[Will Witfoot]

Fungrim emptied the rest of his mug and belched, managing to draw a couple of reproachful looks from the ladies in the crowd. He shrugged mentally and wiped his mouth with his beard, what they thought about his table manners was none of his concerns. He decided to go someplace more comfortable and ordered yet another jack, which the barmaid handed him with a glance that seemed to say: Any troublemaking, mister, and I'll have you dragged out by your beard. He felt amused. Bold thoughts, he thought, by someone who was in no condition to fulfill them.

He rose from the bar-stool and made his way to the common room. He felt slightly tipsy, but then again he had thrown down quite a few pints allready. As good ale was hard to come by in the wildernes it was sensible to make the most of his stay here.
Dwarfs were by nature able to endure more alcohol (and other things) than any other race of the free peoples. After so many a jack a human would be singing high as a girly elf, and an elf would be sorely regretting ever stepping inside the inn in the first place. Fungrim felt only slightly tipsy as of yet.

Finding a free seat at one of the armchairs around the fireplace he tamped some of his prized tobacco into his pipe. He lit it with a burning twig from the fireplace, and as he inhaled the rich smoke, the words and melody of an ancient song started drifting into his mind. Quietly he started singing at first, but his voice gathered strenght with every word. Soon the words echoed from his throat like it did in the ancinet, cavernous halls of the dwarfs.

The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone,
When Durin woke and walked alone,
He named the nameless hills and dells,
He drank from from yet untasted wells,
He stooped and and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built.
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke;
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls;
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still the sunken stars appear In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from his sleep.

The last words sounded from deep within his throat, ringing like the horns of the dwarfs in the mountain halls old as the high peaks themselves. Fungrim thought about the life which had been denied him when he was cast out of the hold with threats of death and harsh words echoing in his ears. He felt tears trying to battle their way into his eyes and got up and made for the door.

Once outside he bursted into bitter, silent tears, weeping for the life which he had lost.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 6:56 AM January 11, 2004: Message edited by: Will Witfoot ]