"There's good news," Eric began. "I had a bit of a contest with the Balrog. It was tough, a few buildings might have… collapsed, but the good part is he didn't gain the upper hand."
"And the bad news?" Thorin asked evenly.
"Well," Eric said after a pause, "we may have done it in your old home."
Thorin blinked once, then gave a weary chuckle. "Wonderful. That means when we reclaim Moria someday, we won't have to worry about being bored for a long time."
He said it so calmly that Eric wasn't sure whether to laugh or apologize.
"Don't worry about the small details," Eric replied, patting his shoulder. "At least it's still mostly standing. And come on, you've got me."
"You're right," Thorin said quietly. His tone was calm, but his expression grew more somber instead of relieved.
"What's wrong? Don't tell me you don't believe in me."
"It's not that." Thorin shook his head. "With your help, nothing seems impossible. But…" He hesitated, his eyes distant. "The Balrog is still there. Moria's reclamation will take time—and luck—and I'm not sure we have enough of either."
He sighed deeply. "Balin has spoken of it often. He's been preparing for years, waiting until our kin return and our weapons are forged anew. Then he intends to lead a company to reclaim Khazad-dûm. Truth be told, it's my dream as well."
He looked toward the distant mountains. "We dwarves have lived too long in exile. First Moria, then the Grey Mountains, and finally Erebor. Every home we built was taken by something stronger than ourselves—cold-drakes, Smaug, and now a creature of fire and shadow."
"We've never stopped fighting," he went on bitterly. "But our enemies… they're the kind that make legends sound like mercy."
Eric said nothing. He understood well enough.
The dwarves really had the worst luck in Middle-earth. Dig too deep, and a Balrog shows up. Stay above ground, and dragons sniff out your gold. Even the orcs come crawling out of holes by the thousands, just to make things worse.
"Still," Eric said, forcing a smile, "things are looking up now, aren't they?"
"Yes," Thorin said after a pause. "They are."
"Good. Oh, and by the way…" Eric added with a knowing grin, "you might want to thank the elves next time you see them."
Thorin froze. "The elves?"
"Yes. The Balrog didn't retreat on its own. The Lady Galadriel herself led an army from Lothlórien to drive it back into the depths. Without her, we'd both be charcoal."
Thorin blinked again, his jaw tightening. "The one they call the Enchantress—" He stopped himself mid-sentence. "I mean, the Lady of the Golden Wood?"
Eric nodded. "The very same."
"I see." Thorin's brows furrowed. "Then I owe her my thanks… and nothing more. I will not be indebted to them."
"That's fair enough." Eric smiled.
The matter was settled, at least for now.
The next day, a grand ceremony was held in Erebor. From the high balcony, Thorin Oakenshield addressed his people, declaring the glorious return of the Axe of Durin. The dwarves cheered until the mountain trembled.
The tale that followed spread even faster. Songs were sung about Eric's battle beneath Moria's halls, how he fought the Balrog for days and nights until the very gates were destroyed. The story grew wilder with each retelling, of course—by the time it reached the taverns, Eric had apparently fought with "ten blazing swords and a dragon's roar."
Even the elves' part in the tale was grudgingly mentioned, though only in passing, as if it physically pained the storytellers to admit.
"Well, we'll give them that one," a dwarf grumbled over his ale.
"Hah, if we lived closer, the elves wouldn't have had the chance to steal our glory," another said.
"I heard that lady's quite beautiful," a third added thoughtfully. "Probably has a magnificent beard."
"But… elves don't have beards," his friend said, frowning.
The first dwarf shrugged. "Maybe she's just special."
Whatever the jest, the fact remained: relations between dwarves and elves had, for once, improved slightly.
And soon, a new title began spreading through the halls of Erebor.
The Bane of the Balrog.
A title given to one who had fought the creature of fire and shadow and lived to tell the tale.
The name of that man—Eric—was spoken with awe in every dwarven hall.
But elsewhere in Middle-earth, that same name became a curse.
A figure cloaked in black rode from Mordor. He was tall and broad, his armor as dark as obsidian, his helm jagged like a crown of thorns. His steed was monstrous, skeletal, with fire glowing faintly in its skull-like eyes.
To the untrained eye, he might have seemed a Nazgûl. But he was something older and far more dangerous.
"I bring greetings from the Mouth of Sauron, lieutenant of Barad-dûr," the figure announced days later, standing before a chasm deep in Moria. The oppressive heat did not seem to bother him at all.
From the darkness came a low growl that rattled the stone.
"I don't like the color of your armor," the Balrog rumbled.
"My apologies," the dark man replied smoothly. "Next time we meet, I'll wear something more… agreeable."
"What do you want?"
"My master believes we share a common enemy," the man said, his voice echoing. "A human. The one who dared wound you."
The ground shook as a wave of heat erupted outward. Even the enchanted metal of his armor began to hiss.
"So what of it?" the Balrog hissed, flames spilling from its maw.
The Mouth of Sauron drew forth a parchment bound in spell-woven leather, the edges glimmering faintly against the heat.
"My master has learned of something buried deep in the world's roots," he said. "Creatures like you—other fire spirits, sleeping since the dawn of time."
He unrolled the parchment with care. "This script tells how to awaken them. But it will require… your cooperation."
What bargain they struck in that infernal pit, no one ever learned.
But one thing was certain: the Mouth of Sauron returned to Mordor with a small box glowing faintly from within—containing a single living flame.
Soon after, orcs began to move again. Bands left Mordor and settled near Moria's depths, led by a new warlord whose name no one dared speak.
The change went unnoticed. Even the vigilant elves of Lothlórien failed to sense the growing darkness beneath the mountains. The riders of Mordor moved like shadows, hidden by some foul magic.
Except for one man.
"What in the name of the Valar is that?"
A ranger crouched behind a tree north of Minas Tirith, near the borders of the Dead Marshes. His sharp eyes tracked a black-robed rider and his flaming mount crossing the fields.
"That armor… the skull-like helm… could it be the Mouth of Sauron?"
He pulled down his hood, revealing a rugged face framed by weathered hair.
"Strange," he muttered. "I've only been gone two years. How much could have changed in two years?"
After the rider vanished into the mist, the ranger—Farodan—stepped from hiding, tightened his cloak, and turned toward the Misty Mountains.
"It's time I paid that wandering wizard a visit," he murmured. "I wonder how he's been."
Author's Note:
The number of Balrogs has always been a matter of debate. Tolkien kept changing his mind about it—he was, after all, a master of rewriting his own lore.
There's even a story that a fan once wrote to him pointing out inconsistencies, and Tolkien allegedly replied, "Mind your own business."
So yes, the numbers changed constantly. Some drafts say hundreds, others say only three or four survived.
For this story, we'll go with The Silmarillion's version:
"The Balrogs were destroyed, save for a few who fled and hid themselves in the deep places of the earth."
So, somewhere deep in Middle-earth, there might still be others sleeping in the dark—just waiting for someone foolish enough to dig too deep.