If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit

by Soledad Author’s notes:

I know, I originally promised a 99 per cent bookverse story (save for Bifur’s gender). And this is still a bookverse story… well, mostly. There were some lines of dialogue in the first “Hobbit” film, though, that were simply too good to ignore, so they made it into this chapter. Some other lines have been rewritten from the “Unfinished Tales” or from earlier drafts of “The Hobbit”, to serve the purpose of this story.

The same is true for the Dwarves themselves – especially Balin, Bifur, Dori, Ori and Nori are very different from their film counterparts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter 11 – Dark For Dark Business

Some time later the Dwarves were sitting in the parlour again, around the long table, with Thorin at the head, eating the remainder of the meal with relish. To Balin’s persistent questions he finally told them that he had met with a band of travelling StiffBeard pony-breeders, coming from the East, who could give him more details about the Road; nothing else and nothing truly important.

For a while they were discussing possible routes and the dangers that might be lurking along the Road. Their host was listening with a curious mix of horror and fascination. He might have been upset by the horde of Dwarves invading his home, but his curiosity was clearly piqued… more so than the average Hobbit might have reacted.

“You are going on a quest?” he asked; which was probably the only thing he had understood from the conversation.

Thorin gave him a jaundiced look.

“Oh aye,” he grumbled. “Before the break of day, we shall start on a long journey; a journey from which some of us may never return. Perchance we all shall be lost in the end. Nonetheless, we must go to fulfil our curses on the Beast.”

He looked at the Hobbit intently, who blinked in confusion. “What beast?”

“Well, that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, the chiefest and greatest calamity of our Age,” explained Bofur helpfully. “The last of the winged Worms, as far as one can tell; and a fire breather, too. Has fangs like razors, claws like meat hooks. Extremely fond of precious metals, above all else of gold.”

The Hobbit rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Yes, I know what a dragon is, thank you very much.”

“Do you?” asked Thorin in a low voice. “Have you ever seen one of the fire-drakes descend upon a clueless, defenceless town, breathing fire hot enough for the bells to melt in the bell-tower in no time? Have you ever smelt the terrible stank of burning flesh, heard the roaring of the pines on the mountainside as they blazed with light like torches? Nay? Then do not say that you know what a dragon is.”

He turned to the wizard and added in a tone full of contempt. “I do not understand why you have brought us here, Tharkûn. This Hobbit is soft. Soft as the mud of his Shire, and silly. His mother died too soon, I presume; before she could shape him properly. You are playing some crooked game of your own, Master Wizard. I am sure that you have other purposes than helping us.”

The look the wizard gave him was decidedly less than friendly.

“You are quite right,” he said. “If I had no other purposes, I should not be helping you at all. Great as your affairs may seem to you, they are but a small strand in the great web. I am concerned with many strands. But that should make my advice more weighty, not less.”

“Who knows,” said Thorin snappishly. “So many concerns may have disordered your wits.”

Bifur winced, expecting a rather… temperamental reaction from the wizard. The haughtiness of Durin’s Line truly went beyond reason sometimes, and Tharkûn was not known to suffer fools gladly. Fortunately, at the moment he seemed more weary than angry and simply shrugged.

“There have certainly been enough of them to do so,” he said. “And among them I find most exasperating a stiff-necked Dwarf – one way too proud for his own good, I would say – who seeks advice from me, without any claim on me that I know of, and then rewards me with insolence. Go your own way, Thorin Oakenshield if you will, but hearken to my warning: if you flout my advice, you will walk to disaster. And you shall get neither counsel nor aid from me again until the Shadow falls on you. Curb your pride and your greed, or you shall fall at the end of whatever paths you take – even if your hands be full of gold.”

Thorin blanched a little at that; but his eyes smouldered.

“Do not threaten me!” he said. “I will use my own judgement in this matter, as in all that concerns me.”

The wizard shrugged again, clearly fed up with all that Dwarven pride and stubbornness.

“Do as you wish, then,” he replied tiredly. “I can say no more – unless it is this: I do not give my love or trust lightly; but I am fond of this Hobbit and wish him only the best. Treat him well, and you shall have my friendship to the end of your days.”

