Bragin son of Borin has ridden hard across the wastes of Eregion, following a trail that in places vanishes beneath the trees, or wanders lost in the rocks, until at last he reaches the forlorn Elven outpost of Echad Dunann, the West-gate Camp. It is afternoon with a westering sun when, as he reins up atop a small rise, he looks up and gasps in wonder at the sight of Celebdil, Zirag-zigil the white, soaring up against the sky like a sharp signpost heralding the end of his journey; the Mountains of Moria are at last in sight.
Bragin is compelled to rest here for at least a day because his faithful goat, Chisel, has chipped a hoof against the stones. The Elves of the camp hail him with welcome, and expertly see to Chisel’s care. But their greeting is nothing compared to the glad shout from across the camp, and Bragin is overjoyed to see Farohir flying towards him with a glad grin and a loud welcome.
“Farohir, my lad!” Bragin exclaims after a hearty bear-hug. “What a surprise! I never expected you to beat me here, I thought you and your sister were still north in the Lone-lands?”
”Well met, little master,” Farohir says smiling wide, “in truth I expected to arrive first. Last word I had, you were jogging around the High Pass and weren’t due to come down, let alone south; so I kept riding, and made it here two days ahead of you.”
“Why, I’ve been chasing you two scalawags halfway across the North,” Bragin answers, “and after leaving your sister in Bree, well, I was delayed, just as you say. But no matter – for here we are, and look above us, lad! Zirak-zigil, bright as silver and sharp as a spear! And at his feet lay the Walls of Moria. On the morrow, I shall enter Khazad-dûm at last – will you honor me by walking through the gates at my side?”
Farohir smiles even wider, “Nothing much could make me happier, old Dwarf. But now come, there’s hot food and a fire there, let’s catch up where it’s warmer.” The pair move off to find food and the comfort of a bonfire against the setting sun. And their talk resumes, with Bragin hanging on the young half-elf’s every word.
“Eldariel and I shared your letters,” Farohir explains between mouthfuls of bread and wine. “We were pulled aside for errantry as well. Eldariel ascended the Pass before you and continued on into the Vales of Anduin. I had one message before I departed Rivendell; she was in the land of the Beornings, hunting along the eaves of Mirkwood, where she says the hunting is good and the goblins are thick as leaves in the fall.
“As for me, I came south along the Bruinen, and fell in with the garrison north of here. A large company of orcs of the White Hand took Barad Morlas, and it was all hands to dig them out, but finally we cleared the ruins and I was free to continue on. But when I arrived, I learned one important bit of news. Not a day before I arrived, up from the west up the dry valley came a single rider, all clad in red, riding as if the Wargs were right at her heels – who do you think that was?”
“Not your Aunt Seregrían!” Bragin cried in wonder. “But I thought she was still within Khazad-dûm , how is it she’s coming up here?”
“My very question,” Farohir says, “and the answer was, she was part of the company that rode from Rivendell and headed south to somehow cross into Rohan. She broke with them and returned here. Leaped off her horse and stalked off on her own, they say, and with hardly a word.”
“Then if we move quickly, we might catch up to her! Although,” Bragin says, “now that I have found you both, brother and sister, it no longer holds meaning to find her. But to stand here, at the gates of Khazad-dûm , is far more value than a failed pursuit. Mahal’s Tongs! Look at it! So close, and only a march away. And what deeds have been done by the Iron Garrison, the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm rising once more! It warms the blood and fires the spirit, does it not?”
“It does, indeed,” Farohir says, smiling more at Bragin’s infectious glee. “So, let’s get some sleep, and a bit of news from the camp, and at first light we’ll press on!”
The night passes without incident and at dawn the next morning, Bragin and Farohir rise and mount up. Chisel has been deemed strong enough to travel again, and Bragin heaves his bulk into the saddle. Farohir also mounts a hill-goat, knowing that his horse Forosul, Northwind by name, cannot negotiate the Mines. The pair make their way up the twisting trail round the edges of the mirky pool that lays before the Doors of Durin.
As they approach, Farohir reins up and gives Bragin the moment to himself; the Dwarf-smith dismounts before the open gates, totally absorbed in the moment of standing at the threshold of the mansions of his fathers. After a silent moment, with a shine in his eyes both of eagerness and tears of joy, Bragin nods to Farohir, he remounts and they ride forward, vanishing beneath the rock and stone and passing into Moria, and what lies beyond.
