[Imladris]

Ori, with Flori beside him, watched as six of the dwarves placed Balin stiff corpse in a solid stone tomb. His white beard had been braided, resplendent rings bedecked his fingers, his hands crossed an axe that rested on his chest, and a golden crown encircled his brows.

Flori cleared his throat and in the dwarvish language that only their race knew, he gave an eulogy over their fallen leader. He spoke softly, retelling Balin’s brave deeds and his part in the retaking of Erebor from the vile Worm Smaug. As Flori’s voice grew in passion and admiration, Ori slipped into mists of memory. The times in the coal mountains when they had been nothing but blackened weary dwarves, with no hope of ever re-possessing Erebor and the piles of wealth within. He had always been cheerful then, confident that one day they would come back into their own. And they had, with Gandalf’s and Bilbo’s help. A smile glimmered on Ori’s face at the thought of them.

Flori nudged him, signaling that he had finished. Ori bent down and kissed Balin’s clammy forehead. “That your reign would have been happier and longer, my friend,“ he whispered. With a gesture, the tomb was sealed with a slab of stone. The words, BALIN FUNDINUL UZBAD KHAZADDÚMU were carved deeply in the smooth surface.

Ori straightened, cleared his throat, and said, “As you all know, the threat of the orcs has increased. We must leave now while we have the chance before this spawn of Moria become too great for our feeble force.” Ori sagged, his cheeks drooped, and he sighed, fancying he heard the shrill cackles of orcs.