friend had borne all this time. He stopped for a moment, picturing himself as Haluin, alone and friendless in a strange wood, with only his woodcraft to guide him and none to cheer him at his side. The thought nearly brought him to his knees as he heard again all their petty squabbles and heated arguments, which now meant less than nothing. I've been cruel to him, which was never my intent. he thought miserably. How many times have I berated him, always chiding him as though he were but a mere stripling to look after his dignity, which he himself holds in no high regard? Who am I to say such things to him, when he has lost so much and will soon lose all else that he holds dear? Cruel I have become...and heartless.

Another image crowded close, like a wolf scenting the blood of a fallen stag. The image of Haluin, kneeling in the snow to be bound set his blood to boiling. "Enough!" he cried, gripping a nearby tree branch with punishing force. "Ah, Elbereth, protect him now while I cannot, for I swear by Eru that I will bring that mountain down around their heads should harm befall him!"

Spurred on now by the fire that burned within him, Eldarin hastened toward the scattering of boulders that would serve as his makeshift shelter where he would await the coming dawn, little knowing that he was not the only creature that stirred the forest floor this night.

 

[Ghorim]

Jokim, old fool that he was, had made the mistake of settling all of his weight into one of Vorik’s rather well cushioned armchairs. He did not crouch at the edge of his seat like he had at the inns or taverns along the trail, eyes darting from corner to corner in suspicious arcs. He slid back into the seat… almost comfortable.

Finally, after months on the road, after months with a raised guard and wary instincts, after months of incessant marching with little sleep and a burdensome pack through strange-smelling forests, all the while fretting over Druri… now he could almost — almost — allow himself to relax. He found himself in his old friend Vorik’s spacious den, with properly sized ceilings and furniture lit by a soft, homey glow coming from the hearth at the center of the room. Now he was among kin, safely arrived at last. Jokim even began to consider kicking off his boots and settling his weary feet onto a tempting looking footrest…

But then Vorik had to go and say the word “wolves.” Immediately, Haluin leapt to his feet, horror etched upon his pale features.

“Wolves? Jokim! Ah, Elbereth, what have I done?”

When Haluin shot out of his chair Jokim did the same out of pure instinct. When you fight alongside a fellow long enough, you start to shadow his movements without even paying it any thought.

But after a short moment and a blink of his eyes, Jokim regained his senses, realizing that there was no immediate threat in the room — only Haluin’s feverish worries for Eldarin’s safety.

Jokim gave a heavy sigh that turned into a grunt halfway through. “Haluin. Wolves in the foothills are not the same as wolves among the high passes. We saw none on the ascent, nor heard any between here and the Shire, as I recall. And your fears do Eldarin little credit: he is the ablest of us all outdoors… or at least as able as you. I imagine he would avoid any encounter with a wolf well before it could happen. It is only one night, besides.”

Haluin paused, his gaze looking past Jokim — seemingly imagining Eldarin out there alone on the frozen slopes, stalked by menacing shadows. After a time, he sat back down, but looked hardly at ease. Druri, too, seemed shaken and upset on Haluin’s behalf. He tried to catch the Elf’s gaze, but Haluin remained distracted.

Jokim turned to Vorik, looking suddenly weary. “You must forgive my Elvish friend. He and his kinsman Eldarin share a hardy bond.”

Vorik had been observing Haluin, curious about this foreigner and his ingenious contraption of an arm. But now he turned back to Jokim, giving a smile that split the thick underbrush of his beard. “Of course I understand! Is it not the same with you and I? Ha! Come here, brother Jokim!” And before his friend could initiate any defensive maneuvers, Vorik engulfed Jokim with a tremendous bear hug. Jokim groaned in protest. But the sound was drowned out by Vorik’s baritone laughter, his big-bellied form quaking as he lifted Jokim off the ground. The sound perked Haluin and Druri up in their chairs, and even as he wrestled himself out of his friend’s thick arms, Jokim was smiling in a begrudging sort of fashion.

Vorik finally dropped him fully, and Jokim brushed at the shoulders of his cloak. “Is that any way to greet a weary traveler? With an assault of affection!”

“As though you expected anything less!” Vorik snorted and straightened his beard, his eyes dancing with fond excitement. “I have spent all these months — no, a year! — awaiting your response to my missive. And of course, as you know, my imagination ran away from me and out the door. I could envision you either throwing the letter in the hearth after reading the first sentence, or bounding out on the road with your rusty old axe in hand. And I worried! Of course I worried. About you and your nephew — little Druri! Ah, look at him! How he’s grown. A stripling no longer!”

Vorik had to pause to catch his breath here, producing a handkerchief from his vest pocket to wipe at his glistening, reddened brow. It gave him and Jokim a chance to fully regard each other.

They both had aged in their own ways since their last parting, a scant two years ago in the Iron Hills following the fall of Erebor. Vorik and his family were bound west to the Blue Mountains, for even the Iron Hills felt too close to The Calamity to settle there. The two friends had shook hands and muttered some words that resembled a farewell, without eye contact. And then Vorik nudged forward Druri, whom he had cared for in the desperate flight from the Lonely Mountain, passing the lad into his uncle’s custody.

Vorik had not been himself then. He looked grim and grey and haunted, just like any of the hundreds of dwarvish pilgrims cast onto the road in those days. But two years on, he was beginning to resemble that easy-spirited companion of old. Given the jovial squint of his eyes, his bouncy gait, and the natty fashion in which his wife dressed him every morning, he had the perpetual air of a doting uncle. And many of his patients came to view him that way, their families adopting him as an extended relation.

There was still that edge of sadness to his appearance, however… an added crease in the brow, a distractedness in the eyes. It would never really leave, not for good… Jokim knew, because he shared the same wound in his heart. But that haze of sorrow was banished from the dwelling for the moment.

“You must forgive me,” Vorik said. “‘Twas all I could do not to blubber up like a granny in front of those soldiers you brought with you. But now I shall hold my tongue… for as long as I can stand it. Introduce me to your companions! Tell me of your journeys!”

Jokim smirked, nodding to Haluin. “This Elf… Haluin. He was the one who watched my neck during my wild days in the Rohan. You’ve heard that story enough times, I assume.”

Vorik blinked. “The same Elf? Bless me.” He stepped forward and bowed deeply, crossing one arm over his long black beard to prevent it from brushing dust off the floor. “I am Vorik, at your service — and indebted to you for saving my fool of a friend all the times that you did in battle!”

Haluin had snapped from his reverie, but not entirely. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair — which stood far too short for his long legs and with a seat far too broad for his slender frame. “It was a service returned in kind many times, I assure you. Well met, Vorik. Jokim has spoken well of you.”

“Of course he has, of course. I shall wish to hear more of your tale, Haluin.” But Vorik already was turning to Druri. “Now come here, you little adventurer! Let’s have a good look at you.”

Druri detested the term “little,” even coming from an elder dwarf. So to prove his maturity, he stepped forward with a very serious, very adult expression.

“We commend you for your hospitality, Master Vorik.” And he gave a little bow as punctuation.

Vorik stared at the lad for a moment, a smile slowly taking root on his face, before he reached out to pat Druri on the head. “Well done, lad! Well done. I see you’ve polished his manners along the road, Jokim.”

Druri’s expression turned dark and he stepped back into the shadows.

Meanwhile, Jokim glanced around the round den and straightened his beard, which was still dripping water and chunks of snow along the floor. “Where is your wife, then?”

“Ach! Midwifery!” Vorik threw up his hands. “It has thrown our lives into a series of unexpected arrivals. Greta is out on assignment this evening, I’m afraid. Supper might be late in arriving.”

Jokim waved his arms dismissively. “No trouble, no trouble. We have a few provisions left in the packs, and besides…”

“Hang on! I won’t have you eating jerky and dried fruit and acorns and whatever on earth else you’ve been nibbling these past months. I might not be trustworthy around an open flame, but I shall invade the larders on your behalf. Go on, sit. Be comfortable! I shall return with victuals.”

And after speaking that last word with excitable flair, Vorik ducked off down a flight of stairs that led to the cool cellar below where he and his wife stored their provisions. His beard trailed behind him like a scarf caught in high wind.

Once he was gone and the sounds of rummaging began reverberating up from below, Jokim sighed and gave a half shrug to no one in particular. “Rather eager to please, my friend Vorik…”

Then he lowered himself back onto the edge of his chair, and almost slid himself all the way back… but stopped this time to look at Haluin.

The Elf stared right back at him, his entire face clenched taut.

Jokim put a hand to his own forehead and rubbed it wearily. “I take it I have not managed to set your mind at ease regarding Eldarin.”

“Truth be told… no.”

 

[Ghorim]

The dwarf set his hand back down on the armrest. He rapped upon it a few times, turning his thoughts over. His gaze never left Haluin. “You wish to go seek him out?”

“To warn him, at the least.”

Now Jokim canted his head forward slightly, so that he looked up at Haluin from beneath his brambly brows. In an arsenal full of fierce expressions, this was his most simple and intimidating.

“You do realize that if I take you back out, our friend the gate captain will have no compelling reason to welcome you back in?”

“I realize this.” Haluin leaned forward, grimacing. “And I understand the terrible pains you underwent in securing my passage, and the hospitality…”

“No.” Jokim held a hand up, and Haluin fell silent. “No more.”

Silence reigned. Druri moved in toward where his elders sat, his traveling hood in hand, awaiting word from his uncle. Beneath them, Vorik continued to clunk around in his pantry.

Jokim glanced between the Elf and his nephew. Licked his lips. Cracked his knuckles.

“We go, then. Haluin and I.” He rose to his feet. “Druri, you stay here.”

Druri reared back in shock, but then immediately pulled himself up to contest the ruling, puffing out his chest. “You cannot…”

“I can. I have. The decision is made. Sit yourself down.”

Druri did not sit. “If Eldarin is in danger, I must be there to help! He is my friend as much as he is yours! It’s always been the four of us…”

“No, it has not. I have wielded an axe since long before you were a notion in your father's eye. And the Elves have enough experience between them to render me an infant by comparison. It is dangerous out there tonight, Druri. The three of us know danger. You do not.”

Jokim spoke his words calmly, with the paternal tone of a lecturer straightening out a misguided pupil. But Druri’s young rage was boiling, and he took the unprecedented gesture of stepping toward his uncle in a threatening fashion. “But I proved myself along the journey! There was danger at every turn, and I handled it all!”

“Druri.” Now Jokim stepped forward, and the beat of his boot on the stone floor arrived with all the authority of a thunderclap. “I did not drag you all the way to this safe haven to throw you back into peril at the first opportunity. Do you understand me? Your survival has been my responsibility this entire journey, not yours. You shall stay here with Vorik, while we handle our business on the surface.”

Druri’s aggressive front wavered, but something pushed him forward, deeper into conflict. “You cannot make me stay. I can make my own decisions now.”

There was something desperate — and yet fiercely determined — in his voice.

Jokim stopped and stared at his nephew for several uncomfortable moments. At the other end of the room, a clock atop Vorik’s overstuffed bookshelf beat out the seconds, the sound suddenly ringing in everyone’s ears. Vorik’s heavy footfalls below signaled that he was readying to climb the staircase.

Jokim pinned his nephew with a glare. “Can you? Then decide how you would like me to treat you. Because the moment you disobey me, there is no return. I forgive honest mistakes. But never insolence.”

He pointed to the nearest chair, expectant.

Shortly thereafter, Vorik came staggering up the stairs. The healer had managed to maintain a precarious balancing act, featuring all manner of salted meats and cheeses, bread loaves of various shapes and hues — and perhaps a pie or two — all slapped onto mismatched platters that teetered precariously in his hands and up his arms.

“Well, I suppose I’ve mustered enough to meet any appetite, eh?” He was clearly quite impressed with himself.

But then he saw the scene laid out before him: Jokim and Haluin picking up their soggy supplies by the door where they had dropped them, and Druri sitting in a chair, stewing.

“Whatever is the matter?” Vorik just managed to limp to a nearby table and deposit most of his haul on its surface.

“We are going out to check on our companion.” Jokim spoke brusquely. “We shall return shortly, if all goes as I hope it will.”

“Oh… I see…” Vorik’s whole bearing deflated, and even his mustache appeared to curl downward in dejection.

Jokim halted his preparations, his left glove half on, and sighed at the sight of his friend. “Apologies, brother. No disrespect intended. But it can’t be helped. These are the wages of friendship.”

And soon, they were both out the door, Haluin blinded and bound once more. Vorik heard the guards murmuring in consternation as they chased after the two companions, who were striding toward the eastern gate with purpose.

Then Vorik saw Druri glaring at the floor, arms crossed. He was able to guess the rest.

Forgetting his elaborate spread for the moment, Vorik ambled over to the footrest that sat in front of Druri’s chair and carefully settled himself upon it. He crossed his own arms, leaning forward and craning his neck in an attempt to catch the lad’s gaze.

“Care to talk about it?”

 

[chrysophalax]

Despite his lack of sight, Haluin could sense the high emptiness around him and he shivered. Too much open space, not enough cover! his mind warned as the small group made their way back toward the mighty doors. Calm yourself, fool. he thought. You'll be outside before you know it...but will Jokim forgive me for what I must do?

Silently the elf fretted, caught between loyalties. The echoing passages were of little help in calming his mind. for he could hear every rustle of cloth, every chink of ringed mail. Indeed, every breath--each floating upwards to the vaulted ceilings, whispering like so many bats until one by one, they faded from even his ability to hear.

Am I being an even greater fool than usual? Is Jokim right, that the wolves Vorik mentioned have their territory far distant from this place? Frustrated, Haluin began to pull at his restraints, but Jokim's steadying hand on his wrists stayed him. The dwarf knew full well that, if he so chose, no ropes bound in such a fashion could stop him if he truly meant to escape, but again, there was the dilemma. He could not, nor would not, bring shame on Jokim after all he had done to negotiate his entrance into the dwarven halls of Ered Luin. Yet how can I leave Eldarin on his own while I am aware of possible danger? I cannot!

Such were the worrisome thoughts that filled the elf's head, to the point where he had to be physically stopped from walking further. "Unless you've developed the power to walk through walls, you'd better stop, Haluin." muttered Jokim irritably. "What were you thinking? No, don't answer that! I don't want to know." Jokim pulled down on the rope binding his friend's hands and he knelt down on the iron hard stone to have the blindfold removed.

Haluin blinked, taking a second to let his eyes adjust and then he was on his feet. The two guards stood by, warily fingering their weapons, while a third signalled up over their heads for the doors to be opened.

"Jokim, listen to me. I'm asking you a favour, this once, friend to friend. Let me go alone. I have no idea if there are indeed wolves out there, or if my fears are getting the better of me, but I will not deprive Druri of his uncle. I will not!" He watched the thunderclouds gather on Jokim's brow, but this time Haluin refused to back down. "He and I must travel the wide world alone now. Here is where your guardianship of me ends, my friend." He swallowed, hating how final his words sounded. "Go back, go back to your friends...to your new life with your people and live your life in peace. There is nothing greater I could wish for you than this." So saying, he squeezed Jokim's shoulder tightly, then turned, rushing out into the swirling darkness which swallowed him instantly.

