Farohir has been called out by Bragin as they wait for the caravan departing the Crossroads headed for the Twenty-First Hall of Moria. The young half-elf squirms under Bragin’s eye, who is now appraising him as he would a rough-cut gem.
“Farohir my lad, there’s something you’ve been hiding from me, maybe even from yourself, if that’s the lay of it. Talk to me and listen to your own voice.”
“Bragin, in the years you’ve known me, when have I not told you something that matters? Yes, this journey of ours has been long and yes, I miss my family - who would not? I even miss Eldariel and her sass. Adar and Naneth are the two people in all the world I never worry about; their deeds are sung by many voices.”
“And your aunt isn’t included in that roster of valor?”
A pause. “She’s not the adventurous type, she’s not a wanderer, certainly not a warrior by any stretch of imagination. She’s a scholar, a lore-mistress! The biggest battle she fights is boredom in her library!”
“And you know this how? Have you not spoken to the others of the Garrison, as I have? By her deeds, your aunt is positively a heroine among my people. No one has been hailed as Khazush-Khazad in ages; certainly not an Elf, that hasn’t happened since before the coming of Durin’s Bane.”
“But what could she possibly have done to earn that title? Many have remarked about Seregrían’s hate of anything and anyone non-Elvish – and hate is not strong enough a word! Her anger has had two whole ages in which to boil, and I’m shocked she didn’t burn the Dwarves to cinders at first sight.”
“Something has changed, what could it be? Now lad, let’s look at this another way. When was the last time you saw her, spoke to her? How long ago was that, think now.”
Another pause, then “It was before all this wild errantry began, back in the summer of last year. It was the last time the whole family was together. We met in Rivendell, and it was our parting feast. Adar and Naneth, Eldariel and me, and Aunt Seregrían. She did not talk to anyone except Naneth, she made a point of ignoring Adar – he’s a Mortal, after all. She barely spoke to anyone, and just stood alone on the balcony watching the waterfalls.
“I joined her there, and we talked a little by ourselves. I got the impression that she was lonely but didn’t want to admit it to anyone. And I don’t know what made me say it, but I took her hand and said, ‘There’s a difference between being alone, and being lonely – you don’t have to be either, as long as I’m here.’ And she gave me a look I have not seen before, her whole face softened, and she squeezed my hand. We just stood there for a while, watching the waters and holding hands.”
Bragin lets that hang silent in the air for a moment before answering. “Farohir lad, I think I know now. You are thinking of her not as your aunt, but as a woman. And I tell you this: it can only lead to being hurt. Your aunt may not be your aunt by blood, and you might think there lies hope; but there is more to it than that. You’re bad blood in her eyes, you are half Mortal – and if I know Elves as I do, to many of that kin we’re not worth a second thought.
“Now lad, the caravan for Twenty-One is due in a little while, and it is still quite a journey, so you’ll have time on your hands to think. What is it you are riding to, or riding from? Will you stay with me, in Khazad-dum, as I plan on doing? Or will you take up the chase and ride on, in the hope of finding your aunt? And even if you catch up to her, what will you do? These are things you must decide – and honestly, boy, I will honor whatever decision you make, whatever the cost to your heart.”
A call from the goat-stable brings both their heads around to see Thalfi waving to them. “C’mon, you two, the caravan is forming. If you’re riding with us, get over here!”
Bragin looks to Farohir and, in a fatherly gesture, gives his shoulder a hearty thump. Farohir rubs his shoulder and smiles wanly, and they both cross to the stable and mount up. The caravan drovers whistle, and the column moves out smartly into the corridor that leads to the main road headed east and higher up, the Twenty-First Hall a few hours away.
As the caravan trots along, Farohir looks around at the vast delving and galleries of the Dwarves, overwhelmed by the scale of Moria ever since entering the Mines. He wonders if Seregrían felt the same thing when she first entered these halls, and what happened that the Dwarves were so impressed by her. And he ponders Bragin’s words: what is it that is driving him along, across leagues and leagues, in an effort to overtake and reunite with his family – and especially Seregrían?
