You are one of many within the Dwarven army. Your patrol travels through the mountains, when you are stopped at a sheer cliff face climb. The patrol thins to a line as each and every dwarf must climb- the only strange thing is the silence atop the cliff.
As you climb the sheer cliff, you begin to see the carvings. They are names, these ones short and simple. These are memorial runes, for low born soldiers and humble servants. As you climb the cliff, they become more and more ornate, belonging to names from noble families. Your stomach twists into knots as you reach the top and climb over.
At the top of the cliff, you see it. It is a slab and a grave- for the King of the Dwarves. His great green axe sits atop it in memoriam. His long, royal name etched on stone. Your Noble King is dead, killed with his army, before the news of it could return to your unit. You feel the tears well up in your eyes, but must be silent. You weep silently, as all Dwarves must carry their own burdens alone; to cry out or warn those below would robe them the honor of suffering this loss each and all alone.
So, with the rest of your unit, you stand at the top as dwarf after dwarf crosses above, seeing the grave of their beloved monarch, noble and just, and each weeps silently. Every one of you will carry this burden alone, and by each alone, all together.