Nobody really knew what had happened to the inhabitants of Moria, but going by all the arrows stuck in various bodies, the weapons that were coated in dried blood and the Orc skeletons scattered amongst the Dwarven ones, it was safe to assume they hadn’t died of natural causes.

The farther they advanced into the mines, the less bodies they found.

The walls became smoother, turned from roughly-hewn rocks to obviously Dwarven-made corridors, caverns and halls.

There was no daylight, though, only the dim light from Gandalf’s staff, which meant that Robb had no idea how long they had already been in here. Hours, at least; it must have been the next day already.

Once, they entered a chamber full of ladders and ropes—a mine.
Gandalf ran his fingers along a silver gleaming line in the wall.

“The wealth of Moria was not in gold or jewels,” he murmured, “but mithril.”

Gandalf held his staff over the expansive drop beside them. A faint blue glow could be seen in the deep.

“Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings that Thorin gave him,” Gandalf said.

“Frodo’s uncle,” Pippin whispered to Robb. He nodded at Pippin in thanks, smiling.

“Oh, that was a kingly gift!” Gimli replied.

“Yes. I never told him, but its wealth is greater than the value of the Shire.” Gandalf winked at Frodo, whose eyes widened.

Gandalf drew his staff back from the abyss, and turned back to their path.
“But let us continue, for we do not know what lingers here.”

❄

While not as exhausted as the Hobbits, Robb, too, was slowly but surely running out of energy. The short nap he had caught outside of the entrance had barely alleviated his fatigue, and the everlasting darkness of the mines made his body want to sleep even more than was already the case.

When they finally stopped to rest, Robb fell asleep almost immediately. He didn’t necessarily want to dream about his and his family’s deaths again, but he had no choice. Robb knew he could not stay awake for days on end, not if he was to be of any use to his new companions. He had to grant his body every chance there was to replenish his strength, no matter how much his mind suffered for it.

Robb’s eyes flew open a few hours later, and he sat up. He lifted one hand to rest on his chest bone, feeling the frantic beating of his heart and relishing in it. He was alive, for better or for worse.

He sat up, the dull thumping of his pulse slowing, and tried to make out his surroundings. He thought he saw Grey Wind acting as a pillow for the Hobbits once again, and Aragorn leaning against the wall across from him, asleep as well.

A spark to his right caught Robb’s attention and in the momentary light, he thought he could see Gimli, lighting his pipe. The faint smell of smoke that followed soon after confirmed it.

Robb stood up, careful not to wake the others, and slowly made his way to where Gimli was sitting.

“I could take over,” Robb whispered, settling down next to the Dwarf, “if you want me to. I suspect I am awake for good.”

“It’s fine, laddie,” Gimli replied. “I only just started, and it would be a waste of good pipeweed to go back to sleep now.”

“Well, I wouldn't know.”

They fell into a companionable silence, occasionally broken by the rustling of clothes and soft snores of their companions. Once or twice, Robb thought he heard a hissing voice floating distantly through the halls, but when Gimli did not react, Robb discarded it as a product of his imagination. An echo of his nightmare, perhaps, strengthened by the perpetual darkness.

“Maybe you’ll sleep better once we are welcomed by my cousin, Balin, and you get a proper bed.”

Robb perked up, levelling a surprised look at Gimli. After a moment, he responded.

“I do not think that the uncomfortable sleeping place is my problem, Ser Gimli.”

“Aye, no, that’d be your death, I’d wager.”

Robb looked down at his fingers, knotted together and tense, and deliberately relaxed them. “Yes,” he said softly, “that would be it.”

Gimli grunted in what sounded like a sympathetic way. “Well, I can’t say I know how you feel—few would! But you need sleep, laddie, and I think we can all see it.”
Robb grimaced at the thought of how he must look—pale, waxy skin with dark eyebags, perhaps? Added to that his hair, probably greasy by now, his mother’s worst nightmare—

He forced himself to focus on a different part of Gimli’s statement.

“I think ‘few’ is an overstatement—” Robb forced a chuckle, tried to make it sound real and not as fake as it was and failing— “once you’re dead, usually, you stay that way.”

Gimli made a disagreeing noise, knocking his pipe against the floor to dislodge bits of ash, before answering, “You’d think so, aye, but the Elves have always been the ones to get the special treatment when it comes to death. Practically immortal, unable to die of old age or sickness—that’s par for the course for them. And if you think that’s not enough yet: they have heightened senses as well.”

Robb silently filed away that new information, astonished, but not too shocked—he had heard more surprising things since his death.

“But a few of them,” Gimli continued, “they’re special. I’m not sure if this is true or just old wives’ tales, but it's said that they can come back from the dead. They die, and then, a few years later, they’re back like nothing ever happened.”

Robb’s breath caught in his throat. He thought of Beren and Lúthien and of how there was always a kernel of truth in legends. Perhaps...he was not the only one, after all?

“Where did you hear that?”

Gimli shrugged. “Somewhere, I don’t know, lad. I can’t always cite my sources. But if you want to know more, I’d say you ask Aragorn. Or the Elves, I guess, whatever you prefer.”

“I will,” Robb said. “Thank you.”

He leaned his head back to rest against the wall.

If there were resurrected Elves in this world somewhere, then maybe… maybe they would understand. Understand the fear of dying, of your mind slipping away from your body, of knowing what was happening, hearing your family be slaughtered around you, but not being able to do anything—

Perhaps they too would have scars littering their body, telling the story of their death, have nightmares that kept them tired, always, and maybe they felt panic at the sight of their marred body, like he did. He thought he might find someone out there who had lost nigh on everything—everyone—and yearned to be with them again, no matter the price they would have to pay for it. Maybe there was someone else out there who couldn’t pay that price, because they had a task given to them by the gods, a task they had no choice but to fulfill.

Robb thought that maybe he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

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❄️
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bit of robb and gimli bonding time <3

votes and comments are always appreciated, i'd love to hear y'all's thoughts and ideas :D