The Third Lesson of War – Honoured at Erebor
Hear the sound emerge from the mountain,
Beat the drum, and march one by one,
Draw your steel and hold it before you,
Erebor, the war is now done!
“First Company! Present arms!”
A thunderous clang of plate broke across the clearing as one hundred and seventy-six Dwarfs moved in unison. Evey now, covered in dried blood, mut and tar, they carried themselves with all the pride fitting their accomplishment. Pikes struck the ground, then moved aside, forming a looming column of woven, iron hafts.
“Behold, The King! Five Hundred, attention! Ansaru, bekâr!”
Again, the veterans of Erebor shifted and parted their formation, splitting it down the middle to allow passage for The King.
A moment passed without a word, all of them holding their breaths, awaiting the King’s heralds. Trumpets blasted out from the main gate, the great doors groaned and loosened from their iron binds, and from the depths of the Lonely Moutain, strode a lone Dwarf.
They all knew him, though. He’d trained, marched and bled with them, and they all beheld his Red Axe on the fields before Erebor. Some of them even served with him in the past, during the Battle for Azanulbizar, where he, as a young Dwarf, began to forge his legend.
From the Mountain, strode Dain Ironfoot, King Beneath The Mountain.
“At ease, lads! At ease!”
He stretched out one ringed hand, gesturing over the gathered veterans. “You fought bravely, and valiantly, and there are no words to express my pride and thankfulness. You’ve done the Longbeards proud, lads.”
Dain paused, seemingly eyeing every single beard that stood lined before him. Those in the first row caught a glimpse of a smile as he descended down the steps, and stopped a few paces from the grizzled Dwarfs.
“We marched out as The Five Hundred, yet return with a little over a fifth of that number. Let the Fallen be forever remembered as our finest.”
Again, the King paused, and raised his hand. “Yet, for those who remain, deserve a treasure greater than all the jewels of the mountain. No, they deserve a treasure greater than any that can be found on this earth. What can I offer to the Five Hundred, save for unfading honour and glory, and remembrance in the songs and tales of our kin?”
And with that, Dain turned on his heel, and beckoned for his servants. They bore all bore chests, small and finely wrought, yet undisclosing of what was hidden within them. The King took the first chest, and stood at the head of the line. “Voin Malaksson, Honoured at Erebor.” Dain proclaimed, and then pinned a scroll to the Dwarf’s shield, crowned with a wax stamp. For the next two hours, the King stood with each Dwarf, called them by name, looked them in the eye, and honoured them.
Dalbran dared not move from the back of the second line. The sun beat down on them, and the helm he had borne for days on end began to grow heavy.
“Dalbran Gurnisson.” Dain said, finally, placing himself in front. “Honoured at Erebor.”
“Thank you, My King.”
At that, Dain’s eyes narrowed. The honoring scroll still clutched in his hand, he tilted his head, as if inspecting Dalbran.
“You don’t look older than forty, lad.”
“I am not, My Liege.”
A sigh escaped the King, and he hesitated, choosing instead to place the decoration upon Dalbran’s chest. “It grieves me greatly, to know that war has caught you at such a young age, as it did me.”
Dain smiled, and tapped the mud-splattered pauldron upon the beardling’s shoulder. “May Durin watch you at peace and comfort, Dalbran Gurnisson, and may you join the Halls of Waiting at a great and wise age.
Before Dalbran could respond, Dain had already moved on to honour the next Dwarf.
“Dalbran Gurnisson.” He thought, straigntening up. “Dalbran Gurnisson, Honoured at Erebor.”