"Haluin!" Jokim cried as he ran a short distance out into thigh-deep snow. "Curse you, Haluin!" His bleary eyes swept the bitter cold landscape, but no trace could he find of his companion. "And of course, no footprints. Curse him!" he fumed, his voice wavering as he made his way back to the doors. The guards inside looked at him oddly, then one of them said, "Elves! how can you trust anything as flighty as that to have your back?" Jokim stepped forward and jerked the guard up by his shirtfront. "I'd have him watch my back over ten of you any day. You have no idea what you speak of !" he snarled, then pushed the guard from him as he stalked off, heading back the way he they had come, dashing away an unwanted tear. What am I going to tell the lad? he thought bitterly.


**********************


Outside, the howling gale made sight nigh on impossible for Haluin as he made his way slowly into the wood. Desperately, he strained his ears for any sound other than the groaning of the trees as the wind tormented them. If I can only find one that's still awake, maybe it saw him. he thought as he reached out with his fingertips, hoping to find an evergreen. Long minutes passed before his fingers found the rough, fragrant bark of a pine tree. Eagerly he clutched at it, wrapping his freezing hands around a stout branch. "Greetings, friend! Have you seen another of my kind pass by here after the sun last set? I seek him, for I fear he is in danger."

Another...Firstborn? Not for many long ages have I seen one like you.

"Please, friend. Will you ask the others if they have seen him? He is only a little taller than me, with black hair and keen, grey eyes. He would be seeking shelter..."

Yes, I will ask. Are you prepared to wait?

Haluin sighed. he was already beginning to suffer from the cold, but he had no other choice. "Aye, friend. I will wait." He looked around to see if there was any shelter to be had close by, when a thought struck him. "One thing more, friend. Have you seen any wolves, any large animals or any that could be counted as enemies of those who dwell in the mountain since the sun last set?"

The tree was silent, then, just as Haluin was about to leave, it replied. Aye, young elf. Some men from the south passed through between the sun's resting and your arrival.

"How many?" asked Haluin tightly

A number. We do not concern ourselves with such things, but they carried hurtful things.

Suddenly, Haluin went even colder, for now it was not Eldarin who was in danger, but himself. "Thank you, friend. I must go now. Send me word as soon as you can with my thanks." he said, giving the tree an affectionate pat.

There is a cave...down the slope from where I stand. Perhaps the Firstborn is there.

"A cave? Excellent! May your roots grow ever stronger, friend!" cried Haluin, his heart soaring. Eldarin had to be there!

The wind slowly began to die down, allowing the elf to finally see the terrain down which he had been blindly stumbling. Huge rocks and boulders littered the area as though the mountain giants had been playing a game with them. He could no longer feel his left arm properly, the ache having given way to outright burning where the dead tissue started, while his right was fast losing feeling as well. "Marvelous! At this rate, I'll soon have to commission another arm." he mumbled bitterly to himself. "Eldarin! Eru's balls, mellon, where are you?" he groaned miserably. "Eldarin!"

As he made his way through a pile of massive boulders grouped together forming a natural dolmen, a figure darted out and flung him down, placing a knife to his throat.

"H-Haluin? Is that you?"

"Yes, mellon, now would you kindly get off my chest? I'm near frozen through without being suffocated into the bargain!"

The elven smith helped him to his feet, then motioned for him to follow. He led Haluin to where a small fire was burning smokelessly, yet with enough warmth that Haluin sighed with relief as he sank down next to it.

"What are you doing here? Did you insult their cooking?" asked Eldarin as he looked for his flask of miruvor. "Hardly." replied Haluin. "Jokim's friend Vorik said that there were wolves nearby and I...was concerned. Then the trees said that a band of men from the south had just passed by not long before..."

"Do you think me a babe in arms, that I must be coddled so?"

Haluin's eyes flashed angrily, even as he concealed the hurt Eldarin's words inflicted. "No, tor-nin! It's just that I could not bear the thought of what might happen."

"That you might be left alone, you mean."

Haluin's eyes flew to Eldarin's and the smith immediately regretted saying them as he watched Haluin's eyes fill with tears. "No...not that." Haluin whispered, turning away. "You do not deserve the same fate that I have been condemned to and yet I chose to leave you on your own. That is not friendship, that is torment." He held his hands to the fire to warm them, biting back a cry as the pain in his left arm grew stronger. "It doesn't like the cold, it would seem." he said through clenched teeth.

"Let me see." demanded Eldarin and when Haluin didn't move, he came forward to take both of Haluin's hands in his. "Elbereth, you're frozen!" he gasped. "Why did you go out in such bitter weather so ill-clad?" "I wasn't thinking." came the miserable reply and Eldarin's heart ached for his friend.

"Come then and get warm. Have some miruvor while I find that extra cloak Druri burdened me with some days ago." Haluin gratefully sipped from Eldarin's flask, sighing as the liquid warmed him. Suddenly he felt tired to the point of exhaustion and when Eldarin returned and wrapped him snuggly in the warm, woolen cloak, he felt himself falling away.

Eldarin made him comfortable, then smiled down at his friend as he drifted off to sleep. "I'm glad you're here, tor-nin. No matter what, it wasn't the same without you."

 

[Ghorim]

Jokim took a wrong turn on the way back to Vorik’s home.

It was not a conscious decision, nor was it wholly unintentional. It came as more of a reflex: Jokim saw the fork in the underground path, and knew the left branch led along a descending avenue to the squat row of homes where Vorik lived. But instead he struck right, without knowing why.

This route took him along one of the settlement’s main arteries, drawing closer to the mountain’s heart.

Walking through a dwarvish settlement served as a stark reminder of an individual's insignificance. Jokim’s people were small folk who built everything to titanic scale. All of it — from the dense columns that could carry an entire mountain’s weight to the minute detail of each ornamental edifice — was meant to outlive its creators. The great smiths of the dwarves built these things not out of a lust for personal glory, nor a vain desire to see their own reflections in every gleaming surface, but a hunger to commune with the eternal. Their forms were mortal, doomed to dust, but their creations might endure… until that great day of prophecy, when all the Khazad would heed the call of their creator and return to repair the world itself.

So Jokim walked among the cavernous halls, hearing every footfall echo in heavy report. The geometry was exquisite, from the curved shape of the ceilings to the inlaid jewelry in the walls, carved and polished to such a sheen that they caught even the dim torchlight and refracted it in thousands of different directions.

There were guards with their halberds and tradesmen with their carts and washerwomen with their bundles of clothes, all of them lost in their daily business and oblivious to the glory that engulfed and surrounded them. Jokim walked among them entranced, his hood in his hands, looking skyward instead of at his feet. He could feel the weight of the departed generations in the air. He could hear the fall of their hammers. He could sense the mountain’s eternal heartbeat.

Then the hall opened up, the ceiling fled still higher, and Jokim beheld a subterranean vista. It was a great ring of wide-open space, with sheer cliffs marking its boundaries. At the zenith of those cliffs stood the great stone mansions of the wealthiest dwarvish families, their homes treated to an impossibly grand view of the colony. Waterfalls fed from hidden pools tumbled down hundreds of feet into canals below, which snaked through the humbler neighborhoods of merchants and artisans. Those seven canals culminated in the central square, all of them joining to power a billowing fountain that shot a steady geyser into the air.

The geometry at work was more complex here, but as Jokim stared he could begin to piece together the patterns at work, the way in which each element of the design necessitated the next. He stopped on a short bridge that arched over one of the rushing canals to take it all in. He leaned forward on the bridge’s side, feeling the stone polished as smooth as an expertly sanded piece of wood. And though he yearned to drift away into all this beauty, to lose himself amid the perfection of angles and architecture, still he thought of Haluin.

He heard the words of their last conversation echoing, speaking to him in endless rounds. Each time he relived Haluin’s farewell, Jokim tried on a different cloak of emotion: sorrow at the parting, rage at the Elf’s insolence, or turning that rage inward… for not pursuing, for instead retreating from the snow and shadows.

Was that to be their final parting? The thought left him numb. He could not begin to approach the idea, or even fathom its dimensions.

But now martial bootprints sounded behind him, heading his way. Jokim drew up that familiar mask and hid his expression before he turned.

Barulin stood there, a cloud of cold air lingering about his person from the Eastern Gate. Jokim began to bow, but the captain was in no spirit for formalities.

“Do you expect him to return?”

Jokim glanced up and shook his head, channeling a great deal of energy simply to appear impassive. “I do not rightly know.”

“And what do you know, then? The two of you had a lively conversation at the gates.” Barulin’s voice had that permanently skeptical quality that most military officers possessed, always challenging the word of subordinates.

“He spoke as though we were uttering our final words. He likely shall never return.” Jokim’s voice sounded distant to him, as though another were speaking in his place. He felt like he was swimming against swift tides just to speak, just to be heard. “And yet he follows muses that I could never hear nor comprehend. Perhaps he shall return with the morning light and call for me at the gate. I cannot say for certain.”

“I require some indication one way or another… for the purpose of scheduling this evening’s guard shifts.”

That remark snapped Jokim to. “You speak of him as though he were a battalion of orcs with a battering ram.” He pushed his weight off the bridge, moving toward Barulin, his forward momentum propelling his next words. “He is of no danger to the realm, you know that full well. His is a lost soul hunting sanctuary, and we shackle him like a horse thief.”

Barulin, his expression locked and stern, brushed some snow off the fur lining of his coat. “I protect the realm, not the feelings of its visitors. And on the subject: you would do well to rein in yours. That little tantrum of yours at the gate was unacceptable. I am not certain how you lads handled business in the Iron Hills, but in these mountains we do not rough up one another at the first insult.”

Jokim held back a growl, for he sensed a kernel of truth in the captain’s reproach. But he was feeling combative. “Your man spoke out of turn. Where I received my training — and it was not in the Iron Hills, you should know — sentries were expected to remain silent.”

“Indeed. You speak the truth. And he shall face the proper discipline for that lapse. But you, Jokim son of Jurgan, come here claiming the position of an officer. More is expected of you.” Barulin gave a well-practiced look of disappointment, drawing his shaggy brows taut and shaking his head slightly. Then he turned to hike back to his gate. “I wish you a good eve.”

For the first time in ages, Jokim felt chastised. He lowered his gaze a moment before calling after the captain. “If Haluin returns, I want to know straight away. Whether that comes tonight or years from now.”

With a crisp halt and turn, Barulin swiveled back to regard Jokim. “You really think of him as a friend, don’t you?” He spoke the words almost cautiously, testing them, skeptical that they could even exist.

Jokim said nothing, but gave a fiery expression that spoke volumes. Barulin stared back. This stranger's loyalty to an Elf both baffled and impressed him. But in the end, he gave it little thought. This one was an oddity, and outlier, nothing that affected him or his duties. So he nodded curtly and continued on his way, his thoughts already turning to the night shift.

Jokim was left standing there in a rare slouch. He turned his gaze back to the heart of the mountain, but that mystical sense of connectedness had fled him. He grit his teeth and gave himself a little nod.

Chin up, soldier. Go home to the lad. He’ll be waiting for you.

But as Jokim walked back off down the avenue, he ran his fingers along the stone bridge one last time, savoring its smoothness, studying its strength.

 

[Ghorim]

As a healer schooled from years of house calls, Vorik had grown accustomed to dealing with stubborn children. There were the wailers, the snifflers, the ones who bit their tongues and said nothing, the ones who crawled deep under their bed covers or even braced themselves in doorframes at word of his impending arrival.

Apparently there was a veritable treasury of horror stories about healers and their dark arts, passed down through generations of dwarvish children.

But Vorik had developed a variety of tactics to crack through skittish youngsters' defenses, setting them at ease and even producing laughs with a gentle wit. He was aided, no doubt, by his lumbering resemblance to a well-dressed dancing bear.

Druri, however, presented an entirely unique challenge. He sat at the fulcrum of youth and adulthood — hardheaded as only children can be, and yet more steely, more patient, harder to knock off his guard. The lad still had the cold grey mists of the road hovering about his spirit, and gave no reaction to Vorik’s invitations to talk.

Still, inch by inch, Vorik managed to coax Druri over to the table to share a half-meal with him, nibbling on the odds and ends of his larders. That in of itself was a victory, but Druri would say nothing more to him between chewing his food.

“You are thinking, I suppose, about your uncle and the Elf.” Vorik leaned forward against table, while Druri gave him a pointed look. “And I can hardly order you to do otherwise. They have become your comrades in these past months, after all. But rest assured: they are equipped to handle any situation. Even without your trusty blade at their side.”

Vorik nodded to the sheathed dagger that Druri had set on the table. The weapon lay at arm’s length, as if the lad expected to receive an emergency call to battle at any moment.

Druri folded his arms and leaned back in his chair with a scowl. Vorik sighed and shook his head in wonder. This was not the same lad that he had entrusted to Jokim in the Iron Hills two years ago. Not in the least.

“You look more like your uncle every day.”

The lad flinched, but quickly regained his suspicious front. “I do?”

Vorik smiled, surprised to have found an opening. “Of course. We could hardly escape each other’s company when we were your age. He could be a very grim fellow, even then.”

“But…” The lad paused, desperately wanting to maintain the appearance that he was above conversation. But he gave in. “You don’t think I’m… grim, do you?”

With a laugh, Vorik pounded the table a bit. “Well, if you’re so concerned about it, then I doubt it could be so!”

Druri bit his lip and tried to find the words that would position himself as both not grim and not a craven child. But the sound of a heavy march approached Vorik’s front door.

Vorik snapped his fingers. “There! You see? They’re back, safe and sound.”

But Druri was already on his feet and racing for the door, dagger clutched in one hand. The door swung open, and in marched Jokim… alone.

The lad was frantically hopping side to side, trying to peek around his uncle. “What… where is Haluin, uncle? And Eldarin! What happened out there?”

Jokim held up one hand in formidable silence, and Druri stilled himself. “Haluin… has gone off to search for his kinsman alone. He would not have me along.”

“He…!” Druri blurted out the first word, but stopped, slack-jawed, to take in what his uncle had just said. “You mean to say… you let him go off into the storm?”

Druri suddenly noticed the great lumpy bags under his uncle’s eyes. The lines that scored his face. The unseen weight that pressed down upon his shoulders.

“He… would not have me. He ran off into the night. I lost him amidst the snow.”

“But… is he returning?”

“He said that here was where we must part ways.”

Druri began to heave his breaths, shoulders rising and falling, a flush of red flooding his face by degrees. “And you let him? You let him say that? And run away! In the snow! With the wolves?!”

“I do not expect you to understand, Druri.”

The lad growled and ran at his uncle, attempting to shove by, but Jokim grabbed his shoulders with stone hands and held him back. “They’re both in danger now! Why didn’t you let me go with you?! I never would have let that happen!”

Jokim said nothing. He only stared at the lad from that great distance behind the grey veil of his eyes, watching Druri struggle in his grip. Watching his nephew slowly melt from a warrior to a lost and scared little boy.

“What if we never see them again?!” Druri moaned, writhing even as Jokim’s grasp tightened. “That can’t be it… it can’t be! I never got to say goodbye!” And now he was weeping, hot angry tears gushing down his round cheeks.

As soon as the tears appeared, Jokim released his hold. Druri fell into him, and now Jokim wrapped his nephew in a fierce embrace. The lad returned the hug, burying his head into his uncle’s right shoulder and sobbing.

