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The familiar blue eyes that glare at him from an unfamiliar face gives him pause for but a moment. He blinks, and the dwarrow before him is a little more familiar. The blue eyes that Durin’s line is so known for, the dark brown hair of the Ereborian royal family, Thròr’s bearing.
“Thorin, son of Thráin,” he says, because there’s nobody else it could be, “You have your grandfather’s bearing. I knew Thròr when he ruled under the Mountain.”
“Indeed? He made no mention of you.”
He makes the offer of dinner and they follow along easily enough once Mithrandir translates it. He excuses himself from the meal and finds himself pausing in front of the forge he keeps, brushing his fingers against it. He keeps walking to the balcony just beyond, instead.
The mithril piece is warm in his hand when he pulls the chain out.
“I wonder if he’s as stubborn as you, old friend,” he whispers. “He certainly has your eyes. And I quite believe there are several of his Company that are of your line. That Balin, I do believe he’s somewhere in the succession line if I remember correctly. I saw that the youngest ones favored throwing axes and a bow and arrow. I should make some for them before they leave.”
He holds the mithril piece to his lips and whispers, “Namárië, gamil-bâhel.”
- - -
He’s in the forge working on the arrows for the younger prince when the door opens. He continues working, continues the prayer that Durin had taught him how to make long ago.
“Lord Elrond, it’s almost time for supper.”
Had it really been so long? He had started his prayer his work just after breakfast.
He smiles when he remembers having to pry Durin from his own forges. Granted, he usually had help from Disa.
“I will be there, I do have to clean up first.”
When the dwarrow leave during the Council meeting, he’s glad to have already slipped the axes and arrows into the young princes’ bags.
- - -
It’s when Mithrandir and the Hobbit pass through Rivendell again, on their way back to the Shire that he sees the shine of mithril on another.
“He gave this to you?” He asks. The hobbit’s face bunches up and tears fall from his eyes and Elrond pulls him in closer. “For what it is worth, I am sorry, little one.”
He wasn’t blind to what they had been after all. Whether Oakenshield had ever said it out loud, or even realized it, it had been there. The mithril shirt comes with Bilbo when he retires and he sees the shine of the shirt on the hobbit’s nephew before he leaves with the Ring.