Thirteen pairs of deep-set Dwarven eyes turned to their furiously blushing host with renewed interest. The wizard might have been grasping for straws, yet he could not have come up with a better argument to persuade them. Dwarves understood devotion to friends and gratitude to those who helped them – perhaps better than any other race, as such people were rare.

Just as deeply as they were capable of holding grudges against those who refused to help them in need, which was a soberingly long list.

And thus Thorin, after a long silence, finally gave in.

“Very well,” he said with obvious reluctance. “He shall set out with our company if he dares – which I doubt. But if you insist on burdening me with him, you must come to look after him.”

The wizard rolled his eyes. “I have already promised to go with you, have I not? At least for the first leg of your journey. Not to the end, though. I have an urgent matter on my hands in Rivendell, and further plans will depend on the outcome of my business there.”

“But how are we supposed to get into the Mountain without you?” protested Balin. “You forget that the front gate is sealed; and there is no other way in.”

But the wizard just smiled into his beard contentedly.

“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true,” he said and produced, from somewhere within the folds of his heavy grey robe, a large, ornate silver key, which he handed to Thorin, and a visibly old and battered scroll that could only be a map.

The key was clearly Dwarf-made and big enough to have been used for a large door or a gate. Also, Thorin clearly recognised it – or at least the design of it – for he glared at Tharkûn in suspicion.

“How came you by this?”

“By chance,” replied the wizard. “By pure chance; although it begins now to look less like a chance that had put both key and map in my hands ninety-nine years ago, when I entered Dol Guldur in disguise.”

Bifur shuddered involuntarily and so did the other Dwarves, including Thorin. The old, abandoned tower of the Dark Lord had always had a bad reputation, and the rumours of a Necromancer now housing within its crumbling walls were enough for any sane person to make as wide a detour around it as it was possible.

“What were you doing there?” asked Thorin, but the wizard shrugged off his question.

“Never mind that. It was unpleasant and dangerous business as always; and it is of no importance to you right now. What is important for you, though, is that I found there an unhappy old Dwarf, dying in the pits. At that time I had no idea who he was. But he had a map that had belonged to Durin’s Folk, and a key that seemed to go with it – the very key I have just given you, Thorin – though he was too far gone to explain their significance.”

Balin and Dwalin exchanged looks of grim understanding.

“You mean he had lost his mind?” asked Balin, and the wizard nodded.

“I fear he had. He told me that he had once possessed a Great Ring. Nearly all his ravings were of that. The last of the Seven, he said over and over again… but there was no ring on his person; and as for the key and the map, he might have come by them in many ways. He might have been a messenger, caught as he fled the Mountain many years ago. Or even a thief trapped by a greater thief.”

“Nay, he was not!” growled Dwalin, but he refused to say more. Nonetheless, every Dwarf present had guessed the true identity of the unhappy prisoner by now. Even Bifur and her cousins, who were not of Durin’s Folk.

“In any case,” continued the wizard, “he gave me the map and the key. For my son, he said; and then he died, and soon afterwards I escaped myself. I stowed the things away, and by some warning of my heart I kept them always with me; safe, but soon almost forgotten. I had other business in Dol Guldur, as I have already mentioned; more important and perilous than all the treasure of Erebor.”

“Tell me, Master Gandalf,” said Balin softly. “Was that unfortunate prisoner of yours missing an eye?”

“As a matter of fact, he was,” answered the wizard.

“In that case it seems that you heard the last words of Thráin the Second,” said Balin sadly, “King of the exiles of Erebor. My brother and I, with a few other chosen warriors, had accompanied him on his final, failed attempt to find a way back into the Mountain. At that time we did not understand how he would attempt to do it; for he never showed us either the key or the map.”

“But did he wear his Ring on this last journey of his?” asked the wizard, suddenly appearing more concerned than such a simple question would have justified.

Balin nodded. “Not openly, of course; that would have been foolish. But aye, he wore it on a sturdy chain around his neck,” he sighed in defeat. “It was taken off him, then; and with it the ancient symbol of the might of Durin’s House.”

