the war to come by Fernstrike

the war to come

The funeral of Thorin Oakenshield and his sister-sons was resonant with the low humming of dwarves, like half-forgotten calls sounded from deep within the earth. By the dais in the hall, Gandalf stood solemnly, leaning upon his staff. He had come to this land as an ambassador for peace, a herald for the will of the Valar, an emissary fearful of an enemy that he now knew to be truly returned. That today's triumph had cost three noblest of dwarves struck a cold chord within him. 
 
"This is not a new darkness set to rend the world, Mithrandir," the Elvenking said from beside him in a low voice. "And if we shall have to forsake our victory of yesteryear to battle it, I would have you confirm it to me."
 
The Maia looked up, and perceived his own ancient fear in King Thranduil's eyes. The elf understood, and did not wait for a reply. 
 
"Even the memory of the King Under the Mountain shall need his own defense in the war to come," was all he said, stepping forward to lay Orcrist upon the breast of the fallen lord of Erebor.