[Kransha]

Brór was one of the few who did not succumb to the enigmatic veil of slumber that had settled above the company when Rangers from the West descended upon the black shadows as they were at last driven back and routed. His eyes remained fully open, lids refusing to lower even as tears welled up beneath each watery sphere. He could not blink, or shut his gaping eyes as the horn-calls filled his closed ears. He heard the echoes of sunny sound, like light upon his shadow. The orcs, shrieking in terror, took no time to flee and scatter, limbs and armaments akimbo, and madly dashed away from the sudden uproar of righteous power. The fight, as fast at it had sprung up, evaporated and concluded, its resonating chords and clangs washed away by a single, joyous sound from the Rangers’ horns, men who had appeared out of thin air, apparently. The bright, sylvan colors of their garb as they flooded over the battlefield sharply contrasted the red and black of Mordor and the Vale on Anduin. They visages of every companion, Dwarf, Man, and Elf, were suddenly altered drastically as the Ranger swept onto the edge of the rocky road, firing swift bolts at retreating uruks, leaderless and impotent. The weight was lifted, the threat was ended, and the gates to freedom lay within their reach. The final stretch had come, and the last step would be tread upon, the last river forded…at last.

They all collapsed, even those not overcome. Many tears were shed, even those of Bror. He looked across the jagged, rocky plain of battle as men filled the air around him, hurrying to either aid or hinder him. Eyes peered at him in passing, curious and bewildered, but he did not feel nor care about their presence. They were mannish eyes, but not those of Zuromor, Grash, or the others. They were natural and full of color, tempered with both belligerence and justness, as a warrior’s should look. Brór’s head could barely turn in response to the Rangers as they began to realize what had occurred, and who were the ones who needed saving. As darkness was lifted, the Morgul Road served as a place of rest for many of the companions. Grash and Darash lay upon the scraggly stones, succumbed to the vile stench of suverah. Morgoroth, the dark-humored Elf, was dead upon the field, a fact which did not register in Bror until he saw the blood beneath him, which had spawned crimson rivers in the orifices of the black rock. Zuromor, though injured grievously still, yet stood, clasping Raeis to him, like a vision of sunrise that crested Brór’s icy horizon. Dwali fell not far off, unconscious and bloodied, but not slain. Aldor the traitor to was dead where he lay, in a sleep he would never wake from. Lyshka and Jeren stood as well, panting mightily to recover from the strange stupor now upon them. They felt freedom as the Rangers helped them to their feet and took them from their pain and suffering, into light…

…Now, as he thought of all this as if it were happening, he was bathed in true sunlight, not the falsified light of Mordor fire, or the flash of foul substance borne in the dark lands that had been used against Shelob. The great, terrible eight legs of the Spider clawed at Brór’s withered mind, the whispering breaths of Sauron boomed in his hollowed skull, the cries of orcs and comrades created a near-fatal cacophony that pounded like drumbeats upon him. But, moments before, the drumbeat had gone. Now, as he stood in greenery and woodland, he felt the presence that infected him wither and disintegrate, moaning in agony as its power was severed from it. With Sauron’s wroth Eye gone from its perch and his form gone from Arda, the pain that leeched from Brór’s countenance left wordlessly, leaving him to his own devices, to his own fate. He felt the jets of flame that had poured through him, from wounds inflicted by the Mistress of Cirith Ungol, disappear as if they were no more than pestering gnats. Feeling renewed, but still in the misty shadow, he turned around and around again, looking to the rangers as they attended his brethren, many of whom were healing from near-mortal hurts. The Dwarf, though, turned first and foremost to Zuromor, who was outside, in the midst of rangers, on a bed of straw near that which bore Grash like a bier. As Brore tore his way past two discoursing rangers, Zuromor’s deep eyes looked up at the Dwarf and he spoke.

“Brór…” he whispered, “My comrade…Did I not tell you we would be free?”

