Funeral Dirge by Artano  

"Then the Dwarves raised up the body of Azaghâl and bore it away; and with slow steps they walked behind singing a dirge in deep voices, as it were a funeral pomp in their country, and gave no heed more to their foes; and none dared to stay them."  -- "Of the Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad"

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Frár slowly unbuckles his armor, fingers leaden with exhaustion and grief. His lord had fallen. Azaghâl had wounded the great dragon with his last breath, but he was still dead. Just like his father had fallen to an orcish ambush a couple years before. Frár straightens from unlacing his greaves, and a moment later, his vambraces thud to the floor. He winces at the sound, his mind flashing to the clang of Azaghal's shield against the ground just before—

Bile rises in his throat, and he tears his mind away from the image of gore and death. No. Breathe. He stares at the fibers of the tent and begins humming the funeral dirge echoing in his mind. Anything to distract his mind. Lift the note here. Carry it. Just a bit more. And drop right there.

Fabric rustles behind him, and he breaks off. A rough hand settles on his shoulder. "You alright, Frár?"

He suddenly realizes he is slumped against the tent pole, his hand clenched white-knuckled around it to hold himself up. He straightens, but can't seem to let go of the pole. It felt like the only steady thing left. Azaghâl was gone. There would be no more no more wise counsel, no more laughter together. Azaghâl was dead.

"Come here." His brother shifts, wrapping his arms around Frár. His hands rub soothingly up and down Frár's back, slowly tracing his spine. "I'm right here," Burin murmurs. He begins softly singing a nursery rhyme their father had sung to them whenever they were scared.

Tears trickle down Frár's checks, dampening his beard, and his grip on the tent pole slowly weakens until he is slumped against his brother. "That's right, I've got you," his brother murmurs, and Frár can hear the emotion rough in his voice. He lifts his arms and squeezes Burin.

"I'm here too," Frár whispers.

Chapter End Notes

Frár means "swift", and Burin means "son-like".  Since we don't have many Dwarven names from Tolkien himself, I stole them from Tolkien's earlier drafts of the Lord of the Rings, in which Frár attended the Council of Elrond with Gloin.  Frár was later changed to Burin son of Balin before that character was replaced with Gimli. 

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