All Roads Lead Home

[Ghorim]

“Name?”

Jokim glanced up from the flimsy parchment to regard another young and vacant face.

“Komar,” came the reply, a bit tenuous and uncertain.

The elder dwarf studied the boy from just over the brims of his reading spectacles. Forcing a smile, Komar nodded awkwardly, as if to confirm that he could be trusted to know his own name. Jokim’s eyes contained nothing in answer save the cool boredom of a civil servant at work.

But he had already sniffed out a lie, perhaps one yet unspoken.

Jokim glanced back down to the log sheet and recorded the name in stiff characters.

“Father’s name?” he asked, without looking up this time.

“Ogdin,” said Komar with cautious confidence.

“Mmm...” Jokim made his entry, then took another survey of the lad’s features. In crisp shorthand, he noted Komar’s hair and eye color in the corresponding boxes.

“Age?”

“Thirty-one,” came the blurted response.

Jokim began to write this, but stopped and looked up at Komar again.

“Thirty-one?” he repeated, stretching out the number for the youth to confirm.

Komar nodded. “Aye, that’s right.”

The old dwarf lowered his quill. Komar followed the instrument with his eyes as it came to rest beside the enlistment log, and felt all of his dreams tumble with its descent.

“Komar,” began Jokim in a fatherly tone, stepping out from behind the veil of official indifference for a moment, “a word of advice from one who has played this game before: if you’re going to lie about your age, give as low a number as possible. The minimum enlistment age is thirty. Say thirty. Tacking on that extra year only makes it all the less believable.”

The lad lowered his eyes and nodded sadly, looking like he wanted to hide in a corner somewhere. Indeed, Komar had little more than a light down of hair upon his chin, and adolescence had yet to chisel out all of his pudgy, childish features. Mid-twenties, at the eldest.

“I’m sorry...” he began.

“Did you not hear me?” interrupted Jokim, pushing back his spectacles from the precipice of his nose and furrowing his gray brows. “I said, ‘Say thirty.’”

“I heard you,” nodded Komar repentantly. “And when the proper time comes...”

“Say thirty,” hissed Jokim, wondering what more he needed to do to get the hint across.

Komar finally looked up, and his eyes ignited with the sudden shock of what the old army clerk was offering him. He cleared his throat, still all nerves in the presence of Jokim’s intimidating, eagle-like features.

“Thirty,” he said in a half-whisper.

“Good!” cried Jokim, so sharply that the whole procession of lads behind Komar leapt to attention. And in a few triumphant strokes he entered Komar, son of Ogdin as a thirty year-old recruit to the Iron Hills Infantry.

Jokim then turned to gesture toward the two bored-looking sergeants who were idling about behind him.

“These two will give you your physical. Should you pass it, go on to the next station to receive your armor measurements.”

Komar nodded and showered gratitude on Jokim with his moonstruck eyes alone. To think – his dream about to come true! After all these years of envy, he’d be a real soldier at last! With glorious visions swirling all about him, the lad wandered over to his physical in a joyful daze.

Ignoring Komar’s euphoria, Jokim looked back down to the log to make certain he had recorded everything correctly. And then he glanced up to the next face.

“Name?”

---

After all the enlistments were completed, after all of the latest infirmary reports had been filed, after the ration requests were checked and double-checked, Jokim went out to be a soldier again. He tore out of the constricting shell of his clerk uniform and into looser, layered clothes for his personal training session. While stretching the tendons and joints of his aging body, he also prepared his mind for the harsh tasks ahead. Once he was prepared, Jokim checked past the guards at the main gate and went jogging out into the darkening gloom of the surface world.

He could just spy the brilliant colors of the setting sun cutting through a swirl of clouds to the west. All else was grey – the native color of the Iron Hills. His evening trot took him along the rolling dirt paths that sputtered over the surface of the land. A light snow fell, soggy and quick to melt upon the dirt and stone beneath Jokim’s feet. The dwarf’s breath burst out in plumes of mist as his legs churned and arms pumped. For miles all about, nothingness. Now Jokim’s mind could wander from the numbing routine that ordered his days.

But his thoughts kept returning to that endless river of faces at the recruitment office. Enlistments had spiked fiercely since Erebor had fallen the year before. The ire of the Khazad was running high, and from children to elders all spoke of terrific vengeance against the Great Worm Smaug. They would mobilize, they would storm the halls of their beloved ancestral home, and they would leave with the Worm’s head on a great mithril platter.

When his colleagues took to speaking of such things, Jokim would hold his tongue and withdraw. He had heard these words before, spoken with just as much passion and persuasion. In the eyes of these young warriors he could glimpse the insatiable blaze that had devoured his friend Berezin and so many others as they vied to recapture the Grey Mountains.

That fire will claim many more, Jokim thought as he rounded a bend in the hillside.

The view stretched west, and just beyond the horizon lay the Lonely Mountain itself. The old dwarf slowed to a halt, his gaze held by the dreary expanse of the plains before him.

“My home,” he muttered, looking in the direction of Erebor and envisioning it as it was in his youth.

“My second home,” he corrected himself. But then he thought again.

“Nae... no home for me. No home for any of us, not any more.”

He spat a wad of phlegm upon the ground, before turning around and jogging back to the gates.

---

Druri worked at the fire with weary patience. He knew that when his uncle returned home he would want a healthy blaze to warm his bones beside. The youth’s features drew taut as he tried to nurture the fragile sparks into healthy flames. They resisted, avoiding the timber that Druri had so carefully stacked together and contenting themselves to glow gently upon the stone floor of the hearth.

But the lad did not give up, blowing and stirring at the embers determinedly. And his efforts were repaid when the timber began to catch, the flames spreading surely over the wooden formation and beginning to warm the one-room dwelling. By the time Jokim entered, sweating and short of breath, the air had grown cozy and welcoming.

“Well done,” he said tersely, as usual avoiding the gaze that his nephew cast his way. The old dwarf lowered himself into his favored armchair, whose stuffing was bursting from every seam, and let out a contended sigh.

“And supper?” he inquired as he kicked off his boots.

“Stew’s ready to cook now,” said Druri, adopting his uncle’s dry tone of speech. He brought the swollen pot over and hung it to heat above the modest blaze.

“Good, good,” mumbled Jokim, rubbing his temples with shut eyes.

Druri paused and watched his uncle, waiting until he was properly settled in before breaking the news.

“A missive arrived today, uncle.”

“Oh?” Jokim opened one eye in half-interest. “Had it far to travel?”

“The messenger said it came from the Ered Luin.”

“Far, indeed!” Jokim sat up a bit now, rousing himself with surprise. “Have you read it?”

“Of course not, uncle,” said Druri dutifully. “I had assumed it was for you.”

“I see. Well, fetch it and read it to me now.”

Druri hesitated briefly before walking to his cot, upon which the unopened message lay. “Are you sure you wish me to read it, uncle? I’m no good with words, at least not good the way you are.”

Jokim snorted. “I waited until I was full-grown before learning to read and write my letters. I won’t have you making the same mistake. Besides,” and again he reached up to rub one of the corners of his eyes, “I have been poring over official documents all day. Give these eyes some relief, lad.”

“But the stew...”

“I’ll handle the stew. You just read what you see, and if you need help, I’ll lend it.”

Druri bit his lip, carefully opened the letter, and began to read as Jokim crouched beside the pot to stir its contents. Quickly, the young dwarf found the language of the missive too broad for his grasp, and before he’d even made it halfway through the message, he and his uncle had traded places.

Jokim had left his spectacles in the office, and so he squinted heavily as he absorbed the words. He read aloud, while Druri stirred the ladle and listened.

[Ghorim]

My old comrade Jokim,

Greetings from the Ered Luin. We have been here almost a year now, and the sting of our journey yet lingers. I cannot call this place haven or home, though others may content themselves to do so. Even here, amidst these fine mountains, the most placid scenes enrage me. We should not be here. I should not be seeing these sights. Twice now the Great Worms of the North have torn away my home from me, and I can find little outlet for my grief save to commiserate with my fellow travelers.

I fear, however, that in my anger I have strayed from my original course in writing this letter. For, how silly of me, I began with the intent of convincing you to join us out here in the West. I may have doomed my mission before I even undertook it, but please do hear me out.

Since the arrival of the survivors from Erebor, there has been a great shake-up amongst the infantry of this region. We lost many, many good officers when the Worm descended upon us in flame, and the native troops here are ill-equipped, to say the least. Our new army is a scarcely concealed mess, crying out for talent and experience from abroad.

You know I have always felt that the Iron Hills forces were wasting your abilities by relegating you to that clerical post. And I know that you have long desired a more prestigious position, one befitting your skill and character. Well, since I arrived out here I have been wielding what little prestige and influence I possess like an axe on your behalf. After praising you to every two-bit officer I could find and receiving scant attention, I lucked into contact with a fellow of fine lineage who could use a lieutenant in his unit.

Now I can already see you, Jokim, with your nose wrinkled in disgust at such charity. You have always fended for yourself, for good or for ill. But I know what they pay army clerks, and I should think that it is hardly adequate to support yourself and your young nephew. Make this move for his sake, even though it may stain your pride. An officer’s pension is well worth making the march out West, I assure you.

The position here would require few hard contact drills, so you needn’t worry about aggravating your condition. And if you’re still concerned about your association with the Grey Mountains campaign, worry not. Those old grudges have faded in the wake of the Worm’s desolation. We are all Khazad now, and you shall be treated as kin by all who dwell here. Since we are brothers as ever, I would gladly house you and your nephew with my family until you found a home of your own.

I have convinced our officer friend to reserve his opening until either you produce yourself or a missive declining the opportunity. I beg of you to consider this offer to the fullest before acting. Would it not be grand to live as neighbors again into our final days, comrades of the Grey Legion until the end? I await your decision most eagerly.

Your kinsman,

Vorik

---

Jokim lowered the letter, staring at the ostentatious signature that marred the bottom of the page. After a few moments of thought, his overcast features split in a sudden burst of rueful laughter.

“Vorik, you sentimental old goat!”

And then he remembered that Druri was still in the room. The lad had long since stopped stirring the stew, and now stared at his uncle with shocked eyes and a gaping mouth. Jokim scowled to himself, realizing that he shouldn’t have read all of that for his nephew to hear.

He stood from his chair, setting down the missive on a side table. With a thoughtful, almost drowsy gait, Jokim strolled to the dwelling’s lone window. Unconsciously, the dwarf’s hand rose to stroke his graying whiskers as he gazed out upon the slumbering streets.

Kneeling beside the steaming cauldron, Druri struggled to dam up the flood of questions that he wanted to ask his uncle right then and there. But the most important one burst from his lips:

“Do you want to go west, uncle?”

Jokim gave a brief glance over his shoulder and chuckled.

“That is not the question. What is another journey to me now?”

He laughed again, with something approaching true humor this time, and returned to his raggedy throne. He crossed one leg atop the other and folded his hands over his belly.

Druri grit his teeth in concern at how his uncle might decide. His young heart strained at the thrilling thought of an adventure from one side of the realms to the other. He and Uncle Jokim could have a new home, and a better one at that, with a higher salary and more respect for the both of them. As it was, the other boys of the Iron Hills didn’t get along with Druri. He was no one’s son, they said, just the nephew of some squint-eyed old clerk who could never make it as a real soldier. But in the Ered Luin... no more such slights and insults, never again!

“Stir the broth, lad,” said Jokim, though his thoughts, too, lay elsewhere.

Druri snapped back to attention and resumed the chore. Just as the stew came to a healthy boil, Jokim glanced at Druri.

“Lad... tell me, do you remember Vorik?”

The nephew squinted one eye, searching his young memories. “Back in Erebor... I remember we visited his home once for dinner. It was very big. His son was a bit taller than me, but I beat him at arm wrestling. Mama...” he paused. “Mama said Vorik was a friend of the family.”

Jokim nodded, and his smile seemed to turn sad without any observable change of expression. “A friend, indeed. A friend, indeed...”

Both fell silent, with the broth hissing insistently to fill the stillness of the room.

Suddenly, Jokim clapped his hands down on his chair’s armrests, startling Druri into the moment once again.

“Let us eat,” said the uncle.

With soldierly efficiency, they slurped down the pot to its very bottom. And with no further discussion on Vorik’s letter, they lay down upon their cots and went to sleep. The fire dwindled gradually over night, until only the lonely embers remained in the morning.

