-General-
Aldril watched both brothers depart. He was amused to see Fíli display the maturity of an older brother—especially in the way he dragged the poor dwarf by the ear while the latter protested, eager to learn more. Even though he grumbled, it was clear that he also wanted to see the remains of the creature; after all, Kíli was a very curious dwarf.
Turning his gaze away from the pair, Aldril looked toward the ravine where Gandalf was smoking his pipe. What barbarity! The Grey Wizard was enjoying a bit of tobacco in the middle of the creature's burning corpse, though a grey robe covered a larger portion—one that wasn't burning like the rest.
"The robe, what's it for?" Aldril asked, approaching the wizard, who looked at him with apparent nonchalance.
"To keep half the dwarves from going mad," he replied, taking a puff from his pipe.
"Mad?"
"Yes. You didn't see it, but just by looking at the remains of the creature—or whatever it was—the weak-minded would lose their sanity. If I hadn't intervened, their minds would have been lost to a dark knowledge. At worst, now they'll just have a few seizures; by morning they'll be fine."
Frowning, Aldril brought a hand to his chin, remembering how several groups of dwarves had been carried away on stretchers, apparently convulsing. But the question was: what dark knowledge? Or perhaps it was just another way of saying it was knowledge no one should see or know.
"Wait a moment… did you say 'weak-minded'? Then how is it that Fíli remained fine?" Aldril asked curiously. It wasn't that he looked down on his best friends, but come on! His question was valid, knowing what Kíli and Fíli were like.
Gandalf took another puff from his pipe and chuckled softly. He shook his head and looked up toward the top of the ravine.
"I thought the same, but it seems we underestimated the blood of Durin that runs through their veins."
They both laughed at the irony: those they had considered simple-minded had, indirectly, proven themselves worthy descendants of Durin. The laughter faded when Aldril stepped closer to the wizard's grey robe.
He touched it with the palm of his hand.
"By the way… what is this creature, Gandalf?"
"I don't know," the wizard replied, frowning in concentration. "I don't know what this thing is, but I do know that all of its tentacles had a single purpose: to kill you. This crawled—or was dragged—out from the deepest waters of the mountains."
He sighed and took another puff from his pipe. "Something tells me there are creatures older and more terrible than orcs in the depths of the world. We must be cautious."
"So… are you telling me you don't even know what this abomination is called?" Aldril asked. Whatever had attacked him had focused solely on him; he could feel the creature's deep hatred, as if his very existence caused it revulsion.
"That's right," Gandalf nodded. "For now, I call them 'nameless creatures.' Nothing is known about them; it seems the world itself wanted to erase all knowledge of their existence. In any case, keep what's left of this thing's head." He struck it with his staff. "Once the expedition is over, we'll go to Saruman; perhaps he knows something I do not."
...
Morning came, and with it, the bustle of the dwarves. The shouts and clatter of armor echoed through the camp, pulling Aldril from his sleep. With a stretch and his morning wash, he got ready to head out.
The sun, peeking over the eastern horizon, faintly illuminated the fearless dwarves as they marched with eager faces toward the entrance of Moria. Aldril joined Kíli, Fíli, Glóin, Óin, Nori, and Gandalf; now that they were all together, they took the lead.
And what happened to those dwarves who had convulsed? Just as Gandalf had said, they recovered upon waking, as if whatever had plunged them into that state had vanished. They didn't remember what they had seen (which was a relief). Those who had looked upon the creature and kept their sanity remained silent—mostly because they were the eldest and, with age, had learned the wisdom of not sharing knowledge capable of unsettling the minds of the young.
Before long, they were all gathered at the stairs leading to the Doors of Durin. In the distance, one could admire the magnificence of the work—without a doubt, the result of the two greatest smiths of their age: Narvi and Celebrimbor.
The joint construction of the Doors of Moria, with the delicate beauty of their designs and letters, represented the glorious and fruitful alliance between dwarves and elves of that age.
Its fine inlay depicted a hammer and anvil, emblems of Durin, greatest of the Fathers of the Dwarves and founder of the city of Khazad-dûm. Above them, a crown encircled by seven stars; and in the center, a single star—the emblem of the House of Fëanor, the most skilled elf in the history of Arda.
The doors, now shut, told the tale of that kingdom's abandonment. In past times, they had remained open, allowing trade between the two peoples; but when the hosts of Sauron laid waste to Eregion and Khazad-dûm was deserted, they were sealed, and the way to open them was forgotten. Two great pillars, crowned with small statues of dwarves, guarded the entrance—or so Gandalf explained at the request of both brothers.
"Wait, wait…" said Kíli, realizing something crucial in the tale. "If the doors were sealed, how did Azog's orcs get into Moria?"
Gandalf, with a calm gaze, fixed his eyes on the door and, with a nod, signaled the others to pay attention.
"It's simple: the spells that guarded the entrance were broken by something stronger from within."
"You mean…"
"That's right. At some point, the Balrog must have destroyed the enchantments on the door," Gandalf affirmed, pausing briefly. "Though I do not understand why… perhaps the elvish and dwarvish magic that radiated from it displeased him."
After that brief exchange and explanation, they arrived at the Doors of Moria, where only darkness awaited them inside. It would not be an easy task—not only because of the creatures that dwelled there, but also because of the colossal size of that forsaken realm, filled with dark, labyrinthine paths.
The Mines of Moria, once known as Khazad-dûm—meaning the Mansion of the Dwarves—were the oldest and most renowned of their kingdoms, the greatest dwarven city ever known.
Upon entering, they were met by pitch darkness. The order to light torches was given, and with the wizard's radiant light, the dwarves were guided forward. Before them stretched nothing but rows upon rows of passageways, staircases, and tunnels that climbed and plunged abruptly. It was easy to lose one's way, and only those who knew Moria from top to bottom could hope to find the way back.
**
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