Dwalin fought himself out from under the furs and blankets with a bellow.

Balin was there beside him, hands cool against his fever-hot skin, murmuring the soothing words Dwalin could not yet take in. 'It's all right, brother, it's all right. Dreaming again, it is only smoke and glass, but you're a Dwarf with bones like mountains, you're stronger than these shadows...'

With a half-sob Dwalin tore himself away from the memories of Azanulbizar that haunted his sleep, gripping his brother's arm as hard as he dared, anchoring himself in the night. 'Aye, nadadel, that's right, wake up now.' Balin pressed a stone mug into Dwalin's hands and set a blanket about the bigger Dwarf's shoulders; he had begun to shiver as his soaked undershirt turned clammy against his skin. Dwalin drank the water gratefully.

'The same?' his older brother asked, seating himself at the foot of the bed.

Dwalin set the mug on the floor and passed a hand over his eyes. 'Aye.' He could not muster a scowl, not tonight. 'Will it ever stop, Balin?'

Diplomatic though he always was, Balin never shirked the truth, nor dressed it in a fair cloak to be revealed in its ugliness later. He stroked his beard, and sighed. 'I cannot say, Dwalin. For some, the ugrûd-amab passes quickly, for others, it lingers. No one knows why it should be so.'

Their eyes met, and after a moment, Balin added, 'Some say, though, that the dreams lose their power more quickly when they are put into words, and not kept secret.'

Dwalin broke his gaze away and lay back again, fixing his eyes on the ceiling and lacing his fingers behind his head. 'There is nothing to say,' he growled. 'It was Azanulbizar. You know how it was; you were there.'

Yes, Balin had been there beside him, both of them fighting alongside their father until he fell; then Dwalin had seen the tears mingle with the grime and sweat on Balin's face as the older Dwarf struck the head from the Orc who had slain Fundin. And Dwalin's vision had grown dark, so that it seemed night had fallen about them, but his enemies' eyes glittered like dark gems lit by firelight, and their teeth were bared. In that moment with the air liquid like blood Dwalin at last unleashed the battle beast inside him, casting away his shield the better to wield his axes, and none could stand before him; he was an avalanche of metal and blades.

But when the battle was at last over each of the few survivors at first walked alone amongst the unnumbered dead, not yet ready to look for comfort in the living, seeking only to understand their loss, and Dwalin came to his knees beside the body of Gordur, another member of the royal guard. He was not someone Dwalin had known well, but he was a shield-brother nonetheless in a field of fallen Dwarves whose names Dwalin did not know, and he stretched out his hand to close Gordur's eyes.

But Gordur was breathing yet, short and shallow, and he gasped as Dwalin slid an arm beneath his shoulders, holding him like a child.

'Where are you hurt?' There was blood in Gordur's mouth, never a good sign, but perhaps it was only broken teeth. Perhaps. 'Tell me, and I will get help for you.'

'No.' Gordur gritted out the word with difficulty. 'No, Dwalin, I - my back, my back is broken.' He tried to cough, but could only choke, a terrified look on his reddening face. Swiftly and as gently as he could Dwalin turned Gordur's head and used his fingers to clean the bloody mucus from his mouth. When he could breathe again Gordur said, almost inaudible, 'End this for me now, Dwalin, please.'

Dwalin stared at him. 'End it?'

'Please.' Now the Dwarf's face and voice were fierce again, only his eyes still pleading and afraid. 'Don't let them take me from this place, Dwalin, or try to mend me. My back is broken, and where should I go for help? We have no home, I have no kin - all lost to the dragon, or the dragon-sickness, or lying somewhere in this fucking field - Give me the swift death I have earned, my friend, not a slow passing in indignity.'

And Dwalin understood, in his very heart he understood, because he knew that in Gordur's place he would ask for the same kindness. And it was not a hard thing, with his strength and his killer's hands, to cradle Gordur's head gently and place a kiss on the broken Dwarf's forehead as he snapped his neck, and no one saw.

Balin was not beside him, then. Nor was he there when Dwalin had Gordur's name tattooed, with runes very small and very black, into the skin between the fingers of his left hand. They were secret, hardly to be seen; but somehow, once it was done, the ugrûd-amab did grow less.

nadadel - brother of all brothers
ugrûd-amab - fear dream

I'm doing my best with the Khuzdûl... Apologies if it's not quite right (but points for trying, yeah?)

This chapter is well beyond what I normally write in terms of violence and unpleasantness, so I hope it comes across okay, but I have to go where my (bearded, tattooed, axe-wielding) muse leads.