[Kransha]

Silently Brór paced, slowly at first, but soon faster. The dwarf was deep in contemplation, thoughts whirling, untamed, in his enclosed mind. Dorim was dead, the Spider was gone in her dark and horrible caves, but they were not free. Mordor was still there, death, darkness, and doom with it, waiting to devour them. It was a hopeless situation, entirely and completely. There was nothing more, nothing more than darkness and orcs, waiting at every turn. It was dark, too dark. No companionship or petty friendship would matter now. He would be loyal to Morgoroth, but what could that do for either of them? Nothing, that was the answer, nothing. There was pain under orc blades, pain in many forms, and then death. The feeling of nothingness and pain made him snap suddenly, made his settled mind twist again. His cynicism, thought dead, returned to him in an unfeeling flash, a bolt that surged up his form, filling him with new anger at Dorim’s death. He looked around, not around the deathly darkness of Mordor that leeched the hope from his heart, but inside himself, searching frantically for a sliver of hope.

There was no hope to be found in men. Zurumor had not saved him, and his companionship had been all but useless. All the men, even Grash, were of no use to him outside of their presence. Only Morgoroth held his trust, and the elf was more of shadow than of a substance which he could bond with. The Elves were, as always, isolated in their blasted conglomerate, unified, but disunited with the outside, with the others, save for Zurumor and Raeis. The sight of them, despite being an irrelevant fact, disgusted the Dwarf. He had to overcome great barriers to feel even minor ties of friendship with an Elf, so a simply manufactured bond of something near love made him protest violently, even if only to himself. The adoration and looks of idolatry that Zurumor bore to his Elven compatriot made Brór more and more a cynic. Segregated they had been and segregated they were now, even if they had found alliances. Brór felt himself darken, his soul, his heart, and his mind, one after the other, for he had no light without hope. All he cared for or needed was escape from this foul place. His legs moving of their own accord and his brain creating all manner of ridiculous speeches he could make for the singular purpose of self-satiation, he marched sternly and angrily over to Grash, who sat, contemplating.

“Grash,” he began sharply, his voice biting as he spoke, filled with a brimming shadow that seemed ready to overflow. “we know what we must do. Let us go now, before more time is wasted.” Grash looked up at him, his eyes tranquilly half-closed, and steadily shook his head before shooting back his usual blunt reply. By now, Brór, who’s temper was set on a hair-trigger, was irked greatly by the man’s seeming ineptitude at the Common Tongue, though it was not truly ineptitude. The bluntness, the curt concision of Grash’s speech was most irritating. “No.” the man said, the monosyllabic word a perfect example of his lack of lingual panache, “Wait for night. Not be seen by orcs.”

“Nonsense.” Brór snapped back suddenly, a maneuver which would’ve taken most men off guard with ease, but did not faze the wretched former-prisoner, “There’s no sun here for us to been by anyway. We should go now so we can die sooner.” Grash looked up at him again from where he sat, his own form only a head lower than the standing dwarf, his eyes keen, but not shrewd or cunning. “You want to die, dwarf?” he asked dimly.

Brór wanted to shoot back his response quickly, but his brain almost forced him into accidentally saying ‘Yes’ which would’ve made him look foolish. He had to stutter and stumble momentarily before he found his gruff voice and an adequate retort. “No…But I’m probably going to, just like you and everyone else here.” Grash waved his hand dismissively and eased himself back down, whatever tension he’d held relaxing swiftly. Bror grimaced and did not comply with the gesture’s informal request.

“Better not to die. Go at night.” Said Grash.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s better not to,” Brór said, louder and angrier now, his eyes narrowed and ablaze in his skull, beneath the dappled shadows of his unkempt hair, “it’s not our decision. We’ve already lost one to the spider, many of our company are injured, one afflicted by sickness, and it is indeed a miracle any of us got out of those forsaken tunnels alive!” He was breathing harder, as Grash took notice dully, and his chest was furiously heaving. “We don’t have any miracles left to get past the forces of Mordor!”

“No need of miracles, dwarf.”

“Then what will get us past all these orc strongholds?” He roared, alerting the few people nearby to what he was saying. “Or are you lying?” He was clearly near a point of explosion, and, luckily, the man called Zurumor was near enough to prevent anything further than words, though he might regret it. He moved over quickly, raising an open palm and trying to steady the dwarf, who was trembling with rage. “Settle down, Brór.” He said concernedly, “Grash has no reason to lie to us. Not here, not now.”

Brór glared at the man with a monstrous darkness in his gaze and grabbed Zurumor’s hand as it extended to steady him, thrusting it away forcefully. “Go back and pine for your blasted elf.” He cried, “Let us go and those who do not wish to go shall not.” At this, Raeis, who had been hovering behind Zurumor, perked up angrily, but did not respond. She had already had a minor confrontation with the dwarf, and this experience was probably souring her opinion of him even further. “Go alone and die,” Grash said, now with the hint of an animal’s snarl in his throat as he spoke, “go together and have chance. You say you want to live. Do you lie?”

“I am not lying!” The dwarf roared again, “I want to live and you want to live and all of us do, but all we’ve got is a band of mannish barbarians and stinking elves and-”

“Men are not barbarians!” Zurumor interrupted harshly, his face twisting into a frown, which seemed strange on the lad’s face. Zurumor might no be the most optimistic of people, but this darkness that Bror was carrying with him affected him poorly. Brór growled back in his throat, a self-satisfied smile, more foul than fair, took the place his grimace held. “Don’t you know, lad?” he said loudly, his finger jerking accusingly at Lyshka, Darash and Jeren, in sequence, where they sat or stood around the makeshift camp, not caring whether they heard or noticed him or not, though they probably did, “Their kind are in the thrall of Sauron. They are wicked, like the spider who killed my kinsman, like the orcs that stole the years of our lives!”

“No more talk,” Grash said, an air of some command arising in him as he stood, head and shoulders above the dwarf, “Go get ready for night, then we leave. No more talk.”

Dejected, but not admitting defeat, Brór turned and stalked away before Grash said any more, his breath steadied. He saw Dwali, standing, half-agape, awaiting his return near where the two of them had been. Dwali looked as if he might speak, perhaps in consolation or with concern, but Brór ignored him, turning away and setting himself down against the scraggly rock face, sitting on an upraised outcropping of the ledge. Slowly, he closed his eyes, letting hope seep from him, leaving only pale illusions to flit about inconsequentially, and blackness, endless blackness.