"The pale orc. What happened to him?"
"He slunk back into the hole from whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago."
Balin's eyes met the gaze of the wizard across their small camp. In Gandalf's face Balin saw the uncertainty that he often felt in the face of Thorin's unwavering belief of the pale orc's demise. Azog's body had never been found. While it was true that the remains of his orcish legions had withdrawn, taking their wounded commander, Balin felt that he would not trust the death of that foul creature until he had seen his head parted from his shoulders with his own eyes. Preferably with his own sword. Balin knew with surety that the wandering wizard shared his opinion on the subject.
The two eldest of the company, venerated by their beards, eyed each other in silent communication. They agreed together, as they had separately, to keep their doubts to themselves. It could do no good to the company to draw out their fear of one particular orc-it was all too likely they would meet orcs aplenty during their journey.