Brór looked to his compatriot sadly. Thankfully, for him, the boy’s wound was not mortal. He would live, which consoled Brór’s unhappy temperament to no end. He nodded, drawing his gauntleted hand along a bruised cheek to extinguish a solitary tear from existence, the first of several that had set a record number for the battle-hardened Dwarf. His nodding head moved vigorously, with youth flowing in his poisoned veins again. “Aye, lad,” he said, choking on the relieved words as they rose up in his throat, “you did…you did.” He could barely bring himself to continue and lay his hand upon Zuromor’s sagging shoulder where he lay on the pallet. “And now you are.” Zurumor looked up at him, still weakened and awestruck by all the happenings. His chipped eyebrow rose slowly, arching over a wide orb, and his wry grin became a perplexed frown. “We both are, friend, remember?”

Now, Brór shook his head from side to side, the madly dispersed hairs of his great beard still as unkempt and untamable as they had been on that day when the door to his two-decade prison swung open with the slightest of ease. “No, Zuromor,” he said, and let his hand slide dejectedly off Zuromor’s shoulder, “you are free. My freedom will not come for many years yet. The light may be just over the horizon, but the sun is still a mountain away. The mountain can be scaled, but I do not intend to ford the obstacle…not yet. Be happy, Zuromor, and revel in your freedom.” Zuromor still looked confused, and his back arched as he rose from the bed, swiftly assisted by one of his saviors who helped him to his feet at last. Again he looked down on Brór, but Brór did not look up at him. A call from Dwali, who had awaken from his state moments ago, stirred Brór to turn around.

“Come, Brór.” said Dwali, materializing behind his fellow dwarf, “We must engineer a way back to our lands. I am told by these men that there is a dwarf in the company of the Gondorians. Perhaps we can seek a route to our homeland with him. Now, Brór, that we are free of the accursed Black Lands, we must go home.” His voice gained energy and excitement, though all words were delivered with a serious notation, like a merry dirge, contradictory as it was. Brór, hesitating greatly, turned at last and walked back, away from the straw bed, the rangers, and Zuromor behind him. “Indeed…” his nod and pause was painfully solemn. “We must.”

Finally, wholly removing his gaze from Zuromor, Brór Stormhand dragged the two tired feet beneath him forward, as Dwali looked concernedly at him. But, though melancholic in his gait, he smiled at long last and clasped the other Dwarf’s hand, shaking it powerfully. Dwali’s face lit up at the change, and the two dwarves looked, with stern but satisfied seriousness, at each other and Brór continued to move past, at a brisker, jauntier pace. Suddenly, though, Zuromor moved rapidly towards the back of his Dwarf kinsman. He clapped him upon the back, halting him in his tracks. “Brór,” He said, with more genuine serenity than ever had been present in his voice before, “You will not say so, but I know the darkness is gone from you.” Brór turned again, his head tilting up and his eyes peering into Zurumor’s, each eye holding all the memories, all the emotions, all the feelings that had been secreted there during his stay in Mordor. “Yes, Zuromor,” he said quietly, “the darkness is gone, but only the darkness of Sauron. Some shadows still linger, shadows that do not fade with time, or heed the passage of years. I will keep my shadows, Zuromor, and you may keep yours, but you may shed those that lie in you, for you have a light to extinguish the darkness. Keep your light, my friend, and live in peace and happiness. Knowing you, and all your kindred, has been an unmatched honor. I will e’er remember the lad who befriended me in the land of darkness.”

And he turned for the last time and, with Dwali just behind, headed off to consider options yet again. Behind him, Raeis, the Elf, rushed to Zuromor, though the young man’s eyes lingered on Brór for just a moment longer. Their pact made many days ago had not been for naught, as Brór had said. He watched as Brór sat, just as he always did, but he had no prison wall at his back, or bars before him, casting shadows on his face. He heard one last sound come from the dwarf in the distance, words that carried over the small camp. “Baruk Khazâd. Khazâd aimênu.” The battle-cry of the Dwarves…and of Brór Stormhand.