Balin's Choice
With a grateful nod Balin took the proffered ale from Alrik (may his beard ever grow longer), and took a sip. Ale had such a wonderful effect, like water upon a fevered head. He wiped his beard with his sleeve and heaved a sigh. “I am thankful for your well meaning advice,” he said pleasantly, brown eyes twinkling. “However, this has nothing to do with grudges, but with honour . You may ask, as Oin so grumpily, though sagely, did, about who would know if we went through or not? I say to them that we would know and I could not live with myself if I had shirked from a matter of honour.”
He paused, looking at Flori and Oin, who were both shaking their head dubiously, Oin muttering something. “In a way, it’s very much like the reason we returned Beorn’s horses,” he said, a small smile about his lips, his eyes far away. “It would certainly make our journey easier, but it would not have been honorable to have kept the horses.”
Ori laughed and said, “You forget, dear Balin, that if we had kept the horses Beorn would have had our skin beside the warg’s and goblin’s heads!”
“Ori lad,” said Balin with a shake of the head and a broad smile, “don’t go making me example worthless!” He wagged his finger at his fellow dwarf playfully, but then said, “It’s not as if I’ll knock on the elven-king’s doors and tell him, like a wee child, that you bound us and cast us in a dark prison so long ago and now you have to deal with us in all our strength. That would indeed be the ultimate of follies. No. All we will do is travel on the path through Mirkwood and that is all. Moria calls, and I do not feel like traveling around such a broad stretch of wood.”
As the dwarves dispersed, murmuring to each other, Balin took Flori and Ori aside and asked, “Do you have any problems with my plan?”
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