The journey, for the most part, was peaceful and livelier than expected. Miquella's songs were a catalyst for contrasting emotions within the group: as soon as they soothed, they also sparked conversation. They made it clear that they would not tolerate another song like the first, but that melodies like the second would always be welcome.
The group's mood—at least within what dwarves considered harmony, with their shouting, boisterous laughter, and constant arguments—was noticeably warmer.
Now, however, they approached a less comforting area. They were about to skirt the northern edge of the Barrow-downs, the ancient burial grounds of the Dúnedain of Arnor.
The Eldens had already crossed that region once, on their first journey to Hobbiton, but back then they had passed through quickly, focused on their goal. This time was different. From afar, they could see movement: figures slipping stealthily into the low mist.
"They're Dúnedain," observed Gandalf, frowning, clearly intrigued. "Looks like a scouting party..."
The wizard was already about to head toward them, but Thorin stopped him with a firm hand.
"Whatever they're doing is not our concern. We have our own mission."
Gandalf hesitated. He felt something was amiss. The Dúnedain did not mobilize without reason, much less in a place like this. But he also knew the mission east, to Erebor, could not be delayed. The dragon was still a threat.
Behind them, Ansbach approached Miquella, lowering his voice:
"The last time we passed through that area, we went back in briefly. The stench of death was stronger than ever. The barrow-wights tried to set a trap for us, but since we didn't go too deep, they couldn't reach us. The problem is their numbers. We don't have enough strength yet to face them openly. We can't confirm that a black root has grown there, but if it has… reaching it will be almost impossible. Unless we find a way to burn everything."
Miquella frowned. For some reason, the mere existence of the undead disturbed him more than usual.
"We have to deal with that," he said firmly. "Do you think we could return after finishing our mission? Or will things get too bad?"
"If a black root hasn't sprouted yet… it shouldn't be a big problem," Ansbach replied, folding his arms. "The number and power of the dead are tied to the root's growth, and it doesn't spread quickly. If we come back soon, we could take care of it… though wights are always a danger."
Miquella cast his gaze toward the distant fog.
"And if a root has already been growing there for who knows how long?"
Ansbach paused, his face tense.
"Then… unless we recover all our strength, we'll need help. A lot of help."
"Forgive me for interrupting," said Gandalf, who had drawn near, having overheard part of the conversation. "But when you speak of the black root… do you mean this?"
Carefully, the wizard unwrapped a cloth from his robes. Inside, bundled as though it carried a curse, lay what seemed to be a thick, rotting twig, twisted like a dry claw. A faint but unpleasant stench escaped it.
"Yes…" Miquella nodded when he saw it. "That's it. The cause of the dead rising in these lands."
"I found it on the outskirts of Eregion," Gandalf explained, looking at the branch with regret. "A small family home. They all fell ill. They died. But they did not rest. I felt the power of this plant… corrupting the natural balance. I destroyed it, but kept this fragment to show certain acquaintances. We tried to learn more."
Thorin, who had observed in silence, frowned.
"What's so special about that plant?" he asked. The others' expressions toward it had not escaped him.
"The black root," Miquella explained, "carries a deep corruption. Wherever it grows, the bodies of the dead rise. Not as spirits, but as walking corpses. They have no will, no peace. And they are not… exactly kind."
"And have they appeared in dwarven lands?" asked Thorin, now more concerned. Miquella's tone did not seem alarmist: it was simply the truth.
"We found and destroyed several in the Shire," added the demigod. "And from what Gandalf says, they've appeared in other regions of Eriador. This isn't an isolated case."
Thorin fell silent, pensive. A root that could raise the dead was no minor threat. He strained to remember if he had ever heard of such a thing.
"I fear the situation is more complicated than it seems," Gandalf said, lighting his pipe with a thoughtful gesture. "For some time I've heard rumors of restless dead, but they came from far to the east, so distant I couldn't investigate properly. Now it seems the same evil is spreading here."
"If that's the case, perhaps we should investigate that region in the future," Miquella said, frowning. "These undead remind me too much of those from our land… but here their existence makes no sense."
He struggled to understand how, in a world where souls were ruled by Mandos, such beings could exist, so contrary to the natural order. Those who "lived in death" should have no place here.
"When this journey is over, if you decide to venture into the barrows, you may count on my help," Gandalf offered solemnly, extending his hand. The Barrow-wights, ancient servants of Sauron, had corrupted those lands for far too long. If there was a real chance to eradicate them, he wanted to be there. And he was beginning to believe the Eldens were allies Middle-earth needed.
