Epilogue
((This epilogue is not yet written by Búrfi. It is the story of what happens after the events I roleplay in the game.))
IX. The Eastern Horizon
A full year passed and Fikli finally found the courage to leave the Blue Mountains behind and travel back to his home at the Lonely Mountain. He took with him his son Frir, a dwarf whose beard was so vividly red some mistook it for a fox as it crept out from under his blanket at night. Like his beard suggests, Frir was a lively lad whose interests and opinions kept changing overnight. Around that time he was fascinated with the idea of becoming a treasure hunter. But now, his old father, the once brave and surly warrior, was slowly falling apart. It seemed like the scars of war and death had cut deeper into his heart than we all had thought at first.
Fruni, now once more the proud and promising figure we had once admired him for, decided to join his uncle in his travel to Erebor. Whether he was truly ready to leave behind the Mountains he loved so dearly, I do not know. Perhaps the recent rumours of an imminent threat in the East had awakened his own fighting zeal. Or perhaps he felt like he had nothing left at home to stay behind for. Whatever influenced his decision to travel East, I felt like it was guided by a touch of destiny. I felt that Fruni was given another chance to bring our family out of the shadows of pain and sorrow. This is partially what compelled me to gather my belongings and follow them too. For it was my duty to stay with my family, and live out the fate that was layed before us. Perhaps a new future, a better future, awaited us on the Eastern horizon.
X. On Rohan and the Brown Lands
The date was March 10 of the year 3019. We entered the land of the Horse Lords, a land of green hills as far as the eye can see, and ever the sound of galloping horses is heard across its plains. Smoke rose from the wizard's tower. But we continued onwards, astride our hungry ponies. Surprisingly, we found very few riders on our road. No horns echoed through the air, no songs were sung. It seemed like the silence before the storm. Or had the storm already passed? We didn't share thoughts on this, for we had had another argument and the comments we dared to give were in a mumbling tone. We moved straight to the East until we reached the gullies of the Anduin. We had trouble trying to find a way to get the ponies across the river, for the Anduin is no small crook or babbling stream. It is a roaring river, that runs through the land like a sharp spear through a boar's hide. Eventually we found a crossing, though it brought us much further North than we had planned.
That night we made camp in the Brown Lands, away from any sort of shelter. It made for a cold night, but the sky was filled with stars. Those reminded me so much of Lake Mirrormere, where the stars ever shine so brightly on its surface. However, before we could fall asleep and dream of buckets of mithril, the ponies turned restless. Fruni bade us to douse the fire, for something was out there. In that moment, as we listened carefully for any sign of the enemy, we felt not at ease. It was the same kind of feeling we had shared a long time ago, right before the battle of Hammerfall. O' how I curse that sense of dread, that ill foreboding that could drive a dwarf mad. Nothing as dreadful as the silence before the storm.
And then it happened, a faint remembrance overtook us as we heard the cries of orcs coming from all sides. I couldn't get to my sword quickly enough, or one jumped in front of me, its eyes staring straight at me. I had to use one of the burning logs to fight it off. A quick sweep with the fire set the orc ablaze and had him running away. When I could finally reach my sword, I saw Fruni, Frir and Fikli already in the heat of combat. One of the ponies got loose and ran off into the darkness. In the aftermath to that skirmish, we counted 15 orcs amongst the dead. But that number was enough to bring young Frir to his knees. An orc of pale skin, wielding a scabard of black steel, struck a deadly blow to my kinsman. It was the same orc whom had lead the attack during the Hammerfall Tragedy many years ago. After Frir dropped down on the grassy field, we suddenly heard a cry that drowned out the shrieking of the orcs, and echoed in the sky like if thunder had struck. The noise was so loud that it made the orcs flinch in fear. It was Fikli. He had seen his son fall down, lying motionless on the ground. He ran towards his son's body, relentlessly killing any orc that dared stood in his path, but without much attention to the damage his axe wrought. The pale orc now targeted Fruni. In a harsh duel, the orc wounded Fruni badly in the leg before he was smitten by Fruni's shining axe. As their leader was brought down to his own knees, the remainder of the orcs scattered, running back across the fields to the borders of Mirkwood - whatever evil stirred there, I can only wonder.
