Footsteps echoed along the stone corridor that seemed to still remember the roar of dragons and the clang of ancestors' hammers. At the threshold of Erebor's great gate, two figures emerged from the shadows: a young man in a Rohan cloak, covered in travel dust, and beside him, a woman whose presence was almost like light in the dark cavern—Arwen Undómiel.
Thorin Oakenshield rose from his throne even before they were officially greeted by the guards. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, but with a long-held warmth. He descended the stone steps with a steady stride, and before protocol could be spoken, he already extended his arms.
"Thalion!" he boomed with a deep, hearty voice. "Son of two noble lands... but more importantly, my friend amidst the flames of Erebor!"
Thalion smiled, lifting his tired face slightly. "It's been a long time since we stood on a field that didn't smell of blood, Thorin."
Without much ado, they embraced like long-lost brothers. There was no stiff demeanor from a king, only a familiarity born from the battles they had endured together—when Thalion's sword blazed with fire and cut through waves of Orcs, by Thorin's unwavering side with his axe.
Arwen stood silently, her eyes holding a small smile as she watched the reunion.
Thorin released the embrace, looking at Thalion's face with eyes full of respect. "We have not forgotten. These stone walls still hold stories of your sword burning away the darkness at the eastern gate. Erebor remains indebted to you."
Thalion nodded. "And now I return, not to be remembered... but to ask for aid. Something darker than mere war stirs on the southern borders."
Thorin narrowed his eyes. "If you come bearing such news, then Erebor will hear it. Sit. You will tell me everything from the beginning. And if that danger is real..." He smiled faintly, then turned to the guard. "Prepare the council chamber. And summon Balin. Tonight, fire will not only burn in the forge, but also within the council of kings."
The council chamber was filled with the glow of lanterns and the faint aroma of hot metal, characteristic of the folk beneath the mountain. A long table of black stone was covered with maps, goblets, and typical hard Dwarf bread. Thalion sat directly opposite Thorin, while Arwen remained behind him, silent as a star witnessing history repeat itself.
Thalion placed both his hands on the table. His gaze was sharp, full of determination, yet without losing humility.
"Rohan," he said softly, "is no longer merely a horse-land living off grasslands. We have stood through the storm of Mordor, we have learned from destruction, and now... we wish to build. Not just villages and horse stalls—but a nation. The finest nation Middle-earth has ever seen."
Thorin leaned back, crossing his arms. There was no mockery on his face, only respectful attention. "Continue," he said.
"Our farmers work day and night, but our fields need irrigation systems more than just wood and sweat," Thalion continued. "Our cities grow, but we cannot build walls as strong as Erebor's, bridges as mighty as Khazad-dûm's, or workshops as grand as yours. We need skilled hands. We need the Dwarf folk."
Thorin nodded slowly, but did not speak yet. His eyes scrutinized, not with suspicion, merely weighing.
"We do not ask for free," Thalion quickly added. "Rohan will pay. Wheat from our fields, meat from our livestock, the finest drink from the old distillery in Aldburg. Whatever the Dwarf folk need—we will provide."
A moment of silence. Then Thorin smiled faintly, as if remembering something.
"Long ago... when we heard that Rohan was merely a horse-land, I never imagined I would sit before their son, who speaks like a king, thinks like an old-world leader." He looked deeply at Thalion. "But I see that flame in you. Just as when we stood shoulder to shoulder at the eastern gate. You haven't changed, Thalion. You've only grown."
Thalion bowed his head slightly, accepting the compliment without swelling with pride.
Thorin turned to Balin beside him. "What is your opinion?"
Balin, who had been listening silently, stroked his beard. "Our smiths enjoy new challenges. Our young ones, who haven't tasted battle, grow restless underground. And their stomachs... would enjoy food from the surface, as long as it's not Elf salad."
Some quiet laughter was heard. Thorin chuckled softly.
"I will gather with the clan leaders tonight," Thorin finally said. "But for me personally, Thalion... Erebor never forgets a debt. And it needs little reason to build alongside old friends."
