[Kransha]

The eyelids of Bror Stormhand were more than heavy enough to resist being pried open involuntarily. The dwarf had to consciously force them open after he was already awake, seeking some focus in his blurred gaze. He could not see at first, since his eyes had become accustomed to the ominous dampness and shade of Shelob’s chambers, but soon the red-tinged sky sharpened his sight, as did the sharpened peaks of the mountains and crags high above him, shrouded by thick clouds. His arms, weak and trembling, managed to unfold beneath him, pushing him wearily up until he was sitting on the cold stone ground. He looked around, his chest heaving and beating against the inner wall of his plated armor.

He first caught sight of the thing nearest him and most forward in his sight, two figures lying on the earth. One figure, curled up tiredly, breathing and rolling about discontentedly. The other lay still, upon its back, and looked to him as cold as ice. The stiffened form was Dorim, the other was the resting figure of Morgoroth, the shadowy Elf. Bror’s eyelids sagged, and his pauldron-covered shoulders followed, drooping mournfully as he moved, knees dragged beneath and never getting to his feet, towards the dwarf and looked upon him when he reached the lifeless husk. His face was as pale as the moon blazoned upon a nightly sky of empty sable. His eyes, closed now, were colorless beneath their shielding lids and the vivacious light in him was gone, replaced by withered pallor. Bror looked upon him, still and bereft of life, and took the slain dwarf’s unfeeling hands in his own. He took them and laid them, crossed, upon Dorim’s armored chest. Then he slowly stood, looking down on Dorim, and bowed his head to the darkness around him.

An emotionless voice severed his thoughts. It came from behind him where Morgoroth lay. “Your friend is gone.” He said, coldly but understanding in him despite that. Bror turned as the Elf propped himself up carefully upon strong arms and looked to the dwarf out of his eyes shady corners. Bror’s head snapped sideways to see him, but spoke slowly and serenely in reply. “Yes, he is gone. He fell bravely, though, and is thought better of for that.” They locked eyes, their gazes intertwined only for a second in the passing of time, the cold eyes of an Elf and the same eyes in the skull of a dwarf meeting, but they pulled apart before words were again spoken, by the Elf this time.

“He will find some manner of peace wherever he dwells now.” Morgoroth said back gently, turning away again. He sat up, though he seemed to be seeking the tranquility of sleep, and stared up momentarily before turning his eyes downward towards the rough stones below him. Bror turned and looked down again at Dorim. He had at least seen Dorim taken from the tunnels of Shelob and could not impose him upon the rest of the company. He would have to lie here, escaped from the darkness of the spider’s chambers but still shrouded in the crimson-black fire and ash of Mordor. The Morgul Vale would serve aptly enough as a mound of burial for him. He knew not words in Elven, Khuzdul, or the tongues of men to call this mound, this burial plot he’d allotted. It was unworthy of noble Dorim, but it would have to serve. Years would serve too, to keep Dorim where he lay now. Under his breath, he spoke to the wind, not caring whether it heard him or not. “Aulë give you rest, Dorim Stoneweaver, and may you find in death all that you have sought in life.”

Once his reverie concluded itself, the wistful dwarf turned to his accidental comrade again. He walked towards him reluctantly and sat beside the elf, seeking the place in the sky where he looked. Now stars could be seen, no beauty shining, no sparkling brightness painted onto the darkness, dappling the night. Instead there was flame embedded in the smoke of shadows. The spouting fire of Amon Amarth spilled into the sky, the peaks of the Vale silhouetted evilly against them. It made Bror’s heart restless to look upon such wicked things, but his soul’s darkness could not be seen when he spoke next.

“I wished to thank you…for what you have done for me and my kin this day.”

The elf looked to him, slightly curious about the words that came so weakly from his Dwarven counterpart, but waved him off dismissively. “Think not on that.” Bror peered at him, his eyes deepening and his head rising to meet the height of the Elf. “I have not had to show my thanks to any man or beast in years, elf,” he said sternly, “and it is not without pain that I do this. My kinsman is slain, slain by the spider, and we have not cleared the darkness of her chambers. One of our dark company is dead, and more must follow, so I’ll make my peace with you before the spider’s venom makes my blood run cold like his. Elf…Morgoroth, never have I shown gratitude to an elf, but now I do. Take that token, for what it’s worth, and let me have my pride.”

“You misplace your gratitude, Bror Stormhand.” Morgoroth said at last, “I need none of that.”

Bror responded insistently. “I have nothing else to give save my allegiance and my thanks, which come not easily. Take them.” For a long minute, perhaps more or less time than the two beings thought had passed, there was silence, broken constantly by the far off crackling of sickly yellow daggers that rent the heavens without a care. Both ignored that, thinking on what they’d said. Morgoroth looked as contemplative and as much the brooding Elf as he had been throughout the journey from the Tower of Cirith Ungol, but he finally looked to Bror as a friend might, with kindness in his eyes. “I do not want your allegiance,” he said, pausing shortly after, “…But I’ll take your thanks.”

And, as uncommon as it was for such things to happen, Bror Stormhand smiled warmly, his sour face lightening even in the presence of his deceased brother in arms, for he’d sought and gained a comrade in Morgoroth, one he’d never hoped or expected or even dreamed of having. A gentle trickle of light reached suddenly into his inner darkness as he spoke again. “You have my allegiance whether you want it or not, as it is mine to give. If I live when we reach the hold of the enemy, you shall not fall before me. While warm blood runs in my veins, my mace will serve your will, friend.”