It lasted for a long while, Jokim patting Druri’s back, Vorik standing at a respectful distance. In a strange and fleeting moment of thought, Jokim realized that he had never felt quite so close to his nephew, the lad pouring out what he could only dam in.

But then he became uncomfortable, feeling the burden of the moment, and cleared his throat.

“Perhaps something to drink…” His voice was hoarse.

“What’s that?” Vorik cupped a hand to his ear.

“Something to drink.”

“Oh.” Vorik nodded. “I shall put on some tea. I’ve fixed up a few special blends in anticipation of the winter months.”

“Tea?” Jokim glanced up, and an improbable smile wrestled its way onto his face. “Tea, Vorik? I have marched across the world entire, parched for a sip of true dwarvish stout, and you offer me tea?”

Vorik laughed, a bit too loudly, out of sheer relief. “Of course, of course. I am an herbalist, you see, and am fascinated by the craft of such drinks. But your thirst demands something stiffer! Well, I have no stout on hand, but I can make the proper visits. Have a seat, be at home. I shall return shortly.”

The healer approached and patted each of them on the shoulder in turn, giving Druri in particular a thoughtful look before he ambled out the door.

After the slam of the door faded, uncle and nephew were left in a thorough silence.

“Well, let us accept his offer and sit, eh?” Jokim gestured toward the hodgepodge flock of furniture that ringed the central hearth.

They both shuffled over, Druri still blinking off the tears, trying to drain away the emotion but failing. Jokim sat heavily in the master armchair and rubbed the side of his face. Druri settled on a neighboring rocking chair and fidgeted back and forth.

“I have little to tell you, lad.” Jokim eyed the same footrest that had tempted him earlier, but again didn’t bother, drawing in his legs and keeping his boots on. “I would never lead you to despair, but likewise I would never feed you false hope. Haluin is now beyond us both, and what happens next is a mystery. We shall search for him and Eldarin tomorrow morning, but if they do not wish to be found, our prospects are slim.”

Druri rocked himself back and forth in nervous rhythm. He still clutched at his dagger. "And what if we don't find them?"

"Then we pick ourselves back up and forge ahead. That is what we do."

Druri said nothing.

Jokim turned away and sank back into his thoughts. Now began their greatest test.

This was what he had forgotten amidst the drudgery of the long journey from the Iron Hills: that here was where the true challenges began for him and his nephew. They no longer had a set goal lying somewhere beyond the horizon. They had arrived. There was only here now, only home.

And on this night, only uncertainty.

 

[chrysophalax]

Neither the night nor his dreams were kind to Haluin as he slept fitfully near the warmth of the dying fire. Images, like spectres from one of the many tales told in the Hall of Fire, flitted through his mind, tormenting him.

Once again he felt the grinding pain of his bones being crushed in the warg's jaws, relived the wrench of betrayal and loss as Lord Elrond banished him forever from his own kin and his heart wept once more as Eldarin knocked him to the ground, scarring not only his face, but his soul.

The howling wind crept into his dream as well and he began to call out, "Eldarin! Where are you? The snow is too thick, I cannot find you!"

"Tor-nin, wake up! You are dreaming, mellon, wake now!" Ah, Valar, he is burning with fever, no wonder his dreams are foul. thought Eldarin frantically as he tried to stir Haluin from his slumber. Seeing that the fire was slowly dying, the smith made the decision to leave his friend in order to find more firewood. Earlier he had begun to explore the cave and found nothing, so there was nothing for it but to venture out into the storm.

Delving into his pack, Eldarin found his skinning knife, tested its edge against his thumb, then slid it into his belt before drawing his cloak as tightly around himself as possible. With a sigh, he knelt again beside Haluin, his eyes filled with worry. Nay, Namo...you'll not have him yet. Not if I have anything to say in the matter! Carefully he tucked Druri's cloak tighter about Haluin's body, then rose, leaving the feverish elf reluctantly as he lay shivering, bathed in sweat.

"I will return as fast as I may, Haluin. I so swear!" he whispered fervently, then covered his head against the driving snow.

The first thing the smith did was to petition the trees, asking them to let him harvest any sickly limbs or any deadfall that might be close to hand. As he waited for a reply, he scanned the trees for any hanging or broken limbs. Surely in a wood this thick there would be some trees that were injured and in need of trimming? Luck proved to be on his side, for within minutes, he spotted two large limbs hanging precariously from a large oak, Swiftly he grabbed a hold of the lowest one and pulled hard, bringing them both down at the same time and landing flat on his back for his trouble. he slapped the snow away, cursing. Suddenly, the wind began to pick up as he dragged the two long limbs behind him into a small clearing and, just for a moment, he could have sworn that he heard voices.

Only the trees, he said to himself. I wish they could tell me where there are more limbs. I'm not certain these are enough to last until morning. Glancing upwards, he saw a break in the clouds and frowned. How long had he been away? He was certain that the earlier glimpse he had had of the waning moon while on watch had not shown him to be riding this high! Gritting his teeth, Eldarin gripped the limbs and dragged them as fast as he could manage toward the cave.

Shortly, he could see what looked to be the flickering of a campfire not too far ahead through the steadily falling snow. Breathing a sigh of relief, Eldarin set the limbs down for a moment to stretch his back and as he did, he heard it again. Voices and not far away!

Closing his eyes, the elf held his breath, listening.

"He doesn't look good, does he brother? Hardly worth bothering with, I'd say." "Aye, near dead, I'd call him."

"As will you be if you touch him."

Two men that had been standing over Haluin whirled, drawing their swords. "Who are...Eldarin?"

The smith froze upon hearing his name. "Eldred? What are you doing here?" He lowered his knife cautiously as the two men sheathed their weapons.

"We were driving some Dunlendings back South who were up to no good. Our leader doesn't like thieves and ne'er-do-wells anywhere near the Shire. Speaking of which..." he said slyly looking from one elf to the other. "Where are your dwarvish comrades and why is Haluin taken ill? More to the point, why does he languish here in the cold?"

Eldarin bristled at the man's tone. "I've not neglected him, if that is what you imply. He-we...had some difficulty with Jokim's folk and I was not allowed admittance. Haluin was, but, as Haluin is Haluin, he became concerned for my safety and came to find me. Now he is ill." Eldarin's shoulders slumped. "Would you look at him and see if there is anything you can do for his fever?"

Hurod nodded, silent as ever and Eldred came forward to clapse the smith's hand. "Of course I will. I would never willingly see one of the Fair Folk perish if I could prevent it." he replied calmly. Eldarin returned the welcoming gesture whole-heartedly, then went to Haluin's side only to find him shivering violently. "Elbereth! Eldred, I swear to you that I've not left his side for long, only to gather fuel for the fire and yet he is much worse. You must help him!"

"I have said that I will and I shall. Finish bringing your fire wood. He needs to stay as warm as possible. Hurod, help him , will you?"

"Aye." replied Hurod stoically, gesturing for Eldarin to follow. Together, they made short work of the dead limbs and soon the fire was blazing brightly once more. Eldred, meanwhile, had pulled away Druri's cloak and opened Haluin's tunic and vest in an attempt to discover what was causing the sudden fever. "Have you talked? Has he said he was feeling ill?" Eldarin thought a moment before replying. "No, not that I recall. Only that his arm wasn't bearing the cold well."

"Ah! Good." said the Ranger as he rolled up Haluin's sleeves. A sweetish smell greeted their nostrils and Eldred frowned. Quickly, he threw a worried glance at Eldarin. "Is it possible to remove the arm?" "Yes, I believe so, but it will cause him pain, I think."

"Greater pain than he is in now? I doubt it. Do it...and if it is what I think it is..." Eldred's jaw muscles twitched as he ground his teeth. "He may not survive."

Eldarin looked at the man directly in the eye. "He will not die. He is my brother and I have sworn to protect him. Hold him. Tightly." With that, the smith gripped the arm firmly and breathed a few words over it. It went limp in his hands and he was able to prise it away from the remains of Haluin's ruined arm.

The sight that greeted them made Eldarin close his eyes and turn away, sickened. The arm was black and shrivelled, the pain it must have been causing, unimaginable. Haluin groaned as the arm fell away and his eyelids flickered as he began to come around. His eyes fixed on Eldarin's face as his own drained of colour. "T-tor-nin?"

"Gently, Haluin." Eldarin said softly. "Eldred and Hurod are here, remember them? Eldred says he can help with the pain in your arm." Haluin struggled to look at the two men, but he couldn't seem to focus. "I feel terrible, mellon-nin. This is not the best time for guests."

Eldarin chuckled at the weak jest and stroked his friend's brow gently. "They came uninvited, I'm afraid. But I think we'll forgive them if they can help you, yes?"

Haluin smiled up at them and nodded, while Eldred whispered for Hurod to prepare some tea, handing him a small bundle of herbs as he did so. Suddenly, Haluin, reached up with his right hand and grasped Eldarin's hand. "Vorik, take me to Vorik, mellon-nin. Jokim's friend...healer..." His voice became weaker and weaker, then his hand fell and his head lolled to the side. Eldarin pulled Haluin close, instinctively trying to bring comfort. "Eldred, just get him through until dawn. Then, by the Valar, those stiff-necked dwarves will open their gates if I have to pull them down. Stone. By. Stone."

 

[Ghorim]

Sleep hung deeply over the house of Vorik.

It was near dawn of the next morning. Jokim lay slumped back in the den’s great armchair, head sunk into the cushion, jaw slack, snoring at the ceiling. He finally had given into the temptation of the footrest, and it had done him in. His feet were propped up and crossed, the big toe of his right foot poking through its travel-worn sock.

He had been exhausted from the journey, and from the push-and-pull of heavy emotion: joy at reunion with his people, pain at the flight of Haluin. For a soldier who had spent most of his life smothering his feelings in the name of discipline, this sudden torrent nearly swept him away.

But then Vorik had returned with a small keg of stout, and through radiant force of personality had made Jokim and Druri feel at home. They all took to drinking, and soon Vorik was ribbing Jokim about their shared youth in the Lonely Mountain.

Jokim resisted and deflected the banter at first, his thoughts still locked on Haluin, until Vorik had the gall to suggest that he had out-wrestled Jokim in front of the entire realm during a distant summer festival. That brought Jokim roaring to life, and soon the two old friends were locked in a jovial battle of insults. Druri stirred, too, and began peppering them both with questions about old Erebor. Warmth returned to the air around them.

Finally, as the night deepened and the keg of ale dried up, Vorik sensed his old friend was beginning to fade. So with a rhetorical twist, he launched into a windingly obscure lecture about the history of Erebor’s family lines, framing it as an answer to one of Druri’s questions. Feigning interest as best he could manage, Jokim settled back further into the chair, making the fatal decision to put up his feet. Then he allowed his head to settle backward. His eyes to close. His breathing to slow.

Vorik watched it all out of the corner of his eye. And when at last Jokim’s right hand loosened, dropping his empty mug to the floor, Vorik smiled and pumped a victorious fist.

“Got him!” he whispered to Druri, who just then noticed that his uncle was dead asleep.

Together, they covered the slumbering Jokim with a blanket, taking needless precaution not to wake him.

Vorik had then offered Druri the guest room: a great big bed all to himself. But Druri declined. He could not imagine sleeping in a different room from Jokim.

So the next morning's dawn found him on the couch, curled up under a patchwork quilt and snuffling in harmony with his sleeping uncle.

In the master bedroom, Vorik and his wife Greta slept on their sides, facing one another, their beards tangling together at the center of the bed. Her delivery the night before had gone late, well past midnight.

“Blood and complications,” she had muttered when Vorik asked about the delay. But both the new mother and her son would live.

So the couple stayed up late, first cleaning up the mess that Vorik had made in his clumsy effort to feed their guests, then lying in bed and talking through each other’s days, as was their nightly tradition. The new guests, of course, were a prime topic of discussion. Vorik gushed about their unexpected arrival, while the pragmatic Greta calculated the logistics of housing another two dwarves in a house that practically was a thoroughfare for the visiting sick. Luckily there were no overnight patients when Jokim and Druri had arrived!

“We’ll sort it all out in the morning,” Vorik had said, yawning as he did. They both drifted off a scant few hours before the dawn.

And so the house sat perfectly still that morning, all four of its inhabitants lost in dreams.

Had the sentry from the Eastern Gate not raced up and pounded on the door with a mailed fist, calling for Master Vorik in a coarse bellow, they all might have slept until midday.

No matter though, for Vorik and Greta both were trained to pop out of bed at the mere sound of their doorknob turning. Healers and midwives worked no set hours, after all, and any late-night moment could bring an ailing visitor.

So up they went in a rush, in nightshirts and slippers, Vorik clamping his sleeping cap to his head as he ran.

They opened the door to meet a ruddy, cold-burned soldier, icicles still clinging to his beard from the long night’s watch.

“Master Vorik!” He snapped his heels together and puffed out his chest. “Your presence is requested at the Eastern Gate!”

“Whatever for?” Vorik asked, dazedly realizing that he was not yet quite awake.

“There is a party of four at the gate, sir, and they claim one of their number is gravely ill. They called for you by name.”

“Well let them inside, for goodness sake! Bring them here!”

The sentry shook his head. “We cannot. They are foreigners.”

Vorik stared at him dumbly for a moment, then smacked his forehead. “Oh for Valar's sake… is it Haluin again?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“The Elf!”

“The wounded one is an Elf, yes.”

Vorik raised a finger and jabbed it at the soldier. “Then you take me to the gate, private, and you take me straight to your commander. Am I heard?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” Vorik whirled around to fetch his equipment, only to find Greta standing there behind him with his satchel of healing herbs and powders, a coat, boots and a scarf. He sighed in a fleeting moment of relief. “Thank you, my wife.”

But now he already was looking past her, to the just-stirring forms of Jokim and Druri. “The two of you might want to come with us,” he said. “I fear your friend the Elf is in peril.”

---

So all four of them hurried after the sentry, wearing untied boots and hastily buttoned coats. Once they reached the Eastern Gate, they climbed a narrow set of stairs up to the main crossbowman’s perch, where Barulin surveyed the scene outside through a narrow slit in the stone.

Any of the four was well prepared to tear into the gate commander for locking out a traveler in need of healing, but Vorik took the lead.

“I want this gate open, Barulin, and I want those four let inside this instant!” Vorik moved up on the captain, his solid girth becoming an asset for intimidation.

“I am afraid I cannot comply.” The captain’s tone was smooth as stone, unperturbed. “By admitting two Elves and two Men, I may as well welcome a foreign army.”

“Then admit the sick one only. Blindfold him if you must. It is Haluin, isn’t it?”

“I believe so.”

Vorik grunted and shoved past the commander, sticking his head out the narrow window.

He could see a pale, lanky form held up between two stocky men. A dark mop of lank hair obscured his face. Another Elf stood at the fore of the group, gazing up with an intense, pleading expression.

“Hallo there! I am Vorik, and you have summoned my services!”

“I am Eldarin!” called the Elf. “But there is no time for pleasantries! My brother is barely clinging to life. You must grant us sanctuary!”

“We are negotiating that point!” Vorik called back. “But while you can, tell me everything about his condition, but make it a brief everything!”

“Please! His left arm has rotted through! His flesh is aflame! His hours are short!”

This was all Vorik needed to hear. He whipped back and turned on Barulin. “You have your bloody orders, I take it. But you are opening this gate for me to go out there.”

