“The good news is, I had a showdown with the Balrog. It was a tough fight and we destroyed a lot of buildings, but it didn’t gain the upper hand.”

“And the bad news?”

“We fought in your ancestral home.”

“Well, I suppose that is good news. At least after we reclaim Moria, we won’t have to worry about having nothing to rebuild for quite some time.”

Thorin spoke calmly, his emotions surprisingly controlled.

“Don’t worry about the details. The place is still mostly intact. And besides, you have me.”

Garrett patted him on the shoulder.

“You’re right.”

Thorin nodded slowly, but his face didn’t relax, in fact, it grew more serious.

“What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you don’t trust me?” Garrett asked directly.

“No, I believe that with your aid, nothing is impossible.”

“It’s just…”

“The Balrog… it’s still there.”

“Reclaiming Moria will take a long time… and the chances of success are slim.”

Thorin admitted, “Balin always wanted to attempt it. Just a few days ago, he told me that once our people return and we’re fully equipped, he’d lead an expedition to reclaim our ancient halls.”

“Naturally, I want to do it as well.”

“You know, we dwarves have spent our lives losing our homes and wandering. First Moria, then the Grey Mountains, and then Erebor… And those who drive us from our homes are always too powerful for us to defeat.”

“Cold-drakes, Smaug the Fire-drake, the Balrog.”

“We’ve never stopped fighting them, but…”

He sighed.

The mountainous habitats the dwarves favored were extremely dangerous. On the surface, dragons would come lured by the scent of gold and mithril. Delve too deep underground, and you’d disturb Balrogs. And besides these great threats, there were also hordes of vile orcs under the Dark Lord’s direct command.

Enemies on all sides, none of them easily overcome.

Garrett didn’t know what to say.

The dwarves had practically encountered every major danger in Middle-earth.

“At least things are moving in a better direction now, right?”

“Yes, I believe they’ll continue to improve.”

“Oh, and one more thing.”

Garrett suddenly said, “Bringing Durin’s Axe back, it was partly thanks to the Eldar.”

Thorin froze, looking at Garrett.

“The Galadhrim of Lothlórien. Lady Galadriel herself led an army out of the Golden Wood and used her power to drive the Balrog back.”

“You mean the renowned… Lady of Light?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

Thorin nodded, his brows furrowing thoughtfully.

“If I get the opportunity, I’ll thank her for her assistance. I won’t leave such a debt unpaid.”

“That’s for the best.”

And with that, the matter was set aside for now.

—

The next day, after Garrett brought Durin’s Axe back to Erebor, a grand ceremony was held.

The king stood upon a high platform and passionately announced to his people the return of the treasured heirloom of the House of Durin.

Behind the return of the relic, the tale of Garrett’s battle with the Balrog and the perils he faced in Moria were dramatically retold with considerable embellishment.

A lone Man fighting a Balrog beneath the ancient halls for several days, so intense that the very gates were damaged.

In the end, the Eldar of the Golden Wood were grudgingly included in the tale for their support and assistance. The mention was brief, but it was rare recognition in dwarven stories.

“We’ll at least give them credit for that.”

“If we lived closer, they wouldn’t have even gotten the chance!”

“That sorceress…”

“She’s the Lady of Light. That’s what our king calls her.”

“Very well, the Lady of Light. I hear she’s very beautiful. I bet her beard is magnificent.”

“But Elves don’t have beards, do they?”

“Eh… perhaps she’s an exception?”

No matter how it happened, the outcome was clear: the Elves’ reputation among the dwarves had improved quite a bit.

At the same time, a new title was beginning to spread among the dwarves.

“Bane of the Balrog.”

A title for someone who could stand against a Balrog, legend said that even the fearsome creature had gained no advantage and was driven back into the depths.

His name was Garrett.

The dwarves sang his name and praised his deeds.

But elsewhere, that name became something spoken only in whispers.

—

“Him.”

Not long after Garrett arrived at the Lonely Mountain, a tall figure dressed in black robes and wearing a towering iron helm emerged from Mordor.

His mount was equally imposing, grotesque in appearance and covered in a terrifying barding. Its head resembled a skull, with flames of malice flickering from its eye sockets and nostrils.

To the uninformed, he could easily be mistaken for one of the Nine. But in terms of power, rank, and age, he might have surpassed most of them.

“The Mouth of Sauron, Lieutenant of the Tower of Barad-dûr, extends greetings to you.”

A few days later, in a deep chasm within Moria, this tall dark emissary politely addressed the Balrog. The oppressive subterranean heat didn’t affect him in the slightest.

“I dislike the color of your armor.”

“…My apologies. Next time we meet, I promise it will be different.”

“What do you want?”

“My master says we share a common enemy, him, that mortal.”

BOOM.

A wave of heat, sufficient to incinerate all living things, swept through the cavern. Within mere feet, it nearly melted the Mouth of Sauron’s armor.

“And?”

Flames burst from the Balrog’s maw, forming words through fire.

The Mouth of Sauron retreated several steps and drew out a scroll of enchanted parchment, heat-resistant and imbued with dark sorcery.

“My master believes that in some of the earth’s deepest, most unreachable caverns, there may still be fire-spirits, your kindred, who lie dormant.”

“This scroll contains black magic that can summon your kind, if they truly still exist.”

“But it might require your aid.”

What exactly the Mouth of Sauron and the Balrog discussed remained unknown to any.

But one thing was clear: he had completed his master’s task with great success. A flickering flame was sealed inside a sturdy iron coffer and brought back to Mordor.

—

Days later, a new wave of orcs was dispatched from the Black Land and stationed in Moria’s deepest pits. At the same time, a new orc chieftain emerged there.

Change was happening quietly, so quietly that even the nearby Golden Wood remained unaware. The fell beasts galloping across the wilderness seemed cloaked by some dark power, unnoticed by all.

Except…

“What’s that?”

In a stretch of wilderness where the northern reaches of Ithilien met the Dead Marshes, a Ranger hid behind a tree, crouching low and peering outward.

“Black robes, a fell beast, such an ominous presence…”

“Could it be that surviving Black Númenórean, the Mouth of Sauron?”

The Ranger pulled back his hood and gazed into the distance.

“Perhaps something has begun to stir again in this land.”

“Though I’ve only been gone two years… what could have changed so much in just two years?”

Halbarad stared after the dark figure for a long time. Only once he was certain it had departed did he emerge from hiding, stepping onto the road again and heading west, toward the Misty Mountains.

It was time to visit an old friend.

He wondered, was Garrett still faring well these days?

—

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