Fikli lay motionless over his son's body, and the impossible happened; he cried, he cried so hard I thought he could at any moment have his son restored to him, for his sorrow was of so great a measure that Mahal would shame himself if he did not heed Fikli's call. But nothing of the sort happened, Frir did not rise again. We had lost a great brother. Meanwhile Fruni stood before the orc, gurgling blood on the floor. Before he gave him the killing blow, he asked: 'Tell me your name, foul creature. For I must know what to call the killer of my cousin, before I send him back to the pits that spawned him'. The orc gazed at him, blood came running through his thin teeth as he laughed. 'Why should I give you that pleasure dwarf?' asked the orc. Fruni looked over at Fikli, before redirecting his gaze to the orc again. 'So that I may bring a quick end to your suffering - for every breath you still take is an insult to my cousin'. The orc grinned and said: 'I am Zurthak, captain of Dol Guldur's scouting horde and I take great pleasure in seeing your cousin bleeding on the ground. Like many before him, he has fallen to my blade. Woe your pettyful race, dwarf, for you will meet your end sooner than you think!'. Fruni felt like he had heard enough and so he thrust his axe in Zurthak's chest until he died. Thus passed the sly orc, the slayer of Dwarves.
XI. The Lonely Mountain
And so it was that we left that place, astride our ponies, on our way to Erebor. But we saw ourselves forced to take a small detour, to stay away from the borders of Mirkwood as much as possible. Fikli had tearful eyes and he would not speak. He carried his son's body on his pony the entire way. Fruni took the lead, but he soon collapsed, suffering from his wounds. I had to pick him up again and help him on his pony. But the dwarf was in bad state. There was still a day's march before us, and it seemed like Fruni would not make it. I gave him plenty of water, and some naugrimbas. He could not stomach the latter, but it was all we had left. When we finally reached the lake of Esgaroth, it was only a few miles away from our destination. But those last miles were heavier than all the others combined.
At the very moment when the gates of Erebor were finally in sight, Fruni fell off his pony and lost consciousness. I had trouble keeping him awake. I decided to lay him on his pony, and lead it to the gates myself. Once there, I yelled at the guards for help, and help soon came rushing towards us. They carried Fruni's body inside and tried to do the same for Frir, but Fikli snarled at them, his axe held in a tight grip. I made clear to them that it was already to late for him. Fikli carried his son's body inside by himself and wished none to help him. The guards bade me to tell what happened, and so I did. Then a herald of the crown beckoned me to come with him to the king.
I had been in Erebor before, but it never failed to astonish me. The beauty of this kingdom was unrivalled, perhaps only Nogrod in ancient days, or Moria, could have contended with its vast halls; its floors furnished with golden inlay, silver braziers lighting the rooms and ever the sound of hammers in the deep. The herald guided me to the throne room, where I saw King Daín II Ironfoot standing in front of his throne. He was talking to some of his people, when he saw his herald coming towards him.
King Daín wanted to hear everything that had happened to us on the road. He also asked whether we had seen any larger enemy forces gathering in the Lone Lands. I'm afraid I had to disappoint him. Nonetheless, Daín welcomed us and permitted us to stay as long as we saw fit. I was escorted to my room, and there a feeling of fatigue overwhelmed me. I figured Fruni and Fikli would be alright, and so I fell into a deep sleep.
XII. Last of the Stouthammers
Weeks passed and we were still at Erebor, lamenting the young dwarrow's death. Fikli locked himself away and spoke to no one. He didn't eat for many days. Fruni and I tried not to worry too much and thought Fikli would turn around on his own time. Meanwhile, we shared many a walk along the halls of Erebor; a Kingdom he had never visited. I did once, but it was a long time ago. Every evening I would tell him of my many adventures and shared a verse or two of my work. I had been working on a collection of poems, in a book I called The Book of Rhymes. In it were such masterpieces, if I may be so bold, as The Lay of the Nauglamír and Dead Man's Marsh. Fruni did seem to like it and for a while all troubles were forgotten.