“No, no, no! He will do more than that!” Jokim came charging up, unable to contain himself any longer. “You are letting Haluin inside here, just as you did yesterday! What creature are you that you would dismiss an ally to a death in the snow?”

Barulin did not budge. “If he is sick, he could infect the realm. I cannot risk it.”

“You bloody imbecile!” Now it was Greta’s turn to roar, which she did louder than any of the men. “If he is sick today, then he was sick yesterday! Do you blockheads understand the word ‘asymptomatic?’”

“Never mind, Greta, never mind!” Vorik waved his hands frantically. “Send me out there! I shall work in the snow!”

Barulin glanced to the sentry who had escorted the healer to the gate. “Open it. Release any who wish to go out. But the Men and the Elves do not enter!”

The soldier nodded and retreated, Vorik and Greta following close behind. Jokim stayed facing the captain, his expression a thinly lidded cauldron of boiling rage. He marched forward so that he and Barulin stood nose to nose.

“Your words last night about containing my temper were well-spoken,” he began. “But understand that you have earned my grudge, Barulin. And it is permanent.”

This was no small pronouncement to be made between two dwarves, but Barulin simply bowed his head. “And understand that I may have my own personal feelings in this matter, but they can never supercede my duty to the realm.”

Jokim stared into his eyes. But they were simply the dull eyes of a loyal soldier, and Jokim could not gauge the captain’s sincerity.

“Not good enough.”

And he left the perch with Druri, just as the mammoth gates began to moan and scrape open.

 

[Ghorim]

Before the gates had even budged, Vorik ordered one of the sentries to fetch as many blankets as he could carry from the nearby barracks.

Now Haluin was swaddled in them, lying on the ground, staring up at the dwarvish healer through a haze of delirium.

“Haluin. Haluin.” Vorik leaned in close, cupping the Elf’s chin. He spoke stridently, yet with a certain bedside care. “This is Vorik. You remember me, yes? Nod for me. Yes! Yes you do. Now I want you to focus on the sound of my voice. Can you hear it? Yes you can. Stay with that sound. Keep your eyes open. Keep calm. All of your friends are here. I am here. Now I am going to examine your arm. There will be pain, but Greta and I will do our best to contain it.”

From his vantage point nearby, huddled close against his uncle, Druri could just make out the black and shriveled form of Haluin’s arm as Vorik peeled back the rangers’ bandages. The sight was too much, but still he forced himself to watch, watch as Vorik turned to Greta with a creased brow and consulted. He could hear their hushed, concerned tones, see Greta shaking her head.

Then the woman turned and ran back into the gate, disappearing into the dark of the caverns.

“What is happening?” Druri gazed up at Jokim, trying to contain his despair in front of the rangers and Eldarin and the dwarvish guards who stood heavy watch over the open gate. “Why is she heading back in?”

“They need more supplies.” Jokim said, his voice betraying a note of deep concern. “But I do not know why.”

“Is it bad? Is it really bad?”

“I do not know. We must be patient, you and I.” He hugged Druri closer, feeling the lad’s desperate grip, smelling his fear.

Of course Jokim knew full well what was coming. An amputation, it had to be. Vorik had dug out some salve or other from his pack, and was rubbing it upon the Elf’s corrupted flesh. But that was just a stopgap to ease the pain. It would mean nothing in the long term.

Jokim found himself shaking his head uncontrollably. No, no, no. It could not end like this. Not out here in the cold and white, with the wind shrieking above them. They had to give Haluin a fighting chance: inside, where it was warm, with adequate supplies and a proper bed.

He released Druri. “Wait here.”

And he turned to march for the gate once more, his course aimed straight at Barulin. He pulled aside the captain, who dolefully stared at him all the while. “You must let him in, even if it is no further than the first antechamber. He will perish out here, surely!”

Barulin again shook his head. “I cannot.”

“Then allow me to take the blame.”

“Excuse me?”

“When the High Council inquires, as it surely must, I shall claim responsibility for the breach. An officer’s title means nothing to me if my friend’s blood forever stains my hands! I shall renounce my station, do you understand?”

For once, the gate captain seemed knocked off his guard. He took a moment to consider the offer and form a response.

“Understand this…” he began.

But then a deafening braying noise echoed throughout the cliffs. The two dwarves turned to see a pair of surly mules drawing a broad, covered cart toward the gate. And at the reins was a fat dwarf in a bright yellow cloak.

“Hullo again, friends!” Kabur waved with his free hand, blissfully unaware. “You wouldn’t believe all the sales I made in Hobbiton!”

Jokim sighed heavily, and Barulin turned a skeptical eye on him. “That dolt Kabur is a companion of yours?” The merchant and his eye-wounding outfits were a well-known nuisance at the Eastern Gate.

“He sold us goods along the road. It does not matter. Now listen to me…”

“Half a moment. Allow me to deal with this.”

Barulin stepped ahead to meet the cart, leaving Jokim standing behind in reddened frustration. Kabur, meanwhile, seemed to just now be realizing that something was amiss.

“Whatever is the matter, sir?” he asked the approaching captain, drawing his mules to a stop.

“Nothing to concern yourself over, master merchant. An Elf has taken ill, but he is being tended to.”

“Oh, I see that now.” Kabur could just make out the familiar face of Haluin, drawn deathly white as he lay on the snow. Now he glanced up to see Eldarin, the once proud Elf diminished by the sheer weight of despair. Then there were the rangers Eldred and Hurod, popular figures in Bree — folk heroes, practically. And they were staring at him, straight at him, as if demanding some sort of answer.

But it was Jokim that grabbed and held Kabur’s attention, jogging after Barulin with desperation in his eyes. “Captain! I call on you to grant him entrance! For the sake of his life!”

Kabur froze for a moment, half-speaking a word that faltered and lingered as a sustained vowel. “Aaaaaaaa… of course! Aye, it looks as though things are well under control here. What are an Elf’s sniffles to me, after all? Ha ha!” His forced laugh disintegrated into a cough. “Eh… may I proceed?”

“Of course, master merchant. My guard shall make way for you and your cart.” Barulin paid the onrushing Jokim no mind.

“Thank you, captain. But I wonder... what of the travelers? I imagine the Elf would receive better care indoors. If his life truly is at stake…”

“No.” Barulin had tired of this argument. “That shall not happen.”

“Oh. I see. Well, nothing I can do, in that case!” Kabur clicked his tongue and gave a light snap of the reins to goad his beasts into action.

As he pulled around the small crowd that had gathered around Haluin, a lump formed in his throat as he caught sight of the ruined arm that Eldarin’s masterful contraption had hidden all this while. But he quickly turned his gaze ahead, for he could feel Barulin’s eyes on him as the captain walked alongside his cart.

Once he was past the group, however, Kabur pulled hard on the reins. After growling their complaint, the mules came to a reluctant halt. With a deep intake of breath the merchant swiveled in his seat, gazing back through the cart at the others.

“Eldarin! Get him in here!”

The Elf turned and stared at him in shock, not comprehending.

“Bloody pus and guts! Get Haluin in here right now!”

In fact, it was the rangers who made the first move. Up until this point, their mute tongues and flat countenances had suggested that they were uninvolved — uninterested, even — in the events that played out before them. But in reality they had been tensed, aware, anticipating the moment of decisive action whose approach they innately anticipated.

Now that moment had arrived, and here was how they acted:

In one graceful blur of motion, Hurod knelt down, snatched up Haluin from the ground, pivoted on his heel and leapt into the covered cart. Eldred moved half a step behind, shoving a stuttering Vorik backward and into the conveyance.

Eldarin grasped the plan at Hurod’s first step, and now he practically flung Druri into the cart on top of everyone else before pouncing in himself. There was barely room for him, and his legs dangled out the back.

Barulin was no fool, and sniffed out the escape attempt well before all six travelers had crammed themselves into Kabur’s rolling cabin. But as he made the first running step toward the back of the cart, he ran into a brick wall named Jokim. The older dwarf had lingered behind Barulin as the captain returned to the gate, so as to check in on Haluin’s condition. Now he found himself in perfect position to thwart Barulin’s advance, and made no mistake. He wrapped his arms around Barulin’s torso, absorbing the captain’s momentum and spinning him hard as they both went tumbling into the snow. Jokim landed on top, and quickly had iron grips on each of the captain’s wrists.

Meanwhile, seeing his cart fully occupied, Kabur threw all of his weight into a savage whip of the reins and screamed at his mules:

“Ride like a bloody avalanche, you stupid piles of hair and dung!”

And in a sense, this was the mules’ moment of truth, too: for years they had stewed in rage as this fat buffoon of a merchant ordered them around and snapped harsh leather against their hides. Now they had the chance to prove their mettle to him… and hopefully smash his burdensome cart in the process, allowing them to run free.

So with the prospect of liberty blazing in their eyes, the mules set off at a dead gallop. Kabur lurched backward, fumbling the reins. Eldarin nearly tumbled out the back. But they were off, racing straight at a solid wall of guards in front of the open gate. The formation wisely broke ranks rather than try to withstand an irate pair of charging mules. In flew the cart wagon, bound for the heart of the mountain.

Barulin was left gasping in the snow, glaring daggers at Jokim. “Unhand me!”

“With pleasure.” Jokim released the captain’s wrists and held his hands over his head, allowing Barulin to push him off. As soon as Jokim landed on his back, he found half of the halberds of Barulin’s regiment aimed squarely at his throat.

“Never mind him!” the captain bellowed at his soldiers. “We have a breach! Apprehend that cart on the double!”

After a confused moment of silence, the infantrymen saluted and turned, racing back to the open gate.

Breathing heavily, Barulin dusted snow off his uniform before yanking Jokim up off the ground. “And you shall come with me!”

 

[Ghorim]

Kabur cackled madly as he steered the runaway cart through the bejeweled thoroughfares of the Blue Mountains, sending laborers, nobles, mothers and children all diving for cover. This was far and away the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him.

But suddenly a nagging doubt grabbed his attention: which way was he going?

“Which way am I going?!” he blurted out, instantly filled with alarm.

Unfortunately, Vorik was buried somewhere beneath the crush of bodies in the covered cart, and could neither hear nor answer the question . But with some effort, Druri managed to wedge himself out of the pile and scramble into the driver’s seat next to Kabur. “You’re going to the home of Vorik, the healer! He’s in the back!”

“But which way?!”

“Left! Hard left!” Druri screamed, and the two of them pulling on the reins together somehow managed to direct the stampeding mules around a sharp bend. Scarcely had they recovered from that scare when Druri noticed a familiar figure moving on the road ahead. It was Greta: she was carrying a hefty pack of supplies, but jogging as fast as she could manage.

Druri hopped to his feet and pulled off his hood, waving it in the air as the wind whipped at his face. “Greta! Follow us!”

That was all he could manage before the cart sped past her.

As she spun about and gaped at the receding cart, Greta spat a curse.

“Unbelievable!”

But she followed, running two times as fast back toward her home.

Up ahead, the cart was nearing its destination.

“There it is!” Druri shouted, pointing at the rapidly approaching house. “Stop the mules!”

Kabur yanked at the reins impotently. “I don’t know how!”

“Then pull harder!”

They both pulled at the reins, to no avail. Kabur cursed. “We’ll have to crash this bloody thing to make them stop!”

But just then, the ranger Eldred burst between the two drivers. Extending his arms to their limit, he reached out and grabbed both mules’ swishing tails. Then he pulled back as hard as he could.

There was a hellacious, feral cry from both beasts, a groaning of wood as the cart wheels locked, and a unified shout of dismay from the back of the cart. Dust kicked up in a swirling cloud, and all of the passengers shut their eyes tight.

Unseen moments passed. But the noise faded, until there was near-silence. Eldred opened his eyes first, and saw two peeved but motionless mules standing before him, their bodies paralyzed by his grip on their tails.

“I did not imagine that would work…” the ranger muttered, looking about him in wonder.

---

That moment of quiet was short-lived.

They all burst into the house, Hurod still cradling the sickly and apparently unconscious Haluin in his arms. Vorik directed them into the infirmary wing of his home, a narrow, two-bed chamber where his sickliest patients would stay. Hurod stretched out the Elf on one of the beds, moving gingerly despite the stabbing urgency that surrounded him. Vorik began to hurriedly unpack his satchel on a nearby table while Eldred raided the dwarf’s stores of bottled herbs and potions.

Greta dashed in shortly thereafter, setting down her heavy burden and kneeling to open it up. “Wash your hands, Vorik! We can begin in a few minutes. Are these two capable of holding down the patient?” She nodded to each of the rangers in turn.

Eldred glanced over, with both his arms full of pouches, vials and other containers. “Yes, mum. My brother and I shall assist.”

“And so shall I.” Eldarin had to duck his head as he entered the door to the infirmary, his figure filling the entire frame.

“No!” Vorik shouted. “You stay out there.”

“I cannot sit idly by while my brother…”

“You are too close to him, Eldarin. I cannot have anyone with strong attachments to Haluin in the room. It will only distract!”

“But my folk have healing expertise that yours and even the rangers lack.” Eldarin spoke calmly, but he appeared on the brink of tears. “Please, you must allow me to assist.”

Vorik knew he could least afford to engage in another time-consuming argument while Haluin languished on his bed. “You stay, then. But you say nothing unless I speak to you, understood? Your folk may rule the wilds, but I am commander under this roof.”

And sensing the healer’s commitment, Eldarin simply nodded and said nothing.

Finally, there was Druri left lingering at the door, gazing in uncertainly. Vorik spied him and marched up, leaning forward on his knees to speak to the lad.

“Druri. I cannot have you in this room, but there is one thing that you can do for me.”

The lad swallowed his grief and nodded obediently. “Name it.”

“Fetch my son Nikolin. He lives nearby. I need someone to tend to my other appointments and any other maladies that may arise today. He lives right around the corner: go out the front door, make a right, then another right at the first avenue you come across. He lives in the third house on the left. Am I heard? Good. Repeat what I just said.”

“Out the front door, right, then another right, third house on the left.”

“Perfect! Now off with you!”

Druri turned and barreled out the front door at full speed. Vorik nodded to himself and shut the infirmary door.

That left only Kabur, who had thrown himself on the den’s couch and continued to sit there, breathing heavily and sweating just as hard. He had completely forgotten about the mules — he did not even bother to tie them up, which had allowed the beasts to dash off and continue their destructive gallop through the realm. This would turn out to be a blessing in disguise, however: ordered as they were to capture the cart, not its passengers, Barulin’s soldiers would clamor straight past Vorik’s home and continue following the cart tracks in the cobblestone road.

None of this was on Kabur’s mind, of course — just the harrowing rush of his life’s first true adventure.

“Quite the day,” he panted to himself, sitting alone on the couch. “Quite the day, indeed…”

 

[chrysophalax]

Words flitted like bats in the darkness above Haluin's head as he lay supine on the bed where Hurod had so carefully placed him. Urgent, yet gentle hands probed at his arm, but he only felt the pain distantly now. Somehow, it didn't seem important, not as important as trying to discern what the voices were saying.

Cautiously, the injured elf opened his eyes, only to shut them again against the barrage of candle and torchlight that filled his vision. Vorik caught the slight movement instantly.

"Haluin? Haluin, can you hear me? Don't move, lad. Just open your eyes again if you can."