"We'll keep that in mind," Miquella replied, clasping the wizard's hand briefly. "But that will be for later. Right now, we have a dragon to face. What we can do already… is warn others. Spread word of the black root. The more people are prepared, the better."
The conversation did not go much further, though hobbits and dwarves continued asking questions. Balin and Glóin spoke of sending messages to the dwarven settlements. The danger of the black roots—they now knew—could appear anywhere, at any time.
What they did not know was that, by their nature, both dwarves and elves were among the least vulnerable races: the black root took longer to corrupt their bodies after death. Unlike humans, hobbits, and orcs, who were more prone to fall under its sway.
Soon they left the Barrow-downs behind. The road to Bree was short, and a stop there would be more than welcome. The conversations began to drift away from the dark future they had discussed, to lighter, though no less spirited, topics.
Bilbo Baggins, still trying to process everything he had experienced, could not stop looking around. To him, every tree, every rock, every story he heard, was a wonder. It was his first real time outside his homeland, and for the first time it was not a dream, but real life. Gandalf, the dwarves, the mysterious Eldens… everything fascinated him, everything he wanted to learn. And, if he was lucky, one day write about in a book.
In one of those moments of apparent lightness, he drew his pony alongside Balin—whom he considered one of the kindest and most approachable of the group—and whispered curiously:
"And… er… why do they always wear masks?" he asked, referring to the two dwarves who never removed them.
Bilbo tried to be discreet. He imagined it might be a delicate matter and didn't want to seem nosy. But, unfortunately, just as he asked, an odd silence fell. No one spoke. No song resounded. And everyone—without exception—heard the hobbit's question with crystal clarity.
The small one froze, still leaning from his mount toward Balin, with all eyes of the group on him. And on the two masked dwarves.
Balin let out a weak, somewhat nervous laugh.
"Oh, it's just… a matter of aesthetics, nothing more," he replied, trying to downplay it.
But the damage was done.
Thorin snorted in annoyance. None of the other dwarves said a word. In fact, most averted their gaze, as if by doing so they could avoid being involved or pretend the question had never been asked.
The two masked dwarves looked at Bilbo for a second… then at the Eldens, who also watched in silence. Finally, they lowered their heads, when they noticed Thorin glaring at them from behind.
The tension lingered a few moments longer, heavy in the air. Bilbo, uncomfortable, could only mutter a weak "sorry" before turning his gaze back to the road, not daring to say another word for quite some time.
"They wear masks to hide the shame of our dwarven race," declared Thorin from the front, without turning his head.
A heavy silence fell over the group. Several dwarves lowered their gaze in sorrow. Even the roughest seemed affected by their leader's words. The masked pair gripped their reins tighter, their heads bowing further. Gandalf let out a faint sigh, as though already accustomed to the inflexible nature of the prince of Erebor.
"Is it because they're women?" asked Miquella then from the side, with little tact… but entirely intentional.
He knew his words might be controversial, but he also knew what he sought: answers. That pair of dwarves did not appear in the story he knew. Their very presence was an anomaly, a clue that this world did not follow the same paths as the tale he had in mind. And if he had learned anything by now, it was that unexpected details could make great differences.
"They're women?" repeated Bilbo, surprised. He would never have guessed. There had been no clear signs, no gestures, no different voices. And since they barely spoke to anyone, it was nearly impossible to notice anything unusual.
"Yes," Miquella replied bluntly. "Freya told me a few days ago… when she saw them urinate."
The comment, delivered without any filter, fell like a stone into a pond. The atmosphere, already tense, became extremely uncomfortable. All eyes immediately turned to the now "revealed" pair, who continued riding in silence, their faces hidden behind their masks. No one, except them, could see whether shame boiled within them at the exposure of their privacy.
"Well…" Balin tried to intervene, perhaps to ease the moment. But he had no chance.
"That's only one of their problems," Thorin cut in, with a mixture of frustration and anger.
He did not say it with contempt. Deep down, it was quite the opposite. The pair were his nieces: daughters of his sister, whom he loved deeply. But in dwarven tradition, women did not take part in military campaigns, unless the need was desperate. Seeing them here, on a mission that could very well be suicidal, turned his soul inside out.
If not for the fact that both appeared armed to the teeth and aiming their swords at him, and for his sister's insistent pleas, he would never have allowed them to join the company. But now he could not go back. All that remained was to bear the shame… and the fear.
Fortunately—or not so much—his nieces knew how to disguise their gender well. Among dwarves, where even women often had thick beards, it was easy to go unnoticed. Other races couldn't even tell them apart clearly. But if someone observed closely… and if it was them… perhaps they might notice.