He raised his goblet. "To the new Rohan."
Thalion also raised his goblet. "And to a bond not forged by gold, but by trust."
Thalion slowly lowered his goblet. The fire from the great forge reflected in his eyes, as if igniting some distant memory. He took a deep breath, then looked at Thorin, not as a subordinate to a king, but as a man who understood the meaning of time and the burden borne by leaders.
"But allow me to clarify one thing, Thorin," he said calmly, yet firmly. "I have not come to ask for massive reinforcements, or to relocate your best smiths from the heart of Erebor. I know your people are rebuilding—more than that, you are healing from old wounds."
He rested his hands on the stone table, gazing for a moment at the rough texture crafted by the skilled hands of the Dwarves. "What I ask... is only a small group—those who are willing, who may be awaiting new adventures on the surface. Stone makers, metalworkers, wood artisans. Even if it's just five, ten people—that is enough for me."
Thorin looked at him for a long time, silently. There was no empty pride in Thalion's words, only sincerity and a deep understanding of time and capacity. This made him even more respected.
"I don't want Rohan to grow by extracting life from Erebor," Thalion added. "I want us to grow together, one nation calling upon another not because of weakness, but because of mutual trust."
Thorin finally nodded. His face relaxed from the formal demeanor of a king, becoming the face of an old friend who had heard something true.
"You speak like a stonemason, not a prince," he said with a soft chuckle. "You know which stones can be carved, and which must be left strong to support the roof."
He turned to Balin, then to Arwen, who still stood calmly but full of presence. "Very well. I will send word throughout the halls. Anyone of my folk who wishes to journey to Rohan shall report directly to me."
Thalion nodded. "We will provide them with lodging, land to build their own workshops. Rohan wants not only their craftsmanship... but also their presence."
Thorin smiled broadly. "The hearts of Dwarves are not easily opened. But once you are in, none are more loyal than us. I look forward to seeing your walls stand with Erebor stone and trained hands from beneath the earth."
Arwen stepped forward for the first time, graceful and light, her voice like the flow of water from Imladris. "This night forges a bond for the future, stronger than a ring of gold. Two lands, two strengths—earth and stone, light and metal."
And the night continued, with long conversations about design, logistics, and the future. In a world still rebuilding, new bonds were forged—not from warfare, but from the intent to create.
Snow had not truly melted from the stone roofs, but spring was beginning to whisper its breath among the flowing rivers and warm morning light. At the gate of Dale, soft bells chimed, welcoming the arrival of two riders from the south—Thalion, Prince of Rohan, and Lady Arwen of Rivendell.
Bard, the King of Dale, greeted them on the courtyard of the wooden great hall overlooking the Long Lake, which split the land and reflected the shadows of the mountains in the far north. His thick cloak fluttered in the wind, and his smile was sincere, though his gaze was full of questions.
"Thalion of Rohan," Bard said, patting the young man's shoulder warmly. "You haven't come to bring bad news, have you?"
"Nothing is burning this time, my friend," Thalion replied with a small laugh. "On the contrary, I come bearing hope to build, not to destroy."
Arwen gave a slight greeting with a nod of her head, and Bard returned it with full respect.
After a simple repast and a warm campfire, Thalion explained his purpose.
"Rohan is growing," he said. "And we do not wish to be a land that depends solely on fields and horses. We want our rivers to flow wisely, our lakes to be preserved, and our land to prosper. But we are not a people of water. We do not have the experience that you possess—with Lake-town, and with how you rebuilt Dale from ash and ice."
Bard nodded slowly. There was deep pain in that memory, but also pride.
"You wish our people to help build water systems in Rohan?"
"Yes," Thalion replied. "I seek those who have lived by the lake, who understand when water is a blessing and when it brings destruction. We want strong irrigation canals, fair dams, and small ports on our southern rivers. But more than that—we wish to learn what should not be repeated. For I know... Lake-town was not only destroyed by the dragon, but also by the greed that made it fragile from within."
Bard was silent for a moment. His eyes gazed into the campfire, far across time.