[chrysophalax]

Fletching arrows had never been Haluin's favourite pastime, for he was too much of a perfectionist. Either the angle at which each feather did not perfectly match the others, or the notch into which each much be secured did not have the same uniform depth. He could always find some flaw, some indiscirnable something that made his arrows less than the ideal weapon he needed them to be.

An elf on his own needed good weapons, dependable weapons if he were to survive on his own. It was far too widely known (in his opinion) that elven senses were arguably the most developed among the peoples of Middle Earth and there were those who enjoyed the challenge of putting them to the test.

Ruefully, Haluin remembered a one might in late autumn two years gone, when with the trees near bare and the forest carpetted with dry leaves that he had seen he was being tracked by a small hunting party of orcs. He had cursed their sensitive noses as he began to run for his life, threading in and out among the trees, his thoughts streaking ahead, trying to remember if the land around him would afford him a place of escape. It had been nigh on two centuries since he had last the eastern shores of Anduin and much had changed, to his increasing distress.

After almost an hour had past, running full tilt, he had come across the carcass of an enormous stag and, pausing only a moment in revulsion, he burrowed beneath it, all the while praying to any of the Valar who would listen that it would be enough to disguise his scent.

Day had turned into evening by the time Hakuin eased out from under his maggot-ridden host. Apparently his pursuers had given up on their sport and gone in search of game not quite so fleet of foot.

With a whispered prayer of gratitude to whomsoever had heard his desperate plea, Haluin set off in search of the nearest stream in order to wash away the bits of offal that clung to him like a fly in honey.

He found himself chuckling at the memory. Ah, Elbereth, how far I have fallen. Who would have thought such a promising life should find itself near extinguished in such a disgusting manner? If whoever you are is still listening, I pray you that, once my life here is done, that be allowed to return at some future time in order to make right all the wrong I have done, for how can one so ill-starred as I have any hope of attaining Valinor while I yet live?

For the normally irrepressable Haluin, thoughts of this nature he found deeply disturbing...and increasingly more frequent as time went on. So many of his friends had either fallen, gone West, or had shunned him since the incident in Mirkwood, so the past thirty years had found him totally alone with only his shadow for company.

As in his memory, the light was now fading in the western sky and he felt a tug at his heart as he watched Him dip below the treeline, turning the clouds first orange, then red, then a purple so warm and rich it brought tears to his eyes. With a sigh, Haluin collected the arrows he had been working on, stowing them away in his quiver for later scrutiny, then began to walk.

I will spend tonight by Anduin. he thought. For the sake of my memory and because I love the sound of his voice as he rushes ever southward. May tomorrow bring me better prospects.

[Ghorim]

For three days Druri searched for a sign from his uncle. The lad didn’t dare broach the subject and ask outright. If he somehow angered the old fellow, this wondrous opportunity might disappear forever. So he hunted for hidden meaning behind the few words that Jokim spoke each night, scrutinized his elder’s expression when he wasn’t looking, and tried to make note of every peculiar action his uncle took.

Yet for all his efforts, nothing was revealed. Jokim was like a smooth, featureless stone, without any cracks or hints of intention.

By the fourth night, Druri was reduced to complete paralysis. He sat hunched on his cot with his hands gripping his hair, trying to convince himself to remain patient. The fire was roaring, but he paid it no mind. Had Uncle Jokim forgotten? No, he had the sharpest mind of anyone that Druri had ever met. So he had to know how this silence was torturing his poor nephew, aye?

Druri glanced up from the floor and stared at the door with a renewed determination. He would ask tonight, the moment his uncle stepped through that entryway. And he would not accept a “no.” Never.

Some fifteen minutes after Druri came to this resolution, Jokim stepped through the door, an imposing shadow cast by the lantern light from outside. Druri’s voice caught in his throat. His uncle stepped forward, and then Druri saw the sack draped over Jokim’s back and a scroll tucked under one arm. The lad stood, his lips trembling.

Jokim took another step forward, and the room’s firelight flooded his face. He did not look at Druri. The sack fell from his hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. Jokim sat at the table and placed the scroll before him. Only now did he meet Druri’s yearning gaze. Silence reigned for a few moments.

“We leave in two days,” said Jokim, finally.

A sudden spasm brought Druri off of his feet and into midair. A whoop escaped from his throat. But halfway through the excited gesture, he remembered his place and the manners that his uncle had taught him. And the second his feet touched ground he was stiff and awkward again, casting an apologetic look Jokim’s way.

The old dwarf gave a rare chuckle, which instantly loosened Druri’s stance. “Go on, lad. Celebrate if you will. Get all of that energy out, and when you’re ready to listen sensibly, have a seat beside me.”

Druri nodded excitedly. Indeed, he felt like he might burst open with giddy laughter and babbled words. But for some reason, he still could not bring himself to open up completely in front of his elder. He glanced to the door, then back to Jokim.

“Excuse me for a moment.”

He walked to the door, opened it, and closed it gingerly behind him.

Jokim heard his nephew’s heavy footfalls as the lad went sprinting off into the night. He smirked and leaned his head against his fist, waiting for Druri to complete his victory lap around the neighborhood. The lad returned a few minutes later, flushed and breathless, plopping himself down on the stool that sat beside his uncle.

Making no comment at Druri’s arrival, Jokim unrolled the scroll across the table, revealing a sprawling map of Arda.

“This is on loan from the Hall of Records,” explained Jokim. “Very fragile. Be sure not to dirty it up.”

Druri nodded solemnly.

“Now,” continued the uncle, “here we are.”

His right index finger hovered over a series of hatch marks on the northeastern corner of the map.

“The Iron Hills. And the Ered Luin lie here.”

His left finger shot out to the opposite end of the scroll. Druri’s eyes widened. He hadn’t realized how far a trek this would be. Now Jokim’s right finger lifted itself to just in front of Druri’s nose, wagging in his face stubbornly.

“This is no pleasure journey that we are undertaking, you and I. It will take many months. It will test your body as it has never before been tested. And there will be danger.”

Jokim gave one last emphatic thrust of his finger and let this final point hang over his nephew’s head. Once he was satisfied that the message had struck home, he continued his illustration of their itinerary, his right finger drawing out the route as he spoke.

“Now... we will begin by traveling along the Redwater. There are many fine mannish settlements upon its banks, and we can stock up on provisions as we go. Next, we break southwest, across the plains, until we reach the River Running. We’ll follow it to Mirkwood. And there the most dangerous portion of our journey begins.”

Druri looked up from the map to his uncle. The old dwarf stared back coldly, his features creased and shadowed.

“I will have many instructions for you as we near these dark lands. Many a traveler has lost his way within those tangled woods, but if we progress sensibly we should find our way to the other side. Crossing the Misties will prove another challenge, but I’m pleased to say that the rest of the march should be a fairly simple matter.”

“One foot in front of the other,” said Druri with a hesitant grin.

“Aye,” Jokim returned the smile, sensing the boy needed to be set at ease. “Now, that sack on the floor contains some of our preliminary supplies. Food, blankets, extra clothes. You’ll need to get one of these,” the old dwarf tugged at the weathered brown hood that was a permanent fixture upon his head. “Keeps the rain and wind out. I’ll give you some coins to find one at the market tomorrow morning.”

Druri nodded, trying feverishly to remember everything that his uncle told him. He felt that gnawing need to impress Jokim, to prove to him that he was worthy of an adult’s responsibilities.

Jokim rolled up the scroll and shoved his chair back, its splintering legs screeching along the floorboards. Druri watched him proceed to the back of the room, where a hefty trunk sat beside Jokim’s cot. The uncle opened it, and from its innards produced a long, rectangular case. He returned to place it gingerly upon the table.

“Open it.”

Druri complied, and lost his breath when he saw the polished dagger blade gleam merrily back at him.

“You’ll need to learn to defend yourself along the road,” said Jokim, gauging the lad’s reaction. “We’ll have some lessons over the first few nights of travel.”

And with that, he shut the case and returned it to the trunk.

But the effect of the blade’s brief appearance was more than enough. Druri had to cup a hand over his mouth to hide his dumb grin. He was an adventurer now. The path to the Ered Luin stretched out before his imagination like a magical thoroughfare, filled with conquests to make and secrets to discover.

That night he climbed into bed, wide awake but already dreaming.

[Ghorim]

Jokim made it his mission to sell all of his spare possessions before they departed. He went to market with a cart loaded full of his furniture, heirlooms, and mementos from his traveling performer days. After much haggling and storytelling, he emptied that cart. The last thing to go was his tattered armchair. No one would approach the thing upon first sight. Finally, Jokim managed to convince one particular bargain hunter to experience the chair’s luxurious comfort for himself.

“It’s a fixer-upper,” Jokim acknowledged. “But you’ll never find one better.”

And so he picked up a few bits of silver for his trusty armchair. With that task completed, Jokim sold the cart and went to spend his gains on provisions for the journey ahead.

By the time Jokim and Druri stepped out of the city’s main gates, their packs were swollen with foodstuffs and their flasks sagged with excess water. Still an old soldier at heart, Jokim never went into a situation unprepared.

He looked more like an infantryman than ever before, carrying his old battle-axe in hand as he and his nephew marched down the slopes of the Iron Hills and into the flatlands below. Druri stared at Jokim with respectful awe from beneath the bright red traveling hood he had bought the day before.

The uncle he had come to know over the past months was many miles removed from the one who used to visit Erebor twice each year — the fellow who always seemed distracted and off-balance in the presence of Druri’s parents. He’d bring a small gift for his nephew, and tousle the lad’s hair as he handed it to him. That would be the extent of their interaction for the evening.

At dinner, Druri’s mother Froma would inevitably ask Jokim why he didn’t move back to Erebor to be closer to his family and old friends. The uncle would grow defensive, muttering something about an old campaign he had fought in and taking another drink of ale to further obscure his reply. Froma would press further, and for every step she advanced Jokim would retreat three more paces. Then he would proceed to drink until he plummeted onto the family couch, not to arise until late the next morning.

“Your uncle gets headaches... terrible headaches,” Froma would explain to Druri as he stared at the lumpy form of Jokim stretched out on the couch. “And he knows of only one way to take care of them.”

Jokim hadn’t touched a drink since Druri moved in with him.

One evening, as they passed through the bustling villages of the Northmen who lived along the Redwater, Jokim treated his nephew to dinner at a local tavern. He made a point of reminding Druri as they entered that this was the last good meal they would have for months. The barman, seeing a dwarf of distinguished years march into his establishment, was experienced enough to know to immediately offer a drink.

“None for me,” replied Jokim brusquely as he took a seat at the bar. “Just a hearty roast for two travelers with many leagues yet to march.”

“You’re certain of that?” replied the man. “A good ale fills the belly just as well.”

“I intend to get us off to an early start tomorrow,” said Jokim. “There’s no need to overindulge.”

“Uncle Jokim,” said Druri, tugging at his elder’s sleeve from the neighboring barstool.

Jokim turned to his nephew.

“You said this is the last good meal we’ll be having for many months,” Druri said, carefully reciting the words from memory. “Why not have just one drink?”

The barman slapped the countertop. “I like the way this one thinks! Would you like a brew as well, lad?”

“Just one will do, thank you,” cut in Jokim swiftly. “Make it a wheat, if you please.”

He gave Druri what looked like an irritated glance as the man went to fill up a mug, but his glower quickly disintegrated into a wry grin.

When the drink came, Jokim tilted his head back for a long pull of the drink. He slammed the vessel down upon the bar, stifled a belch, and then glanced curiously at Druri.

“Ever had a drink, lad?”

“Well, Papa used to say that as soon as I was old enough...”

Jokim slid the mug down to his nephew.

“You’re more than old enough now.”

Druri stared at the ale, and then turned to his uncle with an overawed expression lighting up his face.

“Go on,” said Jokim with a sage-like nod.

The lad turned back to the mug and rubbed his hands together, strategizing how best to tackle this new foe.

“Use both hands if you have to,” offered his uncle.

Seeing the wisdom of this approach, Druri grabbed the vessel by each side and tilted his head back as he had seen his uncle do.

“Now, now,” said Jokim cautiously. “Slowly, lad! You’re going to...”

