Petty-dwarves
Posted: Thu Aug 15, 2013 8:59 pm
Hello there!
I found an old file while digging around on my computer. It's a story that explores how the Petty-dwarves have come to be. I originally wrote this for the Decipher RPG, but thought that my little back-story could be of equal interest for TOR. Maybe there're some Petty-dwarves in the Grey Mountains, or to the East?
Anyway, hope you enjoy this!
23. Narvinyë 1852 3.Z
It was miserably cold in the dark, dank cavern deep deep down beneath the earth. But strangest above all was the fact that it was entirely still. No noise whatsoever could be heard, not even the dripping of water, which surely must be there. The young prince shivered: “Why did you take me here, makar Lofar? There can’t be anything interesting down here. Any riches.” Deep silence. Then the makar’s voice encompassed the whole cavern, slow, sonorous, rumbling, like the tectonic plates moving even deeper down: “No, here is nothing. Nothing but your own wisdom.” A curt smile. “And mine, of course…”
Nain, twenty year old son and heir of Durin VI, King of Khazad-dûm and all the Longbeards, high overlord of all Dwarves, sixth incarnation of Durin the Deathless, let his bump fall unceremoniously upon a pile of loose stones. “Why do I still have to go through these lessons? I’m sorry old chap, but your stories don’t even interest me. You never tell me anything about gold, or wars, or the glories of my forefathers.” “You have others who do that most eagerly.” His old teacher sat carefully down beside him, but only after having taken up one of the stones and examining it closely. “That is one of the reasons I took you here. Learn to listen to your heart, young Nain.” “I do! And what it tells me is to get going, to take a bunch of stout warriors and craftsman, and set up my own domain. Or to take them down into the deepest mines, where none before me has gone!” By now an angry red glow had appeared in the otherwise jet-black eyes of Lofar. “Fool! I’m not telling you to follow each whim! Think boy, think! When you are told to obey your parents, do you listen to every stray remark they utter, maybe laden with sleep or trouble or anger? Of course not. You think about it. And now let me give you something to think upon deeply. Another story, yes. One that will teach you – if you are to be taught. So listen. What you will now here is a tale of shame. The greatest shame of all Dwarves, even greater than the slaying of King Thingol or the closing of the doors of Khazad-dûm in our Noldorin allies’ hour of need. A shame – and a guilt – that goes deeper, that penetrates our very being. It is something we never tell outsiders. One of the great secrets of our race. Have you ever heard about the Petty-dwarves?” “Yes, vaguely. Some mythical Dwarves of corrupted heart and bent stature. Either they died out in the Elder Days, or they never lived at all. An old tale to scare children.” “So do you think. Now pay attention:
“It was in the days of Durin the Deathless, only shortly after the awakening of the Dwarves. The Ancient had already met the other fathers, and had started to gather his own following. He had even found himself a wife, young and fair Már, one of the seven daughters of reclusive King Sindri. Now, Már bore Durin a son, strong and fair and like an image of his father, and the Deathless’ heart was at ease. But when his son, Ónar the Bright-eyed had reached 20 years of age – just as you have now – he grew restless. Not content with the number of people his folk counted, he went to his father and complained: “Great King and father! Why have you been idle these last years, when you should have been gathering souls to follow your lead? Our folk is too few in numbers to achieve the greatest works, hoard the largest wealth.” “Learn to wait, son and heir”, the King answered, “for ever the growth of our people has been slow. You and I, we will live long, long enough to see our dreams come true, if we are patient. But your restlessness casts a shadow on my mind. Talk never again about these things, I tell you, or evil will befall you!”