"I lost much in Lake-town, Thalion," he said softly. "But I also learned that a city is not built only with wood and stone. It is built with wisdom. If you truly seek that—then my people will go with you."
Thalion looked at him, their eyes meeting in silent agreement.
"Rohan will give them a home," he said. "And also land that reminds them of the old lake—but this time, with solid foundations."
Bard smiled. "I will send letters to the families who once lived by the lake. Those who are now boat builders, water engineers, and craftsmen along the Celduin's banks. They will come—not by my command, but by the hope you carry."
He stood and raised his metal cup. "To a future that learns from ruins."
Thalion also raised his goblet. "To a world built not from war, but from memory and cooperation."
The warm dust from Erebor's halls still hung in the air as Thalion and Arwen stepped into the colossal stone fortress. Lantern light reflected off crystal walls and finely carved stone embellishments, welcoming their arrival like long-awaited guests.
Thorin stood at the great gate, his face open with a smile rarely seen—a smile reserved only for true friends.
"So, you're back from Dale?" he said, extending a hand.
Thalion nodded. "We must depart soon. I've already asked Bard for help; many people from Dale are ready to assist Rohan."
Thorin sighed, then led them into a deeper underground chamber. There, smiths and craftsmen stood amidst piles of iron and coal, their eyes reflecting an unextinguished spirit.
After a brief meeting with the clan leaders, Thalion opened a small box containing a shimmering metal no Dwarf had ever seen.
"This is adamantium," Thalion stated with conviction. "A combination of metals I brought from Rohan—a strong mixture of iron, mithril, and a touch of ancient magic. This metal is light, but far stronger than ordinary steel. Weapons made from adamantium will protect you in battle and withstand destruction unmatched until now."
A young smith touched the metal with awe. "If this is true, then our weapons will become legends not only told, but also feared."
Thorin looked at Thalion and nodded. "You know, my friend, our Dwarves always seek strength within stone. But sometimes, that strength must come from the courage to try something new."
Thalion added, "With adamantium, not only will the weapons you forge be stronger, but they will also be a symbol of hope—that the future can be built with innovation and cooperation."
Thalion gazed at the Dwarves, who were now busy examining and testing the adamantium, a sense of pride subtly etched on his face.
"We will depart in two days," he said. "Our time in Rohan awaits—a land ready to rise, together with you."
Thorin smiled and clapped Thalion on the back. "Let's make new history, just as we once fought together against the darkness."
That night, under the lantern light of Erebor, a new bond was formed—a promise between earth, fire, and stone that would carve the future of Middle-earth.
Two days passed under Erebor's heavy stone sky, amidst the rumble of hammers and sparks from the forges. The clang of swords and laughter echoed in the training halls, where Thorin and the Dwarves didn't miss the chance to test the strength of their new friend—Thalion, the Prince of Rohan.
"Come on, Thalion!" Thorin called out, preparing his gleaming sword. "If you want to bring Dwarves to the battlefield, you must be able to withstand our attacks!"
Thalion met the challenge with an eager smile, swinging his sword adorned with magical fire. The duel was not just about strength, but also mutual respect and a deepening camaraderie.
Each clash of swords sent sparks flying, while the other Dwarves cheered and offered advice, sometimes joking, "Be careful, that's no ordinary sword—that's fire that can burn the opponent's heart!"
Between training sessions, Thalion also went down to the smithy, working alongside Erebor's metal experts. They tested new mixtures—various ratios of iron, mithril, and a little secret ingredient from Rohan—trying to achieve the perfect balance for adamantium.
"But how do we know it's strong enough?" asked one smith.
Thalion picked up a small, newly forged piece of metal, touching it with his skilled fingers.
"We test it rigorously," he replied. "Not just physical strength, but also resistance to heat and impact. This metal must endure when swords clash, when fires blaze, and even on the most ferocious battlefield."
After hours of testing, they saw sharper, brighter sparks and a clearer ring from the adamantium metal. The Dwarves began to smile hopefully.
As night approached, with the campfire lit, Thorin clapped Thalion on the shoulder.