The drink flowed up and over the brim faster than Druri had anticipated. Some of it got down his throat, but an amber waterfall trickled down from the mug and onto his shirt. Startling, the lad leaned forward to straighten the vessel, but the damage was already done.

Jokim chortled louder than Druri had ever head before.

“A towel for my overeager nephew, please!”

---

The next morning they tore themselves away from the Redwater and began their march across the Northern plains. Winter was just beginning to loosen its grip on the land, with dots of green sprouting up between the patches of dried brown grass. The summit of the Lonely Mountain briefly peaked up over the distant horizon as the two dwarves proceeded west, but neither paid it any mind.

Jokim toyed with their pace as the days wore on, seeing just how much Druri could handle without tiring. The lad tagged along gamely, but Jokim decided to go easy on him until they reached Mirkwood. They needed to get through that shadowy forest as quickly as possible, and afterward could afford a brief respite before crossing the Misties.

When they set up camp each evening, Jokim took to instructing his nephew in the ways of the road. The dagger lessons began in earnest, as Druri struggled to control his form while handling the weapon. Jokim also began teaching his nephew some of the hand signals that he had learned while in the Ereborian army. These the lad picked up far more readily, and Jokim began to fancy that he could make Druri fluent in sign language by the time they reached the Ered Luin.

But most importantly, the boy had to learn about rations.

“This,” said Jokim one night as they prepared to eat, “is to become your newest friend.”

He pulled a flat, pale loaf of food from his travel pack.

“Cram.”

“Cram?” Druri watched as his uncle tore him off a chunk.

“The lightest, most durable food a traveler can carry,” explained Jokim. “Many complain of its taste, but you’ll come to appreciate it in time.”

He handed Druri a piece, and the lad took a cautious nibble at it. A surprised cough overtook the nephew upon the first taste, and he grimaced slightly.

Jokim concealed an amused smile beneath his beard and bit a great hunk out of his piece. This time, Druri did not follow his example. Instead, the lad folded his arms across his chest and turned up his nose.

“Hmm...” Jokim swallowed the dry bread and wiped his lips. “This food is unkind to beginners, I suppose. But there is an old recipe I know of...”

The uncle began rummaging through his pack again, and Druri relaxed his aloof posture to watch. Jokim pulled out a dark jar and twisted it open.

“Cram... with jam.”

He poured some of the preserves atop the remainder of the loaf, and handed the sticky treat to Druri.

“Cram, with jam...” repeated Druri, smiling at the sound of it.

The lad took an exploratory bite. It didn’t taste half bad anymore.

[Ghorim]

Mirkwood appeared, first as a dark line coating the horizon, then slowly growing, its impenetrable trees seeming to tower up to scrape the clouds. Jokim and Druri hugged the River Running as they approached, the lad drawing closer to his uncle the nearer the woods became.

Soon they could make out the individual trees that guarded Mirkwood’s border, their gnarled and deformed trunks appearing like bodies burnt beyond recognition in dragon’s fire. Jokim grew stern and distant again in the final days before they penetrated the tree line, his jaw clenched stiff and firm as the shadow of the forest clouded his thoughts.

They reached the woods’ edge in the evening, and Jokim advised that they set camp outside of the forest and only enter at dawn.

“Nights in Mirkwood are best avoided,” he muttered to Druri as he set his pack upon the ground.

The nephew held his tongue in that moment, but grew curious after their evening meal was past.

“Have you been through Mirkwood before, uncle?”

“Once,” said Jokim after a pause. “When I journeyed from the lands of the South to settle in the Iron Hills.”

“What’s it like in there?” asked Druri, drawing closer to his elder as he felt the gaze of the forest at his back.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Jokim, eyeing the edge of his axe blade. He looked up to see a pained and uncertain expression on Druri’s face.

The uncle scowled and leaned forward, setting his weapon aside.

“Now, I told you that I’d have many instructions for you before we entered Mirkwood,” he said. “But it all centers on two rules. Do not leave the path, and do not so much as touch the water that flows through the heart of the forest. Do you understand those?”

Druri nodded, unconsciously chewing on his lower lip.

“Now turn around and face the forest,” said Jokim, giving his nephew a push in the right direction.

The lad shivered as he gazed into the trees. Now he could see the old road that they were to follow, receding into a wall of shadows, pure and unassailable.

“It grows dark in there, that you can already see,” said Jokim, his voice sounding leagues away to Druri’s ears. “And so you must take a hold of my hand as soon as we enter, and not let go until I give you permission to do so.”

Druri nodded, feeling numb all over.

“You shall see and hear many queer things in these woods at night. Flashes of light, strange animal calls, whispered voices, and dozens of glowing eyes that will watch you from lairs unseen. But pay them no heed. A realm takes on the character of its inhabitants, you see. Just as the Elf deceives and misleads unwelcome strangers, so too do his woods rely on trickery to ward off outsiders. The sights and sounds of Mirkwood may strike you full of dread, but never despair. Keep your feet upon the path, your head upon your shoulders, and your hand held in mine, and we shall escape these woods unscathed.”

He placed a hand on Druri’s arm, and the lad leapt to his feet in shock. Jokim waited calmly for his nephew to settle down, and then gestured toward the ground.

“Get some sleep, lad. We’re going to pick up the pace tomorrow.”

With each of his arms rubbing the other, Druri slowly lowered himself back to the grassy floor and crawled beneath his blanket for the night. The wind rustled through the trees, and almost seemed to call his name as it swept out over the plains. Druri huddled closer to his uncle and pressed his eyes tightly shut.

---

Jokim shook the lad awake before the sun rose the next morning, and practically pulled him to his feet. Druri stiffened as he gazed into the woods again, but hardly had the time to hesitate. As soon as Druri had slung his pack over his shoulder, Jokim clasped his hand and began to drag him ahead into the trees. The lad took a sharp breath and kicked hard at the ground to keep pace with his uncle.

An endless maze of branches closed in overhead. Although the sun rose red and angry behind them, its rays seemed to fail as the two dwarves cut deeper into Mirkwood. For the time being, birds still sang all about them from their shadowed nests. Spring was soon to come. But in Druri’s heart, an unsettling chill descended. He couldn’t shake the feeling, even with his uncle confidently leading the way. It was the same sensation that had gripped him as he stumbled out of Erebor’s rear gate, borne along by a crowd of fleeing bodies, desperately trying to figure out where his parents were amidst the din.

Unexpectedly, Jokim turned his head to gaze back at Druri over his shoulder.

“Hear those birds, eh?”

Druri nodded.

“Can you whistle with ‘em?”

Jokim pursed his lips and blew out a strong note. Druri stumbled a bit as his uncle continued to tug him along, and shook his head once he recovered his balance.

“Give it a go,” said Jokim, turning around to face ahead once more.

Druri blew weakly. “I can’t.”

“Keep trying,” said Jokim, giving another instructive whistle.

And so they continued along the bumpy path, making their peculiar tweeting noises as the gloom deepened all about them.

[chrysophalax]

Days had passed and Haluin found himself at a crossroads, not only literally, but in his thoughts as well. Standing on the eastern side of the Old Ford with Mirkwood at his back and the mountains before him, he pondered his next course of action. His banishment from Eryn Lasgalen was still in force, so much though he wished it, he could not return. All that remained to him then was to turn either west or south. To go north was out of the question, given the recent dragon sightings over Erebor and Lake Town, therefore Haluin found himself in his present unhappy quandry.

His path had never taken him west of the Hithæglir, its peaks eternally shrouded in mist and mystery and so they held a certain fascination for him. South he had been many times, even as far Osgiliath, though never to Minas Tirith herself. Was that a possibility? Certainly, though fraught with far less danger and therefore, less interesting.

His mind was set and his foot nearly resting upon the ancient stone bridge when he heard an odd sound, rather like that of an injured bird. Or someone imitating one badly. he thought wryly. No woodman would do that, nor any of my kin. That leaves...? Instantly he began searching the edge of the treeline for anyone approaching but there was nothing and no one to see as yet. Excellent! I have time to seek cover! Haluin sprinted for the trees just at the northern edge of the Road, swarmed up the nearest tree, then soundlessly nocked an arrow to his bow.

Minutes later, there came to his ears the harsh sound of Dwarf speech and he froze in astonishment. Had the dragon driven them this far from the Ered Mithrin? Haluin wondered as he waited for them, for indeed, there were two distinct voices now, to come into view.

The elf had not long to wait as two Dwarves, one fully grown and one seemingly much younger came striding along the path, the younger apparently breathing a sigh of relief at finally being out from among "those horrible trees" to quote the youngling verbatim. The elder chuckled in agreement, then clapped his companion on the back causing him to stumble awkwardly, then duck his head in embarrassment as he trotted to catch up.

Haluin slitted his eyes, concentrating, for something about the older dwarf seemed oddly familiar. Something in his mannerisms...what was it? Boldly he decided that since the two travellers had come through unscathed and none the worse for wear, he would satisfy his curiosity, though naturally, Haluin, being who he was, proceeded to enjoy himself a bit.

"Who treads so noisily through Thranduil's kingdom?" he called out in an authoritative voice. The youngster froze in his tracks, wide-eyed, as his companion reached for his axe and began scanning the trees closely. "What coward must hide in a tree when he speaks to strangers?" the dwarf called back gruffly. "Put aside your axe, master dwarf and you will see."

[Ghorim]

Of course, Jokim had not been entirely truthful with his nephew. Yes, straying from the forest road meant certain peril, but staying upon it hardly ensured them safety. They traveled at the mercy of the inhabitants of Mirkwood, two-legged, four-legged... and eight-legged. Jokim didn’t so much as breathe a word to Druri about the great brood of spiders that nested deep within the forest, but he watched and listened closely for any sign of their presence as they progressed.

By the third day of the journey, the birdsongs had faded into a menacing silence. As Jokim had intended, the whistling lessons had served as a fine distraction for the first couple of evenings. But soon he had to concoct new methods of keeping Druri’s mind off of their surroundings. So at night, when even a soft rustle or far-away gleam could set the lad on edge, Jokim would tell every dwarvish legend he could remember from his youth. He would teach Druri all of the old songs and poems that his friend Dhal had once recited for him.

Slowly, the fatigue of a hard day’s march would catch up to Druri as he listened, and he would drop off to sleep. Then Jokim’s long night vigil would begin, as he clutched his axe close and scanned the rich blackness for any threat. Sleep would overtake him for brief patches of time, but he kept his watch as dutifully as he could.

The weeks wore on, but they made excellent time. Having loaded up on water from the River Running and rationed it carefully, they were not tempted to drink when they passed the Forest River. Only after the water was long past them did Jokim explain to Druri the river’s debilitating spell. Perhaps there was a hint of envy behind his words – if only he could enjoy such a sound slumber in these dratted woods!

Time blurred and distended in the darkness, but when they spotted the light emanating from the end of the forest, uncle and nephew alike were overjoyed, and did not slacken their pace until they burst out into the welcoming expanse of the grasslands again. Along the way, the birds began to sing once more, and Jokim and Druri joined them as best they could. Of course, the lad wasn’t any better a whistler than when he had first set foot in Mirkwood, but Jokim convinced himself that Druri had improved.

“At last, away from those horrible trees!” said Druri as they emerged from the void. And he laughed like a child, a rare sound that touched a cord in Jokim’s heart. His beard splitting in a warm smile, the elder finally released his nephew’s hand and slapped him on the back, causing the lad to lose his footing for a moment.

Jokim kept walking, chuckling to himself and scanning the surrounding area for a good place to establish a camp. They would sleep well tonight, deep into the morning, and then after a hearty breakfast of cram and jam they would...

“Who treads so noisily through Thranduil’s kingdom?” came a booming voice from a line of trees to their right.

Druri had almost caught back up with his uncle when the words stopped him short. His gaze shot to the trees, then to Jokim, desperate for guidance. The elder already had his axe out and at the ready. He leapt in between the source of the voice and his nephew, his weapon raised to protect his throat and chest. Already, he could sense they were under threat from an archer.

“What coward must hide in a tree when he speaks to strangers?” called back Jokim, in Westron now.

“Put aside your axe, Master Dwarf, and you shall see,” came the cool reply.

Hearing the voice again, Jokim could now hone in on the location of their assailant, but he still remained unsure as to which of those trees might contain the fiend.

“Ah, but now I recognize this breed of coward,” shouted Jokim, ignoring the other’s demand. “He is an Elf, as sure as my beard is long.”

