-General-
Giving Thorin space, Aldril stepped back. He said nothing; it would have been disrespectful to speak at such an emotional moment for Thorin. Tears threatened to spill, after so long, the dwarf king was on the verge of losing his composure.
"Father…" Thorin whispered, his voice broken by the emotions swirling inside him.
All the dwarves present bowed their heads in sorrow. The workers repairing the gate abandoned their task; they descended from their wooden platforms and stood behind their king, offering their respect to the remains of King Thráin.
Thorin let out a long sigh. Composing himself, he lifted his eyes from the remains and met Aldril's gaze, who was watching him with compassion, a gesture he silently appreciated.
No matter how powerful a figure Aldril projected, Thorin knew him well, and he knew that behind that arrogant and playful façade lay a kind heart. Proof of that was that, despite his former madness, Aldril had remained loyal to their friendship.
"You have my eternal gratitude for bringing my father's remains home," Thorin said. "I hope you can convey my thanks to the elves who guarded him along the way."
"If it's not too much trouble," he added, his voice tight, "could you tell me where the remains were found?"
Nodding at Thorin's words, Aldril began explaining from the beginning: how the elves of Mirkwood, along with those from Lothlórien, launched a crusade to cleanse the forest of all the evil creatures that dwelled within it, and how, after freeing Dol Guldur, they found Thráin's remains in a cell.
"And," Aldril added, "your father was still holding on to this."
He then pulled out a small box from beneath his cloak. That cloak, a legacy from his mother, not only blended him into the shadows and hid him from enemies but also allowed him to carry small objects like daggers or artifacts without them falling out, even during sudden movements.
As he opened the small box, a golden glow ignited under the torchlight, momentarily blinding the dwarves who had gathered around. After a few seconds, the glow began to fade.
But more than awe, what they felt was discomfort. A black mist, like burning coal smoke, drifted from within. The air turned cold as winter, and a shiver ran down the spine of everyone present.
Despite the disturbing sensation, Thorin managed to catch a glimpse of what was inside the box.
"The Ring of Durin," he murmured between gasps.
After offering that brief glimpse of the ring, Aldril carefully closed the box. He waited silently for the dwarves to recover; after all, they weren't like him, immune to the influence of the dark magic emanating from the Ring of Durin.
"As you can see," Aldril explained solemnly, "the ring has long been corrupted by Sauron's dark magic."
Thorin shook his head, trying to dispel the unease that still clung to him. Even so, he forced his mind to focus and listened to Aldril's words.
That ring wasn't just a simple jewel; it was an ancestral legacy, a sacred symbol for his people. Seeing it tainted by Sauron's corruption filled him with deep unease. Anger and sorrow swirled within him, and though he tried to maintain his composure, signs of distress crept across his face.
"Is there any way to purify it?" Thorin asked, his voice still taut with tension.
If Aldril had brought the ring and hadn't destroyed it, there must be a reason. Perhaps there was a chance, however slim, to cleanse the object that for hundreds of years had been passed down from heir to heir.
Besides, the elves were purifying Mirkwood; surely, in that process, they had discovered ways to counteract the corruption of dark magic. Aldril must know... right?
Thorin looked at him expectantly, struggling to keep hope alive, even though a shadow of doubt still lingered around him.
"There is."
Those words were like a fresh spring breeze to Thorin. He let out a deep breath, releasing the tension he had held until then. Around him, sighs of relief could also be heard; the dwarves, who had been holding their breath alongside their king, shared his sense of hope.
"But for that, a ritual is needed…" Aldril continued.
However, Thorin interrupted him with a slight gesture of his hand.
"Let's speak somewhere else," he said.
Immediately afterward, he ordered a few dwarves to prepare his resting chamber and to take his father's remains to the warriors' resting chamber. It wasn't that he distrusted his kin, but the topic was delicate, and truths might surface that were better discussed in private.
With the order given, Aldril and Thorin were led to a resting chamber, a quiet and secluded room deep within the mountain, built during Erebor's golden age. The walls were carved with scenes of ancient Dwarvish deeds, where heroes of the past wielded axes against orcs and other creatures.
One of the carvings even showed a dwarf fighting alongside an elf, likely referring to the time when dwarves joined the elves in their struggle against Sauron (though in truth, it depicted the dwarves fighting shoulder to shoulder with the Noldorin elves).
Once they had settled into the warmth of the chamber, Thorin kindly asked Aldril to continue with his explanation.
The half-elf nodded willingly and, in a calm voice, recounted everything Thalwen had revealed to him. Thorin listened to every word with attention, without interrupting.
When he finished, Thorin lowered his head, immersed in deep silence. The ring, though corrupted, was still a family relic. According to ancient legends, it had the power to double the efficiency of forgework, a blessing beyond measure for his people.
However, the price for its purification was bitter: it required the pulverized bone of its former bearer. Though there was the option to use blood in the ritual, Thráin was now nothing more than bones…
And Thorin couldn't bear the idea of burying his father's body incomplete.
"Give me a day to think about it," he finally said, his voice low but firm. It was a difficult decision. But now, free from madness, his mind was clear. And when his mind was clear, Thorin did not make decisions lightly.
...
Aldril was understanding and did not rush him. He bid farewell to Thorin with a slight bow of his head.
He was in no hurry, as he would be spending some time in Erebor. He then decided to look for his old travel companions and, along the way, check on the progress of the dragon armor (though, truthfully, he didn't have much hope that they'd be finished yet).
As he walked through the wide halls of the Lonely Mountain, his gaze wandered, lost in the majesty of Dwarvish architecture. He hadn't been able to admire such splendor during his first stay, since his battle with Smaug had taken all his attention.
As he recalled that fight, his eyes rested on the areas still under reconstruction. The dragon's rampage had left behind a trail of destruction that the dwarves were now working hard to repair.
He stopped looking at the damaged areas and continued on his way. However, a dwarf ahead of him forced him to halt. When he recognized who it was, a wide grin spread across his face. Without thinking, he almost ran to greet him.
The dwarf, upon seeing him, froze in place. A wave of happiness grew inside him, although he couldn't help the faint anger and a bit of fear that crept in with his emotions.
"Glóin!" Aldril greeted with genuine joy, pausing as he got close to the dwarf.
"Eh… Glóin… you look fatter."
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