The elf's lips curved into a grin. "Jokim?" "Nay, my friend, 'tis I, Vorik. You've a nasty infection and I'm going to take care of you. Do you understand?"

Eldarin frowned, glaring at Vorik, who shook his head violently. "Don't lie to him!" mouthed Eldarin as he edged closer to the bed. Slowly Haluin's eyes drifted open, stubbornly trying to take in what was happening. What he sensed, rather than saw, alarmed him. "Tor-nin? Vorik, where is Eldarin? Is he safe? What of Jokim and Druri?" Feebly he began to struggle and his arm oozed virulent smelling pus from a large split in the skin just above the elbow.

Vorik nodded to the two men, who silently stepped closer, then Hurod gripped him by his good arm, while Eldred held him just above the knees. "No!" cried Eldarin as he watched Haluin's face contort in agony. "I told you..." Vorik began, but Eldarin rushed on. "I know, friend and under normal circumstances I would obey, but hear me. You know nothing of our ways when it comes to healing, therefore I beg that you allow me to help you keep him calm as you...do what must be done."

Greta placed her hand over Vorik's, squeezing hard. "Let 'im try, husband. I've the feeling we'll know for sure if it works very soon!"

Eldarin looked from one dwarf to the other, hoping against hope that Vorik would allow his assistance. Hurod growled and all heads turned to the normally stoic ranger. "He's fading. Someone do something!"

Without further words or permission, Eldarin came and stood behind the head of the bed, cradling Haluin's head in his hands. "Haluin, do you hear me?" "Eldarin? Aye! Aye, tor-nin." came the whispered reply.

"Do you remember the Hall of Fire and how we told stories so many nights? Well, I've a story to tell you that you may never have heard, or perhaps forgotten in all the years since you were an elfling. Would you like to hear it?" Haluin looked up at his friend, his eyes clear and free for an instant from pain and he smiled. "Aye, say on!" he said, smiling. Eldarin nodded to Vorik, who then rushed to wash his hands, while Greta readied his instruments.

Then Eldarin took up the tale of Finrod and Mædhros, two elves whose ancient friendship was legend among their kind, but who had grown estranged because of the oath that Mædhros had sworn. Nonetheless, Finrod longed to repair the bond and risking all, he made his way up into the great mountains, the Thangorodrim, risking all. There with his harp, he sat among the giant boulders and sang a Song, a song of Valinor, which soon found itself echoed by the one for whom he had searched so long.

The rangers, as they listened, found they no longer had any need to hold Haluin, for he had long since ceased to struggle. He had been drawn, by the power of Eldarin's voice into the story and so lay still, as his arm was sawn from his body.

"And then, even as Finrod found that his friend was bound by Morgoth's cruel device to the mountain by his wrist so that he could not be freed, Mædhros begged him to loose an arrow and thus end his suffering. Finrod reluctantly nocked an arrow, weeping, then called on Manwe to speed it's flight. His prayer was answered, but in a way totally unexpected! For the King of Eagles, Thorondor himself, greatest of all birds, flew down and caught Finrod up and bore him to the rock face where Mædhros hung.
Swiftly then, he severed Mædhros hand and they were borne away to Mithrim, where Mædrhros in time, was healed."

Not a word, not a sound followed the telling of the story, a story that Vorik found more than appropriate under the circumstances. Greta carefully dabbed at his eyes where some unwanted moisture seemed to have unaccountably gathered. He cleared his throat. "I was wrong to have told you to remain slient, Eldarin. My apologies. I had no idea elven words contained so much...well, so much!"

"What he means to say is, your people have a true gift and he's speechless." said Greta, dabbing at her own eyes as well. "We thank you."

"As do I. You did your work swiftly and cleanly and now...there is a favour I must ask, nay, demand of you!" Vorik's bushy eyebrows shot up. "Demand?"

"Aye. I must be allowed to use a forge. His arm must be refitted to hang from the shoulder now and...I will even be willing to let anyone who has the desire, to watch me in my work. Elves and dwarves worked together once, long ago and the things they created together were never duplicated. Can it not be so again?"

Vorik looked up at the smith long and hard. "You do realise that I have no say in who uses our forges and who doesn't, don't you? And after all this?" He blew out a long breath, scratching his beard in thought. "I can ask, that's all I can do. But for now, I have a patient to attend to. Pray that we were in time!" With that, Vorik began clearing away the bloody instruments, while Greta supervised the rangers in changing the linens on the bed, then re-bandaging the new stump with fresh gauze, tucking in fresh-smelling herbs as she did so with the precision born of years of practise.

Eldarin, meanwhile had never moved from where he held Haluin's head, still carefully cradling it all through the changing and the cleansing. Haluin had fallen into a deep, healing sleep midway through the story, his face now peaceful and unlined. Eldarin breathed a sigh of relief, then suddenly, he began to shake. Greta was instantly at his side, helping him to settle Haluin's head gently on the pillow before pushing a chair beneath him as his knees buckled.

"I think he could use a drink." observed Eldred, dryly. "And us as well. Watching and listening at the same time is thirsty work!"

Vorik chuckled, even as he came over to check on Eldarin. "Aye, a good cold flagon of stout is just the thing. Ah, Druri!" he cried as the young dwarf came running headlong into the sickroom. "Your son's here and tending to business. Kabur's snoring soundly on your couch and Haluin...? How is he, Vorik? Is he...he didn't...did he?"

"Come along here, young Druri. All of us need a drink. Go and ask Nikolin to send you back with some, there's a good lad. Then I'll tell you everything!" Druri spun on his heel and raced into the front set of rooms, while Vorik patted Eldarin gingerly on the shoulder. "That was remarkable, friend. I've never seen the like, nor will I ever again I don't expect. Do all elves possess such magic?"

Eldarin tore his eyes away from watching the rise and fall of Haluin's breathing to look wearily at the healer. "Not all, but most, I'd say. Iluvatar granted us many gifts that dwarves and men seem not to possess, and yet, you have gifts that we sometimes envy. Such is the way of things." Carefully he reached out to lay the back of his hand against Haluin's brow. "Was it enough? Will he live?"

"It's early yet...but, aye, it's my belief that he'll pull through. He's strong and lucky, that one!"

"You must find me a forge, Vorik. If he has but one arm, I fear how he will react. No, I must be able to refit the one I made for him!" said Eldarin grimly.

"We have forges, Eldarin and we would gladly let you use them." said Eldred quietly. "He's fought too hard and suffered too much to become a cripple now."

Eldarin narrowed his eyes. "You would aid us? Why? Lord Elrond would take a very dim view of that, I'm sure and I know that your captain's welcome in Imladris might become...shall we say---less welcome?

"That would be for him to decide. Nevertheless, the offer stands. If the dwarves refuse, make your way to our encampments to the east of the Tower Hills. There you will find succor, despite the edicts of your lord, smith."

"Then I thank you, Eldred. Yet I hope that it will not come to that. He needs to be whole again sooner, rather than later." A sudden sound caught his attention. "Where is Druri?" he asked sharply.

Both the rangers were on their feet in an instant, moving to stand in the doorway. "It would seem we have company." stated Hurod matter-of-factly.

 

[Ghorim]

The stone cell lay silent, save for the flexing of Jokim’s leather glove.

He would spread his fingers as far as he could, gathering the tension from the rest of his body, and then crushed it all into a fist. He squeezed and seethed until his knotty arm trembled from the concentrated force. He could feel the bones in his hand grind against one another.

Then at last he would release the fist, and begin the cycle anew. Flex to fist, flex to fist, the leather glove creaking with each motion.

Jokim sat perfectly erect on the stone bench in his holding cell, repeating this process for the better part of an hour. And so he kept his rage at bay.

But in his mind’s eye he was doing much more. He saw himself rending the ornate metal bars of his cell, clawing at the stone surrounding them, howling for his release.

None of that would have made a difference, however. Jokim felt contorted by anger and dread for Haluin’s flickering life, but his sense of honor held him still. He was already imprisoned for assaulting a military officer. He could not demean himself further.

Still he felt the weight of each moment, until the sounds of conversation and approaching boots drew his attention. Jokim rose to his feet, ramrod stiff like a private ready for inspection.

The door to his cell swung open, and a young dwarf stepped through. He had the look of a noble attempting to dress like a workman: simple brown attire that was nevertheless crisp and unspoiled, with fashionable accents of blue thread that gave away his station. His dark beard bloomed like an overeager shrub, reined in by intricate plaiting that drew its fringes together in a braid that dangled beneath his chin.

He made a straight approach at Jokim, taking a quick appraisal of the old dwarf as he did. “You are Jokim?”

Jokim bowed his head to confirm but said nothing.

The young noble smiled, an unexpected expression that disarmed Jokim for a moment. “Well sit, then.” And without waiting for Jokim’s reaction, the young fellow settled himself on the cell’s bunk, which sat in a rectangular crevice cut into the wall. With a disinterested swipe of his hand, he dismissed the bulky infantryman who was hovering in the cell’s entryway.

Jokim sat back down on his bench slowly, studying his visitor with guarded suspicion.

The nobleman slapped his knee, still grinning. “I heard you took down Captain Barulin while he was at a full sprint. Is that true?”

This was not a proper interrogation. But Jokim kept his head bowed and spoke respectfully. “I do not recall it that way, m’lord.”

“Please. None of this ‘m’lord’ business. I owe you an introduction. I am Ossi, son of Olafur, who is Lord of the Broadbeams and ruler of this realm.” He rattled off his father’s title as one might describe a butcher or gem cutter.

Jokim looked up, gazing with new eyes upon the fellow whom he now realized to be the Prince of the Blue Mountains.

“Yes, yes.” Ossi gave another impatient wave of his hand. “I am acting on behalf of the Great Council to sort out whatever it was that happened at the gate this morning. I shall report to them and my father directly. That is what brings me to your cell.”

Jokim edged forward on his bench. “What have you heard about the injured Elf, Haluin?”

“What have I heard? I have heard that your friend Vorik’s home is now barricaded against all comers. Captain Barulin desperately wants to bully his way in there and arrest the fat merchant who managed to break his impeccable defensive perimeter, not to mention round up the rangers and Elves. But those same rangers have moved some rather heavy furniture in front of the door. All of which is to say that I believe the Elf is alive, or else why go to such extraordinary measures? But I cannot say for certain.”

Jokim couldn’t help but smile a bit at that news, even as his brow furrowed. What he wouldn’t give to help defend against that siege! But now he gazed straight at the prince with a strange confidence in his eyes.

“You would be well within your rights to call the Captain off the chase, m’lord. His responsibilities do not extend beyond the Eastern Gate.”

Ossi’s gregarious expression faded. He gave Jokim a haughty look in return, subtly lifting his nose. “I shall take that under consideration. But I did not come here for advice. I want you to tell me what happened out there. That tackle you put on Barulin, in the main.”

“It was a simple matter.” Jokim already had folded his arms and drawn himself back, assembling a front against the prince’s prodding. “The captain was pursuing a course of action that would have left my friend the Elf dead in the snow. A situation developed. An opportunity presented itself. I acted on instinct. Nothing more.”

“You do know the penalties for assaulting an officer of the Ered Luin in the course of his duties?”

“I do not. But I expect a harsh punishment. What matters is that I have given Haluin a fighting chance to live, and he does not often squander those.”

“And what of this… position you came here expecting? The lieutenant’s post. You may have very well just squandered it on your first morning in the mountains.”

“I do not regret my actions. Before the merchant arrived, I had told the good captain that I would relinquish my post if it meant getting Haluin inside. He refused the offer then, but I suppose the fates consented to the trade.”

Ossi smiled and leaned forward on his knees casually, but it was a studied movement. He looked Jokim over again, this time with greater care. He said nothing for a solid minute, letting the silence sink in and take over. But Jokim did not flinch.

“You know,” Ossi began, his words sounding all the louder in the little cell. “I do not believe anyone had ever hauled down Captain Barulin like that. Not since he could walk upright, at any rate. That takes talent. We need talent in this infantry.”

“I shall serve if called upon, in whatever capacity is deemed best.”

The prince laughed. “Spoken like a true soldier: telling his superiors what they want to hear!”

“I speak only the truth. I am not one to play games with my words.”

“Hmm.” The young dwarf smirked and slapped his knee. “Tell me… did Vorik ever inform you who offered you that lieutenant’s post?”

“Vorik only referred to him as a ‘fellow of fine lineage.’” Jokim had long since memorized his friend’s letter, carrying it along the march through wind and rain and reading it as an almost nightly ritual.

“Mm! Fine lineage, indeed.” The prince idly picked at one of the sleeves of his shirt. “I found myself in a situation, you see, some months ago. Perhaps a year, now? Yes, it must have been a year, if not more. I had banged myself up right good following a late-night misadventure. Now normally this mishap would lead me straight to a visit with the royal healer. But this was a situation that required a certain… circumspection, do you understand me?”

Jokim said nothing. His arms remained tensed and crossed.

“Well, I asked some voices that I trusted: who else in the realm might heal my hurts with little fanfare? They might have named any healer in the realm, but there was a certain fellow… Vorik. He and his family were newly arrived refugees from the Lonely Mountain, bless its memory. And that sort of novelty has its benefits: Vorik had developed a quick reputation for his skills and manners.”

The prince was watching Jokim all the while, gauging his reaction to the story. “Well. I shall not belabor the point any further. Vorik patched me up. And it should not surprise you that he and I fell to talking. I bemoaned the lack of inspired soldiers in our mountains, and then he brought up your name. He said you had been overlooked. A hidden gem. A soldier of great talent and principle. Would you agree with that?”

“My friend Vorik has been ever effusive with his praise. I am more than capable on the field. If given the opportunity, I shall prove that.”

“But Jokim… I do not want capable, or even this ‘more than capable’ nonsense. I want inspired.” Prince Ossi scraped himself forward to the edge of the bunk. “And what you managed at the gate proves to me that you possess such a spark. You did two things to Captain Barulin that I have never seen done: you bent his will and convinced him to relinquish his gate to an Elf, of all things, and then you pinned him to the ground in a single maneuver. No one teaches that sort of ability.”

“It would be an honor to serve under you, m’lord. But first I must face trial, I assume.”

“Oh yes. That.” Ossi smiled broadly and waved a hand, like a magician vanishing a handkerchief. “That can go away, Sir Jokim, if I put in the proper words. In return, I simply require two conditions.”

“What are those?” Jokim steeled himself for some creative phrasing. Prince or no, this dwarf did not inspire the greatest confidence in him. Jokim would require something more than honeyed words.

 

[Ghorim]

“Number one,” Ossi held up a finger. “You work with all due haste to usher your merry band out of these mountains. By that I mean the Elves and the rangers.”

Jokim scowled. “If he survives… Haluin shall require time to recover. His companion Eldarin would not wish to leave his side. And the rangers…”

“That is why I say with ‘all due haste,’ my good fellow. Matters are yet unsettled. It would be unreasonable to impose a hard deadline at this juncture.”

“What is your second condition, then?”

The prince rose to his feet and extended his arms. “Permanent loyalty to me. The sort of loyalty one grants a fellow after he saves your military career.”

Jokim bowed his head. “I shall indeed be in your debt, m’lord, once you make good on your words.” And although he phrased the prince’s end of the bargain as inevitable, Jokim harbored his doubts. He paused a moment to consider, toying with the idea of consenting… until a thought struck of him. “And what of Kabur?”