There was silence. A pair of amorous birds flitted overhead.

“And what if I am?”

Jokim scowled and motioned for Druri to get down on the ground, and then he himself knelt to become a smaller target.

“Then you are no different from any other that I have ever met,” said Jokim, still holding his weapon up. His eyes, ever keen and raging, peered through the two half-moon openings made by the blades of his axe. “I did not know that your Lord Thranduil also laid claim to the lands surrounding his accursed weed patch! You accost us in free territory.”

“What makes you so certain that he is my Lord? I merely wish to defend the poor ears of these lands from your sour squawks, my good Dwarf.”

“And still he denies that which he is,” grunted Jokim. “Only an Elf would partake in such silly games with unwitting passersby.”

From his sheltered vantage point, Haluin smiled.

“Supposing you are correct, Master Dwarf, and I am as you say I am. Why do you still hold your weapon aloft? For when has an Elf ever slain a Dwarf in cold blood? If I know my history, such crimes only happen the other way around.”

Jokim’s eyes narrowed, but he made no response. Druri glanced out timidly from behind his uncle, trying to make out their assailant amidst the leaves and branches above.

“And if I indeed were an Elf who intended to do you harm, what would have stopped me from lodging an arrow in one of your hateful little eyes by now?”

Jokim shook his head and clutched his axe all the tighter.

“If I am mistaken, then show yourself and prove me wrong,” said the dwarf.

“Did I ever say you were mistaken, Master Dwarf?”

“Show yourself,” repeated Jokim evenly, maintaining his composure even as the Elf tried to twist him around with tricks of words.

“But I have already laid down my conditions for appearing,” replied the voice. “Drop your axe, and I shall present myself. No harm shall come to you or your young charge, this I swear.”

“The oath of an Elf holds no sway with me,” Jokim dug his boots deeper into the ground.

“But, Master Dwarf, you do not know if I am...”

“Enough!” said Jokim sharply. “There’s no use in my chasing your words about. I am patient. I will wait until you give up this shameful game and face me honestly.”

A laugh came from the trees. “But Master Dwarf, if I am indeed one of the Eldar, then only one of us has forever to wait, correct?”

Jokim said nothing, and did not stir from his defensive crouch.

“So then... it seems we must all wait for you to overcome your pride, Sir Dwarf!”

Again, the dwarf gave no response. Sitting behind his uncle, Druri knit his brows and held his breath. The sun drooped and disappeared in the west, and still the standoff continued. Neither of the opponents spoke. Stars took to the sky, materializing one after the other to fill the great, dark plain overhead. A soft wind caressed the trees. It was a beautiful evening... a true spring night.

Druri was slumped halfway over now, and his patience finally frayed.

“Uncle...”

“Hush,” ordered Jokim.

“Your nephew has more sense than you, Bushy-Beard!” called the hidden voice.

“You may take your meal from my traveling pack,” said Jokim to Druri, sensing his hunger.

“Can’t you just put your axe down?” whispered Druri, practically begging.

Jokim merely shook his head. “Eat.”

The night wore on. Druri ate his cram and curled up in the grass, dozing off behind Jokim’s staunch front. For the first several hours of his defiant stand, the elder dwarf appeared fortified with stone. His posture did not ease one bit, nor did his attention waver from the trees ahead. But as midnight approached, his eyes started to droop and flutter. The axe began to lower by minute degrees. All those nights in Mirkwood, keeping watch without a sound sleep... sound sleep... sleep...

“Master Dwarf!” called the voice, snapping Jokim’s head back up. “If you cannot keep yourself awake, I’m afraid I’ll have to come down there and remove your axe myself!”

The dwarf grunted an angry oath in Khuzdul and rubbed his eyes. And he sat there for another hour. But upon catching himself nearly nodding off again, Jokim could take no more. He stood in an exhausted rage, tossing his axe away.

“There, Elf! I am defenseless. Show yourself or shoot me down where I stand.”

Druri stirred awake at the outburst, and looked up from the ground to see what was happening.

One of the trees rustled in the darkness. The voice sounded once again.

“Honestly, Sir Jokim, I knew you to be hardheaded in the past. But the years have only stiffened your skull all the more, it seems!”

The elder dwarf’s wrath faltered, with shock sweeping over and rendering him dumbfounded. “What...? How...?”

And at long last, the slender figure dropped lithely from the branches above and strode toward Jokim. Emerging from the shade of the trees, the pale moonlight lit his face, unaged since the last time the dwarf had beheld it.

Jokim gasped. “You!”

[chrysophalax]

"Aye, friend Longbeard! I see you've not forgotten me then. Excellent!" Haluin bowed gracefully to them, amusement dancing in his slate-grey eyes. "Though you wound me, Jokim. “ 'Then you are no different from any other that I have ever met.' ”? Surely this cannot be so! Exactly how many of my people have you had the pleasure of meeting, may I ask?"

His delight at meeting an old acquaintance from the past showed in every aspect of his demeanour, causing words to tumble eagerly out upon surprised ears. "From your stalwart defense of this youngling, I would hazard a guess that he is kin to you." Haluin bowed deeply once again to Druri, introducing himself as he did so. "I am Haluin Ithilmirion and I once called this wood my home. May your beard grow ever longer!"

Eyes large as millstones stared back at him. Druri had had as yet little congress with the Firstborn, so to him, this was a creature of wonder, though instinct told him to be wary. His uncle's behaviour earlier on had done nothing to allay those suspicions either, therefore he plucked up his courage and blurted out, "Druri, at your service."

Haluin acknowledged the greeting with a nod of his head, then knelt down and began searching through the pouch he carried slung next to his quiver. With a soft, "Ah, at last!" he withdrew a small parcel of leaves which he carefully unfolded. Despite themselves, the dwarves leaned slightly nearer to see what lay nestled therein. Jokim snorted. "What is this, master Elf? Some stale pieces of flatbread?" A flash of irritation showed in Haluin's eyes as he gingerly broke the corner off the topmost wafer and handed it to Druri. "As you know not of what you speak, I will forgive you your ignorant statement, Jokim. This is lembas[I], our version of cram and far better tasting, in my opinion." Here his natural humour showed in his voice. "I could hear the lad cracking his teeth on it miles away!"

Exhibiting a scepticism he hoped would impress his uncle, Druri took the proffered tidbit between his thumb and forefinger, turning it this way and that. Finding no outward defect, he then sniffed it and was pleasantly surprised by a faint scent, similar to honey. Instantly he began to salivate, but a quick glance at Jokim's stony scowl made him hesitate. Cautiously, he touched his tongue to the morsel, then popped it into his mouth.

It melted almost immediately, filling his mouth with deliciously foreign flavours. He grinned up at the elf, his eyes twinkling, then remembered himself, coughed a few times, then gave his verdict. "I don't think it's poisoned, uncle. I could eat it...if I [I]had to." he said with his eyes lingering wistfully on the pouch now once again slung over Haluin's shoulder.

Haluin laughed aloud. "Will wonders never cease? A dwarf with good taste! I thank you for your honest assessment, Master Druri. You give me hope that our peoples are not so dissimilar after all." Druri blinked, then suddenly self-conscious, he went and sat down on a rock a few feet away.

The elf turned to Jokim who's stern gaze had never left Haluin's face. "Why do you stare at me so, old friend? Did we not, after all, part on friendly terms?" Haluin sighed when there was no immediate reply forthcoming. Deliberately, he laid aside his bow, quiver and pouch, stretching his shoulders gratefully before leaning against the nearest tree, looking for all the world as though he were reclining against an old friend.

"You seem careworn, weary. Could it be...?" In a flash occurred to Haluin why two dwarves might be heading west and his brow knitted in concern. "Tell me you did not dwell in Erebor when the dragon came."

[Ghorim]

To Jokim, seeing Haluin so perfectly preserved six decades on from their last meeting was akin to seeing his own ghost. With the Elf’s return came a sprawl of memories that he had long tried to shutter away – the dishonor that had chased him into the clutches of Sir Astoundo, the hated performances before jeering crowds, and the helplessness that had gripped him daily as he and Ollie the Giant sat crammed in their wooden cart together.

Jokim felt like he had destroyed and rebuilt himself over the 60 years since those barren days. But here came this Elf, acting as jaunty and carefree as ever, referring to him like some old chum whom he’d seen only yesterday. As if the world around Haluin had passed him by, untouched! A great resentment festered in Jokim, and he forgot for a time the grudging respect that the Elf had so painstakingly extracted from him in their past time of acquaintance.

The elder dwarf watched in annoyance as Haluin offered his nephew the sickly sweet lembas bread, but refrained from comment. Druri seemed thunderstruck, taking in every gesture the Elf made with great reverence and wonder. Jokim would need to talk some sense into the lad later. After Druri had retreated from their company, Haluin’s dancing gaze leapt to Jokim.

“Why do you stare at me so, old friend? Did we not, after all, part on friendly terms?”

The dwarf turned slightly away to face the stars, taking up the posture that he had assumed when the two first met: arms crossed over his chest, eyes blank and unmerciful, and ears closed to friendly offerings. How could he possibly explain these past years to this Elf, for whom all seemed a passing amusement?

Jokim heard Haluin sigh, and followed from the corners of his eyes as the Elf disarmed and sidled up next to a nearby tree.

“You seem careworn, weary. Could it be...? Tell me you did not dwell in Erebor when the dragon came.”

The dwarf dug his fingernails into his shirtsleeves. He winced slightly, but gave no other immediate response. The night wind tugged at his clothes and beard, and his posture gradually melted from its stony indifference to a confused and helpless stance.

“Jokim...?” Haluin eased off the tree and began to approach the dwarf.

The movement stiffened Jokim again, and he took a defensive step backwards, his eyes casting a battle glare into the heart of Haluin’s concerned gaze.

“I did not,” said the dwarf, loosening his tongue at long last. He nodded to Druri, who sat hunched on a nearby rock. “He did. He and his parents.”

Haluin’s expression recoiled in shock, but quickly softened. He took another cautious step toward Jokim.

“Old friend, you must forgive me. I...”

“I do not need any of your petty condolences!” blurted Jokim in a sudden spike of rage. His anger had burned cool all of his life now, suffering loss and indignity in reserved silence. But seeing an Elf’s eyes well up in sympathy on his behalf was too much to bear. “I have already had tears and sighs enough for one lifetime! Rivers of tears, gales full of sighs, and for what gain?”

The dwarf marched over to where his axe had fallen and snatched it up in a vicious motion. He turned on Haluin, and for a frightening moment looked capable of anything with his weapon in hand. Druri shot to his feet, a great dread striking him as he watched his uncle’s temper take flame.

“Save your apologies and cloying words for one who needs them. There is no ground that you and I can stand upon together, do you understand? Our paths parted for a reason in Rohan, and apart they ought to have remained.”

Jokim took a sharp step forward.

“Leave me and my nephew to our journey. Go back to your...” the dwarf’s speech suddenly faltered. He placed a hand to his forehead, seeming to reel from a critical blow. “Go back... to your...”

Tremors seized and rattled Jokim’s head. A sudden look of anguish crossed his face as he felt it building at the base of his skull... the old, familiar pressure that heralded the imminent arrival of a crushing headache.

“I...”

His hands started to quaver, and soon his axe clattered to the ground. Pools of sweat burst out over his face. The dwarf stumbled forward, his wide eyes fixed on Haluin in a desperate, death-like stare. He began to topple forward, but before he could hit the ground both the Elf and Druri rushed to his aid, each grabbing Jokim on one side to keep him aloft.

“It’s one of his headaches,” gasped Druri, straining against his uncle’s limp weight. “I know it!”

“Come!” said Haluin sharply. “Help me set him down beneath the tree.”

They dragged Jokim a few yards and then propped him up against the sturdy tree trunk. Druri knelt by his uncle’s side and shook him by the shoulder, trying to bring him back around. Jokim’s face glowed sickly in the moonlight as his lips sputtered out half-formed words.

“Do not shake him,” said Haluin in a commanding voice that marshaled the weight of centuries behind it. “Keep him still. When I tell you, tip his head back and hold open his mouth.”

Druri nodded and obeyed, watching as the Elf produced one pouch after another of strange-smelling herbs from his belt. He mixed a pinch of each herb into a small water flask, and then gave Druri the order to open his uncle’s mouth. Jokim coughed a bit, but swallowed the mixture as it trickled down his throat.