Ónar went away, filled with anger both at the shackles of his ambition and at his humiliation, for they had conversed openly before the other Dwarves present, and those had laughed at his impetuosity. So he left the halls of his father at Gundazbad and started wandering under the stars. After six long days where he went headless of perils and direction, he met upon a stranger. It was another Dwarf, as it seemed, with hair and beard like fire, glowing in the dark. Ónar stopped in astonishment. “Who are you?” The stranger answered in a pleasant and musky voice: “Call me Fangli, the Fire-hearted. I’ve come to help you, for I know of your plight and your desires. And what you are longing for is only your due, after all, isn’t it? I can help you to achieve it.” Immediately, Ónar was enthralled. “You speak rightly. Why shouldn’t I do what I believe as best, as prince of the highest house of all Dwarves? Show me the way!” Fangli smiled, and Ónar’s heart grew warm: “Just take me to the next gathering of the Kindreds. Until then, I will teach you many things that are hidden, the lore of fire and rock, and you and your chosen ones shall profit from my knowledge. Than will be the promise that will create you a community of the eager and valiant, for you to rule as you wish.” At this, Ónar was glad, and he took Fangli to a newly discovered cavern under a twisted hill, and there they made their abode, and Ónar learned willingly until it was time to meet the Kindreds.
Now as it was customary in these ancient times, all seven tribes of the Dwarves hat assembled in the halls of mount Gundazbad, trading, mingling and marrying freely. When Ónar arrived, his father was glad, but his new friend troubled him – he did not trust that Fangli, when went about with a smile a bit too warm, a voice a bit too kindling. So, when Fangli offered his knowledge to Durin and the other Dwarf-kings, “for surely you will not reject your son’s dearest friend when he is offering wisdom beyond all measure”, the Deathless replied: “None of us knows everything, except Mahal, and that is good. For the soul of a true Dwarf delights in toils well completed, and it is his striving for knowledge that gives him life and purpose. I rather trust the little wisdom and skill I have won with my own hands and mind, than empty promises offered by a stranger, who doesn’t even seem to belong to any of the Great Houses!” And the other Dwarf-lords nodded in reply, for none of them recognised Fangli as their kin. But Ónar’s was anger at this was fiery-red and he shouted: “If you do not accept my friend as kin, and reject his knowledge freely given, I shall be no son of yours anymore. I will found my own tribe, and Fangli will be its first member.” Then the two of them left the royal halls; but they did not leave Gundazbad entirely. For they went about in disguise, whispering in the ears of many a Dwarf, and thus gathered a following from all the tribes. When King Durin found this out, he send his wife Már: “Talk you to your son, since he has stopped his ears against the advice of his lord and father.” And Már found her son, in the midst of his new supporters, with the ever-smiling Fangli at his side. “Ónar-khâz, why do you bring misery upon my life in this way? I suffer under the split between you and your father. Amend what has been broken, and I am sure, Durin, the just, will give you a recompense beyond count.” When he heard this, Ónar began to waver, since any Dwarf listens most closely to the advice of his mother. But Fangli whispered in his ear: “See now, even your own mother has been bent and broken by your father, she who has been proud and independent. Let not the same happen to you!” And Ónar hardened himself and whispered: “As I have denied my father, so shall I deny you – I have been orphaned in a day, and am now Ónar the Fatherless, and a King in my own right.” “This is blasphemy”, his mother gasped, “you know that. Only the Oldest are fatherless, made by Mahal himself. Surely, you cannot claim the same?” “I do not need Mahal to make me, since I will be greater than even him soon enough.” Ónar now exclaimed proudly. “And now: get out of my way.” With that, he pushed his mother aside with such force and malice that, she fell, hitting her head against a rock, and died. Many of the Dwarves who had witnessed the incident were aghast, and turned against Ónar, naming him “mother-slayer” and “faithless”. But some stood beside him, and, incited by Fangli, they soon started to attack their opponents. They slew many, and made their way to the gates of the mountain
Thus befell the first killing of Dwarves by Dwarves, a most terrible deed, which left our fate changed. But the murderers did not escape unpunished, for Durin the Deathless and his guard came after them out of the gate and brought them to a halt. Then the King spoke. “I will not kill you, worm, for you have not deserved to gain access to the Halls of Mahal, whom you have denied, nor shall you, Ónar, be reunited with your mother, whom I must lack. And any other Dwarf who will kill one of you shall be thrice damned! Instead, I curse thee, and all who have furthered your course: Yes, you shall be King, and you shall have your own people. But Dwarves shall ye be no more! You will diminish in stature, and loose all the skills you have, so that you will not be able to live again in a great mansion under the mountain, but will wander the wilds and lurk in caves! And you especially, Ónar the Faithless, shall get what you deserve. Since you claimed to surpass even me, deathless like me you shall become. But whereas I shall live long and die content and be reborn in a strong son, your existence shall drag on until the end of time, until the years feel like mountains on your shoulders. Than you shall see the power of Mahal the Maker!”
