Bragin and Farohir have ample time to watch as their caravan slowly traverses the corridors and high-roads of Moria. Farohir’s head swishes to and fro as he tries to catch every sight he can, overwhelmed by the vastness of the halls of Durin. Bragin, however, is beside himself – he is desperately resisting the urge to stop at every intersection and crossroads, and simply bask in the sight of the archways and the galleries that open before them at every turn.
After a trek of many hours, the caravan arrives at the Chamber of the Crossroads, where they dismount and regroup. The Chamber is quite large and boasts a small area for stabling goats, room for a hostel and such; but the room’s center is dominated by a well that drops to unguessed depths below, fenced off to prevent accidents. The caravan is greeted by a portly Dwarf at the stabling.
“Hail, travelers! Likmund, at your service. Will you be staying with us, or traveling on to Twenty-One? I can offer you some food and ale, if you care to join us by the fire.” Bragin answers with a bow.
“Well met, Likmund! Bragin, son of Borin, at your service. We are heading onward to ‘Twenty-One’, as you call it, but the thought of some ale is quite appealing. What say you, Farohir lad?”
“As long as we can drink without having to sit on a goat any longer,” Farohir says with a smile. Likmund laughs and shows them to the hostel where a large keg is set up for some hospitality for travelers. After pulling mugs and saluting each other, Bragin asks Likmund about the state of things with the Garrison.
“Things went well at the start,” he says, “and news passed in and out of Khazad-dum about our works. As word spread, many travelers by ones and pairs began arriving, and that wasn’t all bad. Eager swords and bows are welcomed, especially now; I suppose you are much the same sort, seeking fortune and fame in the Mines?”
“Not remotely, good Likmund,” Bragin replies grandly. “As the Artificer of Thorin’s Gate, and servant of Master Tamar of Erebor, I have come with my apprentice here to offer our skills for rebuilding Khazad-dum! We are told that ‘Twenty-One’ is the new capital and center of all decision, and that is naturally where we would start our labors.”
“Well, Bragin son of Borin, I would say to you, sharpen your blade before breaking out your tools,” growls a Dwarf ascending the steps from the stables. “By the word of Brogur son of Bofur, all but essential projects are on hold until the halls are made secure once more.”
Bragin turns to meet the newcomer. “Ah, I knew Brogur while working in Erebor. If he wants to direct all work to defense, then his reasons are sound; I never knew him to just change his mind without rock-solid reasons to do so.”
“Is the situation really that bad?” Farohir asks. “We have heard that the Mines were opened up to many wonders, especially by the hand of some of the new arrivals – moreover by one called ‘Khazush?’”
The Dwarf smiles at the name. “Aye, you’ve heard of her, eh? Not surprised, by how much she’s done for Khazad-dum. I see the look on your face, for your features show your Elvishness – is it so hard for you to think of another Elf befriending Dwarves, and earning our esteem?”
“Say rather, that I can’t imagine an Elf the likes of Seregrían to become respected by anyone, let alone Dwarves,” Farohir says.
“Mind your tongue, guest or no,” another Dwarf joins in angrily, “for you know not of whom you speak. The Khazush has proven her worth and wisdom, where a wet-bottomed youth like you has yet to do!” And growls of approval come from several others.
“And you know not to whom you speak in turn, Lackbeard!” Bragin says, rising to his feet, the other Dwarf doing the same. “We know this Khazush better than your wits can fathom. For this is my apprentice, Farohir son of Halrohir, the sister-son of Seregrían herself!”
More Dwarves begin listening to the heated debate at the mention of the name of Seregrían, and several approach to get a look at Farohir. “Thalfi will answer this, where is he? Thalfi! Come here and judge! You have been alongside the Khazush as much as anyone, what can you say about this?” And into the hostel comes Thalfi, lately arrived from the forges. Hearing the tale, he looks long and hard at both Farohir, then Bragin in turn.
“No family resemblance that I can see, that’s plain off. And you, Bragin, I know too well from Erebor. If there’s a name to be dropped, your fingers are the last to let it fall. You hadn’t even heard of Khazush before entering the gates, had you?”
“Not the name ‘Khazush’, certainly,” Farohir says. “But this is the simple truth: my family fostered Seregrían and took her into our hearts. She is my kin in all but blood. She and my mother pledged the Gwethnoss, the Bond of Kinship.”
Several Dwarves nodded in approval at that. “He speaks of the Oath of Imun-Khiluz, the Forever Family,” Thalfi says. “And fostering can be a bond as strong as blood. And so, you seek your foster-aunt, then? You wish to find her and join her on her journeys? Then you come too late. Both Bosi and the Khazush are due to depart the Mines tomorrow, headed for Lothlorien to ask for aid from the Elves.”
“Then she’s still here?” Farohir cries. “But leaving tomorrow? Bragin, she’s less than a day ahead of us, we could get there if we leave now! Thalfi, when can we leave, may we ride out now?”
“Steady on, Elfling,” Likmund says. “We send out caravans at intervals, never the same time twice; the orcs will be watching and laying traps if we keep a rhythm. I was sending the next riding for Twenty-One in a few hours, you can go with them if you wish.”
So Farohir and Bragin wait the hours until the caravan sets out, and they pass the time with the Dwarves sharing stories. The Iron Garrison Dwarves are eager to hear Farohir’s tales of life outside the Mines with his aunt, and Farohir obliges. It is clear that Farohir has inherited his father’s gift of storytelling, and soon the Dwarves are on the edges of their seats riveted by the anecdotes Farohir shares.
As the time for departure draws near, and the caravan prepares to set out, Bragin motions to Farohir and leads him aside with a grin and an odd look in his eye.
“Young Elf, I listened to your tales like the others, and because I know you far better than they do, there’s something you’re not saying, but hiding behind those stories. You speak of your parents with pride, and your sister fondly, despite your merciless pranks. But your aunt, there’s a different sound to your voice, a light to your eye; and when you mention her name, you don’t speak it, you sing it.
“Farohir, is there something you’re not telling me?”