“That should help him rest,” explained Haluin as Druri appealed to him with searching eyes.

“Is he going to...?” Druri began to fumble with the question.

“Your uncle will be fine,” said Haluin, quickly and calmly. “He mentioned these headaches before, when I first knew him.”

Druri turned back to his uncle, and indeed, Jokim seemed to have relaxed somewhat, his features growing placid and his breathing drawing steady.

The young dwarf exhaled deeply and dropped from a crouch to a seating position. He stared at Haluin, who was monitoring Jokim with tight-knit concern. Druri rubbed his hands together nervously and lowered his head. He still felt a great apprehension in the Elf’s presence, but he knew that Haluin was the only one who could help his uncle now.

They were silent for several minutes, listening closely to Jokim’s quiet breathing for any minor aberrations. Druri glanced up from his meditations, looking sullen and alone without his uncle’s strength to reassure him.

“How do you two know each other?” he asked Haluin, haltingly. As soon as the Elf looked his way, Druri’s gaze shot back to the ground below.

Haluin smiled thinly. “A chance meeting, you might call it...”

[chrysophalax]

Remembering Jokim's apparent reluctance to speak of his affiliation with Astoundo's troupe even from their first meeting, Haluin proceeded to tell Druri of the impression his uncle had made on him at the summer festival in Rohan sixty years before.

"As I'm sure you are aware, your uncle is an extraordinarily strong dwarf, even as dwarves go. This point was made rather forcefully when I, quite by accident, mind, was innocently peering into a waggon where an interesting conversation was underway. Your uncle had me around the throat and nearly choked the life out of me before several of his companions managed to persuade him that it might not be a good idea to strangle a stranger in front of so many witnesses."

"He-he tried to strangle you? Without being attacked or-or anything?" Druri asked, his eyes once more agog at this bit of news. "Aye, well, it all worked out well in the end and we became competitors, though not against each other, during that festival. He, of course won the prize for wrestling, beating a dear friend of mine in the process, I might add. I won the prize for archery, though it was later taken from me when it was discovered that I was an elf. Can I help it if most mortals have not our gifts with the bow?" Here Haluin gave such a mournful look that Druri burst out laughing in spite of himself.

"In any case, we struck up a friendship of sorts and he travelled with my friend and I for several months until we came to a parting of the ways, though it was not of my choosing." Haluin's eyes had grown more sombre as he spoke and Druri wondered what might have happened, but then, grown-ups in his experience always left out the best parts to most stories.

Haluin's gaze swept over the sleeping dwarf, watching his chest rise and fall now in relaxed slumber. "He's the strongest, most stubborn being I have ever met, in all the ages of my life, Druri. And also one of the bravest. You should be proud to be his kinsman."

The young dwarf shifted uneasily, as though something was bothering him. Finally, he plucked up his courage and asked. "If you were his friend, then why did he tell you to return to...whereever it is you come from?

Haluin flinched away from the question, wishing with all his heart he did have a place to return to, that he was not regarded as nameless and homeless among his people. After a moment's pause he answered, "In truth, youngling, I know not. He and I...we never agreed on many things, but we never fought or came to blows. It seemed we usually...agreed to disagree, each respecting the other's beliefs for the more part. Possibly something happened that has changed his mind regarding my people, I cannot say."

Birds were beginning to sing deep in the wood as the first hint of false dawn brought a blush to a scattering of clouds in the eastern sky. With a heavy sigh, Haluin turned his back to the trees he had known since childhood, somehow knowing it would be for the last time. "If, when he awakens, he wishes me gone, I will bow to his wishes. I would gladly have travelled with you, for I am always glad of a friend." The elf turned to look down at the dwarves once more. "Sleep if you can, Master Druri. I will guard your rest."

With that, Haluin seemed to vanish into the mists that had crept wraith-like over the eastern bank of the Anduin, right up the base of the trees themselves. Druri knew he should have been frightened, indeed had been frightened ever since they had entered Mirkwood, but now he felt somehow comforted by the elf's words and so allowed himself to curl up at his uncle's feet and fall fast asleep, to the sound of soft elvish song.

[Ghorim]

Jokim reached for her face, but clutched only wet grass instead. His eyelids popped ajar one after the other, and then drifted down to somewhere halfway between open and shut. Froma’s pale and trembling features disintegrated into memory, and in her place appeared the slumbering form of her son. He lay just a few feet from Jokim, snoring gently on his side with arms laced across his body.

A woozy smile emerged upon Jokim’s face, and he reached over to gingerly remove the lad’s traveling hood and ruffle his hair, just as he had once done during his holiday visits to Erebor. Druri muttered a protest and rolled over to face away from Jokim. The uncle chuckled, and slowly shoved himself up from the ground. He leaned his head back against the rough bark of the tree that had shaded them both in sleep.

Morning had long since swept over the Anduin, touching its banks and the gently rolling plains beyond with a soft, golden pallor that forced Jokim to squint as he looked out upon it all. The sun’s rays reflected off the mighty river’s rapids, shining hot and true through the warming air. Jokim began to rise to his feet, but a rare indolence teased at his heart, and he plopped back down upon his rear. A continual embrace seemed to hold him beneath the tree, caressing his tired body and whispering for him to rest a while longer. His eyes eased shut again.

Strange... it felt almost as if he’d been out drinking the night before, only without the lightning storm in his head to accompany the heavy lethargy. But where was the barman to serve him out here? Jokim grinned to himself. No, he couldn’t have... or... did he...?

“When I tell you, tip his head back and hold open his mouth.”

Jokim suddenly remembered the cool water trickling down his throat, and his eyes shot open. Haluin, of course! Now the events of the previous night began to dance mockingly before his memory.

In a burst of frustrated energy, Jokim willed himself back onto his feet, and stumbled out from beneath the sleepy beckonings of the shade tree. He went in search of his axe, and found it on the ground where he had dropped it, the blade coated in a thin layer of dew. His traveling pack lay nearby.

The dwarf cast a wary eye through the trees for any sign of the Elf. Nothing. Fled or hiding again, most likely.

“Dratted...” mumbled Jokim, but decided it best not to complete the thought. He marched toward the water’s edge, rubbing his sleeve against the wet axe blade as he went. Kneeling on the muddy bank, Jokim splashed his face with the river water. He needed to shake off every remnant of that Elvish elixir and get Druri moving, before...

“Did you sleep well, Master Dwarf?”

Jokim’s hands ceased scrubbing his face. The remaining water that had settled within them trickled down his bearded cheeks and cascaded back into the soggy earth below. Shaking off his hands and scowling, the dwarf rose reluctantly from his crouch. He did not turn to face Haluin, but spoke instead to the Anduin as it roared lazily across the land.

“You needn’t ask such a silly thing, of course. You saw to it that I slept with the dead.”

“Then my old skills have not diminished, it seems.”

“Nor have mine,” growled Jokim. “And with every move you severely tempt me to test them.”

Haluin fell silent, for long enough that Jokim turned to make certain the Elf was still standing there. The dwarf took in a sad but proud look from his old acquaintance.

The Elf cleared his throat and spoke in a dry, mournful tone. “I must admit, I no longer understand how to approach you, Jokim. So, then... tell me what words to lay at your feet, and how best to pay my respects.”

The ire of the night before flickered briefly in the dwarf’s eyes. But then the flame faltered, as if Jokim’s heart were trying to rise up again in rage but found its burden too heavy to lift.

“Sixty years, it’s been?” muttered Jokim after a moment of consideration. “A blink of the eye for one such as you.”

Haluin nodded, but smiled grimly at the dwarf’s ignorance.

“Yet much has changed for me,” continued Jokim, not noticing the Elf’s expression. “Or rather, I have seen the same disasters and follies play out for a second time in my life.”

“Live long enough and you will only see them recur without end,” said Haluin.

These words seemed to jar Jokim out of his defensive front, and he turned away, looking north out of old instinct. Somewhere beyond the ominous trees of Mirkwood lay the Grey Mountains. The dwarf snorted in bitter amusement at himself. Always looking to some horizon, dreaming of home like an old fool...

“I never told you why I get those head pains, did I?”

Haluin shook his head, eyeing Jokim with a renewed interest.

The dwarf reached up to clutch the battered brown hood that he always wore, and gradually peeled it away. A matted bush of graying locks bloomed atop Jokim’s head, but Haluin immediately perceived that something looked amiss.

Noting that flicker of confusion in the Elf’s eyes, the dwarf smirked and grabbed a chunk of the hair on the right side of his head. He lifted it with tender care, and turned slightly to give Haluin a clear view. There, beneath the dwarf’s thick mane, lay a great crater in the side of his head. The entire skull seemed to have caved inward, and the flesh that covered the indentation was colored a sickly purple.

Haluin did not hear his own gasp, did not note the single step he retreated in shock.

Jokim covered the wound once again, grinning ruefully all the while.

“That is all the Grey Mountains have left me, Haluin.”

The Elf held his breath waiting for a further explanation, but the dwarf said nothing more, pulling his hood back on to conceal his old secret. Jokim felt he had made his point, and marched past Haluin, intent on waking Druri and continuing the march west without turning back.

“But Erebor has left a far greater wound within you, Jokim. That is plain.”

The blunt statement staggered the dwarf’s stride. He turned to cast a cutting gaze over his shoulder.

“And what would you know of that?”

“More than you would imagine,” said the Elf, unfazed by Jokim’s seemingly implacable resentment. “For I have lost Mirkwood, just as you have lost your homes of old.”

“What’s this?” Jokim turned about in a swift motion.

Finally, he looked ready to listen to what Haluin had to say.

[chrysophalax]

"It is not only the dwarves that carry great sorrows. There are those among the Firstborn that bear them as well." The elf fixed Jokim with a look that seemed to pierce his very soul, peering into it so deeply that all things were laid bare to his scrutiny and Jokim turned away, flinching involuntarily. "Yes, I see that I can trust you with my burden, if you will hear it."

The dwarf cautiously looked again at Haluin, only to find an ancient weariness there, a weariness that mirrored his own. Brusquely, he nodded his assent, his feet planted firmly as if defying the elf to continue. Haluin drew a deep breath, then sat down in the grass at the river's edge. In a rare show of nervousness, he plucked a few long pieces of grass, heavy with seeded heads and began to dextrously weave them together. A loud cough forced him to set aside his handiwork and begin his tale.

"When I was young, as we deem young, I was training with several other comrades close to my own age. We were given set tasks to accomplish as future warriors and guardians of our borders, such as tracking, hunting, all manner of woodcraft and leechcraft, much as, I am sure you had to learn as a warrior yourself." Another nod of acknowledgement spurred him on.

"One day, we were out in one of the darkest part of the wood, a place to the south that had always seemed to me a dark place, a place of uneasiness. It is a hill called Amon Lanc and it was there that I slew my truest friend, mistaking him in my fear for an enemy." The plains of his face had grown hard and pinched with the telling, as though he experienced again the depth of his crime.

He turned suddenly tear-laden eyes once more to Jokim, who looked on him in shock. Haluin continued, anguish in every word. "How can you understand what it is to slay one who should never have died? He should have lived until he wearied of his life here and then gone into the West, as all my people long eventually to do. I denied him the joy of seeing his forefathers again! Instead, because of me, he must wander in Mandos' halls forever, unless he is allowed one day to return to live among us once more."

Tearing at the grass before him, Haluin laughed grimly. "Now you see my punishment. I must bear this knowledge, this shame, forever. Never again can I come within Eryn Lasgalen's borders nor derive solace from those I loved. I am become a pariah. Indeed..." he voice dropped to hoarse whisper, "I fear the West itself will be denied me."

In one swift motion he stood then and looked out west over Anduin to the great mountains that loomed up before him. They seemed in that moment to symbolise his future, both mentally and physically, an obstacle almost too great to contemplate. Without turning, he asked, "There, Master Dwarf. You have heard my tale of woe. You alone are the only one to hear it in full." Haluin's back tensed almost imperceptibly, as though anticipating a blow. "What say you, Jokim? Am I as accursed in your eyes as I am in my own?"

[Ghorim]

Jokim followed along the darkening path of Haluin’s speech, experiencing every milestone along the way. When Haluin spoke of training, Jokim saw himself standing right alongside the Elf and his comrades, himself a youth again, marching under the banner of the Grey Legion. Then they began the journey into the shadows of Mirkwood, Haluin timorously leading the way as Jokim crept close behind. Amon Lanc approached, and the shades of black deepened and stretched unto eternity.