All the Dwarves of Ónar’s following were afraid now. For the first time, they realised the doom they had laden on themselves, and they cursed their adversaries, but above all themselves and the whisperings of Fangli. To this one Durin turned at last: “But you, Fangli, I cannot outcast of Dwarven-kind, since you never belonged to it in the first place! Show your real face now, demon.” And he struck him with his mighty axe, causing him a great wound. But Fangli did not die. Rather the wound burst into flames, which consumed his Dwarven appearance, and out of the burning corpse burst a shape much greater and terrible beyond reckoning. It was wreathed in flames, and had shadowy wings, and laughter mad with triumph: “You old fool! You have fallen into the traps of Melkor the Great, Lord of Arda, to whom I will return now. But do not think that I will forget your rejection, nor the wound you have dealt me. I will return to you, and when your line falls prey to the greed and fraction I have sown, I will repay you a thousand times. Then call me as I have already proven myself to be: Durin’s Bane!” Then the demon spread his wings and flew away, northwards. And Ónar and his people fled in terror before the evil they had brought amongst their race, and went westwards into Beleriand, where they became know as the Noegyth Nibin, the Petty-Dwarves, because Durin’s Curse took indeed effect, and soon they had all lost their ability to work metal or stone, and their craftsmanship declined, and they were hunted like animals by the Elves until the coming of the Dwarves. But after this event, Durin took another wife from his own tribe, and to prevent a further split of the Kindreds, the Bonds of Blood were sworn in Mount Gundazbad – the sacred oath that holds all our people together even today.”
The silence in the cave was now nearly palpable: thick as a fungus that slowly but steadily presses on your body until it becomes unbearable. Prince Nain tried to smile. “I know why you told me this, makar. Don’t take me for a fool. It is a parable, a tale cautioning me against rash behaviour. I think you have achieved your trick – for now. But tell me, what do you make of the Petty-dwarves fate after they came to Beleriand? I think I heard that they died out.” Lofar looked deeply into the young lad’s eyes, and what he saw made him uncomfortable: a faint glow, but not friendly; more like a ravishing fire buried deeply somewhere, with a shadow cast over it. He cast aside these thoughts, laughing about himself. “Been caught by my own story, it seems,” he thought, and turned to the Prince.
“You have probably heard the story of Mîm, who claimed to be he last of the Petty-dwarves after he was separated from his son Ibun when being captured by Orcs. But, as so often, that old miserable creature was wrong. Ibun managed to escape, and followed the tracks of his father to the halls of Nulukhizdîn, or Nargothrond as the Elves called it. But he found only his corpse, since Hurin’s father had slain him, avenging the treachery Mîm had perpetrated at Turin. Therefore, Ibun gathered as much of the treasure as he could carry, and travelled to the halls of his mother. Together with her folk, she lived in the south of Beleriand, far away from the old habitation of her folk in the higher lands between Sirion and Narog. After they had been hunted by the Elves in that region, most Noegyth Nibin found it wise to abandon their halls at Nulukhizdîn and Sharbhund, and went south. Only Mîm and his sons, and some other few Petty-dwarves staid, and they died out soon, except one. Ibun found his mothers kin, and – being in the possession of truly royal riches, he persuaded more than half of them to go back east into the lands from whence they originally came. And they followed Ibun and came to dwell in the deep woods of Eryn Vorn. They only entered into the histories of the West once again, when they hired mercenaries to abduct Dwarven women for them. For their number was dwindling by then, and they wanted to reinvigorate their blood. But the ruffians instead took some female Halflings captive, thinking them to be an easier prey. However, Marcho, one of the Hobbit leaders, was able to rescue these women. Some claim that this has been the source of the strange allusions to jungle and moor in the poetry of the Hobbits.