“Be not so sure that is was not rather the curse of Durin’s House,” said the wizard grimly. “Or has not the Dark Lord pursued the Kings of Durin’s Line relentlessly ever since Durin the Third received the greatest of the Seven Rings from the Elves of Eregion, back in the Second Age? But that is neither here nor there at the moment. Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have some more light, so that we can take a look at this map.”

The Hobbit hurried to fetch a big oil lamp with a red shade, in the light of which the wizard spread the parchment map on the table. It showed the Mountain and the surrounding country, and the Dwarves grunted in excitement. Especially Balin, their head scholar, who had lived in Erebor in his youth and Ori, who not only was a calligrapher and a scholar in his own right but also capable of drawing beautiful maps himself.

“This map was drawn for your grandfather, Thór, when he ruled as the last King Under the Mountain,” explained the wizard to Thorin who gave the map a disappointed look.

“I doubt that it would do us any good,” he said. “I remember well enough the Mountain and its surrounding; and I know where Mirkwood is; and far beyond it to the North is the Withered Heath, where the Great Dragons once bred.”

“There is a picture of a dragon in red on the Mountain,” added Balin. “But it will be easy enough to find, even without a marking – if we ever reach our destination.”

“There is one point that you have not noticed,” said the wizard, “and that is the secret entrance. You see that rune on the East side and the hand pointing from it to the runes below? That marks the old secret entrance to the Lower Halls.”

“Oh, but that is wonderful,” commented young Kíli, an ear-to-ear grin blossoming across his handsome face. “If there is a key, there must be a door.”

“There is another way in!” Fíli realised, his expression full of awe. “A secret passage, leading straight to the Lower Halls.”

Thorin shook his head. “It may have been secret once,” he said, “but I very much doubt that it still is. That murderous Worm has lived there long enough now to find out anything there is to know about the halls of our forefathers.”

“Perhaps so,” allowed the wizard, “but he cannot have used it for many, many years.”

“Why not?” asked Bifur quietly. Unlike the others, she did not see herself as somebody who knew much about dragons, but it had been her experience that evil usually found a way to get what it wanted.

“Because it is too small,” explained Ori, studying the runes. “Five feet high is the door and three abreast may enter it, say the runes, but Smaug could not creep into a hole that size. He could not have done so even when he was but a hatchling; and he certainly cannot do so now, after he had devoured so many of our people and those of Dale.”

“It seems a great big hole to me!” the Hobbit, whose presence they had all but forgotten, squeaked in excitement. “How could such an enormous door be kept secret?”

Bifur grinned into her fake beard. The secret door was indeed fairly small, compared with the huge monolithic gates of Dwarf cities (if Uruktharbun’s front gate was any indication), but theirs host was a Hobbit, called a Halfling by other races for a reason. In his eyes, the Mountain’s side entrance probably did appear quite large.

“Lots of ways,” replied the wizard absent-mindedly, “but which one of them we do not know without looking.”

“If we can find it,” said Balin. “Dwarf doors are invisible when closed; made to look exactly like the side of the mountains.”

The others nodded in agreement; none of them seemed very happy about it, though.

“The answer lies somewhere hidden in this map,” muttered Óin, “bit I do not have the skill to find it. If there is another hidden message here, it is not visible; either it is too well concealed, or a spell is needed to make it appear. Whatever the case may be, I cannot make it visible. What about you, Balin?”

The white-bearded Dwarf only shook his head with an unhappy grimace.

“Neither can I,” confessed the wizard. “But there are others in Middle-earth who might. Which is why I suggest passing through Rivendell on our way to the East. The greatest lore-masters of our Age dwell in that hospitable valley; they can help us with wisdom and supplies. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage. But if you're careful and clever I believe that it can be done.

“And that is why we need a burglar,” said Ori, pennies dropping.

“Unless you find yourself a mighty warrior or even a hero; one capable of slaying a dragon,” agreed the wizard. “I tried to find one. But warriors are busy fighting each other in distant lands, and in this neighbourhood heroes are scarce – or simply not to be found. Swords in these parts are mostly blunt, and axes are used for chopping firewood and shields for cradles or dish-covers, and dragons are comfortably far off and considered mere legends. Thus burglary seemed indicated – especially when I finally remembered the side door.”

