Return to the North [ Lord of the Rings x Silmarillion ]

In Days of Yore

A/N: Fun little chapter here. Not too long, but I might try to get a second one out tonight to make up for lost time. I head back to college on Thursday, so updates may continue to be sporadic until I figure out a regular updating schedule that works for me. So enjoy this little information filled chapter!

In the morning, Elboron and Círeth were the ones to help Fëalas try standing. Under the careful eye of the dwarven healer, Fëalas slowly tested her leg on the ground, Elboron and Círeth to either side in support in case she collapsed.

Which is exactly what happened. She growled in frustration as she fell to her knees, the two people beside her catching her as she fell. The dwarf with the long white beard shook his head and clicked his teeth.

"I still say yah should wait another day," he sighed. "She might be able to walk short distances by tomorrow."

"No," Fëalas barked, uncharacteristically angry and harsh. "We need to go now."

"I might be able to help."

Everyone turned to look at the newcomer. It was Lord Durin and Bidor, followed by a rather large goat. Behind the animal was a small cart.

"This is one of our mounted goats," Durin explained. "We usually keep them hidden, but as a gesture of good faith I will lend him to you. He should be able to pull your friend."

Fëalas looked at the cart skeptically but nodded. She would ride in it - she had little choice. The company needed to keep moving, for her sake as much as anyone's.

"Thank you again, Lord," Eldarion bowed. "I am afraid we must now take our leave of you."

Durin nodded and grasped Eldarion's arm in a handshake. "Good luck, and may Mahal guide you."

Fëalas was lifted into the cart by her brother. Bidor, their chosen guide, took the goat's lead rope and they moved forward down the hall. Each said their farewell to Lord Durin.

Aderthon ran his hand up and down the hilt of his sword. Daeristor, Shadow Cleaver, he had named it. It was a sword to drive out the darkness. He only wished it had been literally able to drive out darkness; an ancient elvish blade would've been really useful right then as they began their journey through Moria.

It wasn't so dark that they couldn't see, even for the regular humans like Elboron or Elfwine. Every pair of companions held a single torch. They journeyed through halls of stone, some incredibly massive, still others small and cozy.

"This place is strange yet similar to Aglarond," Elfwine commented to Eldarion.

Eldarion agreed with him with a smile. "Truly."

The two stood next to the cart, right behind Bidor. The dwarf grunted and shook his head.

"In its former glory, Khazad-dûm was much grander than Lord Gimli's Glittering Caves, however impressive those may seem. And I assure you he would be the first to agree." Bidor raided his torch and ran a hand along the passage wall. "The Glittering Caves have only small traces of mithril. These halls, they ran with the precious metal. They bled Moria Silver."

Elfwine was amazed. "What happened to the dwarves here?"

"They delved too deep," was all Bidor would say, growing quiet again.

Eldarion decided to explain to the prince of Rohan what the dwarf would not. "In the years of Moira's decline, Mithril began to grow more scarce. The dwarves were forced to mine deeper and deeper into the earth. There they awoke a demon of an earlier age."

"A Balrog of the Black Foe," Elboron chimed in, coming up alongside them. "A Balrog of Morgoth."

Elfwine was mesmerized. His eyes were wide as he waited for them to continue.

"Balrogs are fallen Maiar, large, eclipsed in darkness and flame." Eldarion began to describe the fire demons for the rohirric princeling. "This one has been known only as Durin's Bane. None remember its true name."

"Were there other balrogs?" Elfwine asked them curiously. "Are they still around?"

"Oh yes," Aderthon said, responding as he too joined the little group near the cart. "Hundreds of them. Maybe even thousands!"

"They were the chief commanders of Morgoth's forces in the First Age and the War of the Jewels," revealed Elboron.

"A great elf of those days, the High King of the Noldor, King Fingon, was slain as he battled them. He was killed by Gothmog, the Lord of the Balrogs."

Elfwine was astounded. "Who killed Gothmog?"

The other three exchanged glances. Who indeed?

"An elf named Ecthelion, a Lord in the hidden city of Gondolin, slew him as he himself was slain. Then another elf, Glorfindel, managed to kill yet another balrog. Glorfindel was sent back to Middle Earth by the Valar, the gods as you know them, in the Second Age." Eldarion smiled. "He trained my father in swordsmanship, you know."

"And my mother," Aderthon added. "He and my father and uncle."

"Is he still alive?" Elfwine asked, his eyes wide. "Is he still in Middle Earth? Or has he left like the other elves?"

"He is still here," Eldarion smiled. "In fact, he is who we hope will heal Fëalas. He has sworn not to leave until the Sons of Elrond leave."

Elfwine grew quiet. He had a lot to think about. Elvish history was not stressed by his teachers in Rohan. It was, of course, their own myths and legends and history that was important. Yet the elves had always fascinated him. They were such remarkable beings of grace and power.

"Who killed Durin's Bane?" he finally asked. "If balrogs are so powerful, who killed him?"

"Gandalf did, of course," Bidor jumped in. He'd had enough talk of elves and their strength in battle.

"Gandalf the wizard?" Elfwine grinned. "I've learned about him! Father says he was always a good friend of Rohan."

"He was a good friend of everyone," Bidor replied. "I knew him."

"You knew Gandalf the White?" Fëalas, sitting up in the cart after listening to the boys talk, asked quickly.

Bidor smirked. "Indeed, lassie. I knew him. Though I knew him as Gandalf the Grey. He helped my uncle Dain Ironfoot win the Lonely Mountain. I never met him after the color change."

Fëalas looked at this dwarf in newfound respect. "Your uncle was Dain Ironfoot?"

"Indeed. My cousin sits on the throne now. But I wanted to follow Lord Durin to Moria." Bidor puffed out his chest proudly. "I would follow Lord Durin to the ends of Middle Earth if he asked me."

The company grew quiet. Aderthon couldn't help but think of the lyre that sat above his fireplace back home. All this talk of the elves of old made him think of the tales his mother and father told about traveling with Maglor, second son of Fëanor, to Harad. There they had found a silmaril, and it had been sent over the sea with the Ringbearers later.

But Maglor had perished, dying to save Míril from slaying Elrohir in confusion when the Blue Wizards took partial control of her mind. Maglor had saved her from committing an act of kinslaying like him.

The elder days, while so fascinating, had not been all sunshine and roses. They had been bittersweet. Aderthon knew he lived in better, more secure times now.

And he was thankful for that.