Narvi
Narvi trudged alone in the darkness of the tunnels. Water dripped from ceiling. Long ago, the same waters rushed through these rocks, carving exquisite sculptures of minerals. Any Dwarf would have adored this place, and even endured the damp cold for a glance. But Narvi's shivering was not from the cold outside, but from his heart.
The fury of battle left him, and his thoughts took control. The face of the man he killed appeared before his eyes; its face contorted in anger, its eyes blazing in fury, its mouth smeared with blood. The face never left him. It tortured him. He had the right to kill me. All of us. How come I survived while those whose wrath burned righteously fell? He searched for an answer. His mind gave none. So did his heart.
There was only one thing left to do. He approached someone, hoping that he would share Narvi's burden. He tapped the Dwarf in the back. It was Hænir.
"Is it right?" he asked without preamble.
"What do you mean?" answered the Dwarf.
"We were wrong to enter here. What right have we to escape, to leave this place? What right have we to kill those whose only wish is to be left alone? I fought before Dale once, and I was proud of that. The Wild Men and the ruthless Orcs deserved their fates. For trying to destroy us, and to take what is ours, they were punished.
"Now it was I who had invaded, and spilled blood on their own soil. Is it right that we live?"
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