In Durin's Day by Marta

In Durin's Day

Read In Durin's Day

Durin blinked as he stepped past the shadows, blinked twice in quick order against the moon's harsh light. In darkness he was born, and for darkness (so he was told) was he bred. But the stars, the stars called to him even through Khazad-dûm's crevices. So he blinked but shielded his eyes and peered skyward, and reached out to trace the star-patterns he could not yet name.

Varda's lanterns were not hung for his kind. The elves came to him in the dark caverns, before he ever braved the outlands, and whispered that doom to him. He was not born of the All-Father's plan, but of the craftman's choice. They thought him an aberration, a snagged thread in Vairë's grand histories. But surely they could be wrong? Did not their own histories speak of new themes and new songs?

Durin knew better than they, for he had other teachers. In his ever-dark youth he had explored his native land, learned his home like the blind man he was, and so had found the writings carved on his wall by time or some other hand. Thou wast born in the shadows, Son of Stone, but you may yet know the stars. Take strength. That knowledge was a gift, he knew: that dwarves alone could take what was, what is, and could forge what might someday be.

So Durin looked skyward, toward lights not hung for his kind. Not hung, perhaps, but they would light his steps, and do for a start.