[Imladris]

Balin

Balin frowned as he wrapped a piece of bread around a roasted sausage. It was not like Mali to be late. He flicked his eyes over each dwarf’s face and finally came to the conclusion that the female dwarf was indeed not present. Something must have delayed her presence…but what? A death in the family, maybe?

But she soon arrived, panting heavily and hair awry, relieving Balin’s fears. He flashed a smile at her and, addressing the entire group of dwarves, cried, “Up and at it, lads! Pack the dishes and the left over breakfast!”

As the other’s worked, he rummaged in his own pack and brought out a map. The parchment was ragged about the edges and yellow with age, but it was the most detailed map of the area. They would travel Northwest to the pass between Mirkwood and the Grey Mountains… Mirkwood…. the kingdom of the elven King could pose a problem, Balin thought with a dark frown and sullen grimace. He had not forgotten the humiliation of their imprisonment so long ago, but then Bilbo, good old Bilbo, had rescued them and sent them all floating down the river like apples in a barrel. Balin looked at the map again and wondered if they could detour the forest, but why should dwarves make way for a pack of elves, he thought with a thin smile. What could they do to them? The only reason they had been so shamefully captured before was because of those venomous corpulent spiders. Well, they wouldn’t be going near that scum so why should they fear the elves? It would be absolute cowardice to find another way.

His sense of honour having been appeased, Balin glanced around and saw that the dwarves were ready and waiting, their eyes bright and a smile upon their faces. Taking his place at the head of the column, Balin began to sing,

Farewell we call to hearth and hall!
Though wind may blow and rain may fall,
We must away ere break of day
Far over wood and mountain tall.

To Rivendell, where Elves yet dwell
In glades beneath the misty fell,
Through moor and waste we ride in haste,
And whither then we cannot tell.

With foes ahead, behind us dread,
Beneath the sky shall be our bed,
Until at last our toil be passed,
Our journey done, our errand sped.

We must away! We must away!
We ride before the break of day!


They marched quickly over grassy plains, their arms glittering in the sun, every once in a while a dwarvish song upon their lips. They stopped briefly under a copse of trees and enjoyed the rest of the sausage and a bit of cram.

As he traveled, Balin thought of Moria, of the great doors of Hollin, of the mighty halls of Dwarrowdelf. Once his group had become settled and the last remnant of orcs driven away, he would call for more dwarves from Erebor and soon the Khazad-dum would be the great and mighty of the dwarves. And maybe the last dwarven ring of power would be found and give life to their dying race.