The rest of the surviving Petty-dwarves remained in the South of Beleriand until the land sank. Then they went back into Eriador, but took refuge in the halls where their master had first received instruction, a place that is now called Cameth Brin. Whether any of these are still alive I do not know. But it has been said that Durin’s Curse did take full effect, and left the Petty-dwarves susceptible to the state of undead, whether naturally or through the vile sorceries of Necromancy. I have heard as well that his son never died. Not having the eternal youth of the Elves either, he withered constantly, until he was nothing more than a shadow and a corpse. Probably he was taken to Cameth Brin, but it is doubtful if he is still there. But no matter where Ónar is, it has been prophesied that one day he will repent, and lead what has been left of his kindred back. And the Dwarves will have learned as well, learned to forgive and forget. And when that time has come, Ónar will regain his strength, take up his heritage as Durin’s son, and rule as Durin VII and Last.”
Lofar said no more. Nain had become pensive. “I will think about your little story, makar. That, I promise you. But tell me: is it really true?” “That is for you to decide.” Lofar grinned maliciously. “Maybe it is just a parable, showing us that all Dwarves who show such petty behaviour as cruelty, pride, and overreaching will be punished one way or another. Or maybe it teaches us that wishes might become true in fashions unlooked for. But every myth has a grain of truth hidden in it.”
I found an old file while digging around on my computer. It's a story that explores how the Petty-dwarves have come to be. I originally wrote this for the Decipher RPG, but thought that my little back-story could be of equal interest for TOR. Maybe there're some Petty-dwarves in the Grey Mountains, or to the East?
Anyway, hope you enjoy this!
23. Narvinyë 1852 3.Z
It was miserably cold in the dark, dank cavern deep deep down beneath the earth. But strangest above all was the fact that it was entirely still. No noise whatsoever could be heard, not even the dripping of water, which surely must be there. The young prince shivered: “Why did you take me here, makar Lofar? There can’t be anything interesting down here. Any riches.” Deep silence. Then the makar’s voice encompassed the whole cavern, slow, sonorous, rumbling, like the tectonic plates moving even deeper down: “No, here is nothing. Nothing but your own wisdom.” A curt smile. “And mine, of course…”
Nain, twenty year old son and heir of Durin VI, King of Khazad-dûm and all the Longbeards, high overlord of all Dwarves, sixth incarnation of Durin the Deathless, let his bump fall unceremoniously upon a pile of loose stones. “Why do I still have to go through these lessons? I’m sorry old chap, but your stories don’t even interest me. You never tell me anything about gold, or wars, or the glories of my forefathers.” “You have others who do that most eagerly.” His old teacher sat carefully down beside him, but only after having taken up one of the stones and examining it closely. “That is one of the reasons I took you here. Learn to listen to your heart, young Nain.” “I do! And what it tells me is to get going, to take a bunch of stout warriors and craftsman, and set up my own domain. Or to take them down into the deepest mines, where none before me has gone!” By now an angry red glow had appeared in the otherwise jet-black eyes of Lofar. “Fool! I’m not telling you to follow each whim! Think