-General-
The Grey Wizard was deep in thought. Murmurs escaped his lips, but no one understood what he was saying except Aldril, who frowned; despite his excellent hearing, he could barely catch Gandalf's whispers.
Words like "Impossible," "I need guidance," and "What to do?" were the most repeated. His strange behavior only slightly unsettled those present, who soon recovered, though curiosity led them to look at Aldril.
"A Balrog?" Kili asked, tilting his head. "What's a Balrog? I've never heard anything about that thing… whatever it is."
Some dwarves quickened their pace, moving closer to Aldril and the others. Curiosity pushed them, as did the possibility that the dragon-slayer would reveal what lay in the depths of Moria, that bane which caused Durin's folk to flee their ancestral home.
"Where to begin?" Aldril murmured, bringing a hand to his chin. He pondered in silence for a few seconds and, after nodding to himself, added, "I'll be as brief as possible, as it's too long a story."
Looking at the horizon, he began his explanation.
"Few remember the true enemy who started the war against the free peoples of Middle-earth: Morgoth, the Dark Lord."
At the mention of that name, the faint moonlight seemed to dim, and a heavy atmosphere took root in the dwarves' march.
"That Dark Lord plunged much of the world into darkness. Under his command, orcs rose like wild beasts. They weren't like the stupid ones you fight today. No! Those orcs were smarter… more lethal."
"Wait, wait," interrupted Glóin, frowning. "Isn't Morgoth just a story to get children to sleep early?"
Several dwarves nodded in agreement, though their gazes became curious, almost expectant, as if they wished Aldril's words were more than a simple campfire legend.
"Oh? So that name is used to put children to sleep? How ironic, really," Aldril laughed heartily, shaking his head. "However, let me tell you something: it's all true. Even the dwarves of Rhûn know his name. Haven't you read your ancestors' records?" he asked with a slight tone of reproach.
"We have those?" Kili whispered to Fili.
The addressed dwarf shrugged, but a sad smile appeared on his face. With a sigh, he looked at his brother and replied, "Balin mentioned it to us once… but he said we were still too young to know such a dark history."
"Is that so…?"
Before the heavy atmosphere could take its toll, Glóin intervened. The memory of the wise old dwarf still weighed on everyone, but they knew they had to move forward.
"Well… what happens next then?" he asked Aldril, who nodded in thanks.
"As I was saying, under the service of that Dark Lord, lethal creatures guarded him… like dogs defending their master. These beings were the Balrogs, monsters among monsters. Their skin, enveloped in fire, made them unbeatable on the battlefield. Their downfall was only achieved thanks to the High Elves of old… who also perished alongside them."
"However, some escaped after the imprisonment of their lord during the War of Wrath," interrupted Gandalf, who had finally recovered from his thoughts. An even fiercer gleam appeared in his blue eyes, which flashed for an instant, as if stars fleetingly crossed his gaze.
"As described by those who survived, a searing fire brought death to the brave ones who tried to defend Khazad-dûm. I didn't want to believe that such a creature still walked in this age… but now, with Aldril's new insight, I'm sure: that beast you call the Bane of Durin… is, without a doubt, a Balrog."
Such descriptions brought those who still remembered the old dwarf back to the present, only for their faces to pale. Kili and Fili might be young and naive, and unaware of much of history, but among the others were some who knew well what that revelation meant.
They knew how lethal the High Elves were described in ancient tales. Beings capable of annihilating a garrison of a hundred dwarves with terrifying ease. Their stories said that, during the darkest days, those elves formed an alliance with the first dwarves… ancestors who, while not matching the strength of the High Elves, came close. At least—according to old chronicles—it took five dwarves of old to bring down a single High Elf.
Now, according to Aldril and Gandalf, a Balrog was capable of laying waste to hundreds of High Elves, with only the elite among the elite managing to defeat them, but at the cost of their lives. Without a doubt, what they faced was something a small army of five hundred dwarves couldn't handle.
"That's too much! What can we do? Do we go back?" Kili exclaimed, agitated, turning to the rest. He didn't want to lead so many young dwarves to their deaths.
"It's not necessary," Gandalf replied calmly.
"You focus on eradicating the orcs," he continued. "Aldril and I will distract the Balrog and, if possible, draw it out of Khazad-dûm."
"Draw it out?" Aldril whispered, giving the Wizard a serious look. "What good will it do to get it out of Moria?"
"Well," Gandalf replied, enigmatic but serene, "if we succeed… help will be waiting for us outside."
It was then that Aldril saw it: a blue butterfly fluttering before his eyes. Its delicate wingbeats left a bluish, almost ethereal trail behind it. If his memory served him right, he had seen a similar butterfly in the past… when Gandalf communicated with the other wizards.
Now, through this butterfly, the message about the Balrog was being carried to the High Elves who still lived in this Age. What better way to face a monster than with other monsters? Gandalf was aware that with his current strength, he could defeat the Balrog, but at the high cost of dying alongside it, and besides… his mission wasn't finished yet.
So they walked for a long time, the plans were made, it was a matter of time before they were implemented. With Aldril and Gandalf's assurance, the dwarves resumed their march with greater fervor, a simple gesture that showed the deep trust they placed in the dragon-slayer and the Grey Wizard.
Five days passed like a spring breeze, quick and uneventful. From time to time, they encountered some elves, who nodded in greeting and resumed their exploration. In the warm morning light filtering through the forest, they saw in the distance the meadow where the ancient battle for Moria had occurred. Now, the empty and dry clearing contrasted strangely with the greenery of Mirkwood, or as it was now called, the Forest of Rebirth.
It was as if nature knew where to stop, for though it couldn't be felt, the lands adjacent to Moria were drying up due to the environmental contamination caused by the residual magic of the orcs, as well as that of the sleeping Balrog.
The scene hadn't changed much since the last time; if they paid close attention, they would see that in certain places there were still broken swords, buried under the dust of time, and a growing lake dominated the entrance. Everyone ignored it, however, Aldril remained alert.
For something from the bottom of the lake was watching him intently.
***
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