-General-
The bluish, dark glow of Glamdring and Anglachen lit up the faces of their bearers. Calmness vanished like dust carried off by the wind; their reactions were swift and graceful, as if they had rehearsed that movement countless times.
"What is it?" asked Kíli, drawing his sword. He trusted Aldril blindly; his question was more formality than genuine doubt.
"Orcs," replied Aldril as he drew his bowstring. He set three arrows, aimed at a dark corner, and released the string. The whistling was followed by a growl and, immediately after, a harrowing scream.
Gandalf reacted swiftly. Muttering a chant, he caused the bonfires, long extinguished and consumed by time, to flare again with the radiance of dawn. One after another they burst into flame, illuminating the vast hall. The light revealed the orcs, who were not alone: goblins crouched behind them. Startled by the sudden brightness, they snarled and shielded their eyes. These abominable creatures had not seen light in a very long time; their pupils, shaped by the darkness, could not endure the blazing firelight.
"Kill them!" ordered Fíli. There was no surprise nor doubt in his voice, only the deep hatred that consumed him at the sight of those beings, their mere presence defiling the sacred realm of Moria.
Countless arrows tore through the air. Orcs and goblins hardly reacted; blinded by the light and tormented by a darker, hidden terror, their bodies trembled in an unnatural way. One after another they fell, until barely a dozen remained standing. Yet instead of rising to fight, or fleeing in desperation as anyone would have expected, they shrank against the walls, hunched and quivering, like children awaiting the punishment of a stern father.
The sight bewildered Gandalf and Aldril; but for the rest, it was a spectacle worthy of mockery. With laughter and a glint of superiority in their eyes, they shouted:
"Look at those cowards! My goat has more guts than them!"
"How pathetic!" spat Glóin, tightening his grip on the haft of his axe. He was no marksman, and he knew it; he waited impatiently for the orcs and goblins to dare to charge at them. Then he would greet them as he knew best: with his faithful companion, the great axe that had never abandoned him.
"Let me kill them," Kíli burst out, rolling up his sleeves as he advanced boldly. Yet he was halted by Aldril, who stepped forward with an arm raised. The gesture made the rest arch an eyebrow, confused.
"What is it, Aldril?" asked Kíli, stepping back. He neither insisted nor protested; he trusted him. He was not like Glóin or Dwalin, who would doubtless have unleashed a string of insults at being restrained.
Aldril gave him a glance, bidding him to look. Frowning, Kíli turned his gaze toward the orcs… and then he saw it: Gandalf was advancing toward them with calm steps, sword in one hand and staff in the other. His tread was steady, almost solemn, as though he wished to make clear he bore them no harm.
Kíli was about to ask what was happening, when Aldril interrupted him in a low voice:
"They are afraid." He paused—chilling the young dwarf's blood—before adding: "But not of us… it is as if they were hiding from something."
"Nonsense!" barked Glóin. Yet the next words caught in his throat as he beheld the impossible: the orcs and goblins… were weeping.
Yes, tears streamed down the twisted faces of those creatures. Never in all his life had he seen such a thing.
And then, before Gandalf reached them, they chose the unthinkable. One by one, with guttural shrieks and bulging eyes, they drove their own swords into their throats, plunging into a voluntary death. Only one remained alive, for Gandalf, with a firm and swift motion, prevented him from carrying out the desperate act.
Despair burned in the goblin's eyes, who struggled with all his might against the Grey Wizard. Yet his strength, weakened, could not break free from Gandalf's grip. The wizard raised his staff, flooding the goblin's face with light.
"Tell me, foul creature," said Gandalf with patience and a gentle tone, "why do your kind hide like rats?"
It was clear the goblin would not answer; his vacant gaze and resignation made the wizard frown.
"Speak," Gandalf thundered then, with greater force, "and I shall grant you the death you so dearly crave."
For the first time, the wizard beheld joy—and even a glimmer of hope—in a living creature at the promise of death. With a broken stammer, the goblin spoke. Not in its dark tongue, but in the Common Speech.
"Death… blood… blood and death…" he babbled, teeth chattering. "Long… long ago… a thing with tentacles… tainted us. It made us… made us fools… made us slay each other. If a tentacle clings to your face… you go mad… it takes the name! It takes the name!"
Suddenly he let out a harrowing cry and clutched his head, curling upon the ground as though he wished to sink into the very stone. He seemed unaware of the horror that his words carved upon the faces of those who listened.
"Take name… turned friend into… —" he gasped between sobs and wheezing— "Not remember name… not remember… name…"
Then, with a pleading gesture, the goblin lifted his gaze toward Gandalf.
"To die… I want to die with my name… not die without it…" he begged, his voice breaking.
The Grey Wizard had heard enough. His eyes, heavy with gravity, hardened. With a swift and certain stroke, he raised his sword and in a single clean blow severed the creature's head. The body fell limp, yet upon its twisted face lingered a grimace that seemed… a smile. A grotesque happiness, if such it could be called.
"Gandalf…" murmured Aldril. The goblin's words had not been mere ravings meant to frighten them, and the troubled look upon the old wizard's face confirmed it all the more. "The thing that attacked them must be akin to the creature of the lake."
"So it is," the Grey Wizard replied gravely. "But the true question is: why has it emerged? What has roused it? Or had it dwelt here all along, waiting in silence until the hour came to awaken?"
With solemn countenance, Gandalf turned his gaze to Kíli and Fíli.
"This quest has become exceedingly perilous. I counsel you to turn back. If that thing—the one that sowed terror among the orcs and goblins—still roams these depths… neither our strength nor our numbers will avail us."
"You jest?" asked Kíli. Yes, he had heard the goblin's words, but he gave them no weight. What worth could there be in the speech of such a wretched being?
"Exactly," added Glóin with a growl. "We cannot turn back over the foolish tales of cowardly creatures."
Before the other dwarves could answer, a guttural growl echoed in the distance. The sound reverberated through the vast and empty hall, and soon a strange movement—wet, heavy, and thick—silenced even the breath of those present. The echo of that approaching thing was terrifying. The torches flickered, as though the very darkness sought to smother their light.
The air grew taut. Aldril and Gandalf turned pale. Both possessed senses sharpened far beyond the common: one by the heritage of his draconic blood, the other by his nature as a Maia. They had fought in great battles, their memories scarred with horrors few mortals could conceive. Aldril had brought down a dragon and a salamander; Gandalf had walked among the Valar before being sent to Middle-earth.
Yet nothing—nothing—had prepared them for what was coming.
Out of the shadows emerged something as ancient as Arda itself. A grotesque being, known only to the first of the Valar who had descended into the world. Twisted tentacles crawled as if with a will of their own; where they brushed the stone, they left behind a slime that exhaled hallucinatory vapors. And in those dark eyes, deep as bottomless abysses, Gandalf and Aldril beheld their own reflections.
And, for the first time in all their years, both the slayer of dragons and the Maia… felt fear.
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