And, at long last, the celebration drew to a close. He sent Galtharian home early, with a promise that he’d clean up the remainder of the tavern. The Silvan protested, as always, but the dwarf would have none of it. He needed silence, a quiet moment to himself, and with his brothers strewn about the tavern, underneath tables, propped against dried-out barrels of ale, or sleeping soundly on one of the large oak tables, Dalbran had a chance to think on the events of the day, to jot down what the pantry needed, and most of all, to rest.
He meandered across the hall, picking up the odd mug or plate, and placing them on the table with a quiet *clang*. All in all, Durin’s Day passed in song, drink and good company, and he would not have it any other way. Dalbran looked about the main dining hall once more, as if looking for some other chore to keep himself busy, when his eyes caught a glimpse of five Dwarven shields, piled one on top of the other in the far corner of the room. His brow softened. Gingerly, he began collecting them, tying their belts tightly and arranging them in the pattern the usually hung on the right-hand wall. They were old things, battered and scarred, yet polished to a parade-shine. Much like their caretaker, one could say.
“Baah, how’d ye get down there?” He asked the shields, as if expecting a response, as he hung them once more onto their wooden plaque. Dalbran scrubbed out a thin line of dried ale that tarnished one of them, and then, with great care, buffed the surface to a shine. His eyes narrowed. There, in the glimmering silver of the dwarrow-shield, he caught the faint glimpse of a much younger dwarf.
“No.” He muttered quietly, shaking his head, trying to shut out the noise he knew was about to come. In the distance, he heard cries. “Baruk-Khazad! For The King!”- Croaking voices demanded proudly. A trample of hooves, a clash of steel and flesh. The dwarf shook his head once more. “Get away from the fire, lads!” A voice rang out behind him, clear as starlight. Dalbran gripped the wooden pillar next to him, his teeth gritted. He hated this part most. A blood-curdling shriek, a plea for help, help that could not come. His mind began conjuring images of Dwarves, their bodies set ablaze by the hungering flame, trying to throw off their now- heated helms and gauntlets, pulling skin along with them. Dalbran drove his fist into the column, teeth baring as he felt every muscle, every fiber of his body fight back against the memories. He caught a faint scent of burning flesh and smoke, he felt blood on his tongue. Another clash of arms, it’s vile sound flooding his mind. “You are one of the Five-Hundred now, lad.” A father’s voice. “I won’t let ye down, Pa.” A son’s reply.
“I shall spare no breath for a dying dog.”
“Yanâd Durinul!”
“"Ihgirî ni-hun! "Ai-rusê!”
He recalled wading into a sea of black, he recalled a broken spear, a splintered shield. The feeling of drowning in a bottomless pit, of gasping for air and kicking back against the tide.
“I didn’t know our host was a war hero!” Vifi’s voice joined the choir, now.
“Five Hundred, cut down to ten dozen.”
He didn’t know when, or how, but he found himself now kneeling in his room on the third floor of the tavern, cradling a battered helm, rocking back and forth.
He remembered seeing dawn break, the scattering of the locust swarm, and hearing the flutter of mighty wings.
The voices now broke their rhythm, drowning out each other.
“The King is dead! Long live the King!”
“Look, Dallie, Erebor, it’s ours!”
“Erebor.”
“Erebor.”
“Erebor.”
A stern look, a father’s voice.
“We were not the ones who won back Erebor.”
