mithril

EPILOGUE

— EPILOGUE —

Aragorn, Ranger and Dúnedan of the North, looks up at the sound of approaching boots. Heavy, metal-toed. The wearers stout and strong. He grins at the raven-haired Dwarf who enters Imladris first. His powerful energy precedes him, the signa of the ruling line of Durin stamped over his chest for all to see. Young, but in charge of those behind him.

The Dwarf is known to him better than anyone in the circle is aware of, save for Legolas and the Elf Lord Elrond. Surprise crosses the faces of those present in the circle as the man steps forward and heartily hugs the tall Dwarf.

"Thraven," he greets happily, unable to contain his joy. "Mine cousin. How was the road?"

"Oh, long and perilous. Filled with unending dangers," the Dwarf grins. He shakes his head, the great mane of black falling all around his shoulders.

"To be expected. The world is darkening." There is an air of excitement around the Dwarf prince. Young, and fresh off of a battle. He relishes in the fight, Aragorn can tell.

"Where are my uncles?" Thraven demands, turning to Elrond. His face is grave and angry for a second before the expression split and he greets the Elf Lord with as much joy as he did Aragorn. Elrond doesn't exactly return the hug, but he does smile secretly before the Dwarf pulls away.

"My sons are in the South, hunting Orcs. How are the king and queen, Thraven, son of Thorin?"

"The king remains strong," the Dwarf prince nods. "Though my mother is constantly teasing him, for the shade of his hair finally matches her own."

"I would expect nothing less from Léra." Elrond smiles, waving a hand for the Dwarf party to enter the circle. There are several in his company, an older Dwarf by the name of Gloin, his son Gimli, three lesser Lords in the East, and Thraven, the prince of Erebor. In comparison to his peers, the Dwarf prince is young. He shows it in the shorter beard, and in his ready willingness for just about everything he engages in, whether it be with friend or foe.

Aragorn knows this will not be his mission. Perhaps the time will come when the sons of Thorin Oakenshield, Thraven and his younger brothers Fengor and Kûrik, will embark on their own quests. But this one is far too important. Too dangerous. Aragorn will not risk his kin, his own blood, for it.

The young Dwarf prince doesn't seem to mind the decision. He eagerly claps Gimli on the back, volunteering him for the task. Elrond accepts that input, and the decision rests on the red-headed dwarf.

Well into the night after the council has concluded, Thraven sits with Aragorn, his legs swinging into the air as they speak on a high bridge over the falls of Imladris.

"My father is growing older, Aragorn. He's two-hundred-and-forty-one already. I am not so sure I'm ready to be king yet. He's trying to prepare me, but I can feel in my bones I am too naive to the world still."

"The fact you recognize that will make you even greater," Aragorn tells him.

"I don't want to see her alone, Aragorn."

"She was alone long before she met him, Thraven. And besides. She isn't truly alone anymore. She has you and your brothers."

"Yes," Thraven sighs. "But war is brewing. What if we are taken from her before the year is out?"

"You won't be," the human tells him. Thraven shrugs, leaning back on his hands.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Just make sure you destroy this blasted Ring. And keep yourself alive in the process. How great will it be to say mine own cousin is the king of all of Gondor?"

"You know that is not my path."

"You say that now, but I think otherwise," Thraven grins. He jumps to his feet, the sword hilt at his hip swaying as he does so. "Imagine. Thraven, a son of Durin. King under the Mountain. And Aragorn, from the line of Dúnedan, King of Gondor. Friends and family. Our people will prosper immensely."

Aragorn is staring at the sword he wears.

"Is that Angolain?" Thraven sobers, nodding once. He draws the shining silver blade from its blue sheath.

"She gave it me three years ago, when I turned seventy. I have brought down many orcs with it in that past few months."

"This is the blade that killed Azog the Defiler. May I?" Aragorn asks. Thraven hands him the pommel. A perfectly balanced sword. Not too long. Light in color and always as cold as ice. An ancient relic of the Dúnedan, passed down by some sheer luck and fate to Léra Celebdraug. And now, in the hands of a Dwarf. Half Dúnedan, half Dwarf. Entirely heart and loyalty and bravery. Aragorn hands the sword back.

"It is an excellent blade for you, my blood. Wear it well. I believe it will save your life someday."

"It already has," Thraven tells him. "And it will again."

"I leave on the 'morrow," Aragorn tells him quietly. Thraven grasps his arm.

"Good luck, mellon. May your blade be true and your path swift. I will see you again when you wear the crown of Gondor upon your head."

The Dwarf is right, in part. Aragorn, not yet crowned but commanding the armies of Gondor, almost falls to his feet in relief at the sight of the Dwarf army cresting the hill behind surrounding lines of Orc troops. An army who rode to Gondor's aid, and an army that stood by and watched as their new king support the king of Gondor as he was crowned upon the sunset of a joyous victory. Humans and Dwarves, two united fronts.

The new age of Middle Earth, heralded in at the very start by a Hobbit from the Shire, thirteen Dwarves in search of reclaiming their home, and a Dúnedan of the North.

—

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© ellehabite, october 10, 2023