Dwimmer watched as Amur made his way unsteadily to the stone gateway, his son lending a steadying arm as he turned to wave a cheerful, if none too sober, farewell. When the two were out of sight, the old dwarf carefully shut the door against the chill air and turned to join his remaining guest.
"They're away then?," asked Hoggstari as Dwimmer took up the seat next to him.
Reaching down for his half-empty mug, Dwimmer nodded in assent and took a large swallow of ale.
"I noticed you said nothing about the stone you brought back from the elf-lands, though you were forthcoming enough about your travels there. Lord Dwalin said he had never seen a zircon of that size since he beheld the Arkenstone. He was shocked that you asked so little for it..."
"Aye...well...it was enough to furnish the roof over our heads, even if it was my engraving skills that paid for the boar."
Hoggstari chuckled and leaned further back in his chair, "Then we've both eaten our profits..!"
"Make no mistake, I am grateful you acted as broker...I was in no fit state to appear before the high throne."
The old warrior snorted, "No...you weren't. What possessed you to go to the elves? Stay with your own, I say. It was bad enough to get mixed up with that elf-child. And for what? They told you nothing and scarred you in the bargain. Bad dealings, I'd say."
"You'd say many things, Hogg. 'Twas the elves that told me to seek news from the White Mountains."
"About that..." Hoggstari looked sidelong at his companion. "There's more to be told than you did earlier. What is it?"
Dwimmer looked away for a moment, then said, "There's a place south of the mountains on the road to Dol Amroth...a trade route in peaceful times...called Tarlang's Crown. Legend has it a stone giant died there and his remains make up the hillocks and passes just outside the foothills of the mountains. Anyway, a party of merchants was trying to pass through this place when they were beset by corsair brigands, trolls and ...worse. They fought as valiantly as any dwarves could, but there is no axe that can cut through the despair that the shades of men bring with them. They had given themselves up for dead when a party of warriors...shining knights and swift bowmen came galloping to their aid. The merchants were told to flee while the brigands and wraiths were held at bay. Among the archers was a young lass...brown-haired and with an elven look to her. It was my Fairlain...I know it."
"Eh? then you've found her...," Hoggstari's voice trailed off as he noticed that Dwimmer never took his eyes from the fire that still burned in the furnace.
"The merchants made it to Dol Amroth and safety, but their rescuers never returned. Word came they had all been slain for none had come out of that place."
Hoggstari thought a moment.
"It could've been any of those elf archers...their lasses shoot as well as their lads....and they've been known t' linger about the rivers of that place."
"She shouted to the merchants to save themselves in perfect Khuzdul...it was not just any elf-lass..." Dwimmer's voiced cracked a little and he fell silent. With a concerned look, Hoggstari gently took the mug from Dwimmer's hand and refilled both it and his own at the keg that stood in the corner of the room. Placing the brimming mug back in Dwimmer's hand, he took his seat once again. With a deep breath, Dwimmer said,
"She's dead."
The old warrior sat silent, then whispered, "I'm sorry."
And together the white-haired dwarves drank a silent toast.
Then Hoggstari asked in a quiet voice, "So, tell me about these elves..."
