Transmigrate to the world of The Lord of the Rings?

"Dûrgar, bows like a Japanese person due to the customs rooted in those who inhabit the West, it's something I included as a characteristic of those who live in that area"

-General-

Aldril did not enter with fanfare or arrogance; he did so with humility and nobility. He smiled occasionally at the small dwarves who, due to their size and lack of beards, seemed to be children.

He was accompanied by four dwarves who guided him deeper inside. Unlike Erebor, the construction was more rudimentary: homes dug like caves attached to the mountain. It reminded him somewhat of the Goblin kingdom, although this was cleaner and safer. The stone bridges with railings on the sides were proof of this.

He walked along a path lit by the light of torches, whose glow cast dancing shadows on the walls. It was not as majestic as Erebor, but undoubtedly, for the dwarves, this place was a cozy home.

"Can you tell me how the situation is at the border?" Aldril asked one of the dwarves who was guiding him, breaking the silence that was beginning to settle, also trying to dispel the discomfort that hung in the air.

The dwarf, slightly surprised, looked at him for a few seconds before nodding.

"The situation is not good," he said almost in a whisper. "Different clans of desert dwarves have arrived seeking refuge. Apparently, a civil war has broken out in the cities of the western men, and the dwarf peoples have been indirectly involved."

Aldril wore the emblem of the Friend of the Sons of Durin, which is why the dwarf did not hesitate to explain the situation, even though they had only met a few minutes before.

"A rebellion…" Aldril whispered to himself.

"Excuse me, sir," the same dwarf interrupted before the thought could fully absorb him. From his nervous movements, it was evident he wanted to ask something.

"Yes?"

"You introduced yourself as a dragon slayer… could you tell me which dragon you subdued?"

With a growing smile, Aldril looked at the dwarf. The burning memory of that red lizard was reflected in his eyes.

"I killed Smaug," he said in a serene voice.

Those words, simple yet colossal, resonated like the sound of a battle horn. The tiny steps of the dwarves stopped immediately. All four turned their heads in unison, surprise etched on their faces. Their lips trembled, trying to articulate what they had just heard.

"S-S-Smaug?" one stammered, as if fearing the simple name could still bring fire and death with it. He still remembered that moment… and the simple memory had left its mark on him.

"You… you're not lying, are you?" another dwarf said.

"That explains why the birds have returned to migrate towards the Lonely Mountain," whispered the oldest of the four dwarves.

Aldril shifted his gaze towards him. The old dwarf's grey beard fell in thick waves down to his stomach; for an instant, Aldril got lost in the color of the beard. It reminded him of a certain dwarf who no longer walked among the living.

"We must report this news to Dûrgar," said the last one, casting a glance at Aldril. "Let's hurry," he urged.

The others, awakened from their astonishment by their companion's voice, quickly recomposed themselves and nodded in unison. They did not doubt Aldril's words. Someone who wore the emblem of Durin was, by tradition and honor, trustworthy.

Indeed, if he wished, Aldril could command an army of dwarves, backed by the very lineage of the legendary Durin. Although, of course, even such a powerful symbol would not be enough to command them in a battle that was already lost from the start.

Aldril and Tauriel looked at each other, visibly surprised. Both had imagined that the death of Smaug would have already spread throughout Middle-earth like fire over dry grass.

But apparently, in this remote region, the news had not arrived. Perhaps the urgency of reporting the obvious had caused the dwarves, for a moment, to forget their illustrious companions.

With a slight shrug and a shared smile, both decided not to say more and followed the dwarves' quick pace through the torch-lit tunnels, ascending the stairs that appeared at a junction, it seemed that the chief of this dwarf settlement was located higher up the mountain.

For the following minutes, they didn't exchange a single word. They just followed the dwarves, who were beginning to pant as they hurried up the stairs.

The excitement of carrying the news of Smaug's death seemed to have slightly altered them, pushing them beyond their usual pace.

At some point, the structure began to change. The architecture became finer, more polished. The hallways let moonlight filter through precisely carved slits. It was evident that the dwarves had built this part of the city on the outskirts of the mountain, an architectural gem with impressive views towards the vast desert that stretched beyond the mountain.

As they advanced, Aldril and Tauriel began to understand why the news had not yet reached this region of Rhûn. A part of the mountain lay charred; the stone, black as coal, revealed that not long ago a voracious fire had consumed that place.

"That was caused by Zha'Karûn's fire, during its last hunt," said the old dwarf walking behind them. He could no longer keep up with the younger ones, very different from Balin, who, despite his age, still marched as if time didn't touch him.

"Zha'Karûn's fire?" Tauriel asked, frowning.

The dwarf, unlike his companions, gave the elf a kind smile (although, like all elves, her youth was deceptive).

"Yes, haven't you heard of it?"

Tauriel frowned even more and became lost in thought.

"It was mentioned that Zha'Karûn was attacked by a wild fire that consumed many lives and left the city in ruins… but we weren't too interested. Those men had already succumbed to the orders of the Dark Lord, and knowing that their main city was destroyed was good news for us; however, we didn't inquire further."

"I don't blame you. We, like you, celebrated the fall of that city," the dwarf said.

But his brow furrowed as he contemplated the charred structure surrounding them. His voice then became graver.

"However… that fire also attacked us. It burned many of our people… and our poor ravens. They were charred with them. We couldn't gather news, nor send warnings."

"Didn't you send anyone to the Iron Hills to warn of this?" Aldril asked, although he already sensed the answer.

"We sent them," the dwarf nodded regretfully. "But in the prairies live many wargs... and, apparently, none managed to arrive." We wanted to send more people, but Dûrgar prevented it. We lost many in the battle of Azanulbizar, and now, with the rescue of our brothers from the desert, we cannot risk losing even more.

"I understand," Aldril murmured, before falling silent for a few seconds. "I have a raven that could carry information about your situation. I am sure that Dáin or Thorin will send help once they know what is happening here."

"In that case, I will ask you to help us," interrupted a rough voice from ahead.

Aldril looked up. Facing him, leaning against a column that opened to the outside air, was a small dwarf, his face hardened by battle. His beard, long to his waist, was a dark grey starting to show the silver threads of age.

Despite his build, he stood with the haughtiness and dignity of a true leader.

"Chief!" exclaimed one of the dwarves at the front, surprised. They didn't expect to find him there, at that point in the journey. But to some extent, it seemed that Dûrgar was taking a rare moment of relaxation, which explained his presence before they reached the summit.

"Dûrgar," the old dwarf said serenely, slightly bowing his head in respect.

Dûrgar nodded to his men and uncrossed his arms. He walked with a firm step until he stood in front of Aldril. His gaze was hard, but not hostile.

"I don't know who you are…" he said in a grave voice, "but if you can send a raven asking our brothers for help… then, please."

He bowed his head in a standard western reverence, a gesture that weighed more than a thousand words.

"Help my people by sending a distress signal!"

**

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