“You would need a very good burglar to sneak into a dragon’s cave, though,” said the Hobbit innocently. “An expert, I would imagine.”

“And are you one?” demanded Glóin, glaring at the poor little creature from the tangled russet jungle that was his beard.

“Am I what?” asked the Hobbit, completely bewildered.

Óin tilted his lion-like head to the side and looked him over, from curly head to hairy toes.

“He does not seem an expert to me,” he judged. “He does not even have the tattoo of the Thieves Guild on his wrist.”

“Of course I don’t!” the Hobbit was clearly offended. “I'm not a burglar. I've never stolen a thing in my life, and I don’t intend to do so any time in the future, thank you very much!”

Suddenly the parlour became eerily silent. The Dwarves were shocked. Certainly, Tharkûn had told them that the Hobbit would not be easily persuaded to join their Quest, but they had not expected him to be completely inexperienced, either. It seemed near impossible to talk him into leaving the comfort of his home – and why should he? As Hobbit-holes go, the smial was spacious and luxurious, filled with good food (what was left of it after the invasion of the Dwarves) and things of simple, practical beauty, surrounded by extensive, well-tended gardens.

Why would he want to leave all this behind and run off with a bunch of Dwarves he had never seen before, on a mad adventure from which he might never return?

“I'm afraid I have to agree with mister Baggins,” Balin said philosophically. “He's hardly burglar material.”

Dwalin nodded in grave agreement

“Aye, the wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves,” he growled.

Bifur stole another glance at their host who did not seem insulted by Dwalin’s words the least. In fact, he was nodding in agreement, clearly happy to be left out of the whole undertaking. Tharkûn, on the other hand, was visibly growing angry as the Dwarves kept arguing. He rose to his full height (nearly hitting his head in the ceiling which, admittedly, took off some of the edge of his obvious wrath), and spoke in a voice so powerful that the others shut up in surprise.

“Enough,” he thundered. “If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is.”

The Hobbit opened his mouth to protest, but the wizard gave him a quelling look, so he closed it again, looking quite uncomfortable. Tharkûn calmed down, going back to his normal, grandfatherly self; he even seemed to shrink somehow, fitting into his surrounding with no noticeable effort.

“As I’ve already explained you when this whole business started, Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet,” he continued with forced patience. “In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the Dragon would smell a Dwarf from miles, he likely never encountered a Hobbit, which gives as a distinct advantage. I promised to find you a burglar, and I've chosen mister Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know – including himself. You must trust me on this.”

All eyes turned to their host again, full of doubt, for he looked not the least suited for a dangerous undertaking like theirs. To be honest, Bilbo seemed every bit as doubtful as the rest of them. But after a moment of consideration Thorin sighed and gave in.

“Very well,” he said reluctantly, ignoring the Hobbit’s protests. “We'll do it your way… for now. Give him the contract,” he ordered, and Ori handed the still protesting Bilbo a long contract… with several extensions.

“It's just the usual summary about the pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so forth,” explained the scribe to the visibly shocked Hobbit.

“Funeral arrangements?” echoed Bilbo, eyes bulging.

As he stepped back a few feet, closer to the lamp, to read the rest of the contract – Hobbits being every bit as meticulous in such things as Dwarves – Thorin have Tharkûn a cold glare.

“I cannot guarantee his safety,” he said in a low whisper.

The wizard nodded. “Understood.”

There were no guarantees, and they both knew that.

“Nor will I be responsible for his fate,” continued Thorin.

Tharkûn glanced over to Bifur and she gave him a slight nod, signalling her willingness to step in if necessary.

“Agreed,” said the wizard, more to Bifur than to Thorin.

In the meantime Bilbo was reading parts of the contract out loud, clearly finding the terms fair enough – until he reached the part in which the Company refused liability for “injuries sustained by various means”, all of them extremely unpleasant but not unexpected when one was about to face a dragon.

“Incineration?” he repeated, doing his best not to panic – and failing.

“Oh, aye,” said Bofur cheerfully. He always had a somewhat macabre sense of humour, which proved as a great moral boast among fellow Wanderer Dwarves on the Road but failed miserably to cheer up a frightened Hobbit, it seemed. “He'll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye.”