"You're not just a great warrior, but also a smith no less skilled than us," he said. "Rohan is lucky to have you."
Thalion returned the smile, feeling warm not only from the campfire, but from the strong friendship forged in the stone and fire of Erebor.
These two days were not just a time of rest—but a time for building bonds, honing skills, and preparing weapons that would bring great change to Middle-earth.
The first dawn hung in the Eastern sky, parting the thin mist that veiled the peaks of the Lonely Mountain. Before the great gate of Erebor, Thalion stood tall, wearing a long robe embroidered with the new Rohan emblem—two crossed horses facing the rising sun. By his side, Arwen, clad in soft gray, her eyes serene yet watchful.
Before them stood Thorin Oakenshield, the King Under the Mountain, his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp eyes gazing at his old friend.
"You carry the name of Rohan," Thorin said softly but with profound meaning. "But today, you also carry the honor of Erebor with you."
Behind Thorin, dozens of Dwarves from various clans stood in formation. Some were young, with burning enthusiasm in their eyes. Others had white beards, bringing experience and wisdom. They had sworn—not only to build, but also to protect.
"We know this is not an easy journey," Thalion said, extending a hand to Thorin. "But Rohan is no longer merely a land of plains and horses. We wish to make it a light amidst the shadows that still shroud Middle-earth."
Thorin gripped his hand tightly. "Bring them back someday. Not just as craftsmen or builders... but as brothers."
Applause and enthusiastic cheers accompanied the farewell. The Dwarves began to move, slowly descending the stone road, carrying their tools, portable forges, and prepared metal materials. Among them, boxes of adamantium were tightly guarded, as if carrying new hope in the form of metal.
At the foot of Erebor, forces from Dale and Lake-town awaited. Their numbers were in the hundreds—families who chose to join Thalion's vision of a new Rohan. Among them were boat builders, stonemasons, weavers, even musicians. They all carried something: skill, hope, and stories.
Arwen looked at the sea of people and then whispered to Thalion, "Look... this is not just a journey. This is a birth."
With the long trumpets from Erebor's towers sounding, the large procession began to move south. The route they chose had been confirmed safe, passing through sheltered valleys and forests carefully mapped by Elf and human scouts.
And along the way, a story began to grow—about the Prince of Rohan who carried fire, about the unity between Dwarves, Men, and even Elves. A new tale that would be written in stone, water, and sky.
Behind the closing gates of Erebor, Thorin stood silent, his eyes fixed on the small dots in the distance.
"Go forth, my friend," he murmured. "And build the world that has only existed in dreams."
On the fifth day of the journey, the sky faded to grey. In the quiet pine forest at the foot of the Ered Mithrin, the sound of birds vanished. The procession began to slow down, a strange premonition rippling through the ranks. Arwen, riding her white horse beside Thalion, turned with a troubled expression.
"Silence like this... never bodes well."
Thalion responded with silence, but his hand had already grasped the hilt of his flaming sword tucked into his back. The Dwarves in the front ranks also began to grip their axes tighter, their combat instincts igniting.
Suddenly—a black arrow struck a tree beside them, followed by wild screams echoing through the trees. From the bushes and shadows, a horde of Orcs charged out, perhaps more than fifty in number. Their red eyes gleamed in the dark, their fangs smeared with dried blood.
"Protect the people of Lake-town!" Thalion shouted loudly. "Form a defensive line! Dwarves, with me!"
The Dwarf warriors surged forward, forming a steel line. In their midst, Thalion leaped from his horse. As his flaming sword was drawn, a red blaze scorched the air. The light from its blade illuminated the darkness, making some Orcs recoil for a moment.
"For Rohan!" Thalion yelled, then slashed at the first Orc who tried to attack him. Fire from his sword spread through the enemy's body, burning them from within.
A Dwarf from Erebor, swinging his axe with a loud battle laugh, called out, "Still got some fight in you, Thalion?"
"More than enough!" Thalion retorted, parrying an enemy spear, then twisting and stabbing an Orc behind him through the heart.