Of Dwarves and Men {Boromir/LOTR}

Chapter 6: Two-eyed, no horned, giant leather people eater

Chapter 6:

Two-eyed, no horned, giant leather people eater

If eyesight is what we solely relied upon, then the Fellowship would certainly have missed the hanging arches and tiled floors of Dwarrowdelf. Indeed, the passage into this chamber is nothing more than archway of unremarkable tenacity, a true copy of every other tunnel. But, no, with a greater instinct of what lies within the darkness, the Fellowship stands in curiosity upon the hearth of what used to be a great kingdom.

"Let us risk a little more light," Gandalf remarks, gesturing for the four of us Phoenicians to light our hands on fire. Being nonverbally delegated the flame-thrower of the group, I send a large fireball deep into the room. And as the mighty orb arches in its peak, the room is momentarily a-lit in golden hues. But with the movement of light comes the creation of shadow, a game in which we all play.

"Behold! The great realm and Dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf!" Gandalf proclaims, though the room is far from "great." Indeed, I behold nothing more than a high roof, thick marble pillars, and marbled glass. But in these things, silence lurks, in part of darkness, as no sounds of heaven's intention are heard from one corner of the room. It is abandoned, like the hope of man.

"Well, there's an eye opener and no mistake!" Sam says, not having realized the obvious lack of activity within this very room. Hobbits may be powerful in their naivete, but that does not mean they are powerful in their observance. Frerin seems to be thinking the same, sending Sam a look of questioning as the others take hold of the situation.

"Gimli!" Gandalf exclaims as the red-haired dwarf charges into the room of single destruction. He flees from our very side, hopping over the crushed remains of wooden doors, covered by the inch with Morgul arrows, and two goblin skeletons. This is the only evidence of such a horrific battle as it must have been. It was surely a long siege as dwarves are far too stubborn to give up arms or hope.

I race after the small dwarf of much irritation, as he is my family not by blood, but by memory. Surely, I could not live with myself if I left him to grieve in solitude. And thus, I find myself past the door of great desolation, looking upon a room of many goblin and dwarf corpses and a stoned well in the dark corner. But it is the single beam of sunlight, from high upon the ceiling, that is the illuminating notion of Dwarrowdelf's fate. This light lays eternally upon a stone table, or casket if you will, of dwarven height and marble finishings. It is a casket of royalty, and as there was but one in this kingdom, Gimli falls to his knees in pain.

"No...no...oh, no!" he sobs out in agony, sending pains from nerve to heart. I approach his side in fast strides, pulling his smaller form into me as a given comfort. He burrows his head in my stomach, quite awkwardly, as the others come upon the scene. Great looks of confusion range across their faces, seeing as neither Gimli nor myself is all that emotional.

"You act as if you met the guy," Frerin remarks coldly and with a scoff. In response to my brother's complete inability to feel sympathy, I clench a piece of chipped marble between my hands, throwing it at Frerin. And given my training, the rock flies true to its course, hitting my brother in the chest and prompting him to topple over.

"Be kind, brother," I criticize him, shaking my head in annoyance and pulling Gimli closer. Around my other side, Ruelin now sits with her head upon Gimli's, embracing him with our company. Boromir lets out a hindered chuckle at Frerin's whining state, though I pay no mind as Gandalf translates the Khuzdul upon the marble casket. I could do just that, given my fluency in the dwarven language, but I am currently locked into place by the small red-haired dwarf of Gloin's kin.