And then Jokim watched the fateful blow as Haluin delivered it, saw the victim’s fragile body crumple to the ground. The trees wept dried autumn leaves, which fell atop the bloodied corpse and buried it in the silence of the forest.

Jokim blinked, and there he stood beside the Anduin once more. The great river looked like it could have swallowed Haluin right then and there without a moment’s struggle. The Elf’s once ripe form had suddenly withered in upon itself, for a moment showing its true age.

“There, Master Dwarf. You have heard my tale of woe. You alone are the only one to hear it in full.”

The dwarf still felt his spirit displaced, unable to move or act in the moment. He stared at Haluin’s back.

“What say you, Jokim? Am I as accursed in your eyes as I am in my own?”

The question, delivered in a strangled whisper, returned Jokim to his senses. He felt the axe handle and all of its familiar pockmarks in his hands once again, felt his feet planted firmly upon the grass. Nothing about his posture felt right in that instant. He shifted uneasily, his eyes squinting and lip curling in dismay.

Finally, he steeled his grip on the axe and drove its spiked head deep into the ground. There he left it, approaching Haluin unarmed. Jokim stopped just at the river’s edge, his body parallel to the Elf’s. They both looked out over the same infinity, the towering Misties shrouded in sorrow and blotting out all that lay beyond.

Jokim hesitated for a great while before his lips parted. “All of those years...”

Haluin glanced over to the dwarf, his fear of Jokim’s reply only half-concealed.

“... I never knew what your folk did with all of those years. Lifetime piled upon lifetime, ages come and gone.”

The dwarf looked at Haluin, his gaze still scrutinizing but somehow softened.

“I never thought of them as a burden.”

Haluin arms began to drop as he took in Jokim’s words.

“Two homes I have lost to the dragons. Many friends and family have fallen along the way. I had even lost myself for a time, somewhere in a bottle... or a traveling cart... not knowing who I was or whence I was headed. But...”

Jokim turned to face Haluin fully.

“I have never lost my kin, not completely. Even when the rest of Erebor wouldn’t take me, I had my sister Froma's house to lend shelter. And even now, with her gone...”

He glanced over to where Druri lay, still blissfully asleep.

“I have him. I’d never given the slightest thought to having a son, but...”

The dwarf smiled in an unexpected flood of pride and affection. But the expression waned as he turned back to Haluin.

“Well, never mind that. But what I say to you now is this: I could never curse you, Haluin, as much as I could never curse myself.”

The Elf seemed to lose his breath for a moment.

“There must yet be a place for you in this world,” continued Jokim intensely. “If there is one for me, then there must be one for you.”

“Where... where is your place, now?” asked the Elf, his voice weak with strange emotion.

“The Ered Luin,” replied Jokim with a sharp air of self-dignity. “An old friend of mine wrote to say that he could secure me an honorable position in the officers’ corps there. I dwelt in the Iron Hills before, scratching out my earnings as a clerk. It was no way to live for me, and even less so for my nephew.”

Suddenly, an awkward and tense look crossed Jokim’s face as he realized where his speech was carrying him.

“If we journey west... together... well, there are Elf havens along the way, are there not?”

The dwarf’s question hung in the air for a few moments as Haluin’s gaze lowered in silent consideration. Jokim suddenly seemed to grow nervous, and in a blur his right arm extended itself, the fingers spread wide in an open invitation to shake. He studied the Elf's eyes.

“Well? Are you coming... or shall I leave you here to skulk amongst the trees?”

[chrysophalax]

At a loss for words, Haluin could only look at Jokim's outstretched hand, stunned at the dwarf's sudden display of generosity. He could no more have refused it, than he could speak Khuzdul.

"I...of course!" was all he could say as he reached out, clasping Jokim's arm in a firm grip. Jokim nodded as though sealing a bargain, then released Haluin to stand looking up at him appraisingly.

"That's settled then. I'll go and get that nephew of mine on his feet. The Road won't come to us, after all."

The elf remained where he was at the river's edge, watching as his new companion retreived his axe, threw it up on his shoulder and headed back to gather his few belongings. Haluin could scarcely give credit to what had just happened. In the short time he had known the dwarf in Rohan, Jokim had never done more than show him tolerance, much less an act of friendship such as this. The least I can do is see that they reach their new home safely, though it cost me my life. he thought gratefully.

Gathering up his own meager possessions, the elf smiled to himself. To not be aone again for a time was a gift unlooked for, one which he would treasure in memory as he had all others in the past. Voices came to him then on the wind, one eager and excited, the other deep and steady as the mountains that lay just beyond the bridge, reassuring and comforting.

"Come, my friends! We must decide our way before we cross."

"See? What have I told you? Think they know everything..." Jokim grumbled into Druri's ear as they approached Haluin, which only made the elf grin.

"Nay, Jokim. Not everything. Tell me, have you ever ventured beyond the mountains? In these times there are perils to be faced at every turn and I would that you were aware of them." Sweeping his arm out along the mountain ridge to the west, he began a litany of what they might face.

"We must in any case go south for a time. There we will encounter the Dimrill Stair where there is a lake well known to your people, Jokim. I, unfortunately, know not it's name in your tongue. The Stair will lead us, with difficulty to the Redhorn Pass over the mountains and down into Imladris, the home of my distant kin. I...am uncertain as to our reception there." he said softly.

"Should we travel further to the south we must be even more vigilant, as we would pass by Lothlorien, where the greatest among my people still dwell."

At the sound of the word Lothlorien, Jokim's face paled slightly and Haluin looked at him keenly. "What troubles you?"

A hand waved, dismissing Haluin's question. "Nothing." Turning to his nephew, Jokim placed his hands on his hips. "The question is, what will be best for this one?"

A strong hand gripped Jokim's shoulder. "It matters not the road you choose, my friend. There will be danger regardless of the road taken. However...now you will have my bow to guard your back. Never fear, either of you. You will reach your new home."

Oblivious to all future dangers, a young voice piped up, "Do we get breakfast first?"

[Ghorim]

Jokim tossed back his head and gave a sharp laugh that sent the birds scattering from all of the nearby trees.

“Listen to this one,” he said as his hand shot up to slap Druri across the back of the head. It was meant to be a playful gesture, but as usual Jokim failed to recognize his own strength. “Always thinking with his belly! If you’re not careful, lad, you’ll wind up like our friend Vorik.” He held out his arms in front of his stomach and made a waddling motion.

The young dwarf winced and rubbed his head, but smiled weakly at the joke.

“Well,” continued Jokim, “you practically slept through breakfast time, didn’t you?”

“He wasn’t the only one,” said Haluin with a sly look.

“Well, that couldn’t be helped, could it?” replied Jokim, still indignant at having been drugged, as he saw it. He turned to smirk down at his nephew. “What say we stop for breakfast after we’ve made it over the river?”

“But which way are we bound?” asked Haluin.

“To Kheled-zâram,” said Jokim, firing out the four syllables of Khuzdul with a harsh precision. “That is what our folk call the lake you spoke of before. One tangled wood is enough for us, and there's no need to stray so far south as Lorien.”

Haluin nodded. “You shall have to lend me a few lessons in that tongue of yours,” he said. “It has always mystified me.”

“We are not so charitable with such knowledge,” said Jokim dourly. "But I have taken on lesser students than yourself in the past.”

The Elf gave him a questioning look, but Jokim was already marching for the stone bridge, with Druri scampering along to keep pace with him. Haluin followed a few steps behind, his eyes sweeping out over the wide swath of land that lay before them.

Halfway across the bridge, Druri begged his uncle to have a better look at the Anduin as it flowed beneath them. The tall sides of the bridge were too great for him to peer over. With grudging consent, Jokim halted the march and hoisted his nephew up to stand atop one of the walls. From his new perch, Druri’s mouth went slack as he watched the turbulent waters rush just a few meters below him. The power of the river seemed to rest at his feet, rushing south in a terrific fury. He turned to tell his uncle all that he could see, but a sudden gust of wind threw him off balance. Jokim grabbed one ankle, Haluin took the other, and together they yanked Druri down before he could go tumbling into the thrashing currents below. Jokim gave no admonishing words, but merely pushed Druri ahead as they continued to the other side.

At breakfast, Druri opted for lembas again.

“We should save the cram for later,” he said, trying to appease his scowling uncle. “When we really need it.”

Jokim chewed on his cram — no jam, this time — and watched Druri as he gobbled down half a loaf of the Elvish grub in a single breath. The uncle cast a sour look at Haluin, who could only smile and shrug in response. As Druri picked at the crumbs that lay in his lap, his eyes wavered to gaze up at the Misties. They seemed to bear down upon him from their impossible heights, and he quickly looked away.

“Not like the Lonely Mountain or the Iron Hills, are they?” said Jokim, noting Druri’s hesitation. He adjusted his gloves as he too gazed upon the impressive, snow-capped range. “Nae, these fellows are much crueler. You must save your strength for the climb ahead. This will not be like the jogs we would take back home, lad. The wind hits hard here, and the cold will find its way through any blanket you may take. You must stay close, as you did in Mirkwood.”

Druri nodded, feeling the full brunt of Jokim’s intense scrutiny. He was still learning to anticipate the shifting currents that guided his uncle’s moods. Every gesture or word Druri spoke in his elder’s presence had to be offered with great care and humility, for Jokim could ignite at the slightest show of disrespect. Yet his displays of approval and caring were ever generous, and it was for those moments that Druri worked so diligently to stay in his uncle’s good graces.

They began the journey south along the Anduin, with Jokim dispensing fables, anecdotes, and songs to keep Druri’s attention as they went. Haluin listened closely to these, and would occasionally offer his own stories and music, although Jokim seemed to begrudge every moment of influence the Elf gained over his nephew. The lad’s budding taste for Elvish food was bad enough a habit, Jokim thought.

The two elder companions spoke very little with each other at the march's onset. Only at night, when their excitable young charge had settled down enough to sleep, could they talk frankly. On one such evening, Jokim broke from his usual distance to address a small thought that had been pestering his mind ever since they crossed the river.

“You said you never spoke of what happened at Amon Lanc to anyone,” he said, startling the Elf out of a reverie. “Not even Hengist?”

Haluin rose from his reclining position and regarded Jokim, who loomed nearby in a sentinel’s crouch. The dwarf’s gaze was not on him, but the Elf could sense that he was listening intently in the still night.

“Nae, never in its entirety. At times, though, I thought he glimpsed the whole of it.”

Jokim nodded. “As keen a mind as I ever saw in that race. I do not lay much faith in the schemes of Men, but that one offered some hope.”

Haluin sighed. “He was never given his due amongst his folk, but he still loved them dearly.”

The dwarf gave a wisp of a smile. “And he scrapped for every moment until his end. He had a bit of the Khazad in him, in that sense. I...” he chuckled quietly, “... I did fear him, I must say, when our match came.”

“Oh?” Haluin’s ears perked, for he had never heard Jokim admit such weakness. “A great dwarvish warrior such as yourself?”

“I feared he would deliver one of those mighty headbutts to my skull, right on the cracked part of it, and I would never rise again after that.”

“Why did you face him, then?”

Jokim wet his lips, and the slightest shift of his body pulled his gaze away from Haluin again. The night shadows splashed over his features as he considered the question.

“I suppose I hadn't much to live for at the time.”

Haluin let the full weight of those words sink in, before pursuing a question that had troubled his own thoughts for a time.

“How did you suffer that blow to your head, Jokim?”

“For another time,” said Jokim, seeming to retreat without moving. “A tale for another time, Haluin.”

The Elf stared at the dwarf with a pointed dissatisfaction. But Jokim gave no further reaction, and Haluin eventually lay back down to take in a sky scattered with stars. The dwarf rubbed at his traveling hood, just over where the old injury lay. A brief moment of tension forced him to clutch at his axe handle until the discomfort passed. Then all fell still within him again, and his thoughts could return to the trials that lay ahead.

[chrysophalax]

Another day and night passed and with the passage of time, Haluin began to scan the mountainsides more closely, especially as night gathered about them.

Things there were in the darkness, things with ears and eyes as keen as his own. Things that hated and reviled all those that were not as wretched as they were and he was filled with dread.