But on March 17 of that year, a large host of Easterlings came to Dale, and King Daín II gathered his warriors in preparation for war. They asked me if I and my kin were to march with them into battle - I did not know whether we were up to it. After all, much had happened and we hadn't even seen Fikli in a while. When I spoke to Fruni, he seemed doubtful, as if he reckoned he wasn't ready for a battle of this scale. It took some convincing, but I managed to lit his heart's fire. Right as we were about to leave for the armoury, Fikli appeared before us, his eyes worn but without tears. We were surprised to see him, for he looked quite different. The words that followed were of remorse and they were met with words of comfort. And so there in that room on March 17, ere we marched into what could be our final battle, the three remaining Stouthammers sat together, and shared a brief moment of peace in which past happenings were forgiven and a bond of friendship and love was mended.
We readied ourselves for war, cladding ourselves in armour strange to us. Fruni took with him his trusted axe, Fikli would take with him his hammer and I decided to wield my broadsword in battle. I remember how the sky turned in different colours. Great black clouds clashed with the sun's light, giving the air in between a vibrant reddish colour. I wrote a quick poem before we gathered with Daín's warriors. I called it Horizon's End. For it did seem to me like we were to march to our deaths. The armies of the Easterlings were vast, and their screams were heard even inside Erebor.
As we joined up with Daín's host, we were next to each other in the same line. The gates to Erebor opened and the army started their march down the valley to King Brand of Dale whom had retreated with his forces to join up with ours against the oncoming darkness.
XIII. The Battle for Dale
I could tell of many brave deeds performed during this battle; of how Daín II fought like a Dwarf possessed, with the strength of Durin himself, or of how the Dwarves of Erebor were so valiant in their efforts to hold back the enemy horde, or how King Brand himself and his brave Men of Dale were the strongest force of Men I had ever seen,... But of all their brave deeds, many songs are already sung, and so through the voice of bards their glory will forevermore resonate through the Halls of the Lonely Mountain. No songs are sung about the efforts of my kin. No tale tells of the part a handful of Firebeards played in the defence of the North.
For this, only my work will be proof. Only my work will tell of how Fikli fought in frenzied rage, crying out his sorrows at every strike of his mighty hammer, and how he eventually fell with hammer in hand and departed to the Halls of Waiting where he was to meet his only son. But truly, if 'er there was a Dwarf whose deeds should be immortalised by chroniclers and minstrels alike, it would be Fruni, for I have never seen a warrior fighting with more skill than he did that day. A warrior, whose life had not been without flaws or outright mistakes; a life riddled with misfortune and forsaken promise. But that day, in front of the gates of a kingdom he had never seen before, for the freedom of lands that were not his own and aside beards that did not know him any better than the enemy they were fighting, Fruni earned his long sought glory.
But woe me and my fortune, for Fruni's glory walked hand in hand with his downfall. 'Twas the piercing might of a cold, steel forged, spear that brought this brave warrior to his knees, and though his axe enacted revenge upon the man whom brought this deadly blow, he was never to rise again.
In our darkest hour, Daín too was brought down as he tried to ward off the enemy before the lifeless body of the once mighty Brand of Dale. Forced to retreat, it was behind Erebor's wide walls that we managed to survive the siege for three days. I remember not much of the fighting that followed. I was lost in grief, and thought of better days. Days when my proud family was full of life and song and promise.
It is sad irony to know that Fruni's entire life he tried to excel by way of the axe in front of those whom knew him well, and failed, only to finally earn his name so far from home, with no one there to see but me. For I witnessed the great deeds of Fruni Stouthammer, Last of the Great Stouthammers, and I am proud to have lived in his time.
An Elegy
Fate has little short of folly,
What prophecy drew thee to this end,
What actions ought thou to repent,
Why was thy life so short of jolly.
Worries covered by night's embrace,
Like blankets over sorrow lain,
In dreams we find what death dare erase,
Is it thee I see in twilight's vain?
But no voice echoes anymore,
No hammer glitters in the dark,
All light of days of yore,
Has left no single mark.
Búrfi, Erebor March 17, 3020
