Mid-sentence, Bella noticed the old Dwarf's brow furrowing deeply. She thought it over for a moment and understood.
"Of course I know that Mines of Moria is the Elven name—you call it Khazad-dûm? Great name! Anyway, after that I had one hell of a fight with the creature. I got a little hurt, but I managed to put it down, and then I came to find you all..."
Bella rattled on, laying out the whole sequence of events.
The old Dwarf was beside himself. He seized her hand and gripped it hard. "You are a true friend to our people! Khazad-dûm—by my beard! The Dwarves have a chance to rebuild Khazad-dûm!"
Strictly speaking, given his station, Balin had no business telling another person—a human, no less—"you are a friend to our people" right in front of Thorin, the Dwarf-king. It wasn't his place to speak for the whole race. A younger Dwarf might not know better, but at his age and experience, he would normally have been very careful about that. But right now he was so overwhelmed with joy that the words spilled out before he could stop himself.
Old Balin; Glóin—Gimli's father, renowned for marrying the most beautiful Dwarven woman alive—and his brother Óin; along with Ori, the youngest Dwarf, all crowded around Bella with questions about Khazad-dûm. None of them came right out and said let's forget Erebor and go to Khazad-dûm instead, but the drift of their eagerness made it plain enough.
All of them—Thorin included—were intensely interested in the Balrog, their race's great nemesis. Bombur the stout Dwarf had latched on to the Balrog's severed head and refused to let go; anyone who didn't know better might have thought he was the one who'd killed it.
"Thorin—that is Khazad-dûm." The Dwarves flatly refused to acknowledge the name Mines of Moria, because it was an Elven coinage, and the word Moria carried connotations of ill omen, catastrophe, and ruin. Dwarves would never accept that their ancestral home bore such a name—more than a few wars had been fought with Elves over exactly this point.
"The Balrog is dead. We can go home. All the Dwarves can go home. You are the King of Khazad-dûm." Balin's voice was filled with longing.
Thorin's hands clenched. The conflict inside him was plain to see.
Erebor was the Dwarves' home, yes—but Khazad-dûm was their ancient kingdom. Its symbolic weight and its practical significance were both immense.
The news hadn't broken yet, and of all the Dwarves in Middle-earth, they were the closest. Thorin himself held the most legitimate claim as heir of Durin's Folk. He could declare himself King of Khazad-dûm right now, and no one could contest it.
But if he took the throne of Khazad-dûm, Erebor was finished. He couldn't do both.
Between Erebor and Khazad-dûm, Khazad-dûm was obviously the greater glory for Durin's Folk. Many Dwarves would gladly give their lives to see that kingdom restored.
Setting aside the others—Balin alone had grounds to claim it. His bloodline, traced back far enough, connected to the royal line the same way Liu Bei connected to Emperor Xian of Han: distant, strained, requiring some creative genealogy. But the lineage existed. If Thorin's direct branch refused the crown, the collateral branches could step forward.
In fact, of the thirteen Dwarves in the company, most had some claim. They were all descendants of Durin's Folk. If the main line wouldn't take the throne, any of the side branches could.
Bella spoke up at the right moment: "I have no grievance against Khazad-dûm—but the situation there is precarious. There are many dangerous enemies on all sides..."
She repeated what she had already told Elrond and Galadriel, then left the choice to Thorin.
Old Balin—who had always been warm and friendly toward Bella—pushed back, unusually for him. "What do Orcs matter? So there are tens of thousands of Orcs in Dol Guldur? Khazad-dûm is our home. We don't fear any enemy on our own ground!"
You fear no enemy—and yet the Balrog still drove you out? Bella parted her lips—then swallowed it. Home meant something, no matter what lay outside its walls. She understood that. She gave a small nod, conceding the Dwarves' longing and their right to feel it.
Balin gripped Thorin's hand with both of his, knuckles white: "We can rally our kin from the Blue Mountains. Glóin's people will answer. What about Dáin? The Iron Hills will march for us too! And if that's not enough, we call on the Firebeards, the Ironfists—every clan we can reach! Khazad-dûm is the home of Durin's Folk. We cannot abandon it!"
Tears streaked down the old Dwarf's face, soaking into his white beard. He didn't care. He kept his eyes fixed on Thorin, waiting.
When he saw Thorin still wavering, Balin added fuel to the fire: "Thorin—think of your grandfather. Azog cut off his head. You remember that? Think of your father—Thráin, lost somewhere in Khazad-dûm. From Náin I, driven out by the Balrog, down through your grandfather, your father, to you. Four generations of Dwarf-kings, a blood debt unpaid. Have you forgotten all of it?"
Bella watched Balin—usually the picture of warmth and restraint—strip away every courtesy and drive his words into Thorin like nails. She let out a quiet breath. Things were falling exactly as Elrond and Galadriel had foreseen. She didn't understand Elves; and now it seemed she didn't understand Dwarves either.
She didn't need to read his mind. She already knew the answer.
After words like those, Thorin had no way to refuse—no matter how deeply he yearned for Erebor. He had to let it go.
The Thorin of the original timeline had proved as much. To him, blood debts mattered more than treasure. And the crown of Khazad-dûm outweighed the crown of Erebor a hundredfold.
Thorin Oakenshield's gaze hardened. A breath later, the decision was made—irrevocably.
"Very well! We gather our kin. We march for Khazad-dûm!"
His voice rang out. The Dwarves, who had always followed his lead, erupted in a roar.
If one wanted to be cynical about it, none of them were fools. Erebor had its dragon, Khazad-dûm had its Balrog—in Dwarven eyes, the two places were equally suicidal. But the Balrog was dead now, courtesy of Bella. Their morale surged. Orcs? What were Orcs to them? Find enough Dwarves, and Orcs could be chopped down by the thousands.
Against Balrogs and dragons, Dwarves had no answer. Against Orcs, they had centuries of practice.
Thorin's face was a mask of shame. He came to stand before Bella. This iron-willed man bowed his head, not sure how to begin.
Bella sighed softly. "It seems this is where we part ways."
She needed to find a place to settle the people of Narnia. She couldn't follow him into that death trap.
Thorin was decisive when he needed to be. To make amends, he offered her something significant: "You could take your people to Erebor. There's a ruined settlement at the foot of the mountain—a town called Dale. It's more than large enough to house your folk."
Bella said nothing. Smaug was still in the mountain. You're giving me land, but have you asked the dragon whether he agrees?
Thorin spoke with gravity: "You killed the Balrog. I'd wager you have some way to deal with a dragon too. I won't ask how you do it. The treasure in the mountain and the lands of Erebor—all of it—is yours. You've earned it by right of deed. All I ask in return is that you bring me the Arkenstone. That is the promise of the King of Durin's Folk."