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Dáin exhaled slowly, running his hand over the engraved leather covering his leg. Even through the thick hide he could feel the join where iron met flesh, thick mountains of scar tissue between the two.
Nerves rattled in his chest. He closed his eyes, concentrating on taking slow breaths through his nose and letting his mind follow the beats of the war drums as they echoed in the chamber. Along with the shouts and claps from the performers on the stage to his right, he could hear the sounds of the audience in the stands.
At only 50 years old, being asked to play Lord Azaghâl in Uzghû id'Uslukh was an honour beyond words.
Though he'd earned it, he supposed. He'd paid a high price for honour.
The drumming pattern changed, and Dáin pushed himself to his feet. He tapped his iron foot against the ground for luck before he shoved the heavy helmet on and took a deep breath.
From beyond the heavy curtains hiding the wings from the stage, silence fell.
His cue.
Dáin stepped forward, the clack of his iron leg against the polished marble stage the only sound in the chamber. To his left were the audience, shrouded in darkness by cleverly placed torches and candles. On his right sat a line of seven musicians, each in a hollowed out geode. The different gems on the insides sparkled in the torchlight, and each musician was dressed and painted in the same colours so as to blend in.
Behind them hung the back-cloth, a tapestry which could be changed between scenes. Mountain ranges drawn with thread towered over the musicians, the sky dappled with giant eagles and dragons. As Dáin walked to the centre of the stage in his full leather armour, the chamber kept its silence, all except the knock of his iron foot on the stone. To his own ears the rush of his breath inside the helmet sounded like the ocean; great and loud.
Powerful, too. By Mahal, he was powerful. Strength beyond reason, his father had used to say. His mother would always quip, “and reason more than most” after. Those moments had seemed eternal, and he'd envisioned spending his days in the Warrior's Guild, teaching pebbles the arts of fighting until his father passed naturally into Mahal's halls.
But now he was Lord of the Iron Hills, with wealth and title and glory in battle – all the things he was supposed to want. In Azanulbizar he'd slain 32 orcs one after the other, driven by grief and the horror of what seemed like their inevitable loss, and been granted great renown for his deeds.
But all of what he'd gained after Azanulbizar had been paid for in blood.
In life and limb.
When he had stood in the doorway to Moria and peered into its depths, he'd known in his heart this was a war, not a battle, and they'd lost too many to push onwards.
He'd turned, bellowing orders to the dwarves rallying behind him, and as Thorin led the final charge, he'd fallen behind the young prince. A lucky sweep from an orc had cleaved his leg from him. He hadn't even realised until he'd tried to take another step, only to fall into mud and blood and pain and darkness.
Hours later he'd woken on his back on a makeshift bed in a tent; surrounded by the dead and dying, and the stench of war.
A weary, lost-looking healer had informed him of the loss of his parents, and the honour they had gained for their services in the battle. Thorin had come by after, his face like an impression left in ash, and told him he was the new Lord of the Iron Hills, a great war hero.
Dáin had looked down at his bloody stump, all that was left of his leg, and thought the price seemed too high for what glory he'd gained.
A family was worth more than title and power.
Dáin counted his steps across the stage, and on the fifteenth he turned on his iron foot to face the audience. He pulled in a deep breath through his nose and slowly slid his war axe from its sheath on his back. The iron was painted a gleaming white, all over the blade as well.
The drums started to play in long, echoing beats, and a low chant started up behind him.
He raised the axe straight up, holding it there for several beats before he brought it down in a slow arc, bending his knees and turning his body. His iron foot scraped along the marble. One of the musicians rattled a length of chain-mail, the metal loops jingling.
This was his introduction as Lord Azaghâl, mirroring his recent coronation. He was no king, but like Azaghâl, he was a lord who had done incredible things in battle and paid dearly for them.
Each movement he made was controlled and unhurried, each dip and swing of his axe holding meaning. A swerve to the left and downwards meant strength, an upward curve meant a strong heart. A half turn with the blade of the axe turned sideways meant bravery.
He imagined Thorin sitting in the audience, his harrowed face peaceful as he watched the performance.
Thorin could be sitting next to Hlin – tell her stories of Dáin's childhood. He could help him court her. Thorin could put in a few good words about his younger cousin Dáin, here and there.
He'd like her. She was sensible and kind; quiet where Dáin was loud, and strong when he felt weakened.
Dáin knocked the edge of the axe against the floor, ending the first dance in a sweeping bow. Humility and honour. Dedication to serving his people.
A promise to protect them.
There was something beautiful in saying such strong and complex ideas in slow, measured movements. It was like carving. Each movement a strike upon stone. A hit from the chisel meant nothing until it was put in context of the final piece, but every blow was immeasurably precious.
He stood straight, and with his other hand slowly pulled a long black feather from his armour. It glimmered iridescent in the low light.