“Huh?” Bilbo looked a little breathless. In fact, he was getting literally green around the gills and Bifur stepped closer to him, worried that he might keep over.

“Are you all right, Mr Baggins?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah,” the Hobbit bent over, nauseous and pained. “I feel a bit faint.”

“Think furnace with wings,” Bofur was still going on cheerfully and Bifur wished he were close enough for her to elbow him in the ribs. Did the idiot not see that he was frightening the Hobbit out of his mind?”

“Itkit! (Shut up!)” she hissed in Khuzdul, but Bofur was in fine form today and couldn’t be stopped. Perhaps it was all the beer they had drunk – Bilbo’s beer, the poor Hobbit’s, who just announced his need for air.

“Flash of light, searing pain then poof! You're nothing more than a pile of ash,” finished Bofur with flourish.

Which was blatantly untrue, of course. Being killed by dragonfire was anything but quick and clean, as quite a few of the survivors of Smaug’s attack on the Mountain could prove; Lofar, for one. Bifur chose not to correct her irrepressible cousin, though. She was more concerned about Bilbo, who was breathing heavily, trying to compose himself as the others stared at him.

“Hmmm. Nope,” the Hobbit finally said, just before falling on the floor in a faint like some wooden doll.

Tharkûn gave Bofur a withering glare. “Ah, very helpful, Bofur.”

Bofur just shrugged. He ought to know better – he did, in fact – but sometimes he just couldn’t stop himself action out a stupid joke. Bifur felt the need to interfere before the wizard’s wrath might be unleashed; Tharkûn was very fond of this particular hobbit, after all.

“I believe we should give Mr Baggins a moment to recover,” she said quietly. “Tharkûn, is there a room where he could rest a bit?”

“The front parlour would do it, I think,” replied the wizard. “It’s been built with Big People in mind, as Hobbits would say. I shall stay with him and talk to him.”

“Show me the way,” Bifur lifted their host from the floor – he was heavier than he looked but still didn’t seem to weigh more than a Dwarfling before his last growth spurt – and followed Tharkûn to a relatively large room that was still warm and cosy.

It had a shiny wooden floor, a large, round, wood-framed window, the stained glass facets of which broke the sunlight down into a veritable rainbow of colours at daytime, with earth brown and ochre patterned curtains that swept the floor. A low, wide sofa stood right under the window, colourful pillows scattered across its surface, and next to it a large, overstuffed chair, clearly made for a grown Man and such well-suited for Tharkûn.

Bifur carefully settled their host on the sofa, then placed a mug of beer on the beautifully carved bedside table on his right and retreated to the shadows. Balin, equally concerned about their host, had followed them down the corridor, and so did Thorin himself, waiting for the Hobbit to regain consciousness… even though Thorin’s motivation was probably born more of annoyance than of concern. They remained outside the parlour to give the wizard some privacy.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It took Bilbo a few moments to stir, but in the end stir he did, sitting up and reaching for the beer mug almost instinctively.

“I'll be all right,” he told the wizard. “Just let me sit quietly for a moment.”

“You've been sitting quietly for far too long,” replied Tharkûn accusingly. “Tell me, when did doilies and your mother's dishes become so important to you? More important than to your mother, I may add. I remember a young Hobbit who was always running off in search of Elves in the woods. He'd stay out late, come home after dark, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies, telling his mother about his adventures most excitedly. A young Hobbit who would've liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire. The world is not in your books or maps. It's out there.”

Bilbo stared at him with the righteous annoyance of a born scholar whose research had just been insulted.

“I can't just go running off into the blue,” he protested. “I'm a Baggins of Bag-End. The Baggins, to be more accurate.”

What on earth does that mean?” Thorin looked at Balin askance.

The scholarly old Dwarf shrugged. “I have no idea. Perhaps some kind of family obligation?”

Which would have made the Hobbit’s reluctance understandable. One who had the responsibility for the extended family couldn’t just shake it off and leave at a whim.

“You are also a Took,” the wizard was continuing the argument in the meantime. Did you know that your great-great-great-great uncle Bullroarer Took was so large he could ride a real horse?”

“Yes, I did,” the Hobbit rolled his eyes. “That’s a family legend, Gandalf. A legend of my family. I grew up with it, you know.”

