A/N: I just saw the extended edition of BoTFA. So, angst ensues.
And Fili finally is given his due.
The ground is written over in blood, dark as ink, and Dwalin can scarce remember how and where he fought, so many times did his blades meet flesh and bone.
For a moment the thought seizes up in his throat, fear that he will not find him, fear that his body will have been further defiled. But his feet lead him, step by step, surer than his heart can, and he comes at last upon the fallen prince.
Dwalin knows that Fili is dead, but he is unable to stop himself from tugging at the blood-stained collar, feeling for the pulse that will never beat again.
The body is already cold.
The body! How strange it is to think of it—of him so, Fili, golden-haired and solemn-eyed, even when he smiled. Dwalin remembers his first braids, his first knives, and tries not to remember the first time he was old enough to be afraid.
There is no one to help him, because this is a task no one should bear—and anyone who might have lifted Fili's body with him has already fallen. Dwalin chokes back a sob—there is no use in being too proud for tears, not now, not anymore—and cradles Fili in his arms. His prince is shod in mail but to Dwalin he is no heavier than a child. (Maybe that is the grief).
He died first, Dwalin reminds himself. He did not have to see his brother fall.
And there is some comfort in that, even if it is not for him.
The trek down the mountainside is long and wearying. The sun is going down. The only thought in Dwalin's mind, as Fili's blood dries on his hands, is that for too many, the sun will never rise again.