“Who?”

“The merchant.”

“Ah. Well, my friend, I’m afraid someone must take responsibility for what happened today. He did, after all, nearly run over an entire regiment of soldiers with his cart. And he smuggled in four outsiders in the process! Not exactly the kind of actions that prompt sympathy in the High Council.”

“I shall tell you what he did.” Jokim growled deep. “He acted to save my friend Haluin’s life. He acted even though it would come at great cost to him. He was the ‘inspired’ one out there, not I. I cannot in good conscience leave him to hang at a trial while I waltz off under your wing.”

“Oh come, Jokim. No one is going to hang. He will, most likely, do some time in the quarries…”

“For how long?”

“That is the Council’s decision. I am not a member, simply an advisor.”

“He has a wife and daughter to provide for. And have you seen the fellow, at any rate? Labor of that sort would shatter him.”

“Then what would you have us do, Sir Jokim? Give him a slap on the wrist and a stern warning for risking our entire realm’s security?” Ossi had begun to pace.

“I would have you try us both. As co-conspirators. Let his sentence be mine.”

The prince stopped in his tracks and turned to stare at Jokim with hard, skeptical eyes. “And what point would that prove, exactly?”

“There is no point to prove, m’lord. Vorik called me a soldier of principle, and so I am. I cannot abandon a friend in peril.”

The prince shook his head. “I understand your emotions are riding high. But think of the post that beckoned you all the way from the Iron Hills. You will throw all that toil away because… because why, exactly? You feel the need to be punished? Because you wish to hold this merchant’s hand as he stands before the Council?”

Jokim shook his head. “You have not heard me, m’lord: I already expected to lose my station. Your generous offer is a most pleasant surprise, but I do not take it for granted. A trial before the council is my due. Tell me only this: if I am tried and found wanting… if I serve my penalty and return… would you still have me as your lieutenant?”

For the first time in their conversation, the prince hesitated. Jokim had gambled on the notion that he had some leverage in these talks — that the future ruler of the realm actually valued and needed him as much as he said he did. And it appeared as though Jokim had made the correct bet.

“We shall see,” Ossi concluded. “You may insist on getting dragged through a hearing, but I shall put in a good word on your behalf nonetheless.”

“Then do the same for the merchant, m’lord, for we acted in the same spirit.”

“Very likely. I bid you good day.” Ossi bowed in the old noble fashion, running a hand along his beard as he did. Despite a bevy of competition, it was one of the more ridiculous things Jokim had seen that day. The prince then turned and knocked on the cell door to be let out. “Guard…”

“If I may make two requests of my own, m’lord…” Jokim cut in. “I would like an update on Haluin’s condition as soon as it is available. And if someone could fetch my nephew and bring him here, it would set my mind at ease.”

Prince Ossi stared at Jokim, the door swinging open behind him. “You ask a great number of favors as a prisoner.”

“All favors that go unasked go unanswered,” Jokim might have been smirking. “An Elf told me that once.”

“Hmm. Aren’t you worldly…” Ossi took a brisk step out the door, and was gone.

Jokim listened as the prince’s footsteps receded down the long hallway, hearing a couple of gates open and close along the way. Then there was silence again.

He thought about their conversation, wondering if he were better off now than if it had never happened. But it wouldn’t do any good to think it to death.

Instead he distracted himself by studying the dull craftsmanship that went into making his cell. But there was little inspiration to be found there.

So finally he glanced down to his right hand. Jokim stretched out the fingers, and then balled them into a tight fist. And he squeezed, feeling the tension boil out from within.

 

[chrysophalax]

A full day had passed. A day and half a night in which Eldarin and Vorik fought for Haluin's life, for it seemed he had lost the will to fight. His fever rose and fell like an ill tide, leaving him exhausted, reeking sourly of sickness and something Eldarin dared not think on.

Inwardly he cursed Haluin, for he could not curse Vorik. Indeed, the older dwarf laboured manfully even now, laving Haluin's brow with herb-infused water that steamed away the foul humours. Carefully he had debrided what was left of the diseased flesh from the edges of the wound. Nay, the smith could not curse him, so he turned his anxious gaze upon the only one who could bear the blame. Haluin himself. Why did you not speak of your pain, of the rot you knew must surely be devouring what was left of your arm? Why did it have to progress this far, tor-nin?

Angrily, he turned away from the bed. "I must go speak with Druri. Perhaps he can lighten my mood." he said flatly as he left the sickroom. Hurod's eyes met those of his brother as they sat watching Vorik closely. "I don't envy the lad. He's in a right state, he is."

"Of course he is, brother!" replied Eldred sharply. "He has thrown away everything he has ever known - and why? So that this troublesome elf won't be alone. What kind of person would do that for a complete stranger?"

"A noble one. And lower your voices! He can hear you! I'll not have you jeopardise our good work because you can't fathom a simple concept." Both men looked levelly at the dwarven healer, who returned their glares in equal measure. What he had witnessed earlier had had a profound effect on him and in truth, he was burning with the desire to know more of elven healing practises. But first, Haluin must live. To that end, he applied himself as he had rarely done before, for was this not Jokim's friend? Vorik had no intention of letting his old comrade down!


As an uncomfortable silence fell between men and dwarf, they heard Druri speaking to someone brusquely in the front room. Vorik raised his head and Eldred rose to his feet. "I'll go. It doesn't sound like a delivery of fresh herbs for your concoctions out there!" With that, he stepped into the spacious sitting room of Vorik's home to find Druri speaking loudly at the door.

"Speak your name clearly. Who comes here seeking Druri, nephew of Jokim?"

"I am Ossi and my father is lord of this realm. Open to me at once!"

A sudden scrambling sound could be heard from the couch upon which Kabur had been resting. Now the old dwarf was trembling, shaking his head from side to side. "Ai, I am ruined! Ruined! And all because of an elf!" he wailed, clutching at his beard in terror.

Eldarin snarled, moving to Druri's side. "Come, help me shift this. I would speak with this Ossi. I would end Haluin's suffering as soon as possible." he ground out, eyes flashing angrily. The two rangers joined them in moving the three large oak cabinets that normally held all of Vorik's records and notes regarding his patients into the middle of the room, then Eldred put a calm, steady hand on Eldarin's chest. "Listen to me, smith. If you have any hope at all of being allowed into one of their smithies, then speak civilly! Otherwise, you may as well slay Haluin yourself. Do you understand?" The smith took hold of Eldred's wrist, nearly crushing it. "Perfectly. Do not touch me again!" he hissed and Eldred looked at him a moment longer before lowering his eyes and backing away.

Eldarin hated himself in that instant, knowing full well that Eldred's counsel was both wise and sound. Drawing a deep breath, he nodded to Nikolin, who hastily opened the door.

Instantly, the large front room was filled with dwarves from Barulin's guard and in the center stood a simply dressed dwarf, who's eyes swept the room intently, until they rested upon Eldarin. "Ah, is this one of the miscreants, Barulin?" "Aye, my lord. I see all of them but one in this room."

"Where is the other one? The dying one." asked Ossi with seeming disinterest.

Eldarin stepped forward swiftly and the dwarves made to close ranks, but he was too quick for them. The elven smith threw himself on his knees before Ossi and Druri gasped audibly at his audacity. "My lord prince. I beg of you!" he pleaded, raising his hands outstretched to Ossi in supplication. "Spare the lives of those you see before you that are not your kin. They acted out of care and mercy for my brother's sake who lies through there, barely clinging to life. Vorik's expertise and knowledge have wrought a miracle this night, but unless I can replace the arm that has been cut away from him, he will surely die. Please! Come and see. Then you will understand, as one warrior understands another. Come!" He then seized Ossi by the arm and began to pull him toward the sickroom, but Barulin barred the way.

"Release him, elf. Now!"

A young voice shouted then. "No! Let him through!" Druri confronted Ossi, his stance no longer that of a youngling, but of a dwarf full grown. "Do as Eldarin asks, my lord. Come look upon our friend and show mercy."

Ossi stood rooted to the spot. Never had he experienced such grim determination in the cause of just one person and against his better judgement, he found himself intrigued. "Aye. I will see this elf for whom all of you have risked your lives..and ruined your reputations." he added, glancing over at Kabur. Barulin was outraged. "My lord Ossi! I can't allow..."

Ossi chuckled. "Allow? Indeed? I wonder what Father will say about that at the council meeting? Lead on!"

Vorik glanced up. "Well? What was...ah, my lord! Come to see the prisoner, no doubt. You can take a look, but it's touch and go just now. It seems only Eldarin's presence is keeping him with us."

The dwarf prince moved quietly to the bedside and there beheld the remnants of Haluin's left arm, only a handspan of which now remained showing healthy, clean tissue neatly wrapped in soft strips of fine linen. "How did he come by such a fearful injury?" asked Ossi as he drew hastily away.

"We were attacked by a warg as we crossed one of the high passes in the Misty Mountains, my lord. Uncle and Haluin thought the creature was dead and Haluin went to retrieve some of his arrows from its side. It grabbed him and nearly tore his arm off above the wrist, but Uncle finished it off, then freed Haluin from its death grip. All this after Haluin saved us both from an orc attack." Druri gripped his beard tightly. "My lord, he is a dear friend, none more true. Can you not let Eldarin save him?"

The dwarf lord looked from Druri to Eldarin sceptically. "How, save him? What can you do that Vorik, with all his wisdom cannot? Others have survived with only one arm." said Ossi, testing the elf's nerve.

"I can forge him a new arm, my lord. One that works far better than his own natural one." The smith took another deep breath as he felt his temper rising once more. "And the fact that you even ask such a question shows me how little you know of elfkind. The will to live does not burn so brightly in those of us who suddenly deem themselves unfit. Ah, we waste time! Vorik, show him Haluin's arm!" he called, but Hurod was faster, scooping the discarded arm from where it had been hastily placed on a side table.

The elven smith took it from him with a grateful nod, then held it up for all to see. "See how each joint moves, my lord? Each one so finely wrought that I daresay you would be hard pressed to see the individual articulations. He can - could, do anything with it, my lord. It only needs to be lengthend, now that his whole arm has been removed. I - I will gladly allow any smith you wish to watch me as I work, to ask me what they will, so long as I am able to repair it. Please, let me do this. Save his life!"

Ossi took the arm and turned it over and over, inspecting it. In truth, he had to admit that none of the smiths of the Blue Mountains were now capable of this level of workmanship. He was astounded. Lowering it, he looked Eldarin directly in the eye. "You would share this knowledge with us? This is no ruse to escape or to use in bargaining for Jokim?"

"I would do more than that if it will bring him back to me, whole once more. I have no desire for anything else. Take what you will from me, only save him."

The rangers glanced at each other uneasily. Had he not already condemned himself by helping Haluin, now he had surely overstepped the mark, for elves guarded their secrets more jealously than dwarves.

The dwarf lord stroked his beard. "I will take your request to the council and I will tell them all that I have seen and heard. I can do no more. You may remain here, all of you, until such time as the council makes its decision regarding your fates. and you, Master Druri. Come with me." He gestured for the young dwarf to join him, but the lad hung back.

"What of Haluin and the rest? You must persuade the council, sir, you must!" Druri ran to the stricken elf's side and clasped his hand firmly. "He is valiant, lord and has suffered greatly. Grant him this boon and I and my House will be forever in your service, I so swear!"

"You speak well for one so young. Your uncle has taught you well. Come now and you may speak to him if you will. I am not cruel, young Druri, but laws are laws." he shrugged. "We shall see."

 

[Ghorim]

While the prince of the realm made his inquiries in the infirmary, Barulin gave a subtle nod to his men. In a whir of armor plating and flapping beards, they closed in on their true quarry: Kabur.

The merchant made a decent hunt of it, cramming himself behind the couch and curling up into a round ball, but the soldiers sniffed out the ruse and hauled him to his feet.

If Barulin was pleased in that moment, after a full day of simmering frustration, he did not show it. He approached Kabur as his men held the merchant in place.

“Well. You had your moment to play the hero. Now you will learn that there are consequences for such actions.”

“Please, sir…” The merchant was making every effort to compose himself, relying on whatever salesman’s charm he could scrape together in that moment. “My actions… I meant no harm, you see!”

The captain paused for a moment, staring at the merchant, war hammers and siege fires blazing in his eyes. “Do not insult my intelligence again, merchant.” He nodded to his troops. “Take him to the cells.”

Barulin turned, and saw Nikolin glaring at him. The young healer was the only one left in the den while the others conferenced in the infirmary.

“And do you have something to add?”

Nikolin hesitated, then shook his head, looking miserable in doing it.

Barulin and his men were well on their way down the avenue, a sullen Kabur in tow, when a shout rose behind them.

“Captain!”

The realm’s prince did not often shout. His voice was laconic, at times even detached. But when he got it into his mind to grab a fellow’s attention, he could bellow with the best of them. And for a moment, one glimpsed the inner nobility that Prince Ossi otherwise sought to hide.

Barulin and his men skidded and swiveled. The prince was marching at them with a bullish intensity, with Druri scampering along behind.

“Captain.” Ossi’s voice had returned to its normal pitch. “What are you doing?”

“Sir.” Barulin didn’t have to straighten up for the prince: his posture was always fully upright and stiff. “I am escorting this prisoner to the dungeons.”

“I can see that.” Ossi straightened one of his gloves. “But I would have you remind me what the Captain of the East Gate has to do with internal affairs like this one.” He gave a nod and a long look at Kabur, who fidgeted under his gaze.

“Sir, with all respect. This one trespassed through my gate. He is therefore my responsibility.”

“Your responsibility was to keep the riff-raff out of the realm. And you fouled that up rather well.”

For a moment, Barulin looked almost desperate. “Sir, if I may…”

“Tend to your gate, Captain.” The prince snapped at such a volume to make the silence that followed seem absolute. “And take your men with you. Home Guard will tend to the healer’s home and see that it is secure. You are no longer necessary here.”

The captain clamped his jaw and gave a curt nod, before turning to marshal his men with a quick whip of his right hand. They were well on their way back to the Eastern Gate when Ossi called out.

“And captain…”

Barulin halted and turned.

“I would be fully prepared to explain your decision making in this whole mess to the Council.”

The captain lingered there for a moment, seeming to absorb the full weight of this blow to his military career, before nodding once and heading back on his grim march.

Prince Ossi watched the retreat with the satisfaction of a sculptor looking upon his latest masterpiece. “That ought to stifle him for a while,” he mused, before remembering that he was, in fact, not alone.

He glanced with a sigh at his irksome companions -- an overzealous child and an overweight merchant. “Well, come along. The dungeon awaits.”

It was a long walk down to those dungeons, a descent of deepening gloom toward depths that few surface dwellers could fathom. Ossi seemed to intentionally take the long way down, leading a roundabout march so he could spend more time prodding his prisoner.

“Tell me, merchant… is that mad spark in Jokim’s eye contagious? Or did you honestly believe that sparing an Elf’s life would be a worthy waste of your own?”

“I do not honestly know what I thought, m’lord.” Kabur’s eyes were glued to the ground. He had been watching as the path beneath them degraded from smooth stone avenues to rugged side-streets to glorified gravel. He was wondering who would support his wife and daughter, and if his little girl would grow up ashamed of her father.

