-General-
"The Waters of Great Ulmo!" With a start, Thorin leaped from his throne. His eyes held both awe and terror, never straying from the crystal before him, its contents flowing like raging waves crashing against the shore.
For a fleeting moment, Thorin was lost in a vision. The vast and narrow sea revealed its splendor and beauty, waters so pure they reflected everything beneath them. For an instant, he swore he glimpsed a colossal figure on the horizon. He could not see its eyes, yet he felt its gaze, a gaze that judged him.
At that moment, he felt so small that he could only kneel and pray, his tiny voice forming supplications for forgiveness.
"Ulmo, Ulmo, Lord of the Seas, forgive the audacity of this son of Aulë. I am not worthy to stand before your presence! I implore your forgiveness, oh great Lord of the Seas!"
He spoke each word like the solemn refrain of a song of humiliation and judgment.
Thorin's soul trembled for an instant. The water where he knelt swirled around him, and then it happened.
An unexpected wave struck him with force, yet it did not push him back. Instead, a great weight lifted from his being, as if something hidden within his soul had been set free. Before his stunned eyes, a formless black mass writhed in agony as it was forcefully ripped away. Its guttural shrieks were silenced as it was dragged into the depths of the sea.
For the first time in years, Thorin Oakenshield breathed freely, without the fear of succumbing to the madness that clung to his bloodline. He felt... free.
"Thorin!"
Aldril's shout brought him back to reality. His chest rose and fell heavily, his drenched body dripping like a waterfall onto his winding beard. His eyes reflected clarity and liberation. He scanned his surroundings, confirming that he was once again in the royal halls of Erebor.
"Thorin, Thorin! Are you alright?" Aldril asked, shaking his shoulders. Slowly, Thorin calmed his breathing.
His eyes locked onto Aldril's, and with a sincere smile, he took a step back, arms wide with joy.
"I have never felt better, Aldril! The weight upon my heart has been lifted! The gift that Great Ulmo has bestowed upon you has cleansed the darkness that tainted my blood."
Aldril raised an eyebrow, puzzled. Thorin took it as an invitation to recount everything that had transpired in those brief moments. His words flowed with the grace of a king freed from a torrent of darkness.
Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, had been purified by Ulmo. The madness that had lain dormant, hidden, had been torn away by that furious wave.
But why would Ulmo take the time to aid a dwarf? The answer was simple: Aldril's presence had altered the symphony of Eru. And through his decree, it had been decided that the dwarf must be saved, for he would be a force that would follow the Chosen One in the final battle for Middle-earth.
----
Shortly after their conversation, Aldril left Thorin with the crystallization of Ulmo's waters, whose properties would be perfect for cooling armor. He did not fear that Thorin would covet it.
"No one would be foolish or mad enough to steal an object gifted by the Valar," Thorin had said.
Now, Aldril strode through the vast halls of Erebor. He had no time to admire the magnificence of its architecture; his confrontation with Smaug required his full attention and focus.
The dwarves within the halls gazed upon the stonework with longing and nostalgia. Their small steps barely echoed in the vast chambers. Wherever Aldril passed, the dwarves greeted him with respect, a respect palpable in their eyes, tinged with awe and a trace of fear.
Aldril walked unaware of the aura he exuded. His bearing was that of a predator. He needed no words to impose his presence; his mere existence stirred the hearts of those around him.
As they bowed their heads in greeting, the dwarves did not only show respect, they instinctively assumed a gesture of submission. For they stood in the presence of the great dragon slayer, a title few bore in life. It was common that, upon slaying a dragon, the hunter perished alongside the beast.
Step by step, Aldril approached an area deep within the mountain, once ruled by the searing heat of the dwarven forges. Now, the ancient smiths of metal worked tirelessly to restore their former glory. Some forges remained abandoned, but others were being polished and cleaned with great care.
In the center of a crowd of dwarves, Smaug's withered body lay like a trophy. Some admired it in awe, while others cursed it under their breath. However, none dared to get too close. Not out of fear of the dead dragon, but because its body rightfully belonged to the one who had defeated it.
Aldril's arrival did not go unnoticed, as many distracted dwarves felt his presence as deeply as an abyss, freezing their bodies. They quickly turned around, and upon seeing Aldril, they bowed, clearing a path for him toward Smaug's body.
At the front, Kili, Fili, and Glóin were engaged in lively conversation with a group of dwarven blacksmiths, who were eager to sink their tools into the dragon's bones and fangs. They wanted to be the first to forge a weapon or armor for the dragon slayer, ensuring their place in the annals of history.
"Kili, Fili!" Aldril called with a smile, spreading his arms before dropping them onto the shoulders of the two young dwarves.
"Huh? What do you want, Aldril?" Kili asked.
"What is it, Aldril?" Fili inquired more politely.
"I've brought you Smaug's scales," Aldril said, almost laughing at Kili's expression, which contrasted with his brother's more composed and courteous demeanor.
"The scales?" Kili repeated before tapping the dragon's corpse. "No wonder this guy looked balder than Dwalin's head." His remark earned a few stifled laughs from some dwarves and disbelief from others at his jokes about the dragon.
Meanwhile, Dwalin, who was helping clean the forges, overheard Kili's insult and let out a furious roar. "Damn it, brat! I swear one day I'll plant my axe in your ass!"
Shaking his head, Fili could only offer a silent prayer for his brother, who, under Aldril's influence, had perfected his talent for jokes and sarcasm.
"You can leave them beside the corpse," Fili added, pointing to an empty platform.
Aldril nodded, holding back laughter at Dwalin's curses, while Kili, unfazed, continued admiring Smaug's withered body.
To the dwarves' amazement and dismay, Aldril dropped hundreds of scales onto the platform. Under the torchlight, they gleamed like blazing rubies. To an average dwarf's eyes, they were precious gems, but to the blacksmiths, they were something even more valuable—an unparalleled treasure, a material not even the elves of ancient Gondolin possessed.
Turning around, Aldril looked at Fili and, with a fluid motion of his hand, pulled out the Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin. The finely crafted golden piece shone like a summer sun, momentarily blinding the dwarves.
"The helm must match the armor. If possible, reinforce it with the scales," Aldril said firmly.
Fili, tasked with overseeing the forging of the armor by Thorin's order, nodded and took the helm with extreme care, as if holding a fragment of history.
"Anything else?"
"Yes. Besides my set, I expect another one with a feminine design," Aldril added, pausing briefly before smirking slightly.
"And also one in hobbit size."
***
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