That stopped Tharkûn for a moment – but only for a moment.

“Well, he could,” he pressed on. “At the battle of Greenfields he charged the goblin ranks, and…”

“As I said, I know the story,” Bilbo interrupted. “I do believe half of it is simply made up, to tell the truth.”

“Well, all good stories deserve embellishment,” replied the wizard, without as much as a pause. “You'll have a tale or two to tell of your own when you come back.“

Bilbo gave him that queer look Hobbits sometimes had when they felt they were being cheated. The look that revealed that they were thinking at least two step ahead of the other person.

“Can you promise that I will come back?” he asked softly, but there was an edge in his voice few people would have expected from a Hobbit.

“No,” answered Tharkûn after a seemingly endless moment. “And if you do, you'll not be the same.”

Bilbo nodded. “That's what I thought. Sorry, Gandalf. I can't sign this. You've got the wrong Hobbit.”

With that, he stood and walked down the hall towards his bedroom, pretending not to notice the eavesdropping Dwarves. Tharkûn sighed in disappointment; and so did Balin.

“It appears we have lost our burglar,” he said.

“Probably for the best,” replied Bifur; she never for a moment believed that they had a chance against the Dragon. She only came to watch over Bombur. “The odds were always against us. After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toymakers. Hardly the stuff of legends. Present company excluded, of course,” she added with a respectful nod in Thorin’s direction, who bristled at the description of his chosen Company.

“There are a few warriors amongst us,” he declared.

“Old warriors,” said Balin softly.

“And spoiled young brats, not yet blooded in battle,” added Bifur. She didn’t see why old warriors would be a problem. After all, Dwarves go tougher the older they were; and their best warriors were the oldest ones.

Thorin shook his head. “I will take each and every one of these Dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills. For when I called upon them, they answered. Loyalty, honour, a willing heart. I can't ask for more than that.”

“You don't have to do this,” argued Balin. “You have a choice. You've done honourably by our people. You have built a new life for us in Uruktharbun. A life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold under the Lonely Mountain.”

Thorin pulled out the ornate key and held it in front of him. “From my grandfather to my father this has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the Dwarves of the Mountain would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me.”

Balin sighed and gave him a deep, formal bow; the one a nobly born Dwarf would give his sovereign. “Then we are with you, uzbad belkhul. We will see it done.M'imnu Durin.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“So what now?” asked Bifur as they were strolling back towards the living-room where the rest of the Company was gathered. “Are we staying for the night or do we return to the inn? It seems hardly fair to Mr Baggins to abuse his hospitality any longer; more so as he is clearly not joining the Quest.”

“Besides, we have already paid for the rooms in the Green Dragon,” commented Balin. “Glóin would hate to see all that coin wasted.”

“We shall stay for a last pipe,” decided Thorin, “and for a last drink of ale. Then we will return to the inn.”

Balin agreed with the suggestion and they joined the others in the Hobbit’s living room, where they were sitting in a loose circle, smoking their pipes by the fireplace. The room was dark and pleasantly warm, the shadows dancing on the firelight wall. It was the epitome of home as a Hobbit would see it – and it woke in the fiery depths of their Dwarven hearts the longing for a different home.

A home they once called their own; and soon they began humming the ancient song of that home. Resting his hand that held the pipe on the mantelpiece, Thorin was the first to begin singing in a deep, beautiful, somewhat rough voice that touched every single one of them in their deepest heart. One by one, they rose from their seats and joined him, the haunting melody filling the entire smial, while the sparks of the fireplace swarmed out through the chimney like fireflies.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold

to dungeons deep and caverns old

we must away 'ere break of day

to find the long forgotten gold

The pines were roaring on the height

the winds were moaning in the night

the fire was red it flaming spread

the trees like torches blazed with light

As they sang, Bifur wondered if the Hobbit was listening to them. If he would feel the love of beautiful things made by hands and by cunning and by magic moving through him; a fierce and jealous love, the desire of the hearts of Dwarves. If he might change his mind yet and join their Quest, after all.

Khuzdul stuff:

uzbad belkhul = mighty lord

M'imnu Durin = in Durin’s name