[General POV]
A silence heavy with sorrow hung over the fields of Erebor.
The battle had ended, yet its shadow still loomed over the land. The stench of blood and sweat clung to the air, suffocating those who worked tirelessly to cleanse the devastation. Among the piled bodies of orcs and trolls, dwarves and men labored in silence, gathering their fallen with reverence, while the corpses of their enemies were dragged to great funeral pyres.
The flames roared furiously, consuming flesh and bones, sending plumes of black smoke into the night sky. The nauseating stench of burning flesh mingled with the fierce aroma of spilled blood, forming an unbearable plague that forced many to cover their noses with cloths. The crows had already arrived, perched on blood-darkened rocks, their caws piercing the dreary stillness of the place.
Among the rubble and grass stained crimson, the scars of war remained visible: broken swords impaled in the ground, shattered helmets. The echoes of the last cries of agony still seemed to linger over the fields of Erebor. The dwarves, their faces hardened and their hands stained with blood, closed the eyes of their fallen brothers and whispered ancient prayers in their tongue, pleading with Aulë to guide them to the Halls of Mandos.
The elves sang farewell hymns to their fallen brethren, their ethereal voices drifting through the air like a lament interwoven with the wind. Each note carried the weight of grief, a melancholic echo that swept across the battlefield, sending shivers through all who listened.
With solemn reverence, the elves lifted their fallen kin with delicate hands, whispering words in their ancient tongue, as if their spirits could still hear them. Their movements were fluid, almost like a dance, imbued with deep respect and love.
They would be buried beneath the ancient trees of Mirkwood, where the entwined roots would embrace their graves, and the songs of their people would glorify them in the histories yet to come.
Some men collapsed to their knees, exhausted, wiping soot and tears from their faces. Others, their gazes distant, watched the flames consume the bodies without uttering a word, as though the weight of victory was too heavy a burden to bear.
Erebor had endured. But the price of victory was still counted among the bodies scattered upon the earth.
----
Within the halls of Erebor, the gloom was broken only by the flickering torchlight, its glow casting dancing shadows upon the stone walls like ghosts of the past. The fallen were carried in the arms of friends, brothers, and comrades, each bearing the weight of sacrifice and glory.
Lineage and rank no longer mattered; all had fought and fallen as equals, and all would receive the honor they deserved for their deeds: fighting for Erebor and surviving the relentless horde of orcs and wargs.
In the vast chamber of Erebor, where the ancient dwarves lay at rest, the fallen were carefully placed in solemn rows. The echo of heavy footsteps and hushed whispers blended with the crackling of torches. Silent tears rolled down dust-covered beards, yet no wails of despair filled the hall, only a profound reverence for those who were no more.
Upon the high platform, Thorin Oakenshield stood, the rightful king of Erebor. His gaze swept across the chamber, lingering on each lifeless face, on each stolen life. The madness that had once chained him had faded, eradicated by a will stronger than greed: duty.
A faint murmur reached his right, barely a whisper in the sepulchral silence of the great hall. A dwarf, his face marked by sorrow and exhaustion, bowed his head before speaking in a restrained voice.
"All the bodies have been laid, my king."
Thorin nodded, his expression as unyielding as the stone of Erebor. He stepped forward, and the soft sobs and murmurs died instantly. The dwarves, deep in their mourning, raised their eyes to their king.
The only light came from the torches, their orange glow reflecting in the tear-streaked faces hardened by battle.
He took a deep breath before speaking, but his gaze never left the body of Balin, the wise and elder dwarf, his most trusted counselor and friend. Pain gleamed in his eyes, though his posture remained firm.
"The battle was harsh…" he began, his voice resounding against the stone walls "Death and suffering have fallen upon Erebor once more, but this time, we have defended our home."
His jaw tightened, his chest rose with a restrained sigh. The weight of sorrow threatened to break him, but he continued.
"Right now, our brothers feast, recounting the glorious battle they fought to protect their homeland… We are all sons of Durin. They fought and died as such."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the solemn faces of his people.
"Honor them as the warriors they are. Let the flames of Aulë's forge embrace their bodies and deliver them into the hands of Mandos, where they shall reunite and celebrate with our ancestors."
A reverent silence followed his words, broken only by the crackling torches and the distant whisper of the wind. Some dwarves bowed their heads in respect, while others closed their eyes, struggling to hold back their grief.
At his command, the bodies were laid upon special platforms, where they would be cremated, their ashes infused with the mountain itself. In death, they would become one with Erebor, their essence woven into the stone, guarding their home for all eternity. A burial worthy of warriors who, despite overwhelming odds, never wavered in their duty to defend their land.
The matter of dealings with men and elves would have to wait until dawn. It had been agreed that Thorin would speak with them later. "Mourn and bury your dead. Gold can wait," he had said, and thus, the three leaders had reached a solemn consensus.
---
In a dimly lit corner, where the torches' glow barely reached, Aldril stood against the cold stone wall. His arms were crossed, a weak attempt to shield himself from the storm of emotions raging within. But his clenched fists betrayed him, revealing the silent pain that weighed upon his soul.
The flickering firelight cast shifting shadows across his face, and his amber eyes, usually alight with sharpness and wit, were dull, trapped in the abyss of sorrow. The flames' fleeting glow reflected in his gaze, yet he never once looked away from a single figure: Balin.
The elder dwarf had died with a smile. One that spoke of peace, of acceptance… but also of farewell.
A knot tightened in his throat. Memories surged forth, striking him with merciless force. Quiet talks by the fire, shared laughter in the midst of peril, the patient lessons Balin had given him with the warmth of a mentor and the affection of the family he had longed for. Moments that could never be relived, now reduced to mere echoes of what once was.
His body trembled with the effort of holding back emotions too vast to contain. He could not stay. He could not keep looking at that serene face in death when all he wanted was to hear Balin's laughter once more.
Without a word, without a single farewell, he turned and walked away. His coat swayed slightly as he moved, before disappearing into the shadows.
He needed to be alone.
His departure went unnoticed by the grieving dwarves, too consumed by their own sorrow. But one pair of keen eyes caught his silent retreat.
Bilbo, his heart still heavy with loss, watched Aldril's silhouette fade into the darkness. A sudden instinct gripped him, his friend was leaving, and everything in him screamed that he should not let him go alone.
He took a step forward, ready to follow, but a firm hand stopped him.
Bilbo turned, confused, and found himself staring into the serene, knowing gaze of Gandalf. The lines on the wizard's face seemed deeper under the dim torchlight, his expression etched with the wisdom of countless years.
"There are times when a man must be alone, Bilbo…" murmured Gandalf softly, his eyes still fixed on the darkened passage where Aldril had disappeared. "And Aldril is no exception."
***
Filthy orcs!!!!
Let's start the attack on Minas Tirith!!
"p@treon.com/Mrnevercry"