-General-
Kíli whistled at the sight before him. The flames of the forge lit up his face, showing his characteristic carefree smile. The constant sparks from the hammer striking the metal were like drizzle to the newcomers.
"It's been a while since I came here," he said, then turned to look at Gimli, who, mouth agape, was staring at Smaug's corpse hanging from thick chains, as if it were part of an exhibition.
But for the dwarves of the forge, this was the best way to harvest materials from the corpse, although only a few teeth and a toe bone were missing.
"Impressive, isn't it?" With a slap on the shoulder, Kíli snapped Gimli out of his amazement.
Still stunned by the sight of the corpse, Gimli could only nod dumbly. It wasn't every day you saw the remains of a dragon.
With one eyebrow raised, Aldril inspected Smaug's body. Seeing it so intact, he turned to Fíli.
"Who's in charge of making my armor?" he asked.
Fíli, like his brother, hadn't set foot in the forge since Aldril had first delivered the dragon's body. Thus, he too was puzzled to see Smaug's corpse still almost entirely intact. He had thought that there would already be missing parts, or at least that the scales would have diminished, but they were still neatly stacked in a nearby container.
"Thorin assigned Dwalin to work on your armor," he said, smiling at Aldril's surprised expression. "Don't just see him as a grumpy dwarf; Dwalin is one of the best smiths we have."
That certainly was a surprise for Aldril, though as they say: "Never judge a book by its cover." Even so, it was hard not to judge Dwalin, who would imagine that a bald, gruff dwarf was the best smith in Erebor?
"Come on, he must be close," Fíli said, leading the way, quickly followed by his brother Kíli, who didn't miss a chance to remind Gimli that his story about Smaug hadn't been exaggerated.
This even made Gimli, who was walking beside Aldril, give the half-elf a more respectful glance.
The sound of metal striking metal echoed throughout the forge chamber, a delightful melody to the ears of dwarves who loved smithing. The molten metal illuminated the room with its fiery glow, warming not only the space but also the hearts of those who worked there. Despite the soot-stained faces and partially singed beards, all wore smiles of satisfaction: they loved this place.
As they made their way through, several smiths noticed them, nodding respectfully to Aldril. Some younger dwarves, excited, seemed eager to run and greet the legendary dragon-slayer, but were quickly stopped by the elders, who gave them a slap on the head: they must not get distracted while forging.
But it wasn't only Aldril who received such gestures. Many also shot mischievous smiles at Gimli; some even shouted that if he was in the forge, they expected him to put on a show like his father. This, of course, made Glóin's son frown, not understanding what they meant. He promised himself he would later ask his father what kind of "show" he had put on for these dwarves.
Before long, they spotted Dwalin in the distance. The dwarf was barking orders at numerous smiths, who moved with the coordination and agility of a well-trained army. His gruff, deep voice echoed across the forge with authority: things were not going as he had hoped.
"Dwalin!" Kíli shouted.
Even amidst the clamor of molten metal and hammer strikes, Dwalin immediately recognized that annoying voice that always managed to get on his nerves. With a growl, he turned around.
"Bloody brats, I don't have time for you," he muttered, but froze when he saw Aldril. For a moment, a spark of joy lit up his eyes, only to be quickly replaced by anger as he noticed Kíli had grabbed one of Smaug's fangs.
"Put that down!" he barked, striding towards the young dwarf.
Kíli, shrugging, carefully placed the fang back in its spot. Dwalin, making sure the precious material was safe, then turned a severe gaze on the two brothers.
"What are you doing here?" he asked with obvious irritation.
"Aldril asked us to keep him updated on his armor, so we brought him here," Fíli added.
An involuntary sigh escaped from Dwalin. At least this time the brothers weren't just here to bother him; he already had enough trouble with the fact that the dragon's materials weren't behaving as he had expected.
He turned to Aldril and shook his head.
"It's not going well," he admitted, getting straight to the point. "No matter how much heat we apply or how many blows we strike, the scales and bones of the damned dragon won't bend."
He scratched his bald head in frustration.
"Damn it!"
A sudden exclamation interrupted the conversation. Everyone turned toward the shout. A dwarf had just thrown his broken hammer to the ground in fury. On the anvil, a scale glistened in the firelight, casting a reddish hue as if it were a ruby.
"It failed again!" the blacksmith shouted. "This is the fifth hammer today!"
Dwalin let out another sigh, this time more tired, and turned toward Aldril with a frown.
"See? We don't know how to shape these scales or the bones. We need time… time to figure out how."
---
The resting place of the fallen dwarves was buzzing with visitors. Dwarves came to pay homage to their loved ones, dwarven women laid flowers on the graves of their husbands, and children cried as they found the name of their father or mother engraved on the wall of the fallen. Thorin was no exception.
In a special section where members of the Durin lineage rested, Thorin stood. His eyes, low with sadness, were fixed on the gravestone in front of him.
"In memory of King Thráin, who, in the face of all adversity, sought to make his people prosper, even if that meant kneeling and begging humans for shelter in their lands."
"Father," Thorin murmured.
He wouldn't cry. He had done that before, and besides, now there was someone else crying for his father: his sister, Dís, who stood beside him in silence.
It had barely been one night since Thráin's remains were buried alongside the other kings of Erebor, except for his grandfather Thrór, whose bones rested at the entrance of Moria.
At the thought, Thorin closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to hide his emotions. Remembering Moria not only brought the pain of his grandfather's death but also that of his loyal and wise advisor.
There was much to think about, but deep down, he already knew the answer.
"If the ring allows us to speed up the reconstruction and armament… then I must accept that your body will not be whole, father," he whispered, briefly touching Thráin's index finger bone.
And then, with his gaze fixed on an obelisk where Balin's name was etched among the fallen, he thought with determination:
"And once we are recovered… I will fulfill my promise."
"Recover Moria."
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