From behind them, Druri growled. The prince could not help but find the noise pathetically adorable.

“He has nothing to apologize for,” the lad declared. “He saved a life today, and made your guards look like fools in doing it!”

“Ah! Very cutting words, young one.” Ossi did not even bother with a glance over his shoulder. “You and your uncle are Longbeards, aren’t you?”

“We are.”

“I knew it. It takes a special, inbred sort of presumptuousness to talk the way you do to your superiors.”

“You are a prince, but you are also wrong.”

“I do not believe that both of those statements can be true at the same time. But no matter. The adults are talking.” Ossi jostled the merchant to break his sullen reverie. “Tell me about this Jokim. I already know that our little tag-a-long friend would describe him as one of the Valar.”

A faint din of grumbling curses sounded close behind.

“Well, m’lord…” Kabur seemed to blink back to life, rifling through his memories of Jokim as one might a hand of playing cards. “I respect the fellow a great deal. From what little I’ve seen of him… he is quite intense. Purposeful in everything he undertakes. Highly protective of his nephew. I would trust him absolutely.”

“And should he be punished as your conspirator? Did he have any part in this plan of yours?”

“Plan, m’lord? There was no plan. No, I acted on dumb instinct, and that has led me to this shameful predicament that you find me in. Jokim is absolutely innocent; I would not dare see him punished.”

The prince hid a satisfied smile beneath his beard. “I shall remember these words, merchant. Thank you for sharing them.”

Unfortunately, an irritating cry interrupted Ossi’s small moment of contentment: “You had better have treated my uncle well!”

“Perhaps if you continue down this road of supreme insolence, you shall get to share in your uncle’s delightful prison experience, stripling. Now keep your demands to yourself, or I shall find you the dankest cell in the entire mountain. The one with the largest rats.”

Druri scowled and thought of all the different insults he’d like to pay the prince, but said none of them.

---

“Teach your nephew some manners. Until then, steer him clear of my sight.”

And with that, Prince Ossi left Jokim and Druri to their reunion. He had already dropped off Kabur in a neighboring cell, leaving some vague assurances of “consulting with the council” as to their hearing date. Otherwise, their stay in the dungeons appeared to be indefinite.

There was very little light in Jokim’s cell, provided solely by the torchlight in the hallway. When the cell door closed behind Druri, that faint glow rained between the window bars and struck his uncle clean on the face. The light played upon the crags and pockmarks of his features, rendering him as sad and weathered… and yet somehow noble, nobler than these crude surroundings of iron and stone. As if the light that bathed him now might carry him from his cell without the consent of lock or key.

In years to come, Druri would remember his uncle as he appeared in this moment. But the moment was already receding, already gone, and Jokim was beckoning him over to tell of Haluin’s condition.

Druri told what he knew. It was little, but enough to ease his uncle’s gravest concerns. Haluin had an opportunity to survive. A look of chiseled determination set in on Jokim’s face… he turned away and looked out toward the wan light of freedom.

“I regret that this is how we should begin our stay in these mountains.”

“Do not regret, uncle. You told me as much once. You acted with great courage, and they only put you here because that courage frightens them.”

Jokim looked back to Druri in a moment of faint wonderment. “Listen to you, these fine words you speak. Hmm!” He smiled. “You give me that courage.”

He patted the back of his nephew’s head, while the sound of the jailer’s keys rattled down the hallway.

“We shall see this through.”

 

[Ghorim]

Despite his best attempts at disguising his station in plain workman’s clothing, people tended to recognize the Prince of the Blue Mountains. They called to him, bowed to him, sang his praises. Fine noblemen kneeling on cobblestone, dirtying their pristine robes.

The tinsel of their affections did little to sway his mood one way or the other. He smiled in that distant, transparent way that royalty tend to do, and gave his simple acknowledgments of their presence. But his mind lay elsewhere. He was thinking about his father.

Ossi felt his heart began to beat just a bit faster as he journeyed up winding stairs toward the throne room… “the lair,” as he thought of it. His thoughts retreated, stuttered, fell back on themselves. The same image kept appearing, of the great Olafur gazing down on him, a glint of dissatisfaction in his eyes.

The prince balled his fists and chewed at his mustache as he continued his climb. Thankfully there was no one about to see… few had the authority to even make this ascent… he already had crossed two guarded checkpoints.

Suddenly, he fell to a halt. His right foot simply would not scale the next step. Ossi stood motionless in a narrow spiral stairwell, which led to the back entrance of the throne room. The great, gold-inlaid double doors that everyone in the realm had seen were there for receiving ceremonial guests. But those who wielded true power in the realm took the quiet, less ostentatious path.

Everything else was silent, so that his own breathing sounded like the great gale gusts that troubled the mountain peaks above. Ossi gripped the wall to hold himself aloft, and grappled with his thoughts.

Foolishness! Childlike foolishness! What did he have to fear? Nothing.

“Master yourself,” he muttered, feeling his fingers scrape deeper and deeper into stone. “Master yourself, and move forward.”

He took a step, then another, and soon it was as if the moment of doubt had never fallen upon him. But still he walked with a slight hitch in his step the rest of the way.

Ossi knocked on the door, bolted and nondescript. He answered the customary inquiries with customary acidity. (“Yes, this is the prince. You may recall this from the last thirty times you asked!”)

The humorless guard granted him admission, and the prince muttered his way into the throne room of the Blue Mountains. For first-time visitors, the sight of the cavernously curved room could send heads reeling. It had the appearance of standing inside a giant crown, gazing up as four great arching spires met in a diamond-shaped (and diamond-crusted) pattern at the center of the ceiling.

Despite its bold shape, it was an austere effort compared to the sprawling holds that dwarvish rulers once occupied in days of antiquity. The gold and precious metals were mere adornment to base stone. Intricately tamed stone, perhaps, but stone nonetheless. Gone were the glittering heights of Belegost and Nogrod. The dwarves of the Blue Mountains were now a frugal lot by necessity, subsisting on meager spoils from their ever-deepening mines.

Their Lord Olafur embodied this sense of faded glory. He stood at the end of a line of Broadbeams of dwindling fortunes, ever since the exile from Khazad-dum many generations prior. It seemed as though he had absorbed every slight his line had suffered throughout the ages, even having never lived through most of them. Growing up, Ossi could not recall hearing his father laugh. There was the occasional choked chuckle, or a sharp exhale from his nostrils that signaled mild amusement, but Olafur never gave himself over to mirth.

Instead, the Lord of the Broadbeams threw himself into his blacksmithery and craftwork, attempting to equal the work of the old masters. He often came quite close — even for a dwarf of undiluted regal lineage, he was an exceptionally talented smith. But no creation of his could ever satisfy or cheer him. He would cast his woodwork into the fire, melt down his metalwork, always forging forward with terrific hunger and little patience with himself.

So it was no surprise that he was down in his private forge when Ossi entered the throne room that day. A great opening at the far end of the room exposed a staircase leading down into flickering fire. As a child, the entranceway had struck him as a portal to some terrible nether realm.

“He is down there, correct?”

Ossi was speaking to Frors, Olafur’s longtime attendant. Old Frors was an odd duck, one of the few in the realm who seemed capable of weathering the Lord’s volatile moods with some semblance of humor intact.

“Yes indeed, m’lord. He is fashioning an axe, which might provide a hint as to his mood today.”

A familiar chill of fear passed over the prince’s heart, but he laughed over it. “Ah, an axe to grind, eh?”

Frors dutifully chuckled at the forced jest and bowed. “I shall fetch him, m’lord.”

Well aware that the guards who occupied posts at every corner of the throne room were watching him, Ossi kept ramrod stiff while he waited for several minutes. Then he saw a looming shadow, cast on one of the staircase walls, lumbering up the steps. His father was breathing heavily today, torn as he was from the midst of his labors.

Frors, following behind, fetched the lord of the realm a thick fur robe. Leaving the overheated crucible of the forge felt much like stepping out into a mountain winter shirtless.

“Is the Elf dead?”

“No, father. Toeing the line, but not dead.”

Lord Olafur snorted the way an ox might. “He is a bloody complication.”

“I do not deny it.”

“… A curse that you invited upon us while I labored in my forge.”

Ossi could sense his father building momentum, and hurried to waylay his progress. “I saw no harm in dragging him in bound and blinded. He caused no uproar. How was I to know that he would flee and return to us half dead, or that some lard-brained merchant would play at hero in whisking him back inside?”

“One show of weakness invites the other, child. You exposed us to calamity, and now I must clean your mess.”

“Father. Understand me…”

“Understand this. Enjoy your new plaything… this half-rate lieutenant who harbors Elves for friends. You need only concern yourself with the workings of your disastrous little infantry regiment from here on. You shall have no further say in the affairs of this realm until you prove yourself worthy.” He paused, melting his son with a glare. “If you prove yourself worthy.”

The prince could sense himself rapidly running out of rope, and in his desperation he sought to play a card that he had otherwise hope to conceal.

“Listen! I grant that the dying Elf makes for a minor disaster. But the other one could prove a great boon to us.”

“A boon? Trouble me no more with your babbling.” He turned away. “Frors! Escort my son…”

“The Elf is a smith, father! A smith of divine talent, talent that I have witnessed firsthand.”

Olafur turned back to face his son, but his expression was closed and stained by suspicion. “Your judgment in that field is suspect at best. And even if he were so gifted, of what use would it be to me?”

“He is desperate to use our smithies. He wishes to re-forge a metallic arm that he made for his kinsman, believing it may save the wretch’s life. I saw the original up close… it is on a level with the work of our finest hands.”

“And what would you have me do? Lend him my tools so that he may sully my forge with his inferior work?”

“Yes!” The prince immediately fell silent, recognizing his insolence. Olafur began to growl, and Ossi rushed to talk over him. “Do you not see? He will work in plain sight, allowing us to study and preserve all of his secrets. All of them. You have said before that you are within a hair’s breadth of equaling our people’s old masters in your forge, yet you curse the missing spark that keeps their level out of reach.” Ossi felt his inner confidence surging, and forgot that it was his father whom he was now attempting to persuade. “What did the smiths of Belegost and Nogrod have that you do not? Elvish allies. Elvish collaborators. There is something they must know that we lack. Before you is a chance to unlock their great secret. It is an unprecedented opportunity!”

“Do not feed me your faerie tales…”

“You are curious, father. I sense it. Allow me this chance to redeem myself. I shall fetch you the metal arm. Behold it for yourself, and then tell me you are willing to let its creator walk without tapping his mind.”

Then fell a great, stony silence, a silence that Olafur seemed to fuel and sustain, letting it grow to the point where it almost deafened. And then he spoke in a whisper that hit like a pair of jabs to Ossi’s chest: “Bring me the arm. And bring me its creator.”

The prince’s jaw fell, and he began to assemble some hodgepodge statement of gratitude. But Olafur was already moving away from him, almost floating, and Ossi felt himself pulled by the hands of Frors toward the back door, until he was suddenly back in the dingy and cramped little stairwell without quite realizing what had just happened.

He stood there for several moments, collecting his wits, before running a hand over his face and beginning the descent. This would be a long day.

 

[chrysophalax]

The house of Vorik hadn’t seen this much activity in months. Not since Barulin himself had suffered a rather humiliating training injury involving one of his newest recruits and a pot of goose grease that one of the armourers had left lying about. The week or so that it took him to recover from the sprained ankle was among the longest of Vorik’s life, as every guard under Barulin had to see and comment, for himself. Never would he get some of the jests out of his head.

In the case of the elf, however, it was not the number of people involved, but the type. Rangers, an elf, a frantic merchant and a fiercely protective young dwarf had those in Vorik’s home constantly on edge. The sudden reappearance of the prince did nothing to ease their anxiety as Ossi demanded once more to speak with Eldarin.

When told of the prince’s return, the elven smith glanced anxiously at Vorik, who merely nodded, then resumed redressing Haluin’s steadily oozing wound. Willing himself to remain calm, Eldarin went to meet the prince, knowing that whatever was said would mean the difference between life and death for his friend.

“Bring the arm. My father will speak with you, Master Elf. If you wish to save your companion, guard your words.”

Eldarin’s eyes flashed angrily, but said nothing and did as he was bid, retrieving Haluin’s arm from where it lay next to him on a table. As he lifted it, he looked down at Haluin and was startled to see that his eyes were open. Quickly he reached down, touching his good shoulder lightly. Haluin smiled wanly, then whispered, “You have done all that you can, mellon-nin. I am more than grateful.”

“I hope to do much more, Haluin. Think for awhile on the trees of your homeland and all will be well, I swear.” Another weak smile and Haluin drifted off into healing reverie as Eldarin returned to the prince’s side.

“It is here and I am here, prince. “ said the smith shortly. Ossi raised an eyebrow. “So I see, now mind your tongue, smith, if you would have your way. My sire suffers no fools and has a temper to rival any dragon. Am I understood?”

“Aye, prince. Let us go, by all means. My friend’s time here grows shorter by the moment.” Ossi looked up at the elf keenly, then nodded. “Follow me.”

Up and up they climbed, dwarf and elf together. Many looks were thrown their way and many questions were asked of the patrolling guards who passed regularly among the general populace, but they all claimed ignorance and walked on heedless of the burning curiosity they left behind.

What seemed like ages later to Eldarin, they came at last to a cavern wherein burned the light of a forge. A lone dwarf with huge shoulders wielded a hammer as carefully as a sculptor chipped at marble, shaping, coaxing, pleading, demanding. It took Eldarin a moment before he could speak.

“My sire,Olafur, elf.” Ossi said in hushed tones. Eldarin glanced down at him, then back to the dwarf at the forge. “A craftsman indeed. I am in your debt, prince.” Drawing himself up, he raised his voice. “I am Eldarin of Imladris. May I approach?”

A grunt was his only answer. He tried again. “Lord Olafur, may I approach? I have brought that which you requested.” “That which I requested…” said Olafur sarcastically. He suddenly straightened, fixing the elf with a piercing glare. “Are all of you so…delicate?”

“If by that you mean respectful, aye, lord. We are. May I approach?”

“Persistent, aren’t you? I thought you elves had the patience of ages.”

“Aye, lord. But not when one of our kin lies dying.” With that, he walked up to Olafur and laid the arm on the anvil. “I made this for my brother who lies in Vorik’s hall. He lost an arm protecting his friend, a dwarf. I will show you and any other smith in your kingdom all that I can if you will only allow me to modify my creation to fit him.” Eldarin looked the dwarf lord directly in the eye. “Only this will save him. Be merciful, I pray you and all my knowledge will be yours.”


A stab of guilt lanced through the elven smith as he spoke, for not only was he about to divulge secrets known to but a few this side of the Havens, he would have to betray every smith to ever ply the trade.

Can I truly capable of such a thing? To give away everything I have worked for, bled for, all for the sake of an outcast? A voice somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind chuckled darkly. And have you not already done so? It was for Haluin that you left your apprentices, your own sons no less! Was his situation indeed so dire? Eldarin, you are a fool among the Eldar, for you have thrown away your own future as blithely as he has.

Shutting out the voice that whispered so cunningly in his mind, Eldarin raised his eyes once more to those of Olafur and there he read cold, calculating assessment. "My heir tells me that your kinsman lies close to death. Is he so dear to you that you are willing to trade all your secrets in the hope that he will live? Does he come from a ruling House that you hold him in such regard?"

