In the vast halls of Moria, time passes differently from the world of sunlight. The great louvres and mirrors which allow light and air to enter the Mines can show the change between night and day, but the days and even the hours themselves are a puzzle – that is, until Dwarvish thought is applied. And to mark the passage of time, the folk of Durin devised mechanical time markers that clink away the hours with the sounds of hammer on anvil.
It is upon the striking of one of these “time-hammers” that an evening feast begins for the Iron Garrison in the Twenty-First Hall. Brogur declared it done in an effort to raise the flagging spirits of the Dwarves; for the fortunes of the Garrison were not just stalled but being reversed, and this is all the talk at the feast tables. One by one, the outposts and watch-camps throughout the lower halls are being overrun. Rumors grow of orc and goblin regiments boiling out of the deep rocks and throwing themselves against the Dwarves’ defenses, heedless of losses. Precarious outposts still hang on in places like the Flaming Deeps but cannot hold for long.
At one table apart from others sit several friends who commiserate on their efforts. The scholars Brodi and Thalfi, the adventurous Svanr, and even Bosi joins them when he overhears their words.
“When did the change of our fortunes begin? I’ll tell you when,” Thalfi was saying. “The Elf-scholar. It began when she left us, and with barely a word. Right after the fight in Durin’s Way, recall that? When we cleaned out the merrevails’ lair, and she chased them all the way up Zirak-zigil? And after three days she returned, and did you mark her face – like she had seen something worse than death.”
“Aye, I think you found it,” says Brodi. “She changed after that. I don’t mind telling you all, I got quite comfortable knowing she was somewhere nearby, even though she was as stubborn as any Dwarf!”
“And as clever, mind you,” Svanr says. “Look at all she did to help us recover the old wisdoms. The Halls of Knowledge, the libraries, the Heart of Fire – why, half our gains would not have been, were it not for her. And she truly loves Khazad-dûm as we do, I know, for I saw it in her eyes and heard it in her voice. She is as much of a friend of Dwarves as any Elf could ever be!”
“I agree with you all,” Bosi joins in, “and I Bosi, son of Bifur, say this: Seregrían is indeed a friend of the Iron Garrison, and her name is written in the journals as much as it is written in our hearts. Drink with me, lads: to Seregrían, Khazush-Khazad: Sister of the Dwarves!” And all the company raises their tankards as one: Seregrían, Khazush-Khazad!
The Dwarves fall silent after the toast, their sullen thoughts interrupted by a harsh krang! of metal on metal, the rapid peals of alarm. Cries ring out from across the hall. “Goblins! Coming through the South Arch from the deeps! Baruk, Durinul!” All there reach for weapons and join the rush to the south arch. Harsh cries and the ring of steel echo through the hall, but it is soon clear the Dwarves are being forced back by the tide of goblins more than six times their number, hurling themselves into the fight. The Dwarves gradually give ground until they stand at the crossroads in the center of the hall, goblins now on their south and west paths pressing forward. The four friends form the anchor of a shield wall across the way, their faces grim, their hopes choking in a rising fear.
Screams and curses now rise from the goblin ranks to the west, but the screams are of terror. Flashing lights and sharp bangs are heard, and smoke from many fires begins filling the air. And above the din of the goblins can be heard a single voice, screaming high words before each blast: Naur dan i glamhoth! Bo-mad deleth nin! DOSTACH AEN! Thalfi and Svanr turn and look at each other, smiles of wonder on their faces as they charge forward. And as the goblins scatter before them, the Dwarves are greeted by the sight of an old friend, Seregrían advancing towards them, clad in red and black, sword and staff in hand, and a satisfied lopsided grin on her fair face – but her eyes were gleaming with a light that was not reflecting of the fires.
“Suilaid, negethig mellyn nin. Pelian na siniath, Besruth in tolad!”
(Greetings, my dwarfling friends. Spread the news, the Bitch is back!)
A mighty cheer echoes through the Twenty-first Hall as the Dwarves of the Iron Garrison are reunited with their friend. The feast tables are quickly reset, and the gathering now changes tone, from a lament to a celebration. Seregrían finds herself seated at the head table at Brogur’s right hand, Bosi gladly giving up his seat for her. After letting her eat (for she is mortally hungry), with Svanr and Thalfi arguing over which one was going to have the honor of serving their guest, the Dwarves press her with questions and listen to the tale of her journeys, hanging on her every word.
Once she parted ways with the Grey Company, Seregrían galloped north like a tempest, passing swiftly through Dunland and Enedwaith with only a brief stop at Lhanuch to swap horses and a brief bit of news. Her thunderous ride then took her to Eregion, passing up the valley of the Sirannon and stopping again at Echad Dunann, not even waiting for a change of mounts, heading on foot to the Doors of Durin.
Once within the threshold, the greeting Seregrían received would be repeated by every Dwarf she met; Tulk dancing merrily at her coming, Dalwin and Limar refused to stop talking to her, and old Narfi kept shouting, “I knew you were coming back to us!”
And now, it is Bosi who repeats his toast for the company to let Seregrían know she is now Khazush-Khazad, the Sister of the Dwarves – and the entire assembly stands, raises their cups and sings her praise in the Dwarvish tongue. She covers her mouth with her hands, but the two streaks of wetness beneath her eyes betray her.
“Oh friends!” Seregrían speaks through her tears, her voice catching. “Never would I have thought such a title would be mine to hold. True friends have been hard to find, but here in these halls, here you are!”
The talk now progresses to Seregrían’s weapons. Her sword is of Dwarf-make, a gift from her previous time in the Mines, but shows the scarring and pitting of the powers that she wields. But it is Dondangol that captures their attention. Wafi and Rink Stronghammer appraise the work of the Mirdain smiths of Rivendell.
“Much as I am not a woodwright, “ Wafi says, “this is masterful craft here. And the head of the staff – almost pure ithildin? A marvel of craftsmanship!”
“And the gems, besides,” Rink says in awe. “Wrested from the arms of Khazad-dûm herself. And the cuttings! Dwarf-tools can do an equal job, mind you, but the shape and settings are what lends this staff its might. Displace even one stone, and the whole thing would be useless. If we Dwarves could ever create such art, those secrets are lost to us.”
“She needs a newer and better blade, that’s certain,” Wafi says. “One crafted by ourselves, in the Heart of Fire she helped to find. Can you imagine, the forges fanned to new heights of power by what she can do – Seregrían’s Kiss, is it? It would forge a weapon worthy of the name. What say you, Khazush? I want your kiss in exchange for a weapon!” Wafi blushes as soon as he says it, and all the Dwarves laugh long and loud. And most unexpectedly of all, Seregrían smiles, then laughs – a true, real laugh from her heart. Hearing it, the Dwarves look at her and laugh along with her, their laughter filling the hall with a merry sound not heard since the days of old.
“Come now,” Brogur cries, “let the laughter continue. Narfi, Holgir! Bows and flutes and drums! Let there be music and dance!” And in a twinkling, music fills the air and voices lift in song, and Dwarves begin a spirited dance in celebration of victory and friendships – and Seregrían, her laughter bubbling even more, kicks off her boots, casts away her cares along with her gear and joins the Dwarves – her new brothers – dancing with them long into the evening.
