Eric was not entirely sure whether it was wise to let a young hatchling, still innocent and untested, learn the pain of farewells so soon. A dragon might live for ages without end, yet this little one was still so small, still so unready.
"Well, it has to happen sooner or later," he muttered, waving the tiny pink-scaled dragon off to keep playing. With that settled, he returned to the castle, spread out a map on the table, and began planning his next journey.
His destination: Lothlórien.
Of course, every destination required a path, and the straightest line from his current stronghold led directly through Moria. The exit on the far side would place him within sight of the golden woods of the Galadhrim. The two realms lay closer than most realized, almost brushing shoulders.
Staring at those names written on the map, Eric grew thoughtful.
Once upon a time, dwarves and elves had been bound by real friendship. The dwarves had crafted wonders for the elves, fought alongside them, and stood as their allies. Yet in the end, greed and stubborn pride consumed the dwarves, driving a wedge between the two peoples.
The rings Sauron gave them fanned those flaws into something monstrous, until dwarves grew as covetous as dragons, hoarding their treasures and despising any who dared to touch them. Yet even with their greed, their iron wills kept them from bending to Sauron's control.
Eric recalled that after the dwarves of Khazad-dûm received their rings, King Durin III himself had led his warriors to fight at the side of the elves. Without their aid, Elrond would never have escaped during those desperate battles of the Second Age.
No wonder Elrond had tolerated Thorin Oakenshield and his unruly companions when they came to Rivendell. They were walking on the credit of their ancestors.
But those battles had earned the dwarves a permanent enemy. Furious at his defeat, Sauron decreed that orcs would forever be foes of dwarves. Since then, the hatred between their races had burned hotter than any other.
"Then through here it is," Eric said aloud, tracing the path with his finger.
---
That autumn, Eric set out from his fortress. He traveled south, crossed the rushing waters of the Loudwater, passed through the ruins of Eregion, and finally reached a dark mountain lake beneath the shadow of the Misty Mountains.
Here lay the western gate of Moria.
Standing on the shore at night, Eric gazed down at his reflection rippling in the black water. He stretched out his hand and tapped the surface, sending rings of disturbance spreading across the lake.
When the ripples faded, silence returned. Nothing stirred beneath the water.
"Hello! Anyone home?" Eric shouted across the still surface. He picked up a stone and tossed it in.
The splash echoed, but the water remained calm.
Eric was not losing his wits. He had hoped to rouse the ancient Watcher in the Water, that nameless, tentacled horror said to lurk here. But it seemed either asleep or simply not interested.
The mountains, however, had other residents.
A long, guttural howl split the air.
From the rocks above, a great warg climbed into view, baring fangs beneath glowing red eyes. It fixed its gaze hungrily on the lone human below.
"Well now," Eric said, tilting his head. "A single warg? That's all?"
As if to correct him, another head rose beside the first. Then another. And another. Red eyes multiplied until the ridge glowed like a field of embers.
An entire pack.
Eric sighed, drew his sword, and licked his lips in anticipation.
Under the pale moonlight, his blade Nemesis gleamed with a cold silver light. The wargs recoiled at once, as if pricked by invisible thorns. The magic woven into the weapon unsettled them.
Eric stepped forward, fully into the moonlight. The sight of him, calm and steady, was too much for the beasts. The lead warg gave a sharp yelp, turned tail, and fled. The rest followed in panic, scrambling back down into the dark.
The mountainside grew quiet again.
"...Right," Eric muttered, sheathing his sword. "That was easier than expected."
Turning back toward the lake, Eric's eyes rested on a smooth vertical wall of stone. Its surface shone as if carved by the hands of a master craftsman. As he drew near, silver lines began to shimmer across its face, sketching runes and sigils in starlight.
This was no ordinary wall but a door wrought by both elf and dwarf. In the days of friendship between the two peoples, the gate had stood open for trade and fellowship. Even at the height of Sauron's power, his armies had battered against it in vain.
To pass, one needed only to speak the right word.
Eric raised his voice clearly. "Mellon."
The stone parted with a low rumble, spilling silver light into the night.
"Friend," Eric murmured, stepping inside. "How fitting."
The door closed behind him, sealing out the moonlight. Darkness swallowed everything.
Eric did not reach for a torch. Instead, he uncorked a bottle of night-vision potion, downed it, and blinked.
The world unfolded in shades of green.
Two colossal pillars, as thick as towers, rose up before him, flanking a wide central passage that led deeper into the mountain. On either side, smaller doors opened into guardrooms.
Eric pushed one open and peered inside. A small chamber lay beyond, filled with dust and silence. Straw mattresses sagged by a cold hearth. Empty weapon racks lined the walls, and a table bore plates and goblets long untouched.
"A guard post," Eric whispered.
It had been abandoned long ago, left useless when Moria fell.
He rummaged around, shaking out every corner in the hopes of treasure. When nothing turned up, he rubbed his hands together in frustration.
"Not even a rusty dagger. Some dungeon this is," he grumbled. "A player can't help himself, you see a ruin and you have to loot it. It's tradition."
He shut the door behind him and pressed on.
The main passage wound forward until it narrowed into a perilous ledge. To his left, a sheer drop vanished into darkness so deep even his enchanted vision could not pierce it. Far below, vague shapes shifted. Orcs, perhaps, though they had not noticed him.
Lifting his eyes, Eric saw that the path split three ways: upward, straight ahead, and downward. The uppermost led into a carved dwarven passage, unmistakable in its design.
"Up it is," Eric said at once, and began climbing.
The choice proved wise. Soon he stood at the threshold of a grand dwarven hall. Vast pillars supported a ceiling so high it seemed to vanish into shadow. Even in silence and ruin, the place radiated magnificence.
"Giants could live here," Eric muttered, craning his neck. "Well, giants who liked short staircases." He eyed a stairway leading upward, its clearance far too low for anyone of great height.
Days passed as he explored. Night-vision potions ran out, forcing him to haul out a brewing stand and mix new batches from supplies stored in his Ender Chest. The endless maze of passages, stairways, and collapsed halls seemed designed to confuse.
Sometimes a corridor ended abruptly in a wall. Other times, a twisting route spat him out into some chamber he could have sworn he had already visited.
After yet another fruitless circuit, Eric stopped dead in his tracks, exasperated.
"You know what? Enough of this."
He pulled a diamond pickaxe from his pack, weighed it in his hands, and gave the nearest wall a considering look.
"Forgive me, Thorin, but your ancestors built the most confusing city in Middle-earth. I'm doing a little renovation."