This was the raven, the signal of word calling Azaghâl and his kin to the great war.
The tempo and tone of the drums behind him changed. This next dance was a little faster paced as he wove feather and axe through the air. His iron foot scraped and clacked against the floor.
The head of the Abanu Sernâr Guild, Master Hvek, had asked if he would cover the end of the prosthetic in the same thick leather as the rest of the costume. He'd said it would muffle the sound, and help 'preserve the dignity of the art'.
Hvek had been given the honour of being the first dwarf Dáin had thrown his iron leg at.
He'd stood before the Abanu Sernâr Guild, one hand planted firmly on the table for balance as he glared at the suddenly silent group of dwarves before him. When he'd spoken, he'd kept his voice quiet and dangerous.
Had he not been asked to play Azaghâl because of his deeds in Azanulbizar? Because of what he'd sacrificed, so their kin could go on living in relative peace and prosperity? And this sulphur-vent wanted him to hide his iron leg?
No. He would not cover it, as if it were shameful. He'd painted it silver, unlike the striking red of the rest of his armour, and then asked Hlin to paint the runes on in gold so it would match those decorating the costume.
It was something important, and a reminder of the price of war. He would not rush so eagerly or quickly into a fool's battle again.
Dáin scraped the iron foot around in a wide circle, letting the feather fall from his fingers to the floor in slow, lazy twists.
Two down, two to go.
The audience was silent as Dáin made his way back off the stage in measured steps. He breathed out shakily when he'd disappeared behind the curtain, shooting a small smile at the dwarves gathered in the wings.
Dáín kept silent as he was led into the costume room, allowing the dwarves in charge of the costumes to help him change.
The next set of armour was dyed black, leather sitting between all the joints to keep his movement silent. After the red leather was taken off, an almost skeleton-like structure made from wood was placed over him. Over that hung the new armour, pristine and beautiful. He bowed his head as the helmet was clasped in place.
His parents would be proud.
Tears stung his eyes suddenly, and he closed them to hide the fall of two tears.
Mahal, he missed them. Pain clung to his ribs, heavy with the weight of it as he took a few deep, shaking breaths.
“There, now,” came a kindly voice. Dáin swallowed hard and jerked his head up to look at the dwarf who had just walked into the room.
“Master Valkur,” Dáin said roughly, blinking back the tears. This was no place for mourning, and he had only moments before he was due back on the stage. He straightened his back and puffed out his chest, trying to crush the shake from his voice. “Your work on these costumes is beautiful, as always.”
Valkur smiled and bowed his head in thanks, looking approvingly over the armour. He reached out, brushing his fingers over the silver engravings in the leather before he clasped Dáin's shoulder. From this distance Dáin could see the exhaustion clinging to the dwarf's face. Valkur had worked solidly for the last four days to finish the armour – despite his wife having just woken their first child.
“I can't think of anyone more worthy of wearing it,” Valkur said with a nod, taking his hand back. “Though I imagine some part of you wishes you were in the audience.”
Dáin felt all of his fifty years as he hung his head, another few tears rolling into his thick beard. He nodded, exhaling raggedly through the wave of sadness.
“I would give anything to turn back the months, but I know I cannot,” he said. “All I can do is make them proud. Make my people safe. Keep them safe.”
“And well-entertained,” Valkur smiled as he grasped Dáin's hand between his own. “My Lord, we are honoured to have you play this role for us.”
Dáin inclined his head in thanks, squeezing Valkur's fingers. Even as the other dwarf's words stirred the bubbling pot of emotions in his chest, he was glad for the company – for the touch, and the comfort it was bringing him.
“It's an honour to perform for you,” he said. “An honour.”
From just outside the room a little bell chimed to signal his approaching cue, and Dáin pulled away from Valkur.
The walk back to the stage felt short. His heart pounded against his ribs as he waited for the drumming to ebb away to silence, and then to start again.
Once more the only sound in the cavern was the clack of his iron foot against the marble stage. He counted his steps and turned to face the audience when he hit his mark, pausing for a steadying breath before he pulled a long broadsword from its scabbard on his back.
Though it was simply painted wood, it felt incredibly heavy in his hands. Dáin raised it high and as the drums behind him crashed, he brought it down in a sweeping arc.
This was the war dance. This was Azaghâl striding through the plains with his vast armies to meet the dark forces head on in mighty, glorious battle.
Sweat beaded along Dáin's skin as he brought his iron foot down in rhythmic stamps. The musicians behind him clashed cymbals together, each ringing crash the breaking waves of weapons against weapons, and the sound of armour scraping along rock and steel.
His fingers were trembling as he gripped the sword, muscles straining to make sharp, ferocious movements through the air with his wooden blade.
Great horns bellowed from behind him to signify the arrival of the terrible beasts brought forth by the dark lord. Dáin shuddered, pain twinging through his leg as he kept stamping against the marble.