boy, think! When you are told to obey your parents, do you listen to every stray remark they utter, maybe laden with sleep or trouble or anger? Of course not. You think about it. And now let me give you something to think upon deeply. Another story, yes. One that will teach you – if you are to be taught. So listen. What you will now here is a tale of shame. The greatest shame of all Dwarves, even greater than the slaying of King Thingol or the closing of the doors of Khazad-dûm in our Noldorin allies’ hour of need. A shame – and a guilt – that goes deeper, that penetrates our very being. It is something we never tell outsiders. One of the great secrets of our race. Have you ever heard about the Petty-dwarves?” “Yes, vaguely. Some mythical Dwarves of corrupted heart and bent stature. Either they died out in the Elder Days, or they never lived at all. An old tale to scare children.” “So do you think. Now pay attention:
“It was in the days of Durin the Deathless, only shortly after the awakening of the Dwarves. The Ancient had already met the other fathers, and had started to gather his own following. He had even found himself a wife, young and fair Már, one of the seven daughters of reclusive King Sindri. Now, Már bore Durin a son, strong and fair and like an image of his father, and the Deathless’ heart was at ease. But when his son, Ónar the Bright-eyed had reached 20 years of age – just as you have now – he grew restless. Not content with the number of people his folk counted, he went to his father and complained: “Great King and father! Why have you been idle these last years, when you should have been gathering souls to follow your lead? Our folk is too few in numbers to achieve the greatest works, hoard the largest wealth.” “Learn to wait, son and heir”, the King answered, “for ever the growth of our people has been slow. You and I, we will live long, long enough to see our dreams come true, if we are patient. But your restlessness casts a shadow on my mind. Talk never again about these things, I tell you, or evil will befall you!”
Ónar went away, filled with anger both at the shackles of his ambition and at his humiliation, for they had conversed openly before the other Dwarves present, and those had laughed at his impetuosity. So he left the halls of his father at Gundazbad and started wandering under the stars. After six long days where he went headless of perils and direction, he met upon a stranger. It was another Dwarf, as it seemed, with hair and beard like fire, glowing in the dark. Ónar stopped in astonishment. “Who are you?” The stranger answered in a pleasant and musky voice: “Call me Fangli, the Fire-hearted. I’ve come to help you, for I know of your plight and your desires. And what you are longing for is only your due, after all, isn’t it? I can help you to achieve it.” Immediately, Ónar was enthralled. “You speak rightly. Why shouldn’t I do what I believe as best, as prince of the highest house of all Dwarves? Show me the way!” Fangli smiled, and Ónar’s heart grew warm: “Just take me to the next gathering of the Kindreds. Until then, I will teach you many things that are hidden, the lore of fire and rock, and you and your chosen ones shall profit from my knowledge. Than will be the promise that will create you a community of the eager and valiant, for you to rule as you wish.” At this, Ónar was glad, and he took Fangli to a newly discovered cavern under a twisted hill, and there they made their abode, and Ónar learned willingly until it was time to meet the Kindreds.
