Post by pumpkin on Jan 16, 2013 20:50:17 GMT -5
Balin was in his private chambers of the dwarf kingdom under the Blue Mountains, a simple, but comfortable place he was bit by bit beginning to associate with the words "home" and "peace." Not everything was going smoothly for those dwelling under the Blue Mountains, particularly for his close friend and family member, Thorin, who had seemed certainly on-edge in recent days, but Balin had found a sense of contentment here in the Blue Mountains that he hadn't known in years. He was busy at work scrawling away on his oak writing tablet at the old desk in his room. The letter he was writing was nothing about business, just a simple one for a friend, but he had lost his train of thought at some point in the writing. His mind was, as it begun to do increasingly in recent days, dwelling on Thorin's troubles.
He knew what it was about, Thorin's sense of unease, of utter discontentment.
Erebor, of course. Hadn't it always been? It was a piece of the soul of those born to the House of Durin, a piece that had been violently ripped away, only to leave behind a powerfully painful hole. Balin had begun to make peace with this existence, with the sad reality of it all. He had worked hard to put the pain of the memory behind him, patch up that vacancy in his heart for his lost home with new memories, good ones. Life in the Blue Mountains was not life in Erebor, and it never would be. But it was good enough. And for a dwarf who had otherwise seen nothing but destruction and death all his life, good enough seemed like a luxury. He could not complain, and nor would he.
Balin hesitated in his writing, then, turning around in his chair to take in the room around him, the room which he had strived to make home so many years before.
A large, four-poster bed, almost as hard as the surrounding rock walls, to the back right corner of the room, and hidden behind an elegant partition, crafted of iron and precious gems. The torches around the chamber flickered in their brackets, sending shadows dancing across the cave walls. A fire burned in the coarse stone hearth across from the bed, the dwarven runes for "Balance," "Integrity," and "Loyalty" carefully etched into the mantle. He had done that work himself, and was rather proud of the regality of it all. The runes glittered, sapphire, diamond, and emerald, against the torchlight.
And at various places in the room, on a small night table nearest the bed, and then cluttering the shelves of a towering oak bookshelf across from the desk, were thousands upon thousands of texts and books, none of them too thick for Balin's inquisitive mind.
And there was one of them, one of his favorites since childhood and the only one he had managed to rescue from the Lonely Mountain, just by his hand on the desk. A Dwarf's Almanac of Middle Earth: Shames, Glories, and All. He couldn't begin to count how many nights he had spent with the book open in his lap: in Dunland, as a lad, by the dim fires of the dwarf hovels that many of the dwarves of Erebor had called home then, and these days, by his precious hearth. It was a very liberating past-time for him, reading and writing in the evening. So much had to be done during the day, none of it very simple business, and so being able to sit and bide his time in the late hours of the day had become something of a treat. And now that he thought of it...
It had to have been growing late. Balin felt the exhaustion in his bones like some sort of deep-set illness. He had become accustomed to staying up late, scrawling out letters to dwarves in other kingdoms, friends who had never followed the rest of their kin from Erebor to the Blue Mountains but rather scattered into the Iron Hills, and ones to...himself, perhaps. And those tended to be not letters so much as his innermost thoughts recorded on paper. There was the occasional list of chores, too. He was a fairly organized old dwarf, even if his memory was still decent enough to render "laundry lists" rather unnecessary.
There came a sudden knock on the door, a bit surprising considering the late hour. Yet Balin didn't feel too exhausted to refuse a guest. He was always willing to lend an ear or offer advice to others. He felt it gave him a purpose. And night tended to be the time when most people reflected on their troubles. Finding someone around to consult about them could prove quite difficult. But he could be that fellow. He would simply give the guest the boot when it was time for him, and the guest himself, to sleep. Simple enough.
"Just a moment!" Balin called to the door. He lowered his quill gently down over the oak writing tablet, taking a slow moment to get up and to the door.
When he opened it seconds later, he raised his eyebrows in surprised concern. "Good evening, Dori. Bit of a surprise to find you here tonight. Everything all right, then?"
He stepped back, holding the door to the room open for his guest. "Do come in."
He knew what it was about, Thorin's sense of unease, of utter discontentment.
Erebor, of course. Hadn't it always been? It was a piece of the soul of those born to the House of Durin, a piece that had been violently ripped away, only to leave behind a powerfully painful hole. Balin had begun to make peace with this existence, with the sad reality of it all. He had worked hard to put the pain of the memory behind him, patch up that vacancy in his heart for his lost home with new memories, good ones. Life in the Blue Mountains was not life in Erebor, and it never would be. But it was good enough. And for a dwarf who had otherwise seen nothing but destruction and death all his life, good enough seemed like a luxury. He could not complain, and nor would he.
Balin hesitated in his writing, then, turning around in his chair to take in the room around him, the room which he had strived to make home so many years before.
A large, four-poster bed, almost as hard as the surrounding rock walls, to the back right corner of the room, and hidden behind an elegant partition, crafted of iron and precious gems. The torches around the chamber flickered in their brackets, sending shadows dancing across the cave walls. A fire burned in the coarse stone hearth across from the bed, the dwarven runes for "Balance," "Integrity," and "Loyalty" carefully etched into the mantle. He had done that work himself, and was rather proud of the regality of it all. The runes glittered, sapphire, diamond, and emerald, against the torchlight.
And at various places in the room, on a small night table nearest the bed, and then cluttering the shelves of a towering oak bookshelf across from the desk, were thousands upon thousands of texts and books, none of them too thick for Balin's inquisitive mind.
And there was one of them, one of his favorites since childhood and the only one he had managed to rescue from the Lonely Mountain, just by his hand on the desk. A Dwarf's Almanac of Middle Earth: Shames, Glories, and All. He couldn't begin to count how many nights he had spent with the book open in his lap: in Dunland, as a lad, by the dim fires of the dwarf hovels that many of the dwarves of Erebor had called home then, and these days, by his precious hearth. It was a very liberating past-time for him, reading and writing in the evening. So much had to be done during the day, none of it very simple business, and so being able to sit and bide his time in the late hours of the day had become something of a treat. And now that he thought of it...
It had to have been growing late. Balin felt the exhaustion in his bones like some sort of deep-set illness. He had become accustomed to staying up late, scrawling out letters to dwarves in other kingdoms, friends who had never followed the rest of their kin from Erebor to the Blue Mountains but rather scattered into the Iron Hills, and ones to...himself, perhaps. And those tended to be not letters so much as his innermost thoughts recorded on paper. There was the occasional list of chores, too. He was a fairly organized old dwarf, even if his memory was still decent enough to render "laundry lists" rather unnecessary.
There came a sudden knock on the door, a bit surprising considering the late hour. Yet Balin didn't feel too exhausted to refuse a guest. He was always willing to lend an ear or offer advice to others. He felt it gave him a purpose. And night tended to be the time when most people reflected on their troubles. Finding someone around to consult about them could prove quite difficult. But he could be that fellow. He would simply give the guest the boot when it was time for him, and the guest himself, to sleep. Simple enough.
"Just a moment!" Balin called to the door. He lowered his quill gently down over the oak writing tablet, taking a slow moment to get up and to the door.
When he opened it seconds later, he raised his eyebrows in surprised concern. "Good evening, Dori. Bit of a surprise to find you here tonight. Everything all right, then?"
He stepped back, holding the door to the room open for his guest. "Do come in."