His body twisted and turned, following the movements of the sword. Each stroke and slice was another enemy slain, another life lost in the great battle.
Dáin's mouth was dry, his chest tight as he closed his eyes and concentrated on the dance. A second blast from the horns behind him punched the air from his lungs. Tears stung at his eyes, each pull and push of the sword all too familiar.
He parried an invisible enemy and turned to the side, thrusting the sword outwards in time with a final stamp from his iron leg. As he froze in place, panting for breath, dwarves standing silently and hidden above the stage swept massive fans made from parchment downwards over him and the audience.
The candles extinguished instantly as the mighty wind rushed over them all, and the chamber was plunged into absolute darkness.
Dáin counted his breath in the silence. On the seventh breath he brought his iron foot down onto the marble. He counted to three, and did it again.
A musician scraped a length of chain-mail slowly across the floor. Dáin echoed it with another stamp, perfectly in time to the first boom of a drum.
The dragon Glaurung had come.
One by one the candles were relit, and Dáin pulled back into a defensive stance.
On the other side of the stage stood a great white dragon. Its golden eyes glowed, and the stretched leather of its wings creaked as they flapped.
Though Dáin knew the five segments of the dragon were controlled by puppeteers running along the intricate rafters above him, it looked terrifyingly real in the low light.
He glanced up, catching sight of the dwarves as they made Glaurung slowly turn its head from side to side and open its mouth.
A third and final blast from the horns was his cue.
Dáin twirled the sword in slow, lazy arcs as the dragon stepped forward.
This dance was the hardest out of them all in the play, and so much depended on him trusting the puppeteers not to drop the damn thing down on his head. He stamped his foot against the ground and ducked low to dodge a sweeping wing, bringing the sword against the wood with a loud clack.
The drums behind him started to gain speed. His heart slammed against his ribs as he danced under the dragon, avoiding being hit or knocked over by its bulk. He'd been sent sprawling by it countless times in practice – once even managing to get his iron leg wedged between two of its joints, and being lifted from the ground as if it was really carrying him off.
Dáín twirled, counting his steps and his breaths as Glaurung dipped and swooped over him. The roaring of the drums and cymbals grew louder and louder until, with one final, rock-shaking crash they stopped and Dáin slammed his wooden sword up into the belly of the beast above him.
He gasped for air, his arm shaking as he held it up and braced himself.
The puppeteers slowly lowered Glaurung around him, Dáin sinking to his knees to show the slow crush of the dragon's body over him. Then he allowed his body to collapse forward onto the stage, the sword clattering from his hands.
With a screech made from metal sheets scraping together Glaurung flew back into the air, his great jaws opening and closing before a final flap of his wings sent the candles spluttering out.
Once more the room was thrown into darkness and silence.
A low hum started from the musicians, and Dáin pushed himself to his feet as quietly as he could, creeping off from the stage as the only song with words began.
“When death has not the fear nor strength to turn the tide
of battles fought by creatures belched from night,
there is no war that we have lost nor paid the cost
of life that cleaves apart the men and elves who crossed
between the worlds, and to a place unknown.
Our kind alone can never truly die,
and though we leave the fight to mourn our sleeping lord,
our fate lies not upon these bloodstained fields.
What glory found in war is naught compared to that
which waits for those who stride into the Halls.
For there upon his mighty throne of carven stone
awaits the one who sung to life our whittled bone.
With hammer, chisel, tongs, and axe in hand,
he grants us peace with all that we have lost,
and keeps us safe until the ones still wandering
return unto their everlasting home.”
Dáin closed the door of the costume room behind him and slowly sank onto a chair.
He had done it. He'd done his dances, and though he'd misstepped once or twice, he'd managed to complete them without causing himself embarrassment or injury.
The helmet was heavy in his hands as he unclasped it and set it gently aside. A strange sense of calm had washed over him, and he removed the rest of his armour in silence. He propped it up against the wall and pulled his greatcoat on, leaving the costume room and slipping down the dark corridors.
It was customary to wait for the end of the performance, and then go and greet the important guests. To exchange pleasantries and accept compliments.
Dáin clasped his hands behind his back as he walked down the small, spiral staircase leading to the depths of the mountain.
He didn't have the heart for any of that nonsense. He'd done his bit. He'd done enough.
The heavy doors swung open silently as Dáin stepped into the huge, cool cavern. Large candles lit gloom, and a sleeping guard snored gently by the doors. Dáin chuckled softly and walked past him, stopping opposite a rectangle of gold attached to the rock.
He lifted his hand, trailing his fingers over the inscription.
“In memory of Náin and Detís. Until we meet again.”
Dáin pulled a small stool out from a small alcove in the rock and sat down. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
This was the right place to be, at least for now.