As they settled down for the night, both dwarves noticed Haluin's uncharacteristic tension, the fierce concentration with which he stared into the shadows, some darker than others, that crept along the rockface above them and they asked each other what it might be.

"Don't waste your time with wondering, lad. That one there can see like a bat in the dark and an eagle on the hunt in daylight. If there's aught to be seen, he'll find it."

Druri swallowed. "That's what worries me, uncle. What is it he's watching for? What could make such a warrior as Haluin act like this?" Fearfully, he began to search the night himself despite his uncle's admonishment, though he scarce knew what to look for.

Slowly, his voice taking on the chant-like manner of story-tellers and bards, Haluin answered. "Orcs have been the Eldars most ancient enemy, save he who had created them in mockery of Eru's firstborn. Age upon age have we fought them, and the evil they represent.

The learned among my people say they are elves, taken by Morgoth, twisted and tortured until they became misshapen, pitiful versions of what they had once been. Others say they are Morgoth's only true creation, something completely evil, obedient to him even now, even when he is no longer in this world."

The elf's voice became tinged with sorrow as he spoke on, his eyes sparkling as they flashed like starlight in their unceasing vigilance.

"As for myself, I only know that they are deadly. More fierce, more vicious than any wild animal you are ever likely to encounter. They will never show nor give mercy, for they know only destruction."

"Were it daylight, I would show you the scars I bear from hunting them...and from them hunting me. They are the only thing in this world I can truly say I hate." His voice grew cold as ice and Druri's eyes widened in something akin to fear as he watched the elf's ethereal beauty turn hard as stone. He realised then that this was a creature outside his reckoning, so unlike his own sturdy people. This friend, this elf had become suddenly dangerous in his young eyes and he scooted close to his uncle for protection.

Jokim glared up at Haluin, then patted Druri's shoulder. "Easy, lad. I'll not let any harm come to you," he glared up once again at the elf, "not from anyone."

Silence fell for a time after that and night sounds seemed to become eerily magnified. They could hear Anduin rushing past, the scuttling of night creatures in search of their dinner, the occasional hoot of a hunting owl on the wing. To Haluin's ears, all comforting sounds...yet there was something...

"Jokim, come here." Haluin whispered. Grumbling, the dwarf got up from his comfortable spot in a bed of fern and stumped over to where Haluin stood listening with his eyes closed.

"If you scare my nephew with your tales again..." A hand clamped over his mouth as fast as lightning as Haluin whispered into his ear urgently. "I did not mean to frighten him, but you must know what dwells here! Now listen to me. Something is hunting along that ridge." He pointed up toward a sharp promontory just north of the Redhorn Pass. "We must keep quiet, for if it is an orc, it will hear us almost as surely as I can hear it. I can only hope that daylight will drive it from our path. If not..."

[Ghorim]

“I can only hope that daylight will drive it from our path. If not...”

Jokim tore the Elf’s hand from his mouth in annoyance. “If not, what?”

The dwarf inclined his head, glaring up at Haluin from beneath two bristling brows. “What then, if not? We handle this matter ourselves, if not!”

And suddenly the two companions found a new bond in their hate, a sacred hate that coursed through them in like time. That mad warrior gleam returned to Jokim’s eyes, and it soon reflected into Haluin’s, catching them ablaze.

“You say it’s only one?” asked the dwarf.

Haluin tensed for a moment in total silence, straining his ears to sweep the whole of the land. A hundred tiny sounds came rushing to him, but he sliced through the miniature cacophony to hone in on the light footfalls and ragged breathing that approached them from the south. The sounds conjured the image of the beast to his imagination, and he could clearly see its discolored eyes scanning the region for prey.

“Only one.”

Jokim smirked, sensing their mastery of the situation.

“A hunter, perhaps. But more likely a scout on patrol, looking for intruders entering along the range’s edge. When Greenskins hunt, they work in packs, aye?”

“True...”

“And if he is a scout, then he is not looking to fight first. At the first sign of danger he will flee to whatever hole he crawled out of...”

“... And bring the rest of his tribe charging down upon our heads.”

Jokim raised a knowing finger. “Not if we drop him before he makes it home.”

Haluin shook his head. “An orc in flight is harder to catch than you might think, especially in the dark.”

“So we will lead him where we please and finish him there.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Haluin leaned in closer, giving a quick glance over to Druri, who was staring at them in fearful curiosity.

“You are correct in saying that this orc will hear us if he strays too close – us, but not you. Centuries of hunting these scum must have you practiced enough to sneak past one brainless scout, aye?”

Haluin smirked at the dwarf’s ribbing. “I suppose I could manage the feat.”

“So, then...” Jokim pointed up to the ridge that the Elf had indicated. “Creep past our scaly friend, heading south. Stick along the base of the ridge, out of sight, and you should elude his detection. Druri and I will then head north, and climb up to the ridge. Of course the Greenskin will hear us, and he will move to investigate. But we will take up position behind a bend in the path. When he draws close enough, we will leap out and give him the scare of his miserable little life. He will flee in the opposite direction, of course – south, back toward the dank pit he calls home. By then you will have made it up to the ridge, the sounds of your ascent masked by the ruckus that Druri and I will be sure to make. When he comes stumbling into view, you draw that bow of yours and do what you do best.”

Jokim leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, looking quite pleased at his devious little plot. Haluin shared the mischievous look, but wasn’t yet satisfied.

“And how, pray tell, will you know when to reveal yourself? Orcs such as this one can move on the whisper of the wind. He could just as easily get the drop on you.”

“You will be our eyes for that,” said Jokim. “Watch from a safe vantage point to the south. When you see him start to sneak up on a turn in the road, then you will give us our signal to attack. Do you know any bird calls?”

“Name any breed,” said Haluin confidently.

“A hawk. There are many that hunt the Iron Hills by night. A fitting bird call for this operation, I should think!”

“What type of hawk call should I make?” asked Haluin, his features growing serious. “Red-tailed? Or perhaps...?”

“Never mind which type!” hissed Jokim, mindful of the orc’s approach. “Just holler it out, whatever it is, and we will do our part.”

“And what if you are wrong and this orc is a fighter before all else?”

“Then that will be his fatal error,” rumbled Jokim, cracking his knuckles with expectant glee.

“Fine,” Haluin nodded quickly. “Hardly a perfect scheme, but just good enough that we might make it work. What will you tell your nephew?”

“Leave that to me,” whispered Jokim. “Now be off!”

Haluin smiled, gave a curt farewell, and then dissolved into the shadows, slinking just beneath the rocky outcroppings that loomed above.

Jokim turned and then strolled back to where Druri sat. The lad was so wound up that he leapt to his feet as his uncle approached.

“What were you and Haluin talking about, uncle?” he demanded in a gush of tense energy. “And where did he go?”

The uncle smiled with easy reassurance. “Us? Oh, we were only discussing how to proceed toward the Redhorn Pass. We’re nearly there, you know. Haluin has gone off to scout ahead, just to ensure that the path is safe.”

“Will he be long...?” said Druri, seeming mollified but ever-wary.

“Not long, nae,” said Jokim. “But long enough that we might take a short hike of our own.”

“What... what do you mean?”

“It couldn’t hurt to have a bit of a look around, could it?”

“At this hour, uncle?”

“Well, if the night scares you so...”

“I’m not afraid!” Druri reflexively beat his chest with an excited fist.

“Then follow me,” said Jokim, grabbing his axe and starting to head north.

Druri stood dumbfounded for a moment, but then sprung to follow, snatching up his dagger for protection.

“We’ll play a bit of a game along the way,” called Jokim over his shoulder. “You must mimic all that I do, and without question.”

A puzzled look creased Druri’s face. His uncle’s behavior seemed out of sorts tonight, as if Jokim were trying to keep some secret out of Druri’s reach. But being eager as ever to please him, Druri hurried along behind his uncle, and even took on the assignment of mirroring his movements.

Haluin heard every word the dwarves exchanged, and had no doubt that the orc patrolling up above heard them just as clearly. The Elf was just about to cross directly beneath the scout, and he slowed his pace to a patient crawl so as to avoid making any unnecessary sound. He moved between the rocks with a fluid grace, selecting precisely where he would place each step before making it.

Suddenly, he heard the orc’s steps skid to a halt up above. Haluin tensed against the rock wall to his right, remaining absolutely still. The orc sniffed loudly at the air. The Elf held his breath.

Of course, his smell!

Jokim had forgotten to reckon for the deadly accurate noses of orcs in his scheme. Those, more than their eyes or even ears, were their greatest assets. With absolute care, Haluin began to reach for his bow, steeling himself for imminent discovery. But in that instant a great tumbling of rocks sounded from the north.

“What your step, lad!” he heard Jokim bellow, practically at the top of his lungs.

Up above, the orc snarled and continued on his way, more swiftly now. Once the scout had reached a safe distance, Haluin exhaled mightily and shook his head.

“You are tempting every whim of fate with this plot, Jokim,” he thought. But mindful of his role, Haluin hurried along to take up his position along the ridge line.

[chrysophalax]

It was not only the orc's sense of smell they had not taken in to account. Haluin cursed himself for a fool as he heard himself once again agreeing to the dwarf's scheme.

Do you know any bird calls?”

“Name any breed.”

“A hawk. There are many that hunt the Iron Hills by night. A fitting bird call for this operation, I should think!”

“What type of hawk call should I make? Red-tailed? Or perhaps...?”

"What a fool I am! It may be that hawks hunt in darkness in the Iron Hills, but here they do not. I must reach that orc before it can find them!Elbereth, do not let my error be the death of them!"

Panicked now, he began to race over the rocky outcroppings that seemed to spring into his path as if conjured there. His eyes sought after any movement, any sound, any glint of starlight on metal that might betray his quarry.

Ahead and slightly above him, he could faintly hear the dwarves as they fumbled along the slope. Haluin winced, for if their movements were that clear to him, how clear must they be to their enemy? Spurred on, he ran faster, desperate to find and slay the deadly creature which hunted his friends.

Suddenly, he heard a great cry followed by another, slightly higher-pitched. Druri! Valar, not the youngling! Anger enveloped him then and he could feel battle rage swelling through him, taking him over, causing him to forget everything but the lust to kill.

In what seemed like the passing of a moment, Haluin found himself careening along paths that didn't exist, his body instinctively finding solid purchase among shifting, sliding stones until at last he heard just before him the sound of metal on metal.

Druri was lying, dazed, off to one side of the stony path they had followed up the ridge, but Haluin barely noticed the lad. His attention was fully fixed upon Jokim as the dwarf hacked and danced his way around the the small flat space where the orc had attacked them. For a few fleeting seconds he stood, marvelling at the dwarf's surprising agility for one normally so stodgy, then he gave a cry that froze both opponents in their tracks.

The orc turned to see an elf, who's countenance burned with hatred so that it appeared to glow and it crouched low, spitting a curse as it did so. An unfortunate error in judgement, for Jokim neatly removed its head from its body in one neat stroke, then dropped his axe and ran to Druri's side.

A trickle of blood could be seen running down his face as Jokim reached him. Haluin reached them only a breath after and he could hear the young dwarf talking excitedly. "Uncle! Did you see? Look at my knife! I stuck him before he knocked me down. Did you see?" Groggily, he held his knife up for Jokim to see, black blood already clotted up to the hilt. "Good work! Your first blooding. You'll make a fine warrior, lad."

Haluin caught what he though was a faint quaver in the older dwarf's voice, so he decided to add his praise. "I heard your battle cry from afar, Druri. Were it not for that, I might not have found you in time to aid your uncle." He dropped his pouch and began searching for his box of ointment and bandages for Druri's wound, while Jokim watched just over his shoulder. "That should make a fine scar, Druri...and a fine story!"

Druri's eyes lit up with pride and he barely winced as Haluin gently cleaned and dressed the swallow cut. He had been concerned, for most orc swords carried a foul grease that often caused infection. This had been so shallow though, that he was quietly confident it would heal clean.

"There, young master. A fine night's work! Jokim..." He stood and pulled the dwarf aside. "I will go and get rid of that offal. Take him and find some shelter. I'll not be long." He gripped Jokim's shoulder, then went over to where the orc lay, picked the body up and with a noise of disgust, walked off into the darkness.

