Dain shook his head. He was a seasoned warrior with many a campaign under his belt. But there had been so much death in this place. His heart held great sadness. So many had perished fighting the Uruk, and defending Erebor and Mirkwood against the shadows of the night.
His fingers slid along the blade of the great axe with jewels inlaid that Bali had presented to him. He would treasure it, as much for the memories it brought as for any intrinsic worth.
Yet he was luckier than most. His son still lived and breathed and walked the earth. What more could a dwarf desire? His new friend Kili lived. His wife awaited in the halls of his home, a home that stood intact with no unwelcome tromp of Uruk feet.
And, yet, how much different would it have been if there had been no Kaldon. His body had not been found, and one could only presume that he had escaped. But where and how? There were no clear signs.
Still, how many would be alive today if the traitor had not come among them, and slowed their path, and sewed dissension at every step? Even in the joy of victory, amid the songs of jubilation, Dain swore he would not rest until the traitor Kaldon had been laid in the dust, never to rise. For there would be no honored place in the halls of Aule for one such as he. And Dain knew his kinsman well enough to say that Bali would feel the same way. For all he knew, he might already be plotting some secret revenge.
Until that time, till he was called upon again, he would dwell in peace within his own halls, and use his hands and wits to do what he loved best with the fashioning of metals and precious jewels.
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