Now as it was customary in these ancient times, all seven tribes of the Dwarves hat assembled in the halls of mount Gundazbad, trading, mingling and marrying freely. When Ónar arrived, his father was glad, but his new friend troubled him – he did not trust that Fangli, when went about with a smile a bit too warm, a voice a bit too kindling. So, when Fangli offered his knowledge to Durin and the other Dwarf-kings, “for surely you will not reject your son’s dearest friend when he is offering wisdom beyond all measure”, the Deathless replied: “None of us knows everything, except Mahal, and that is good. For the soul of a true Dwarf delights in toils well completed, and it is his striving for knowledge that gives him life and purpose. I rather trust the little wisdom and skill I have won with my own hands and mind, than empty promises offered by a stranger, who doesn’t even seem to belong to any of the Great Houses!” And the other Dwarf-lords nodded in reply, for none of them recognised Fangli as their kin. But Ónar’s was anger at this was fiery-red and he shouted: “If you do not accept my friend as kin, and reject his knowledge freely given, I shall be no son of yours anymore. I will found my own tribe, and Fangli will be its first member.” Then the two of them left the royal halls; but they did not leave Gundazbad entirely. For they went about in disguise, whispering in the ears of many a Dwarf, and thus gathered a following from all the tribes. When King Durin found this out, he send his wife Már: “Talk you to your son, since he has stopped his ears against the advice of his lord and father.” And Már found her son, in the midst of his new supporters, with the ever-smiling Fangli at his side. “Ónar-khâz, why do you bring misery upon my life in this way? I suffer under the split between you and your father. Amend what has been broken, and I am sure, Durin, the just, will give you a recompense beyond count.” When he heard this, Ónar began to waver, since any Dwarf listens most closely to the advice of his mother. But Fangli whispered in his ear: “See now, even your own mother has been bent and broken by your father, she who has been proud and independent. Let not the same happen to you!” And Ónar hardened himself and whispered: “As I have denied my father, so shall I deny you – I have been orphaned in a day, and am now Ónar the Fatherless, and a King in my own right.” “This is blasphemy”, his mother gasped, “you know that. Only the Oldest are fatherless, made by Mahal himself. Surely, you cannot claim the same?” “I do not need Mahal to make me, since I will be greater than even him soon enough.” Ónar now exclaimed proudly. “And now: get out of my way.” With that, he pushed his mother aside with such force and malice that, she fell, hitting her head against a rock, and died. Many of the Dwarves who had witnessed the incident were aghast, and turned against Ónar, naming him “mother-slayer” and “faithless”. But some stood beside him, and, incited by Fangli, they soon started to attack their opponents. They slew many, and made their way to the gates of the mountain
Thus befell the first killing of Dwarves by Dwarves, a most terrible deed, which left our fate changed. But the murderers did not escape unpunished, for Durin the Deathless and his guard came after them out of the gate and brought them to a halt. Then the King spoke. “I will not kill you, worm, for you have not deserved to gain access to the Halls of Mahal, whom you have denied, nor shall you, Ónar, be reunited with your mother, whom I must lack. And any other Dwarf who will kill one of you shall be thrice damned! Instead, I curse thee, and all who have furthered your course: Yes, you shall be King, and you shall have your own people. But Dwarves shall ye be no more! You will diminish in stature, and loose all the skills you have, so that you will not be able to live again in a great mansion under the mountain, but will wander the wilds and lurk in caves! And you especially, Ónar the Faithless, shall get what you deserve. Since you claimed to surpass even me, deathless like me you shall become. But whereas I shall live long and die content and be reborn in a strong son, your existence shall drag on until the end of time, until the years feel like mountains on your shoulders. Than you shall see the power of Mahal the Maker!”
All the Dwarves of Ónar’s following were afraid now. For the first time, they realised the doom they had laden on themselves, and they cursed their adversaries, but above all themselves and the whisperings of Fangli. To this one Durin turned at last: “But you, Fangli, I cannot outcast of Dwarven-kind, since you never belonged to it in the first place! Show your real face now, demon.” And he struck him with his mighty axe, causing him a great wound. But Fangli did not die. Rather the wound burst into flames, which consumed his Dwarven appearance, and out of the burning corpse burst a shape much greater and terrible beyond reckoning. It was wreathed in flames, and had shadowy wings, and laughter mad with triumph: “You old fool! You have fallen into the traps of Melkor the Great, Lord of Arda, to whom I will return now. But do not think that I will forget your rejection, nor the wound you have dealt me. I will return to you, and when your line falls prey to the greed and fraction I have sown, I will repay you a thousand times. Then call me as I have already proven myself to be: Durin’s Bane!” Then the demon spread his wings and flew away, northwards. And Ónar and his people fled in terror before the evil they had brought amongst their race, and went westwards into Beleriand, where they became know as the Noegyth Nibin, the Petty-Dwarves, because Durin’s Curse took indeed effect, and soon they had all lost their ability to work metal or stone, and their craftsmanship declined, and they were hunted like animals by the Elves until the coming of the Dwarves. But after this event, Durin took another wife from his own tribe, and to prevent a further split of the Kindreds, the Bonds of Blood were sworn in Mount Gundazbad – the sacred oath that holds all our people together even today.”
