What seemed like hours later, the army stopped in one collective movement before the gates of Moria. Arien stared at the silent walls, a shiver going down her spine at the thought that the rock face seemed to be staring back at her, as if thousands of eyes watched their arrival with malicious hatred. She felt an inexplicable fear of the silent walls, of the gaping mouth where doors should've been, of what lurked in the shadows of the mines, awaiting them. She inched forward so she was standing beside Thorin, needing his comfort.

She saw Thror step forward, heard him give orders to a small group of his company to go in first and investigate, heard him growl that if they found anything out of place they were to report back immediately. The ten of them inched toward the gates. Or where the gates should have been. In reality there was nothing more than a gap behind which shadows danced. Shadows that swallowed up the company of dwarves into their black depths.

The rest of the army waited.

The only sound was the wind shifting and shrieking.

Still they waited.

The walls were silent as ever.

Silent, until one dwarf –– one out of the ten that had entered –– hurtled down the steps and across the strange rock formations toward the king. He skidded to a stop, panting, out of breath, words tumbling over each other as he tried to speak.

"Orcs," he gasped. "Legions of them... The Defiler... War!"

Thror stared at him. "What do you mean?"

The dwarf caught his breath. "Legions of orcs have taken Moria," he said in a voice laced with fear. "They claim it as their own."

Arien stared in horror as Thror, his voice shaking with rage, said

"Where is the rest of your group?"

"Dead," whispered the dwarf. "They were slain almost as soon as we entered. I was sent back as a messenger."

"What is your message?" Thror's words were tight with rage, and... was it possible? With fear.

"The Defiler," the messenger whispered, and Arien could hear the stark terror in his voice. "Azog the Defiler has come."

"What are you talking about?" snapped Thror. "Speak!"

"A Pale Orc, master of all their race. He has sworn to wipe out the line of Durin."

It was an effort for Arien not to clap a hand over her mouth. The line of Durin –– Thror, Thrain, and Thorin.

"No," she whispered. She could not lose Thorin.

"Arien," he murmured as Thror sent the dwarf back to his position. "I am not going to die. I promise."

"How can you promise that?" she hissed, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

But before he could reply Thror stepped toward the gates. He roared, in a clear, strong voice filled with rage

"How dare you desecrate the sacred halls of our forefathers? You are cowards! You defile our birthright, plunder and steal the gems our people worked for, and yet you think it right to claim this kingdom for your own, to challenge us to war?"

Arien glanced between Thror and Thorin, finally spotting the resemblance.

"I order you to surrender," Thror went on. "Or we will destroy you all!"

Arien stared. Thror was going to fight them. He had to have lost his mind. There was not nearly enough of them to win that battle.

There was no answer from the walls of Moria. The entirety of the dwarven army was silent, awaiting the reply. But no sound or challenge came from within, no answering cry was heard.

"Give us your answer!" Thror bellowed.

Nothing happened. The army was still. She did not think any of them were breathing. Even Thror spoke no more, foiled by the silent menace of rock and wall.

Arien slid her hand into Thorin's, her heart pounding in her chest. He squeezed it gently.

Still the walls remained silent.