"They… carry the sins of their mother," Thorin added, hardening his expression as he sought to protect them… revealing the truth himself before others started to pry.
"Uncle Thorin…" the voice emerged soft, feminine, though still rough. It was Killian, letting fall the neutral tone she had used until now. There was no point hiding anymore.
"Silence!" Thorin thundered, turning slightly with contained fury. Though in truth, that fury was not against her… but perhaps against himself. "They…" he repeated, jaw clenched. "They were born beardless."
Balin closed his eyes, sighing sadly, though his expression was calmer than the others'. The rest of the dwarves could barely contain their discomfort. Some looked away, others pressed their lips tightly.
For a dwarf, the beard was sacred. A source of pride. A symbol of lineage, strength, and belonging. Dwarven women, like the men, were born with beards. It was part of their identity. For someone to be born without one… was seen as a curse. A flaw in the work of Mahal. Something as rare as it was painful.
"They have no beard?" asked Miquella, visibly confused. Not so much by the fact itself, but by the expression of utter pain that colored the dwarves' faces as they spoke of it, as if it were a personal tragedy.
"It was… a misfortune," Thorin replied gruffly, almost trembling. A faint wetness glistened in his eyes, which he tried to hide by looking away. "All the healers did what they could… we sought answers everywhere. We even called Gandalf to see them at birth, but…" His gaze turned to the wizard, with a shadow of reproach. "He couldn't do anything either."
"There was nothing to be done," Gandalf replied with resignation, rolling his eyes like someone who had had this conversation far too many times. "There was nothing wrong with them."
"How can you say that?" Thorin shouted, beside himself. "They have no beard!"
The wizard drew a deep breath, patient, and answered firmly:
"They were two healthy girls. Strong, even more than normal. And look at them now. They've grown well. They're brave, capable warriors, and they're no less than any of you."
"Tshhh…" Thorin growled, turning away, brow furrowed and heart ablaze with anger. "This is all their mother's fault… She's the one who ruined our heritage. She insisted they come with us." The anger in his voice grew harsher. "She took a man who destroyed our blood. SHE EVEN SHAVED HER BEARD!"
That last roar burst out with such force that several birds pecking in the grass took flight, startled, fleeing the dwarf's outcry.
Thorin breathed heavily, struggling to regain composure. But the matter of his sister was a wound poorly healed. He had argued with her for years, begging, ordering, even threatening her with exile. But she never yielded. And now, her daughters were here, on a dangerous mission, armed to the teeth. Extraordinary warriors, yes… but bearers of an impossible-to-ignore shame.
No one said anything more. Silence gripped the group. Even Bilbo, who still did not fully understand the gravity of the matter from a non-dwarven perspective, chose to keep quiet, regretting having been the one to spark the conversation.
Gandalf shook his head. Yet he could not ignore that Killian and Fillian's case was exceptional. An anomaly.
The dwarves had been created by Aulë, the smith of the Valar. Their lineage, strong and closed, had always shown an almost mystical resistance to corruption and mixing. Unlike men or elves, dwarves did not interbreed with other races. Their heritage was as unbreakable as their mountains.
But Killian and Fillian defied that rule. Their existence not only broke a social tradition: it broke a law of creation.
Gandalf had longed to meet the one who had broken that restriction, but fate never let him find that person, nor even unravel his story. Everyone seemed to remember him with vague imprecision, like a fading dream. Only the dwarven princess Dís retained a trace of clarity about him, but when approached, her face sank into deep melancholy, and her lips remained sealed.
Had there truly been a mingling of bloodlines? A rupture of the isolation imposed by Aulë? What did it mean?
The Eldens did not pay much attention to the matter… or so it seemed. Only two of them were especially attentive.
Leda, who, upon learning that the two dwarves were women, felt an uncomfortable knot in her chest. She feared her lord might take an interest in them, and she already imagined awkward situations that, out of pride or duty, she would have to endure.
And Miquella… who watched with growing curiosity. This deviation from the original tale unsettled him. Would Killian and Fillian share the fate of Fíli and Kíli as he knew from the hobbit's story? Or would this world, altered by his and his companions' presence, branch off in a completely new direction?
One way or another, the conversation was over. No one wished to reopen it. The journey continued, not in total silence, but with a different air. The mood, like the ponies' hooves upon the earth, was still heavy with tension.
Fortunately, it wasn't long before they reached Bree.
There they could rest, eat well, and recover their strength...