Sansûkh (Bagginshield & Gigolas)

Chapter Eight

The first was Flói, his head bowed, and his shoulders slumped.

"Such fools," he whispered, and his voice was hoarse and full of horror. "We are such fools. Blinded to everything but our pride..."

It was as though Flói's arrival was the leak that began a flood.

Dwarf after Dwarf, pale-faced and shaking, woke up in the Halls of Mahal. Their useless, blind eyes all stared in terror, each telling the same story.

"They cannot get out!" screamed a Dwarrow named Kúlin as he woke, and his shouts rang through the Halls, echoing over the ringing of hammers. "They cannot get out! They cannot get out!"

Thorin held onto Fíli and Kíli's hands as tightly as he dared. Frerin clung to Frís, his head in her lap and his eyes haunted. She stroked his hair gently and sang to him. He stared ahead as though he could not hear anything but Kúlin's desperate cry.

Dwarf after Dwarf after Dwarf...

Thráin took up a battle axe and hurled himself against the walls, roaring with old, old outrage and fear. A flicker of madness danced in his eyes, and his open mouth did not form the shape of a roar, but of a scream. Thrór wept soundlessly into his beard. Hrera clasped his head tightly to hers, her eyes also wet as she murmured to him in a voice too soft to hear.

Dwarf after Dwarf after Dwarf after Dwarf...

"We found Durin's Axe," said one in hollow, empty tones. "We found Durin's Axe."

He did not need to name its price.

Too many, too many in rapid succession. Thorin squeezed his eyes shut and begged Mahal to watch over them. His children were lost in darkness too deep even for Dwarves, and they could not get out.

Balin's kindly face was creased in sorrow and guilt, and when he heard Thorin's voice he crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. "My fault," he gasped, his sightless eyes filled with guilt. "Thorin, laddie, how can I go on? It is my fault, I led them to that place! How can I go on?"

"As I did," Thorin said low, and pulled him to his feet. Balin's fingers clutched at him, trembling and clawlike. "As I did. We go on because there is no other choice."

"There was a choice!" Balin cried, and Thorin held his old advisor close and wrapped his arms around him as tightly as he dared. Balin wept and wept until his voice cracked.

"My fault," he croaked.

"You could not know, any more than I did," Thorin said, and Balin's face twisted.

"Don't you dare make excuses for me, Thorin Oakenshield," he rasped, utter self-contempt making his voice harsh and biting. "I thought I could see the beauty of Kheled-zâram and the wonders of the Dale without reckoning upon the Orcs. Five years only - and an arrow in the back! Two hundred years ago I fought in that very place alongside you. I saw what that place cost, and in my arrogance, I thought I could escape its toll. Moria, the Black Pit – well did the Elves name it!"

"Shh," Thorin said, and Balin buried his head against Thorin's shoulder and shook violently. "Shh, Balin, gamil bâhûn. Shh. It is done now. You can rest. Let it be – let it go."

"Aye," Balin said bitterly. "Rest. Let it go. Like you have?"

Thorin was silent.

"Thought so," said Balin with savage misery, before he began to weep once more. Fundin met Thorin's eyes, and he shook his head in silence, before taking his son's shoulders and leading him away.

Dwarf after Dwarf after Dwarf after Dwarf after Dwarf. And still they arrived, their eyes wide and white in fear, their words tripping over each other as they shook in terror.