"Nay, my lord. He is not a noble, neither does he have a family that would grieve should he fade. He is, however, a fine warrior and a savagely devoted friend, as I am certain Jokim can attest. He saved the life of each of us during the long journey here, at one time or another and for that, if for nothing else, I owe him the same loyalty."

Olafur lay down his hammer then to pick up the arm. "Show me how it works."

Without another thought, Eldarin set to the task of completely dismantling the arm, explaining to the dwarf lord in minute detail each step in the process. After a short time had passed, Olafur bade Ossi to send for his best smiths. "This is indeed beyond the finest work my smithies are capable of turning out. But why do I have the feeling that no matter what we do, achieving the full potential of such a contraption might still be beyond us?"

Eldarin glanced at the dwarf, puzzled by the question. Then it hit him and inwardly, he tensed, not knowing how what he had to say would be received. "My lord, your suspicion may be true, though indeed I cannot tell for certain. You see, when we..I...create a thing, be it a weapon, or a tool, I transfer to it a bit of my energy, my heart...my soul, if you will." He reached to to carefully pick up a finger from amongst all the scattered components lying on a long table near the roaring hearth. He held it up for Olafur to scrutinise.

"Into this creation I poured myself to the greatest extent of which I was capable. And it worked! Now, I must do the same in greater measure if I am to save him. So you see, you may not only gain my secrets and those of my kin, but drain me dry as well, thus ridding you of an "enemy". A fair trade, do you not think?

Olafur gazed up at the eleven smith craftily, then said. "Perhaps. My smiths will be here soon. Then you may begin." He held out a huge hand toward the elf, who paused but a moment before clasping it. "We have a trade."

 

[Ghorim]

“You may begin.”

Six faces hung suspended in black before Eldarin’s gaze, lit in red and orange glow: the Lord of the Blue Mountains and his five most trusted smiths. Motionless, now silent, they awaited the first strike of his hammer.

At the Elf’s side lay an armory of tools: blunt and rounded, bulky and fine, made to break material and then coax it into elegance. There were shelves packed with raw materials, dull metals and stubborn stones, the dusky potential of unpolished gems. If he needed more, Eldarin need only ask: mute workmen would fetch more supplies, borne by a private cart track whose length terminated at the Lord’s personal forge.

All this limitless choice, and before him, a bare anvil. A blank canvas.

In Imladris, Eldarin’s mentor had once spoken of the terror of the blacksmith's first stroke: of beginning creation from empty possibility. The first stroke could paralyze an inexperienced or insecure smith. It could keep him up at night, stumbling down endless branching paths of thought, second-guessing decisions he hadn’t even made.

There were ways around it: to strike impulsively, almost at a guess, and chart a course from there. Or to chill one’s mind to frigid stillness, analyze the first step without emotion or vanity, and proceed with confidence.

But Eldarin could not act rashly, nor could he divorce himself from emotion. He could almost feel Haluin’s flagging breath on the back of his neck. He felt the unfamiliar tingling of doubt, a feeling he had not experienced at the anvil since his novice days.

When Lord Olafur ordered him to begin, he stood still and let the confusion and indecision sweep over him. He leaned into it, letting it press him down and prod at him. The maelstrom came and went in a matter of a few moments. Eldarin had only to blink and it disappeared. Now his sight was clear. He knew what he must do.

There were times, on his most successful projects, when Eldarin needed nothing more than imagine an object into being. He could rearrange the materials in his mind, and his hands would simply follow suit, acting as mere accessories to his imagination.

This was not one of those projects. He felt every strike of the hammer, every lick of the forge fire against his bare skin. The sound of each blow against the metal reverberated incessantly in his head.

But soon Eldarin realized that there was more than a mere echo in the room. Across the chamber, Olafur stood working at his own station. He was mimicking each of Eldarin’s movements, constructing a miniature metallic arm of his own, built to the dimensions of a dwarf. With each note Eldarin struck against metal, a companion tone soon followed it. When Eldarin paused to consider his work or fetch new material, Olafur paused as well. The dwarf lord never raced ahead of him, never anticipated the next step of the process.

As he trained all his energy on the project at hand, Eldarin found a strange comfort in the call and response between him and Olafur. He was not alone in the darkness.

They performed a duet of iron and steel, Eldarin at the lead. The other smiths watched in a sort of reluctant awe: attempting to deny their wonder at the Elf’s skill. Hours bled by, and with each moment that passed Eldarin seemed to grow in focused desperation. Sweat coursed from him as it never had before. Emotions and memories, joyous and painful, fed and sustained him. They flowed from heart to hand and into the work itself.

Time became immaterial in that darkened chamber. It did not matter: Eldarin imagined he would spend whatever remained of his life at that anvil, pouring himself into the metal. And praying that it might not all be in vain.

---

As prince of the realm, Ossi had a numbing array of regal duties to tend to every day. He was not especially dutiful about any of them.

But now, with his mind fully entranced by the mountain’s newest arrivals, he had abandoned all pretense to caring about sub-councils or socializing with nobility. He could only think about dying Elves, and mysterious rangers, and taciturn old soldiers sitting in dank little cells.

So as the hours accumulated into days and still nothing emerged from his father’s private forge, Ossi grew restless. Taking the steps two at a time, he climbed the dark and lonely passageway up to the throne room, then descended the great stairwell down to the royal forge.

Standing at the sealed entrance was Frors, his father’s attendant. The old dwarf stared upon Ossi placidly while the prince caught his breath. Behind the thick metal doors, they could hear the sound of two hammers singing in time, one falling shortly after the other.

“I don’t suppose you would grant me a peek inside?” Ossi gave a practiced grin.

Frors shook his head. “Only the Lord and his guests are to be granted admittance.”

“Am I not considered a guest?”

“My Lord abhors distractions. And you are his greatest one.”

“Frors, my old fellow! Who trained your kindly tongue to heave such insults?”

“No insults. Simply facts.” Frors had barely flinched all this while, standing at easy attention with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Well what have you heard? How goes the project?”

“What use would I have for such gossip, Master Ossi?”

“You have been in there! Do not feign ignorance with me. You could never allow my father to labor for so long without checking in on his condition.”

“My Lord has shrugged me off as a nuisance. A distraction. I am not to disturb him until his work is complete. His gave this order yesterday.”

Ossi snorted and threw up his hands. He was so frustrated he let them hang confusedly in the air for a moment before slapping them against his thighs. He turned away, looking forlornly up the staircase toward the throne room. “Well that is very much like my father, isn’t it?”

Frors gazed at him from beneath heavy eyelids like a patient grandfather, waiting for the prince’s flaring of temper to pass. “Yes, I suppose it is a pity that I cannot witness the spectacle that the other smiths were describing an hour ago…”

Ossi spun about. “What?”

“Yes, my prince. Your father’s guests apparently do not have the same endurance as Lord Olafur or the Elf. They have left the chamber at intervals to fetch food and drink.”

The prince approached him cautiously. “And?”

“Upon their last excursion, they seemed rather convinced that the Elf was nearly spent. He has worked without pause all this time. With terrible intensity, even from the beginning. His labor nears its completion, they say, but he has little more to give.”

Now Ossi remembered Eldarin’s words to him at the healer Vorik’s home: “Take what you will from me, only save him."

The prince began to shake his head. “He is throwing himself away, isn’t he? The fool! He shall require attention as soon as he is done. I must return to Vorik’s…”

He was talking to himself now, forgetting Frors, turning to hurry back up the staircase.

“Take care, my prince!” called the old dwarf after him. “Some may begin to suspect that you harbor some manner of concern for these Elves.”

But Ossi, for once, did not bother with a retort. There was no time…

---

By the time Prince Ossi returned with Vorik in tow, the doors to the forge had been thrown wide open. The other smiths had vanished.

Inside, Frors was sitting beside Lord Olafur, who was laid low with exhaustion, the attendant assisting his ruler with a canteen of water. No one had yet bothered with Eldarin, collapsed beside his anvil in a pool of his own sweat.

Vorik and Ossi rushed to the Elf’s side and together managed to prop him up. The healer had brought his own supply of water, and with the prince’s help managed to coax some down Eldarin’s throat.

“How is he?” asked the prince, gripping Eldarin’s left shoulder to keep him aloft.

“Not so far gone that our water will be of no use to him — and that is all that matters! Now help me carry him.”

The Elf was pure dead weight, and they struggled to get him up off the ground. But just as they hoisted Eldarin upon their shoulders, they heard a whisper.

“It is… it is…”

“What?” Ossi shook the Elf, even as Vorik grunted for him to stop. “What are you saying?”

“It is… complete.”

And then the two dwarves stared, dumbfounded, at what they had managed to overlook until now: the metal arm, full and complete, displayed before them on Eldarin’s workbench. The surface shown golden in the forge fire light, and the fingers splayed open in an inviting gesture, as if waving hello.

Eldarin let out a low, quiet moan, then shuddered and fell still.

 

[chrysophalax]

Druri was bathing Haluin's injured arm in herb-infused water when Ossi had come tearing into the front room of Vorik's home. He had then heard urgent murmuring and the old healer had reappeared with a strained look on his weary face. "I must go. It's Eldarin."

**************

They had had a rough night with Haluin. Only two days prior, he had at last opened his eyes and asked for water, to Vorik's relief. Druri and the Rangers had gathered around his sick bed in wonderment. "I knew it! I knew he would pull through." cried a delighted Druri.

"Aye, young master. It is well known that elves are notoriously hard to kill." said Eldred with amusement in his voice and even Hurod cracked a smile.

"My apologies to you all. It seems as though Jokim's words are proving true enough" Struggling to sit up, the elf looked about him. "Where is he? Where is Jokim?" Looks were furtively exchanged. Haluin's eyes darted around the room. "Where is Eldarin?"

Clearing his throat, the young dwarf laid a gentle hand on Haluin's right shoulder. "Eldarin's gone to speak with Lord Olafur and Uncle...well..."

"Is he alright, Druri? Tell me he has done nothing rash." Hurod snorted. "'Nothing rash', he says." Eldred glared at his brother, as Haluin turned his anxious gaze upon the Rangers. "What do you know? Tell me!" he hissed, eyes narrowing.

Druri jumped in before either of the men could speak. "He's been taken prisoner, Haluin. Uncle attacked one of the guard captains so that we could get you back inside to Vorik. There was nothing else to be done." Haluin's eyes went wide, then he tried to get out of bed. Both Rangers, acting as one, barred his way. Druri stood beside him, grasping his good hand. "He helped to save you, Haluin. Don't you see? You were so near death...so pale..." Haluin watched as a tear rolled down his friend's cheek. He pulled the lad to his chest in a firm embrace, while the brothers watched the elf warily.

"I'm still here, Druri Elf-friend. " the elf murmured softly. "Namo has no use for me in his Hall just yet, I'm afraid.

Druri pulled away from his friend abruptly, swiping at his tears as he did so. "Don't joke about it, Haluin! You're my best friend and you almost died!" he growled. In the face of such emotion, Haluin held up his hand in a gesture of peace. "Forgive me, Druri. Your uncle has called me fool more times than I can count and for just such reasons as this." He sighed heavily as he lay back on his pillows. " Forgive me."

"Forgiven, of course!" cried Druri, squeezing his friend's hand. "Are you hungry?" The elf shook his head but Vorik had other ideas. "Good day, friend elf! My lady wife has made you some wholesome broth for you to sip...and believe me, she will set the place about our ears should you refuse!"

Haluin grinned. "Then by all means bring me some. I have no desire to cause more disaster, at least...not today." he said with a wink and Druri laughed. Vorik set a tray across his lap and Haluin's stomach growled as the rich, meaty scent wafted up to his nostrils. Carefully, he picked up the cup and brought it to his lips. His eyes closed as he held the warm liquiid in his mouth for a moment, then swallowed. "Delicious! Please thank your good lady for me. This should have me back on my feet in no time!"


*****************

That day and the next found the elf and his companions talking, filling Haluin in on everything that had happened while he had been ill.

"When will Druri be let out?" he asked. "And where is Eldarin? He has been gone far too long. What if Olafur has locked him away too? He will go mad shut up here, underground! He is not like we elves of Eryn Lasgalen, who live in caves fashioned by our own hands. Vorik, tell me. Where is my brother? He would not leave..." Suddenly, Haluin grabbed his wounded arm, wincing. "Where is my arm?" No one answered and all the pieces fell into place. "No..." Only another elf would know the enormity of the sacrifice that Eldarin was making on his behalf. "No!" Flinging aside the fur that was covering him, Haluin got to his feet. Vorik gasped. "I've never seen such resilience! So it's true what they say of the elves..."

Eldred made to grab for Haluin but the elf slipped away from his grasp. "Tell me where he is! I will not allow him to throw away his ea for me, do you understand?" Vorik and Druri looked at each other in alarm. "No, master elf, I do not."

"Elves pour their fea-their souls, if you like, into the greatest of their works." replied Eldred solemnly. "Haluin's new arm would certainly qualify as such."

"He has already given far too much. This could kill him!" cried Haluin as he made for the door. "Will one of you help me, or must I find him myself?"

More quickly than Druri would have given him credit for, Vorik dashed in front of the elf, barring his way. "I will not allow you to ruin all my hard work. Your friend labours to return you to full health, would you have him give all for nothing should you relapse?" Haluin snarled. He knew they were right, but he couldn't bear the thought of what Eldarin was doing. Giving, always giving. It brought him to tears. "I will stay." he whispered and he fell into evil dreams from which they could not wake him.


*********************



"Make room, make room! Eldred, Hurod, help us with him, eh?" gasped Vorik as the two dwarves came in, carrying an unconscious Eldarin between them. Quickly and efficiently, Hurod scooped up the elf in his arms while his brother cleared away some extra linens and basins from the only other bed in the room. Hurod laid Eldarin down on it but it was so short that the long legs of the smith hung over the end. Greta came dashing over to see to her patient, while Druri tried to watch what was going on, even as he was drying off Haluin's arm. Sighing, he sent a prayer of thankfulness to anyone who was listening that Haluin was now sleeping quietly.

With great care, he slid off his stool and peered in over Vorik's sholder to look at Eldarin. The normally robust smith was barely breathing and his skin had taken on an ashen hue. Hectic patches of red seemed to have been dashed across his high cheekbones, giving him the appearance of having been slapped. "Never seen anything like it, lad." whispered Greta called to Vorik for hot water and towels. "He's fevered. See how he sweats? He'll need water."

"I'll fetch it!" said Druri as he dashed off to the cistern at the back of the room. Greta smoothed away the strands of hair that were stuck to Eldarin's forehead, sighing. "These elves, they are doughty friends indeed. I will do what I can for him."

Forgotten by the doorway to the sick room was Ossi. Slightly dazed by his dash through the great halls, he watched with fascination as two of the best healers his father's realm had to offer were fighting to save-what? Enemies? Criminals? Nay, surely these beings were neither. Not if their actions were anything to judge them by. And what of Jokim? His conscience pricked at him. What if one of his friends died and he were not here to lend support?

Slightly, the dwarf prince came to a decision, clenched his jaw, then slipped out of the room. He would free Jokim, if only temporarily and damn the consequences!