The silence in the cave was now nearly palpable: thick as a fungus that slowly but steadily presses on your body until it becomes unbearable. Prince Nain tried to smile. “I know why you told me this, makar. Don’t take me for a fool. It is a parable, a tale cautioning me against rash behaviour. I think you have achieved your trick – for now. But tell me, what do you make of the Petty-dwarves fate after they came to Beleriand? I think I heard that they died out.” Lofar looked deeply into the young lad’s eyes, and what he saw made him uncomfortable: a faint glow, but not friendly; more like a ravishing fire buried deeply somewhere, with a shadow cast over it. He cast aside these thoughts, laughing about himself. “Been caught by my own story, it seems,” he thought, and turned to the Prince.
“You have probably heard the story of Mîm, who claimed to be he last of the Petty-dwarves after he was separated from his son Ibun when being captured by Orcs. But, as so often, that old miserable creature was wrong. Ibun managed to escape, and followed the tracks of his father to the halls of Nulukhizdîn, or Nargothrond as the Elves called it. But he found only his corpse, since Hurin’s father had slain him, avenging the treachery Mîm had perpetrated at Turin. Therefore, Ibun gathered as much of the treasure as he could carry, and travelled to the halls of his mother. Together with her folk, she lived in the south of Beleriand, far away from the old habitation of her folk in the higher lands between Sirion and Narog. After they had been hunted by the Elves in that region, most Noegyth Nibin found it wise to abandon their halls at Nulukhizdîn and Sharbhund, and went south. Only Mîm and his sons, and some other few Petty-dwarves staid, and they died out soon, except one. Ibun found his mothers kin, and – being in the possession of truly royal riches, he persuaded more than half of them to go back east into the lands from whence they originally came. And they followed Ibun and came to dwell in the deep woods of Eryn Vorn. They only entered into the histories of the West once again, when they hired mercenaries to abduct Dwarven women for them. For their number was dwindling by then, and they wanted to reinvigorate their blood. But the ruffians instead took some female Halflings captive, thinking them to be an easier prey. However, Marcho, one of the Hobbit leaders, was able to rescue these women. Some claim that this has been the source of the strange allusions to jungle and moor in the poetry of the Hobbits.
The rest of the surviving Petty-dwarves remained in the South of Beleriand until the land sank. Then they went back into Eriador, but took refuge in the halls where their master had first received instruction, a place that is now called Cameth Brin. Whether any of these are still alive I do not know. But it has been said that Durin’s Curse did take full effect, and left the Petty-dwarves susceptible to the state of undead, whether naturally or through the vile sorceries of Necromancy. I have heard as well that his son never died. Not having the eternal youth of the Elves either, he withered constantly, until he was nothing more than a shadow and a corpse. Probably he was taken to Cameth Brin, but it is doubtful if he is still there. But no matter where Ónar is, it has been prophesied that one day he will repent, and lead what has been left of his kindred back. And the Dwarves will have learned as well, learned to forgive and forget. And when that time has come, Ónar will regain his strength, take up his heritage as Durin’s son, and rule as Durin VII and Last.”
Lofar said no more. Nain had become pensive. “I will think about your little story, makar. That, I promise you. But tell me: is it really true?” “That is for you to decide.” Lofar grinned maliciously. “Maybe it is just a parable, showing us that all Dwarves who show such petty behaviour as cruelty, pride, and overreaching will be punished one way or another. Or maybe it teaches us that wishes might become true in fashions unlooked for. But every myth has a grain of truth hidden in it.”