Stoically, he pushed through the door of his house again. His knees trembled; they would barely hold him up. Ach, gods, he looked to the ceiling, another tear finding it's way out of his hard, black-diamond eyes, to trickle down his cheek. He closes and locks the door, falling against it. The old black beard had gone opposite, now, becoming a very whispy, thin white; soft to the look and feel. Pale face beneath dirty soot and caked mud was streaked by many tear-runs.
He sobbed bitterly, and slowly, shakily stood, leaning heavily against the door he had just locked. He had lost much weight, and quite a bit of muscle too. He hadn't eaten since he had heard the news. He hadn't dreamt of anything but him, him and constant ale; ale quelled the sadness growing in him. Curse his dwarven blood! It didn't do the trick; the ale was hardly effective, it could not drown the pain.
Another tear dripped down off his moustache, and he gave another full-body sob. Slowly, he found his way into his hallway, almost collapsing a few more times. He hobbled over to the side of the hall and picked up his hammer, leaning on it, crooked over it like an old man using a cane, heavy hammerhead thudding constantly on the ground; his total reliance on Dorand, personified, for Dorand was the only thing keeping him going anymore. That, and the ale.
He had missed the burial; he hadn't even been able to say goodbye. Looking back, the last thing he had ever said to the wizard was that he hoped the mage would just keel over. And that he did, much to the dwarf's dismay. Thud, thud, thud, up the stairs now. He opened the door to his room, and hobbled in front of his mirror, brushing a veiny, shakey hand over his stark white beard. His face, dirty as it was, bore deep wrinkles; he had aged far faster than he should have. He was going to collapse due to a withering disease; a sped up longevity. He would be passing any day now, and he could feel it. But damned, he was in the last legs of his journey as it was; the wizard was supposed to outlive him.
He hobblingly made his way over to his desk and clambered up into his chair. A shakey hand took several minutes to calm down, before he could grab the quill and begin writing on parchment. The scratch of the quill grated on his nerves, bothering his poor old ears, rather than bring him the joy that it once did.
"When can dwarves stop mourning? We watch brethren drop like flies; we are hardened to sudden loss. And yet it stings, yes, it stings deeply. When can dwarves shirk their burdens, when can they look to the sky, see through the rain and clouds, and realize that the sun still shines? When can he enter the smithy, look past the smoke, the fumes, the sparks, and see that the furnace still burns?
When can a dwarf dry his eyes? With halflings and humans for friends, what's a dwarf to do but outlive them? How many times must a dwarf go through the pains of loss in his long, weary life? A warlike race, we do not know brothers, or sisters, or mothers, or fathers for very long. When shall we stop weeping for them?
How can a dwarf forgive himself for his longevity, and finally stop crying for the lost, the fallen, the dead and left behind? How is a dwarf supposed to steel himself against these feelings of grief and heartache, when those closest to him pass away? On the outside, we are supposed to be as the stone; grim, grey, unyielding but to the mightiest of blows. But inside, we splinter like cheap wood; we crumble like weak, bitter sandstone. We flatten like clay, and run like mercury. So how can a dwarf be expected to hold it in and not collapse on himself?
Forgive me, Aleister. I beg you, forgive me. I never meant to anger you, to defile your name. You were a friend of mine; as close a brother as this dwarf can ever hope to have for the rest of his life. I never got to say goodbye; but it doesn't look like it matters, does it? I'll be along, soon enough. Soon, I'll be able to apologize to you in person.
You were my only ally; my greatest friend. You were the one I could count on, surprisingly enough. Yes, you were stubborn on the outside; stubborn as a dwarf. But I'd rather have you covering my back than fifty thousand of my ancestors and kin. You were a great man, and I'm sorry to see you get such a lack of respect, even in death. You were meant to be revered, weren't you; like a flawlessly cut diamond, you were supposed to be respected. But at the same time, you knew how to laugh. Dorand bless you, then, mighty one. You were more dwarflike than the rest of them, so able to dig in your heels, never turn back.
Damn you, though, for dying. You weren't supposed to die; not so young. The sixties is hardly an age to fall; you should have aspired to live to the eighties; the nineties, even. You were supposed to bury me. You were supposed to pile a cairne over one of those bathtubs in my house that you've lain. You were supposed to cremate me in one of the furnaces you'd wreck my home to make. I was supposed to go before you, mage. Damn you, making an old dwarf cry again."
The dwarf coughed loudly, and a bit of bloodied spittle landed on the document he scribed. Clerics and Paladins had come to him, to heal him, though he had turned them all away, even broken a cleric's nose with his hammer; this is the way he wanted it. No hero's death for him. He would weaken, decay, and die in his bed. Or maybe on an anvil as he smithed his last piece; yes, that would be it, the way to go; hammering metal into something of use and beauty.
He found that he couldn't continue writing, his hands shaking once more, and so he tried to hop from the chair's seat, but stumbled and fell upon the floor instead. He laid there, sobbing silently for a moment, before pulling himself to his feet, full of resignation, and at the same time, dwarven determination; he wouldn't die on his belly, like a thief or coward; he'd die in his bed, like a dwarf at peace. But no, not yet; far too much to do to go off and die just yet.
He shuffled and stumbled as he made his way to the stairs, hammer thonking loudly on the wooden floor as he slowly wound down the curving staircase. Finally, at the base of his stairs, he made his way towards his icebox; reaching inside it, he gathered all his ales; he was bound for a trip. A trip to Leilon? Yes, and then to a treehouse; a treehouse he had yet to plant an axe into. It was the only means of mourning he could think of, not knowing where the wizard was buried, where the wizard had passed. All he could do was put the greataxe he had sworn to chop the house down with, deep into the side of the tree. It was the dwarven way, and probably the way that Aleister, in his twisted sense of humor, would appreciate the most.
Clomping noisily, weakly, down the road, he hobbles, hobbles towards his destinations. He stops to post his letter to Aleister at the Wild Surge Inn, of course; though he leaves no room below it for commenting, merely continuing on, posting his grief as best he can, hoping all might stop and mourn a moment for the lost wizard.