[Ghorim]

Haluin tracked the dwarves down to a small alcove created by a low-hanging rock. Druri was laid out on his back, breathing deeply, while Jokim sat facing the lad with his back to the Elf. The foul, sour smell of orcish blood still hung thick in the air, and Haluin soon realized that they would have to depart this area with the rising sun, before the rest of the slain orc’s tribe took to the hunt. The Elf sat down at the entrance to the small den and wiped off his hands, still cringing at the deed he had just completed.

“I have disposed with the body as best I could,” he said. “However, we must take only a short rest tonight and then be on our way. An orc’s thirst for vengeance burns just as fierce as that of any Elf or dwarf, and it shall not be long before our actions are discovered.”

Jokim bowed his head in acknowledgment, but did not turn to face Haluin. “So be it,” he said, his voice sounding parched and toneless.

Haluin glanced up from his hands and peered closely at the dwarf’s posture. He inched forward in the silence that followed.

“Jokim...”

The dwarf turned, but Haluin saw only Jokim’s left eye as it peered over his shoulder. It gleamed dimly in the night, and a small drop trickled from the corner to stain the dwarf's shoulder. The Elf froze.

“Henceforth,” began Jokim, forming his words as if cobbling together sand, “you shall make all of our journey’s decisions. Am I understood?”

Haluin could only nod. Jokim turned back away, and gave a great heave of his broad shoulders.

“I must apologize, for I misjudged all tonight. I misjudged all...”

“You handled yourself admirably, Jokim.”

The dwarf spun around fully this time, and in Jokim’s wounded rage the Elf instantly recalled the blaze of the orc’s hateful eyes. Suddenly, the dwarf was upon his feet and advancing, shoving at Haluin, shoving him with bruising force out of the alcove and back into the open night. The Elf kept his hands aloft to protect himself from any unnecessary hurt.

Once Jokim had forced Haluin far enough back he turned to ensure that Druri was still sleeping. Then his gaze fell heavily upon the Elf, who still sat upon the ground, his clothing now caked with dirt from the dust-up.

“Do not feed me such lies,” Jokim spat, keeping his voice low. “My lad is too naïve to know, and you were not there to see it, but he was inches from having his throat cut tonight. His protection is the only task of worth left to my life. The only one. And I threw him into harm’s way... thoughtlessly.”

The dwarf began to pace, restless on his feet, while Haluin slowly picked himself up from the ground.

“Do not look at me through his eyes, Haluin. Do not make that mistake. Recall when you first met me – I was not even fit to care for myself, was I? You remember it all, do you not?”

Haluin kept his distance, allowing Jokim’s outburst the time it needed to dissipate.

“And now...” Jokim’s feet halted in a cloud of dust, and he stood staring at the ground helplessly. “I must care for him. How do I...?”

The dwarf’s speech faltered, leaving the question hanging above him unanswered.

“How do I...?”

He tried to approach the thought again, from a different angle, but he failed to comprehend the enormity of the responsibility. Again he looked back into the alcove, this time to see Druri staring back at him through the shadows.

“What’s the matter?” the lad whispered, his words trembling.

Jokim’s brow creased, and with halting steps he made his way back into the cramped den. Haluin followed cautiously behind, having to crawl to gain entrance to the shelter.

The uncle sat himself beside his nephew, who had now sat up to stare questioningly at him. Jokim found himself unable to face the lad, and kept his gaze locked on the opposite wall. Haluin decided he would have to be the one to explain.

“We were just having a bit of an argument, Druri. Old friends that we are, we still have our disagreements.”

“What about?” asked the young dwarf, rubbing his hands anxiously on his knees.

“Nothing of import,” said Jokim, at last looking directly into Druri’s eyes. He put on the old brave show that his nephew had come to expect, steadying his expression and offering a broad, reassuring smile. “You should take your rest, lad. We shall need to depart early.”

Druri nodded, and drew himself closer to Jokim. The uncle responded by wrapping his arm around the lad, embracing him with an uncharacteristic tenderness. Even Druri was surprised at the display, but after stiffening for a moment eased his head down upon Jokim’s chest.

“I did well tonight?” Druri whispered.

“Splendidly,” said Jokim, clutching at every strand of his composure. “You’ve made me proud.”

Druri smiled and fell silent.

Then the humming began, almost imperceptible at first as it rose from the elder dwarf’s throat. But soon the soft melody filled the small space that the three travelers huddled within, somehow warming the cold walls as it reverberated off of them. Druri closed his eyes and felt the sound rumble through Jokim’s chest.

The tune carried with it that particular melancholy that seemed to color most songs of the dwarves. Its notes wandered gingerly up and down a minor scale, as if in search of a home. It felt familiar to Druri, but from where he could not place. He was still hunting through his memories for the song’s origin when he fell asleep.

Once Druri’s breathing steadied, Jokim tipped his head back and sighed deeply, staring up at the low ceiling. Perhaps he spoke then to Haluin, but he never looked at the Elf directly.

“He was like this when he first came to me,” the dwarf began in a solemn whisper. “Flighty, driven at all times by his fears. He could never sleep through the night. He would awake, thinking the dragon was coming again, and crawl into bed with me. And then he would cry. What could I say then? I merely held him until he grew too weary to weep.”

Haluin nodded. “Your presence... your presence alone strengthens him, Jokim.”

The dwarf shook his head, but said not a thing. He listened to Druri, and his features tensed with unspoken concern as he continued to fixate on the ceiling.

“You should rest as well, Haluin,” Jokim said after a few minutes. “I can claim no sleep tonight.”

[chrysophalax]

Caught offguard by the suddenness with which the dwarf's confident demeanor had vanished, Haluin attempted to lighten the moment. "It seems you know little of elvish behaviour, Master Dwarf, if you ask me to rest. "Rest" for us is not a physical thing, it is more spiritual perhaps. Our minds wander along the paths of waking dreams, giving us the ability to gain strength from the freedom such journeys bring."

Jokim sat still as stone, seemingly unhearing as he watched over the sleeping Druri. "He is fortunate to have you, Jokim." A disagreeable grunt from the dwarf told him he was being heard at least. "There is much you will teach him, over time. Things only people who have travelled, who have lived, can know...of both good and evil. He learns quickly and he is curious...an excellent quality in all beings in my opinion."

As no further comment was to be had from Jokim, Haluin heaved a great sigh and eased his way out of the close confines of the niche. Like all elves, he disliked confined spaces and he eagerly breathed a deep lungful of early morning air as he stretched his muscles gratefully.

Truth be told, Haluin was deeply concerned. The trip over the mountains was likely to take days and the fact that they had encountered an orc so soon was not a good sign. In times past, he had made the journey without so much as a hint of orc activity. This however, was not going to be one of those times.

His worry was now compounded by Jokim's odd statement that he wanted Haluin to direct their path from here on. Why? What had caused the sudden lack of confidence in his abilities? Steeling himself, Haluin determined to drag whatever was bothering the dwarf out of him, for all their sakes.

Kneeling, he called softly. "Jokim, come out here. Nothing can harm him now. Come out here and speak with me." "Nay, elf." Arching an eyebrow, said elf persisted. "Unless you want me to wake your injured nephew from some well-earned sleep, you will join me."

A soft curse and the scrabbling of tiny pebbles greeted this demand, then an angry dwarf was standing toe-to-toe with Haluin.eyes blazing. "What do you want of me, elf? Can't you leave me be?"

"No, Jokim, I cannot. You are being a fool." The dwarf's knuckles cracked as he balled up his fists. "Aye, well, at least I travel in like company." Haluin merely crossed his arms while looking down at the fuming dwarf. "Is that the best you can do? I say you are a fool because you choose as leader one who only knows the way as far as the elven realm of Imladris, just the other side of these thrice-cursed mountains!"

Unaccustomed anger began to stir in Haluin's breast, anger born of frustration and lack of understanding. "What is wrong with you? I have no wish to make your decisions for you, to become your scapegoat should my choices prove wrong. You prate of the past and how I found you. What of it? The past is gone and with any luck, you learned from it!" He stopped, his chest heaving as the words kept coming. "You are a dwarf though, so it is possible you learned nothing..."

The blow came without warning, knocking the elf flat on his back. Haluin's head hit the ground hard, dazing him so that there appeared to be two dwarves now trying to throttle him. Instinctively, he went limp, then as he felt Jokim's grip shift, Haluin grasped his wrists, thrusting the dwarf away from him. "You can kill me if you will, but not in front of Druri." he whispered hoarsely as he rubbed his damaged throat. "Forgive my anger, but can you not see? You are all he has. There is no room in your life anymore for self-doubt...or self-pity. He looks to you now for guidance and you must be there to give it to him. And, I..." a coughing fit set in and he found himself choking. Jokim took a step toward him, but the elf waved him back. "Nay, my friend. I've enough of your "caresses" for one day. As I was about to say, I am still willing to help you to your destination. No matter what you think of yourself, I trust in you and...you will find one day I'm not the only one."

[Ghorim]

Jokim unloaded a few decades' worth of frustration into the one blow that sent Haluin spilling. The first twitch of his arm was motivated by a fierce racial pride, if nothing else. But as his fist rose, it gained an added fury with memories of his captivity, the fall of Erebor, the years of confinement to a clerk's desk. This Elf... who was he to lecture Jokim on his past? The dwarf even felt a grim sort of satisfaction as Haluin's head smacked against the hard stone.

But then the gale of emotion passed, and Jokim was left looking on the pitiful scene that he had left in its wake. Haluin lay there, coughing on the ground, battered and bruised by Jokim's fickle eruptions. And him... standing there... what had he proved? His fingers eased and fell loose. He took a step forward, but Haluin held his advance.

"Nay, my friend. I've enough of your "caresses" for one day. As I was about to say, I am still willing to help you to your destination. No matter what you think of yourself, I trust in you and...you will find one day I'm not the only one."

The dwarf felt a certain sting at the Elf's charity - that Haluin would think Jokim was in need of any was bad enough. But to offer those words after such a furious attack...

Jokim tore off his hood and moved to sit beside Haluin. The Elf backed away with wary eyes, but the dwarf's gaze was not there to meet them. He sat facing back East, over the shadows of the Anduin and Mirkwood, back to the horizon where the sun was just starting to make its presence known. Tendrils of red and orange spread out over the blackened sky.

Thinking of how far he and Druri had already come, Jokim shook his head and gave a contemptuous snort.

"I am not going to kill you, Haluin," he said at last.

The Elf was silent, evidently reserving his judgment toward the veracity of that statement. The dwarf picked up a small stone, rolled it over in his glove a few times, and then gave it a heave down into the lands below. It fell in a long arc, landing far enough away that Jokim could not hear its impact, but Haluin could.

"They say... my folk say, that is... that a fool expresses with his fists what he cannot form with his tongue," Jokim said. "I... have been a fool this evening. On that point you are correct. I could never properly explain to you in words the hurt of seeing my nephew nearly slain by my own arrogance."

He paused, picking up another stone.

"It drove me a bit mad, suffice to say. That cannot happen to him again. It must not."

Jokim clenched the rock until it grew hot in his hand.

"It is my responsibility to ensure that. Handing the reins to you could never relieve that burden."

He chuckled suddenly, the laughs spilling out hoarse and bitter as he tossed the stone aside.

"To think! An Elf leading a dwarf through the mountains! What lunacy possessed me?"

He reached out to slap Haluin on the shoulder, but the Elf tensed, and Jokim stayed the blow. The dwarf pulled back his grin, letting his face lapse back into its familiar illegibility.

"I shall lead us through the terrain. I am not much more familiar with this range than you are, but an Elf should never be expected to properly navigate stone and snow."

Jokim again snorted with amusement at the thought.

"However, tonight has proven one thing to me - you understand these Greenskins far better than I fancied I could. Your quick thinking delivered my plan a fate far better than it deserved. And I thank you for that."

With the tides of his roiling anger ebbing away, Jokim's voice was stripped of all but a frank sincerity.

"When next we encounter one of their defiled number, you may take the lead. Direct me as you wish, and I shall not slacken in my assault."

The dwarf smirked grimly as battle visions returned to his head. As much as Druri's wounding had lit a scare in him, Jokim had savored that fleeting moment as the dark blood spurted from the orc's cleaved neck. He hadn't had the pleasure of such a sensation since the Grey Mountains campaign... and that he couldn't even remember.

"I do not doubt myself," said Joki