The inn came to halt in the early hours of the morning. Gone was the hustle and bustle of Dwarves working the kitchen, and the clear clank of mugs brought together. Every step Dalbran took seemed herculean, every croak of the wooden floorboard seemed to shatter against the walls of the hall, and shimmer onwards into the rooms. The Dwarf huddled down into the tunnels leading to the Dwarven dwelling beneath, and into the unfinished hall of carved stone. As he expected, his brothers were asleep, snoring and huffing loudly from their bedrooms. Just as planned.
Dalbran sighed, placing the torch into one of the wall mounts, and went off to fetch what he needed. A razor, water, soap. Gathering them was an easy task, his brethren were always hard sleepers, and he reckoned nothing short of a choir of smithing hammers would wake them. Regardless, he paced up to one of the small mirrors in the main hall, and placed the items on the stout table of cut stone. His reflection stared back. The weaving web of scars, some deep and crooked, others naught but thin trails of crisp white, permeated his features. He took a moment, leaning forward and inspecting the deep, rugged creases of his face. In the dim light of his newly wrought home, he could recognize what he was. Or rather, what he was before. Gone was the beardling, full of life, of yearning for adventure and glory, replaced now by the worn and weary visage of a hardened veteran. “Dalbran Gurnisson, Honoured at Erebor” he muttered lowly as his eyes darted upwards, towards the looming crest of orange hair that perked proudly from his head. Slowly, he reached up and ran his fingers through it. It had become an integral part of him, his Oath and shame made manifest, given form. A grim reminder of what he had, and what he threw away. His fingers lingered for a moment, before returning to the razor on the table. He lifted the blade, and placed it at the roots of his hair. Now was the hour. Just a flick away, and he’d step onto another path. Perhaps Donorrin had gotten through to him, after all.
“Dalbran.” A father’s voice rang behind him. “A little too early for a barber, aye lad? Or a little too late.”
From the doorway behind loomed the broad of Gurrni Ironhelm.
“Oh, this? Uh... nevermind, Pa, it’s nothin’. Go back to sleep.”
Dalbran resounded, placing the razor back onto the table.
“No, no I don’t think I will. Besides, sleep hardly finds me these days.”
“You alright, Pa? I can... fetch some ale, see about putting you to sleep, aye.”
The younger Dwarf nodded, offering a smile. Gurrni however, gave no answer save for a shake of his head. He took a pace forward, stepping fully into the light. “You going to explain what you were doing?”
“I... think you know.” Dalbran knew there wa little use of trying to conceal things from his father.
“Ah, I see.” Ironhelm’s features softened, and he approached his son carefully, one step at a time, as if towards a wounded animal, backed into a corner. He looked on for a moment, a slight smile forming beneath the furrow of his beard. “Bini wouldn’t like it, I think. The crest.”
“I... I suppose she wouldn’t. Hard to tie ribbons into it.”
Gurrni chuckled, now pacing ever closer to his son. “Aye, aye. A fine lass, Bini. I held her in high regard.”
Dalbran’s eyes fell to the floor again, at the mention of his lass. He sighed, the crest bending and drooping downwards. “Best there is, Pa. I wouldn’t trade the world for her. And I’d trade all the gems of the earth to...” His words refused to leave the throat from which they were born.
“...to see her? Was that where you were going, son?”
The only answer that came from the Dwarf was a slow, heavy nod.
Again, silence fell between the two, the Dwarfs standing but a few paces away. Finally, Gurrni broke the quiet, clearing his throat. “Have... Have I ever told you of when I met your mother, Dalbran?”
“No, but Ma spoke often of it. It was at Uncle Eroc’s nameday, aye? Ye asked her to dance, then stepped on her toes?”
Another chuckle escaped the elderly beard. “Aye, aye, though that was not how I saw it.” Slowly, he moved to stand beside his son. “The Hills were particularly beautiful that time of year. The night was fresh, and the mist of newly brewed ale swayed in the air. Vani and I were late for the celebration, kept back at the Garrison. So we burst into the Hall, already tipsy from a few pints we had.... requested from the lads supplying the barracks.” Gurrni’s eyes lifted upwards, his arms crossed at the chest. “It was lively, loud, brimming with revelry, son. I’d never seen a feast that large, nor that great. It would put Durin’s Day to shame, let me tell you. But...” The Dwarf took pause, stroking his greyed beard. “But then, all came to a stop when I laid eyes on her. Your mother, aye. Even then, she took breath from my brest. Oh, you should have seen her, Dalbran. Her hair as bright and golden as the veins of ore, her eyes a deep blue, putting the sapphires of Erebor to shame. I had never seen something so magnificent, nor would I. And then, she began to sing.” Ironhelm spoke with a soft smile upon his lips. “And, in that monemt, I knew it. I knew life would not be the same without her.”
For a time, the only thing that dwelled in the hall was the soft tune Gurrni was humming. “My dearest Valya.” He finally spoke, strands of ashen hair hanging limply as he lowered his head again. “I would brave the darkness of Khazad-Dum, and chip every great pillar with naught but my hands if it meant I could see her again.” The Dwarf paused, casting his eyes on Dalbran. “I can’t have that, Dalbran. I can only seek wrath and ruin on the one that slew her.”
“Aye, and we will, Pa. We’ll find The Drakeskinner, we’ll have our vengeance.”
“No, no, son. You do not understand.” The Dwarfs looked to each other for a moment. “I can’t have that peace, Dalbran. But you can.”
“Pa, I spoke with Donnie, we’ll-” Gurrni never permitted Dalbran from finishing. Simply, he placed a hand on the Dwarf’s shoulder, sighing, his features allowing a smile, his eyes glinting, thin lines of shimmering silver forming beneath them. “I know, son. I know. And I could not be prouder.”
